Red. Awareness returns slowly, suffused with scarlet light.

"Medic?"

There's no sun, only flickering fluorescents. It's not the battlefield. Yet, he swims into view looking pleased as…

"Heavy?"

He's here, too, grinning, blood clotting and drying thick on his cheek and nose. "Best fight in long time."

Oh. Yes. Yes, it's all coming back. A friendly boxing match, and-and this means you were knocked unconscious. Shit.

You roll the stiffness out of your shoulders as Medic switches the medigun off. "It was only on half-power… you should feel less confused in a moment."

Heavy offers a hand. "Congratulations," you manage, and take the offered hand. He pulls you up slowly. "That was fantastic-you certainly know your stuff." Medic turns the medi-gun's rays on Heavy, and he relaxes under their effects until you hear a stomach-turning crack. "It was brilliant, using your arm-surprised me and avoided using your broken hand-sorry about that, by the way."

He shakes his head, makes a show of flexing his fingers. "No-was good work."

"Brilliant," Medic agrees.

You grimace. "I'm afraid you're still short twenty dollars." You're not sure if the turn in your stomach is disappointment or a side-effect of the healing.

But Medic responds with an absolutely ridiculous grin. "That's the best part, Spatz-you won!"

"I what?"

Heavy traces a finger across his cheek and he bridge of his nose, though blood that now has no visible source. "When you hit me across, I bled."

"You drew first blood just before he knocked you unconscious-wunderbar!"

Oh. A laugh, triumphant, bubbles up in your chest. "That's fantastic!"

"Still got knocked on your ass, though," Scout mutters.

Your brow arches, but you can't erase your gin, even in jest. "Would you like to share that experience, Scout?"

"No!" He attempts a casual shrug, but it's too late. "I just mean it's pretty cool that you got knocked on your ass and still won."

"Damn right," you chuckle.

Medic claps your shoulder, warm-and with a start, your realize that he has forgone the gloves. His fingers, cooler than his palm, press your skin and you're drawn to look at him. His eyes glitter. "Next time, perhaps, we'll try my hand, hm?"

Your heart leaps into your throat at the same time your stomach drops through the floor. For a moment, you can smell blood and sand and gunpowder, hear a desperate, abourted breath, gargling, clicking in a throat beneath your thumbs.

What if you fly into a rage and kill him on accident?

Tingling fingers and shattered lab equipment come back to you, too. You can't trust yourself. He should know better.

"Perhaps," is the only word that leaves your lips, formed messily around an attempted smile. You feel light-headed.

A crease appears between the doctor's brows, and he squeezes your shoulder tighter. You draw a breath, latch onto the discomfort, the impression of every finger over still-swollen muscle. Distantly, you become aware of continued chatter, something about Medic having a snowball's chance in Hell compared to Heavy, and a cold, damp bottle is pressed into your palm.

Sniper has given you a beer.

Greedily, you lift it to your lips. Gods, it's bitter. Hops that bite back are the only flavor in this watery brew, but you're suddenly thirsty, suddenly aware again, and the world settles back down the way it's meant to be.

Medic's hand slides off your shoulder, the impression of his touch lingering on your skin.

You want to thank him, but he nods before a word can leave your lips, and then Heavy leans over to murmur something that dominates Medic's attention completely.

"Haven't been to a fight like that in years," Engie admits, and you reluctantly shift your gaze to the others with their beers and casual smiles. "Forgot how much fun it is. 'Course, normally it's the boys with gloves on and the whole bit."

You take another quick swig from your own bottle. "I have a hard time imagining you at a boxing match."

He grins, tapping a finger on amber glass. "Friend a mine back in university liked to go, dragged me along for the ride. Had more fun than I thought I would."

You've half-formed a reply when a solid punch on the shoulder is quickly followed by arms thrown around your waist.

"Hrmrmrhrhms!"

You find you're becoming used to it.

"Congratulations," Engineer supplies, though you think you'd quite gotten that impression already.

"Thanks, Pyro." When they look up, you raise a hand a dip your fingertips from your chin. With delight, they flash the okay sign, retrieve what you assume is their beer off the floor, and poke a straw up under their mask to sip at it. It takes every fiber of control you have not to let a giggle manifest.

"Takin' Heavy one to one is really impressive, y'know, winnin' or not," muses Engie.

You know. But all the same… "More impressive than fighting myself every day?"

He chuckles. "Well-sometimes I think that's a whole different ball game."

There is certainly, you think, something to be said for that.

Someone is at your elbow again, and this time, you recognize that cool touch as it raises a shiver across your skin. Medic presses something into your hand. A glance reveals a twenty dollar bill. "The winnings? But I-"

He shrugs, mouth half-curled in a grin. "You did the fighting. I only laid a bet." He drops his hand back to his side, but, restless, it moves to the pocket of his coat instead. "Place an order with Mann Co. before the mail goes out tomorrow; find yourself something new to add to your kit, perhaps something for hand-to-hand combat, hm?"

You open your mouth to protest again.

"Think of it as a favor to me. In the interest of… observation." The way he says it is completely clinical, purely focused on the experiment in which you're simultaneously an unwitting and entirely conscious accessory. But his eyes, so intent in holding yours, are warm enough to make you doubt.

Warm enough to heat your cheeks.

You know precisely what it is that you want. The page in your Mann Co. catalogue has been marked since Miss Pauling gave you a copy during training to peruse at your leisure.

And here is is: a full-page advert in glossy color displaying a beautiful, double-edged Kabar pattern seven-inch blade. It boasts a brass hilt with four gleaming knuckles. Only the finest virgin steel, the page boasts. Totally unsullied! adds a disembodied image of Saxton Hale's head, Until that first, satisfying stab, the way nature intended! Complete with a black, leather sheath, and the Mann Co. guarantee, it's a fine trench knife available for purchase at $18.75.

Actually, the price is close enough to make you wonder if you've blabbed about it while drugged on the good doctor's table. Supposing that you have, it was quite nice of him to remember.

Without another thought, you tear the order slip from the back of the catalogue and scribble in the numbers. That finished, it's time for a few chapters of Monte Cristo; a fine end, you suppose, to an unexpectedly fine day.

But-outgoing mail is leaving tomorrow.

You have no letter home to show for it.

A frown creases your mouth. The pen has not left your hand yet as you set both catalogue and completed order aside. What can you say when you left so many things unasked and undone?

You roll to one side, lean over, pull a sheet of paper from drawer on the bedside table. You're nearly out of time. Perhaps this time… perhaps the truth, and no questions.

Mom, I love you, and hope you're well. I know I'll be gone for most of the year, but I may be able to visit next spring. I'm relatively safe-

Well, mostly the truth.

-and excited for what this new work will bring.I think about you and Dad and R. every day.

You stop there for a while, tapping the back of the pen against your lips and teeth.

Some of my first paycheck will be coming soon; let me know if it has problems reaching you, and I'll have it fixed right away.

Yes. That wasn't so hard.

Give Dad and the boy my love.

All my heart,

You sign your name at the bottom, and spend several seconds just staring at it. Strange, how wonderful it looks, how precious, when you haven't heard or seen it in weeks. Stranger still it is to think just how much you've taken your own name for granted your entire life.

And strangest of all: the thought that you really don't mind.

NOTE

Transl. Spatz - sparrow ; chosen here for its sound-it's just close enough to Spezialist that a non-speaker might mistake one as a possible abbreviation for another