Several days fly so fast you don't have time to think about them.

Each day is marked, as ever, by blood and the scent of gunpowder, of sand coarse against skin, of bright flashes of pain and victory and defeat. The thought that any gains and losses are inconsequential haunt your evenings as you lie down to sleep, puzzling in the dark over what it all might mean. Needles and smiles and jokes and petty arguments fill each afternoon. The mornings smell of electrical burning beneath the coffee pot, of tea and soap and toast.

You wake in your clothes from the night before. Rummaging around for something clean, you find what's left of the vitamins and take one, recalling dimly that it will probably help with the body aches that have been plaguing your nights.

When you leave your room, it's in an undershirt and jeans. You can't be bothered with more at the moment.

"Specialist, you look like you naked wrestled a badger covered in honey!"

You're afraid to ask if you or the badger was covered in honey at the time. Perhaps this is a hint that you need a shower.

Soldier, it seems, emerged from his room just as you did-though he's in his uniform, as usual, and you have the sneaking suspicion he's been up for hours. "You're not getting sick are you?"

You are tired, and you ache, but you suspect it's not because you're coming down with a cold. "I don't think so."

He hums, and you're pretty sure you can feel him squinting through the helmet. "Maybe you oughta see Medic just in case. We need you in top shape!"

You smile. "I don't think you need to worry about that, Soldier."

"But I do! Do you have any idea what could happen if for ONE MOMENT WE STOPPED BEING DILIGENT?"

"Er-"

"THE ENEMY WOULD GAIN A FOOTHOLD, THAT'S WHAT! MORALE MUST REMAIN HIGH! OUR SKILLS MUST STAY SHARP! WE HAVE TO BE READY! AND TO DO THAT, WE MUST TAKE CARE OF EACH OTHER, ENSIGN!"

He's overwhelming, but his heart is in the right place, you suppose. You're just so tired. You offer a grateful pat, the embroidery of his class patch rough on your palm. "I appreciate it, sir."

Suddenly, the whole lower half of Soldier's face turns just as red as his coat as he bursts out with a dry chuckle, and gives a sharp salute. "Thank you, ma'am!"

"What for?"

"For recognizing my rank, though you don't have to, not when we're all mercenaries here."

You do recall that he doesn't exactly have a rank in the first place, never having been accepted into any branch of the armed forces, but, technically, any rank you had has been stripped. And after all that, it's nice to have someone consistently recognize that you did serve. So, really, who are you to say he doesn't, when he fought just as hard as anybody? And it's obviously important to him. "You're due as much respect as anybody else, Sarge."

The man is almost bouncing now. "I think you've earned yourself a promotion, Lieutenant!"

That draws a chuckle from deep in your chest, and then a giggle. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't encourage him." Spy lights a cigarette, leaning on his door-frame, as you pass.

A well-placed elbow from Soldier almost sends the silver lighter flying. "Too late!"

Though the contract said alternate weapons could be used after your initial trial period, this is the first time you recognize one. How could you help but notice? There was just enough time between the flash of gold on the barrel of a hulking siege weapon and your instinctive drop behind your shield to register that the minigun to which you'd become accustomed was not this one.

Now your arm trembles against what feels like an impossible barrage and your ears pick up the BLU Heavy's barking laughter over the ring of metal and Kevlar and the whir of perfect gunmetal machinery.

Each bullet feels like a miniature bomb rocking your defense, makes you dig your heels into the desert soil. The plexi is a blurred mess of cracks threatening to puncture.

But that isn't the worst of it.

No, the worst is that when you finally get the opportunity to move, you find yourself looking down the bore of a Colt .45 coupled with your double's twisted, mirror grin before waking up in respawn.

Damn, you hope your Kabar arrives soon.

"So, whatcha makin'?" Scout swings his locker shut with one hand, and all you want to do is crawl into the nice, quiet space under your bed.

"Making?" You trade your Gyrojet for a water bottle and close your locker softly, holding out no hope that Scout will get the hint.

"Dinner."

Your blood runs a little cold. "Oh, shit."

The boy laughs. "You forgot?"

"Look, Scout, all I want is a shower," you groan. Today hasn't exactly been good. There's a new, gentle throb in the back of your skull that has nothing to do with alcohol nor the nasty tumble you took last round facing the BLU demoman. You're very nearly fresh from respawn, but you'd certainly made that life count… it bought an extra fifteen seconds' edge that ended not long after with victory.

You just wish victory meant you could go lie down.

"Nobody's sayin' you can't have a shower, Spesh!" He shrugs as you start toward the door, and doesn't hesitate to tag along. "And ya don't have to get fancy or nothin'. All I'm sayin' is, if you don't cook, we don't eat."

Your mouth twitches in an effort to remain neutral. "What if I'm not hungry?"

It's worth it for the expression of horror that seizes him, complete with jaw-dropping action. "You-you wouldn't do that, not to me!" He pokes miserably at his ribs. "Look at me, I'm wastin' away here!"

"You're right, you're right. But don't expect anything spectacular."

"Oh, boy. Yeah, you were right." You can hear Scout's fork clink on the plate. "Consider my expectations lowered."

You puff out your cheeks in a little huff, staring hard at your own plate. "The pantry was almost empty," you mutter. "That's not my fault."

Heavy nudges your shoulder with his elbow. "Is better than when Sniper burned salad."

"Oi! That was only because somebody thought it was a great idea to tinker with a perfectly functional stove!"

"Now hang on, there was no reason for you to use the stovetop to make the thing when there's plenty'a counter space-"

"Not when this arsehole decides the kitchen's a great place to clean medical supplies!"

"Rich, coming from a man who keeps urine in jars."

In moments, no one seems to remember that they're eating nothing more than stir-fried vegetables and Spam. You give Heavy a relieved smile, and settle in for what promises to be good fun.

Things culminate in a sleepless Friday night. You turn-11:30pm. You turn over again. Huff a frustrated growl into your pillow. Turn over again. Open your eyes. 12:00am. Again. 12:15. Again. 1:30. The night sky seems not to move at all; only a pale sliver of moon can be seen through the window against a hazy, black sky. The stars hardly glimmer through the shroud of half-formed clouds, insubstantial as smoke. There's an itch under your skin. An ache behind your eye.

It's like ants creeping under your skin, marching along muscles and stirring you to a buzzing, sleepless state.

No matter how long you lie still and pretend to be asleep, nothing happens. There's only the buzz of the emergency lamp in the hall. The wan light of the moon. The steady huff of your breath.

The Lancaster-Charles makes a bit of an irregular lump under your pillow, but you can't bring yourself to move it from its place.

Your skin crawls so badly you decide it might be best to get up. After all, there's no work in the morning. You can sleep as long as you need-once sleep comes.

Slowly, you roll to the edge of the bed and push yourself up, pull your legs from under the still-cool blankets, rub your forehead and eyes, pinch the bridge of your nose. A walk. A walk or a hot shower ought to do some good-no worse than lying here without rest.

Your feet are cold on the rough-cut floorboards. From your wardrobe, you produce an old sweater, stretched from years of use, forest green, and so soft. When you tug it on, it combs your already itching skin unpleasantly, but it keeps the peculiar chill of the night at bay. With your keds on your feet, you're ready to… roam the halls like some sort of specter, you suppose. You could even head outside and make things a bit Wuthering Heights.

Well-perhaps not. The last thing you need is a gun levelled at your face because you couldn't resist the urge to tap on an unsuspecting teammate's window.

The hall is dark and still. One of the emergency lamps flickers faintly. There's the sensation of dizziness. A vague, crawling nausea. The atmosphere buzzes, and your steps seem driven by someone else entirely, guiding you on and on-maybe the ants, still shuffling under your skin.

Your sudden foray into the Gothic isn't helping, either.

Shadows shift and darkness drags upon your shoulders. Old coffee stains seem splattered like blood. Cold claws your cheeks; the second curse of the desert, the opposite face of a scorching coin, a liar playing two sides.

The air smells of ash, you think. It ghosts a melody into your ears-the high, soft strains of a violin, sighing each note to an empty, uncaring night.

You stop. No… you've never heard this before. It can't be our own midnight invention, it-

You hold your breath. Listen.

It isn't a record. And it's not in your head.

Someone is playing.

You're not the only one sleep eludes; the music continues in soft strains, long phrases, rising and falling like the tide and then floating like a breeze through long grass, stirring grey-green trees. You stand dumbly without knowing how long. The pace of the violin slows.

It isn't your business, but-

You follow it.

Winding down the hall, you find you don't have far to go. Part of you wonders if you had known, suspected the whole time. You went forward, after all, not back to the hall where your teammates still sleep. And this was the closest habitation to your position when it began.

The infirmary.

Music reverberates from behind the doors, and you can almost feel it on your skin, in your chest. You imagine your heartbeat answers the rhythm-one two, one two, one two…

Rolling hills and grey moors. Mist that clings to a mountain-face, capped in snow. Stones lying still under the river-sun. The wind rises and winds among it all, travels, links them one to another.

Moss on the riverbank.

Your body is still now, mind no longer racing. Gratitude hums in your veins, but it seems so wrong to interrupt, like bursting a bubble suspended in the air before it's due. A few moments more, and you'll be ready to sleep, to go on your way without disturbing him. At the song's end. You sit, so quietly, in the nearest chair; by some miracle, it doesn't squeak, doesn't groan.

Grass tickles your knees, and the sun warms your head. Wind whistles among the feathery strands of a willow tree, and skates across the river's surface. There's a dock of plywood, old and grey, and a little white house one could very well call home.

You close your eyes.

NOTES: My great thanks, as ever, to my editor, Pelinal, on AO3 for their invaluable feedback, and to all of you. Happy belated New Year!

The piece I'm imagining for the last section (minus the piano, of course), if anyone is interested: Fritz Kreisler - 'Prelude and Allegro in the style of Gaetano Pugnani'