There's a sort of stiff pain in your neck that abates when you roll it off your shoulder and squint. It's still dark. You grunt, stretching your body in the hard chair, wondering-
Ah. You're still outside the infirmary.
You squeeze your eyes shut and pinch the bridge of your nose, right between them. It seems eerily quiet now, all trace of the music gone, silent, like the half-second before a grenade detonates, the intake of breath before a knife slips between your ribs.
You feel a bit ill, but coax yourself up and back to your bed.
When you pull the blankets over your shoulders this time, it's with a soft sigh, and the memory of music on the air.
The clock reads about 12:15, and judging by the instinct to bury your face in the pillow, that's 12:15 pm in bright, glaring sunshine. Well, at least you slept. Blinking blearily, you're a bit surprised no one's come around to check and see if you're alive. Of course, sometimes Sniper never makes an appearance on Saturday, so maybe everyone supposes it's none of their business.
After a good stretch against your scratchy sheets, you're seized with the desire to just… stay buried for the remainder of the day, draw up your blanket against the sunshine.
Sun. Disagreeable stuff.
With a huff, you pull yourself into a sitting position, whereupon your motivation runs dry. A few minutes with a book wouldn't hurt-you're long past breakfast, after all, and Monte Cristo is within ready reach. Perhaps he has some wisdom for you today. The book finds your hands. The Count's threaded plans are all drawing to a close, you remember, pulling tighter and tighter in knots that weave a net of elegant revenge.
Unfortunately, all you can do is remember, as you get stuck on the same handful of words again and again and again and again and again and-
Stop. Close the paperback with a snap. Rub your hands harshly over your eyes. Evidently, your brain thinks you've spent quite enough time in bed, and so, you comply with its demands to get dressed and stand upright, slowly but surely. Shuffle into your bra. Shuffle into an undershirt. Shuffle into jeans and shuffle a button-down over your shoulders. Shuffle your feet into keds.
Somewhere in the midst of your quiet shuffling, you realize-
There's no sound outside your room.
You frown, strain your ears. No arguing. No radio, no hammering, no water nor crash of dishes in the sink.
What the hell? This is not a good day for a mystery. It isn't that you don't appreciate some quiet, but there's a lingering stiffness in your muscles and the fog that just won't leave your head…
When you shut the door behind you and enter the hall, you hope some sound will reach your ears, but, it isn't so.
You search the kitchen first and find it empty, with only a pile of fresh coffee mugs and dishes in the sink to indicate that anyone had been here at all. You look out the window into the sandy yard-nothing. The common room is deserted as well.
Had everyone swanned off without telling you?
You can't help a frustrated pinch of hurt at the thought.
"There you are!"
And you nearly jump out of your skin.
"Miss Pauling!" It's too late to recover gracefully, so you ignore the fact that you are, apparently, a grown-ass mercenary who leaps when startled and hope that your supervisor will, too. You're not exactly the picture of a solid investment this morning.
"I didn't mean to startle you." She adjusts her glasses, generously averting her eyes just a little so you can compose yourself.
"No, it's-" You straighten your shirt and flick a couple of buttons into what you hope are the right holes. "-it's quite all right, I was just… where is everyone?"
Miss Pauling raised her eyebrows like she'd nearly forgotten. "Oh, I just sent them into town for supplies; they'll be gone for a couple more hours." Before you can ask why, she holds up a square envelope. "I came to bring you this."
Your mouth runs dry. You reach for it, hand unsteady; you recognize the curled script that makes your name and whatever PO Box address it came through. "Is…" Your fingers close around the cool paper. "Is there a problem?" That was rather fast, you don't say.
Your throat beings to close. She'd sent the others away. She sent them so-
"What's wrong?" you demand. You pinch the letter between your fingers. Make no move to open it. Can't bring yourself to move. "Miss Pauling-"
"Hey, hey-nothing's wrong that I know of." She raises both hands, and there's kindness in her eyes, but anger, anxiety roils through your stomach. Kindness could belie anything. Placating smiles are always a breath away from cold platitudes.
Your teeth bare in accusation. "You always know."
"Specialist, please-"
"You always know, Miss Pauling. The Administrator always knows."
Fingers lock in an iron grip about your wrist, and your jaw goes slack. "Specialist!"
You look down. Her brows are drawn in a tight crease, but her eyes remain soft.
"That's her handwriting on the envelope, isn't it?"
Your sigh is shuddering, deflated. "Yes."
"And so…?"
You draw a deep breath. "She's fine."
Miss Pauling lets go, the pale imprints of her fingers standing out on your wrist. Your eyes linger there for a moment as they begin to fade, watching the clear outline of each digit fade into mottled blurs. "I'm sorry," you say. "That was uncalled for."
She reaches for your shoulder now, squeezes it. "Just open the letter, Specialist. If you need anything, let me know."
Your fingers still tremble slightly from the outburst. You slip them under the seal, tear the paper in a jagged line, breathe deeply before pulling the letter from its confines. You undo the trifold, bring out two sheets covered in your mother's tight, even script-proof that she's alive.
That doesn't stop your stomach from turning over as one word leaps from the page before you can even read the first, neat line.
Infection.
Ragged little attempts at breath, more irregular every second, and your hands tremble so badly that the ink begins to blur.
"Specialist-Specialist…" Miss Pauling has both your forearms now. "I told you it'll be okay, didn't I tell you it would be okay? It's going to be okay."
"Y-"
She did. She did, and she was wrong.
This is not okay.
You wet your lips, stare at curled script that won't arrange itself into any more words. Her fingers are pressing lines into your skin, trying to ground you, but you can't quite feel your hands or your soundless lips.
It's never been okay.
You don't know why you thought anything could ever be okay again.
The floor is cold. You don't remember sitting down.
"They caught the infection in time to administer antibiotics. The days seem long while I'm confined to home, but I will recover. They caught the infection in time to administer antibiotics-"
Miss Pauling.
"The days seem long while I'm confined to home, but I will recover. They caught the infection in time to administer antibiotics. The days seem long while I'm confined to home, but I will recover."
Miss Pauling is reading the letter.
"She's… says she's okay?"
Miss Pauling stops, and you lift your head. "Yes-she's going to be fine. She says she's recovering, and my reports confirm that." She's kneeling beside you with the papers in one hand, clutching your arm tightly with the other.
"Thank you." Your voice sounds cracked, dry, even to your own ears. You try to work up enough moisture to swallow. "I… I'm sorry. I don't know what-"
"It's all right." She loosens her grip enough to rub gently, reassuringly. "You… care about her a lot."
"Of course I do." Now that the feeling is coming back into your fingertips and the world sharpens, so, too, does the embarrassment. You cup one hand over your eyes. "This wasn't very professional."
"This wasn't exactly a professional part of my visit." She squeezes your arm softly once more before letting go. "It won't be in my report."
"That's-that's very kind of you." You gather enough courage to look at Miss Pauling again. You wet your lips, draw a deep breath. "Did you know I'd…" Fucking flake? Flip my shit? You don't know what to call it politely.
"I had an idea," she admits. "And I know it won't affect your performance, so there's really nothing for me to report."
You tilt your head back against the rough, lumber wall behind you. "Enough of an idea to send everyone else off of the base."
"Yes." She hesitates. "I… don't mean to embarrass you."
"I believe you." That doesn't quell the feeling, however. "And… thank you. I'd feel worse if anyone else saw it."
Miss Pauling smiles gently. "No trouble at all. You do need groceries."
An empty chuckle sticks in your throat. "That we do."
Silence falls, not pointed enough to be awkward, but too tense to be comfortable. It's broken first by the quiet shuffle of paper as Miss Pauling folds the now-crinkled letter and extends it to you, then your quiet word of thanks. You hold the letter close to your chest.
"Depending on how much bickering they do, and how distracted Soldier and Pyro get... you have at least an hour before the boys get back." She stands and offers you a hand which you accept, taking care to keep most of the weight on your own legs.
"Thanks."
"And if anyone decides to ask, you can tell them that you did a supplemental interview with me about your weapons loadout."
"That's good… or she can tell them she was in surgery with me."
You're hot with embarrassment from your chest to the tips of your ears.
You lift your head. Heavy with dread, you see that Medic stands casually a short distance up the hall behind Miss Pauling, hands in the pockets of his labcoat, a self-amused smirk begging to be punched off his face.
"Medic, I told you-"
"Mm," he assents, lightly, "und I never agreed. Zhe Specialist is still my patient, you know. Really-"
"Medic!" Her voice cracks, sharp, like a whip, and even you involuntarily flinch. "Go. Now."
His gaze flits to you for a moment, peering over his spectacles. You can't meet his eyes, finding the smallest crease on that immaculate white lapel, instead. You clench your jaw. He inclines his head, and turns away without another word.
When you look at Miss Pauling again, her cheeks are flushed. "I'm so sorry. That-" She clears her throat. "Well-I should have made sure. Are… are you all right?"
You actually take time to think about that for a moment. All right? No. Better than you were moments ago? "Yes." You straighten your back, smooth down the edges of the letter against your chest. "That wasn't your fault."
"Still," she sighs, "it's my responsibility." She tugs at her blouse, brushes down her skirt. "Just-take your time. I'll make sure he doesn't bother you again."
You rather doubt she can bar him from doing whatever he likes while she's gone, but… "Thank you." You extend a hand.
She studies it a moment before shaking it firmly, a smile teasing her lips. "Just doing my job."
"And what is that, exactly?" Amusement half-starts in your voice. "Babysitter for mercenaries?"
Her smile broadens at that, and it's contagious. She shrugs, but her voice, when she answers, betrays some pride: "I'm a Civilian."
Your name is at the top in the same neat letters that labelled your school supplies for years-
I'm so glad, and more than a little relieved, to receive your letter! Even more so, I'm joyed that you seem happy in what you're doing. I pray every day for your safety.
Your father and brother are well, and happy to hear from you. Your father is almost ready to retire again, I think, and keeps talking about moving someplace with better weather. Your brother is doing what he always does, insisting on staying here at home for just a few more months. Every time I tell him I'm all right with just your father at the house, he insists that he's just trying to save money. He pretends not to worry about you, too, but did tell me to say hello for him. He must have read your letter fifteen times-but don't tell him I told you that.
They also insisted that I have to tell you, though I don't want you to worry, that I was hospitalized again for a few days last month. But, they caught the infection in time to administer antibiotics. The days seem long while I'm confined to home, but I will recover. I am grateful that the medicine is doing its work, but one can only do so much reading and cross-stitching before getting a bit cross-eyed! I'm doing better already, I promise.
I know you'll worry anyway, but please, try not to dwell on things too much. Remember that fretting doesn't do good to me or you, just makes you tired to your soul.
That old, familiar refrain-and she's right. She's always right.
But it's such a hard thing to do.