Note: My thanks to phoenix-youngblood on tumblr for taking a look at this chapter for me! Should further revisions be done after my editor takes a look, I'll update accordingly, as always.

You find you can read again, but the quiet of your room is no place for it. There, thoughts loom too loud and close, barely concealed in your bedside drawer. In silence, you are alone. In the deserted expanse of wood and cotton and iron, failures feed memory, and memory throttles your mind until all you can see is white, white walls-

The little library, too, is empty of breathing people, but so, so full of kings and beggars and lovers and scholars in the heady scent of ink and paper. From here, you can hear the television turned a little too loud, but not clearly enough to discern any words. The distant buzz of a saw vibrates up through the floor from what you assume is Engineer's workshop, and the hum of an electric fan stirs the hall. Here, there is just enough evidence of life to fill the air around your mind, enough to allow you to concentrate.

Settled in, you find yourself wrapped in the ever-tightening machinations of Monte Cristo. On and on his game goes, all the pieces settling carefully into place, unti:

The Count had been carefully watching Caderousse's death agony and he saw that the end was now drawing near. He leaned over the dying man and whispered into his ear, "I am-" And his lips uttered a name so softly that he himself seemed afraid to hear it...

One , you almost intone aloud. You smile, cannot help but smile in your chair as the Count declares the first stroke of his revenge. With the end of the chapter, you suppose it must be just about time for a cup of tea to-

Heavy is settled in the armchair opposite.

"Oh!" You fold your novel on your lap, trying not to look terribly ruffled. "I didn't even hear you come in!"

Heavy lifts his head, removing rectangular reading glasses from his nose. "Did not want to interrupt." He nods toward your book. "I know this one-is very good. About…" His brow furrows in an expression you recognize as word-searching. "Mm-winning… with justice. People deserving it die." You open your mouth to guess, but he shakes his head, holds up a finger, and you wait, patiently, as he concentrates, mutters a few phrases in what must be Russian. "Is… revenge! Story of revenge. Very popular." He marks the place in his own book with a finger. "Is film, too, I think."

"Yes! But that was years ago." Ah, to have known Heavy when he was in school, too, both reading the novel that would become so personally important. Maybe… "Have you ever seen it?"

"No."

Your mouth breaks into a grin. "Neither have I… maybe we could find a copy of it somewhere?"

"I would like that." He smiles. "Good rest from cowboy movies."

You utter a mock-groan. "Anything might be better than another cowboy movie."

"Mm…" Heavy's eyes grow distant, a small frown catches his mouth. "...but they are better than news, sometimes."

A weight settles on the room as you recall last night's reports, the rumors of war between China and the Soviet Union. Former allies, turning on each other, for what? Power? Some stake in Afghanistan? It gives only small relief to think there are no missiles turned on the United States, but if any other powers were to get involved…

"There have to be better times ahead… I'm sorry, Heavy."

He shakes his head. "My family is safe. And the Soviets…" His frown deepens the creases around his mouth. "They are not Russia. This is not what was supposed to be, and they will have their fall."

You nod, without knowing what to say. After getting to know Heavy, you had begun to wonder if, perhaps, the USSR was not what people claimed; nothing awful could have created someone like Heavy. But people aren't their governments, are they?

He watches as you set your book aside, still struggling with something to say. You don't want to ask anything that might-"Is all right," he says. "Maybe someday, I tell you, but today…" He shrugs. "Is okay."

"Thank you." You offer a small smile. You still don't know what to say, but… "I was thinking about making some tea… do you want some?"

A nod, and his face relaxes, just a little. "This would be nice, thank you."

You roll your shoulders, give a small stretch before standing. "Do you take milk or sugar?"

"Both, please." He replaces the glasses as you nod.

"No problem; I'll be back in a minute."

"Take your time," he calls as you descend the creaking stairs, probably already absorbed in his book again.

You try not to think too much on it, the bone-deep weariness that you catch in his eyes sometimes.

Engineer bustles past when you reach the hall, a sandwich in one hand, a sheaf of papers in the other that he's frowning at so hard that you're surprised it hasn't caught fire. He's gone in an instant without even a nod; in fact, you're not sure he even knew you were there. If he left the shop... you strain your ears-yes, apparently the saw had stopped sometime in the last hour, and you never noticed.

The television is still running, though, some kind of soaring music drifting through the halls now, maybe from an epic film. Hm. Figures somebody would finally switch things up without inviting anyone else. A quick glance as you pass the door reveals Soldier and Scout on the sofa, absolutely riveted. There's even a tissue crumpled in Solly's hand. You try to keep the rising giggle contained in your chest. Maybe they just didn't want to embarrass themselves. You try not to smile until you're at a safe distance.

When you reach the kitchen, Sniper is bent double, head in the refrigerator-moving bottles around from the sound of it-muttering something under his breath. You elect to leave him to it, and make your way to the cabinet by the sink. Two clean mugs find your hands-one cream with the RED logo, one plain black-and set them on the-

"BLOODY HELL!"

Crack! Ping! Skitter.

And now they're both in pieces on the floor.

"Bloody tell somebody when ya come in the room, would ya? You're as bad as the damn spook!"

You eyes slide from his aviators to where your hands are still outstretched: Sniper's closed around the neck of an unopened bottle of beer, and yours blocking the business end with the crook of your thumb. A beat. Two. Three. Slowly, you lower your arms at the same time.

You swallow. "It wasn't intended."

"Try to make some noise next time, then, would ya?" Sniper rights the bottle, squints at it behind his amber shades as though expecting the top to blow off.

You turn to asses the rest of the damage. There's shattered ceramic from your feet all the way to the table. "Yeah, guess I'll remember that."

He follows your gaze and sighs. "Here-I'll get it."

"I'm the one that dropped-"

"An' I almost knocked ya over the head," he rubs the back of his neck, eyes still on the floor, "so we'll call it even."

Your mouth presses in a thin line-you ought to have remembered that everyone else is just as jumpy as you after eight hours of explosions, after all-but you relent. "All right; thank you."

"No worries." He moves to get the broom, and you fetch the kettle from the bottom cabinet rather than try mugs again just yet.

When he's done, Sniper trades the offending bottle for a fresh one from the refrigerator, and tips it in a little salute off the brim of his hat when he passes by. "Now, don't you go sneakin' up on me again, or I'll have to put a cowbell on ya."

You grin. "If you put a bell on me, you have to get one for Spy."

"Ha, not a bad idea, that… the trick'll be gettin' him to keep it on." He gives a half-wave, and disappears through the swinging door.

Soon, the kettle is boiling with a cheery little fire under it, and then you're carrying a baking pan stacked with the pot and two mugs, one cup of milk, and a dish of sugar carefully up the stairs.

You set it on the little table and pour, watching steam rise and roil in a soothing mist. Heavy's eyes are on you, book set neatly aside, when you turn back to him with his mug-another of the RED logos. He takes it carefully. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome." You're just thinking of snuggling back into the chair with your book, mug in hand, when-

"You and Doctor, you are liking each other, da? "

Your palm burns where it's suddenly closed like a vice around the thin ceramic. "Wh- what? "

He calmly sips his tea like he hasn't just accused you of-well, maybe you're leaping to conclusions, but it sounded like-"You are not so jumping now when you go for surgery. In battle, together, you kill armies of crying baby-men!" Heavy meets your eyes over the rim of his glasses. "He does not worry you."

Oh. Oh. Yes, yes of course, that makes a great deal more sense.

You find yourself chuckling, quite possibly out of sheer relief. "Yes, you're right. We're getting along better."

Heavy nods, smiling over the rim of his cup. It makes sense that he would care about how you get on with Medic; you've noticed they're close to one another, effective comrades and friends-and, you flatter yourself that Heavy seems fond of you, too.

"What is different?" he asks.

Your brow creases. What changed, indeed?

You take a slow sip from your tea-it's perfect, sweet, dark with the faintest edge of bitterness, rich, and almost hot enough to burn. But the question… it is not so simple. "Just… time, I suppose. We've talked, many times-I mean, there isn't much to do during surgery besides talk, and I'm there almost every day. And I wouldn't call those ideal circumstances, but the conversations aren't unpleasant." You wrinkle your nose. "Well… not usually." You sit down, slowly, settling back in the chair. "He's more respectful than I gave him credit for." Your fingers tap the edge of the mug. "It's not that different from the rest of the team, right? You spend time with them, see them bleed and eat and kill and play, and one day, it's all… turned into respect."

Heavy hums, folding one hand almost all the way around his mug. "I think," he says with a twinkle in his eye, "I know what book to give you." He holds up one finger just before you can sound even a single thrilled shout. "I do not have translation yet, but I will start looking." He smiles. "I think you will like it very much."

Note: The text at the beginning is, once again, from Alexandre Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo, translated by Lowell Bair.