Note: Once again, 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.

Whirling in the dark, bits of singing nonsense spattered among images of white walls, of hot sand, of blood glistening in the sun, too-bright fluorescents, flowers fading in their vase, grey, misty rain-

Your brain won't stop.

Flames and bullets and red, copper gleaming, crimson on silver, running, pooling, slick, fingers pawing intestines running ribbons, no air, no air, no air, no no no no -

Sit up and ignore the way the room spins as you gasp for breath. Inhale. Exhale. Your lungs don't burn; the air is cool. There is no sand under your fingertips, only the rasp of stiff sheets. But you're trembling, arms, hands, legs, and toes.

Fuck.

Inhale, hold the breath until it grows tight and stale. Exhale.

Mouth is dry.

You throw still-vibrating legs over the edge of the bed, grit your teeth. Slowly, you lower your feet to the floor, settle them. A few moments and they become steady enough to retrieve some loose pants and slip on your keds.

The walk to the kitchen is spent trying to control the leftover tremors in your fingers, and by the time a cold bottle of water is in your possession, they're steady again. In the dark, the water feels impossibly wonderful on your lips, and you drink greedily until it's empty, dispose of it. Grab another to take with you.

Vaguely, you wonder what time it is, in this half-real world, so impossibly quiet.

You don't want to go back to bed. Your brain still feels like a trembling wheel, round and round, sending signals to keep every muscle on edge, ready to flee. Your legs itch like they need to run. Rub your face, pinch the bridge of your nose. Maybe a trip to the gym wouldn't hurt…

Except you need to be ready for battle first thing in the morning.

Pace. Back and forth across scuffed tile. Window, refrigerator, table, wall, window, door window. No. Nothing for it; your legs protest the very thought of returning to bed, muscles crawling like they've too much energy, and this little kitchen can't contain them.

So, you slip out into the desert chill, and into the gym. It's easy to start a brisk jog around the perimeter, to watch the boxing ring and free weights and standing targets breeze by. One, two, three, four; one two, three, four, a steady rhythm of steps.

The stillness is eerie compared to the electric atmosphere that charged the place only a couple weeks ago during your bout with Heavy. Perhaps he'll be amenable to doing it again soon. Perhaps, if you exhaust yourself in the ring each evening, maybe you'll begin sleeping better. Maybe you can even convince some of the others to get a little variety...

You recall Medic's offer.

And this time, you consider it. It's been so long now, since that bloody afternoon, since you lost sight of the infirmary and lashed out that you're not sure how you ever saw a resemblance between your medic and his BLU counterpart at all. The facial expressions are always wrong: no one else has ever looked at you like you're nothing more than a bundle of matter, barely flesh and blood. Nails dig into palms. You don't want to see that face, not now. Not ever again. Something else, something else, before-

Medic. Challenging Medic to a bout.

Yes, that's safe. Sizing up the fight.

He's tall, of course, broad in the shoulders, but not so large as Heavy. It would be a completely different match. The way he moves on the battlefield, striking so fast that it's dizzying to behold, even while carrying a bulky apparatus, leads you to believe he'll be even faster in the ring. Much faster than Heavy, certainly-not that Heavy's strikes are anything to sneeze at.

In fact, this time, you would be fighting someone of the same weight class. Yes… wouldn't it be fun to see how he does, completely out of his element? No weapons, no drugs, no needles… just fists and wits. The way his mouth turns at the corner when weighing his odds. The way it turns so easily into that razor-sharp, bonesaw grin when he makes the first move. How might it feel to have all that energy and precision directed at youthis time?

What a fight it could be! Tomorrow evening, provided nothing particularly insane happens between morning and dinner, you'll ask.

By the time you've come to that conclusion, your breath is coming in heavy gusts, heart racing with exertion, and your legs, while not as tired as the rest of you, at least seem to have settled to a soft hum. The brisk walk back to the building should be enough cooldown. And then-

Bed. In the dark. Alone with your thoughts.

You catch both your hands in your hair, scrubbing uselessly at your scalp. Aren't you an adult? Aren't you meant to feel like a normal human being? Can't you control your own brain long enough to-

Music again.

Hands return to your sides as the door creaks and closes tightly at your back with a click, exhaling the last breath of cold, night air on your neck. You don't remember exiting the gym, but that's no matter-

Violin. Sighing long notes of gentle breezes and flickering flame. Candles in the night and pen gliding on paper that curls near an open window, where, below, water flows gently in a whispering stream. From the eaves, water drips, drips, drips, pools grey and blue in moonlight.

You know where to go.

The doors are closed, but you can hear the song clear as the morning sky. Writing by candlelight as white wax drips slow and sullen on glinting brass. The air smells like the wet springtime soil, like lemon balm used to polish a mahogany desk.

The chairs are, as always, here. There's no shame in staying to listen.

So quiet, each melody drawn with the bow, but it's all you can hear. So immediate, it's all you can think.

Lean back against the high, plush arch of the desk-chair. Let the vellum, painted in tight, curling script, lift up and away in the breeze. Let them sail away, like fluttering birds, out into the silver night.

Yes… just a few minutes, and you can face your room again.

"Specialist."

Smoke. Smells like grandma's front room, spicy, heavy in the air. Safe.

"Specialist."

You think someone is talking, but you really wish they would just go away .

"Specialist."

Ugh. You think you should be offended that he apparently came in without knocking. Your mind is heavy, hazy. Better open your eyes, try to figure out what the hell he wants. Nnnshit. Why in heaven's name is Spy talking to you in the dark? And holy hell why does your neck feel like it got wrenched three directions in a boxing match?

"Specialist, there's been a change in plans."

You blink, dumbly. "What?"

Spy frowns, brow no doubt furrowing under the mask, but continues patiently. "We will not be on the field today; I am preparing to steal the enemy intelligence."

Oh. Oh, right. Okay, but-

You're not in your room. You're sitting in a chair. And… metal double-doors. Rows of seats... Ah. You fell asleep outside the infirmary, and that means Spy has-

He cocks a derisive eyebrow as you piece everything together. "You may want to get dressed."

And there's the embarrassment rushing to fill your cheeks. "Yeah, I-look, I know this is strange, but I just couldn't-"

"I'm sure." He waves a dismissive hand, turns slightly away, but you can still see a smirk turning the corner of his mouth in the dim ember of his cigarette. Ass. "You will be needed at the edge of the BLU base to ensure I am not followed. Expect the alarm at seven-thirty, and I will expect you fifteen minutes after."

You nod, push your groaning muscles into a standing position. "Okay, I-" Oh hell there goes a nice spike of pain from your neck right into your brain. You grimace. "What time is it?"

"Six o'clock. But I advise being ready at spawn in one hour. I will need cover if things go wrong."

"Of course." Your cheeks are still burning. Sleeping outside the infirmary; what are you, a lunatic? Yes, the professionalism is appreciated, but- "Seriously, Spy. I couldn't sleep last night. I wandered around for a bit and... sat down, apparently-"

He flicks his wrist again, the cigarette between his gloved fingers casting smoke in the air, hazily catching the dim glow of the emergency lights. "You don't owe me an explanation, I'm sure."

Why you? Why this? Why him?

It's too early to come up with any sort of retort, and the muscles in your neck are still berating you for your midnight stupidity, so you settle for a mediocre eye-roll. "I'll see you in an hour."

"An hour and forty-five minutes," he corrects. "If all goes to plan."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, hoping it'll dispel the headache creeping in to settle behind your eyes. " Goodbye , Spy."

There's a smirk in his voice, a gentle hum as his cloak activates. " Au revoir, rêveur ."

It's not fair. You know he's making fun of you, and you have no clue what manner of name-calling he's stooped to now. What a fine start to the day.

Note: The music I was thinking of this time was 'Air on the G String,' Johann Sebastian Bach

An absolutely incredible solo rendition on violin: youtube watch?v=BgAw93L9gG0