Thank you for the reviews and suggestions. I will definitely keep them in mind for the future. Make sure to check out the author's note at the end for some cute art!
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"Pyro!"
Pyro winced. It was only day two of the blanket bed installation, day six ceasefire, and the mumbling mercenary was already considering locking himself in his room with icecream, his stuffed unicorn, and a coloring book.
"Pyro, c'mon man, I'm dyin' over here!"
This is what Medic must feel like every day, Pyro realized. He sighed, slowly pouring hot chicken noodle soup into eight bowls. He barely got any sleep, what with Heavy's deep snoring and Sniper's constant sniffles. Pyro considered moving out into the hallway instead of sleeping in the same room as his comrades. Or maybe just moving back to his own bedroom - but then he wouldn't be able to make sure no one died in their sleep, and spend the following day feeling guilty for being a bad caretaker.
"Pyro, you need some help?"
Engineer was standing by the doorway to the kitchen, and for a brief second, Pyro thought he was some civilian. It was odd, the healthy mercenary noted, to see all his friends in their pajamas and completely vulnerable. (Excluding Spy who still wore half his suit, and who Pyro fancied would never truly be vulnerable in the presence of the other mercenaries). Despite spending a lot of time with the Texan, Pyro was still not used to seeing him without his goggles and hardhat, especially wearing a robe with cute little Texas outlines on it. Soldier would probably love it, if he knew how the state looked.
"Mmpho mpshd mme mrsting," Pyro said, balancing the two trays in his hand as he walked past the ill southerner. Engineer chuckled, a scratchy sound with the subtle hint of mucus.
"I'm almost better. Hell, probably even better than the doc about now." Engineer sneezed, following Pyro into the common room.
"About time," Scout said, curled up in a blanket with two tissues up his nostrils. Pyro let out a muffled apology, moving between his sick teammates to set the two trays on the blanketed floor. The mercenaries all huddled over like a pack of puppies to a meal. With their mouths full, Pyro took the chance to drop to the couch and take a breather.
"Hey, this is really good, Pyro," commented Demoman, eyes alight as he shot the temporary nurse a smile over his shoulder. Pyro returned it, not that anyone could see. The Scotsman returned to the meal with gusto, and Pyro felt a sense of pride, delighted to see Demoman behave somewhat how he normally does.
"Too salty," said Spy, before blowing on a spoonful. Engineer, sitting next to him, nudged the Frenchman with an elbow.
"I think it's just fine," stressed the Texan. "Right fellas?"
"Not as good as my ma's."
"Well, your mum ain't here, now is she," said Sniper with a sniff. Then, he smirked. "Though, if she was your would probably be tucked into bed with a bottle of milk."
Scout, to his credit, only shot Sniper a middle finger, slurping down some of his soup. At the mention of Scout's mother, Soldier perked up, his spoon hanging in the air. It seemed like he managed to get food everywhere but his mouth, soup and noodles all over his pajama top and cheeks.
"Scout's mother is here? To take care of us? Of me?"
"I zink Soldier needs another dose of his medicine again," said Medic pointedly, giving Pyro a glance. The short mercenary would be inclined to agree, but was starting to run out of medication and didn't have the strength to go into town for more.
"No, ya dumbass, she ain't," Scout snapped with a glare, moving his bowl closer to his mouth so he could maintain eye contact with Soldier over the rim. The other American just stared.
"Does Pyro have more soup?" Heavy asked, raising his empty bowl toward the resting mercenary.
"Did you just call me a dumbass?" Soldier suddenly yelled, slamming his bowl to the tray.
"Well, that was a more delayed response than usual," remarked Spy, not even looking up from his soup.
"Yeah, maybe I did, ya dumbass," shot back Scout, red-rimmed eyes meeting Soldier's crazed look.
"Mpo mo," Pyro breathed, feeling a sense of terror. God, no. He could not deal with Soldier having one of his strange, possibly insane, moments. Especially not with someone like Scout, who only knew how to escalate situations to a level of craziness that even Pyro was not equipped to handle alone.
"Can ye two try not to ruin this nice lunch," broke in Demoman, a hand moving to rest on Soldier's shoulder. The American let out a scandalized gasp, jumping back and nearly knocking the bowl out of Medic's hand.
"Look what you've done! Now I'm infected with your sickness, you Irish maggot!"
"Yer already sick, ye fool!"
"Holy Uncle Sam, I'm going to die, aren't I?"
"We die nearly everyday!"
"Fellas, let's settle down..."
"Oh piss, where's my tissue box..."
"I feel it, I feel my body dying!"
"I barely touched ye! Are ye having one of yer weird spells, or something?"
"Maybe all that pain medication did irreversible damage. How unfortunate."
"Mates, really, where are my tissues."
"They are there, da?"
"Sweet Lincoln, everything is going white. Or black. I can't tell, by God, I'm going blind!"
"Move, I need those tissues or I'm gonna-!"
Sniper let out an enormous sneeze, an explosion of snot and mucous hitting everyone around him as his soup bowl went flying into the air and spilling over his lap.
There was a brief moment of silence.
Pyro stared, watching all the mercenaries look from the slimy viscous fluid on their clothes, to a red-faced Sniper with a dribble of snot hanging out of one nostril.
:::
If anyone were to somehow manage to remove Pyro's mask, they would be greeted with a smile that wasn't quite all there. Because, when you had to stop seven grown men from killing the eighth, and then hose all eight of them down in the field, and find them all clean pajamas, followed by setting down new sheets, blankets, and pillows in their room, smiling was all one could really do.
Pyro was an optimist. Clearly, the worse thing that could happen, happened. Clearly, it was only up from here. Clearly.
Pyro nodded to himself, putting the last of the dishes into the drying rack. It had been quiet after the entire fiasco, seven of the men settling down for a nap, and Medic quietly watching his programs. The doctor seemed completely fine at this point, and if Pyro was anyone else, he would perhaps force him into assisting with the others' recovery.
Even at dinner, the team was relatively silent, slurping down their soup and sitting as far as possible from the only Australian. To ensure no situation similar to what had happened, Pyro taped a box of tissues to the sharpshooter's waist.
With the dishes done Pyro stifled a yawn and headed toward the common room. Unfortunately, he could hear raised voices, and mentally prepared himself. Peeking in from the doorway with dread, Pyro noted that Scout was standing on top of the fireplace mantle with the television remote in his hand.
"Give it back, schweinehund!" bellowed Medic, waving a fist from below Scout. The America shot his tongue out, attempting to blow a raspberry and only succeeding in mucus shooting his nose. He swiped at it with the back of his forearm.
"No way, man. You've been hogging the TV all day. I wanna watch the game!" said Scout, inching closer to the wall when Medic jumped for the remote in the American's hand. It was obviously futile, but Pyro had to admit that the German was pretty agile for a man his age.
"Fellas, c'mon. It's getting late anyway, we should all try to sleep," tried Engineer from his place on the blanket bed, having already rebuilt his pillow fort.
"Already trying," Spy monotoned from under a heavy blanket.
"Give it here," Medic snapped, reaching to swipe at Scout's legs and trip him up.
"Nope," piped Scout, jumping onto Medic's head and then double jumping over to the couch.
"Aren't you supposed to be sick, lad?" asked Demoman, peeking up from under his own blanket with a raised brow. "How in the hell can ye still be double jumping round here."
"Well, if ya really wanna know, I grew up with-agh!"
Heavy grabbed Scout from the couch, holding the American around the waist and plucking the remote from his weak grasp.
"Let go, tubby!" whined Scout, weakly punching Heavy in the midsection. The Russian seemed to hardly notice, gently passing the remote to a grateful Medic.
"Time for Scout to sleep."
"I ain't even tired!" Scout, like some sort of greased rabbit, slipped out of Heavy's hold, clumsily making his way to Pyro who still stood at the doorway.
"Pyro, this is some big ol' bullshit! How are ya gonna put me in here with these old assholes, and not provide some sort of entertainment? Doc's got the television on lockdown too, that ain't fair!"
"The wee shit's right," spoke up Demoman, now sitting up from his resting place. "I'm a tad drunk and this still hasn't been a very pleasant experience."
"I don't know, I think it was rather okay before our dear bushman sprayed us with his bodily fluids," came a muffled response form under a blanket.
"Fuck off, Spook," Sniper snapped, curled up at the edge of the blanket bed and looking all around miserable. "At least I'm not the one with pink hearts on my pajamas."
One eye peeked from under the blanket.
"It was a gift," stressed the Frenchman. Pyro couldn't help but feel a bit guilty - Spy had been extremely specific on where to find another suit for him after Sniper sneezed on his. Yet, in his rush to deal with the pandemic, Pyro grabbed a set of pajamas hanging off a chair in the Frenchman's otherwise meticulous room.
"We should play a game!" It was Soldier who spoke up, oddly quiet for most of the arguing. Perhaps because Pyro had given him another dose of meds before dinner. The American gave his friends a loopy grin, reaching over to slug an arm over a bewildered Demoman's shoulder.
"You always know how to have a good time, buddy," Soldier said, smiling widely at his Scottish comrade. Demoman blinked, perhaps just as perturbed as the rest of his teammates at Soldier's unshielded eyes.
"Aye...but they are mostly drinking games."
"No drinking," interrupted Medic, sitting directly in front of the television and repeatedly flipping through the ten available channels. "With ze medicine you are on, surely-"
"We'll damage our organs and then you can't use them for your freaky experiments," filled in Scout, arms crossed and rolling his eyes. "How could we forget."
"A game does sound good," mused Engineer, "What do you say Pyro?"
"Mphee?" Pyro blinked, pointing a finger at himself. He was still at the doorway, having been observing his teammates in silence - it was usually like this. Pyro didn't mind just listening to his friends, watching them get into a silly conversation or argument; it was sort of comforting at times, to be reminded that he wasn't alone anymore...
"Sure," said Engineer, smiling. "You're part of the team, aren't ya? I'm sure we stressed the hell out of you today, so I think you deserve a bit of a break."
Pyro could have hugged the Texan at his consideration. But, Engineer didn't really like hugs. Maybe pats on the back or shoulder, but hugs were not exactly his forte.
"Mphll..." Pyro hummed, coming to sit cross legged between Engineer and Sniper. "Mmt mpo mphoo mnna mply?"
The entire team, and even Medic, who paused in his channel flipping, all turned their eyes to Demoman. The Scotsman blinked at the sudden attention, but wasn't too surprised. He was often the one who came up with the most fun ideas when they all needed to de-stress(although some of his teammates would be hesitant to outright admit that). With a "hmm", Demoman looked down at his lap as he considered Pyro's question about a game to play. Suddenly, his eyes lit up, followed by a grin.
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What kind of game is Demoman thinking of? Something silly, I'm sure.
Also, if you haven't seen this, check out this pic based on chapter 3! (remove the spaces and *) solsnail. tumblr.c *o*m/post /12031 7097 911/quick-drawing-of-a-scene-from-the-fic-ceasefire.