Dinner, such as it was, was finished. Stacks of dirty plates littered the table, and the mess in the kitchen sink had overflowed onto the counters, food spattering the counters like a Jackson Pollock. The mercenaries sat, talking quietly over the remains of their food. It had been pissing down rain and sleet all day, the sky a particular shade of iron gray rare to the desert, and overcast, a state even rarer. To a man they were wet and exhausted, and now that their bellies were full, loathe to get started on the greasy mess left over by dinner. The chore rotation had been more of a suggestion than binding, the men slower this night than most to volunteer to do something about the mess in the kitchen. If the Engineer hadn't simply taken over the meal, they wouldn't have bothered with hot food, let alone sitting together.
The day's losses had taken their toll on morale, and not a man in the room felt particularly social or energetic. The Soldier, with his customary grunt, had retired to his room instead of bothering with a public meal—the rest of the team assumed he'd gone to eat an MRE, avoiding having to wash dishes or have to discuss the day with any of them.
The Demo scratched his head, curly hairs standing at attention around the strap of his eye patch. With a heavy sigh, he pushed his plate to the side, bumping his elbows against the table and swearing before leaning forward on them to look around the room. "I've done all the cooking I care ta," he said, "and I cannae eat any more of the food we make."
The Engineer shifted in his chair, laying down his fork with an exasperated sigh. "Look," he drawled, picking up his water glass between the fingers of his flesh hand and rolling it gently to watch the refraction pattern on the table, "ya'll didn't complain that badly last time I cooked. If I don't have to do the dishes, I'll just cook more often."
"Nein," snapped Medic, slamming his knife down flat on the scarred table. "Not everything has to be fried, and anything you don't burn, you fry. And the bacon on everything. Have you considered, Texan, that some things are not improved by bacon? Those terrible pancakes with the bacon in them—"
The Spy cut in, eyes fixed on his wine glass through the pale gray rooster tails of cigarette smoke wafting up from his hand. "Americans have the most pathetic palates. What they call cheese here alone—it is not worth eating, let alone for these last decades." His words trailed off in a shudder and he sighed, voice growing wistful. "I would kill for a properly made baeckeoffe."
The Scout pounded a fist against the table, rattling the silverware and knocking over a glass that the Medic picked up with a grimace. "Fuck you, froggie, some of us like to eat shit that doesn't smell like my socks. Whatever the fuck that back off thing is, it's probably made of butter and fucking snails or some shit. Engie's cooking ain't that bad. It ain't my ma's food, but it ain't bad."
In the corner of the room, the Sniper shifted in his chair. "Oi. OI!" In the ensuing silence, he cleared his throat. "I don't know about any of you wankers, but I didn't really spend that much time learning to cook. I don't want to do it any more than Demo does."
The Heavy chuckled, a rumble that burst into open laughter. "Little men fight over dinner? Fight louder. Soldier will hear."
"Whoa, whoa there, big guy. Nobody wants Solly around for this. Does that man eat anything but MREs?" The Scout sat back in his chair hard enough to make the wood squeal against the floor. "The shit Soldier will stick in his mouth is disgusting. As long as he doesn't think we're being invaded by Commies, he'll be fine with whatever we do."
"A suggestion then," the Spy tapped his cigarette into the tray in front of him, "RED wants us to fight well and we know they can afford it. Why not suggest they hire someone?"
The Pyro's head lifted at that, along with both his thumbs, but he said nothing—rarely talkative or even responsive, he often communicated in grunts and gestures. He'd been permanently removed from the cooking rotation after he'd set the kitchen on fire trying to make fries. While he would wash the dishes, the rest of the team often opted to simply forget to tell him when it was his turn to do anything in the kitchen. For his part, he opted not to ask. If someone else wanted to cook, it was fine with him.
"Well, Py thinks it's a good idea, and I'd do anything to get out of kitchen duty." Scout turned to Spy. "But how are we going to get RED to pay for it?"
"We could always send you in to charm Miss Pauling." The Spy smirked at Scout, whose furious blush spread from his hair line down through the collar of his t shirt.
"You always fucking start it. I'm going to end it one of these days." Scout leaned across the table, poking a hard finger into the front of Spy's vest. "You're going to be out there and I'm going to catch you and send you through respawn. When you wake back up, it'll be with one of my cleats up your ass."
"Try it, lapin. Let us see you find me while you run circles in the sand yelling and waving that ridiculous gun." The Spy smiled thinly and reached for the Scout's finger. The Scout pulled it free just before the Spy's fingers closed on it, rocking back in his chair.
The Medic clicked his tongue. "There they go again."
"Perhaps little men would be more happy if they were well fed." The Heavy sighed, splaying a large hand on the table. "Then they would be quieter. Is hard to be angry after a good meal."
"Ist gut," the Medic said. "I will mention it in my report on the team's morale."
"What the hell is wrong with bacon," asked the Engineer as the men filed out of the living room. "And what's wrong with chicken fried steak?"
"Not a damn thing, Engie. Our foreign fruits are getting antsy." The Scout slapped the Engineer on the shoulder. "But at least we won't have to do the dishes no more."