The next morning, the Soldier bounded into the kitchen at half past 6 am and stood, bouncing on the toes of his combat boots. The Cook was unloading mugs from a cabinet, her back to him, and he watched her strain on her toes to reach the shelves. The baggy shirts aren't doing her any favors, he thought, but then she is at work. Fuck. What's under the shirt really isn't any of my business. The Soldier shook his head. There was no point going down that particular road, especially not if he planned on helping her deal with the sneaky, predatory Spy and Sniper. I'm a better man than that. The Soldier took a deep breath to quell his nervousness before speaking.

"Good morning," he bellowed, and she dropped the mug in her hands, shattering it on the kitchen tiles. "You are looking quite nice today. Is that bacon I smell?"

She blinked up at the figure in fatigues, drying hair escaping her braid in fine wisps. "I… Yes, that's bacon." She bent to pick up the fragments of mug and he squatted down with her, reaching for fragments just out of her reach. Jesus, she thought, he's a sneaky fucker when he wants to be. Why red fatigues? Why give a man who could be that sneaky a bright red shirt? Like a bell on a cat.

"I appreciate the good work, soldier," he said. "You've done a good job of keeping an eye on that French bastard." In a quieter tone, the Soldier added. "He's up to something. Don't trust him."

The Cook froze, hands filled with mug fragments, and stared at his face. She had assumed the Spy and possibly Sniper were up to something—their expressions were just too similar and far too aggressive to not be planning something. The quiet tone from this loud, sullen man was startling. She wondered how bad what the Spy or Sniper were planning had to be, that the same man who'd tried to turn her away at the gate was now trying to warn her that something was wrong. As far as she could tell, he didn't like her.

The Soldier smiled at her, then stood quickly and bellowed over her head. "We cannot let America down, soldier. Clean up that mess double time and get to breakfast." He grabbed a platter of bacon and headed for the table. "Good soldiers run on their stomachs."

The Cook watched as he efficiently set the table—his large, calloused hands placing the mismatched plates gently, lining up forks beside them, the earnest concentration he applied to arranging the objects on the table—then helped him finish carrying out a platter of scrambled eggs, a toaster, a pile of bread and several sticks of butter on little platters. He bent at the waist, giving the plates a last touch to line them up, before walking back to her. As they heard the other mercenaries stumbling toward breakfast, the Soldier leaned in to the Cook's ear, lips and breath just brushing her earlobe and sending a chill down her back. "Be careful out there."

She watched him walk out the door, wondering if he'd put his lips that close to her ear on purpose—had he been trying to raise goose bumps? The man seemed simple, if not downright stupid. What was going on under that helmet?

The Soldier sat at the head of the dining room table and started bellowing at his teammates. "You call that breakfast? I've eaten more than that for a snack."

As he came in, the Spy hesitated near the Cook. His aftershave was spicy, a complex smell that hinted at leather, wood, and pepper that she noticed with a visible expression of pleasure as she inhaled. He watched it, guessing at the expressions she might make at other forms of pleasure. "Good morning, Vipere," he said.

The pleasure faded from her face, leaving a wary expression. The Spy appeared to be self-satisfied, as if having won a victory, and she resisted the urge to make sure she was still dressed. "Nice aftershave."

"I'm so glad you like it. May I have the French press?"

"Sure. Let me get that." Her obedience was a matter of rote, she told herself. She was cooking, and someone asked her for supplies, nothing more. She realized where her thoughts were going and swore out loud. Absolutely not.

The Spy heard her, a brief vulpine smile crossing his face. He watched her ass as she retreated, waiting for her to notice. When she turned to come back, he could see her notice his expression and stiffen. He gave her a pleasantly blank expression in response to her scowl. "It is so nice to see a civilized method for making coffee. Did your people do this?"

"No, my people are too poor. I picked up my bad habits in restaurants."

As he took the press from her, his hands brushed hers. His eyes dipped to her cold-hardened nipples. Her eyes followed his and she flushed. Cold, she thought. It's just cold. She ground her teeth. Don't you dare, she threatened silently, think this is you.

The Spy did not comment, merely gave her a secretive smile and turned to sit down, holding the loaded press carefully. When the Cook turned to retreat to the kitchen, the Sniper spoke.

"There's no need for you to be in there. Come out here and eat with us, little bird." He elbowed the Scout until he scooted over, making a hole at the table. The Soldier, on the other side of the hole, got up to give her his chair.

"I didn't know you had it in you, Solly," the Engineer said, astonished. "We'll all just have to be proper gentlemen, won't we." He glared around the table, meeting a variety of irritated and amused faces—it is too goddamn early, he thought, to play these kinds of games.

The Cook caught the warning to the table. Annoyed, she snapped, "I'm not helpless. Solly, sit back down. I'll sit on your lap." He had to be the safest person in the room, the only person to warn her that the Spy was up to something, and it was annoyingly archaic to take someone's chair on the merit of simply being female and in the room.

Under the eyes of every mercenary in the room, the Soldier sat down docilely and she perched on his knee. He didn't say a thing, but she could feel his thigh flexing uneasily under her ass as he moved his plate over, the muscle twitching like the legs of a horse at the starting gate. The Soldier's other hand hovered until she pushed it down on the arm of the chair. His fingers dug into the wood, knuckles white against his skin. He didn't reach for anything on the table, wrapping his other hand around the arm of the chair.

She looked at his hands, confusion knotting her eyebrows—it's just a little touch, she thought. Don't you all have sisters or mothers?—then up at the table. Beneath her, the Soldier's leg shifted under her weight. His erection brushed her ass as she slid backward.

The Cook stood up so quickly she knocked over her mug of coffee. "I'll just be... I'll be... I left something on the stove."

The Soldier blushed immediately, looking up at the ceiling. He hadn't been able to help himself—the pliant, soft skin of her ass against his leg had been the first time he touched a woman in months. His fingers convulsed on the chair arms. Great, he thought, embarrassed and frustrated. She'll run when she sees me coming, and I won't be able to help her against whatever the hell the Spy and Sniper have in mind. He absently reached down and re-positioned himself, counting the ceiling tiles for distraction.

As the Cook fled the room, she heard the Scout's voice, shaking with laughter. "You ought to be more careful where you point that thing, Solly. You might poke her eye out."

The Demo replied for the Soldier, annoyed at the boy's teasing. "Scooty, we've seen what yer packing. Yeh wouldn't scare the lass a bit."

"Hey, at least I'm not cockzilla over there. Heavy would probably turn the girl inside out."

The Heavy's eyes narrowed, and his voice held a dangerous rumble. "Little man is being rude. Is no reason to discuss these things where Cook can hear." No dignity, he thought, indignant. They're a pack of dogs.

The Cook, cheeks flaming, slumped down the cabinets in the kitchen and sat with her back to the dining room. Preoccupied by embarrassment, she failed to hear the faint click of footsteps until the fabric of his pants brushed her arm. When she looked up, the Spy managed to make his face neutral, but not before she saw the speculation on it. She realized that her raised chin put her mouth inches from the crotch of his dark red slacks and scooted away. He took a single step back.

"I apologize. My teammates can be a bit crude, Vipere. We will behave ourselves for the next meal."

He looked down at the flush as it disappeared into the vee of her shirt, catching a glimpse of pink lace before she clutched her shirt to her chest. The Spy offered her a hand, long fingers slightly curled in anticipation. "We will get you your own chair, and you will not have to encounter anyone's lap. We are merely lonely here, and used to each other's company."

The Cook refused his hand, groping behind her for the counter and standing without losing eye contact. "I'm fine." Goddamn every single one of them, including the smarmy bastard in front of her, whose satisfaction at her embarrassment could not be more obvious. The nerves of her skin were singing at her, and she bit the inside of her cheek to distract herself from the sudden, overwhelming need to be touched. Of all the fucking times, she thought furiously, to be horny, it has to be right the fuck now. Jesus, do I have anything approaching common sense?

No, of course not. Her fingers twisted in their grip on the plaid of her shirt.

"But of course you are fine," he said. "We will drag in a chair from the living room. The Americans and Australian feel bad that you must wait for us like a servant. They would like you to be a part of the group."

If he says 'servant' like that one more time, I'm going to hit him. "And you, Frenchie… Do you mind?" Admit it, she demanded silently. I know that look. Admit what you want, you slimy motherfucker.

He smiled sweetly at her. "I have never minded being served, but it would make my teammates so happy if you came."

A tingle swept her from scalp to toes and she gave a small, involuntary shiver which Spy noticed, his eyes growing heavy-lidded. "I promise, Vipere, we will be on our best behavior for the next meal."

His fingers curled up gracefully, and he walked from the room. She watched his ass in his slacks and wanted to take a shower.

During breaks in the battle the next day, the RED team threw dice to determine where they would put her chair at dinner. Unsurprisingly, the Spy won one of the places. The Sniper won the other, with a slight of hand missed by everyone but the Spy. The cloaked Spy followed the Sniper to his nest and when they were alone, decloaked.

"I had no idea you were so good with your hands, Bête." The Spy flexed his hands in his gloves to settle them and looked at the Sniper's long fingers as they curled around the burled wood of the rifle butt. "We must play dice more often."

The Sniper turned, putting a hand on his kukuri. "There's a lot about me you don't know, Sneak. Besides," he said, grim expression breaking into a brief smile as he let go of the knife, "we usually just fuck."

The Spy's eyes slid down the Sniper, greeted with the same, knowledgeable look in his partner's eyes. "Let me do the tracking this time," the Spy said, looking at the long line of his partner's legs in his jeans. "That one needs finesse. She is a little innocent. Or perhaps she just does not understand her desires." He smiled at his lover, eyes dark. "Helen outdid herself. The girl is transparent and easily roused."

The Sniper watched the Spy's lips curving, lust electric along his skin. "She is." The fabric of the Spy's suit whispered as he moved, and the Sniper's memory fed him the last time they'd been in this nest together, the Spy cloaking and walking over to kneel down in front of him. The Spy was ingeniously perverse, and insisted that the Sniper keep firing as he slowly, expertly sucked the Sniper's cock, refusing to let him finish until he had sent five people to respawn. He realized his jeans were uncomfortable, the stiff cotton digging into him, and twitched his hips to resettle them.

"You will be amused to know," the Spy said, catching the gist of the Sniper's thoughts with satisfaction and a rising need of his own, "that our little Vipere appears to respond to a bit of roughness."

The Sniper grinned crookedly at the Spy. "Izzat so?"

"Oh yes. She asked if I was averse to being served today and shivered."

The Sniper's face blanked for a moment, then he shrugged. "A bit formal for my tastes, but better for both of us, then." The Spy was the more formal of the two, the Sniper knew, and double-teaming her would mean endless, pointless little rules if the Spy had any say in the process. As long as I don't have to think up the rules on my own, the Sniper thought, the whole formal process is fun enough to go along with. The Spy would be worked up by it, pushing him out of the endless calculations he seemed make like others breathed. The Sniper snorted. "Too bad for Demo."

"If the 'lassie' asked," the Spy responded, "he would. Many of us have exotic tastes. Many more than you know, Bête."

"If the little Bird does, too, this may work out well for us all." The Sniper stared at the Spy, watching the skin around his eyes tighten with amusement and warning.

The Spy knew, given half a chance, the Sniper would be chasing her through the desert. The man was never more alive than when he was away from cities, tracking something through the night. The Spy had watched him sniffing the wind, hunched low to the ground to follow the faint traces of footprints, the mask of civilization falling away easily as he hunted. It was that feral part of the Sniper he liked—the easy way the man shed speech, clothing, and humanity. Howling, growling, snarling, glistening with sweat, the Sniper was an elemental force when he fucked.

"We cannot let you hunt her until we are sure, Bête, unless you wish to pay her hazard."

Turning back to the rifle propped against the window, the Sniper replied. "A good hunter is patient."

"As is a good spy."

The thunder of his rifle split the sudden silence and the Sniper leaned back briefly against the re-cloaked Spy, knowing the man would be there. "I have missed the hunt, Sneak."

Butter-soft leather ghosted over his forearms as the Spy slowly backed away. "As have I."

The Spy slunk out of the nest to the sound of Sniper's sigh.

At dinner, the mercenaries filed in quickly. The Soldier once again helped the Cook take the platters to the table, lingering behind her briefly as she put the finishing touches on one of the dishes. The flash and thunk of her knife was hypnotic, and he found himself wondering what it would be like to ease the buttons out of their holes in her shirt and lift her on top of the counter, whether she would cut him or drop the knife. He pulled himself from that line of thought with a great deal of effort, reminding himself for the thousandth time that he was not that kind of man, that he was there to help her and not to do any of the things he was currently trying not to think about. With a start, he spoke. "Do you have a preferred name, soldier?" Jesus Christ, he thought, I'm calling her a soldier again.

She paused, knife stilled over a pile of parsley. "We aren't supposed to ask for names."

He put a hand in the middle of his chest. "They call me Solly. Spy calls you viper, Sniper calls you little bird. What should I call you?" God, he thought with a wince, putting his hand down. Why don't I just say 'Me Tarzan, you Jane.'

She turned, cocking her head. "Thank you for asking. You can call me whatever you like, as long as it's polite." The man in front of her seemed to be grappling with something—she could tell from some of the stolen glances that he had, at one point in time, been thinking something obscene, but that he was now thinking about something else. Whatever it was, it seemed to pain him.

The Soldier looked at her under his helmet. "You look like a rose to me, Red. I think I'll call you Rose." That's a little better, he thought. Flowers are safe.

"That's actually kind of sweet." On impulse, the Cook reached for the Soldier's helmet. He flinched, then stood stiffly and allowed her to tip it back. "Why are you still wearing your helmet?"

Beneath it, his eyelids flickered over his gray eyes nervously. He already had stubble, sandy brown on his cheeks and chin. She noticed the shadows under his eyes, hidden by the helmet, and the slight cleft in his chin. His nose had been broken, and leaned slightly to the right at the bridge. A few acne scars dotted a cheekbone, and a long scar beside one eye made his eyebrow crooked.

Her eyes were brown, he noticed—a ring of dark brown flecked with chocolate. A few very pale freckles dotted her nose and high cheekbones. Her lips were a pale, pale pink, sharply curved, and her face over-serious. He wanted to pick her up, put her on the counter, pull her jeans down, wrap her legs around his hips and … he cut the thought off by thinking about his old drill sergeant and PT. Cleaning latrines. Digging latrines. Anything.

She looked down. His hands kneaded the air, clenching and unclenching, and she stepped back.

"I think I'm making you nervous. Sorry." She wondered what had frozen him in place—anger? Fear? She narrowed her eyes, then they opened wide. No, he was definitely thinking about sex. And it frightened him. Why would it frighten him?

"I'm just afraid of failing my mission." And I'm terrified I'm going to try to do something stupid, he added silently.

"What mission?"

Before she could finish the sentence, he leaned in and kissed her gently on the cheek. Just the cheek, he thought. I can do this. I can help and not pick her up and do any of the things on my mind. I can be the better man and actually get to know her. For all I know, she doesn't want to do anything with anyone here.

She reached up to touch her cheek, smiling. "You're an odd man, Solly. But a sweet one." What possessed you, she thought, to do such a sweet, old-fashioned thing. Especially when the look on your face screams sex and how uncomfortable you are.

He turned and dashed into the dining room. When she emerged from the kitchen carrying the last platter, the only seat left put her between the Spy and Sniper. She laid the platter on the table and sat down, uncomfortable. The Engineer was the first to speak. "Miss, could we get our favorite foods for our birthdays?"

"Huh? Yes, if everyone will write down their favorite meals and birthdays, I will try to make them a special meal for their day." Wow, he's polite, she thought with a twinge of remembered guilt, much more than I expected after the first day.

Beside her, the Spy filled her glass with pale yellow wine. "It would be a shame not to pair poached salmon with a little wine. It is, unfortunately, an American vintage…"

From the head of the table, the Soldier yelled, "And we make damn good booze!"

The Spy continued, "…but it is acceptable enough."

The Cook watched as he filled his glass and passed the wine to the Sniper on her other side, arm brushing her as he reached across. The Sniper polished off the bottle into his glass, and the Demo pulled a bottle from his lap and filled his glass before offering it around the table. No one took him up on it. She wondered what was in the bottle. The man seemed cheerful enough: a functioning drunk, perhaps, but not an angry one.

"To our Vipere. It is good to be treated with fine food." The Spy raised his glass, amusement making small crinkles near his eyes, and the table echoed him, a ring of water, wine, and moonshine glinting in the overhead light.

The Cook raised hers finally, saluting the table. "Thank you all, and I hope you enjoy my work." She wondered briefly why they were celebrating. It was an ordinary enough meal, but perhaps they didn't know how to cook. The mess she'd cleaned up had been mostly things with cheese and meat grease. Maybe they just hadn't been eating a well-rounded menu. The Cook looked down at the plate before taking a swallow of the glass in front of her. The wine slid down her throat and she closed her eyes against the tart bite. "My god, this is good. And it's perfect for the salmon." She turned to the Spy. "Are you now or have you ever been a sommelier?"

He chuckled, running long fingers through his dark hair to pull the strands from the mat caused by sweat and his mask. "Non. Merely the desire to enjoy life, and a misspent youth with many, many vintner's daughters."

Behind her, she heard the Sniper mutter under his breath, "and not a few of their sons."

She blinked, but the Spy did not see rejection, merely surprise. Instead of glaring angrily at the Sniper, he gave the Sniper a long, slow wink over the Cook's head. The Sniper looked back, levelly, and took a large swallow of his own wine. "Well, well," he mouthed over the Cook's head. "Interesting."

The Cook, realizing something was happening over her head, turned. The only thing she saw was Sniper taking a bite of his salmon. Across the table, the Scout them both watched closely. The Heavy turned a jaded eye to Medic, teasing him. "Should play more dice, Doctor. Will have to practice after dinner."

The Cook looked over, confused. As dinner went on, the wine in her cup never quite managed to disappear. She stopped drinking it after a light buzz, suspicious, but didn't manage to catch anyone refilling it. Beside her, the Sniper talked about hunting, leading them to a conversation about preparing wild game. The Heavy and Medic argued over opening moves in chess, debating various counter moves before moving into an increasingly intense conversation in German and Russian that the Cook could not follow. The Scout ate three pieces of salmon before moving on to the green beans, talking animatedly around heaping mouthfuls of food about the seafood in Boston.

The Soldier got dessert from the kitchen for her, noticing how animated her speech had become and correctly interpreting it as drunk—certainly enough to interfere with her coordination. He quashed a flare of worry. The Spy was doing an imitation of a cat in cream, and the Sniper looked just as self-assured. Neither were a good sign for the Cook sitting between them, who seemed to be completely oblivious to the trouble she was in. On his second trip out of the kitchen, he saw the Sniper mouth something at the Spy that he could not read, and he realized he was starting to really worry about her. Had she not heard him? The Spy was up to something, no doubt something that involved sex. He sat down to a slice of cake, watching the Cook carefully.

The Cook, noticing Pyro's reaction to sweets, had made three tall chocolate cakes. The Pyro's eyelids fluttered as he took the first bite of his cake, and his scarred hands fell limp for a second against the table. The Scout, eyeballing him, took a first bite and paused with a reverent silence. When the Spy handed her a slice of the nearly black cake, his hands lingered against hers. On her other side, the Sniper leaned in, making a long line of warmth against the other side of her body. She could feel their breath on her scalp, tickling the fine hairs escaping her braid.

A wash of warmth trickled down her body and she closed her eyes. When they both withdrew, she felt a momentary sadness followed by a moment of cold sanity. What the hell was she doing? How drunk was she?

When she pushed her chair back, the Spy placed his hand over hers on the table and the Sniper echoed him after a short pause. "It's only dinner, Vipere. You do not have to run away from your own food."

Their grips were gentle, but she was not fooled. "I should… I need to go to the ladies' room."

Before they let go, both men squeezed her hand a fraction into the threshold of pain, and she gasped, nipples hardening painfully. Her knees were weak as she turned, making her wobble. She ran from the room on unsteady knees.

As she fled, she heard the Spy say, "Well, gentlemen, what do you think?"

The Cook locked herself in the bathroom of her room, crying in frustrated humiliation.