The Cook kept walking down the hallway, towing him determinedly behind her, passing door after door. By the time she'd nearly reached the outside door, the Soldier realized she was mindlessly moving, burning off the adrenaline—he wondered if she would stop when she opened the outside door or keep marching into the desert, driven by the need to move, to feel. "Rose," he said quietly, pulling back on her hand. "Rosie!"
She turned to him, eyes wild and unfocused, breathing heavily. Her hair had fallen in heavy hanks from her customary bun, sweat curls sending it in waves across her shoulders. The bun itself, skewed and hanging sideways, shivered with her breath.
"Rosie, my room was back there." The Soldier gestured over his shoulder with a thumb and pulled her again. "Come on." She let him reel her in, that same unfocused gaze looking through him. He watched her for a moment, waiting for some part of her to come back, some sign that she could hear him. She simply stared, dumbly, standing inches from him, head tilted as if hearing a distant sound. The Soldier sighed. Nothing. She wasn't there, wouldn't be there until the adrenaline stopped pumping through her veins. Well, he thought with a surge of irritation, this isn't what I planned, but when does it ever work out like I planned?
"Right. Okay, Rosie. Up you go." The Soldier bent, sweeping her feet out from under her and picking her up like a child, legs dangling over his arm and body curled into his chest. "We'll just go in here and talk, okay?"
The Cook turned her glassy gaze to him, finally focusing on the chest close to her and following his neck up to his face. She made a noise in the back of her throat and swept his helmet off his head to clatter on the concrete floor, exposing tawny stubble. She reached up to run her fingers across the prickly expanse of his scalp, backward and forward as if fascinated by the texture.
The Soldier winced, but his arms tightened. "Oh, I'd be happy enough, Rosie, but I'm not that kind of Jane." Christ, he thought, don't let me be that kind of man.
Distant, beneath the increasingly discordant jangle of her nerves, she felt his arms tighten—the sensation of being compressed quieted the painful ringing in her body, and she wanted more, something to bring her away from the surge of her pulse in her ears and the sensation that she might fly apart. The Cook grabbed his ears, pulling his head down and licking at his lips. The Soldier growled in the back of his throat and wrenched his ears free. "Goddamn it, Rosie." Please don't let me be that kind of man, he thought, followed treacherously by the thought that it had been so long. Too long.
He managed to get the door of his room open juggling her in his arms as she licked at the side of his neck, trying to turn. The Soldier kicked the door closed, crossing his room with long strides, and dumped her on his bed as if she were burning him. He stepped back, brushing the dun-colored MRE box for lasagna off the foot of his bed. "Calm down, Rosie." He realized he was breathing heavily, as much with the effort of juggling her as with wrestling himself. Goddamn it, I have to look myself in the mirror tomorrow, he thought. She won't talk to me. Does she even want me here? I can just talk to her, should just talk until she comes back and can say something to me.
She pulled her knees to her chest and stared up at him, mute, the painful wrench of her nerves roaring back in the distance between them. Even wrapping her arms around her knees and pulling them to her was not enough to still her. The Cook pleaded at him with her eyes, a small, sad frown on her face that made the Soldier feel mildly guilty. Come on, he thought. Give me a sign. Give me something.
"Rosie, I need you to talk to me."
She reached for him again, dropping her knees to kneel on the bed. With a lunge, she caught his belt and pulled him toward her, her gaze falling down to the buckle on his belt and growing determined. The Soldier closed his eyes, body responding to the hands pulling at his belt. He'd pictured this moment over and over—on her knees, looking up at him, desire warming her face. "Rosie, honey, don't tempt me. Come on, talk." I can't do this. Jesus. I can't do this.
She popped the metal up and pulled the belt of its loops hard enough to burn her hands, her lower lip between her teeth. Her fingers wormed beneath his uniform shirt, tugging at his undershirt and finding the warm skin between his navel and the edge of his pants. She tried to force them beneath the line of his fatigues, seeking. A slow wave of tingling heat rolled up his spine, and he took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. She forced her fingertips under the edge of his fatigues, finding and just brushing the erection he'd been trying to ignore. The Soldier took a short, sharp breath and grabbed her hands. "Please, Rosie. Say something."
The Cook looked up at him, disappointment prickling tears from her eyes. He could see her mouth a word, lips moving, air gushing from her mouth without sound. After the second try, he could recognize the word—please.
"Rosie, I…" The Soldier realized he was squeezing her wrists, that her lips had stopped moving and instead framed a silent oh, blood rushing under her skin and tinting it. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she relaxed into his hands. With a surprised grunt, the Soldier squeezed again, leaving bluish fingerprints on the meat of her arms, and she made a quiet, choked moan that he felt like an electric shock up his spine. "Oh," he said, and blinked furiously. "Oh!" Well I'll be buggered with a bandsaw, he thought. Yes, she is.
He released her wrists and put both hands on the front of her t shirt, ripping it in half. She opened her eyes and whimpered, tugging at his uniform shirt. He unhooked the first three buttons and yanked it over his head, clearing the undershirt as well.
"Up a bit on your knees, Rosie."
When she knelt up, he unlatched her bra and tossed it over his shoulder. He stopped, looking down, and smiled. Not quite, he thought, what I pictured but a rather nice view. She sank back on her heels and pulled the first button on his pants through its hole.
"Oh no, Rosie, I'll finish this." He sat on the edge of the bed, unlaced his boots, and pulled them off, wriggling his toes with pleasure. The Cook pressed herself against him, raking her fingernails against his back and making needy little noises in his ear. She couldn't think, couldn't string words together. Her head felt like it was on fire, her skin burning with the need to live and be reminded of living, with the need for the pressure of his skin on hers, soothing the nerves now screaming at her.
The Soldier stood and stepped out of his pants, then leaned over to unbutton her pants. He jerked them off, catching them first on her shoes and then flinging them across the room. Her shoes, socks, and underwear followed, the underwear catching on the ceiling fan, off for the winter. She lay, reaching up for him with a faint, greedy little grunt, arms reaching to pull him down. He stood, looking down at her for a moment, watching alarm and hunger chase across her face, desire pulling at him like a tide. He knelt on the bed, looking at the secretive smile on her lips as he closed the distance between them. Mine. Right now, he thought, you're all mine. I can smell you. I know what you want.
"I don't think you're all that patient tonight, Rosie." He hooked her heels and pushed her legs apart. "I'm not feeling all that patient either, and I think you'll be fine if I…" He finished his sentence by guiding himself into her, reflexively grabbing the back of her thighs to anchor himself. Her arms stretched up over her head and she dug her fingers into the sheets, coming up on her elbows to meet him, to press her skin against his. He let her draw him into a kiss, feeling himself slide inside her as she scooted up to reach his lips—heat, wet and slick, and her tongue against his. Hunger. He could feel it pouring off her, the animal desire to fuck, and he wanted to drown himself in it, to bury himself inside her and feel her shuddering around him. Sitting back on his heels, he dragged her ass up until she was bowed over his knees, body stretched into a tight curve and legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Her muscles tightened and he had to move, to push back against the wet, elastic warmth sucking at his cock. So close. God, so close, already. Too long. It's been too long and I... "Rosie, I don't think I'm going to…"
His voice failed as she squeezed him, rippling around his cock. She growled, a guttural warning, sitting up against gravity, and reached down to dig her fingernails into his straining thighs like spurs, urging him on. "Fuck it," he muttered, and rammed himself into her hard enough push the air out of her lungs in a long huffing gasp. Bouncing her on his thighs, he dug his fingers into the back of her thighs and pushed them up until she could kiss her own kneecaps. It was almost pain, the tension drawing him up, up, and he gritted his teeth against the urge to come, to let himself fall into the heat, the slick pressure.
"I'm going to have to change positions soon, Rosie, this is tooooohhhh." The Soldier closed his eyes and dug his hands into her thighs, stilling her. "Give me a second." His eyes squeezed shut, and after a tense moment, he opened his thighs, dropping her down. She could feel him throbbing in her, could see the battle in his face, his eyes screwed shut, sweat trickling down the rigid muscles of his jaw. She hissed at him and squeezed again, trying to force him over that edge so that she could see it, see him get lost.
He opened his eyes narrowly and pushed her thighs toward the bed. No, Rosie, no you won't. I'm not going first. He moved shallowly, slowly, pushing up slightly and grinding himself against her clit. She whimpered, going limp, and he smiled, a drop of sweat falling from his forehead and splattering against her breast.
Her head lolled, rolling on the bed, and she reached up for his arms as he thrust, her knees bouncing. He dropped his hands to the bed to get better support, the hitch in her breath and the increasing tension around his cock telling him soon. Soon. The Soldier gritted his teeth again, trying to hold out for just a little longer, until she let go.
She could feel the warmth gathering between her legs, the nerves that had been screaming now frantically pumping heat through her, a mindless pleasure that left her gasping. She stretched her legs wider with both hands, digging her nails into her thighs and feeling herself tighten, tighten, tighten, and then it broke over her and she screamed, high and hoarse. He could have cried in relief, the razor's edge between pleasure and pain finally breaking with one last thrust, hard enough to scoot her backward on the bed. He yelled, a wordless, loud bellow that echoed in the room. If he could have spoken, he would have screamed the word "finally."
When he opened his eyes, he found her staring at him.
"Feeling," he panted, "better, Rosie?"
She gave a long, slow blink, languid and sated. "Yes, actually."
He gave a breathy laugh. "Good. You wouldn't talk to me, but you were damn well humping me. I didn't think you'd mind."
"I was a little distracted." They stayed like that, staring at each other. Her thighs started to cramp and he started to slowly slide out of her, but she kept looking at him, looking at the scar next to his eye. He watched her, watched the small expressions slide across her face, his arms starting to shake with exhaustion—what kind of woman are you, he thought. Who did they send us?
After a few seconds, she finally spoke. "You don't normally like touch, do you?"
His face went blank and he pulled himself out of her without a word, body wooden and clumsy. Empty.
She was briefly pleased, recognition and comfort buried under shame—he had withdrawn, the mind shutting the body down to save itself. It meant she was not alone. It meant he had his own childhood demons, that she'd summoned one.
"Wait, please. I'm sorry, Solly." She remembered: her body becoming distant as fog and the record of her memories cutting her to ribbons. How selfish am I, she thought, that I would be happy to see anyone in that dark place? Selfish girl. Her mother's mouth moving. Selfish, selfish girl. She pulled herself back to the present with a wrench and a shudder. He paused, and her hand hovered over his arm. "Please, Solly, I'm sorry. Please come back."
His shoulders hunched, the skin around his eyes twitching. He wanted to go now. Go somewhere. Get away. Nights in the closet, stroking the skin of his arms to comfort himself, his father roaring in the other room. Gonna find you, boy. Gonna get you, you little fucker.
"Solly, I shouldn't have said that. I'm very sorry."
Sorry. He sat back on the bed, looking at her warily, exhausted. Sorry for what? What could she possibly understand?
"Please, Solly, please come back. I won't ask any questions, I promise."
He crawled back slowly, heavily, and lay a few inches from her, his head pillowed on one arm. The silence stretched out as he watched her.
"Want to hear a story, Solly?"
He nodded, cautiously, and she told him about her first job. She described being one of the only women in the kitchen, and the jokes the men told around her. She described learning to flense bones, and how to pick produce. When she got to describing a particularly complex recipe involving ox tail, he interrupted her, words rushing out with his breath.
"How could you tell about me?"
"I can't. Not exactly. But I have my own problems, and if you have 'em, you can see 'em."
He reached out, hesitantly, for her hand. "Can I hold you, Rosie?"
"Please."
He crawled over her and put his back to the wall, an old habit justified by a lifetime of war. The Soldier wrapped an arm around her, then rose to pull his blankets up over them both and sank back. His arm tightened uncomfortably—a child clutching a teddy bear. She stroked the arm gently, noticing the pressure slowly release as he was soothed. When his breathing had slowed, he cleared his throat. "Can I ask questions, Rosie?"
She tensed. "I… I'll answer some of them."
"Why did you take the job? It couldn't have been all that attractive."
Actually, she thought, it was incredibly attractive. I was sleeping in the park. "I didn't have anywhere else to go. I kept being fired, and suddenly none of my contacts or friends were available." She sighed. "Not that I have a lot of friends." Lord knows my habits have taken care of that.
He made a humming noise into the back of her head, relieved to focus on something, anything but his memory and the humiliating flinch he'd never quite been able to hide—an ambush, his memory hidden and then springing out to drag him back into that closet. "Sounds like RED wanted you pretty badly."
"I can't imagine I'm all that special."
"Oh, I don't know about that," he said, lips brushing her hair. "How many women do you suppose there are with the right mix of interests, a criminal record, and experience dealing with men like us?"
She coughed, shifting. "I don't know. Probably lots." Come on, haven't these people ever hung out in a kitchen? Or any blue-collar job? Plenty of us out there.
"I doubt it, Rosie. Got any family?"
The Cook froze, momentarily—he could feel it, the frozen terror that locked her muscles against him. She recovered quickly and responded. "None that wants to acknowledge me. I was supposed to marry young and play house with some good, Catholic boy—never leave town, never see the world, in that tiny little fishbowl where everyone spies on everyone."
That explains a few things, he thought. She doesn't have roots anywhere, perfect for the company and just like the rest of us. "One of those little towns?"
"Louisiana is a conservative sort of place, especially in little towns." Conservative doesn't even begin to describe it. Visiting home is like time traveling. She shivered.
"So you have no attachments."
"Why… Oh," she gasped.
"Yep. Probably didn't hurt." She looked down, curling into herself slightly, a tiny pawn in an old, bloody game. Welcome to the team, he thought, sardonically, and instantly regretted it. She didn't even have a war to run from, and probably not a goddamn thing to prepare her but a little bit of poverty. "None of us do, Rosie. Engie was married for a little while, but that ended right quick."
"I'd imagine. Do you even have homes anymore?"
He said nothing, trying not to think about the apartments he'd lived in or anyone else who'd been in them.
"Shit, I promised I wouldn't ask questions."
The Soldier sighed. "It's okay, Rosie. And no. Some of us have distant family, but I don't think any of us have anyone waiting for us anymore." His arm tightened again, a quick spasm of crushing pressure—no one waiting, no one to check up on any of them or give a shit if respawn malfunctioned and they finally finished dying. He wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't mind getting it over with. She squirmed, breathless, and he forced himself to let go. Is it really loneliness any more, he thought, or has it gone beyond that, into some dark, airless place that even hope can't escape from?
After a short pause, she muttered, "Solly, can I ask one more question?"
"Dunno, Rosie," he said, his voice ragged. "What kind of question?"
"Why are you always yelling maggots and about soldiers?"
"My father was a…." Son of a bitch. Evil motherfucker. Violent, alcoholic wreck. "Drill sergeant."
"Oh."
"Go to sleep, Rosie."
Exhaustion pulled at her, wrapping dull, heavy fingers around her neck and pulling her down. "How did you know I was tired?"
"We've all done this before, Rosie. Sleep."
As she drifted off, he lay awake, watching the electric light slowly travel the white walls of his room. Too much, he thought. Too fucking much memory. We've been trapped here too long. He looked down at the sleeping woman in his arms.
Enjoy yourself while it lasts, little girl, because when your curiosity wears off, you'll still be here.
At breakfast, the Demo was the first to tease the Soldier, doctoring his morning tea with scrumpy—less than his normal amount, the Soldier noticed. He's anticipating, the Soldier thought. Cutting down so that when she picks him, he'll be prepared. Not that any of us can really get whiskey dick, since we never get a damn day older and respawn brings us back sober as shit. "It was a quiet night," the Demo said. "Did yeh bore the lassie to sleep?"
"Nope," said the Soldier. "Our little soldier was ready for war and slept the sleep of the victorious." And we'd better make a soldier out of her right quick, he added silently.
The Cook smiled briefly at the Demo before loading her fork. "Nope, Solly entertained me just fine." Jesus, are they going to tease every morning, she thought, irritated, then remembered a few of the kitchens she'd worked in—there was an edge to the teasing but it had the flavor of habit, and the Demo didn't seem malicious.
"He can't have been that entertaining," the Sniper said. "She made more noise with a mouthful of…"
She dropped her fork with a clatter against the plate and glared over the table. That one was malicious all right, and she was going to have it out with the fucker at some point. The Soldier cut him off by throwing his butter knife with surprising accuracy, bouncing it off the Sniper's head and sending his tinted glasses into the Scout's sausage.
"Hey," the Scout said. "I'm eating, here!"
The Sniper hissed at the Soldier, who went on eating without looking at the enraged Sniper. The Sniper drew his kukuri, coming up slightly out of his chair to clear the knife from its sheath on his hip. The Soldier put down his fork and picked up the trench spade next to him before making eye contact. Go ahead, the Soldier thought. Focus on me and leave the poor girl alone, you bullying prick.
"Gentlemen," said the Spy. "Could you settle this away from my breakfast?" He rustled Le Monde at them, a treat he had sent in with their company supplies. "Can I not have a few seconds of peace before we kill each other again?" The Soldier and Sniper stared at each other, and the Spy waved the newspaper between them, breaking their eye contact. "Breakfast," he said. "Eat food, hash it out later."
The Engineer leaned over his plate, knife and fork held up like little statues beside his plate. "Miss, just so we know, you didn't have to go through respawn last night, did you?"
The Cook smiled into her coffee. Now that one, she thought, really is fatherly. Nosy, but actually gives a shit. Making eye contact, she winked at the Engineer. "A gentleman never asks and a lady never tells." He's Southern. He'll know what that means.
The Engineer sat back. Well, he thought wryly, that's what I get for prying. Nice to know she's the discrete type. He made a face at her. "All right, Miss, I deserved that. I'll stay out of your business."
"Well, lassie, whose company would you like this evening?" The Demo raised the bottle to his lips and took a quick swallow. I'm cutting down, he thought, but that was not enough scrumpy to quite do the job. The faint, pleasant buzzing of his nerves after the last swallow, however, was exactly what he'd been looking for. He closed his eye briefly and sighed with relief. When he opened it, she was watching him, her eyebrows together. And what, lass, are you looking for?
She let a moment pass. That one, she thought, is an alcoholic. At least he's a pleasant drunk. Respectful. "I'd like to spend a little time with the Engineer, actually."
The Engineer looked up, startled, fork halfway to his open mouth. "I…." He swallowed. "I'd like that." Shit, I need to wash my damn sheets, he thought. Maybe she won't care, but I do. And take a damn shower before she comes to my room. And check the batteries in the vibrator. And fuck, I'm nervous. She doesn't look nervous at all. She's not nervous? His thoughts were interrupted by the Scout.
"Aww, come on, lady. How long I gotta wait?" The Scout drummed the table with a taped finger, scowling at her under the grimy edge of his baseball cap.
"Soon enough, Scout. Keep your pants on."
"I'd rather take 'em off, lady." The Scout looked at her, a cheerfully vulgar smile creeping across his face as his gaze slid down her face. The irritation was still there, in the tightness around his eyes. "Wanna help me?"
"Little man should keep them on." The Heavy sipped at his tea. "Unless he wishes to share with table. And Cook might not want to share." The boy never had learned any dignity, he thought. The situation was awkward enough without pestering the girl.
The look the Scout turned on the Heavy was flat and hostile. "Hey, I said I didn't want an audience, big guy. Back off."
The Cook found herself considering fucking one of them at the table and was surprised to find that she did not blush—instead, there was a sort of emptiness. She was so far outside everything she knew that she wasn't sure she could even be surprised. Off the edge of the world and in free fall, she thought. The Spy peeked at her over his newspaper at the Heavy's words, noticed the lack of blush, and discretely elbowed the fuming, silent Sniper.
The Cook started to wonder if there was something wrong with her. As the room emptied for the day's battle, she leaned her elbows on the table and stared blankly between them. Why wasn't this bothering her? Why wasn't she angry any more, or embarrassed, or even surprised?
She laid her head on a forearm and looked at the cooling sausages, prodding the edges of that emptiness and finding memory. The church came flooding back to her in segments. The pews in front of her. The smell of her grandmother's perfume. The pools of colored light reflected across the faces of the congregation. The smell of incense and the sound of Latin. The claustrophobic confessional and the gasp of the priest as she confessed. The act itself hadn't seemed so bad, the feel of her friend's fingers between her legs and that first, grinding push. And afterward, laying under the tree holding each other's hands, it hadn't felt like the mortal sin that made her family try to pressure her into marrying him.
Later, in one of many cities, the feel of another woman's mouth on her own and the taste of her—the Cook tried to remember when it had stopped being sin and merely been something of which she could never speak. She couldn't remember what city, or where she had been, just that she had kept wandering and that she had never understood why any of it was wrong, what might make fucking the soul-destroying mess she had been told it would be. Even with her habits, fucking could be joyful, or funny, or gentle. Why was it supposed to be so awful?
And now, this situation: should she be angry that they simply expected her to play along? The malicious teasing the Sniper and Spy had done was what she'd expected, two men simply taking advantage of a shift in power because they could, or perhaps because of habit, or because they had some sort of need to do so. The Soldier wanted to please, clutching at her out of loneliness. The Medic and Heavy—she shied away from that thought. They were none of her business. The Pyro appeared to want to please, as well.
No, she thought. Be honest. It pleases you well enough to play along. They expect you to keep playing along because you have been playing along. What does it mean to you? "I don't," she trailed off. "Does it have to mean anything? Can't it just be a new experience?"
That sly voice in her mind spoke again—let's be really honest. You want them to care about you. You actually want them to—"No," she said. "I am not going to go there. That is way too much baggage for this whole situation. This whole thing is just a new experience. I'll learn something from it and get on with my life." She looked at the table, covered in dirty dishes. "I'd better get on with something. It's filthy in here."
As she cleaned up the breakfast dishes and started the dough for rolls, she thought about her first moments at the base, about wondering what they would think of her, and what they would be like. With a small frown, she wondered when she would be judged, and when they would tire of her. Because, she thought, let's be honest again. This isn't going to last. Preoccupied, she missed the air shimmering behind her. A breath ghosted across her ear, and a low voice said, "I think I've figured it out."
She whipped around, grabbing for one of her knives, but saw nothing.
"You must be saving RED hundreds of thousands a year."
She lunged at the voice, knife out, finding nothing.
"Missed me."
She spun, stabbing at the air.
"Missed me, again. And where in the world did they find someone willing to put up with this situation? Ever been a whore before? You're taking to this like a natural."
The Cook backed up to the counter, holding the knife in front of her. "Go the fuck away. I'm not a mission goal, or even important."
"You appear," he said dryly, "to be doing wonders for morale."
"Fuck off, Spy."
The voice kept moving, as if circling. "RED has had to bribe half the women in the nearest town for Sniper alone. This must be incredibly useful for the company."
Her eyes narrowed. "It suits me, too."
"I'm sure it does." He sniffed audibly. "You still smell like sex."
Her lips curled back from her teeth and she snarled. "I've run into men like you before." This, she thought, is exactly what I expected. Fucking judgment from some moral shit who thinks I'm obliged to take it. Any second now, he's going to get grabby, which will put him close enough to stab. They always get fucking grabby. They talk themselves into being evil little shits and then they do something about it.
He laughed, the noise echoing as she turned side-to-side, looking for its source. "And did you learn anything?"
"I learned to stab your asses when you get close." Come on, asshole, get close enough to touch.
She could hear the amusement in his voice. "If you can find me."
Her shoulders, already high, rose again. Come on, either get it over with or get the fuck out. "Don't you have something else to do? Something important?"
He sighed quietly. "Tell me, Cook, have you died yet? Are you in the respawn system?"
The Cook blanched, fear crawling up her spine with sharp fingers. Would he actually do it? What the fuck did I sign onto?
His voice roughened, deepened. "I would imagine that I could do some damage to morale in a few quick stabs, with one blade or another."
Oh Jesus fuck, he would do it. He would actually kill me. She crawled up the cabinets behind her, knife wavering in the air. "If you come anywhere near me, I swear to god I will stab you until I can't move my arm."
Near her ear, from the empty space on top of the cabinets, he whispered. "I'd hate to challenge your enthusiasm. I heard you being quite… energetic... the last time I scouted this base."
The Cook threw herself sideways, slicing at the air, and was rewarded by a thin red line that disappeared.
He hissed. "Later, Cook. Thank you for giving me such good ideas."
"You son of a bitch!" She threw the knife across the counter, but the room was empty again. She crossed to the door, slamming it shut and locking it. "Fuck," she screamed. "Goddamn motherfucking bastards."