The Endless War (The Cook, Book 1)

by fire-is-my-happy-place

The RED team asks for additional support staff and is given a single, female masochist. Her arrival is the first new presence on either base for decades, and touches off a series of changes in both teams as they are forced to contemplate the nature of their war and the effect of their isolation.

10. Chapter 9

The Cook and Engineer would have stayed in bed all morning if the Soldier hadn't kicked in the door, lingering in that warm, fuzzy state between wakefulness and sleep. The Engineer had just kissed the back of her head again, nuzzling her hair, when the door boomed, rebounding off the wall and sending pieces of the brass lock skittering across the floor.

"Get up," the Soldier bellowed, standing in the door holding the holstered gun he'd given the Cook, a heavy bag swinging from his shoulder. "It's time to learn to kill."

"Oh for the love of fuck," the Cook pulled the pillow out from under the Engineer's head and bent it over her ears. "Go away."

"Negatory," the Soldier yelled, loudly enough for her to hear him through the pillow. "There is no time like the present."

The Engineer groaned and tugged the pillow away from her. "No you don't, Missy. You made your bed. Go lie in it." He rolled over, clutching the pillow to his chest and curling around it.

She sat up in bed, clawing the hair from her face, and squinted at the clock. She stared down at the side of the Engineer's head, lines from the pillow creasing his cheek. "It's five am!"

"Welcome to our hell, Missy. Now get the hell out of my bedroom and take that loud bastard with you."

Groaning, the Cook crawled over the Engineer and out of bed to stand, swaying. She rubbed the heels of her hands at her eyes until they could focus, then fumbled on top of the nightstand beside the bed for her glasses.

The Soldier watched her knock the vibrator off feeling around for her glasses. Ain't we competitive, he thought, amused. Shouldn't be surprised that the guy making the machines has one of those. Explains the noise, though. We wondered if he was killing her or fucking her last night.

"I bought your gun," he said to the Cook, watching her sort through the pile of clothes on the floor. When she bent over to grab her pants, he saw the hand prints on her ass. He was startled to find that they annoyed him—a surge of jealousy and protective anger made him shift uncomfortably on his feet. Well shit, he thought. It ain't like you don't know we're all sharing her. "You should never leave it where anyone can find it. Or if nothing else, you should lock it up so no one can find it."

She pulled her shirt on and buttoned it, annoyance and the early morning making her clumsy. "All right, Solly." Is he always up this damn early, she thought. Who gets up this early on their day off? He's even wearing his damn uniform. Who wears their damn uniform on their day off? She stepped into her shoes without tying them, wriggling her foot until her heels slid down, and followed the Soldier out of the door. She turned to close it out of habit, but the latch wouldn't catch. She pulled the door to and let it go, turning to catch up with the Soldier standing a few steps away.

He looked at her from the shadows under his helmet. His voice was quiet. "You okay there, Rosie? You do actually need to learn this."

The Cook braided her hair, pulling an elastic tie from her pocket and slipping it on. She yanked at the end of her braid, irritated, the pain clearing her head. "I'm fine. It's just early."

The Soldier gave her a tiny half-smile, looking at her profile as they walked. "Did you really want the whole gang to see you miss the target?"

"What makes you think I'll miss," she said, her voice lilting with amusement. He's teasing me, she thought. That'd be cute if it wasn't five am.

He snorted. "Ever shot one before?"

"Only a few times." It wasn't that hard to shoot a damn gun. Hitting something was harder, but she'd managed to wing a duck on one of her childhood hunting trips, before her mother had decided to keep her home and teach her how to be a lady. That turned out well, she thought, looking down at her flannel and scuffed sneakers as they walked through the main hall of the base.

The Soldier chuckled with amused contempt. "You're about to miss a lot. But don't worry, I won't tell them."

She gave him a mock look of outrage and sniffed dramatically, throwing her head up. "We'll see."

They left the base together, the Soldier slowing his usual stride to allow her to walk beside him. A half-mile away from the base, a set of concrete block walls painted a faded red and blue loomed out of the darkness. The paint was peeling away, and while the shells littering the ground all around the structure, testified to its use, the whole thing seemed ancient and uncared for. A low, wide shelf ran across both sides. In the distance, a pockmarked wooden fence held a few cans and bottles. A crate of empties sat near the shelves, and a set of buzzing florescent light bulbs did a poor job of lighting the alleys. The whole thing seemed rather shoddy compared to the equipment on the base, and she wondered why something that would be so useful was so poorly maintained. The Soldier pulled the bag off his shoulders and set it on one of the ledges, putting her gun down next to it.

"You share a range?"

The Soldier turned, making a face at her. "The brothers are a bit cheap, sometimes."

"Brothers?"

He unholstered his gun, checking the slide and safety with an ease that spoke of long practice. "I don't know what they told you, but this whole private war is an argument between the two brattiest old men you've ever not met."

The Soldier thought about the first time he met them—they'd ended up slap-fighting in their wheelchairs like a pair of children over who was going to speak first. It'd have been funny if they both weren't rich and able to pay people to murder each other's toys. I'm not usually for beating children, the Soldier thought, but those are two men who needed at least one good ass-kicking, so that they could figure out what the fuck to pay attention to and how to shut up.

"Then what is this even for," she asked, a note of plaintive desperation in her voice. "Why are you all here?" What the hell did I step into, she thought. The only thing they told me is that I'd be cooking for a group of men who fought battles at an isolated compound. I figured the company would pay for plastic surgery or spa treatments, and I'd be cooking for Civil War re-enactors or a Renaissance Fair or something like that, not a bunch of neurotic killers with technology that might as well be magic.

The Soldier made a grumbling noise in the back of his throat. "Rosie, they recruited me on the heels of WWII. What was I supposed to do, go home?" His voice snapped in the cold air, rage starting to burn high spots of color in his cheeks. "And who would I go home to? My dad died, son of a bitch that he was, a year before the war ended. He beat my ma so bad she left me there when I was ten to his tender mercy. I'd never done a goddamn thing but learn to take a punch, and then to kill. Was I supposed to put my guns up, get married and have another generation of kids? My dad did so goddamn good the first time."

He stopped, breathing heavily. Her eyes were wide, and he realized that he'd been gesturing with the pistol in his hand, yelling at her, his voice echoing over the desert around them. With an effort, he grabbed control of himself and spoke, quietly. "No, Rosie, this I understand. Take your gun out."

She blinked at him, then picked up her gun in its holster, edging around him as he lowered the gun to point at the sand. He sighed, guilty. Get a hold on yourself, he thought. Poor girl doesn't deserve it. "Sorry," he said. "I just…. I'm sorry."

The Cook nodded curtly, her lips forming a hard line. All right, she thought, he does have a temper. But he isn't dangerous exactly, just messed up. She unhooked the safety strap from her gun and pulled it from the leather, putting the holster back on the counter, then looked at him.

He reached into a pocket and she flinched. Shit, he thought guiltily. Let's just get on with this. "All right, Rosie, I've heard gun ranges use ear protection and eye protection and what not now. Not much point in it for us, but you can wear them if you like." When she held out her hand, he dropped two small polystyrene plugs and a pair of plastic lenses in them. "Put it on the ledge, Rosie, and put them on."

She put the gun on the counter and worked the plugs into her ears. She hooked the glasses awkwardly over her frames, then pulled them off. "Those are fucking annoying."

The Soldier shrugged. "They'd bug the fuck out of me. Ready, Rose?"

The Cook picked up the gun, cold and heavy in her hands. This is a monster, she thought, vaguely flattered that he'd given her such a big gun. She looked over at his thick wrists. Or maybe, she thought, he just picked a gun he's used before and didn't think about it.

The Soldier put his gun on the ledge and reached out gently for her arms. "Hold it in both hands, now. It's going to kick hard." When she didn't pull away from him, he carefully adjusted the position of her arms and hands, pulling the gun away from her body and pulling at her elbows until they bent slightly. "You're going to want to keep that away from your face when you fire. It'll spit a hot jacket and burn the hell out of you."

He stepped back, looking at her arms, and nodded. "Get a comfortable stance, Rosie, so you can take a shot without tensing up. And don't lock your elbows or your knees."

The Cook planted both feet and took a deep breath, the weight of the gun pulling at her hands and wrists. She realized, looking at the slight tremor of the sights on the end of the barrel, that she was nervous. The Soldier walked around behind her and leaned forward slightly, pointing over her shoulder. "All right, Rosie, see those cans? Stare them down, and move the gun until you can see them down the barrel, dead on that bump at the end of the barrel."

The Cook moved her arms, up and then slightly right to center on the cans, her heart already thumping in anticipation. She could hear him shift behind her.

"When you feel good and calm," he said, his voice said from a point just behind her right ear, "gently pull the trigger. Don't jerk it, don't tense, just squeeze real gentle."

The gun barked in her hand as she flinched and pulled the trigger, thumping and pulling up to the sky. The recoil staggered her back into the Soldier, who caught and righted her with a grunt. The can was untouched. "I believe, Rosie-girl," he said, laughter making his voice skip, "that you just shot a cloud. The can appears to be safe."

She didn't turn around, glaring instead at the can so he wouldn't see the furious flush on her face. "Goddamn it, Solly." He was enjoying this, she thought. Solly gave me a huge fucking gun specifically to watch me fuck up. And maybe to catch me. Joke's on you, asshole. I intend to get very good at this.

"It's okay, Rose, everyone tenses up at first. Let's try again, shall we?"

She shifted her stance again, leaning forward slightly on her front knee to catch the recoil. After a moment of glaring at the can and trying to control her breath, she carefully squeezed the trigger, eyes squinted with the effort of keeping them open. Her next shot scattered the sand a few feet from the cans.

The laugh was back in his voice, but he'd circled around to her side and sat, leaning on the edge of the counter. "See, just relax, Rosie. You'll get it."

I swear to god, she thought, if he makes even a single innuendo about relaxing I'm going to shoot him in the leg. I'll probably miss, but I'll fucking well try.

Behind them, someone spoke. "I see what the Spy was going on about."

The Soldier pushed off the counter quickly, body tense and fists curled at his sides as if ready to fight. "Get fucked, BLU."

"I wouldn't mind," the man said. The Cook turned to see a tall, stocky man in a blue t shirt put a large bag on the counter at one of the blue bays. His hair was a dark brown, worn in a buzz cut that screamed ex-military. In the poor light, his face seemed sharp: sharp nose, sharply divoted upper lip, widow's peak, high cheekbones. A heavy jacket over the shirt held a patch on one shoulder, but she couldn't make out the insignia. He stood still, watching her, waiting for her to finish inspecting him. With a twisting little half-smile, he spoke to her. "You done? Should I turn around and let you finish eyeballing me from all angles?"

Something about the man raised the little hairs on the back of her neck. Solly appeared to be all but ready to strangle the man with his bare hands, and the man himself was too calm, focused on her as if she were the only person present. That little smile—something about it seemed strange. It was his eyes, she realized. His eyes were empty of the smile on his face. They were weighing something about her, deciding something.

"Who's this?" She took a hand from the gun and laid it against her thigh, hiding it on instinct. The man bothered her, something telling her that his was not a face she wanted to see by surprise. The smile reached his eyes, becoming lazy. He suddenly radiated ease and the same kind of pleased expression she would expect to see beneath a pair of twitching ears in the savanna. Predator, her instincts said. He held out a hand to her, radiating an obscenely wholesome charm that made him seem trustworthy, even soothing. Jesus, she thought, if I hadn't seen his expression a second ago, I'd go home with him. Almost any woman would.

"I'm the better soldier," he said, his tone just right for seduction—warm, buttery, with the slightest edge of intensity. It promised that there was something to be found, something she would want just under the surface if she tried to find it. "I didn't catch your name."

The Cook shifted from foot-to-foot. Fuck, she thought, I've seen his other expression and it's getting hard to remember it. "The company says no names, mister… Soldier. So make up your own." She squeezed his fingers briefly with her free hand, and he captured them, giving them a firm squeeze and letting go of them slowly, his fingers trailing on the inside of her palm. The smile he was giving her turned wicked: promising bedrooms and a sure knowledge of how to make a woman happy. Goosebumps swept up her arm. What is wrong with me, she thought. He's not even handsome.

"Was he calling you Rosie when I walked up?" His voice grew soft, intimate. She found herself watching his tongue as it darted out to lick his lips.

The RED soldier pushed between them, breaking their eye contact. "Back off, BLU."

The BLU soldier stepped to the side and smiled softly at her. "No, I think that's probably about right. Matches the lovely hair." He looked his counterpart up and down, his expression changing instantly to a cold sneer. "And it annoys you, doesn't it, RED?"

"Respawn is still up, BLU," the RED Soldier growled, "and we could always spend a few minutes reminding you which one of us is the better killer."

"Always ready for a fight, that's the RED team. We asked BLU for our own little… cook… but the main office hasn't sent anything back yet." The BLU Soldier turned to the Cook, his expression changing again, dizzyingly fast. "We could probably pay you better and I'm damn sure we'd treat you better. The RED Sniper is a real son of a bitch. I've heard pretty awful stories."

The RED soldier leaned into the BLU soldier. "That's why he kills your Sniper three times out of four."

The BLU soldier ignored him. "Think about it, Rosie. We aren't a bad group. Well, most of us. Keep us in mind."

"Stay on your own side, BLU." The RED Soldier was shaking with rage.

With a final smile, the BLU Soldier unpacked his bag, expertly loading and chambering a heavy pistol, and proceeded to knock a long row of cans off the fence with a set of sharp bangs.

"Okay, Ros—Cook, back to it. Remember to squeeze gently."

The RED Soldier lingered at the range with the Cook, keeping his body between hers and the BLU Soldier's until his counterpart left. When he was sure they were alone, he grabbed the Cook's arm. "I know that son of a bitch can be charming, but don't trust him. He's not what he looks like."

She frowned at the fingers digging into her and then up at him. "He looks like a predator." She tugged the arm in his grip. "Let go."

The RED Soldier let go of her arm with a sigh of relief. Her eyes had started to glaze over while the BLU Soldier had talked, a terrifying look of compliance starting to slide onto it as he'd watched. "Good. You keep thinking that, because he is a predator. Look, Rosie, we're killers, but we aren't…. There's things we won't do, and he'd do those things."

She stared out at the cans, the labels bluing in the morning light. "I hear you, Solly. He's just…" She trailed off. How had he been able to stupefy her? What was it about that man that made him so fascinating?

"I know," the RED Soldier said, softly. "But trust me, he is a bad, bad man."

The Spy grabbed the French press from a kitchen cabinet, grumbling and slamming the cabinet door when the cuffs on his silky pajama top caught on the handle. "I see we will be serving ourselves this morning."

"Keep your damn pants on. Solly took her shooting this morning and I guess they ain't back yet." The Engineer scratched his stubbled neck, yawning hugely. "He took her out of my room at five am this morning, so either he's taking a second turn with her or she's making some kind of progress at shooting cans."

"Or she can't hit a damn thing," the Sniper mumbled, slumped over the dining room table with his head in his hands. He needed coffee, and if she hadn't thrown out his damn machine, it'd already be made. But no, the little bitch had to toss it in favor of that damn, slow press. And she wasn't there to make the damn coffee. He moaned softly. Daylight hours before noon were an obscenity—the only time he should be awake this early on his day off should involve hunting. The Spy kept him up most of the night, fucking like a man possessed over some stupid mishap in the previous day's battle, and habit had roused him without aid from the alarm. It was mornings like this that made him miss working solo. Almost none of his targets had required him to get up before lunch.

"What?" The Engineer blinked blearily at the Sniper.

"Nothing, Engie."

"It's Demo or Scout up tonight." The Engineer stretched, back cracking. "Lord, she's feisty. Demo's still sleeping it off, so I'm guessing she'll end up picking Scout tonight."

The Medic padded in barefoot, followed by the Heavy, just in time to hear the Engineer's comment. "The company made a most excellent choice." His hair stood in messy, fat curls across his forehead and poking, askew, into his ears, the air, and flattened across the back of his skull. His robe, forest green and fuzzy, hung open over his pale chest. He absently scratched at the patch of graying hair on his stomach and glanced over at the kitchen, seeing it empty but for a fuming Spy standing by the loaded press. "I was worried."

"You and me both, partner," the Engineer said, "but this is working out all right."

"Who knew we could share so closely?" The Medic laughed at his own joke, glancing over at the Spy and Sniper quickly, something both men noticed with a shock. The Sniper and Spy looked at each other out of the corner of their eyes, a question burning the air between them. The Sniper shrugged at the Spy, a tiny movement. The Spy's eyes narrowed in rage—he knew the Sniper wouldn't have told, which left a single person who could have tattled on them.

"Umph, Doctor, is too early for serious discussion. Will make pancakes." The Heavy lumbered into the kitchen and started opening cabinets, searching for ingredients.

"Indeed, Mischa." The Medic walked into the kitchen and put a kettle on the stove, pulling out two mugs.

The Medic, Heavy, Sniper and Spy had just started their pancakes when the Soldier bounded in, trailed more slowly by the Cook. They sat as the Engineer came in from the kitchen, clinking a spoon against the sides of his coffee mug.

"Well," the Engineer said, sitting back down at the table. "How did she do?" He took a fat swallow of coffee and sighed as it slid down his throat.

The Soldier smiled, pride and relief at being back in the base lighting his expression. "A slow start, but she managed to hit the cans with the whole last clip." He reached for a pancake and rolled it between his fingers into a tube, taking a bite without bothering with syrup or butter.

"What did you have her fire?" The Medic took a small, precisely squared bite of pancake, cutting his food slowly into a checkerboard.

The Soldier swallowed and reached for the jug of milk on the table with his free hand. "I gave her a Beretta loaded with .45 caliber longs, and she fired the hell out of it."

The Sniper snorted into his mouthful of pancake and swallowed. "You could have started her with something that wouldn't take her hand off. Look at those little wrists. Were you trying to break her damn arms?" He realized, with a start of surprise, that he was angry—and for what? Everyone knew Solly was a wanker, so it wasn't a surprise that he'd give the little thing an inappropriately large gun. He looked down at his plate with an irritated grimace, and the Spy looked at him, startled.

The Cook glared at the Sniper, then around the room. Could I at least, she thought, get a little credit for being able to handle it. "I'm sitting right here, guys." She rotated both wrists in front of her. "Still attached. I did fine."

The Engineer jostled her gently with his elbow and she bent with a grunt. "That'll stop a fella," he said. He looked over the table at the Sniper and Spy. "I was thinking we ought to give her a little practice with other weapons, for safety."

The Spy watched his lover and the woman—his lover's rage was familiar enough, but the man appeared to actually care, whether about her or just about Solly's normal fuck-ups. A red, prickling anger made the Spy's fingers curl hard enough to bruise around the handle of his mug. Something had happened, and how he owed her twice: once for telling the Medic and once for whatever was happening to his lover. The girl was a toy, and it was high time someone reminded her of it. "Hmmm?" The Spy's eyes slid into focus, catching the Engineer's last sentence. "What weapons?"

"Well," said the Engineer, "she seems to like her knives."

"I'm a cook," she said. "We have to like our knives."

"Do you think," the Spy said slowly, "that our little Vipere really has the temperament to do that kind of close, wet work?" This is almost too perfect, he thought. Yes, come learn knives from me, little Vipere.

"She almost stabbed me the first day," the Sniper said. Maybe that's it, he thought. Maybe it's just because she's willing to stab. Or maybe it's the snapping, snarling woman we fucked—maybe I just need to track her down and fuck her more often, to get it out of my system. He looked over at his lover, at his short breath and high, pale cheekbones. Oh holy dooley, he thought. Sneak is actually jealous. That girl is in for a world of hurt. A surge of emotion ran through him: spiteful pleasure, satisfaction that his suave lover cared so deeply, and beneath it all, discomfort. Sneak is going to fuck her up if I don't do something about this. I… don't know if I want that. The Sniper looked over at the girl, who appeared to be fuming. Look at her. She wants to be a part of the team. She actually thinks she can be a part of the team. He blinked. She cares.

"She cut our little friend yesterday during his daily visit." The Engineer looked over at the Spy. "The BLU Spy has been hanging out here during the day, buzzing the Cook and suggesting all sorts of things. We can't really take her with us or spare the Pyro to watch her." He tapped the table with his metal forefinger. "I could set up a turret in there with her, but the turrets are sensitive enough to make getting the wrong bottle out of the fridge lethal." The Engineer looked over at the Cook, busy loading her plate. You don't have anything blue in that fridge, do you?"

She looked at him, disbelief opening her mouth slightly before responding. "No, let's not set a turret up in my damn kitchen," she said. "Pass the press, Spy."

The Spy made an expression with too much tooth in it to be a smile. "All right, all right, I can see I'll be spending my free days playing nasty little games with our Vipere." The Spy passed the empty press over the table to the Cook. "I can't do it all my own. I have other responsibilities."

"Fine, I'll help," said the Sniper. If for no other reason, he thought, than to keep Sneak from skinning her. "But I'm going to train her like one of us, because there's no point in training her to mince about, waving her blade like a ponce." And maybe, he added silently, she'll turn out to be able to be one of us.

The Cook looked over at him, picking up her fork with a stabbing hold, and the Sniper gave her a genuine smile that startled them both. "We'll get to it, Birdie, but not at breakfast."

When she walked to the kitchen to rinse and refill the French press, the Scout stumbled in. "Food. Coffee. Coffee!"

"Christ, Scout," she yelled from the kitchen. "Wait your damn turn."

"I've been waitin'," he yelled back, collapsing into an empty chair with a grunt. "I ain't all that patient."

"No kidding," murmured the Engineer into his coffee cup. The brash and vocal Scout had not shut up over the last week about what he planned to do, and what he thought would happen. Boy, is that kid going to be in for a shock, the Engineer thought. If he ain't probably the most vanilla guy on the team, I'll eat my goddamn hard hat.

"Hey, old man," the Scout said, irritation making his accent thicker. "I heard that."

"Kid," the Engineer said, staring over at the Scout, "ain't that many years between us."

"Yeah," the Scout said, hooking an arm over the back of the chair. "Well, you act like an old man."

"And you ain't never going to grow up, will ya?"

"Kinder!" The Medic slammed his cup down with a splash and a clank. "Just ONE breakvast. ONE."

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck you, ya damn Kraut. Come on, lady, I need the caffeine before I go running." The Cook walked back into the kitchen bearing two mugs, and slid his in front of him as she sat, splashing his lap with coffee. "Ow," the Scout howled. "Christ, lady, that was hot."

The Engineer stifled a snicker into his own coffee. Because he had to stay close to his machines, he'd been an unwilling audience for a week of loud, obnoxious, and ultimately wrong speculation on the Cook, who had an apparent dislike for being told what to do by the boy.

"Yes, yes it was." She sipped her coffee, sighing with pleasure into the mug. Finally.

"I think I'm actually kinda damaged, here," the Scout said, peeling the fabric of his pants away from his skin with a grimace. "Medic!"

"Kinder," the Medic said, his voice edging into a growl, "if I have to get up before I have finished my tea, it will not be to get the gun. I will get my knives, and we will show you actual damage."

The Scout sighed and leaned back, holding the soaked cotton away from his skin, and picked up the mug with his free hand. "At least I got coffee. I ain't gonna fight you, Doc, but this shit hurts."

"Come by the surgery later." The Medic turned back to the small squares of pancake.

"Hey, Cook-lady," the Scout said, looking over at her with an angry frown. "That was low."

"I don't," she said, her tone steely, "like being yelled at in my own kitchen."

"And I don't like having to wait forever," the Scout countered.

"You ain't makin' any friends," the Engineer said. "Play nice with the lady."

"Fine," the Scout said, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, waiting for his annoyance to die down. After taking a deep breath, he tilted it down. "If the Doc don't fix me, I'm out for tonight. I've got some delicate areas and they ain't gonna be ready for company later."

"All right," she said. "I suppose I'd better go hunt down Demo later and give him the news."

"Missy," the Engineer said, his voice faltering, "you might want to be a little nice to the Demo. He's probably drunk as hell, and he gets a little emotional when he drinks. He ain't gonna play with explosives or nothing, but he may be… weepy." He stretched again. "I'm going back to bed. Wake me up if something stops working."

She blinked. "Is there anything you people don't know about each other?"

"Honestly, Missy, there ain't much. We've been living on top of each other for this many years, and the base ain't exactly arranged to be soundproof."

"No, it ain't, lady," the Scout said. "It's been real entertaining around here over the last couple of weeks."

The Cook shrugged, too tired to respond.

"I gotta say, I'm dying of curiosity." The Scout jiggled his leg and winced. "I'll meet you in the surgery, Doc," he said, and limped away from the table.