The Cook waited all day for the Demo, but he never came out of his room. By the time dinner was ready to serve, she started to feel a little hurt. If he wasn't interested, the least he could have done is say something to her, so she'd know one way or the other whether or not to bother him. Being avoided, or ignored, whichever he was up to, was a bit humiliating. The quiet snicker of the Scout when he came in for dinner hadn't helped matters—the Medic had fixed him up, and the Scout noted the Demo's absence with mildly spiteful amusement. She put dinner on the table and left the other mercenaries to it, and wandered through the halls, looking for the class symbol on his door. When she reached his room, she realized she should have been able to tell from the smell: sweet, with a bitter tang that said something was on the verge of rot. Old lees, she thought, in something that should have been washed out. She hammered on his door with the side of her fist, irritation making her hit it hard enough to shake it in the frame.

"What do yeh want," he bellowed. "Can't yeh see I'm nae in tha mood fer visitors?"

"Demo, it's me."

"You?" There was a pregnant pause, then a loud sigh. "Go away, lass. I'm not fit for company."

"Could I at least take a bottle of scrumpy with me? It's been a complex kind of week and I need a damn drink." What I need, she corrected herself, is money and several thousand miles between me and this base, but that's not happening. I have to buy booze the next time I order supplies. Lots and lots and—her thoughts were interrupted. The latch rattled in the door, which banged open.

The Demo leaned against the doorway, weaving. He wore a stained, ragged thermal over a faded kilt and a pair of thick woolen socks. His hair was a tangled mass which swallowed the strap of his eye patch. His breath was fetid, and he smelled of sweat and the rank musk of a male body. One hand was wrapped around the neck of a bottle, and the other helped steady him against the door frame. He also looked at her like he wanted her to burst into flame on the spot.

"Oh," he growled. "Going ta get drunk tonight, are yeh?"

She realized she had stepped back, startled by his anger, and stepped forward, snapping at him. "You know, I think I will. What's it been, eight or nine days? My whole fucking life has changed in eight days, and I think I need to drink my feelings about it." Her tone rose to a scream at the last few words, echoing in the hall.

After a short pause, in which he stared at her blankly, he lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a swig. Swallowing, he laughed against the neck of the bottle. "Oh aye, that I will join yeh for. Come in." He stepped back, swaying slightly, and gestured. She brushed past him, walking into the room. A homemade still took up half the room, leaving a messy bed and a desk turned on its end in the corner. A messy table against the wall held a surprisingly sophisticated looking chemistry set up. The room's lone chair was buried under an array of pipes, holding up the bottle tree that supported them. A neat stack of crates filled a corner, and the Demo wove to it and grabbed a bottle. "There yeh are, lass. Don't hurt yerself."

She wrapped her shirt around the cap and twisted, pulling it off. The liquor was raw, stinging her eyes and scratching at her throat. She took a deep breath and coughed, explosively. "What is this," she croaked, "three hours old?"

"Three months," he said, a smile starting to warm his features. "I ran out of reserve."

"Oh my god," she said, her voice crackling. "It's like drinking gasoline."

At that, he laughed. "Aye, but it'll get the job done, lassie."

They stood awkwardly, staring at each other, before he pulled the blanket from his bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. Well, he thought, she's liable to be better company than the rest of them. "Come on, lassie, get yer coat and I'll show yeh my favorite place ta get blind pissed."

He grabbed another bottle and shooed her out of the room, shutting the door, and leaned against the wall. She ran to her room and grabbed a coat and hat, meeting him by his room and letting him lead. As he staggered down the hall and up a set of stairs, she watched his thighs and calves under the edge of his kilt, the muscle bunching up smoothly under his skin. The head of the stairs emerged on the roof of the base, where she found a tattered couch covered in a tarp. The Demo tucked the bottles under the tarp and pulled it off the couch before sitting heavily beside the bottles, tucking the blanket in around himself. She sat down on the other end of the couch, woolen hat pulled low over her eyes, and looked over his shoulder into the glittering river of the Milky Way.

"I can't remember ever seeing the stars so clear." Her voice was soft, hushed. For miles around the base, she could see the sand and rock, stretching, low scrub and trees breaking the silken expanse. She turned her eyes up to the sky again, to the stars like white hot embers on the black bowl of the night. The sky was burning, alive with colors and light in a way she'd never seen. The town of her youth had been the site of several refineries, whose waste torches burned day and night, hiding the stars and turning the night sky brown. And cities—cities swallowed up the delicate glory of the stars in a blaze of neon. This was beautiful: a cold, complex beauty that made her feel every inch of her small, mortal life.

The Demo watched her head tilt up, looking at the pale expanse of her neck down to the hollow of her throat, framed by the coat. He'd been able to hear her fucking his teammates—everyone had—and he'd found himself wondering again and again what she'd be like. Most of them told stories, and no matter what they thought he was doing, he'd listened. He knew what the Sniper and Spy got up to, a little about what the Medic liked, and even less about what the Engineer liked, but the noises echoing through the halls told him they were a bit forceful as a group. He'd actually had to sleep with his pillow on his head a few times, the ragged edge of her screams making him wonder if he should knock on the door and check to see if she was being murdered.

Not, as he might have explained if anyone had asked, his cup of tea. They never did ask, he thought darkly. No, they just laughed at the drunken Demo and he let them, for the most part, because it was easier to be a joke than the focus of all their weird expectations about him. He got them drunk or high and listened to them talk. And sometimes, he acted drunker than he was because they spilled their secrets to him, supposing he wouldn't remember them in the morning.

He remembered.

If the girl liked things a bit rough, it left him right out. Would she want something or someone that wasn't about pain? Did he really feel like trying her out? Did he really feel like sharing her with the rest of them? Right, he scolded himself, that's a bad idea all round. Don't judge the lass, don't ask any questions yeh don't want the answers ta. And yeh don't want ta know if she can enjoy anything yeh would. Besides, he thought, and snorted aloud, yeh never did learn ta part yer feelings from yer fucking.

He cleared his throat before answering her, looking away from the pale cords of her neck and scanning the desert beneath them. "It's the desert air, lass. We're near half a kilometer up and there's not a damn light source for miles ta drown out the stars."

She took another swig of the bottle and shivered, eyes on the stars above them, her breath a delicate cloud in the freezing air. He made a wry little face. Well, he thought, I'll take care of yeh. It's not like any of the rest of them'll care. Too busy thinking with their dicks, and the wee little thing putting up with it. After a pause, he added silently. Well, ta be honest, she sounded like she enjoyed some of it.

"I'll drag yeh in before we freeze. What's bugging yeh? I'll trade yours for mine."

She laughed, bitterly. If the man wanted to hear it, she'd be happy enough to share. At least someone cared enough to ask, even if it might be the liquor talking. "It's like another damn planet, here, isn't it? I keep waiting for someone to judge me, or to kick me out, or make me leave, or just to treat me like there's something wrong with me for liking what I do. But all I get is sex and taught to go to war. Wish I knew if any of 'em respected me at all after all this."

The bottle hovered over his lips. Well, he thought, that settles that question and a few others. The wee little thing does care, at least sommat, and does like ta be treated a bit rough. Afraid of being rejected or just treated badly outside tha bedroom? But doesn't mind being treated badly inside tha bedroom? Odd combination. He realized his eyebrows were together, and that the silence had stretched on for some time. The expression on her face was edging over into embarrassed hurt, her lips turning down and eyebrows coming together as she huddled into her coat.

The Demo sighed. "That's what we have, lass. Sex, and war, and this little kingdom. That's all we've got ta give yeh." A brief flash of pain lanced through him. We canna give yeh much else, he thought. I have ta remember ta stay away and not ta give yeh anything else. He took a long pull from his bottle. "And now, you're one of us, or yeh will be when respawn picks yeh up the first time." He shifted on the couch, automatically tucking the edges of his kilt around his thighs, and focused on the distant glimmer of lights on the shooting range.

"I don't even know…" She swallowed. "Fuck, that's raw! I don't even know how to understand that." She gestured with the bottle. "Respawn, and this weird little war, and the way you all seem to just be okay with me wandering from room to room, fucking you."

Dear sweet laird, he thought. That's a mouthful. And not all of us are okay with it, we're just not tellin' yeh. "I don't think there is a way," he said, quietly. "Yeh just… get used to it." That's how I dealt with tha damn respawn, he added silently. Probably how I'll deal with tha whole roving sex thing. That and stayin' away. And wankin'. Loads of wankin'.

The lights twinkled above her head as she laid back against the ragged cushions of the couch, body loose and warm. She could feel the liquor running through her like bubbles—tingling, tickling—and she shivered again. He could see the ribbons of her hair laying in long strips across the tattered tartan of the couch, and wanted to run his fingers through them. The edge of her mouth that he could see was turned down, and her stare appeared to be blank.

He continued, trying to reassure her. "I promise yeh, lass, yeh do get used ta respawn and nae dying. There's bugger all else ta do other than lie ta girls in the next town and try nae to visit them too often." And I had ta stop doing that, he added quietly, because I just canna forget ta care.

She rolled her head to look at him, eyes over-bright. "Will you still be visiting them?"

It's hit her a bit fast, tha little thing, he thought, followed by curiosity. "I might. You can, too, as long as yeh don't get too friendly with them." He looked over at her, suddenly reminded of a few female mercenaries of his acquaintance. Something in the way she carried herself suggested a certain amount of flexibility. "Yeh seem a little fey ta me, nae offense meant."

She laughed softly into the night, a flush coloring her face. He's a perceptive man for a drunk, she thought. Or maybe that's why he drinks. "A bit, yeah. I've never minded strolling gay street." The Cook turned her head toward him again. "Do you have any family left?"

The Demo stiffened, fingers tearing through the decaying fabric of the couch. The company had kept him occupied through the death of his last kin, his beloved mother, and he was never going to forgive them for it. "Nah," he said, working to seem nonchalant. "Just a heap o' stone falling ta bits in Scotland."

"I didn't think there were any…"

He wilted as he realized where the sentence was going and finished it for her, anger making his tone cut through the air. "Black Scots? I don't know, lassie, are there any Black Americans? Any Chinese Americans? Anybody out there but yer kind?" Canna have a single conversation about meself without this, he thought, a mix of despair and suffocating rage making him want to simply get up and walk away. Canna possibly have a single moment when I'm nae explaining this ta someone.

"You're right," she said, and burped, bottle slumping in her hand. "It was a… stupid question."

He took a calming breath and straightened up on the couch, re-tucking the blanket around his shoulders. Well, he thought, at least she'll admit it was stupid. "Slow down, lass, we've got the night."

She let the bottle lean against her thigh. "What's eating you," she slurred.

Mah sweet laird, he thought, she's actually polite enough ta ask, even with a head full of scrumpy. He looked over at her, surprise startling the truth from him. "Do yeh actually like their games?"

"What games?" Her unfocused gaze wandered around his body, lingering at the open neck of his thermal and on his bare knees.

"Lass, nearly every man here's gone a bit wild, though Medic and Snipes probably started bent. I cannae imagine they don't play games, and I've heard how much RED paid ta bribe some of the women Snipes went home with." The Demo sighed. "He hasn't pissed on yeh yet, has he?"

She blinked at him, owlish behind her glasses. "He what?"

"I hate ta ruin the surprise."

"No you don't," she said, gesturing in the air. "You… you…" You're pretty, she thought. Pretty, pretty, pretty. And really nice. I like you, Mister Demo-guy. She wanted to get close to him, to touch him and curl up and let the very nice, pretty man hold her.

"I what, lassie?" Oh laird, please let's not talk aboot the fact that I'm Black again tonight, he thought. I don't wanna hear whatever shite yeh've learned aboot it.

Don't tell the nice man he's nice, she thought. And pretty. He's really very pretty. "You're very nice," she said, the words, tumbling out of her lips. After a moment, she realized she'd said the word nice. Fuck, she thought. Men don't like the word nice.

The Demo jumped slightly, startled. Well, he thought, suppressing a surge of disappointment, there are worse things than being told you're nice. "Not really, lass, but I'm nae that kind of monster."

"It's not that bad, you know. Sometimes the games are fun." The Cook hiccupped, her whole body spasming against the couch. "Fun fun fun," she sang, head tossing back and forth. "Sometimes I wish they were more—" She stopped herself. No telling the nice man, she thought, brain filled with slowly trickling words. "I'm not admitting nothing," she slurred. "Nothing."

The cold had slowly sobered him up over the conversation, letting him catch the omission. More what, he wondered. "Not my cup of scrumpy," he said and plucked the bottle from her boneless fingers. "I think I'll be holding that for yeh, lassie."

The Cook shivered so hard she shook the couch. "I think I'm… I think… cold."

"Scoot over here." The Demo opened his blanket with a sigh and she crawled over, falling into him. He tucked the blanket around them both and stared out into the desert. Great, he thought sarcastically, I volunteered ta take care of her for tha night and now I'm a heat source.

She clumsily opened the collar of his thermal and curled her fingers in his chest hair, sending a thrill through him that had nothing to do with the cold. "Your hair is really soft."

Nae, he thought. I am nae going ta respond to that. The tension gathering under his kilt, however, had other ideas. No, this is nae the time nor the place, and this is definitely nae the woman, he told himself. Yeh're a grown man and nae led about by the bollocks. "What did yeh expect," he said, voice thick with tension.

And we're definitely nae having the hair conversation, he thought.

"I dunno." Her fingers went back to stroking, weaving through the curls gently with an occasional scratch from her nails, the lightness of which made it tickle. She settled in closer, taking a deep whiff of him. Under the sweat and fetid musk, he had a faintly sweet smell. She pressed her nose to his neck, too drunk to notice him stiffen, chasing it.

The Demo shifted, pulling back. Nae, he thought, we're nae doing this. The little thing is drunk and yeh're just going ta end up having ta deal with the fact that she's nae going ta care about yeh.

The Demo took another pull from his bottle. "It's damn hard ta stay drunk up here, lass. Too cold."

Her teeth chattered in response.

"All right, come on up now." He pulled her to her feet and tugged the tarp over a full bottle of scrumpy and the couch. "Down tha stairs."

The Demo herded her to her room, half-carrying her as she tried to put one foot in front of the other, and put her down gently on the bed. He rolled her from side to side, stripping her jacket off and knelt on the floor to pull at her shoes. "Gerrofff," she murmured. "I c'n git."

"Suit yerself, lass." The Demo turned to leave, resolving to lock the door behind him with a mixture of disappointment and relief. She threw a shoe at the wall, missing him by inches, then slowly shimmied out of her pants as he turned around.

"I wanna cuddle," she said, brow furrowed with concentration at the effort of speaking.

He made a complicated noise in the back of his throat. Oh fer the love of all the saints, he thought. Right, well, I'll just lay down and think about the fact that she's nae going ta care, and about sharing her with the entire base. That'll keep meh from doing anything about it. He lay down beside her, letting her scoot backwards until she was pressed against him. She wriggled her ass a bit longer than he thought was necessary, especially considering the fact that he was starting to ache.

"Demo," she said, her voice starting to clear.

"What, lassie?"

"You're poking me."

"We'll get ta that in the morning, lassie." Nae we won't, he added silently. I'll just pretend ta fall asleep and then I'll do tha both of us a favor and go away.

He waited until she started snoring and slowly untangled himself. Slipping out to the kitchen, he filled two glasses and drank the first down, then refilled it. "I'll just drop one off," he whispered, and snuck into her room. At the faint click of the glass on the nightstand, she sat up and grabbed the edge of his kilt with a surprisingly strong grip. He put the second glass down to try and wrestle it back, but she gave him a drunken glare.

"Cuddle," she said emphatically, her lip starting to poke out with bleary disappointment.

The Demo sighed. Dear laird, he prayed silently to a god he knew didn't exist, I'm trying ta be decent here. No answer was forthcoming, as he expected. "All right, lass, let me shut the door."

She eyeballed him suspiciously until he shut the door, kicked off his shoes and socks, and climbed into bed with her, then grabbed his arm and tugged until he was cuddling her. Despite his best efforts, he fell asleep like that.

In the morning she woke before her alarm went off. She found the Demo still sleeping, and two full cups of water on the nightstand beside her glasses. Her mouth tasted like sandy roadkill—dry and utterly foul. She polished off the first cup in a single chug and put her hands on the second before he spoke, voice cracking with sleep. "Get yer own, lassie."

"I feel awful." Had they done anything last night? She didn't remember anything but a discussion and being put to bed. Somewhere, vaguely, she remembered arguing with him about something and winning. She wasn't overly wet, nor sore—a first since she'd unpacked in the place. Holy shit, she thought. He's genuinely a nice person. Or maybe he's just not interested. But either way—"thank you," she said, then winced. "Ugh. My head feels like it's full of stabby little elves."

An edge of irritation made his voice harsh. "Yeh drank a bit last night. Yeh're a bit demanding when yeh drink." She blushed, and he immediately felt guilty. "Sorry, lass. I just didn't mean ta spend the night."

Oh, she thought, with a stab of embarrassment. Okay, he's not interested. A memory surfaced—her fingers locked around the edge of his kilt and a belligerent stare. And I made him stay. "I'm... umm… I'm sorry about last night."

"Oh are yeh," he said, struggling with his temper despite the guilt. "Are yeh sorry for the whole night?" He was aching, his own headache battering at his temples and tense in a way that needed some quiet time in the shower. He wasn't sure he'd ever gone soft, and she shifted a lot in her sleep, constantly rubbing herself against him, mumbles and moans waking him to the feeling of grinding himself against her. No matter how many times he turned away, he'd woke pressed against her ass, well on his way to something he knew he'd regret.

She looked over at him, at the hard line of his mouth. Did I do something I don't remember, she thought. "Yes, I am. Whatever it is, it was obviously bad."

He growled, then pressed the heel of his hand to his eye. And the lass dinna even know. I'm nae telling her, he thought. If she looks down at the blanket, she'll figure it out.

"Look," she said, blushing up to her hairline. "I'm sorry. I think I was rude, and I treated you badly. I know you're not interested and I'm sorry I made you stay last night."

"Nae interes—" He cut himself off with a violent, convulsive move to sit up, sending the hammering in his skull into overdrive. "Are yeh blind?"

She looked down finally, seeing the lump in the blanket, then looked up again quickly, mouth hanging open. "I… oh," she said in a small voice. "I'm sorry I didn't…" she trailed off. "I mean, it's not like we have to do anything but I'm sorry I..."

"Lass," he ground out, "I don't take advantage of the drunk nor do I take advantage of those that dinnae care for meh or want meh." He threw the blanket off and slowly, carefully started to crawl over her. "I'm nae that kind of monster."

She reached out and snagged his thermal. "Please," she said. "I'm sorry."

He surprised them both when he closed the distance between them and kissed her, hard. "Don't," he said, breath hot and acrid against her face, "assume I don't have any interest. Assume I don't want ta be a cock in a pile of cocks."

Her eyelids fluttered, his words cutting her. "I don't think of it like that," she said, softly.

"Aye," he said, anger making his voice boom against the concrete walls. "Well how do yeh think of it?" He watched her mouth work silently for a moment. "Nae, yeh don't have an answer, do yeh? Or are yeh just trying ta be polite?"

She glared at him. "What do you see when you look at me, Demo? What goes through your head? Do you think I'm empty, that I don't have any feelings?"

"How can yeh," he spat. "Yeh don't know us. Yeh don't talk to us. Yeh don't share anything with us. Yeh just let them as wants ta use yeh like a doll."

She shocked herself when she slapped him, snapping his head back. "Is that what you think is happening when someone comes to my room," she growled. "You think I'm just laying back passively, thinking about nothing, that this means nothing to me? You are a fucking fool."

He grabbed her hand, digging his fingers into it, and hissed at her, instinctual rage at being slapped roaring between his ears. They stayed locked there for a moment, both breathing heavily, before he was able to see the tears gathering in her eyes. His memory prodded him—she feared rejection, wanted respect. The Demo closed his eye and let go of his hand. If she wanted to slap him again, he was willing to take it. He was sore, aching, hung-over and nearly unbearably horny, and he was in the bed of a woman who found pain erotic. Whole sections of his body were voting for tackling her to the bed and doing things he knew he shouldn't, things he'd be unable to live with himself if he did. No one would blame him and she might even let him, but the next day… at some point, she'd look back and hate him for it. She would hate him for hearing her confess to her fears and using them against her.

And what, he added silently, do you expect? Yeh want ta be loved, always have, when yeh fuck someone. Yeh just about told the lass yeh don't think she's anything more than a doll. She won't love yeh after this.

He took a breath and opened his eye to look at her.

Desire, misery, hopelessness, and a terrible loneliness fought on her face, an expression he knew he'd have many sleepless nights remembering. The Demo shuddered and pushed himself off the bed. "Sometimes lass," he said very quietly, "the best thing we can do is retreat. I'm sorry. I should nae have said those things. Who am I ta judge yeh for what yeh like?"

He backed up, grabbing his boots and socks, and left the bedroom just in time to hear her start sobbing.