The Spy watched them for a moment as he pulled on his slacks, leaving his underwear on the floor—how odd, he thought distantly, to fall back on the habit of modesty at a moment like this. The Sniper moved with the same, slow pace he'd set, languid and unlike his normal frenzy. He kissed the woman gently, letting her press herself against him and reach to pull him inside her. The Spy tried for philosophical resignation and instead got the sensation that there were simply not enough showers in the world to clean him. Well, he thought, watching the Sniper hold her as if she were made of porcelain, he takes a cue better than I thought he did.
The Soldier followed the Spy out into the hall, letting the man get several feet from the living room door before grabbing his elbow and backing him up into a wall with a meaty thud. "Give me," he ground out, fingers leaving bruises in the Spy's arm, "one good reason why I should not kick your ass up and down this hall for using that technique. At least when they brainwash you in boot camp they don't make you think they fucking love you first."
He sighed, looking at the Soldier's face. "It will not last," the Spy said softly. "The only things left, unless I do this quite regularly for some time, will be a certain amount of confusion when she speaks to me, a blurring of her memories of her time on the field, and the nagging sense that she is happier here. She may have the same confusion when the Sniper is around her, or when she wields a gun. I certainly tried to blur that line as much as I can."
The Spy pulled his arm from the Soldier's grip with a wrench. "She may also be more emotional with us. It is too early to tell. I will have to spend a certain amount of time helping her rationalize the situation aside from her feelings on it." He ran his free hand through his hair, wringing sweat from it to spatter on the floor. "I am quite tired, Solly. It is more work than it seems. Let me go."
The Spy turned to walk away and the Soldier pushed him against the wall. "Right," he said, spit flying from between his clenched teeth, "until she figures out what you just did. What did you specialize in, you rapey motherfucker? Did they send you in to make cults for la Mére Patrie?" He looked at the brief surprise pass across the Spy's face and sneered. "Yeah, I did learn a few words when I passed through your shithole of a country."
The Spy closed his eyes. "You know what they do to make soldiers, Solly. They run you until you are ragged and then run you some more until you do not think, you simply jump when they tell you to and die where they tell you to."
He opened his eyes, glaring at the Soldier, taking in the pulsing vein in the man's forehead and the signs of arousal that the man no doubt wished to ignore. I will be merciful, the Spy decided, and not bring to his attention the weapon he has just handed me. At least I may be merciful to someone tonight. "You know what they do to teach us to resist interrogation. You cannot tell me that this is not a more merciful way of doing this in the time we have."
"What," the Soldier said, rage fragmenting his sentence into chunks. "Did you. Specialize in." Merciful? This was the merciful way of dulling her to what she was becoming? It would have been bad enough if you'd just gotten her loaded and talked to her. His hand clenched in midair, groping for the familiar handle of his trench shovel.
The Spy rubbed at the tension headache gathering between his eyes with two fingers, the muscles stiff with overwork. "Crétin. I should make you guess, but I am too tired." He drew himself up straight, pushing away from the wall. "I specialized in what you could call asset acquisition. Though you would, no doubt, have other words for it."
"Other words for it…." The Soldier stared at him. "That was," he said, pointing violently at the living room they'd left, "the single dirtiest thing I have ever witnessed. You could have just talked to her. We killed them or beat a little fear of god into them in my unit. We didn't—"
The Spy cut him off. "Did not what, Solly? Did not leave them with the ability to walk? Did not leave any bones unbroken? Did not leave any alive? You cannot tell me that you or some man with whom you ate every day did not take liberties with a woman who may not have wished him to. I know what war we came out of. Oui," he said, lip curling in a sneer, "I could have talked. Which would she thank me for taking? Her secrets or her body?"
"We didn't," the Soldier said, memory etching his face, "play with their heads like a sport."
"A sport?" The Spy took a breath, beating down the killing ice running through his veins with what was left of his self-control. Too soon. I cannot take too much more of this. "Let me ask you something: what will the company do if she tries to run? Do you suppose, after she has seen this place, that they will be content to let her go if they think she will break her word?" He stalked forward, finger stabbing into the Soldier's chest. "And what will happen if BLU takes her again? When has she ever had any preparation for that? Do you have," his hissed, face inches from the Soldier's face, "any idea what Blutarch hired?"
The Soldier looked at him uncomfortably, silent, the cheap florescent lighting of the base washing green into the ruddy hue of his cheeks. He'd met his counterpart, and had seen what happened to the women he'd taken somewhere private. His counterpart had cornered him once, and once only, assuming they had similar interests. The Soldier shuddered. The man had wanted to talk shop. The RED Soldier had come over the booth, one of the few fights he'd had on civilian turf since joining RED, and tried to cut the BLU Soldier's tongue out with the broken end of his beer bottle to get him to stop talking.
"I know what Blutarch hired." The Spy's fingers tightened on the glass with a faint crunch, a spider web of cracks forming. "I know exactly what he hired. They are never"—his voice rose—"going to find anyone who can be sent to them. Instead, they are going to come back for her again and again, worrying at her like rabid dogs because they do not have their own and because she is there. Do you know what I found him doing?" The last sentence was a shout that echoed through the halls.
The Spy looked down at the cracked glass in his hand, disgusted with himself, the glass, the conversation, the—Enough. "You can," he said into the unnatural silence, "hate me for this. She may hate me for this. But I have done what I think would help." Not, he added silently, that my intentions have any effect on what I have done. "I have taken a gamble," he told the Soldier quietly. "Let us hope I was right and I have bought her a little peace."
"At what price," the RED Soldier said, equally hushed. "We were all broken when we got here. You took both from her, you greedy bastard."
The Spy had watched human folly and been his own fool for ninety-two years. For fourteen of them, he thought, I lied, cheated, stole, fucked, assassinated, seduced, abandoned, drugged, and beat the enemies of the French government. For the last fifty, I have participated in an orgy of death that has no parallel. I haven't been naïf since I stole my first pastry at nine. What is one more sin in that parade?
"Solly," he said, voice distant, "if you wish to be helpful, bring her water and be the face she wakes up to. Just don't fuck her."
At that he turned, the skin of his bare feet making a faint squeak against the concrete floor and stalked to the kitchen. After a moment, the Soldier followed him.
They let themselves back into the living room quietly, finding the Cook curled into a ball in the Sniper's lap, sleepily listening to him talk about hunting. Her head was tilted to hear his heart beat, a small smile on her face. He kept talking, watching them circle around the couch. The Spy leaned down to put his hand against the Cook's cheek and she blinked.
"More water, Vipere," he said. "Here. Drink it."
She drank and snuggled back against the Sniper's chest, burying her nose in the thick patch of hair in its center. The Soldier reached out for her and the Sniper handed her over without a word. She mumbled sleepily and sighed. The Spy handed his lover a glass of water and made a bundle of their clothing, holding the living room door open as the Soldier walked through it and back toward her room, arms full.
The Sniper looked at the Spy with a complex expression on his face, then followed him back to his room, both stepping over the tripwire by rote. Looking his lover up and down, he grabbed the Spy by the back of the neck, sending the clothing in his arms flying. The Sniper bent the Spy over his desk, pulling his pants down hard enough to send the button ricocheting off the wood in front of them both. Still naked, he fumbled open a desk drawer, uncapping a tube and lubing himself just enough to get himself into the limp, submissive Spy without preparation.
He grunted, digging his fingers into the Spy's hips, and once he was as deep inside him as he could go, reached forward and hooked two fingers in the man's mouth, turning his head. The Spy looked at him with a single eye, speechless, and the Sniper snarled at him, staring into his eye and fucking him violently until he came. He pulled himself out of the Spy and turned the man around. They stared at each other, the unholy expression on the Sniper's face daring the Spy to react, to beg or give any sign of defiance. The Spy opened his hands, letting his head fall back.
His lover dug iron-hard fingers into his windpipe, staring, waiting for the bluish tinge and a reaction. The Spy stayed standing, head thrown back, still hard, waiting. When the Sniper loosened his hand, the Spy opened his eyes.
They stared at each other, the Spy answering the manic rage on his partner's face with the indifference of someone who is already dead. The Sniper sighed and reached out for him, pulling his lover stiffly into his chest. They stood there for a moment before the Sniper pulled the Spy into bed with him, something they had never done, lambent eyes watching the Spy as the man fell asleep.
Once he was sure the Spy had passed out, the Sniper kissed his cheek, a single brush of his lips, and let himself sink down onto the bed.
In her room, the Soldier looked down at the naked bundle in his arms. "Rosie," he said quietly, jogging her in his arms. She looked up at him, bleary-eyed and frustrated at being nudged awake.
"Rosie, you're going to want a shower. Trust me on this one." The Soldier kicked the door closed as gently as he could, and turned her sideways to fit them both through the narrow door of the bathroom. The plug was still on the counter—disgust twisted his features. He sat her on the counter and turned on the shower, testing the water with his hand. When he turned to get her, she was running her fingers across the smooth rubber, textures still clinging and echoing in the tangled wires of her nerves.
The Soldier looked at her, then sighed. "Rosie, if you can hear me, I'm not sure you can take a shower without falling down and hurting yourself, so I'm going to get in there with you. I'm not going to do anything but wash you, okay?"
Her smile was sweet and completely without artifice, and it made him want to be violently ill. The Soldier stripped out of his fatigue pants and herded her into the shower. She leaned against him as he soaped her down clumsily, head lolling against his chest, and moaned without inhibition when he washed her hair. His hands shook. As soon as he was sure she was rinsed, the Soldier turned off the shower and wrapped her in the only towel. She leaned against the counter, drowsy, as he pulled his fatigue pants back on.
"Rosie, where do you keep your pajamas?"
"Drawers," she said, voice slurred and slow.
He led her out, sitting her on the bed, and rifled through her drawers feeling like a thief. He drew panties and the single most modest pair of pajamas he could find out of them, dressed her carefully, and tucked them both into bed.
"My name isn't Rosie," she said, settling into her bed with a sigh.
After a long pause, in which he considered running out of the room repeatedly, the Soldier responded. "I know… Rosie." Please, he prayed. Don't hate me in the morning.
The BLU Soldier reached through the open cage, his fingers curling around her ankle. His free hand rubbed his crotch. "Fight me for it, honey. Fight me for it."
The Cook screamed and lashed out with her fists, but she couldn't hurt him. They slowed as they neared him until they became a lover's caress. She watched her hands, horrified, as they curled around his neck, pressing her body to his. "Fight harder, sweetie." His voice held victory—foregone and sure—"I'm still going to fuck you."
She screamed and her scream became a moan, growing hoarser and hoarser, quieter and quieter until she could make no sounds at all, and his hands were around her throat. "I love it when they cry," he said and she did.
"Rosie? Rosie!" Someone was shaking her and she lashed out, making contact with something solid. There was a grunt, and the voice came again, shaky. "Rosie?"
Her eyes rolled forward and focused. Her face was wet, and her throat hurt. The RED soldier's face was flushed and he had flattened himself against the wall. They were laying in a bed. Her bed.
"Rosie, you in there?"
Her heart was screaming in her chest, and she realized her fist was raised.
"Rosie, come on, please don't do this to me."
She lowered the fist, shaking her head, and whispered, "He was here."
"No, Rosie, bad dream." The Medic had told them which him—the RED team had taken particular care to murder the BLU Soldier creatively any time he poked his head out of spawn. He had actually made good on his threat in the bar and carved the man's tongue out once, throwing the miserable piece of flesh at the nearest wall and watching the BLU Soldier suffocate in his own blood. Bad dream, Rosie? We've made ourselves into nightmares, he thought, guilt welling up like pus from his memories. No, we can't blame her. We were nightmares before this.
"I thought he was here." She looked down, frowning at the pajamas. "When did I…." There was a confused flash in her head of the Spy kissing her, and an answering warmth in her body that reminded her nauseatingly of her dream. Her eyelids twitched.
That twitch. Oh Rosie, he begged silently, his throat dry and full of clots. Don't think about it. "No, Rosie, just me."
"I…." Another flash, the Spy smiling at her with a warmth she'd never seen on his face that bled into the Sniper's face and the gun resting against her shoulder in the suffocating heat of his nest. The brief sensation of being held gently, someone singing to her. Words from her childhood whispered in her ear and the blurry memory of her grandmother's house. Home, the place she had been happiest. The Sniper's face, eyes searching hers and a kiss that went on and on.
She looked over at the Soldier, a terrible suspicion creeping up her spine. He was panting, she realized, sweating and pale. There was a red splotch on one of his cheeks. They were both clothed: he in his fatigue pants, their fit stretched by sleep, and she in a set of flannel pajamas she rarely wore. She was clean—she could smell the shampoo in her hair—but oddly wet. The Cook twitched her hips, lips sliding together then froze. The dream? Which part was the dream? She looked at him, pale with horror.
"Rosie, you hit me pretty hard." Don't think about it, please Rosie. Not now. Don't think about it now, I can't… I don't have anything left to comfort you with. "I'm…. Don't do that. I have dreams, bad dreams about my dad."
The Cook realized that her neck was sore, and poked it with a finger. A rippling corona of pain traveled up her neck. "What happened," she whispered. "I can't talk."
The Soldier looked away. "I'm sorry. He was…" He curled both arms around himself. "I can't… I've gotta go." He scrambled out of bed, scooting down to avoid any contact with her skin. "I'm sorry. I'll send the Medic in here." The Soldier hopped out of bed and ran out of the door, sending it crashing into the wall.
A minute later, the shirtless, shoeless Medic came in with the medigun. He stopped in the door and sighed. "Ah…" Fractured hyoid, perhaps? Clear handprint around her neck. Whatever foolishness the Spy got up to last night, this isn't his style. The Medic winced. Solly is a bull in a china shop. "Well, Kätzchen," he said dryly, "it was a matter of time."
The Medic flicked a switch on the side of the gun and aimed the beam at her. Even the euphoria of the medigun was not enough to warm her. She could feel something in her neck moving under the beam, sliding back into place with a tiny click that made her want to vomit. The soreness faded from her body. She pulled the covers up to her chin.
"I had a dream," she said, looking over at him uneasily.
He turned the gun off and lowered the nozzle. "About our friend, the BLU?"
She nodded, eyes wide, small shards of the dream clinging to her.
"And what was he doing?" The Medic winced. Do not remind her. Why did I remind her, he chided himself.
She simply stared at him.
"This will fade with time." I am a liar, the Medic thought, knife twisting in his gut. A liar unless she has the evil latent in her that we have in us. Is it there? Would you have been happy if the company had not plucked you from the world and sent you to us?
"If you are one of us," he said softly, searching her face, "you will kill him over and over, and it will be better. There will always be nightmares, but it will be better." And if you are one of us, he added, gott im himmel helfen, ein monster warden sie sich.
She bit her lip unconsciously, popping it in and out of her teeth, the skin red and swollen, her hair in red, sleep-tangled eddies. Red and green flannel whispered gently against the blanket as she shifted her weight.
Und wie Frankenstein, he thought unhappily, warden sie verraten? One does not have to be a large man to wreak havoc.
The Medic shifted, shrugging the heavy pack up automatically against its black nylon straps. It has been a long time since I have read to Alexi at night, so that we could escape together. His brows met with a frisson of anger. I cannot think of him as Alexi. Kätzchen, damn you, will you entirely break us?
"What if it doesn't? What if I keep dreaming about him?" The covers were under her chin as she spoke, and if she had been clutching a doll, the Medic would have thought it no less an exercise in testing his ability to control himself. Like a child, he thought, seeking comfort from nightmares. Seeking comfort in one nightmare to hide from another.
The Medic reached once more for the steel of his composure, scrabbling against the caustic burden of knowledge. Grief carved his thoughts, leaving a silent admonishment: we cannot save you from ourselves, little one. The silence stretched out long before he had regained enough calm to speak gently. "Kätzchen, there are things for which I am not good. I am not… I am not much for this kind of comfort. It is hard for me. If you wish to discuss the dream, it is best if you speak to others."
She pulled her legs to her chest, making a small ball in the blankets, and said nothing. The Medic sighed. "I am sorry, but I am… it is not my best."
Her eyes slid away from him. She wanted to scream at him—where's your compassion, doctor? What the hell is wrong with you all—but it was moot. It was all moot, and there was nothing to say.
"You should not brood, Kätzchen."
She did not reply.
"I will send someone in."
"No," she said, voice absent and echoing. "Leave me alone."
"Very well."
He paused at the door. "It is not well to think too long on it. It is not well to think long on any of it. It will hurt you."
She looked up at him, eyes glittering under her tangled hair. Don't think about it? "Fuck," she hissed, "off."
The Medic stiffened and left without another word.