As she passed the surgery, something hit the door with the sound of glass shattering. Snarled, guttural Russian poured from the room. The Medic staggered out of the door, ducking a thrown book. The Heavy followed him into the hall, purple with rage. Both men stood, chests heaving, the air between them crackling. She stepped backward, and the faint scrape of her feet on the floor made both men turn their heads. The Medic looked embarrassed, cheeks flushed and eyes sliding away from her. The Heavy lunged across the space between them, lifting her by the front of her robe and ripping the tie across it.
"You!" His huge face was inches from hers, rage glittering in his eyes. "Is not enough that I must discuss my nightmares with you? Are you not content with destroying us, that you would try to steal him as well?"
The seams in the armpits of the robe started to rip, painfully giving way under her arms stitch by stitch. The Cook grabbed the Heavy's wrists, fingers scrabbling at their massive girth. He shook her like a puppy, rattling her teeth. She wheezed, looking up at the snarl on the Heavy's face. "We didn't fuck. We've never fucked."
"It is not," the Heavy said acerbically, "the sex, глупая девочка. Is the intimacy." He shook her again. "Is his face when he lets go, the things that he thinks of when we are not fighting this stupid war."
"I don't mean to take—" the Cook took a shallow breath, the slowly snapping seams burning against the skin on the underside of her arms. "I'm not trying to take that from you."
The seams on the robe gave way, dropping her to the floor, and the Heavy threw the robe fragments over his shoulder. "Try? Maybe not. But he still misses women and there you are: weak and vulnerable and needy. Perhaps I should call you Лихо. Clinging to the neck, sent like a gift, drowning everyone around you." He spat on the floor beside her. "Лихо eats people. Maybe she does not mean it, maybe she does. Does not matter, either way."
The Cook looked up at him from her knees, shocked. "I'm sorry. I don't mean or want to take anything from you."
The Medic sighed. "Mischa, I will do whatever you ask me to. Please, please believe me. I will not leave you. The girl truly does not understand."
The Heavy stared down at her, lines on his face deepening. "And if I say you will never touch again?"
She looked up at him. "Then we won't."
The Heavy's eyes closed, wearily, and he sighed. "No, if I say you will not, he will still think of you and be sad. And there you will be across the table, close enough to touch." The hallway was silent. "Is a new rule. Never alone. I will be there with you, to share, or not at all."
The Cook looked at him quietly, then started to stand. The Heavy picked her up, ignoring her flinch, and put her on her feet with enough force to jar her teeth.
"I do not want to get in the way, so I agree." She reached out for his hand, and after a moment, his fingers engulfed hers. They shook hands once.
The Medic sighed and sagged against the wall in relief. The Heavy looked over at him, contempt flashing across his face. "But you? You still owe me something."
The Medic looked up, startled. The Heavy stared at him, anger still simmering under his skin, volatile.
"Doctor will make his apologies here, in front of us both. Then he will make more apologies in private."
The Heavy crooked a single, thick eyebrow at the Medic, who flushed as he realized what kind of apologies he'd be making in private.
The Medic cleared his throat. "My apologies, Fräulein, for taking things a bit far zhe other night. And my apologies, Mischa, for sharing something I should not have."
They both stared at him, at the vulnerable, embarrassed flush on his face and the glancing eye contact he made with them both.
Miss Pauling, the Cook thought. He left the room with Miss Pauling at breakfast. She glared at him, eyes narrowed. "Did you call Miss Pauling?"
The Medic looked at her, startled. "Nein, I did not have to. The field is monitored, as is respawn, and when the team makes a poor showing, it triggers a report. I may have mentioned that you seemed to be fitting in poorly—"
The Cook crossed the few steps between them and slapped the Medic, putting her whole shoulder behind it. His glasses flew off his head and skittered across the floor. The Heavy started forward a step, then stopped and started to laugh, a roaring rumble that rolled between the bare, concrete walls.
"Fräulein!" The Medic put a hand against his red cheek.
"That is for terrifying the hell out of me." The Cook rubbed at her stinging hand and glared at the Medic.
"Little one, there are times when the best thing to do with the Doctor is to do just that. He gets гордый on occasion." The Heavy's smiled turned predatory as he looked at the Medic. "And now, you should go. The Doctor and I have something to discuss." The Medic retrieved his glasses and put them back on in time to catch the look on the Heavy's face.
"I'm going to borrow a lab coat."
The Heavy waved his hand at her absently. "Да, fine, just go."
The Cook stuck her head in the surgery and pulled one of the Medic's lab coats off the hook by the door, stepping carefully over the glass. She turned and scurried off, pulling on the coat as she went and just missing the Heavy pouncing on the startled Medic like a giant cat. The Medic made a surprisingly high squeak, cut off quickly by a bass growl and the sound of the surgery doors slamming. The Cook smiled and continued down the hall.
The Heavy picked the Medic up by the front of his shirt and suspenders and walked forward until the Medic's back was against a wall. "Maybe is not clear to you, бабник, but I am not completely покорный. I am also not глупый."
The Medic's mouth closed with a click and he glared up at the larger man. "Я не ваша сука."
The Heavy looked down at him, rage cold in his eyes, before wrapping a hand around the Medic's throat. He leaned close enough to feather the Medic's face with his breath. "Укус меня, и я сделаю тебя моя сука. I have," he growled, "far more experience killing men than you do, and while you were trying to patch them up in the camps, I was proving to guards that I am not the сука." He looked the Medic up and down. "Не думаю, что вы ебать меня без моего согласия."
The Heavy stared into the Medic's eyes, sneer lifting his lip. "Wir besiegt ihr Deutschen einmal und ich kann zeigen, warum."
The Medic swallowed heavily, then reached up and pulled off his glasses. His glasses cleared his face just in time to miss the Heavy leaning into him for a kiss, mashing their faces together breathlessly. The Heavy let the Medic's feet touch the floor, still resting a hand on the Medic's neck, and kept kissing him, the threat of strangulation making his hand heavier.
The Heavy drew back slightly, breaking the kiss. "Do not forget, милая моя"—the word curled his lips—"what we are together."
The Medic hissed at him, but made no move to get away from the Heavy. "I forget nothing. I was honest, Mischa, about who I was and what I wanted." His mouth was swollen from the Heavy's stubble, and bright red against his skin. "I still want you, trottel. No matter what happens, I will still want you."
He reached up for the Heavy's shirt and starting feeding the buttons through their holes. "Wird immer ich will dich."
The Heavy let his arm go loose, and let the Medic undress him before reaching greedily for the Medic's tie and then the buttons of his shirt. The Medic rubbed his chest against the Heavy, smiling smugly as he felt the Heavy react. "Nichts, was ich mit ihr machen wird alles von euch nehmen," he said softly.
He reached up for the Heavy's shirt and starting feeding the buttons through their holes. "Wird immer ich will dich."The Heavy let his arm go loose, and let the Medic undress him before reaching greedily for the Medic's tie and then the buttons of his shirt. The Medic rubbed his chest against the Heavy, smiling smugly as he felt the Heavy react. "Nichts, was ich mit ihr machen wird alles von euch nehmen," he said softly.
"Nothing," he said as he worked a long finger hand into the waistband of the Heavy's pants, "that would not make me want you, the way you moan." He caressed the Heavy's cock in his pants, making the man moan.
"The way you cry out when I hurt you." The Medic pinched the Heavy gently, watching him flinch protectively around himself. The Heavy was careful to keep his hands out of the way, to draw them gently to the side.
"The way," he said, grabbing the Heavy's cock and turning him so that his back was against the wall and the Medic stood in front of him, "you feel about me." The Medic pulled his hand from the Heavy's pants. "Down, Mischa."
The Heavy sank down slowly to his knees, eyes on the Medic's vulpine smile, trapped between the Medic and the wall. The Medic's hands followed him down, caressing his face. "Beautiful Mischa."
The Heavy reached out for the Medic's zipper, pulling it down, and carefully fed the Medic's cock through the open hole of his boxers and fly. The Medic's fingers stroked his cheeks as he leaned forward, sucking the Medic's cock into his mouth.
"Mischa, whatever else happens, I will never want to leave you." The Medic's hands kept stroking the Heavy's head, gently, as the Heavy clung to his hips, fingers digging furrows in the Medic's hips. "Nie, Mischa. Never."
The Cook held the lab coat closed around herself and padded barefoot to the Demo's room. Instead of knocking, she turned the door knob and opened the door. The Demo, laying flat on his bed, bolted upright, staring at her. "Are yeh just so rude that yeh cannot manage basic manners, or am I getting a special treat today? Yeh're damn lucky I dinnae bother ta arm tha door."
She closed the door behind her as he sat up on the edge of the bed and crossed the few steps between them, standing a step away from him. "Just rude, then," he said. "What do yeh want, lass?"
"You need to apologize," she said, fingers pale where she clutched the lab coat. "You owe me an apology."
"Fer what," he growled. "Fer not taking advantage of yeh? Well then, lass, I'm so sorry I didn't take advantage of yeh and treat yeh like the doll yeh want ta be. Maybe I should have just put yer knees to yer ears and taken the edge off meh temper."
"Start by apologizing for calling me a doll," she snapped.
The Demo looked her up and down, glare deliberately insulting. "Are yeh not? Yeh're naked under tha Medic's coat, yeh smell like sex, and yeh're in my room. Am I tha only man yeh haven't fucked yet?"
Her head snapped back and she crossed the last few steps between them with her hand cocked. He watched her, ignoring it, as she struggled with her temper. "You know what you're problem is," she said, voice tight. "You think you're being moral. You think you're being a good person. Do you know"—she leaned into him, waiting for him to flinch—"what you're being?"
The Demo didn't flinch, but she could see his tension in the fingers he dug into his kneecap.
"You're being cruel. You and the Medic both. If I don't look like what you want, I must be broken. I must not care about anyone." The Cook breathed on his face, rage burning spots in her cheeks. "What you said hurt me more than beating me ever did."
At that, the Demo did flinch, looking at the satisfaction which cut a grim smile on her lips. He drummed his fingers on his kneecaps. "All right. Say I'm wrong about it." His body was stiff but for the drumming fingers on his knees. "Now yeh can go."
"I'm not done," she hissed.
"Yes, yeh are." His lips twisted bitterly. "Now get out." She stayed standing there and he sighed explosively. "What is it going to take to get yeh to get out? Will I have to pick yeh up and bounce yeh out like a bad drunk?" His fingers tightened again, digging gouges in the skin of his knees. "Do yeh really not understand the word 'now'?"
"Not until you apologize for telling me I couldn't possibly care about any of you."
The Demo knew himself a bit better than he wished—an occupational hazard that he'd been hiding from in scrumpy for a long time—he'd looked back on that night regretting, then hating himself, then regretting again. "I am nae," he said, tension thinning his voice, "made of stone. If yeh want ta have this discussion, yeh need to back up slightly before I forget I was raised ta be a gentleman."
"Are you going to talk to me about it?"
If she stomps a foot in rage, the Demo thought, I'll be in her before she has time ta figure out what's happened. Lass, if yeh don't move soon, I'm going ta be doin a bit more than talking, and that won't settle anything. "Yea," he said, "I'll talk about it."
She took a single step back, still well within what he could grab and pull into his lap and—he made himself look back at her face. "What do yeh want me ta say, lassie?"
The Cook sighed, exasperated. "Are you really going to do this?"
"Do what, lassie?"
"Refuse to admit it wasn't a fair thing to say." She looked at him, eyes glittering with unshed tears. "I may not know you, but you don't know me either. None of you do."
"Why do yeh think," he said, the muscles in his bare shoulders rippling with tension, "that I dinna sleep with yeh?"
She looked at him and bit her lower lip. "You think I'm too broken to care." The unshed tears overflowed and she didn't wipe them, too ashamed to acknowledge them. He watched her face redden, her lower lip starting to quiver, feeling like the devil. Nae, his conscience said, but what's under yer kilt will be if yeh cannae remember yer manners.
The Demo winced and leaned forward, digging his elbows into the knots of muscles near his knees. "How could yeh not be, lass," he said quietly. "We're all broken here. What about any of this could yeh want? This is not a happy life." He sighed. "And no, that's nae why I didn't fuck yeh."
She simply looked at him, struggling not to sob, her shoulders shrugging in tiny movements as she fought it.
"Lass, I dinna fuck yeh because…." The Demo's mouth opened and closed. "It…" He cleared his throat—courage, man, he thought. Do yeh have any? "It matters to meh, lass. Sharing yeh with them all. Wanting ta be something ta yeh if I fuck yeh. I dinnae…."
And now she was sobbing, face down on her chest, standing alone in the middle of his room and weeping like a child left at a train station. I am a right bastard, he thought, frustrated. Look at tha lassie. I am a right bastard and a coward ta boot.
The Demo sighed and peeled himself off the bed. When he put his arms around her, she fought him for a moment, then set about soaking a large patch of his chest, the moisture rolling into his kilt. He patted her roughly, then more gently. Cuntbuggeringfucktoleybumshite, he thought, searching for something to say that wasn't the litany of things he was calling himself. Should've known she'd be a bit sensitive aboot that, he thought. Did she nae say she wanted respect? Did she nae show yeh she cares and was worried about rejection? And tha last few weeks—the lass had ta deal with killing a man, and tha Medic had a fit, and tha Spy was his snakey self, and his buddy with him, and Pauling came in tha morning and I'm a right arsehole.
"Look," he said, "lass, please look up at meh."
She did, the helpless misery in her face doing to him what no amount of time in the prison system had and making him feel truly repentant. Lass, do yeh know, he thought, ruthlessly suppressing a surge of irritation, what tears do ta a man with a conscience? Nae, look at yeh. Yeh're drowning meh.
"Lass," he said gently, "please. I am sorry. It wasnae fair of meh. I'm nae good with this, and I thought I'd spare mehself a bit of trouble by just avoiding yeh. But instead of avoiding yeh, I put the boot in."
It was still watery, her face, and he searched himself for something to say. "Look, lass, I dinnae want ta take anything from yeh that yeh don't want ta give. And I dinnae want ta be…."
"Not special," she said, her voice thick. "You and me both." She sighed and let go of him, looking down at the floor wearily. "I'm sorry for crying on you. I was angry, and I just… I should have left you alone."
"Dear sweet laird," he snapped, "do yeh not know how bad I feel about this? Dinnae apologize for crying or being angry. Laird knows yeh been pushed ta it."
The Cook looked at him, confused. He swore and put his hands on her face. "Lass, yeh just…."
Her eyes were vaguely accusing, the hurt in them sentencing him to far more drinking to forget feeling helpless to stop himself from being an arsehole.
"Do yeh nae… can yeh nae…. Christ!" The Demo picked her up, arms around her, and bussed her within an inch of passing out from oxygen deprivation. After a shocked moment, she kissed him back, wrapping her arms around him and then her legs, the lab coat falling open.
When he drew back, she still looked confused but had stopped crying. "I don't," she said, "know what that was, but it was nice."
He looked at the confusion on her face. "Yeh just don't know, do yeh," he said softly.
The Cook looked at him, misery coming back. "The Medic told me," she said. "I … make everyone raw. I don't mean to."
The Demo growled and turned, taking two strides to the bed and sitting on it. "Tha croaker," he said, "cannae see a thing but manages to shite all over it." He sighed. "Yes, lass, yeh make some of us raw. And we dinnae handle it well. Believe it or nae, we dinnae always know what ta do. I know yeh've been spending time with tha snake and his friend, and if they have a moment of doubt I'll be…."
She shrugged and he won the fight to keep eye contact. "They don't let me see it."
"Lass, there's monsters and monsters, yeh ken? I'll kill a man or open a safe, but I dinnae wank over it."
The Cook flushed.
"Yea, I know yeh get a bit of charge from it. Some do. There's more than that, though. This job, lass, is a job for meh. I get up in tha morning, I do meh job, I come in and do a bit of drinking, and I go do mah job tomorrow." He loosened his arms and she leaned back to see his face. "I know yeh been thinking about this as a moral problem, like yeh somehow become a monster, but yeh don't have ta put tha boot in for yourself."
"Don't you," she said, searching his face. "Isn't that why you drink?"
The Demo glared at her for a moment, then sighed again. "Perhaps a bit, lass. And perhaps I like tha job sommat as well. I dinnae have ta like that." He looked down. "And perhaps I've been a bit lonely, lass. I dinnae want ta lie to tha lasses in town. I'm nae enough snake ta enjoy that."
She flushed again and he watched it spread across the tender skin of her breasts, then shook himself, tearing his eyes away from them. When he looked up, there was a question on her face.
"Lass," he said, voice tight, "I'm just nae going ta do it unless I think yeh care. Mind yeh, it's killing meh."
"I like you," she said in a small voice. "I don't know about anything else. But I like you. You hurt my feelings, but you're not… lying to me." In an even smaller voice, she said, "And you're pretty."
The Demo took a deep breath—dinnae do it, he said to himself sternly. The lass is only here for a time. Dinnae do it. Say sommat else. "Tha sharing is a bit of a problem for meh."
"I…. Okay." She pulled away to stand up and he dug his fingers into her ass, stopping her.
Dinnae do it, he said to himself. Yeh don't know if she can care about yeh. "I dinnae say it was that much of a problem." Buggering shite, he thought.
The Cook blinked, confused again.
Do yeh really not know, lass, he thought. "Did yeh end up doing anything with the Engineer?"
The Cook blinked. "Well, yes."
"Lass"—I'm doomed, he thought, but I might as well enjoy tha ride ta hell—"yer taking a shower first. Come on, I'll bathe yeh. I could use a shower mehself."
She blushed. "I… Sorry. Wait," she said, looking up at him, "are you…"
The Demo interrupted her. "I know it doesn't bother all of us, but it bothers me, so to the shower with yeh."
The Cook stood and looked up at him, abashed and cringing slightly. "Sorry."
"Oh fer the love of—," the Demo shooed her toward the bathroom. "Stop that!"
She let him herd her toward the bathroom.
"Yer hair is still wet, so yeh won't need a full scrub, but feel free to help meh. I was planning to help yeh." The Demo turned the shower on and unwrapped his kilt, letting it spool onto the floor in a heap of wool. He stepped into the spray and gestured. "Come on, lass, it's cold." She joined him, huddling behind him for warmth. He turned in the spray, soap in hand, and started to run it over her slowly, deliberately.
"That's—"
He cut her off, "not entirely for getting yeh clean. Are yeh ticklish?"
She giggled.
"So yes, yeh are. Ticklish here"—he wormed his slick fingers into her armpit—"and I bet yer ticklish here"—he ran soapy fingers over the underside of her breasts—"and here"—he reached down and ran the tips of his fingers over the skin just under the globes of her ass. "Stop squirming!"
She gasped, laughing. "That's not fair."
"I'm not done, lass! Don't make my job difficult." He reached down, nudging her knees apart, and traced the seam of skin between lip and thigh. She squeaked at him, reaching for his arm. "And here? Yes, ticklish here." He paused there, a soapy hand stroking gently, and she clung to his arm.
"All right, under the spray with yeh, and wash off."
She slid past him and into the spray again, watching him and still giggling. "I'm going to get you. There has to be something ticklish on you, and I'm going to find it."
"Is that so, lass? Well out from under the spray and see if yeh can."
They passed again, and she pressed herself against him, dragging her breasts slowly across his chest.
He handed her the soap and lifted his arms with an amused smile. "Well, go on then. Find them."
Annoyingly, he was not ticklish. He was, however, aroused to the point of being ready to burst into flames long before she was done soaping him up. He gave her the single towel and dried off with his kilt, walking into his bedroom. "All right, lass," he said, turning to look at her, "we're clean. I'm almost certain yer feeling a bit better—"
She cut him off by leaping on him and knocking him onto the bed. Crouching over him, she growled playfully.
"Is that so, lass?" He wrapped an arm around her and flipped them both over. "No, it's my turn."
"Oh yeah? What are you going to do?"
"Lay on yer side, and face that way." She looked at him, then rolled on her side, facing the wall. He climbed over her and lay behind her. "All right, now come down a bit and give me that leg."
She obliged, letting him lift her top leg. With a quick squirm, he could rest his cock just against the outside of her lips. She looked over her shoulder at him. "It's a bit awkward, isn't it?"
"Trust me," he said, and reached between her legs. "Just a second," he said, dipping fingers into her and gently stroking. Seconds later, he slid into her.
"Oh!"
He chuckled and scooted up slightly, with a wriggle of his hips. The Demo pulled her close to him, the angle shallower, and moved slowly, lazily forward. She could feel his breath on her back, and he hooked her leg over his hip so he could wrap his arms around her.
"Takes a flexible lass, but yeh appear to be fine."
She made a noise between a moan and a sigh, well inside the border of happiness, and he smiled at her. "It's a fine position for a bit of lazy fucking, and I can flip yeh up atop me later." The slow, teasing pace continued, small pulses of his hips moving her inches back and forth on the bed, a warm lassitude pooling in her arms and legs. His arms squeezed gently as he stroked forward, watching her move with him, boneless and loose. She looked up and over her shoulder, eyes lazy and smiling gently, and he leaned forward those few inches to plant a kiss on her back.
"Little thing, aren't yeh," he said, and she could hear the gentle teasing in it.
"No," she said in mock indignation. "It's just that you're all so tall."
"Nah, they just didn't feed yeh enough when yeh were growing up. Wee little thing."
Her eyes closed and she let him rock her, face turned to the side. He watched the lines smooth from it and her lips swell, until he couldn't take it anymore. "All right, up and around yeh go. I want ta see yer face."
They pulled apart and she climbed on top of him, straddling him. With a deep breath, she slid him into her. He watched the small muscle movements in her face avidly as he sank into her, then reached out for her hands. She opened her eyes to look at him, and he put them to his mouth and kissed them. The Cook looked at him, wide-eyed, both of them frozen and looking at each other. She flushed then, a gently rosy color that spread across her cheeks, her mouth open slightly and looking down at his.
On his face, she could see a question, and the edges of what could be hurt. She leaned down and kissed him, gently pulling her hands from his to cradle his face as he reached up and smoothed his down her sides. When she pulled away, her eyes were wet again. He gently swiped a thumb under her eye, picking up the moisture. The question was gone from his face, leaving a quiet wonder and longing.
Her face had an answer on it, and she pulled his hands to her mouth and kissed them. He moved when she did, gently, to watch her back move in a wave. "Lass, he said, "I dinnae know what we can promise each other, but I would like ta see yeh happy."
More tears, and she responded, whispering forlornly. "I'd like to make someone happy."
"I dinnae know whether we'll like each other later, but—"
She cut him off, putting a hand over his mouth. "Please," she said softly. Her hips moved, up and down, slowly. The Demo took a deep breath and cupped her hips, kissing her hand. She cupped his face, staring down at him as she moved, and with a smile, he picked her rhythm up, one hand moving up her torso to knead a breast. With that, her gaze was broken and her head tilted up, letting him watch the line of her body moving above him, her hips moving in a ripple of muscle and skin.
"Please," she said again, softly, the word echoing against the ceiling, and tightened around him. He reached down with both hands to get a better grip on her hips and thrust up harder, wringing a gasp from her, his fingers splayed across her sides to feel her breathing, to help her come up and down. Her hands moved across his chest, fingers massaging and she moved, passing the slow, soft tide of desire between them both.
The Demo watched her, face solemn, watching the bounce of her breasts as she came down, the soft longing on her face that turned to hunger, her beseeching expression becoming demanding. He sighed, long and slow, and then picked up the rhythm, fighting the tightness around him and her body above him, moving in waves spilling up and down her spine.
"Go," he whispered. "Let meh see it. Give it to meh, so I can give mehself to yeh."
He could see it wash through her, the pulsing of the muscles around him echoing through her in a low, quiet groan that went on and on until he could not resist it and joined her, a baritone note to her alto, whispering and languid as a pool.
When it stopped, she looked back down at him and kissed him again, a smile written on every line of her body. When she drew back, it was written on his.
"I dinnae know," he said quietly, "if yeh would like this sort of thing." A moment of anguish flickered on her face and he brought her hands to his face and kissed them again. "Lass, yeh are a complicated woman."
"Not that complicated," she said, old pain making small lines beside her eyes. "I just have problems expressing myself."
"Lass," he said, "don't we all." He helped her up, sliding out of her, and pulled her insistently down beside him, smoothing the line between her eyes with kisses.