They lay there for a few lazy hours, kissing when moved to, resuming the unhurried pace of his body in hers, neither worried nor moved to any particular completion, replete to simply touch and be touched. The afternoon light slid into the room at the same pace, sending fingers across the wall until it reached them. She sighed, regret coloring her voice like a drop of ink in a glass of water. "I have to go to work," she said, and started to climb over him.
"Time to start dinner already?" The Demo pulled her down on top of him again, capturing her by the waist to rub himself against her. "Seems a bit early."
She grinned wryly, hips moving with him for a moment to recapture the shimmering warmth of their hours together. "I think I'd better do something a bit elaborate to make up for the last week or so."
"Probably a good idea, lass." He shifted again, trying to find a better spot, and grinned when the skin of her nipples crinkled. "Well, on with yeh."
The Cook laughed and pulled gently at the hands gripping her hips. "You have to let me go."
"I've a better idea. They can all fend fer themselves, and you stay in bed." One of his hands slid between her legs, tickling and teasing. She gasped, and for a moment writhed above his fingers.
"I have to," she said, breathy, laughter dancing across her mouth.
The Demo sighed, and drew his fingers out of her. As she slid off him, he swatted her ass and she squealed, rubbing it and glaring at him. "If yeh don't get out now, I'll drag yeh back in, and this time it will nae be so lazy. I can make yeh forget what yeh have ta do, or I'll be interested in trying."
She scooped up the lab coat, backing away from the bed and looking at the mischievous and entirely unrepentant expression on his face. He sat up abruptly. "I'll count ta three, lass, and if yeh're still in here, yeh're staying in here and we'll see what tricks I may know that yeh like. One."
The Cook threw the lab coat on inside out and backed out of the door, watching him square up to pounce, toes digging into the floor and weight shifting forward. He was still grinning, and she wanted rather badly to pounce back. She closed the door behind her and heard him. "Two."
"I'm already out in the hall," she protested, still smiling.
"I'm a dirty cheater, lass. Best run." And I dinnae mind cheating with meh whole body, he added. Just ta see if yeh remember to make dinner and see if they'll knock on the door. That's a better afternoon than I've spent in awhile.
She jogged down the hall, the sound of his chuckle fading before she reached her room. When she ducked through her door, still rosy cheeked with laughter and the short jog, she found the Pyro sitting on her bed, flicking a lighter on and off to watch the flame appear and disappear. He was back in the same battered, worn sweater and jeans, hair washed and dried into soft spikes. When she closed the door, he looked up, blinking.
"Hi," she said, voice careful. "What're you doing in here?"
His eyes slowly focused on her, the hazy brown becoming oddly lambent. "Why aren't you making sweets anymore?"
"I'm sorry, Py, I've been very… sad."
He stayed watching her, eyes focused on her hands where they clutched the lab coat. "You were visiting the Doctor. He's been sad, too." He cupped the lighter between both hands. "The medications make me think slowly, more slowly than I want to. But I've been thinking."
The Cook walked a slow circle around him to her chest of drawers, refusing to turn her back to him, and started pulling out clothing. "Oh yeah? What's on your mind?"
"You're supposed to make us happy, but you haven't been."
"I'm really sorry." The Cook quickly pulled on jeans, momentarily dropping the edges of the lab coat. Her breasts swayed as she pulled the jeans up and he watched them, remembering with a tinge of sadness that turned to irritation.
"Stop that."
She froze. "Stop what, Py?"
"Stop dressing. I'm not a bad person and I've already seen you naked." He started to frown, the expression drawing the scars on his face tight and making them pale. "Are you afraid of me?"
"Honestly? A little bit. The others tell me that you can be strange."
He pursed his lips and shook his head. "This is a strange place to be strange. I don't like that you're afraid of me."
"I'm sorry, Py."
He got up slowly, walking toward her and watching her cringe with a deepening frown. "I don't want you to be afraid. I want you to make me cakes and pies." He stopped speaking, then laughed shortly. "A pie for Py." When he reached her, he stood, hands loose at his sides, and looked at her, face wary and frustrated. "I want to make you happy the way we've made you happy. Maybe if I make you happy, you'll let me play with fire. I want to leave a little flame on you, just a little pretty flame so you'll remember me."
The Cook felt a chill breeze run through her.
"But you won't come see me by yourself. I don't like it." He reached out for her arms, gently, running his hands down them. "I don't understand people, don't understand how to make them happy, but I know if they're happy, they let me be myself a little more." She froze, watching his hands capture hers. "How do I make you happy," he asked. "I can fuck you, like I did with the Doctor."
"I…." She had no doubt he was sincere, nor did she doubt he genuinely wanted to make her happy. But the stories the other mercenaries had told her—she watched the worried, hopeful expression on his face, wondering what would happen if she told him no.
"You don't like that idea." He let go of her hands slowly, sadly, sliding them between his fingers to make the sensation last, echoing through his scarred fingers.
Her mouth was dry. "I'm a little afraid."
"Do you dislike being afraid?" His eyes drifted to her face and latched on, becoming sharp again. She wondered how intelligent he was under the layer of anti-psychotics he was probably taking—the question had been perceptive, and his tone, while still soft, had a certain intensity that suggested an observant mind.
"Not entirely, but I don't want you to hurt me too badly, and I have to make dinner."
He looked forlorn. "Will you make me sweets? Can I come back and spend time with you? I get lonely."
The Cook looked closely at his face. Even with the numbing of his drugs, he looked like a small child who had learned he was to be abandoned. "Would you like to help me in the kitchen?"
He smiled shyly. "Can I help you make sweets?"
"Sure, but I have to make other food as well."
His smile grew more radiant, an edge of pleading in it like a single flat note in a chord.
"You have to let me put on more clothes, though. Grease burns are really painful."
"Oh," he said, blushing and stepping back. "I should have thought of that. Sorry."
She dropped the lab coat and pulled a bra and sweater on, then rolled the sleeves up. Pulling on an old pair of sneakers, she gestured. "Come on, let's go make something yummy."
He reached out hesitantly for her hand and she let him hold it all the way to the kitchen.
The Pyro had insisted on cleaning the beaters for the cake batter off with his tongue, as well as the icing spoon, and had probably eaten a third of the homemade apple sauce for the pork chops. Surprisingly, he also sampled the mashed potatoes, treating everything in the kitchen like a rare treat. He watched her make the food, asking questions and gleefully stirring, chopping, minding the food, and listing the ingredients back to her. Everything he tasted, he praised with a shy, pleased expression, like a student who had the answers for a tough exam.
The Cook realized that he'd never had anyone sit down with him, or make him anything, or explain how things were made, and suppressed the surprise and pity before it could show on her face. Instead, she praised his memory, and let him see that she was pleased by his compliments. By the time dinner could be taken to the table, he was beaming in pleasure. He carried the dishes to the table gingerly, placing them so carefully they didn't clink on the table. She sent him to fetch the rest of the mercenaries and sat at the table, waiting.
They came slowly, each eyeing the table as if unsure whether or not it would bite them. The Engineer was first, and relaxed instantly after the first bite. The Demo wandered in next, scratching his chest through his shirt, and served himself with a pleased smile, winking at her with an expression that hovered just on this side of being obscene. The Spy came in with a bottle of wine, whole body wincing, and took a deep breath before biting into the pork chop. He smiled at it and chewed slowly, leaning forward on his elbows. "Finally," he took a swallow of his wine. "It has been painful to come to meals for the last week, Vipere."
She snorted once and raised an eyebrow. "How French of you."
"Stereotypes, Vipere, are ugly things. Nevertheless, I would be lying if I did not say I enjoyed meals that were not a… punishment to the taste buds."
The Sniper drifted in a little later and, like the carnivore he was, piled his plate primarily with pork. After a cursory bite of it with the apple sauce, he went back for more sauce and ate as if he had not eaten in days. Watching him, the Cook wondered if he had. The normally thin Sniper had been winnowed to a sinewy, veiny shadow.
The Soldier came in and sighed. "Damn it. I already ate, too."
The Cook gave him a playfully angry look over a fork full of pork and apple sauce. "That's what you get, Mister."
"Vipere," the Spy said chidingly, "in his defense, the food has been hideous." Look at her, he thought. She is cheerful, playful, joking. What did the Engineer do?
"I'll take my pork chops back," she said, laughing. "Gimmie your plate."
All that work, he thought. The Spy looked at her, eyes cool. "I think not. No, if the food is worth eating, I'll keep it. And you won't be taking anything from me that I do not want to give."
She sighed—why can't I have a whole day of simple enjoyment, she thought. I have more right to be angry about what you did than you do to be mad at me. "There it is. I wondered if you could resist."
"Sneak," the Sniper said, "later."
The Spy looked at him, a flash of dark anger appearing and disappearing like smoke, but he said nothing about the Sniper's use of his pet name. The Medic and Heavy were quite late to dinner, and both were sweaty. The Cook smiled briefly at her plate, relieved that they were again talking, at the calm both men seemed to have gained. The Medic pulled his chair close to the Heavy during dinner, and their conversation, in German, was hushed and intimate.
The Spy looked over at them, then at the Cook. "I see you've been busy mending fences."
She looked at him for a moment, temper rising under the combination of needling and resentment she could hear in his voice. "The ones that needed mending."
He gave her a long, sardonic look before speaking. "The ones that needed mending?"
"Why," she said, holding his gaze with hers. "Have I missed a few?"
The table went silent slowly, the silence spreading in ripples. The Spy smiled, slowly, and said nothing, the smile slowly curving up as his mouth opened, baring his teeth. She watched it, narrowing her eyes, and said nothing. The Sniper broke the silence. "We'll be talking later, little bird."
The Cook turned her head to look at the Sniper. "I can see that. We're due some more knife practice. Should I assume we'll talk then?"
He looked at her with a wry smile. "You could assume that, Birdie."
She made a flip little salute with her hand and went back to her food. The Cook could feel, rather than see, the Spy's face heating. He left the table abruptly, pushing his chair back with a tortured squeal, his plate still mostly full. After a moment, the Sniper left as well.
The conversation picked back up quietly. The Pyro leaned over, breaking the Medic's conversation with the Heavy. "Doctor, can I have your company tonight? I need help." The Pyro's eyes slid quickly toward the Cook, who swallowed heavily.
The Medic blinked. "Ah, no. I'm afraid I cannot help you tonight." The Heavy reached out for his hand, possessively. "I must spend time with my Mischa."
It was the Soldier who responded, quietly. "I'll help, if you like Py." He refused to make eye contact with the Pyro or the Cook. "I'll… I can be helpful."
The Engineer cleared his throat. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea, fellas."
The Soldier and Pyro stared at him, the Soldier with the anger of intense, frustrated guilt, and the Pyro with defensive ire. The Engineer lifted his hands. "Fellas, no offense, but ya'll can both be a little intense."
"We'll be fine," the Soldier said, quietly.
"Miss," the Engineer turned to the Cook. "You okay with this?"
She sighed, thinking about the guilt on the Soldier's face and the frustrated loneliness on the Pyro's face. "Yeah, I'll be fine." After a moment, the Cook realized that she did, actually, feel safe about it—the Pyro had done nothing in particular to her except ask for her company, and his behavior in the kitchen had been boyishly pleased. The Soldier, despite her other thoughts about him, had tried to be helpful. Neither man appeared in be interested or capable of the kind of sustained violence and manipulation that had been plaguing her. "I trust them."
The Soldier squared his shoulders, as if preparing for an unpleasant duty, but the Pyro's radiant smile came back, pulling the scars on his face and reaching his eyes, where it made them shimmer. She smiled back, at first tentatively, then more genuinely.
"All right." The Engineer sighed. "But be careful, Missy." He turned to the Soldier. "Don't let him"—the Engineer nodded toward the Pyro—"bring any of his toys with him."
The Cook looked over at the Engineer. "I'm not made of glass. I promise I won't break."
"That's not what I worried about. I'm worried about you melting. That's not a pleasant death, not nearly as pleasant as getting shot or stabbed and bleeding out."
"I won't," the Pyro cleared his throat. "I won't melt her."
The Engineer sat back slightly, disbelief tugging the corners of his mouth down. "Py, I'll hold you to that."
The Demo finally spoke, his voice grim. "As will I."
The Pyro's face slowly grew more tense, mouth flattening. "I can behave myself when I want to."
The Engineer held up us hands, again. "All right, I've said my piece. I ain't no one's mommy." Lord, he thought, in something that was not quite a prayer nor a plea, I just spent the morning trying to get the girl to smile. Let her smile for awhile, fellas.
The Cook looked at him and tried not to laugh. The Engineer looked confused for a moment before he figured out the joke, and then he started chuckling. The Demo looked over. "Something funny?"
"Private joke," the Cook said, and wondered if the Engineer had made the tutu yet.
Both the Pyro and the Soldier stayed after dinner, helping her tidy the dining room, wash the dishes, and wipe the counters and oven down. The Pyro had quickly gone back to his radiant smile, and bounced gently on his toes as he dried pans and dishes. The Soldier, however, stayed quiet and withdrawn, moving mechanically from chore to chore without words. The Cook paused, up to her forearms in soapy water, to watch him.
"What's going on, Solly?"
He flinched and did not speak.
"Come on, Solly, what's eating you?"
He looked over at her, his eyes eloquently sad. She sighed and pulled her hands from the water, giving them a quick dry by wiping them on her jeans. Walking over to him, she reached slowly for his arm. When he pulled back, she paused, then with an angry scowl, grabbed his arm. "Damn it, Solly. Come on."
The Soldier, in one quick move, picked the Cook up by the arms. "Do not," he growled, "touch me without my permission."
The Cook, her feet dangling inches from the ground, snarled back at him, startled. "Do not expect to be ignored when you're doing your best imitation of a sad puppy."
The Soldier's face slowly flushed as his fingers tightened—a sad puppy, he thought. I have spent the last eight days terrified I've permanently damaged you and I'm a sad puppy. A sad fucking puppy. With a grunt, he slung her over one shoulder. "Py, the kitchen is as done as it needs to get. Come on."
The Pyro, trying to suppress a smile, laid the towel on the counter and followed the Soldier out of the room. The Cook, breathless and uncomfortable, started to struggle, pushing at the Soldier's back with her arms and swearing. The Soldier tightened his arm and swatted her, hard, across the ass with his opposite hand. Even with the force dispersed by her jeans, the swat hurt, and she squeaked.
"No," the Soldier said, "I've had just about of this, Rosie." I have been guilty, he raged at her silently, I've felt like shit, I've put up with Sneak picking a fight with you and me both, and if fucking you is the only way to get your goddamn attention, I am going to fuck you into the floor.
"Why," she said, acidly. "Were you planning on actually telling me what's wrong and resolving whatever it is that's eating you?"
He answered with another swat, hard enough to sting even his calloused hand. "We are going," he said, "to your room, because I'm not getting my bed this dirty."
She froze. "Wait a minute. What?"
"Shut up, Rosie. Now duck, or you'll hit your head on the door frame."
She let herself go limp to pass under the door frame and looked over to see the Pyro, grinning wildly. He shut the door with an ominous click and circled them both to put a lighter and a bit of copper wire from his pockets on the nightstand. "Don't mind me."
The Soldier dumped her on the bed hard enough to bounce her to the wall and threw his helmet at the wall near the door, leaving a dent.
"Ah, the infamous temper," she said, slightly breathless. "Well, at least this is more honest than the moping."
The Soldier took a single, heavy breath, fingers clenching and unclenching, then walked forward and reached across the bed, pulling her up by the shirt and wrapping his fingers around her neck. She tilted her head up to stare at him, daring him to squeeze, eyes darkening in wrath and staring, unblinking, at him. He obliged, slowly tightening his fingers. As the tingling flush crept up her cheeks, oxygen draining from her blood faster for the hammering of her heart, she reached for the buttons on his BDUs. She found him achingly hard, trapped against his own hip by the fabric of his pants.
As she stroked him through the cotton, he shuddered, fingers tightening again. Her vision started to throb, body pleading for air, and as her limbs started to get heavy, she made herself keep staring and stroking him, the same red and terrible joy she'd experienced with the Sniper coming back like an old friend—washing away fear and regret, leaving lust in its wake and the desire to conquer. She could see it in him, his body yearning toward hers and away as if grasping a live wire. He could neither let go nor stay, wavering, throbbing, teetering on the edge of the battlefield and the bedroom.
She smiled at him then, daring him, hurtling toward unconsciousness with a reckless abandon that did not care if she lived or died, only that she continued to be stretched between the thoughtless savagery of heaven and the earth of her body for as long as she could, her hand on his cock taking him there with her to see which of them could remain longest. His breath grew short, eyes wide and pupils swallowing the sight of her with his hands around her neck, body pulsing in time to hers.
The Pyro sat on the bed near them with a thump, breaking the Soldier's concentration.
The Soldier blinked and grudgingly let his fingers loosen, keeping them tight enough to leave a heavy necklace around her neck. The Cook took a gasping, shallow breath, her chest heaving, and kept stroking him, the same challenging expression on her face as it lightened from the purple it had been to its normal, pale hue.
As they stared at each other, the Pyro smiled wryly and spoke. "This works better with less clothes. If you both don't start stripping soon, I will cut them off."
"Touch me," the Soldier said, still staring at the Cook, panting, "and I will send you through respawn."
The Cook spoke, her voice raspy. "So it isn't just for bad dreams." She looked down at the erection trapped in the Soldier's pants and gave him a quick, hard squeeze. "You like to strangle." She took a hoarse breath. "You were there, weren't you? You saw what they did. Did you help them fuck me?"
The Soldier choked, hands spasming, and she watched him with eyes like stone. "Did you help them rape me, Solly? Did you enjoy it?"
He looked at her, guilt greening his stricken face, before whispering. "No."
She kept her hand moving, watching him.
"I didn't… I'm not a rapist."
"Then why did you shower me?" He was still hard against her hand, body twitching with the desire to run or stay.
"I wanted to help," he whispered, eyelids flickering, and rage rushed in to fill the emptiness on his face. The Soldier pulled his hands from her neck. "Take your clothes off," he snarled, "or I'll rip them off you."
She smiled, her face incandescent, eyes dark and wet. "Take yours off, then."
"Oh, I will Rosie, but when I want to. Naked. Now."
She pulled the sweater off slowly, taking her time to watch him fume. The Pyro pulled it from her hands and dropped it off the end of the bed. The Soldier crossed his arms, fingers digging into his elbows with the need to punish, to grip and to bruise and to make her cry, a reddish haze hanging around the edges of his vision. The Cook laid flat on the bed to take her jeans off, wriggling with insolent slowness out of them before kicking them off, onto the Soldier's feet. Naked, she stayed laying there, staring at the Soldier with a mocking little smile. His hands were white with tension, and he took a quick breath before slowly letting go of his forearms.
"Like being drunk, isn't it," she said, merciless in her certainty. "Doubts gone, pain gone. Fuck or kill like the flick of a switch. And you don't like that you feel that way, do you?"
He made a noise like a snarl and grabbed the front of his uniform shirt, pulling. Several buttons hit her, and she watched him rip his clothes off. The Pyro, smile exposing the edge of his canines, stood and undressed quickly, leaving a messy pile at the foot of her bed.
The first slap was lightning fast, bouncing her head sideways on the bed and cutting her lip. She grinned up at him, blood in the divots between her teeth. The second landed lower, bouncing her breast against its twin. The third landed on the other breast, leaving the long blotches of his fingers that whitened, then blushed blue.
The Cook laughed, high and excited, and reached for the Soldier, sitting up. He grabbed her wrists and forced them back against the bed, breath laboring in his chest.
The Pyro reached between them, painfully pinching her closest nipple and wringing a hiss from her, then grabbed and wadded her hair into a fist. "Fuck her and stop fucking around. Or let me."
"This, too, Rosie?" The Soldier's voice quivered slightly.
"This, too, Solly." She pulled a leg out from under his weight, pinching them both as the skin rubbed together, then repeated it on the other side, wrapping her legs around him. "Want to scare me? Too bad." She rubbed herself against him, undulating, and the Pyro's hand in her hair made her scalp burn. "Try harder."
The Soldier let one of her wrists go to guide himself in, then put both hands on her neck and squeezed. She laughed, excited, and undulated again, squeezing his cock, her face alight with an unholy, savage glee, her hands cupping his. "Try me," she breathed, the world burning behind her eyes.
His gray eyes widened, then he pulled back slightly before slamming himself into her, fingers tightening as he came down. Her fingers stayed gentle as her face blushed with oxygen deprivation again, and he released as he pulled back before tightening again.
"Wet," she whispered.
The Pyro tugged her hair. "One kind calls another, Pretty Cook."
Her laughter was weak and clear. She smiled up at the Soldier, who had started to sweat. "Fuck me because we're alike, because this makes you as hard as it makes me wet."
He shuddered, his arms shaking with the strain of holding himself up, of not tightening until he felt the faint, clear crack of bone breaking. Her eyes widened, body starting to panic, but she refused to tighten her hands, to fight for her life, staying staring at his eyes, at his face tightening as his cock started to throb. Every jolt of his body in hers set her scalp to burning again, the Pyro's hand slowly winding tighter.
"Don't kill her, Solly," the Pyro said dryly, "or I'll be very annoyed."
The fog around the corners of her vision kept gathering, oblivion coming closer, and she could feel the heat gathering between her legs, a violent surging tide that pounded with her pulse and harder as her pulse started to go thready, failing. The Soldier let go just long enough for her to take a breath. Her orgasm knifed up her spine as she pulled in a labored breath and she fell back, limp and twitching. With a last, spiteful squeeze of her neck, the Soldier shouted and let go, falling forward heavily.
The Pyro unwound his hand, bringing it back to his thigh, and watched them pant, a necklace of bruises rising on her neck. He rose, circling them, and grabbed lighter and wire, and went back to his position on the bed. While he waited for them to be able to move, he set about bending the copper wire into a small, spiky, stylized flame. By the time the Soldier detangled himself, rolling over, the Pyro had finished the flame. The Soldier curled with his back to them both, eyes blank with horror.
"Goddamn it," the Cook croaked. "No, you don't."
The Pyro echoed her. "Have an attack of conscience later, Solly."
She rolled over, spooning the Soldier. "It's okay," she whispered.
The Soldier said nothing, but started shivering.
"Solly," she whispered, "Please."
He hunched further. "You are just as fucked up as I am."
She flinched slightly, and he could feel it like a slap in the face, an accusation made in a mirror, bouncing back and forth between them, guilt that made them both reckless. The Pyro reached out for her hair again, drawing her body back toward him with it with a violent jerk.
"Solly," he said, "it's my turn now." Looking down at the gasping Cook, he smiled and twirled the shaped wire. It took her a moment to identify the shape, and she paled, then went limp in his lap. The Pyro smiled at her, then looked at the Soldier. "Gonna help or feel sorry for yourself?"
The Soldier turned over slowly. When he caught sight of the wire, he tensed. "What are you going to do with that, Py?"
"Play with fire." At the Soldier's alarmed expression the Pyro snorted. "Stop that. I'm not going to do anything too awful. I want a cuddle later. Gonna help?"
"Should I be calling the Doc?" The Soldier propped himself up on one elbow, staring at the shorter mercenary.
"No. You call the Doctor and he'll dope me up too high to get hard. Now, are you going to help?"
"I will, but you be careful."
The Pyro's crooked grin didn't reach his eyes. "Sure." He looked down at the Cook. "Ever been burned, pretty Cook?"
She gave a rasping, exhausted chuckle and raised her arms, turning them so he could see the shiny speckles of scars dotting them. The Pyro leaned forward and kissed the inside of each wrist on one of the tiny scars. "The fire kisses and leaves its mark."
He leaned back, hand still bunched in her hair. "I want to leave my mark." He nodded to the bruises around her neck. "He's left his. It's my turn." He pulled her hair until her head could rest on his crossed ankles. "Gonna be still, or should I have Solly sit on your legs?" He looked at the Soldier. "If you want to play with that end of her, you can. She might even like it."
The Soldier sighed deeply and sat up, scooting in until he could put her legs in his lap, then dug rough fingers in her hips. "She's going to kick. I'll hold."
The Pyro shrugged, and the Cook watched the scars across his collarbone roll, despair ringing her like a bell. He reached down, feeling along his leg, and came back up with a lighter. "It's not a blowtorch, but anything else would have made someone stop me." He looked down at the Cook, her hair pooling in his lap. "Not a deep burn, pretty Cook, but a little something to remember me by."
He flicked the lighter, holding the tab down carefully with the scarred tip of his thumb, and played the flame over the bit of wire, which started to smoke. "Only a little burn," he crooned, looking at the combination of panic and despair on her face.
The Pyro took a breath and touched the smoldering wire to the soft skin of the Cook's shoulder. She took a single, choked breath in and went rigid, eyes white all around her pinprick pupils. The Pyro laughed and pulled the wire from her shoulder, taking a bit of curled skin with it. He shook the lighter with his free hand to cool it. "I'll have to wait for the lighter to cool. How does that feel, pretty Cook?"
The Cook couldn't get enough air to answer him, her fists wrapping themselves in the blankets. The burn started blistering immediately, the seared skin swelling. The pain blinded her, and his words took a few seconds to reach her. A broken, croaking moan trickled from her lips and her tears trickled in a steady stream down her cheeks, pooling in her hair and ears.
"Py," the Soldier said, "I think we're going to have to tell the Doc."
The Pyro looked up, eyes narrowing. "One more and you can. But I'm not leaving."
The Soldier looked nauseous, watching the Cook struggle for breath and the missing skin on her arm swell to fill and become raised. "She's going to faint."
"If she does," the Pyro said, "it'll be as much you as me." He looked down, his face growing softer. "One more, pretty Cook," he crooned. "To match my uniform."
At that, she did start to kick. The Pyro dropped the wire on her bed, where it browned the blanket, and put a hand on her chest. "Just one more," he said. "It won't last, I promise. He'll get the Doctor and it will go away. Then we'll do something you like." He stroked her face gently. "You were so kind to me today, and I just wanted to give you something to remember."
She gasped once and went limp, staring at him. "Pain you can't get away from, you endure. You know this, don't you?" He smiled once, sadly, the scars on his cheek pulling. "Me, too. I wanted to share it with you."
The Pyro grabbed the wire and flicked the lighter back on, the small shreds of skin on the wire crisping with a familiar, meaty smell. "All flesh burns eventually," he said. "It burns up." Small flecks fell from the wire, cinders raining down on her chest. "From the stars to our bodies when we die, we burn up." He watched the wire start to smoke, eyes intent on the flame. "Passion burns a wetter flame, not as clean and beautiful."
He pulled the lighter away and, with a quick look to ensure that both sides would be even, pressed the wire to the skin of her other shoulder. She tried to take a deep breath again and fainted, her eyes rolling up in her head. The Pyro sighed, pulling the wire from her shoulder, and smiled.
"You can go get the Doctor now," he said. The Soldier bolted from the room, still naked, yelling for the Medic.
The Pyro tossed the wire over his shoulder and, shaking the lighter to cool it, stroked her face with the other hand, singing quietly as he waited.