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Dinna greet sae sair
Steam was raising from the Sniper's mug, twirling and curling when it met the chill air of a still fresh spring morning. Black coffee swashed up and down the mug's wall with every step Sniper was striding down the corridor. None of the precious liquid was spilled, of course his hand was steady, even in these early hours when most of his team were still asleep.
Like every morning, Sniper was the first to be awake, and the first to occupy the coffee machine to enjoy a cup in peace before another battle-filled day began, starting with fighting for the best bits of breakfast.
Only today was Sunday. No battles were scheduled in the dry wasteland surrounding the base. He reached his destination, and knocked at the door that hadn't been opened once since Friday.
“Tavish? You in there?” Of course their Demoman was behind the door; he had locked himself away in his room after the week's last battle. Unless he hadn't sneaked out of the base while everyone was asleep, he was still there.
A dull bang against the door from the other side was the only answer. Something fell to the floor and rolled away – probably an empty bottle, thrown without strength, the Sniper assumed.
“I... uh... made you some coffee!” This was none of his business. He was about to interfere with a team-mate's affairs for no reason, and he wasn't sure if he should admire or curse their Medic, and the Scout. Both rarely showed any qualms when sticking their noses in other people's affairs. However, unless those mongrels he wasn't driven by foolish curiosity.
He owed him. Months ago, when his own world had crumbled and dealing with his parents' death alone had driven him to madness, he had almost killed Tavish. Yet, the Scotsman had helped him only days later, when Gray Mann's loonies had almost killed him.
Fighting side by side for years ain't making men friends, but kinda friends. Kinda friends ain't letting each other die. That's what Demoman had said. Or something like that, the Sniper's memories from the moments he was bleeding to death were hazy.
Demo had received the news of his mother's passing on Friday morning. Scout had caught a glimpse of the narrow print and pronounced, “No way, your mom's a goner?”
After that, Demoman had left the table and prepared for the day's battle, living through a haze of his own in silence.
Sniper counted to ten. He wasn't surprised when Tavish didn't answer him. Well, that didn't leave many options, at least he had tried and wouldn't have to blame himself if he was – more or less – forced to turn around and leave Tavish to himself. But when he pushed down the door handle, the door swung open.
“Hey, mate, how's it going?” His mouth twitched, unsure if a smile was appropriate or as silly as his question. He took a deep breath – which he regretted the instant he had stepped into the dark room.
A wave of stuffy air hit him, heavy with the stench of stale alcohol and old sweat. Biting down a cough, Sniper held the mug closer to his face, carefully inhaling the rich scent of coffee. His next step made a splashing noise, and he looked down – he was standing in a puddle of spilled beer. An empty bottle lay only a few inches away. He doubted it was the one that had answered his knock, he suspected the one silently resting in the upper left corner of the room.
Well, there certainly wasn't a lack in backup ammunition, he noted with a frown.
Crouched up against the wall opposite to the door, Demoman was sitting surrounded by four empty bottles of his favourite scrumpy, and more bottles of beer than Sniper was in the mood to count.
“Damn, mate, ya really need a cuppa joe.” He flinched at his team-mate's pathetic state. Tavish was wearing his pyjamas, and by the look of them, he hadn't changed since Friday night. Shirt and pants alike were covered in what Sniper hoped were stains of beer and scrumpy. The black, curly hair, neither tamed by a hat nor care, stood from his head in a wild mess. Documents and photographs were scattered around his bare feet, and soaked with beer from another upset bottle.
“All whadda need is meh leffta 'lone by yer noisy pricks,” Tavish growled, half of the words slurred into a hardly comprehensible gibberish. He didn't bother to look at his visitor, and kept his eyes covered with his broad hand. With the other, he was holding a still half-full bottle of rum.
“Mate, you're a bloody disgrace,” Sniper hissed back, and fell silent. This probably wasn't the most sensitive way to handle a grieving drunk. He wasn't sure, however, if Tavish didn't react because he wasn't in a state to come up with a reply, or if he didn't hear him.
The image of a small, elderly woman with white curls and a soft smile popped up in his mind. Yes, his mother, she was different. She had always had a knack with people, always finding the right things to say, and the right tone. With her voice and words she used to play his father like a fiddle, calming him down or blowing him up, just the way she wanted. He wondered what he could have learned from his old folks, if he had only bothered to pay attention while they had still been there.
“Well,” he started, scratching his neck and giving the closest bottle a light kick. If he remembered one thing from his mom, it was the occasional slap against the back of his head, coming with her favourite phrase:”You've started something – you don't end it before it's done!”
He stomped towards Tavish, hoping to remind him of his presence. He put the mug down on the floor, next to the silent Demoman.
“Whatever! You better get moving ya bloody ass. We've got a job to do!” He stepped over one of the upset bottles and ripped the curtains open.
“Whaddya....” Tavish turned his head aside when sunlight fell on his face. “Job? Ain't gonna do no bloody job!”
“Good luck calling that Pauling-woman and explaining that to her.” Sniper shrugged, and opened the window. He leaned over the window sill, enjoying the clear air. In a few hours, the sun would have reached its peak and scorch the land, but now, the cold from the night still lingered. The scent of dust and sand was weak and wouldn't become stronger before noon. The workshop was close by, and he thought he caught a whiff of oil and gunpowder. A bird was chirping from the roof, the only noise from outside, sounding like music compared to the snivel, accompanied by a wet belch, behind him.
“What job?” the hoarse voice finally muttered.
“Something about a possible intruder.” Sniper stared into the distance, the barren wasteland with its red dunes stretching in front of him. He more guessed than saw the rail tracks cutting through the desert. It led behind one of the hills that marked their territory, the valley they protected from the enemy base almost every day. “Might be false alert, but the little damsel wants us to check. Maybe set a trap or two.”
He pushed himself away from the window, and nudged Tavish' leg with the tip of his boot.
“Get movin', mate. Job is job. I'll wait at my van. And for bloody heaven's sake, take a shower! You stink!” Without waiting for the Demoman's reply, he marched out of the room, and slammed the door shut behind him. Leaning with his back against the door, he listened. After a few minutes, he heard Tavish grunting as he stirred back to his feet. Bottles were clanging against each other and rolling over the floor.
With a grin, Sniper set himself in motion. Tavish would need some time to shower and put on clean clothes, leaving Sniper enough time to switch his white shirt and the loose, red flannel shirt for his uniform. But before that, he could really use a cup of coffee himself.
*
“Do ye know 'bout respawn? Is it activated?” The Demoman shielded his face with his hand, his grenade launcher resting on his shoulder. His eye was red from crying and drinking, and the sunlight felt like needles piercing his brain.
“Dunno,” Sniper mumbled in return. The device was usually shut down on weekends, and today was no exception. The desert offered enough for him to discover after ceasefire, hence he rarely spend his leisure time on the same ground he fought during his working hours. The convenience of respawn was tightly connected to the battlefield in his head, so he hadn't considered they'd be without its protection.
“Let's check over there!” He pointed at a rock formation closer to their boarder of the grounds, away from the shacks and bridges. If the enemy team became alerted of their presence, his little trick to get Tavish out of his room could turn the battlegrounds quickly into a real graveyard, instead of only being the final resting place for empty shells.
“Bloody hell, I tell ye what, lad. We're on a wild goose chase!” Demo let his eye wander. A couple of birds fluttered from the safety of a collapsed shed towards the sky. After a short fight and lots of chirping, they landed on a fence, sorting their feathers. A steady but gentle breeze whirled up red dust, but apart from that, the land was quiet and peaceful.
“Looks like it.” Sniper had climbed one of the rocks and let his legs dangling, his feet at the heigh of Demo's head. He fished a small leather pouch from his vest, opened it, and took out a small piece of paper. Holding the pouch between his teeth, he picked out some loose tobacco and put it on the paper. With quick, apt fingers, he folded and rolled the paper, twisting one of the ends.
“Fag?” The pouch fell into his lap when he spook when he offered the cigarette to the Demoman.
“Sure.” Tavish lifted his hand, but the Sniper jerked his away.
“Move ya ass up here.” Sniper put the cigarette between his lips, and began rolling a second one.
“Bloody bastard,” Demo growled, and set one foot on the lowest rock, testing if it carried his weigh without breaking away.
“Watch ya mouth, cyclops.” Hissing between his teeth, he offered Tavish a hand, pulling him up.
Giving a grunt, Demo sat down beside the Sniper. He took the newly rolled cigarette, bowing his head when the Sniper offered him fire, taking a few short pulls until the end glimmered in a bright orange.
The Demoman's grenade launcher and the Sniper's rifle between them, they smoked in silence. The sun was climbing the sky, and the fresh air from before would soon be warm enough to burn their skin. It wasn't noon yet, but back in the base, the last traces of a lively breakfast had probably already been cleaned away. The land stretching in front of their eyes was dead and deserted, the buildings they defended during the week crooked and run-down. Blood and footsteps had been covered by sand and blown away by the wind. If they hadn't been deployed here months ago, shooting and being shot for hours and hours, day by day, it would have been hard to believe that the air was filled with screams and gunfire two days ago.
“Crappy place. Kinda small, if ya don't fight for every inch for hours.” Sniper blew out the smoke, the bitter scent scattered by the wind before it filled his nose.
“Well, the world just got a little more peaceful.” Demoman gave a snort, and flipped the butt of the cigarette away. Casting a quick glance at the Scotsman from the corner of his eyes, Sniper frowned.
“Was that a dig at ya mom?”
“The undertaker took care of the digging yesterday,” Tavish sighed, then he snickered. “But I tell ye, the devil's already tipping his hat to her before they closed the coffin.” His snickering exploded into a roaring laughter.
Sniper's face went blank as he blinked at his laughing and shaking team-mate, but then he grinned.
“She was a tough woman, eh?”
“Tough as nails, with a tongue sharp as a blade,” Demo snickered, wiping a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. “Tell ye, laddie, that auld shrew was no sook! She wielded her tongue quicker than you yer knife, and stab ye with it before ye knew!” He took the new cigarette Sniper offered him, thanking him with a nod after Sniper lit it for him.
“Quite a challenge, that women, eh?” Sniper lit his own cigarette, and pushed the lighter back into the pocket of his vest.
“Quite, too much, depended on ye mood.” Tavish shrugged, and turned his head at Sniper, pointing at him with the burning cigarette. “Ye've been with yer faulks from the beginning, aye?”
“Well, as long as I remember,” he answered vaguely.
“She gave me away when I was a wee baby, and got me back when I was, uh, eight I think. She came and got me back after I... made a tiny mistake in the chem lab. Ye know how she greeted me?” His eye twinkled, and the corner of his mouth twitched, as though he had to hold back another laughing outburst.
“How?”
“Wait!” Tavish snickered, cleared his throat and took a deep breath. Mimicking a croaking, female voice, he continued,“So you can handle explosives. Guess ye ain't be no shame for the family as you were as bairn!”
Choking on the squeaky falsetto as it mixed with more laughter, he slapped the Sniper's back, almost pushing him from the ledge.
“Watch out, bloody mongrel!” Sniper recovered his balance, holding his hat in place, and shoved himself further away from the rock's edge.
“Your family seems to have its own ideas about raising kids.” He leaned back his head, and squinted at the sun. He recalled how he had come home from school when he had been eight. His parents were arguing, about him. His mother insisted he had to go inside and have a good lunch first. His father said that could wait until he had showed him how to handle the new horse he had got for him on the farmer's market.
“Seemed. I'm the only one left.” Tavish stopped laughing, and followed the Sniper's gaze up to the sky. “She was old, lad. Don't even know how old, but damn, have ye seen the picture? She looked like my grandma.”
Sniper tried to remember. He had seen the framed picture standing on one of the shelves in Demo's room. Yes, old Mrs DeGroot had been a short, scrawny woman, with deep lines running through her haggard face. In the picture, her hair, too pitch black to be the real colour, was tied up to a merciless knot that didn't allow the smallest loose strand to soften her features. Dark shades shielded her blind eyes, hiding whatever emotion they might have betrayed.
Sniper carried a photograph of his own mother in his wallet. She had sent it to him two years ago, a shot from Thanksgiving. Her white curls were bouncing around her round face, and the twinkling eyes were framed by deep lines from years of laughter and joking. He should have called more often.
“She was a devil in the disguise of a banshee,” Tavish sighed. “Bloody damn, I miss her.” He snivelled, and rubbed his nose with his arm.
“Ya know what they say. The strongest man cries at the death of his dog or his mother,” Sniper muttered, the burned out cigarette between his lips. He put a hand on the Demoman's shoulder, and patted it lightly, before he let himself fall on his back.
“Wake me up when you're done.” He tipped his hat over his glasses, crossed the arms under his head, and closed his eyes.
*
It was close to noon when the two men were on their way back to the base. They had dozed under the warm sun, but climbed down the rock when the heat became too strong. Neither Demoman nor Sniper mentioned the job that Sniper had made up to lure his friend outside. If Tavish guessed he had been lied to, he didn't say anything about it.
“Feeling better?” Sniper spoke up when the base came in sight. The wind carried yells and laughter over the walls of the yard to them, and a scent of what smelled suspiciously like burning tires. In a few minutes, it would be difficult to escape their team-mates company.
“All good, lad, all good. And I'm starving. Wonder if them lads have left us them breakfast.” Demo put his hand on his grumbling stomach, a familiar grin flashing over his face. A few fine lines had appeared around his eye. He would see them later in the mirror, and cherish them as a last memento from his mother.
“Hope so, next supply delivery isn't due before Wednesday,” Sniper grunted, kicking a small stone out of his way. “The day those gluttons leave me starving I'll turn the first mongrel I catch into a BBQ.”
“Count me in. I'll bring the drinks.” He laughed, and tipped against the Sniper's hat, flipping it into his face.
“What was that for, ya bloody cyclops?” Sniper shoved the hat back into place, and kicked another stone against the Demoman's leg.
“For lying to me, 'bout the job. I'll leave it to ye to explain them lads why we're in uniform on a Sunday.”
Sniper joined his chuckles.
“I'll come up with something. So, what ya gonna do with the rest of the day? Locking yourself in, and more drinking?”
“Nah.” Tavish dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Too boring. How 'bout something more fun? Let's tell Scout he's adopted!” The grin in his face widened, and his dark eye sparkled.
“Prankster! That's bloody devilish, mate.” Sniper grinned back at him.
“Guess I'm coming after me mother after all.”