Chapter Text
Cease fire was always a difficult time with the crew. Never quite off work, but never quite on duty either. Those days are a time of well concealed anxiety, stifled energy and anticipation. Because, let’s face it, when you work with ear-blasting explosions and lightning fast gunfire twenty feet away from you like I do, silence become pretty deafening.
Hey, at least I’m not the one getting shot at. I just mop up the blood as the mercenaries move to the next part of the arena. Still, even with my minimum-risk job, you gotta watch out for that occasional un-exploded bomb or crushed glass bottle. That shit is freaky.
After a solid month and a half of war in the teufort district, we finally get our usual notice. A yellow envelope, enclosing the five days of cease fire that always happens when we rotate war zone areas. Ever since the first notice, engineer has gotten it worked into a routine. One day to pack up all our stuff, take the long distance teleporters, and unpack in the new base. One day for me to clean the dusty old house we’re assigned to, and for the mercenaries to scope the arena and report any missing objects or broken parts. That leaves us with three days. Three days with nothing to do but wait in that god awful silence.
So what, you might wonder, do we do? Well, we fill it with noise of course.
“Alright, lemme see if I got this right, “ Engineer says as he squints at a clipboard, tapping the chewed end of a pen against his lips. “Gravel Pit Analyses Report: 2 missing tires, burst backup boiler, and faulty wiring in the left wing bathroom. That all?” The Texan gazes at the half circle of tired men who are draped over the overstuffed furniture in the GravelPit house’s excuse for a living room. From my vantage point on the rickety poker table I can see nine suitcases thrown across the floor that I would probably end up taking to their rooms. Typical.
“Jesus Tex, yes. For the third time. Can we go now?” Comes a high voice from the couch. Despite sinking into the massive amount of stuffing, we could all tell who it was from the flapping gestures of two bandaged and skinny hands. Engie heaved a long suffering sigh as he straightened his goggles, and gestured towards the ramshackle door. One by one, the slumped mercenaries filed out, each one bothered by the fact that their coworker made them search the acres of map despite the early hour. Thankfully, they took their suitcases. One less thing for me to do.
Engie blindly thrust the clipboard towards me, rubbing his eyes underneath his welding goggles. Despite his leadership and determination, even he was tired. We were off schedule with our departure due to a late notice this month, and it took all night for the troop to pack and move. Now it was four in the morning, with the first strains of sun leaking through the dusty windows. I took the clipboard with my left hand, right one currently occupied with a cup of coffee.
“Go to bed, Soap. We’re all exhausted.” The Texan comments as he eyes my mug of caffeine with a disproving shake of his head. I sigh. Bed sounds so nice. But I really can’t, and he knows it. So he leaves, shutting the squeaky door behind him, and leaving me alone with the flickering lights, lists of chores, and the first grey slivers of sun to come.
It takes a while to get into the swing of cleaning, especially so early. But after months of disuse and neglect, the house needs attention whether I like it or not. Soon I fall into a state of calm cleaning. There’s a system that never fails to bring life back into a home, and it brings me a deep sense of satisfaction. I suppose that’s why I’m so good at this job. Starting at the rooms at the back, I begin a long day. For hours I open windows, sweep crud-laden floors, scrub cabinets and tables and every surface that is reachable with my vinegar-laden cloth. Then I beat the living shit out of the moth-eaten curtains I’ve dragged outside. It’s very therapeutic. Before I know it the sun is coming down in heavy golden rays that shine proudly across the sparkling tile and glittering windows. After a prideful once-over of the now spotless two level house, exhaustion replaces determination. Finally I feel the strain of being awake for so long. But there’s not much left to do, I remind myself as I wipe my scrubbed-raw hands on my red uniform; I just have to prep meals for today, then I can fall into the deliciously comforting arms of a freshly-made bed.
Two and a half hours later I’m sweaty, exhausted, and more than my fair share of grouchy. It’s three in the afternoon, and the men that slept like the dead are beginning to stir, evident by the squeaking footfalls of the bedrooms overhead. But it was worth it. There is a massive plate of sandwiches on the counter, along with a pitcher of fresh lemonade. Tucked into the fridge are nine individual pot pies, fully cooked and waiting to be oven-heated for dinner. Finally, FINALLY, I remove the handkerchief that tied back my hair, signifying my work to be done. Funny how everyone knows that now, I think as I walk up the stairs. All the guys know that when I have my hair tied up with a red cloth that I’m working, and when my hair’s down that I’m not. Kind of like a red light green light.
Out of habit I make my way down to the very last bedroom, systematically rapping my fist twice on each door, to the protest of their occupants. I had already busted in their rooms once to clean, and from the sounds they made, they would not appreciate a second visit. So knocking would have to do.
My bed, though old and tired, was soft and felt like absolute bliss to my well worked body. Without bothering to change into night clothes, I crawled into the welcoming cool sheets, a sanctuary from the heat of the day. Sleep was swift and dark, quickly consuming the nagging voice in my head. You have a lot of work to do, it said.
God, I have a lot of work to do.