In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Seventeen: Wellness Check

(Chapter art of Miss Fredrickson made by me!)

Going through the doorway is always a gamble. Will she be sitting on the armchair to tell me I'm dead, or will she have a look of disappointment because I forgot to switch out the clothes in the dryer before work? Standing in the middle of the hall isn't an option that I can do forever, so the time I spend contemplating my mortality status has lessened greatly as I've recently been worrying the neighbors. That's probably for another reason entirely, but the bottom line is that I can't idle by in the musty hall as long as I'd love to. It's late, eleven o'clock, and the hours of mischief are upon us. I tap my thumb on the strap of my purse. Miss Pauling comes up the stairs during my spell of staring at the wooden barrier. She gets out her key, unlocks the entryway, and swings her arm to motion for me to get in.

"You live here Fredrickson," she begins as she sets down her overwhelming pile of office work. She flicks the lights on. We both leave our shoes by the door. "You can enter your home whenever you want."

"I know," I claim. "It's Friday, your show is on."

"It actually ended yesterday," she tells as she walks into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. "It wasn't the ending I was hoping for, but it wrapped up nicely. Oh, hey, Henry threatened to shut off our water again."

The mail hasn't been looked at yet. "What is it over this time?"

"I think he does it so women are forced to interact with him at this point." She smiles at me when I sit at what we call our dinner table: A smaller-than-average square table with one chair on each side. She wants to talk about it. My eyes wander away from hers and down to the stack of envelopes in front of me. Miss Pauling comes over and sits next to me, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "They need to know."

"No, no they don't," I oppose and pick up an envelope. They can stay in the dark as long as I wish them to.

"Fredrickson," she scoffs.

"Mm-mmm," I shake my head, setting aside the outer casing to read the letter. Bank statement. I set it back down and stare at the logo, unable to get my eyes to look over the rest. I don't have to talk to them.

"Listen, I don't think you understand the gravity of what you're doing."

"I do." My heart weighs on my breath as my throat closes up. "Don't think I don't 'cause I do." Not thinking about them is easier. It makes me feel less trashy when I shove it away and sweep it under the rug for later. Maybe I should've died, then I'd feel less horrible about it.

"Well if you do, then maybe you can... Fredrickson. Fredrickson!"

I ignore her and walk back into what you could technically call a hallway, opening my room and shutting the door behind me. She hasn't brought it up for two weeks, why now? She never mentions things unless they're relevant. It's been somewhat peaceful. I haven't asked her about her work and she hasn't asked me to ride along on any jobs with her. Things were back to the way they were when we first started living together: we stayed out of each other's way. We can't do that anymore, I guess. Our lives are intertwined through this job, and I'd like to untangle them. My room feels lived-in, but by someone else as though another person was staying here in my place while I was away. Unbuttoning my uniform, it's decidedly time to go to bed. It's easier to avoid the subject that way. I pop off my name tag and set it down on my nightstand, confining my clothing to the hamper.

There are darkened marks on my skin where my scars are, three in total. They all vary in size and shape, but there they all are, medals of shame and cowardice. I try not to look at them too much in the mirror because then I start to think of them. It's hard not to stare, though. My finger runs up and down the indentations on my stomach. It doesn't hurt anymore as I assume almost all medic mercenaries are versed in the dark arts of healing. I don't even know who healed me to be completely honest. It wasn't the German, that's certain.