Demo found out about the tattoo at the same time everyone else did: the next morning in the pregame showers.
He’d been wondering about the pain in his shoulder, but not with any sort of gusto, certainly not with the level of curiosity that kept him reminded enough to investigate properly. It was only when Scout whistled and said, “Well somebody got real lucky last night. Or really unlucky I guess, knowing you.”
“What are you on about, Scout?” Demo grumbled, attention focused on trying not to irritate the tender spot, which, annoyingly, hadn’t lessened in pain the way post-bender bruises usually did.
“Just thinking. If it was serious you would have been bragging about her way before this. Nah, nah, I’m guessing you were so wasted last night you got that on a dare, don’t even remember her face or nothing.”
“Scout!” Demo said, whirling on him, wincing a little as the hot water hit the sore spot. “Get to the point before I’m fed enough to give you a swirlie.”
“You got a chick’s name tattooed on your back.”
Scout said it smugly, having guessed—correctly—that Demo had no memory of the drunken escapades that had led to him getting it.
“What??” Demo bellowed.
If the other mercenaries had been performing some level aloofness, having noticed as Scout did but preferring to simply watch it play out, they couldn’t help snicker their amusement as Demo spun in a circle, hopelessly trying to get a glimpse of the supposed tat. Shower spray scattered against all nearby bystanders.
“You better not be pulling my leg you little mutt,” he said.
“Nah pally, it’s all right there. Schmaltzy heart around it and everything. Though maybe you didn’t dig her all that much, it ain’t that big.”
“Feels massive,” Demo pouted. “Hurts like someone took a bite out of me.”
“That little thing? Psh. Call me when you get a full-color.” Scout tapped his own chest.
But Demo didn’t want to think about Tom Jones, he wanted to think about last night, to try and remember past when he and the BLU Soldier had met up for clandestine drinks for their weekly night on the town. Had they gone to try to pick up women after that? The whole night was a muggy smudge.
“Snipes,” he said desperately, “tell me the twerp isn’t pulling one over on me.”
“Sorry mate.” Sniper shook his head. “It’s there-”
Christ, what else had Demo said or done? If he knew himself he’d no doubt been in one of his pathetic, romantic moods. What other kinds of promises had he made? He needed to track her down and clear all this up-
“-But if it makes you feel any better,” Sniper continued, “this Jane woman probably appreciated the gesture. Who knows? Maybe she got your name tatted too.”
A long, realization-dawning pause.
“…Fuck,” Demo said.
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