1 . Name: D.F. 38 @ 2012-03-07 23:16

So, I'm going to be busy during the second half of March. Can't really start a longer story. But hell, I can do some oneshots!

Have some Medic getting seduced. (Probably would have been better if it was the Heavy, but...)

/***/

The Medic was used to waking up to strange sounds in the night. There was always some cacophony threatening to break his slumber. The sky would crack open, trees would scratch and beg at his window, random gunfire would bring him fresh hell. Always something. So, he was not surprised to find himself sitting upright, bright and alert at midnight. He was shivering, heat from his body escaping his pajamas and his blankets. Sweat was rolling on his skin. He reached for his glasses, hands shaking, but never picked them up.

There was a new sound that summoned him. It was haunting. Lonesome. Beautiful.

The German man placed both feet on the wooden floor, trying to shake off the strange fever that was clouding his head. No, he must be imaging things. He stood up, moving quietly towards his bedroom door, rolling his feet as he walked. Socks and slippers were forgotten. Beams groaned beneath his steps, but not as loud as that voice.

Something brayed in the distance. He stood straight up, wondering if he was sleepwalking. It sounded like a fox’s cry, something shrill and piercing. The storm rolled with it, rain trickling down the thick trees outside. Thunder Mountain was living up to its name. The Medic exhaled, his breath like a warm fog. He must be sick. Just hallucinating. Perhaps a fever reducer was in order.

“Who comes to me?”

Another surge shot through the Medic. No, that couldn’t be his brain! He heard it, felt his eardrums quiver with the waves that reverberated through the quarrelsome night. It was low, clean, soothing. His diaphragm trembled at the sound. The voice was feminine, coiling around his body with hearty tones. A droplet of sweat ran down the back of his ear. It was slow, hot and broad, as if a tongue were—

The Medic shook his head. “Nein! Is—is—”

His arguments fell to the ground, muted and still. He nearly stumbled down the stairs as he walked to the first floor. The voice was coming from behind the barracks. He had a tremor in the pit of his stomach, knowing the exact place he had to go. He could see it in his fevered vision, serene gray waves floating in front of his eyes. Yes, that made sense. Of course.

The feminine humming started in his ears again. He closed his eyes, hands held against the walls as he walked forward. The Medic had to grab onto something. Timber did little to draw him out of his illness. He balled up his fists, trying to remember anything strong enough to snap him out of this. Cold, biting mountain air. Sharp, stinging bullets. Nips at his cheek. No. Thinking of his body only made him sicker. He braced himself against the wall, wiping his brow against the back of his pajama sleeve. Cotton did little to relieve him.

The front door held him prisoner for only a moment. He fumbled with the lock, turning it to the left. Cold iron felt fantastic against his hot fingertips. He laid his head against the door, the voice taunting him. “Come to me, and you will see that all locks will yield so easily.”

“I—I—have vork. In ze morning.” The Medic’s attempts to form a thought fell flat. He could feel hands at his throat, pressing against his neck. Rivulets ran down his collar bone. No, this wasn’t an illness. He hadn’t felt this possessed in so long. He thought this side of him was outgrown. Perhaps he’d buried it alive.

“Heavy matters weigh on your heart,” the voice murmured. “Lay me there instead.”

The Medic clung to the front door, a childish fear clutching to the last shreds of his sanity. He was not a young man, not someone so carefree and easily wooed. Words and voices did little to move him like this. Not anymore. He shuddered once, a jolt running through his shoulders. His fingers went rigid as he released his grip on the door. He spun on his heel, lead forward by his nose. He couldn’t see anything, not in the rain and through his clouded eyes. His glasses seemed so far away, like little diamonds tucked in a tower.

He was lead through a dense growth of trees, bark catching his pajamas as he walked by. Mud oozed around his feet, trying to snatch him and save him from that wonderful sound. He squashed a toadstool between his toes, the fleshy head giving way with an easy break. The Medic closed his eyes, sliding forward with no effort. He was crumbling, his own form giving way to the demands of that persistent coo.

That voice taunted him with its sweetness. “The tide is coming. Do you feel it?”

“I…do,” the Medic murmured, hypnotized by the ringing in his ears. It seemed like a chorus of angels were about to make his eardrums burst. Heat rolled from them, and for a moment, he didn’t know if it was sweat or blood.

“It will only make you weaker. Hold your breath,” his seductress said. “Let it roll over you and pass onto me.”

White-hot terror shot through the Medic as he finally saw the owner of that lovely voice. He was pulled into a lake, clear water pooling around him. There, towards the center, was a woman with skin as pale and blue as the full moon. He couldn’t see the definition of her nose or any flaw on her face. Her hair was dark, shimmering from the lightning, crinkled and heavy with water. If she had legs, the Medic could not see them. She waded in the center of the lake, exposed in the elements, the rain her veil. He was drawn toward her eyes, two blue gems bright as lamps from a lighthouse in the dark night.

He wanted to dart away, but his own legs went unresponsive.

The Medic mustered enough ire to hiss. “To pick on an old man—zis is—don’t—I vill—”

His seductress giggled, her voice cracking for the first time. “There is enough youth left in you. I want it.”

She pressed into him, forcing him beneath the lake’s surface. Cold struck him from all directions. His legs froze as something slithered around his back. A thick, rough object wound around his body like a snake’s tail. He fought for air, his arms going rigid from her chilling touch. She pushed against him, soft flesh buried against his chest. He reached out with one hand, trying to pull at the hair on her head. His fingers stopped against it, numbed by the softness and texture. When her chilled blue lips met his, he gasped. It was not out of joy or ecstasy. His body was trying to draw air from her empty lungs, drowning as she forced him down to the lake’s bed.

As a hand reached for his pajama’s collar, the Medic melted into the freezing lake.

/***/

It wasn’t surprising that he woke up the next morning. With computers existing for the sole purpose of bringing both himself and his teammates back to life, he knew he’d be revived. He didn’t expect to be in his bed, though. Certainly not drenched. His hair was soaked, his bed sheets damp with foul-smelling water. He reached for his glasses, surprised to find his arm bare. He adjusted his spectacles, then glanced at his shoulder. His pajama shirt was gone. He lifted his bed cover, a burst of energy catching him off guard. Of all the nerve!

There were voices outside of his door. Thankfully, not feminine voices. He could hear his teammates muttering, talking quietly about some subject. The Medic groaned. They were as gossipy as hens, sometimes. He reached for the dresser’s drawer, fishing out some underwear. He had no time to be lying ill on his bed. He was the team doctor. If anyone had to be fit for duty, it was him.

He had stuck one leg out of his bed when the door to his bedroom was thrown open. The Medic zipped underneath the covers, quick to fidget into his clothes. The Heavy was standing at the front door, a tray in his hands. More eyes were behind him, curious about the Medic’s condition. He shot them all a quick glare, which shooed them off. The Heavy didn’t bolt, simply setting the tray down on the Medic’s dresser. Coffee and toast. That seemed like a good way to start the day. And—hmm. A blue vase.

With little white flowers.

“Vere on Earz did you find zose?” the Medic asked.

“They grow outside. Everywhere. Like weeds,” the Heavy responded. He sat down on the Medic’s bed, the springs squeaking under his weight. “Is custom for sick people to have flowers, I think.”

The Medic huffed. “I am fine. Zank you.”

“You are not,” the Heavy said. There was a sternness to his voice, something not used often against the Medic. He could reprimand the rest of the team until his face turned from one team’s color to the other’s. Not so much with the Medic. While the German followed his every move, he would snap back from time to time. Fighting in the middle of war was inefficient, so the Heavy relied more on the Medic’s judgment than his own. To get rebuked by the Heavy was strange, at least for the German.

Heat bubbled beneath the Medic’s skin. It was less out of anger and more out of embarrassment. “Please tell me it vas just a fever.”

The Heavy snorted once, pinching his nose. “Doctor, you scared me.”

“Vat happened?” the Medic asked. He could remember quite a bit, but—well, the truth seemed preposterous. He had to know what the Heavy saw.

“You walked out. You left door unlocked.” The Heavy paused for one moment, then continued, a hard lump stuck in his throat. “You almost drowned.”

The Medic touched a hand to his head. His wet curls testified on the Heavy’s behalf. “I—I am—”

“Is lucky that birds woke me. Archimedes is stubborn bird.” The Heavy was struggling to speak. Not that either man had a strong grasp on English, but this was something different. “Doctor, did you not hear me last night? Called for you many times!”

The Medic shook his head. Of all the things he’d heard…“I vas running a fever. I must have been—”

The Heavy agreed. He grabbed the Medic’s shoulder, nodding slowly. “Is good.” He reached for a cup and a plate, placing both next to the Medic’s side. “Eat. Will make you feel better. Will make me feel good, too.”

Both men sat quietly, eating their breakfast without a sound. They spared a few bites to the doves in the Medic’s bedroom. Coffee cups rattled against plates, both men shaken from last night’s experience. The Medic grimaced, knowing he’d caused the Heavy a lot of worry. He was frustrated with himself. Perhaps he was growing delirious as he aged.

“Last night, during ze storm, I zought…I zought I heard eine Frau,” the Medic confessed between sips of coffee.

The Heavy nodded. “Did not hear one, myself. But—”

The hesitance in the Heavy’s voice shot a bolt of cold lightning through the Medic’s nerves. He sat upright, placing his coffee cup down. He didn’t bother to shoo Archimedes away as the greedy bird had the last of the Medic’s breakfast. “But vat?”

“Sometimes, in countryside, things happen. Men see ghost women. Men drown.” The Heavy blew rising steam away from his cup. “Doctor, is okay. It was just bad thing. Not ghost. Just…no.”

The Medic nodded. “Vat are zey called, Heavy? Ze ghosts from your home?”

The Heavy gave the Medic the name of his seductress. “We call them Rusalka.”