I do not know if any of you remember the old version of this fic, but I have rewritten it and am now much happier with it. Still as nervous posting as I was the first time. Heavy/Medic in some parts. Concrit always, always welcome. ----------- 1. The One Where Medic is a Serial Killer It is seven o'clock in the evening, and Medic is waiting, seated in a large squashy armchair by a window. Small things betray his impatience: he alternately drums his fingers on a small side table, fiddles with his watch, or prods his leather physician's bag gently with a toe. Glancing at the window, he can perceive nothing save the frosted windowpane, beaded with water from the recent rain. He sighs a little, rearranging small baubles to stay his boredom. In the dim, moonless room, he is nothing but a large shadow nestled against the deeper dark. The doorknob turns and Medic's nostrils flare in anticipation. Silently he takes to his feet, noting that his body wracked with fine tremors; like a well-bred hunting dog, he is... eager for the hunt. A monster of a man steps in – tall and heavy-set, he would be almost ridiculously corpulent but for the brute strength evident in even his smallest of movements. Handsome in a Russian way. And an intellectual, too, if his bookshelves are to be believed. Altogether an interesting specimen. He divests himself of first his coat, then his red woolen hat, hanging these up before he realizes he is not alone. "Who is there?" he calls. Medic does not answer, waiting, palms pricking in anticipation. "Who?" the man roars. He sweeps a glance around. "Herr Heavy," Medic purrs from behind him. "I have been waiting for you." And then with one swift movement, before the bigger man can even move, Medic plunges a syringe into the side of his meaty neck. Heavy staggers with a noise of pain, fingers clutching disbelievingly at the wound. "Sit down." Medic shoves Heavy away from him, into the seat opposite from the one he recently vacated, before reclaiming his own. He clicks a nearby lamp on. "You will notice, Herr Heavy, that though you are still capable of speech, you are now quite unable to move. A little concoction of my own devising." He smirks before continuing. "It is fast-acting and entirely non-fatal. You will remain fully conscious – maybe. Probably. Until I bore of it, anyway." "Who are you?" demands Heavy. Medic polishes his glasses on his sleeve. "Hmm. Well. I see no reason not to let you know. After all, it will scarcely matter after this. I," he says, breathing in deeply, "am a Medic. And I have been sent here to kill you." A stunned silence follows this pronouncement, before Heavy says flatly, "You are crazy." Medic gives a noncommittal sound. "You know, ordinarily I could find much better uses for a man like you." He sweeps his gaze up and down Heavy's body, admiring again the musculature, the blue eyes and suede-stubbled scalp. "But alas, I must make a living, as you yourself do at the behest of the mysterious Administrator and Herr Redford Mann." Heavy's eyes widen at this new information. Medic gives a small, conspiratorial smile. "No hard feelings, I hope. And you mustn't think that this treatment is exclusive – my employer is committed to ensuring neither Redmond nor Bluetarch can operate any longer. So, look on the bright side – at least all of BLU will all be dead also. It is like finally winning, no?" "This is sick game you are playing." There is no fear in his voice, Medic marvels. Only defiance. Truly, Redmond had recruited an extraordinary man. "We are straying from the task at hand," Medic says in lieu of an answer. Turning his back on Heavy, he goes to retrieve his bag from the corner and pops it open. Inside he has some of his favourite implements – a modified bonesaw, an array of fluid-filled syringes, a pair of repurposed garden shears, a former roommate's stolen chisel, various jars for sampling, etc, etc – as well as a notepad and pen, for note-taking. He busies himself laying it all out on the coffee table, feeling rather than seeing Heavy's weighty gaze upon him. "Now, I think I should return, hmm, a little keepsake to my employer for proof, don't you? I hope you will not mind lending me a hand with that." He chuckles at his own joke. "But that is all in the future, ja? Let us enjoy the moment." "I will enjoy when you are dead! When this is over, I will kill you with bare hands!" Heavy's face contorts as he struggles to move. "Promises, promises," Medic sighs. Across the bare expanse of the sitting room floor. With a grunt of effort and some tricky application of leverage, he manages to heave Heavy's motionless form out of the armchair and onto the sheet gracelessly. This done, he sits back on his haunches. "The others can expect similar treatment soon," he confides, pulling on thick grey rubber gloves. "Even your own doctor." Heavy's efforts struggles redouble at this sentence, but to no avail. Medic examines the glint of his bonesaw in the lamplight. "I must admit," he says casually, "I've always wondered what it would be like to relieve a man of all his bones." "You. You will pay!" Heavy bellows, murder in his eyes. Medic's answering grin is wicked and knife-sharp in the darkness. "Oh, and will you be the one to make me?" He drops his voice, and that low, it's almost a caress. "I do hope you try, at any rate." He cups Heavy's jaw in his hand with a leer, a mockery of a caress. Dropping his hand, he continues in more brisk tones, "Playtime is over, Herr Heavy. Now hold still. This," he smirks, "will hurt a lot." *   2. The One Where Medic is Female Stalingrad in the winter is far colder than Stuttgart ever was, though it might be because Medic speaks little Russian and the people seem so remote. Despite the snow and wind outside, it is warm here, in bed, with the presence of the large, muscled man Medic calls Heavy. He is sitting upright, perusing the pages of a thick book by lamplight, his handsome face serious. She twists her hands in the coverlet. The words tonight, tonight, tonight, do it tonight, do it, tell him tonight pound a refrain in the back of her head, demanding absolution, as they have for weeks now, and she thinks tonight might be the night she allows it. She does not know how long she has been staring before he asks, in clumsy German, "What is it, little Doktor?" It is still better than her Russian. "I was just thinking," Medic replies. Do it, do it, tell him. Something in her tone must catch his attention. He marks his page before closing the book, looks at her carefully. "What you are thinking?" he asks. Medic opens her mouth to answer before closing it again, trying to marshal her thoughts, her words. "I was thinking... of when we first met," she says slowly. "You asked me – why I wanted you to call me Medic." Another long pause. "As you know, my mother was a... kept woman," and oh, she sounds so bitter even to herself, even still, "of one of the higher ranking Waffen SS, scarce two months after the death of my father. And you know she left me alone, in that house, and told me to tend to the soldiers who came through." "Da," Heavy replies, reaching out for her hand. He seems not to notice that he has lapsed into Russian. "The soldiers called me a medic because I provided the basics of first aid. I also earned... other names. Less pleasant ones. Beyond medical attention, I provided... other attentions. Comfort for the men of the war." Memories rise, unbidden, thick as bile: the rough and sometimes violent pawing of her countrymen and – her mouth twists bitterly – kamerade. The nights she spent nursing not tears, but the slow-stoked fires of revenge, which she tended all in silence, biding her time... Heavy growls a little, tightens his grip on her hand. His touch rouses Medic from her contemplation, and she continues, "I did not want you to know my real name, because," she swallows, "in Germany I am a wanted woman. I committed... things. Theft. Arson. Murder. Atrocities." The last word rides out on a breath. "I had my reasons. Good reasons." Her gaze is defiant. They had thought her weak, only a woman, but how she had proven them wrong! In a way, she is proud of herself – not even this giant of a man could ever take that away from her. Yet carrying burdens and secrets for so long. It has been weary work. She never dreamed to find anyone else whose shoulders were broad enough to carrying such things. In fact, she never dreamed of anything. But fortune has favoured her, for whatever reason, and she is grateful it has. "I wanted to shed my old name, my old life. I want nothing of it still. You understand, Heavy. You must." Heavy says nothing, but does not seem disturbed by her confessions – indeed, he seems almost thoughtful, as though contemplating a chess move. "When I was grabbed by your men, I thought I was going to die." What Medic doesn't say was that it had been relief and not fear that had driven her to her knees. When Heavy still does not answer, she asks, "Why did you send them away, that day?" Heavy continues to think for a moment, and Medic can almost see wheels turning in his head, exchanging words in Cryllic script for Latin characters. His speech is slow but sure. "They were saying... not nice things. It make me angry. I bang table, tell them go away or I will rip with hands. Is not way talk about lady. Then little Doktor look like going to spit fire. I ask name; Doktor tell me name is Medic. I ask why, but no get answer." He shrugs, a surprisingly fluid movement for one so big. "I think, must be she was nurse in war. I am once heavyweight boxing champion – so I tell Doktor, call me Heavy. This is for try earn Doktor's trust. Do not want Doktor to feel like she need to tell me name... if she not want." "But why did you decide to make me that singular offer – to come here, with you?" To be yours, she thinks. "Surely there are women who are lovelier than I and compatriots of yours besides." It is a statement, not a question. Medic is bespectacled and stern, with a strong indelicate jaw. She boasts shoulders wider than the ideal, strong muscled calves, a small bosom, and rough hands calloused from work. She looks well enough when she is done up, but she is not beautiful, and knows she never will be. Heavy is nothing if not scrupulously honest. "Is true," he says. "Doktor is not prettiest." The blunt truthfulness of this stings for a moment, and Heavy seems to realize it because he lifts her hand to his mouth to kiss inside her wrist. "But still, Doktor is very beautiful to me, is full of... spirit. And brave. Doktor should not die in place where no friends. Should not be torn apart by men like bears. Is not right." He gives that sound again, like the growl of an animal not quite tamed. "And I think – my house is empty, sad. No light. Only work, and guns, and cold. Need woman touch, maybe then not so lonely. And maybe one day you come to see Heavy in different way." The slowness of expressing himself in halting German must be annoying, but Heavy plods on so patiently. It wrings Medic's heart a little. "Not all Russians bad men. I think I am good man. I try." "I never expected to be still be alive today." Medic offers a small smile. "I am sorry I was so ungrateful in the beginning." "Is okay. I understand. Doktor is like cat. Need time before give trust." Medic finds it hard to swallow around a sudden lump in her throat. "I do not know what I expected, when I left Germany," she says, and if her voice does not waver it is only by virtue of her steely resolution. "But it was not... this. I am here, alive and well, better than I ever have been. I thought... it would be penance," she whispers, laying a hand against Heavy's strong jaw. "I thought it would be a lifetime of penance. But instead, being here... it is like being whole, or being born." "Am glad," Heavy whispers back, as he moves to turn off his lamp. Slowly, her curling hair forming a curtain that shields them from the outside, she leans into him, tucking her thumb just behind his ear, and quietly offers two words, the truest show of trust she can muster. "Doktor," Heavy rumbles, low, and offers her a few words of his own in return. There is precious little talking after that. Soon she is arching her back, elated, ecstatic as he slides into her to the hilt. She spurs him into action with all the filthy words she knows. He is unbearably gentle, so much so that she grips his shoulder with teeth and nails, drawing blood she'll tend to in the morning but right now, right now she is mindless of anything but the scent and feel of his arousal. He reaches a huge hand between them, down between her legs and watches with amusement, but mostly with lust, as Medic is torn between screaming and sobbing. When he begins to rub, her head thrashes from side to side of its own volition, pleasure mounting slowly but steadily in a sweet ache almost too much to bear. The circling of his fingers, his hot hard length inside her – Medic imagines mercury climbing inside a thermometer, shattering the bulb, and comes with no warning, splintering apart with a noiseless cry. A few more hard thrusts and he joins her, spilling into her with a groan that shakes the very rafters of the house. Much later when she is curled against him as he sleeps, she watches his face in slumber and thanks whatever gods are listening that they didn't shoot her after all. It is not love. Not yet. But it could be, someday. She closes her eyes. *   3. The One Where Medic Refuses RED's Offer He straightens his tie, peering at himself in the mirror. He is cleanly shaven, his hair orderly, glasses polished as always. There are dark circles under his eyes, born of sleepless college nights and too-early mornings during his life as a medic with the Heer. He looks no more tired than usual, though he feels it, deep inside. It is strange to see himself attired in something different than the white coat he wears daily to attend his modest practice. His shirt is freshly laundered, but clumsily ironed, unaccustomed as he is to such household tasks. He adjusts his suspenders, pulls on his suit jacket and smooths the lapels. Grey hairs at his temples seem to have appeared almost overnight. With a sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose, under his glasses. Turning away from his self-examination, he walks towards the kitchen. He has not made coffee today, but then he has not had to make coffee for the full latter half of his life. The dishes are in the sink, unwashed for the better part of a week. The remains of the last meal he had eaten with someone other than himself for company still sits on the table. He has not been in here for days, and so has forgotten about the manila envelope sitting next to the plate of congealing bacon grease and eggs. It is thick with documents and stamped with the logo for 'Reliable Excavation and Demolition.' He picks it up gingerly, and throws it into the overflowing dustbin. He does not feel hunger. He does not feel anything, but he makes himself fetch a glass from the shelf and drinks some tepid tap water before he shrugs on his overcoat and hat and heads to the cemetery. Outside, it is foggy. He drives slowly down the cobbled streets. He does not pay any particular mind to where he is going, but ends up at the right place nonetheless. The deceased's family is already gathered there, waiting, eyes red with weeping, huddled together as though to form a human wall against him. They never liked him, and now they have no reason to pretend. He chooses to ignore their petty behaviour, feeling nothing but a hollow sense of amusement. The ceremony is brief. The coffin holding his wife's body seems absurdly small for a woman whose laugh had seemed to fill every room she was in. It is a closed casket affair – the medical report was more than enough reason to justify his decision on that front. He does not want the image of her mangled corpse to be his last memory of the woman who gave him a good life for so many years. He throws the first handful of dirt on her grave and stays long after everyone else has left, sitting on the ground, mindless of his best trousers. Damp air wraps around him thickly. "You must be doktor." This voice comes from a figure shrouded in mist. A few steps forward reveal a giant figure of a man, taller than he by a foot and twice as wide. "Am sorry for your loss," the man says. English. The man is speaking English, albeit with a Russian accent. He struggles to his feet. It is such a supreme effort to switch from German to English. "You were sent by one of those RED bastards, weren't you?" he rasps. The Russian man hesitates. "Da," the heavy man concedes at last, "but RED want to express sorrow for what happened. Should not have come to this." "No," he agrees. "It should not have." "Doktor maybe not realize how serious Administrator offer is," the other man offers by way of consolation. "Is not your fault." "I never said it was." He can hear is own voice is calm, so calm, and he feels nothing. "I don't wish to hear anything more you have to say. Guten tag." He turns on his heel and makes to move. "Doktor, I think you should accept offer." Heavy man's voice contains a warning that makes him bristle. "Is not good idea, Doktor – more bad things can happen. Will happen. More people can get hurt – maybe even Doktor get hurt. I would not like that." At this, he snaps completely. In two large strides, he steps forward, fisting the other man's collar. "You can try," he hisses, nose-to-nose with the Russian, spittle flying from his mouth. "I promise you it will not end well for you. If this – this intimidation, this bullying is your employer's strategy, I guarantee I will never serve RED." He shoves himself away from the heavy man. His hat tumbles off his head, his voice rises to a strident pitch and he is nothing more than a helpless passenger in the rage-fuelled vehicle of his body. He laughs derisively, and even to his own ears he sounds completely unhinged. "Did you honestly think that now that my wife is dead, I would fall into the lap of you REDs? That I would roll over like a trained mutt for you? Did you think I have no pride? I did not survive years under the thumb of one führer, Herr Whoever-you-are, to serve another." "I am only here to deliver message," the heavy man states at length, holding his hands up in the universal symbol of don't-shoot-the-messenger. His face reveals nothing at all. "Well, I have a message of my own. Tell them," he wets his lips, "to do their worst." "Doktor," Heavy calls, but he ignores it. He snatches his hat from off the ground and strides away as quickly as he can. "Doktor!" As he walks, he thinks of his wife – he thinks of the scent of her hair, her laugh in the morning. He misses talking to her; he misses her pride in his medical abilities; he misses her delighted clapping at the end of his spontaneous violin concertos. He misses the warmth of her body next to his, the colour of her eyes at night, her murmured endearments whenever they made love. But although she made his life good in a thousand ways, he does not miss her, and he knows he never loved her. The worst part, the absolute worst part, is that he almost feels like he might say yes to RED. He longs to abandon the world of colds and coughs and fevers to return to research, to push the boundaries of current science. This would be the perfect opportunity, and why not? It stings him to admit it, even to himself, but RED (whoever they are) are right: he really does have nothing holding him back anymore. If they send another messenger... but no. Not today. Not today, and not tomorrow. But perhaps someday, he thinks to himself. Perhaps he was never meant to be one of the lucky ones who escaped the ghosts of war. It had been almost twenty years' reprieve, which is a goodly length by anyone's reckoning. And, if he is being completely honest, he misses it. General practice does nothing to slake the bloodlust that he has kept secret, silent, suppressed for so long. Weak sunlight parts the fog. A flock of doves scatters before him. He watches as they burst into flight, climbing higher into the sky. Though he is tempted to, he does not turn to see if the heavy Russian is still watching. He finds his vehicle, keys the engine into life, and, feeling as empty as he had when he drove there, he drives home. Before he knows it he is in bed, with the blinds closed, sleeping for the first time in days. ---   4. The One Where Medic Lives a Mostly Normal Life and is (Relatively) Sane --- The first thing Medic says to the man who is to be his fellow lodger is, "Guten tag. How are you?" "Well enough," replies the other man in a rumble. His accent is thick, but understandable for a man who's only been in the U.S. recently. He holds a heavy-looking pack with all signs of ease, taking Medic's extended hand in his free one. His large palm all but dwarfs Medic's fingers. He shakes firmly, but carefully, as if some incidents in his past with broken fingers have trained him to such care. It is a small thing, but already Medic finds himself warming up to the man. "And you?" "Sehr gut, sehr gut." Medic hums a little, tapping his thigh with a pen he had been using to fill the crossword. He looks his new roommate over, pleased with the broad, honest face and noting that the man does much the same in return. "What is your name?" he asks at length. When he hears it, Medic hums. "I apologize, Herr, but these Russian syllables do not come easily to me, and I do not wish to butcher your fine name with my clumsy abilities," he says. "May I call you something else?" The man pauses, racks his mind for a suitable alias before breaking into a laugh. "My mother said before I born, she drink what seem like water, but is heavy water. Is why I grow so big, she say. Call me Heavy," he says, sticking out his hand again. Medic takes it again. "Very well, then you must call me Medic, bitte. It is a peculiarity of mine that I am not very fond of my given name, and prefer to be known for that one which I have earned for myself." Heavy nods, as if this makes perfect sense. "You are Doktor?" "Ja. Formerly a Sanitätsoffiziere, to be precise, but those days are behind me and I wish only to build a new life in a new country." "I understand," Heavy replies, and looks around. "Oh – here I am standing like a dummkopf while you still hold your luggage. Forgive me, Herr Heavy, and let me show you to your quarters." Heavy follows. "As you can see," Medic calls down to Heavy as he climbs up a short flight of stairs, "the apartment is laid out in two floors. The upper floor holds the bedrooms which are connected through the adjacent bathroom. I hope this will not be a bother?" Medic inquires. At the shake of Heavy's head, Medic continues. "There is also a small office across the hallway. I have claimed for this my work, if you don't mind." "Nyet," Heavy hastens to assure him. "I thank you, Herr Heavy – my work encroaches on my entire living quarters if it does not get its own space, and I must sometimes see patients even here. Also I must admit that waking up to a collection of preserved organs in jars is not the ideal. I have reserved the bigger bedroom for you to make up for the inconvenience." He ushers Heavy into this room now. It is plainly attired, with a bed that will obviously not fit even half of the Russian. There is also a desk and a chest of drawers. Medic watches as Heavy sets the pack in the middle the room. "Baby bed will not fit giant man," notes Heavy, prodding the mattress with a thick finger. "This was the standard furniture that came with the suite," Medic explains apologetically. Heavy considers the space he has been given, which can obviously comfortably accommodate a bed three times the size of this one. "Is not problem. I have a friend, an engineer. Is building things. Mostly machines, but he will build bed for me. I will ask him come when Doktor is at work, so noise not bother Medic." "Danke for your consideration." It is a surprisingly thoughtful offer for a man who looks like a hired mercenary. Medic finds his curiosity roused, but opts not to show it, settling for a half-smile instead. "I have also taken the liberty of arranging for some dinner. Come down to the sitting room at around six, bitte. I hope you are not a vegetarian, because I am afraid I did not consider the possibility until after everything was finalized." "Is fine. Am not vegetarian." He inclines his head, going to work on his pack. "Am... how you say? Grateful." "Ja, ja. Is nothing." Medic leaves the man to his own devices, returning downstairs to finish the newspaper and amuse himself in other ways for the next few hours. At precisely six o'clock, he hears footsteps on the stairs. It startles him momentarily, engrossed as he was in his anatomical studies, until he remembers his fellow lodger. He looks up. It is a long way to look up. "Ah, Herr Heavy – I am afraid the dinner is a little late, but it should be here soon. Please, sit." Heavy nods his thanks and tests the chair before he commits to sitting fully. "Do you play chess?" asks Medic. Heavy seems to consider this question. "A little," he replies. "In gulag – chessmaster taught. Has been long time since I play. Maybe not so good anymore." "Come," laughs Medic, "it is like swimming, no? One can always learn again." He sets up his chessboard, a beloved set that was a gift from his late mother. They play, stopping only for dinner, which arrives late enough that Medic finds himself feeling the sharp irritation that accompanies hunger. Setting aside their game, they eat in silence, Medic working away at the crossword while Heavy studies the chessboard. He is obviously much more skilled than he remembers – it takes Medic until ten to checkmate him. "So sorry for sad game, Doktor. Am tired. Next time, will do more, longer," Heavy says as he tips his king onto its side. Medic waves away the apology. "I look forward to it," he says, and is surprised at how true that is. They walk up the stairs in silence, Medic's steps cat-light, Heavy's drawing heartfelt groans from the wood. "Guten nacht," Medic says when they reach the top, and heads for his bedroom. "Good night," replies Heavy, doing the same. Safe in his own room, Medic draws the curtains closed before removing his socks, suspenders and shirt, folding them carefully. A brief five minutes in the bathroom for his nighttime ablutions leaves him feeling ready for sleep. He shucks his trousers and climbs into his sheets; a stack of well-thumbed medical journals, his usual night-time reading, awaits his perusal. He browses through the topmost one for about fifteen minutes, but he is tired tonight, and soon finds himself surrendering the task. He becomes aware of gentle snoring from across the hallway. Evidently his new companion has already given in to sleep. "I think this could be the start to a very fine friendship," he murmurs to himself in German. It is the last thought has before turning out the light. ---   5. The One Where Medic (and Everyone Else) Dies * "Italy. I will 'ead to Italy, to indulge in wine and women and fine dining," says Spy. He is smoking in the common room again. Medic disapproves, but not enough to ask Spy to stop. Soldier grunts. "Guess I'll have to go find somewhere else that'll need me." He thinks for a moment, then brightens. "Maybe there'll be a third World War. Or a second Civil War. You never know." Engineer raises his eyebrows. "I don't think that's something y'oughta be wishin' for, hoss. It sounds a mite..." he hesitate, searching for a diplomatic word and finding none, finishes with, "deranged." "Besides, is still war happening now. Is not good idea," Heavy adds. "Stars and stripes beats hammer and sickle, son," Soldier recites as if from rote. "I keep telling you to look it up." "Maybe," Heavy allows. "But cannot win all the time." Scout interrupts the debate with a "Is anyone even payin' attention to me here? I guarantee in a coupla years everyone's gonna know who I am 'cause I'm gonna be the very best pro-frickin'-fessional baseball player. Ever. Major league. Oh yeah!" Scout jabs a thumb into his own chest, striking a pose for good measure. Engineer gives one of his deep, full-bellied guffaws. "Boy, just you watch. Once you find yourself a good woman, settle down with a hot little wife, you won't wanna do anything but wake up to her face every mornin'." "Suck it, hardhat." "Suck this, string bean," Engineer returns with a rude gesture. Sniper has already retired to his van, but they all know of his plans. Demoman is sitting splay-legged on the floor and nursing his scotch in unusually contemplative silence. Possibly he has accepted Medic's cautionary prediction that if he keeps drinking at his usual rate, his liver won't hold out long enough for him to see the end of the war. Or he might be sleeping. It's hard to tell. Pyro's thoughts are also unknown, mostly because no matter how hard they try, no one has yet managed to decipher his mumbled soliloquy. It had been very passionate, but utterly incomprehensible. "What about you, Doc?" Scout prompts, breaking into Medic's thoughts. Medic sniffs dismissively. "I don't think it is worth discussing right now as we still have preparations for tomorrow. I am going to bed. Good night." He propels himself off his seat, not bothering to glance back at the assembled teammates. He feels, rather than hears, Heavy fall into step with him. "Something wrong, Doktor?" asks Heavy, closing the door to Medic's quarters as he begins to divest himself of his flak vest. "Nothing," Medic lies. He looks over to see Heavy giving him a look. "Okay, fine. I don't like to discuss this topic of after the war. I think it is pointless." "Doktor has no plans for after?" Heavy inquires. "Nein, it is not that. I just – I don't think that we are just meant to... walk away from this." He shrugs. Heavy's smile warms him up from the inside. "Doktor. Come here." Medic obeys, stepping into Heavy's arms. "Doktor is scared," says Heavy conspiratorially. "Nyet," he chuckles, when Medic attempts to wriggle out of his hold. "Is okay. I not make fun. I make better." Medic sags against him. "Not scared, mein Heavy. Just... worried, I guess." The truth is that, since signing the acceptance letter and joining the team, Medic has lived as though each day might find him cold in his bed with a bullet in the back of his head. It is the kind of living that brought Heavy and him together eventually. He never dreamed that such happiness could exist, much less find him, so normally he gives little thoughts to 'after'. It has surprised him, therefore, that they have reached the end of their contracts and that they might be free in only a few weeks. He himself dreams of a cabin in the Canadian woods, with Heavy at his side and no one around for many kilometres. Normally he might be prevailed upon by the good nature of his team to join them in their predictions of a better future, but tonight is different, feels different in a way Medic can't pin down. "Doktor worries too much. Let me help," Heavy suggests, placing his hands on either side of Medic's face. "Ja," Medic breathes, before Heavy seals the remaining space between their mouths with a kiss. He feels safe are when he is with Heavy. He knows they are never truly safe, that Heavy is but a man – a big man, a strong man, but still just a man. Still, he cannot shake the feeling of sanctuary from his bones whenever they rest next to Heavy's. Heavy slides the shirt off Medic's shoulders, kissing ancient scars earned from a time before the Medigun. Straddling his lover, he slides Heavy's t-shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside carelessly. Heavy's mouth is at the crook of his elbow, and Medic struggles to liberate Heavy's cock with his free hand. When they are together, he feels like they are invincible. It is the closest Medic has ever come outside of battle to the crackling, electric high of an Übercharge. In these moments they are one organism, writhing together in perfect, aching sympathy. It is perfect. With every touch, Heavy is waking nerves that light up like fiery constellations all over his skin. The feel of the Russian's response is like standing in the middle of a storm and riding the lightning. In a fit of fancy, Medic imagines he is astride a colossus carved entirely of ancient bronze. He marvels. "You are wonderful, mein Heavy," he rasps. His teeth find the side of Heavy's neck as his lover eases the pants off his hips. "Nyet, Doktor. You are... are amazing," Heavy pants. The gasp Medic gives as Heavy takes them both in hand is lost against sweaty skin. He whimpers when Heavy slides a slick finger inside him, then two, whispering hoarsely in his ear, smoothing back the errant curls in his hair as he works him open. Such vulnerability is normally abhorrent to Medic, but in this context it swells his heart to such ridiculous proportions. When Heavy enters him, it drags forth a moan from Medic. Their coupling is passionate, almost violent. Whatever has been troubling Medic seems to have infected Heavy, and he fucks Medic desperately, methodically aiming for all the spots he's mapped out over months and years. Medic is helpless to do anything but ride out wave after wave of pleasure that threaten to crash over him and drag him under completely. When he comes, it is like a supernova. A fierce, triumphant joy blazes in his heart as he looks down at Heavy and half-smiles, half-smirks. One flex of his inner muscles, and he swallows Heavy's howl as Heavy fucks him and fills him. That night's sleep is the best Medic has ever had. * In retrospect, he should have seen it coming. Medic knows this mood, knows this atmosphere that is the precursor to a death or a loss. He has felt it countless times, but has been too afraid to shatter the illusion that everything will work out. For all this expectation, the end is still bitter, when it comes. The first to fall is the Scout, the ghost of his last cocksure grin still etched upon his face as he falls. There is no elegance to the movement, none of Scout's trademark grace; instead his body crumples to the dusty ground like a puppet with the strings cut, blood blossoming from his head where the BLU Sniper's bullet has pierced it. The rest of the team retreat a short distance away, waiting for Scout to respawn – Only he never does. The exact moment this hits them is hard to mark, but twin cries erupt from Soldier and Demoman, who charge back into the fray like mad things, Pyro hot at their heels loosing a battle yell. The other team's Scout is burnt to a crisp before he can even realize it, even his own Pyro was helpless to save him. Soldier manages to get the BLU Sniper before the other Heavy mows him down. Both Demomen go out in full blazing glory, taking each other out in spectacular twin explosions. Everything after that gets a little fuzzy, although Medic thinks he recalls seeing Pyro axe the other Heavy to death. It is hard to remember, because at that point something – happened, the consequence of which is that Medic is now lying prone on the dusty ground. His head is propped on something soft. Familiar. Comforting. He glances up, and his heart fills, as it always has, at the sight of the face he has loved best. "I will be okay, Heavy," he murmurs, but even as his eyes close he knows it is a lie. Respawn has never felt like this – this terrible, luring calm towards inexorable sleep. He had hoped they would do it another way – break the news properly and let them choose the method of their exit. But this? This is a cowardly act. He should be livid, he knows, but he only feels sluggish. He can feel his heart labouring madly inside his chest. For a wild moment the image of Engineer reaching in with a wrench assaults him, and he jerks, looking for the Texan. From the sounds of it he is far away and engaged in battle with the BLU Soldier. Something warm touches his face. He opens eyes he never remembered closing to see Heavy's face contorted in a paroxysm of grief and rage. He tries to smile fondly, finds that muscle and nerve will not respond. His eyes seem to shut of their own accord. "Doktor. Doktor!" Heavy is screaming. Heavy has never sounded like that. "Heavy." He feels so weak. He has something to say – it is urgent – something that needs to be said, before... before. Medic's eyes snap open and he remembers. "Heavy." He is sobbing. Is he sobbing? Or is it simply that Heavy's body is shuddering against his? Medic can't tell. "Ich liebe dich. I love you... I love you. Now go. Please." His hand pushes weakly against Heavy's broad chest. Breathing is so hard. It will not be long, now. "I will see you soon." He hears Heavy's roar of pain but finds himself, for the first time since coming here, for the first time in recent memory, unable to respond. For the last time, he shuts his eyes.   + 1. The One That Did "Rise and shine, sleeping maggots!" The sound of a shovel striking steel headgear rouses Medic, as it does every morning. Grumbling to himself, he hoists himself into a sitting position. A sigh of resignation escapes him as he swings his legs over the side of his cot. A quick fumble about his nightstand and he has his glasses; thus armed, he grabs a towel and his clothing, heading to the communal showers. Soldier is up the earliest, every day, formulating battle plans and polishing his entrenching tools. Medic is sometimes second, however, and on occasion he manages to snatch a few moments alone before the chaos of the day begins. As he walks down the hallway, acknowledging Soldier with a nod, he can hear protests and responses from the rest of the team. "How in the bloody blazes does it have to be so early every day, ye absolute knobstick." Medic's eyebrows rise; Demoman is standing in his doorway stark naked as he shakes his fist angrily at Soldier. His diction is always more pronounced in the morning, before the alcohol inevitably erases it to a slur. Passing Heavy's room, he hears an audible grumble. "How can such tiny baby men make such big noise? One day, I squash everyone." From the sounds of it though he just rolls over and resumes sleep, snoring mellifluously. Someone falls into step with Medic presently. "Howdy, doc," Engineer greets Medic, his own towel slung over his shoulder and toothbrush held firmly in his mechanical claw. "Bonjour, mes amis," adds Spy, materializing out of nowhere, clad only in silk boxers, smoking slippers, and his mask. An unlit cigarette dangles from his lips. "Guten morgen," Medic returns, and the three head down to the bathroom together. By the time they are done their morning routines – Spy patting aftershave on under his mask, Engineer examining the permanent imprints of goggles around his eyes – Sniper slouches in with a 'G'day', idly scratching his bottom. Medic beats a fast retreat before Sniper can undertake the task of filling up one of his customary jars in front of him. On his way back, he notes that Scout is still in his pyjamas lying facedown in the sofa, mumbling, "Five more minutes an' I'll geddup I swear." Soldier tromps past Medic, yelling, "Breakfast is ready, gentlemen, and if you are lucky I will spare some of my bacon for your sorry asses!" A muffled yell from Pyro is probably meant to protest that he was the one to do the cooking so it really should be his bacon, but Soldier ignores him and marches into the kitchen. Resignedly, Medic follows. Supplies came in just yesterday. Perhaps there will be fresh coffee, with sugar, for a change. * "Boys, I will make this very simple for you: they have a bomb, and they want to blow us up with it. Our job is to stop them from delivering it here." Soldier's riding crop strikes the map with unnecessary force. "I hope I do not have to remind you of our dismal failure last time. We will succeed this time, or I will personally stuff each and every one of you in a grass skirt and coconut brassiere, and then I will send the pictures to your loved ones. Do I make myself clear, ladies?" "Yeah yeah yeah." Scout springs to his feet, bouncing. "Let's go already!" "Not so fast!" Soldier barks. "Tactics and strategy, sonny jim, are the difference between victory and defeat. And that is what we are here to discuss. Do you all need to see the presentation again?" Groans rise up from the collected mercenaries. "Soldat, please, is zat truly necessary?" Spy inquires, a little strain of distress evident in his voice. "Not the ruddy presentation again – s'the fifth time this month! Nae more, laddy. Nae more!" Demoman smashes his empty bottle on the side of the table for emphasis, to which Pyro gives a sigh. "I do not like presentation," Heavy adds, scowling. He cracks his knuckles threateningly. "Then sit your fruity asses down and pay attention!" As Soldier goes over the changes to their battle plans, Medic finds his attention wandering. He is not alone: in the corner, Sniper has his hat pulled down over his face and a book under the table; Engineer's eyes are inscrutable behind his goggles, but are probably closed; and Scout has his face propped on the heel of his hand, busily carving something into the tabletop in the time-honoured tradition of bored young people everywhere. Demoman and Soldier somehow become involved in a loud argument over what, Medic knows not, but this is not out of the ordinary during war room meetings. Things might have gone without incident this meeting if it not for Pyro and Spy – the latter asking for a light and Pyro politely obliging. Sadly for Spy, neither Pyro's flamethrower nor Pyro himself come with any sort of modulation, and his whole cigarette is soon afire. Spy drops it with a hissed ah fils de pute, cradling his burnt hand, and soon the cheap carpeting is also on fire. Three things happen at this point: Sniper hurls his jar of urine at the flames, Scout tosses his milk replacement beverage and Pyro airblasts. The result of this is that everyone within the splash zone – all of them save Soldier – is covered, to varying degrees, with the mixture. Soldier looks them all over, sodden as they are and flecked with ashes, and nods. "Right, that's enough dilly-dallying for one morning. Gentlemen, let's go!" * Medic, although he would never admit it, likes observing the preparations that occur in the moments before battle. Pyro likes to make a last-minute check on his equipment, Heavy shadow-boxes, Sniper fills canteens full of decaf, and Spy admires himself in the mirror. When the doors open, Soldier and Demoman are always first to the battle site, flying through the air propelled by explosives, Scout scant a step behind them. Medic and Pyro follow at a more sedate pace. Engineer trails them, hauling machinery, bolts and nuts falling out of his overall pockets like a trail of breadcrumbs behind Hansel. In quick succession, he assembles dispenser and sentry, whacking at both with his customary violence. Still trailing Pyro, Medic bumps into something invisible. "Desolé, docteur," Spy mutters, flickering briefly into visibility before disappearing completely again. Eventually Heavy catches up, positioning himself at the side-entrance and spinning his minigun threateningly. At this angle, Medic can just make out the red dot of Sniper's sights, affixed on the wall next to Heavy's head. Medic switches his attentions briefly to the wounded Demoman and Soldier, alternating between healing the two to until his Übercharge meter is completely full. "I am fully charged!" he notes. "Doc! C'mon man!" Scout whines from behind him. "Ach! Kinder," he mutters, but obliges with a quick flash. Scout gives a satisfied sigh and pats his chest. "Mission begins in ten seconds," the Administrator purrs, with what Medic has always thought is an unreasonable amount of glee. Pyro is taunting the other team, visible through the closed grates, miming a guitar with his rusted fire-axe. In return, the BLU Soldier gives him a gun salute and a sardonic grin. BLU Demoman shakes his rump as punctuation, to which Pyro makes a disparaging noise. Their own Demoman has apparently decided that the best response here is to show off a smiley face affixed with tape to his crotch – to what end, Medic cannot discern. These people are so strange. With a last quick buff on everyone, he hurries back towards Heavy, training his Medigun on the bigger man and hopping into place behind him. "I love this doctor!" Heavy roars, and Medic gives a smile. "Three! Two! One!" shrieks the Administrator, and the doors open invitingly. Immediately the crack of a bullet sounds and the BLU Medic drops like a stone. "Let us kill many babies!" booms Heavy, joy ringing in his cry. "Jawohl," Medic shouts, adjusting his spectacles and following Heavy, keeping an eye out for the other team's Spy. "Let's."
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