1 . Name: ZiGraves @ 2012-12-24 18:28

Not allowed home for Christmas.

There’d been some bullshit excuse about sensitive information that needed protecting, but it boiled down to that basic fact: No one was allowed home for Christmas.

And whatever the sensitive information was, it was too important to let most of the team actually go out and fight the damn BLUs. Everyone was stuck indoors like a siege - the Scout was a little proud that he’d learned that word before his history teacher in school had introduced them to it, if only because of the police report on the radio about his big brother Kev getting into a three day siege inside a pawnshop.

By the third day he was going crazy. The BLUs were just outside, taunting them, and no one was even allowed to leave to give them a proper beating! Some of them had even taken to setting up a campfire. Their Pyro had marshmallows, somehow, and the Medic had all kinds of weird stuff that smelled like the German Christmas market back home, the one with all spiced cookies and everything.

It wasn’t fair. RED’s Medic was a miserable hardass who never had anything cool and just spent all his time hanging around with the fat Russian psycho. RED’s Pyro only had junky old sci-fi books, not even comics and never anything like marshmallows. It was torture, that’s what it was, forcing everyone to stay indoors when the enemy was in spitting distance of the walls and deliberately waving mugs of hot, festive drinks and making everything smell like home would, if he wasn’t trapped inside the damn RED base.

By the evening of the fourth day, he was desperate. Beyond desperate. He had to get out, to do something to spite the BLUs even if the Announcer had forbidden it. Impatiently, he waited for nightfall before sneaking out of one of the little back doors that littered the far side of the base. He crept, as stealthily as any delinquent bent on mischief, all the way across to the BLUs’ far more modern base. They’d secured it better, and most of their doors had proper keypads and locks on them, but one set of double-doors was a bit looser. It looked like an old garage appended to the main base, and it didn’t take much effort to jimmy it open and duck in out of the drizzle that was threatening to turn to real rain at any minute.

The dark room inside was lit only by light that spilled under a door on the far wall, and a few illuminated cabinets containing unspeakable Things In Jars. It was even darker inside than it had been outside, but one glance at the Things in their Jars told the Scout that he’d broken into the Medic’s supply room. And if this was where the BLU Medic kept his stuff, then this had to be where all that tasty-smelling food and drink was squirrelled away. One of the cupboards or cabinets had to have something. Squinting in the darkness, the Scout began to ransack the room for hidden treats.

He didn’t take long to find something - a bottle that looked greenish when he held it as close as he could to one of the lit cabinets, containing a dark, sloshing liquid - but this only spurred him to search for further treasures instead of retreating with his stolen prize.

Rustling through the deepest recesses of a cupboard, he didn’t hear the voice outside or the click of the door until it was too late and light was spilling in as someone else entered the room.

The RED Scout and BLU Medic froze, staring at each other, for barely a second.

Then he bolted, the Medic following only a few steps out into the rain and calling something indecipherable after him.

The rain was already making grip underfoot treacherous, but it wasn’t til lightning flashed close enough to startle him that the Scout went over on his ankle. The bottle was intact, but the ankle wasn’t having weight put on it. He hissed obscenities and dragged himself to the relative shelter of a shack that still had some of its original roof intact.

There was no getting back to RED while the rain was still on, that was for sure. And it didn’t look to be letting up anytime soon. He cracked the lid off the bottle and sniffed suspiciously, everything looking black and grey in the low light. It didn’t smell like blood, at least. It smelled of booze and spices and nuts and sugary things. An initial sip revealed it to indeed be boozy and sugary, and probably to have all that other stuff in it as well. It was better company than cold rain and a busted ankle, and he took a deeper swig of it.

He wished he’d been able to find some of those cookies he’d seen, too, but the Medic had interrupted him before he could finish looking. Some cookies would have been great just about then, even if they would have been as cold as the booze, and probably damp from the rain.

No one was going to go out in this weather to look for him, if they even realised he was gone. He took another gulp from the bottle. And his Ma probably thought he was wrapped up warm indoors somewhere, instead of sitting injured in the rain. Another swallow of the sugary drink. And he couldn’t even get to see her now until Easter, probably, or longer if he wanted to make sure he had holiday he could keep for Thanksgiving or next Christmas. Another, and another. The bottle was down to the gritty dregs of unfiltered spices before he even thought he was halfway, and he threw it across the broken down shack in mildly drunken frustration.

He was still sulking when a weak light passed over and back, a German voice calling out. It didn’t occur to him that it might be anyone other than his own team’s Medic, finally realising he was missing and out to bring him back to a warm, dry base. He sullenly considered just staying silent and making everyone regret being so boring and leaving it so long to look for him, but a pang in his ankle suggested otherwise.

“Yo, Doc! C’mon, ovah here!”

The light took two or three attempts to find him, huddled as he was into a particularly dark corner of a particularly dank shack, but it found him all the same. The alcohol hit him more as a rain-blurred figure helped him to his feet, and then he was entirely focused on trying to hop along quickly enough to keep up. It took him a good minute or more before he realised he was headed toward the wrong base.

“Doc! Wrong way, ya got us all turned ‘round! Home’s back that-a-way!”

“For you, perhaps, but I am going back to my base.” The Medic’s voice wasn’t raised much, but carried well over the noise of the still-worsening storm. The Scout’s first instinct to struggle away was quickly quashed by a trickle of rainwater down the back of his neck.

“This about that bottle? Cause that’s totally your fault, you were freakin’ tauntin’ us with that shit and it ain’t fair that we don’t got anythin’ like that.”

The Medic didn’t bother to answer, paying more attention to the rutted, rainswept path ahead that was only barely illuminated by his increasingly wavering torch beam. It was the same model as everyone at RED had, the Scout noticed, simple details like that nearly the only things he could still make out. The Mann Co torches, much like other Mann Co equipment, had a tendency to fail when exposed to water. And occasionally also when exposed to air, and in one memorable instance, also when exposed to light.

It puttered out just as they came within lurching distance of the door to the BLU Medic’s store-room, and it took another couple of minutes’ fumbling for the Medic to properly open the lock that the Scout had crudely jimmied earlier. They were both soaked through to the bone by the time they stumbled inside.

The Medic dropped the limping Scout on a countertop and felt for a lightswitch, only securing the outer door again once he had the storeroom lit. It was a lot smaller once it was lit up, and the cupboards had been all tidied up after the Scout’s earlier raid.

“Now, then,” the doctor said quite calmly. “Perhaps you will tell me why you came here, before I have to call mein Heavy to get an answer.”

“Ya didn’t have ta bring me back here, ya coulda left me.” The Scout crossed his arms. “So why’d you bother goin’ out in that shit if all ya wanna do is set your thug on me?”

“You misunderstand me. The Heavy is a good man, but rather a last resort.” The Medic smiled to himself and fetched a familiar-looking green bottle out of a cupboard at his side. “There are more interesting ways to get answers.” There were beakers in another nearby cupboard and he poured a measure out into one of them, leaving a second glass empty. He took a sip, appearing to savour it.

“Y-you fucker!” The already slim barrier between the Scout’s brain and his mouth had been thinned out all the more by the whole bottle of spiced wine he’d finished on his own. “I toldja, you’re just tauntin’ us with that fancy Christmas shit! You lot been outside our damn base all week, showin’ off an’ drinkin’ an’ eatin’ while we’re stuck lookin’ after that fuckin’ intel! It ain’t freakin’ fair!”

The Medic laughed.

“Jealous? Is that what all this is? I thought you had been sent for something important!”

“Hey, screw you! Just ‘cuz you guys got all this stuff and we don’t, ya don’t have t’ be a freakin’ asshole about it!” He swung himself off the countertop to try and face off against the enemy Medic, but found his ankle buckling underneath him. To his surprise, the Medic helped him back up to a fresh seat on the counter, away from the damp patch left by his dripping clothes.

“I know that the RED Medic is hardly a festive soul, but do you mean to tell me you have not a single drop of gluhwein in your entire base? And no lebkuchen?”

“I dunno what those things are, so no. We ain’t got jack shit.” The Scout swung his legs, testing how much the ankle hurt when it was off the ground without weight on it, then glared back up at the Medic. The expression on the man’s face was something like horrified pity. “Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that! It’s all your damn fault I’m here anyway, showin’ off all that stuff you guys got. Your freakin’ fault my ankle’s bust, too, or I’da cleaned this place out and gone home.”

“I could hardly blame you!” A calculating expression fleeted briefly across the Medic’s face. “But since you cannot go back immediately… would you like another glass instead?”

The Scout’s razor thin remnants of a self preservation instinct kicked in.

“How come?” he asked, leaning away just a little. “Y’ spend all day fuckin’ shootin’ at me an’ fillin’ me fulla needles an’ settin’ yer freakin’ pet psychos on me, how come you’re all pally-pally now? Some kinda trick?”

“Nein, nein. Simply a little Christmas cheer.” The Medic tipped a generous glug of the bottle’s contents into the other beaker as he spoke, smiling. “And I would be lying if I said I don’t enjoy seeing RED so desperate for supplies that they are forced to raid my personal stores.”

“So yer bein’ nice ‘cuz yer basically an asshole.”

“That is an unkind way to put it. But I suppose so.” The Medic offered up the glass beaker. “Less of one than your own team, by your account.”

“Yeah, ain’t that the freakin’ truth.” The Scout’s lip curled bitterly, though the sneer vanished quickly as he gulped down half the spiced wine in one go. “I mean, this stuff’s good! How come we ain’t got it, but you guys do? How come you guys get to leave your base and we’re stuck inside? How come you guys get Christmas, but we don’t?”

The doctor had suspected something of the kind, but having it all confirmed found he was less inclined to gloat than he’d first thought. The Scout was beginning to shiver from the cold and damp, his ankle beginning to swell, and the whole thing just put together a genuinely sad picture.

“I’ll be back in a moment. Stay there,” he instructed, and vanished out the door into the main base.

The Scout swung his legs for a moment, debating whether to run away before the Medic brought the rest of the enemy team down, or stick around and rifle through the cabinets some more.

Putting weight on his ankle struck out the idea of running away, so he settled for finishing his glass and picking through the cupboards for anything interesting. He never got to look through his own Medic’s stuff, that hardass always just tried to chase him off with threats and needles. He was holding a Thing In A Jar up to the light when the Medic returned.

“Put that down!”

The noise startled the Scout, who juggled the jar for a moment before managing to catch it.

“What’s the big deal? It’s only a… whatever it is. Ugly fricken’ thing.”

“It’s a one of a kind sample of a late nineteeth century child’s liver which developed an unusually rapid series of highly malignant tumors, displaying truly exemplary angiogenesis. Put it down.”

“There’s a bit of someone’s kid in here?” The Scout peered into the jar with fascinated horror.

“The child was dead before the liver was removed for study,” the Medic clarified. “An opiate overdose. No sense of correct dosage levels in those days. Put it down, bitte.”

The Scout set the jar down while the Medic unloaded the armful of things he’d brought back. He’d changed into a dry shirt, and brought a blanket that he draped over the Scout’s shoulders. There were splints and bandages, and a jar of some creamy stuff that seemed to glow, just a little bit.

“I could not bring the Medigun without being quite obvious, but the cream will do a similar job. It is probably only an inversion, but your ankle will be badly swollen tomorrow.”

“Yer fixin’ it for me?” The Scout was incredulous. “Christ, I oughtta put in fer a transfer! Our Doc just tells me to put it up and stop runnin’ around so much.”

The Medic’s lips thinned.

“We will not get into my opinion of your teammate, I think.” He patted a table, shoved up against one wall. “Up.”

The Scout hopped up, and winced when he tried to take his shoe off. The Medic brushed his hands away and undid the laces himself, easing the shoe off more gently than the Scout’s rough tugging. His hands were deft and gentle as they unrolled the long athletic sock and pushed up the trouser-leg to reveal the injured ankle. He pressed lightly at the injured area, nodding to himself, and the Scout watched in tipsy amazement at the soft treatment that the RED Medic never bothered with.

The alcohol served to lessen the pain a fair amount, and he barely winced at the probing fingertips that checked for damage - though they did seem to be checking really thoroughly, now he thought about it, all the way down his foot and then that far up his calf, almost more stroking.

“Uh, Doc? Do ya really gotta do all that?”

“Well, no. But I wanted to.” The BLU flashed the quickest smile, and there was a hungry sort of edge to it that wasn’t the same as the bloodlust the RED Medic showed in his own manic grin. “Anyway, it should be easy enough to deal with. As I thought, merely a mild lateral sprain. The balm contains some of the same active ingredients as the Medigun, so this will feel a little funny.”

He rubbed the glowing cream into the injured ankle, and it did feel like the stuff in the health kits the Scout had to resort to when his Medic couldn’t be bothered to help. After that, he got it bandaged up and propped it on a couple of rolled up towels to keep it raised up.

“How long do you think you can stay before your teammates miss you?”

“W-what?”

“You need to keep it raised as long as possible,” the Medic clarified, giving him a comforting pat on the knee. “I would prefer not to send you back immediately or you will make it worse.”

“Oh, right. That. Pft.” The Scout shrugged. “If they ain’t out by now, they prob’ly won’t even notice til I ain’t there in the mornin’ for Soldier’s yellin’ match.”

“All night?” The Medic raised an eyebrow, his hand still on the Scout’s knee. “How neglectful. We will be in for a long evening, then. Would you like another glass in the meantime?”

He poured two more glasses of the gluhwein, failing to teach the Scout the correct pronunciation as he explained what it was and why their Medic really ought to have some to share with the rest of the REDs. By the end of the bottle they were both a little merrier, and the Scout was starting to dry out under his blanket.

“It seems to me that your team does not appreciate your talents,” the Medic opined. The Scout nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

“Freakin’ right, they don’t! Not til they need me for somethin’, then it’s all “Scout, push the cart”, “Scout, get the Intel”, “Scout, stop stealin’ the Sniper’s magazines”.” He mimicked their accents unkindly. “They’re a real lousy bunch, it ain’t fair. We don’t got anyone on our team like you.” It was out before he could catch it, his mouth moving faster than his brain.

“It does sound that way, doesn’t it?” The Medic was perched beside the Scout on the edge of the table, and ran his hand lightly along the newly bandaged leg. “As it happens, I do appreciate a bit of youthful vigour. You would be welcome in my infirmary any time, if you weren’t on the wrong team.”

“Yeah, well. I am, ain’t I? You only said you’re bein’ nice ‘cause you think my team sucks. The whole damn team’s wrong, ‘cept for me.” The Scout felt he should make some kind of protest to the doctor’s hand on his leg, but his head was swimming with alcohol and painkillers, and the touch was kind of nice. It had been ages since he’d even got a girl that near him, especially with so little time off to practice with the ladies.

The Medic wrapped his hand around the curve of the Scout’s calf and followed it up to the hollow at the back of the knee. His hand passed up, over the knee, pushing the rolled up trouserleg up with it, fingertips just beginning to brush the inner thigh.

“They are fantastic legs, but you should take better care of them,” he observed, while the Scout tried and failed to choose between leaning into the warm touch or pulling away. “Massage, perhaps, or at least a better stretching regimen.”

“I do warm-ups.” That was safe territory, easy to discuss, just neutral athletics. “Stretchin’ an’ joggin’ on th’ spot an’ all that shit.”

“You should do more.” The Medic’s hand slid further up, feeling out the strong muscles of the Scout’s thigh. His eyes rested entirely on the Scout’s legs, rather than looking up toward his face. “With a sprain like this, you could weaken the ankle permanently if you are not careful.”

“Ha! Yeah, right. Like anythin’ could slow me down!” Under the bravado was, for the first time, a hint of genuine fear. Mere death and violence didn’t bother the Scout, but to be slowed down, perhaps permanently… that managed to bring out the little undertones of terror.

“I could show you a few things to help,” the BLU offered. “For rehabilitation.”

“Ya mean like Santiago’s gettin’ so he’ll be pitchin’ for the Sox again soon?”

“Yes, like that.” The Medic hadn’t the faintest idea, but it was probably something to do with sports. His hand rested where it was, warm and heavy against the pale thigh. The Scout was acutely aware of it, the heat of it seeming to spread out from the palm and fingers to get deep into the muscle, warming and relaxing.

“Well… maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea,” the Scout admitted, justifications working themselves out of their own accord. “I mean, since the rest of my guys are pretty shit, you oughtta get me whatever advantage you can so’s it’ll be a better fight, right?”

“Precisely,” the Medic smiled broadly. “It would be unsporting of me if I didn’t.”

He eased off the shoe and sock from the Scout’s uninjured leg and started there, hands deft and skilled and deeply relaxing. It hurt a bit, when he really pressed his thumbs or the heels of his hands right into the flesh, but it was the good kind of hurt that would feel better afterwards. The Scout was drifting by the time the Medic worked up his calf to the knee, but was brought halfway back when the hands lifted away.

“What’s wrong, Doc?”

“Nothing, nothing. I just need to slip your trousers off to work on the rest of your leg. If you’d be so kind?” He gestured to the Scout’s fly, and the Scout had it undone and his pants halfway down his legs before he paused with a slightly suspicious expression.

“No funny stuff, a’right? I ain’t inta guys.”

The Medic nodded amicably, and helped to slip the trouser leg up over the injured ankle before resuming his ministrations to the Scout’s legs, melting the tension out of the muscles. The Scout was floating again in minutes. It was warmer in this modern base than in the draughty RED buildings, and he was all wrapped up in blankets and the Medic’s hands just felt so good, pressing and massaging, unwinding knots he’d barely even been aware of.

He was half hard before he knew it, as the warm, strong hands worked slowly up his inside leg toward his groin. Fingertips made tiny circles as they dug deep into the muscle, pressing and squeezing, gradually approaching the boundary of the Scout’s underwear. He swallowed and said nothing. The Medic switched to the other leg for a brief reprieve, but soon enough was back up and nearing the hip again.

The Scout held still and twisted his fingers into a less obvious corner of the blanket he still clutched around his shoulders. The Medic’s palm ghosted over his briefs on the way back to the other leg, and the Scout assured himself it was accidental, that the Medic wouldn’t have noticed if his cock twitched a little in reaction to the fleeting contact. Alas, not so. The Medic’s hands rested on the Scout’s hips, pulled the fabric of the briefs taut over the hardening cock.

“Hey, what th’fuck d’ya think you’re doin’?” The objection won out after a brief internal battle between the possibility of getting someone else to touch his cock against the fact it would be an old German dude doing the touching. And an enemy, too, he guessed, though that line seemed blurry just then.

“Helping you to relax, liebchen. Release is good for you.” The Medic smiled and pressed his palm down against the stark outline of the Scout’s erection, rubbing lightly with his palm.

“I ain’t inta guys.” There wasn’t much force or venom behind the protest.

“And why should you be? But this is a perfectly healthy response for such a fit young man.” The Medic ground down, moving the heel of his palm in a twist that made the Scout’s cock bob in answer. His fingers followed the shape of the hard-on through the tight fabric, tracing the shape of the head and shaft. The Scout groaned, and the Medic’s free hand picked at the waistband of his underwear before slipping his fingers in to tug it down.

The Scout mouthed one last half-hearted objection before one of the Medic’s hands wrapped around his cock while the other gently grasped his ballsack, displaying all the same thoughtful experience as he had with the massage. When the Medic licked and kissed the head, the Scout was reduced to hungry obscenities, and to swearing groans when the Medic began to suck in earnest.

“D-Doc, fuck, I’m, I’m gonna-” The Medic let go instantly, stopping the Scout just short of orgasm. “Th’ fuck did ya go an’ do that for? I was almost done!”

“I had something better in mind.” The Medic ran a fingertip up the length of the Scout’s frustrated erection, and started to unbutton his own trousers. The Scout scrambled to sit upright, disregarding the twinge of pain from his injured ankle when he jolted it.

“No, no. I ain’t havin’ anythin’ to do with yer old man dick. Put that shit away!”

“Liebchen, I am not asking you to.”

“An’ speak freakin’ English!” The Scout threw away his blanket and was groping for his pants already, only to find they’d been folded and set well out of his reach. “Gimme my pants back, I’m goin’ home. I ain’t gettin’ inta no gay shit.”

“Sit down.” There was steel in the Medic’s voice, which hadn’t been there previously, and even naked from the waist down he was imposing. He picked up the jar of balm he’d used on the Scout’s ankle and got up onto the table, planting knees either side of the Scout’s hips before the Scout could find an easy way down.

“Don’t think ya can just pin me down! I ain’t takin’ anything up my ass!”

“And I am not asking you to,” the doctor growled. He dipped his fingers in the jar and ran them up and down the Scout’s wilting cock, which responded traitorously quickly to the touch and faint, pleasant tingle of the cream. He gripped and stroked, twisting his wrist to elicit a moan that the Scout couldn’t quite stop. He slicked up his other hand while the Scout was thus distracted, taking only the barest minimum of care to open himself up before pressing down onto the Scout’s newly restored erection.

The Medic gulped a breath down, and another, sinking as slowly as he could against the tightness of it, the unexpected girth forcing him to take his time. The Scout under him managed a gasping curse but adapted more quickly, grabbing the doctor’s hips and thrusting upward.

“Agh, du Teufel!” The Medic swore, tipping forward to grab the Scout’s shoulders for balance, slick hands scrabbling for better grip. “H-how can you even do that with your leg injured?”

“Freakin’ sue me, I’m a fast learner.” The Scout grinned. If this was how it was gonna be, then he was going to make sure he came out the winner. And it did kind of take a bit of care, using his good leg for all the leverage, but the doctor was the one off-balance and holding on desperately as the Scout bucked up into him.

“Ffffuck me, Doc, you’re so freakin’ tight,” he hissed, hands tight enough on the doctor’s hips to leave tender little bruises. A particularly violent thrust up wrenched out a howl that the Medic stifled by biting the Scout’s shoulder. The Medic shifted, leaving one hand to pin the Scout down flat against the table while he sat more upright, clenching tight with his thighs to slow the Scout’s thrusts. He began to ride, grinding his hips and taking control back from the brash Scout, directing the Scout’s movements as much as he could and setting his other hand to stroking his own cock in time with every roll of his hips. It took some adjustment to find just the right spot, the right angle.

Long, twisting lines of German tumbled from his panting, gasping lips when he got everything where he wanted it, and the Scout was no more capable of English, falling back to fumbling curses as the Medic rode him expertly and diverted the rapid, forceful jerks of his hips into long, controlled movements.

The Scout came first, sensitive from the teasing blowjob that had left him on edge earlier, but the Medic followed shortly after with a few fast, hard drops of his hips before the Scout could soften inside him. He folded, sweating and panting, dropping his head down into the crook of the Scout’s neck, catching his breath before slowly and cautiously rolling off.

Faster in everything, the Scout recovered while the Medic was still limply post-coital.

“Bet Santiago don’t get this kinda service from his physio.” He prodded the Medic in the shoulder. “This, like, the standard package? ‘Cause I could seriously think about switchin’ ta BLU if you guys get this as parta’ the physical. An’ Kev, my brother? He says it ain’t gay if you’re pitchin’ rather than catchin’, so this is pretty all-right.”

“One can grow tired of youthful vigour, you understand,” the Medic muttered, finding his patience diminishing now he’d gotten his itch scratched. He got to his feet, testing his gait a little tenderly and fetching his discarded trousers. He prodded the Scout’s bandaged ankle, miraculously still propped up on its pile of rolled towels. “Does this hurt?”

“Ow! Yes, it freakin’ hurts!”

“Oh good.”