Hey, TF2chan - long time lurker, first time fic writer here. Got chapter one of something for you here based on a RP I did with my buddy chai. Mostly it's sad things and some Heavy/Medic and Sniper/Spy. Enjoy. **** A heatwave had settled over 2Fort as though the desert itself was making an attempt at killing both teams before they left. The Announcer did not see fit to cancel the fight - not on the last day - and so both teams were left to the mercy of the elements, trying even harder to cross the bridge and enter the cooler bases. Worse off was Heavy: the giant Russian simply wasn't built for these temperatures no matter how long he spent under the cooling rays of the Medigun. BLU Medic had therefore favoured the sewer route today. The moat water was of suspect purity but at least it had cooled down the larger man, enabling him to continue mowing down REDs. And that was the only reason that the rest of their team-mates need concern themselves with. Heavy's grateful smiles - worth any number of waterlogged labcoats and damp boots - were none of their business. Equally none of their business was what happened in the infirmary after the battle. Namely when he was pressed up against his examination table with Heavy looming over him. His enormous hands sliding up and under his shirt, the palms coasting gently over the ribs, fingers settling above the intercostal spaces. Then moving on to meet above his spine, tenderly feeling out the vertebrae, first the lumbar group then up to the thoracic. Medic was finally relaxing into those hands and the pleased rumble coming from the Russian's chest was promising an enjoyable evening. So typically it was at that moment the infirmary door slammed open. It bounced off the wall, making the window rattle in its frame, "Ey, Doc you in- Aww geeze!" Medic's back tensed instantly. Moving away was not an option so he settled for leaning around Heavy's broader form and shouting, "Get out!" "Naw, Doc, I'm serious, man," Scout did look rather pale, a problem only emphasised by the infirmary's harsh lights, "You gotta-" he interrupted himself with a bubbling groan, arms cradling his stomach. Before Medic could speak again Scout was bending over the sink, rapidly taking leave of his dinner. The German sighed. His bare heads left the back of Heavy's neck and pushed gently on the wide forearms. Obediently the warm hands reappeared from under his shirt. One came up to Medic's face, blunt thumb stroking his cheek absently. "Vill Doktor be long with leetle Scout?" "Ja, I am afraid so," Medic waved a hand at the neat boxes prepared for tomorrow's journey to Coldfront, "I vill have to unpack und-" Scout gave another moan into the sink, back trembling, "I do not vant Scout to be vandering ze base und making a mess." "Could wait for Doktor to finish," Heavy's hand slid down Medic's cheek and underneath his chin, "I like watching Doktor work," he leant in for a kiss and Medic was happy to oblige but then Scout groaned and he remembered the younger man was there. He jerked his head back and out of Heavy's grip. He met his confused expression with a glare and then a meaningful glance in Scout's direction. Heavy nodded then took Medic's wrist in one of his giant hands, leading him to their room despite Medic's hissed protests, "Good night, leetle Scout. Hope you are better in time to fight RED. Have to talk to Doktor now." "Stay zere, Scout. Do not touch anyzing!" Heavy gently pushed him into their room - Medic's really but they'd been sharing it for a long while now - and closed the door behind him. He stood there, arms spread, ready to accept and shake off any blows, physical or verbal. "You ah getting careless! You should be more careful vhen zere are ozzers around!" Medic's hands tucked his shirt back in with sharp, angry gestures, "Trying to kiss me vhen Scout vas right zhere! Vhat vere you zinking of?" "Vas tinking of Doktor," Heavy chuckled and Medic frowned at him over his shoulder until he stopped, "You vere pinned against table, Doktor." "Zhen ze blame also lies vith me. Und I should know better." "Did not expect leetle Scout to come in. He does not care. Not really. Team does not care, Doktor." "Und vhat of outside zhen?" They said habits of a lifetime were hard to break and Medic had insisted on keeping any displays of affection within the private confines of the infirmary. Some would say that was overcautious but someone of their inclinations only needed one careless moment to invite trouble. Medic realised that he was stroking the scarred flesh of his abdomen through his shirt and his frown deepened. Heavy's hands settled onto his shoulders, gently working at the tense muscles beneath the layers of his uniform, deltoid first then the trapezius then back again, "...Am sorry, Doktor." Medic sighed, "It is fine. Just remember in ze future, ja?" "Will do," the Russian glanced at the closed door, "...I can kees Doktor now?" He turned and kissed him, standing on tip-toe to do it. Heavy's hands slid through his hair and across his back. The rest of the BLU team would have been surprised to hear of the protective urges he felt towards Heavy, a man twice his size. Not that he would have told any of them but it was not as absurd as it seemed. Their roles on the battlefield followed them off it. "Could still wait for Doktor." "Nein, nein. Ve have a long trip ahead of us tomorrow. Go to bed," Medic offered him an apologetic smile, "I vill make amends vhen ve are at Coldfront." "Must keep Doktor warm in cold base, da," he kissed him on the forehead, "If Doktor is sure..." "I am. Get some sleep und I vill see you in ze morning, meine liebe." "Good night, Doktor," Heavy kissed him again then released him. Medic was at the door before he spoke again, "Do not be too hard on leetle Scout." "He did interrupt our evening." "Da. But is really sick. Cannot be helped." "I vill try. But if he is a baby about it zhen I promise nozzing." "Cannot help being baby either," Heavy chuckled to himself, stripping his T-shirt off. Medic watched him do it, watched the play of immense muscles in his back - trapezius, latissimus dorsi, rhomboid major, all begging to be picked out and studied. It was a closely fought match, but he quashed the urge to leap into bed and leave Scout to his fate. Medic's mood only worsened when he found Scout slumped over his tidy desk, "Vhat are you doing?" "I ain't doin' nothin'. Jus' had to sit down or somethin'," he said, turning towards Medic, fixing him with a pleading look. "Zere are plenty of places in vhich to sit zat are not mein desk," he took Scout by the elbow, half-leading, half-dragging him to the examination table, "Und since I already have to clean ze sink I vould rather you not vomit on anyzing else." "Got nothin' else to puke up, Doc. Swear to God." "Ve can only hope," he pushed Scout gently towards the examination table, watching the younger man wobble across the floor with very little of his usual athleticism, "Now how long vere you feeling nauseous, Scout? I have some pills here zat should-" Evidentially Scout had not quite emptied his stomach the first time round. Medic took a long look at what had been his pristine floor. "...Sorry, Doc." "Just- Just go by ze sink again. I vill be vith you in a moment." Medic reached for the box with his largest needles. ***** Just as he had told Heavy, Medic was a long time dealing with Scout. Scout himself left after half-an-hour - and rubbing his sore left arm - but he'd left his mess behind. Really he should have made the brat clean up but every minute he stayed in the infirmary was another minute that could result in further chaos. And after the cleaning was done the needles and drugs still had to be put away again and resealed and all Medic wanted was to climb into bed with Heavy and- "What is zhis, Docteur?" Medic managed to swallow any embarrassing gasps of surprise but the bottle in his hand tumbled to the floor. Luckily the cap stayed on and it merely rolled across the tiles instead of spilling pills. Spy was perched on the end of his desk, one of his vile, brown cigarettes in his mouth and Medic's little notebook in his hands. "I vould have thought zat you vould have learnt your lesson about reading mein private notes after ze last time, Herr Spy," the pills had rolled beneath the examination table and Medic went to get them, "I assume zat you came in behind Scout, ja? Vell go avay. I am in no mood to argue viz you." Abruptly he was pressed backwards onto his own table, cold metal under his back, cold metal knife across his throat and an ache in the back of his skull. The lines around Spy's eyes were tight with fury, "What. Is. Zhis?" the gritted teeth of BLU Spy hovering above him were replaced by lines of the Medic's own neat handwriting. Not his private journal - Spy had already read that much to Medic's fury - but still something he would not show the rest of the team. "Zey are mein work notes. BLU vants full reports on ze team." Spy tossed the book to one side, "What kind of reports?" "Physical und mental," there was the slightest narrowing of Spy's eyes, "It is mein job, Herr Spy." "What 'appened to confidentiality, Docteur? I seem to recall you promising zhat it would not leave zhis room," Spy's left hand, no longer holding the book, gripped Medic's shoulder tightly. His right was steady. The knife was pressed against the side of his neck, exactly where the carotid artery ran up and underneath his jaw. Medic could appreciate that kind of anatomical precision if he wasn't the one it was being demonstrated on. "Und it has not. Not even Heavy knows." "I do not give a damn about 'Eavy!" from the next room Medic heard the Russian give a sleepy grunt as though reacting to mention of his name, "What I care about is zhat you are telling BLU! My career is 'anging on zhis, you demented quack!" "I am not a quack," said Medic, "Und as for ze issue of ... ze Incident ve are capable of discussing it in a civilised fashion are ve not? Let me up," when Spy and his wickedly sharp knife did not move the German gripped Spy's left arm tightly in one gloved hand, "He vill come if I should call. Und his views on teamvork vill not matter if he sees zis." Spy smirked, "'Ave to get your meat-shield to fight your battles for you, Docteur?" but he let him up anyway. Medic brushed the lump on the back of his head with a winch. At least the Medigun was unpacked - you never knew when a careless team-mate might narrowly, and rudely, avoid a trip to Respawn. He pressed the handle down and blue fumes coiled about his head, soothing the pain. When he began to feel the first symptoms of overheal - the powerful heartbeats, the rush of blood to the muscles and, of course, the glow across his skin - he let go. "Did I interrupt an evening of you 'uffing Medigun fumes?" "Nein," Medic brushed a hand over his labcoat, the overheal fading already. He was not particularly upset. Overheal was nothing compared to the dizzying heights that the Ãœbercharge offered, "Let us just say zat you vere not ze vun I vanted pinning me against ze table." Spy wrinkled his nose and blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling, "I did not come 'ere to discuss zhat, Monsieur Docteur." "Of course," Medic settled behind his desk. His files were still neatly locked away in his briefcase and he slid Spy's out. The Frenchman watched it like a hawk, "Strange as it may seem, Herr Spy, I do not vant BLU informed of your-" a warning glare from Spy "- of ze Incident. I have mein professional pride to think of. If vun member of zis team has to be taken avay zen I have failed in mein duties as a Doktor, ja?" "I can take a 'int," Spy stubbed out his cigarette on the pristine surface of the table. More to clean, "What do you wish of me zhen?" "I can hide mein findings in medical subtext and omissions. But it vill be difficult. Zey are very interested in ze condition of ze team. Und zey vill verify mein reports. After all I am also vun of zere mercenaries under ze same pressures und stress. Simply put I vant zhem to see vhat I vant zhem to see. Vhat you vant zhem to see." Spy appeared to be studying the ceiling in a perfectly calm manner. No doubt that within the privacy of his mind it was a different matter. "... Oui. Oui, I can do zhis. As long as my illness is played down. I cannot say zee next Spy will be as accommodating as I am. Willing to overlook certain things," he lit up another cigarette, "If zhey would consider me as a risk zhen what are you, Docteur?" Medic thought of black marks in a file somewhere with BLU and kept up the cold glare. He wanted to be in his too-small bed, pillowed on Heavy's chest and letting the fifty-two beats-a-minute lull him to sleep, "I am vorse." **** RED Spy leant on the bridge railing, waiting for dawn. Without the explosions and gunfire and the constant threat of BLU Sniper it was actually quite pleasant to be smoking here. Until the morning alarm roused everyone for the long journey to Coldfront he was alone with only his thoughts for company. He flicked his cigarette into the moat and reached for a new one without taking his eyes from the eastern sky. It was earlier than he usually got up and, what with his play-acting yesterday evening, he was going to be sleeping all the way to Coldfront. But it had to be dawn. It was only apt to begin his work anew at the beginning of a new day. Not that he didn't enjoy what he did here with RED and the many interesting toys that came with the position. But there was just no comparing it to the purpose that came with his personal work, the sheer joy that he felt when the neat package of files came. Like a personal note from God telling him that here was an opportunity to do Good. Not just to spend his days killing the same men over and over and watching his bank accounts fill. That morning he had woken up to find himself hugging the hard-won papers to his chest like the worse kind of bureaucrat. He had chuckled when he thought of himself as one of those fussy little men that scurried around RED Headquarters. It was light enough to see the ripples down in the moat. RED Spy let his cigarette fall and join the others. From his pocket he pulled out the little plastic bag. He had suffered to get these, his arm was still sore and his throat still burnt a little but his poor stomach had been the worse off. It gave a little twinge when he poured the pills into his open hand. A few rolled off and into the moat prematurely but that was fine. They were so small. So difficult to believe that a man's life could be saved or ruined by such tiny things. It was humbling, beautiful even. They were beautiful, the little white oblongs with their tiny perfect BLU logo stamped on each one so precisely. He tipped his hand. The pills slid over his leather glove and down into the moat to be swallowed up by the water.
I quite like this, aside from the occasional punctuation errors. {For example, '"'Ave to get your meat-shield to fight your battles for you, Docteur?" but he let him up anyway.' the 'b' in 'but' should be capitalized.} I'm not a huge fan of the way you write their accents, but everyone does that differently. I love the Heavy/Medic relationship, of course, but I also like some of your metaphors-- "down into the moat to be swallowed up by the water" is particularly lovely-- and I hope the Spy's "Noodle Incident" will be developed further.
BLU Spy did not sleep so well. He could lie there for hours while his mind worked away, scrabbling away like a rat in a trap. Had any of his team known the general consensus would have been that insomnia was what contributed to his abrasive personality. But they didn't know. Spy spent his sleepless hours quietly. He'd either roam the corridors to do some thinking or go outside to smoke in peace. As in most of his daily activities he did it carefully, silently and often invisibly as well. Therefore when he leant against the wall of the base, cigarette sliding between his lips, it was quite a shock to hear someone whisper a cheery "Bonjour, Azul" into his ear. His knife was in hand in an instant and he lashed out to his right. A hand caught his arm, the fingers like iron. Perhaps they would leave bruises even through the thick material of his coat. RED Spy flickered into view. "Is zhat 'ow you treat everyone who says 'ello, Azul?" He didn't sound upset in the least. The moonlight reflected up from the snow and RED's curved smile was very white. "Non. It is just 'ow I treat REDs that should not be 'ere," he'd dropped his cigarette onto the snow, "What do you want, Rosso?" "Just to talk." BLU Spy snorted, digging into his coat for his cigarette case. He made sure that his back was against the wall of the base, "You never want to just talk. You want to gloat." "I promise I will not, Azul," as BLU Spy put his new cigarette between his lip RED's lighter was there. He leant in, keeping his counterpart in the corner of his eye, "Do not be insulted if I choose not to believe zhat," he blew out a plume of smoke, "Or on second thoughts, be insulted and go away." RED sighed and put a hand over his heart, the very picture of rejection, "I know when I am not wanted. So I will take my leave," he started off across the snow towards RED base. BLU Spy was suspicious. That had been too easy, "But I would check in your pocket if I were you." It was a heavy envelope with 'BLU' written across it in RED's elegant handwriting. He'd not noticed RED putting it there. He slit it open with his knife, feeling RED's eyes on him. When the photographs came tumbling out he was almost rendered speechless. "What zee fuck is zhis, Rosso?" "You were always very interested in photography, non?" "What are trying to prove?" he shoved the photographs into his pocket for now. The knife stayed in his hand, "Why are you threatening 'im?" "Maybe it's not a threat. Maybe I am just interested, oui?" RED shrug and incredibly he turned and started walking away again. "Get back 'ere, RED! Tell me what you are planning, connard! Come back! Come back, Domi!" Oh. Oh, that had been a mistake. After all these years it was still so easy to make a slip. Dom- RED actually stopped, looking back at his and BLU Spy keep his eyes off him. He didn't want to see whatever smug expression he'd put on. But it was worse. He laughed. BLU Spy had always had an excellent memory for sounds. Voices, music, languages - oh, languages had been so easy - all of them were filed neatly away into his mind to be summoned at a moments notice. And Domi's - no, RED Spy's laugh was there as well. That soft, throaty chuckle, sometimes with a little snort that was somehow endearing, inviting a listener to join him... Even after all these years it sent a jolt right down to his groin. "I shall see you soon, oui? I shall shall see you both soon." RED Spy walked away under the moonlight. **** Heavy might have been biased but he did not understand the team when they said Medic was hard to get along with. As far as he was concerned Doktor had likes and dislikes same as any person. Same as any other person once you got to know them he was actually quite easy to get on with. For example when the morning alarm went off it was always Medic who stirred first. He was quick on the battlefield so naturally, thought Heavy, he was quick to wake up in the mornings. Heavy for his part liked to keep his eyes shut a little longer. Oh, if it were an intruder alarm he would have been up like a shot. Once he'd sat up so quickly he'd accidentally launched Medic across the bed, much to his surprise. Another time he'd been so quick he'd nearly gone without his uniform. But when it was just the morning call he liked to linger, maybe hug Medic a little tighter. The German would always tut as he groped for his glasses but it was fine. Heavy could read him well enough to know when he was actually annoyed. And there was always that extra minute between Medic getting his glasses then demanding that they get up. "Liebe. If you vould." This morning was no different then. He slid his hands up and down Medic's back slowly and the Doctor pushed back with a happy sigh. When Heavy opened his eyes Medic was above him and smiling. "Good morning, Doktor." "Guten Morgen," he leant in for a kiss and Heavy was happy to indulge him. And that was how to wake Medic up in a good mood. Easy really. Medic rolled off him then. The beds BLU provided were uncomfortably small for one man. To share one resulted in some unusual sleeping arrangements. Heavy took up the whole thing if he lay on his back and should they lie on their sides together there was always the risk of him falling out or Medic accidentally being crushed against the wall. Safest and easiest way was for him to lie on his back with Medic sleeping on top of him. He had to reassure Doktor that he had no problem with serving as his mattress. It was fine - it meant he could always feel him there, a comforting weight on his chest. He'd brought up the issue of a new bed only once. Maybe BLU could send them a bigger bed, he had said. Might mean they could fight RED better if they weren't so cramped in the night. Medic had said 'nein' immediately. Their sleeping arrangements were adequate. There was no need to get BLU involved with something that was still quite illegal. They didn't talk about it much. That was fine too. Heavy really didn't want to play a game of 'who had it harder growing up liking men'. There were things that they didn't acknowledge. For example, after Medic got up he always went to the operating theatre to check his Medigun. Always in his pyjamas before his shower, before anything. And Heavy understood it - he kept a careful eye on Sasha too. While Medic was fussing over charge and wires Heavy would pour out a glass of water for him and leave it on his desk. Giving it to him directly was bad because that was acknowledging it. Leaving it on the desk was better. It could be for anything and anyone that way. He tried not to be anywhere near the desk when Medic came out of the theatre. He might be tidying away his books or pretending to check on Sasha but one eye would always be on Medic. The German would sit behind his desk and take the little metal tin out the bottom drawer. He would take two pills from it and set them neatly on the desk. He always did it himself. If handing him the water was bad then actually handling the Doctor's medicine was worse. Heavy tried his best to help. Sometimes it didn't work. There was a certain scar on Medic, one of a few, a straight white line running from groin to navel. Once, early on in their relationship, they'd been in bed together and he'd gone to lick and kiss it. The reaction he'd gotten had been quite frightening and he considered himself lucky that he'd not just been kicked out immediately. It might have been a little sexy too. Doktor was very handsome when he was angry. But he'd learnt. The scar was something they didn't acknowledge either. After Medic had swallowed his medicine Heavy couldn't go over to him right away. He might see it as pity. But after Medic had gotten up, after he'd finished his water and cleaned and dried the glass then Heavy could go over. Today he enfolded the German into a hug, "accidentally" brushing his hand across Medic's stomach, against the single layer of material that lay between him and that scar. He didn't notice. That was good. Medic used to tense at even that little touch. "Vhat is zis in aid of, meine liebe?" he leant in close, face turned upwards to look Heavy in the eyes. Heavy kissed him, "Just vant to hold Doktor." "Und zat is fine," his warm hand, not in its cold rubber glove yet, came up to caress Heavy's stubbly jaw, "but if ve do not go for our shower now zen Scout vill leave us no breakfast." "Scout is leetle. Cannot eat all the food. Will end up here again." "Yet he vill try," Medic shook his head ruefully, "Come zen. Let us save Scout from himself," he patted Heavy on the arm and the Russian took the hint and released him. Together they headed for the infirmary shower block. There were still many things that Heavy had to be careful with concerning Medic. But he was a patient man. And Doktor was worth being patient for. **** There was nothing as grand as the Gare Montparnasse in Challens though Rene fought the urge to stop and stare. This was Paris and it had sights far more spectacular than this. And besides what could make him look more the country mouse than gawking at a train station. Instead he adjusted his jacket with what was hopefully a nonchalant air and started down the platform, suitcase in both hands. He had little enough money as it was and he knew a taxi would be expensive. Domi had offered to book a car for him as well as pay for his train ticket. But Rene had refused and he'd fretted over it for days and days, wondering if Domi thought him ungrateful. Thankfully his reply had come with a neat list of directions folded inside the letter. <i>If you are as stubborn as I remember, my friend, </i> he had written, <i>you will continue to say 'no' for fear of somehow inconveniencing me. And though I may insist again and again you will still do so until we are both quite blue in the face. Luckily my apartment is not so far and you are unlikely to come to harm in broad daylight and on such a well-travelled route. Therefore I will hope for the best and annoy my colleagues with my incessant fretting.</i> Rene touched the jacket pocket where he had folded the precious letter and its instructions away. Would he recognise Domi when he saw him? Years could change a man quickly. What if the Domi that he remembered from all those years spent inseparable in Challens was different to the Domi that lived in Paris? Well he couldn't known until he met up with him. His hand - already sweating a little and not just from the summer heat - reached into the pocket for the letter. It wasn't there. Rene dug about in his pocket then began to frantically pat himself down. He had had it in his pocket! He was sure of it! And it had stayed in his pocket the entire journey. Maybe he'd taken it out once between Le Mans and Chartres to think of Domi but he'd put it back afterwards. Oh God if he had lost them, his only link to Domi... No, he could not think like that. He had most likely just put it into his suitcase. He knelt and opened it, hands search through his neatly folded clothes. Someone's polished shoes came into the edge of his vision and he turned a little to snap at them- "You dropped something, my friend." Oh God. That voice. A shiver went up Rene's spine. Whatever changes Domi had undergone that voice was still the same. He looked up- The morning alarm shattered the dream as surely as it had been one of Soldier's rockets. Speaking of which Soldier was already up and banging on doors. He groaned and drew the covers up and over his face. By his insults Soldier was already passing the doors of Pyro (All-Quiet-on-the-Western-Front) and Demoman (Drunken Scottish Cyclops) and since the Engineer's workshop was past the rest of the living quarters near the Infirmary and Heavy's room went unused that meant- "RISE AND SHINE, CROUTON!" Spy pulled the pillow over his head as well. No good. He could still hear him, "UP AND AT 'EM! NO MAN IN MY SQUAD IS MISSING THE CHANCE TO FEEL RED BLOOD-" "We get the bloody picture!" Sniper levered himself up from the bed. Spy had been so sure he had melded with the mattress: he slept so deeply, "Shut up, will yah?" Soldier made indignant bellows but ultimately continued down the corridor to bother Engineer (Toymaker) and the pair in the Infirmary (the Commie-Nazi Alliance). Sniper flopped back into the pillow. "Merci, Bushman." "Ah, he'll forget tomorrow," he nuzzled into the bedding approximately where Spy's head was, "Be back to banging on at us in no time." "Zhat is our lot in life. To be shouted at by maniacs." "Least he's enthusiastic?" "...Oui, maybe. But 'ee is also crazy," Spy unburied his head and rolled onto his back, "You are so optimistic." Sniper shrugged. For a while it was quiet, with only the muted noises of the team getting up and the distant bellow of Heavy - "We are in shower!" - presumably at Soldier. "Hey, Spook?" Spy levered his eyes open again, "What?" Sniper kissed him on the temple, "G'morning, luv." Spy had to smile at that, "Are you planning on making it good, Bushman?" "Bloody Spook." But he kissed him again on the cheek and again on the neck. And for a while Spy could forget all about Soldier and the battle and the photographs of Sniper in his coat pocket.
Forgot to mention: I have a Hipstr blog now if you are into such things. The name is angelcymry - same as my Steam name if you want to play some TF2 and don't mind being followed by a Medic.
I have the distinct feeling this fic will end up making me sob like a little girl. But it's so good that I don't care.
This fic is well written, but it feels a little convoluted. The background story, though it seems to be meant to unfold as the story goes on, makes the entire fic seem vague and hard to understand as a whole. A little exposition couldn't hurt-- it doesn't have to spoil the story, but the base for the story seems extremely weak. Work on that though, and you may have struck gold!
Good story, but I see some grammar errors: A hand caught his arm, the fingers like iron; perhaps they would leave bruises even through the thick material of his coat? "I know when I am not wanted, so I will take my leave," he started off across the snow towards RED base. BLU Spy was suspicious; that had been too easy, "But I would check in your pocket if I were you." "What are trying to prove?" (I think you're missing the word "you.") After all these years, it was still so easy to make a slip. Dom- RED actually stopped, looking back at his and BLU Spy keep his eyes off him. (Looking back at his what?) Heavy might have been biased, but he did not understand the team when they said Medic was hard to get along with. As far as he was concerned, Doktor had likes and dislikes same as any person; once you got to know them, he was actually quite easy to get on with. For example, when the morning alarm went off it was always Medic who stirred first. Heavy, for his part, liked to keep his eyes shut a little longer. But when it was just the morning call, he liked to linger, maybe hug Medic a little tighter. The German would always tut as he groped for his glasses, but it was fine; Heavy could read him well enough to know when he was actually annoyed. He would take two pills from it and set them neatly on the desk; he always did it himself. If handing him the water was bad, then actually handling the Doctor's medicine was worse. (Actually might be the wrong word here.) Heavy tried his best to help, but sometimes it didn't work. There was a certain scar on Medic, one of a few: a straight white line running from groin to navel. It might have been a little sexy too; Doktor was very handsome when he was angry. There were still many things that Heavy had to be careful with concerning Medic, but he was a patient man and Doktor was worth being patient for. There was nothing as grand as the Gare Montparnasse in Challens, though Rene fought the urge to stop and stare; this was Paris and it had sights far more spectacular than this. Besides, what could make him look more the country mouse than gawking at a train station? Instead, he adjusted his jacket with what was hopefully a nonchalant air and started down the platform, suitcase in both hands. Well, he couldn't have known until he met up with him. He had had it in his pocket, he was sure of it! It had stayed in his pocket the entire journey. Maybe he'd taken it out once between Le Mans and Chartres to think of Domi, but he'd put it back afterwards. (What is the them you mention in the paragraph? Pictures?) Whatever changes Domi had undergone, that voice was still the same. Speaking of which, Soldier was already up and banging on doors. Soldier made indignant bellows, but ultimately continued down the corridor to bother Engineer (Toymaker) and the pair in the Infirmary (the Commie-Nazi Alliance). But he kissed him again, on the cheek and on the neck. And for a while, Spy could forget all about Soldier and the battle and the photographs of Sniper in his coat pocket. If you want me to proofread future updates, please let me know!
If anyone wants to proof read my stuff then they can drop me a line over Steam or at my Hipstr (angelcymry for both). Normally I'm not this bad but the only place I can really write these days is at work - not the best environment for prolonged spells of editing, some things slip through the gaps. >>5 Sorry, Anon but yes there are sad times ahead. >>6 I've taken your comments into account. Hopefully Chapter three will explain some things. >>7 Thank you Anon. Some of your changes are really good. Though your use of commas before conjunctions is a bit strange to me. I guess I was just taught it was one or the other.
>>8 Anon 7 here. You're welcome. I'm looking foward to looking at more.
I tried to add you, but I'm having a difficult time doing so. Here's my steam profile: http://steamcommunity.com/profiles/76561198044376289
RED Spy liked the battlefield at Coldfront. It was cold, that was true, and at night it was bitterly so. But it was interesting. The snow held impressions of the battle - a time capsule until it melted. Or, more likely, until the next snow fall. There was the series of craters where RED Demo had set up his sticky trap. He skirted around a drift of snow that had refrozen after a Pyro had melted it into a strange shape. A trench led from BLU base with footprints at the bottom. Two sets - one sunk much deeper into the snow, the other regularly turning to one side or the other, checking all around them. That would be BLU Heavy and Medic then. He was walking uncloaked by the time he reached RED base. The battlements were dark except for one bright pin-prick of light. Oh, he was getting better. RED Spy had not seen the laser sight at all. He looked straight at that little light and gave a cheery wave. It suddenly vanished from sight as if a cigarette was being hurriedly stubbed out onto an ash tray. He chuckled. He made sure was locked the door was firmly behind him and he checked his boots carefully to make sure they were stamped clear of snow before he went into the base proper. It wouldn't do to have any REDs slipping and knocking themselves out of a battle. RED Sniper was still up in the battlements, pouring himself a cup of coffee into that #1 Sniper mug he loved so much. RED Spy had always wondered where he'd got that and if RED should shell out for appropriate ones for the rest of the team. He waited until Sniper had taken his a sip and put his mug down before leaning in just out of eye-shot, "'Allo, Monsieur Sniper." RED Sniper yelped - he was always so twitchy - and his hands tightened on his rifle. "Goddamnit, Spook! I told you 'bout that!" "My apologies, mon ami. I 'ad just assumed that you wished to speak to me. Since you were looking at me through zhat scope of yours." "Nah," RED Sniper put his rifle over his knees, stretching his back out with a groan, "I watch everyone comin' into base, don't I?" "'Ow diligent of you, mon ami." "Needs doin'. What've you been up to out there, Spook? It's..." he angled his watch so that it caught the moonlight coming in through the window, "...nearly one in the mornin'." "Oh, I like to take a walk of an evening," Spy lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring up into the rafters, "And maybe get myself seen by Azul." "Isn't it supposed to be the opposite? Thought you Spooky types wanted not to be seen." "It's a little extra-curricular project of mine," he offered his cigarette case across to his team mate, sliding it back into his coat when he was rebuffed, "I gave Azul a little gift." A grin crossed RED Sniper's face, "You got something against that wanker?" "Mm? Against Azul? Non, non, quite the opposite." "...When you said you gave him a gift, Spook, I thought you meant... I dunno, that you were threatening him or something. You been leaving fruit baskets or something?" "It was photographs of BLU Sniper." "So you got a grudge against him then?" "Non." RED Sniper frowned at him over the rim of his mug, "You leadin' me on here, Spook?" "I like people to coo over 'ow clever I've been," he winked over at his team mate, "It is a weakness of mine, non?" "So you got a grudge against one of the BLUs?" "Oui." "But it's not the Spy or the Sniper?" "Oui." "The Scout? Soldier? Pyro? Dem-" "You are just listing zhem! Zat is cheating." "Well I ain't sure how you expect me to know, Spook." "...'Ow about zhis, mon ami? Watch zee battlefield tomorrow and see if you can spot my work. I am not sure of zee specifics but it should be easy to spot." "What should?" "Zhat would be telling," RED Spy got to his feet, brushing off his suit, "Just keep an eye out, mon ami." "Alroight, Spook." "And get to bed soon, mon ami. It would not do to be tired in battle," he grinned, "Else 'ow will you spot my work and tell me 'ow clever I am?" "You me Mum or somethin', Spook?" He still got up, however, rifle in one hand, mug in the other, "Night, then." "I will see you tomorrow, mon ami." **** The talent of both doctors and soldiers was the ability to scrap together whatever little sleep they could. Medic had been both a doctor and soldier. Even as a mercenary, he was still capable of rising in an instant to attend to whatever trouble the overgrown children he called his team had gotten into. However, his mind and body did not want to comply at the moment. As someone tried to shake him awake, his eyes stubbornly remained closed and his limbs felt as though the marrow of his bones had been replaced by lead. That might be an interesting experiment if it had any scientific merit to it. He slid back into sleep. "Doktor!" That helped somewhat. Just like in on the battlefield, Heavy's voice was capable of drawing his attention no matter the circumstances. One eye managed to open, squinting against the yellow light of their lamp and from lack of glasses, "Wa... Was?" "Doktor was shivering. Kicked all the blankets off." "...Was?" he dragged himself up onto his elbows, glaring at the blur that was Heavy's face, "You voke me... for zat?" "Nyet," Heavy took Medic's wrist in hand, gently of course. It would be a simple matter for the Russian to close his fist over it and splinter the radius and the ulna; crush the carpus bones into dust. All Heavy did however was press Medic's hand to his own forehead, "Doktor is burning up." That was a slight exaggeration but Medic could definitely tell that his temperature was higher than normal. "Verdammt." "Is bad?" "Nein, nein," he pulled his arm out of Heavy's grip and groped for his glasses. Everything would be easier once the world was in focus again, "I do not zink so." He started shivering almost as soon as he slid off Heavy's broad chest. Say what you want about their sleeping arrangements but he never went cold. The Russian was like a furnace. He bundled himself up in his dressing gown - a poor substitute but better than just his pyjamas. The cold floor was bad and the harsh lights of the infirmary were even worse. And by the time he slid the thermometer under his tongue his teeth kept trying to chatter. There was movement from their room. "Doktor should go back to bed." "It is fine." Heavy appeared in the doorway, one massive hand rubbing at his face, "Maybe... maybe Doktor should skip battle. Is better to miss one than make it worse and miss many." "Und leave zhose overgrown children to zere own d-devices?" Stuttering now. How embarrassing. Medic set his mouth into a firm line and wrapped his gown around him all the tighter. He should go to his desk, get his feet off the cold floor. Suddenly Heavy was scooping him up. Medic would have protested, should have protested. It was undignified for a man of his age to be carried around like a child. But it was so warm there, trapped against Heavy's broad chest, "Could look after Doktor. He does not need to take care of every thing." Medic laid his cheek against the bare skin, luxuriating in the heat. Beneath his ear there was the steady thump of Heavy's heart - seventy beats a minute patiently throbbing beneath his skin. "You do not vant to say zat. Doctors make ze vorse patients." "Wouldn't tink so," he squeezed a little tighter, "You are toughest leetle man I know. That is the truth." "Zat is kind of you. But I do not believe zat vhen I am sick und being held like a child, liebe." "Well, Doktor is tough leetle man. But still leetle. Still need to protect Doktor at times," he nodded. His massive hands, one on his hip, one on his shoulder, tightened their grip and lifted him slightly. Carefully, the Russian put his lips to his feverish skin, "I love you very much." Medic smiled - not an expression that his other team mates would see any time soon. He wanted to kiss him. But the thermometer was in the way. And if he were sick and passed it to Heavy then it would be more work. Instead his hands slid over Heavy's jaw and cheeks, "Ich liebe dich," he took the thermometer out of his mouth. Thirty-eight degrees exactly, "Ach, see? It is just a little fever," he held the device up so Heavy could see it, "Nozzink to worry about." "So Doktor will be fine?" "Ja. Some medication now und sleep are all I need," he wriggled a little and Heavy put him back down on his feet. The chill coming up from the tiles made him wince a little, "Besides do you vant to have to deal vith Herr Soldat's behaviour vere I to miss a battle?" "Soldier has got louder." "Indeed he has. I should start sneaking ze pills into his food again." Everything went on a little tray with Medic's usual care - the little glass vial of acetaminophen; the syringe; the tourniquet; the alcohol and the pad of gauze. Then back to their room, away from the chill that made his hands tremble. "Could get leetle Pyro to do it. Sneak it in when he cooks." Medic snorted at that. His right hand tightened the tourniquet and swiped the soaked gauze up and down the pale skin of his left arm, "Herr Pyro does not have a medical degree. I could not trust him to use ze correct dosages. I could just-" "Get better first, Doktor. Then can take care of team." "Ja," Medic withdrew the needle. As soon as he placed it on the tray to be disposed of Heavy was ready with the cotton ball and surgical tape. It was endearing to watch him gently smooth the tape down with his giant thumbs and a little frown of concentration. "Danke, meine liebe." "Is not a problem," he kissed him on the forehead and draped the blanket around Medic's shoulders, "Stay here, Doktor." Heavy disappeared into the infirmary with the tray. By the time he returned, Medic had already curled up in the hollow the Russian had left in the mattress. The German didn't move until Heavy began unbuttoning his pyjama top, much to his surprise. "Vhat are you doing?" "Skin-to-skin is best, Doktor." "Is it now?" It certainly did not feel that way. His skin chilled rapidly in the air once Heavy's warm hands moved on. "Da. Would be better to have banya," he paused, trying to put the word into their mutual language, "Is steam room. Good for health. But we are not in Russia." "I zhink you are just vanting to look at me naked," said Medic. He grinned. "Well," Heavy slid Medic's top off and kissed him on the left shoulder. There was an old scar there, one that the Russian was permitted to touch. It had been made by a bullet, a long time ago, "Is also that. I like to see Doktor all bare." Heavy made a pleased rumble in his chest. Medic put his palms there to feel the vibration. Heavy's hands wandered a little as he undressed him - touching his ribs and thighs and sides. Medic did not mind. He'd always prided himself on the fact that he'd taken care of his body. As his tutors used to say, a healthy body equals a healthy mind. Admittedly, the hair on his head and on his body had lost a lot of its original black. And there were more than a few lines on his face and scars that pre-dated the Medigun. But he was still capable of running around a battlefield with a heavy Medigun on his back and his flesh was still firm. Not bad for a man of fifty-three. Beneath his palms Heavy's heart was going at seventy-seven beats-a-minute. How gratifying to know that he could still make the Russian's heart beat a little faster. Heavy brought the spare blanket from the wardrobe. Once Medic was back in place on the Russian's chest, his arms wrapped tightly around him, anchoring the covers in place, "Doktor is comfortable?" "Ja," Medic put his head in its accustomed place. Heavy's heartbeat had settled down into that peaceful rhythm he was so familiar with, "You are alvays so concerned about me." "Doktor is sick," a giant hand stroked his back through the covers, "Must take care of him." "Not just vhen I am sick," those beats beneath his ear was lulling him to sleep already. He yawned, "But I vill be fine, meine liebe. Tomorrow I vill be better." "Tomorrow, Doktor. Will kill many RED babies. Capture point." "Mmmhhrrr..." Medic buried himself deeper into Heavy, "Ja. Tomorrow." That was the last thing he heard before his eyes slid close.
The Heavy/Medic part was very cute! I couldn't get pastebin to work, so I decided to do what I've been doing. Here's what I edited: RED Spy liked the battlefield at Coldfront. It was cold, that was true, and at night it was bitterly so; but, it was interesting. The snow held impressions of the battle: a time capsule until it melted (or, more likely, until the next snow fall). There was the series of craters where RED Demo had set up his sticky trap. He skirted around a drift of snow that had refrozen after a Pyro had melted it into a strange shape. A trench led from BLU base with footprints at the bottom. Two sets: one sunk much deeper into the snow, the other regularly turning to one side or the other, checking all around them; that would be BLU Heavy and Medic then. He made sure was locked the door was firmly behind him and he checked his boots carefully to make sure they were stamped clear of snow before he went into the base proper (missing some words, not sure which ones). It wouldn't do to have any REDs slipping and knocking themselves out of a battle. He was walking uncloaked by the time he reached RED base. The battlements were dark except for one bright pin-prick of light. Oh, he was getting better. RED Spy had not seen the laser sight at all. He looked straight at that little light and gave a cheery wave; it suddenly vanished from sight as if a cigarette was being hurriedly stubbed out onto an ash tray. He chuckled. RED Sniper yelped, he was always so twitchy, and his hands tightened on his rifle. "You me Mum or somethin', Spook?" He still got up, however; rifle in one hand, mug in the other, "Night, then." **** The talent of both doctors and soldiers was the ability to scrap together whatever little sleep they could; Medic had been both. Even as a mercenary, he was still capable of rising in an instant to attend to whatever trouble the overgrown children he called his team had gotten into. However, his mind and body did not want to comply at the moment. As someone tried to shake him awake, his eyes stubbornly remained closed and his limbs felt as though the marrow of his bones had been replaced by lead; That might be an interesting experiment if it had any scientific merit to it. He slid back into sleep. That was a slight exaggeration, but Medic could definitely tell that his temperature was higher than normal. He started shivering almost as soon as he slid off Heavy's broad chest. Say what you want about their sleeping arrangements, but he never went cold; the Russian was like a furnace. He bundled himself up in his dressing gown: a poor substitute, but better than just his pyjamas. The cold floor was bad and the harsh lights of the infirmary were even worse. By the time he slid the thermometer under his tongue, his teeth kept trying to chatter. There was movement from their room. Medic laid his cheek against the bare skin, luxuriating in the heat. Beneath his ear there was the steady thump of Heavy's heart: seventy beats a minute patiently throbbing beneath his skin. Medic smiled; this was not an expression that his other team mates would see any time soon. He wanted to kiss him, but the thermometer was in the way. If he were sick and passed it to Heavy, it would be more work. Instead, his hands slid over Heavy's jaw and cheeks,
I tried to edit the first chapter, since I skipped it earlier. A heatwave had settled over 2Fort as though the desert itself was making an attempt at killing both teams before they left. The Announcer did not see fit to cancel the fight, not on the last day, and so both teams were left to the mercy of the elements, trying even harder to cross the bridge and enter the cooler bases. Worse off was Heavy: the giant Russian simply wasn't built for these temperatures no matter how long he spent under the cooling rays of the Medigun. BLU Medic had therefore favoured the sewer route today. The moat water was of suspect purity, but at least it had cooled down the larger man, enabling him to continue mowing down REDs; that was the only reason that the rest of their team-mates need concern themselves with. Heavy's grateful smiles, worth any number of waterlogged labcoats and damp boots, were none of their business. Equally none of their business was what happened in the infirmary after the battle, namely when he was pressed up against his examination table with Heavy looming over him. His enormous hands sliding up and under his shirt, the palms coasting gently over the ribs, fingers settling above the intercostal spaces then moving on to meet above his spine, tenderly feeling out the vertebrae, first the lumbar group then up to the thoracic. Medic was finally relaxing into those hands and the pleased rumble coming from the Russian's chest was promising an enjoyable evening. So typically it was at that moment the infirmary door slammed open; it bounced off the wall, making the window rattle in its frame, Medic's back tensed instantly. Moving away was not an option, so he settled for leaning around Heavy's broader form and shouting, "Naw, Doc, I'm serious, man," Scout did look rather pale, a problem only emphasised by the infirmary's harsh lights, "You gotta-" he interrupted himself with a bubbling groan, arms cradling his stomach. Before Medic could speak again, Scout was bending over the sink, rapidly taking leave of his dinner. The German sighed. His bare heads left the back of Heavy's neck and pushed gently on the wide forearms. Obediently, the warm hands reappeared from under his shirt; one came up to Medic's face, blunt thumb stroking his cheek absently. "Could wait for Doktor to finish," Heavy's hand slid down Medic's cheek and underneath his chin, "I like watching Doktor work," he leant in for a kiss and Medic was happy to oblige, but then Scout groaned and he remembered the younger man was there. He jerked his head back and out of Heavy's grip. He met his confused expression with a glare and then a meaningful glance in Scout's direction. Heavy nodded, then took Medic's wrist in one of his giant hands, leading him to their room despite Medic's hissed protests, Heavy gently pushed him into their room, Medic's really, but they'd been sharing it for a long while now, and closed the door behind him. He stood there, arms spread, ready to accept and shake off any blows, physical or verbal. "Und vhat of outside zhen?" They said habits of a lifetime were hard to break and Medic had insisted on keeping any displays of affection within the private confines of the infirmary. Some would say that was overcautious, but someone of their inclinations only needed one careless moment to invite trouble. Medic realised that he was stroking the scarred flesh of his abdomen through his shirt and his frown deepened. Heavy's hands settled onto his shoulders, gently working at the tense muscles beneath the layers of his uniform, deltoid first then the trapezius, then back again, He turned and kissed him, standing on tip-toe to do it. Heavy's hands slid through his hair and across his back. The rest of the BLU team would have been surprised to hear of the protective urges he felt towards Heavy, a man twice his size. Not that he would have told any of them, but it was not as absurd as it seemed; their roles on the battlefield followed them off it. "Cannot help being baby either," Heavy chuckled to himself, stripping his T-shirt off. Medic watched him do it, watched the play of immense muscles in his back, trapezius, latissimus dorsi, rhomboid major, all begging to be picked out and studied. It was a closely fought match, but he quashed the urge to leap into bed and leave Scout to his fate. ***** Just as he had told Heavy, Medic was a long time dealing with Scout. Scout himself left after half-an-hour, and rubbing his sore left arm, but he'd left his mess behind. He really should have made the brat clean up, but every minute he stayed in the infirmary was another minute that could result in further chaos. After the cleaning was done, the needles and drugs still had to be put away again and resealed and all Medic wanted was to climb into bed with Heavy and- Medic managed to swallow any embarrassing gasps of surprise, but the bottle in his hand tumbled to the floor. Luckily, the cap stayed on and it merely rolled across the tiles instead of spilling pills. Spy was perched on the end of his desk, one of his vile, brown cigarettes in his mouth and Medic's little notebook in his hands. "I vould have thought zat you vould have learnt your lesson about reading mein private notes after ze last time, Herr Spy," the pills had rolled beneath the examination table and Medic went to get them, "I assume zat you came in behind Scout, ja? Vell go avay. I am in no mood to argue viz you." Abruptly, he was pressed backwards onto his own table, cold metal under his back, cold metal knife across his throat and an ache in the back of his skull. The lines around Spy's eyes were tight with fury, "What. Is. Zhis?" the gritted teeth of BLU Spy hovering above him were replaced by lines of the Medic's own neat handwriting. Not his private journal, Spy had already read that much to Medic's fury, but still something he would not show the rest of the team. "What 'appened to confidentiality, Docteur? I seem to recall you promising zhat it would not leave zhis room," Spy's left hand, no longer holding the book, gripped Medic's shoulder tightly; his right was steady. The knife was pressed against the side of his neck, exactly where the carotid artery ran up and underneath his jaw; Medic could appreciate that kind of anatomical precision if he wasn't the one it was being demonstrated on. "I am not a quack," said Medic, "Und as for ze issue of ... ze Incident ve are capable of discussing it in a civilised fashion are ve not? Let me up," when Spy and his wickedly sharp knife did not move, the German gripped Spy's left arm tightly in one gloved hand, "He vill come if I should call. Und his views on teamvork vill not matter if he sees zis." "'Ave to get your meat-shield to fight your battles for you, Docteur?" but he let him up anyway. Medic brushed the lump on the back of his head with a winch. At least the Medigun was unpacked; you never knew when a careless team-mate might narrowly, and rudely, avoid a trip to Respawn. He pressed the handle down and blue fumes coiled about his head, soothing the pain. When he began to feel the first symptoms of overheal, the powerful heartbeats, the rush of blood to the muscles and, of course, the glow across his skin, he let go. Spy appeared to be studying the ceiling in a perfectly calm manner; no doubt that within the privacy of his mind it was a different matter. **** RED Spy leant on the bridge railing, waiting for dawn. Without the explosions and gunfire and the constant threat of BLU Sniper, it was actually quite pleasant to be smoking here. Until the morning alarm roused everyone for the long journey to Coldfront, he was alone with only his thoughts for company. He flicked his cigarette into the moat and reached for a new one without taking his eyes from the eastern sky. It was earlier than he usually got up and, what with his play-acting yesterday evening, he was going to be sleeping all the way to Coldfront. But it had to be dawn. It was only apt to begin his work anew at the beginning of a new day. Not that he didn't enjoy what he did here with RED and the many interesting toys that came with the position, but there was just no comparing it to the purpose that came with his personal work: the sheer joy that he felt when the neat package of files came like a personal note from God telling him that here was an opportunity to do good, not just to spend his days killing the same men over and over and watching his bank accounts fill. It was light enough to see the ripples down in the moat. RED Spy let his cigarette fall and join the others. From his pocket he pulled out the little plastic bag. He had suffered to get these; his arm was still sore and his throat still burnt a little but his poor stomach had been the worse off. It gave a little twinge when he poured the pills into his open hand; a few rolled off and into the moat prematurely, but that was fine. It was so difficult to believe that a man's life could be saved or ruined by such tiny things. It was humbling, beautiful even. They were beautiful, the little white oblongs with their tiny perfect BLU logo stamped on each one so precisely. He tipped his hand, causing the pills to slide over his leather glove and down into the moat to be swallowed up by the water.
Above post is the first chapter should anyone be confused. Anon 7 could you not post chapters out of sequence like that? It's making the thread look untidy.
Sorry; other than that one they were in order.