1 . Name: Anonymous @ 2012-04-22 21:57

(Here you go. Enjoy some heartbreaking postwar Demosolly (with a chaser of Sollymedic) with no explicit sex whatsoever that may or may not be continued, depending on how it goes over and the whims of the writer.)

Part 1- Sweater

If you want to destroy my sweater
pull this thread as I walk away
watch me unravel, I'll soon be naked
lying on the floor, I've come undone

-Weezer, 'Come Undone (The Sweater Song)'
--------

Jane Doe was a man of many peculiarities. This had been long understood by everyone on his team- the man was rather mad, after all, and such things were to be expected. So, the lack of an 'indoor voice', the general beligerent attitude, the insistance of running the team (or at least acting like he ran the team) in a strict American Military fashion, and a multitude of other quirks were dealt with with as much grace as the other eight mercenaries on BLU could muster.

And then the WAR happened. For weeks, BLU Team found themselves harped and goaded and generally at the screaming mercy of a tactician whose every battle plan involved focusing full attack on the enemy Demoman, regardless of whether doing so would lead to actual victory. The reason for this sudden frothing animosity was unknown- in fact, several of the BLUs had noticed Jane actually going out of his way to personally avoid the Demoman when he could help it, and the RED Scotsman doing the same. Spy had even said he'd seen them together during ceasefires, trying (and given their very natures, failing) to be discreet- of course, Spy'd been known to lie when it suited or amused him, so the claim had been taken with a grain of salt.

Heavy had mentioned during those couple weeks, to no one in particular, that for some reason he couldn't explain, seeing 'RED drunkard and leetle yelling American' tear into one another with such ferocity made his heart hurt. Though no one said as much aloud, they were inclined to agree. The war aside, it seemed wrong somehow.

And then, one rainy, muddy, cold, and thoroughly unpleasant day, it was all over. It had come down to a broken bottle and an old collapsible shovel, and it had almost been like a knight's duel of old- well, a very ugly one. There was no grace or gentility in it whatsoever- just screaming and swearing and flesh being torn at. Thunder crashed, the storm growing almost too violent to battle in, and the Soldier and the Demoman barely even noticed it, nor how far out of bounds they were heading as they fought.

They only had eyes for each other.
-----------

They found him once the storm tapered off to a bleak, frigid drizzle, laying in the bloodied mud and laughing. Or screaming. It was hard to tell exactly. He was barely alive himself, bleeding from various deep lacerations, some with bits of amber glass stuck in them. There was also a deep gash in his neck, not made by the bottle, but by a blade. Why the Scotsman hadn't stuck with the blade for the whole fight was something nobody knew, and something he could no longer tell them. Or anyone.

They'd gone so far out. So far out of bounds. Past the reach of the Respawn field. And wherever the Demo's soul had gone, it was too far for any technology to retrieve. Indeed- Jane had won. And in his victory, he laughed. He laughed until he cried.

------

The delerium had lasted for days and it was something some members of the Team didn't understand. It was what he'd wanted, he'd done nothing but talk about it for days and days. They didn't get it any more then they'd gotten any of it.

Medic gently daubed a cool rag against the man's head, his lips pursing in concern. Soldier's battle wounds had healed quite easily, thanks to some stitching and application of a Medigun, but he'd fallen very ill due to his exposure to the elements. Despite obviously being at odds, the physician had little in the way of actual dislike for the boorish American, and his periods of almost catatonic stillness were more unsettling to him than the periods of raving lunacy. He was not supposed to be so silent.

"Poor fool. you must haff really loved him..."

Medic was a clever man. And very little else made sense. Were those few weeks some strange version of a mercenaries' lover's spat? Even that seemed odd- though capricious in his moods, if nothing else the Soldier was a strikingly loyal man. He'd proven that time and again. Something truly horrid must have happened to cause such a violent rift...

...but honestly, the whys were irrelevant at the moment. Bringing Jane back to health was the priority, and this was something that Medic was determined to do, if he had to drag the man kicking and screaming. Respawn didn't bring one back from illness.

It didn't make any sense. Medic knew his talents, and this should be elementary. He shouldn't be taking this long to recover. The problem, he deduced, like many other problems involving Soldier, was not a physical one, but a mental one. It wasn't any germ or virus that was making the American sick, but likely, guilt and grief.

Understandable enough. Medic knew that well. Still, he couldn't afford to waste much more time- he'd heard rumors of what happened to BLU mercenaries that were 'no longer useful', and he would be damned if he let it happen to a member of his Team. They were his responsibility, damnit.

There was one idea. A long shot, but it might work.

"...Herr Spy. I need you to do somezhing for me. No questions asked. For zhe gut of zhe Team..."

----------

It was soft. It was soft and it smelled like him, was somehow warm like him, and he could imagine his heart beating beneath it. From the instant it is pressed into his hands, it is clutched fiercely to the American's chest in a wad, gripped tightly, the soft, worn-in wool held against his cheek. None of this, of course, is really consciously done- it isn't his style by a long shot-but almost like a dreaming man, a smile comes to his face.

"...warm..."

Medic breathes a sigh of relief. Spy quirks an incredulous eyebrow.

"Mon Dieu. Like a child wizh a teddy bear."

"You ah to keep zhis secret, Herr Spy. If you do not, I vill know, und zhere will be no place you will cloak, no disguise you will wear, zhat vill hide you from me."

The German raises himself to his full height, his face a terrifying icy glare. Fingers flick an imaginary scalpel. Spy reads his teammate loud and clear, and the juicy morsel of potential blackmail material (or just plain gossip) is instantly made unpalatable at the idea of being skewered and dissected alive. For science.

"...fine. Not a word. Merde, zee if I ever do you any favors again, Docteur. Zhat wasn't easy to fetch wizhout getting caught, you know."

Huffing, preening like a vain and outraged peacock, the Frenchman vanishes in a wisp of smoke. Relaxing and giving a sigh, Medic goes to check on his patient. The fever is breaking at last. Clutched in Soldier's arms is a red turtleneck sweater with white half-sleeves, an orange and red emblem sewn onto the shoulders.

"Zhere... is zhat bettah? Does it help? You do not need to feel alone, Soldat. If he loved you, I am sure he forgives you. Now rest. I am sure you vill be on your feet in no time."

No response but for the sound of Soldier's breathing, the man's features eased, his arms clutched tight around the red sweater. Medic couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. All that work, and he would bet his boots that there wasn't any thought in the sleeping American's head but the Demoman, and once he recovered it'd be right back to before, just as rough and condecending and...

Oh, to Hell's Gates with it. He'd be alright now, might as well indulge in a cold beer and perhaps some Mozart before bed, and...

"...doc...?"

Pause. No, more like freeze. It was just a muttering of a sick person. Nothing to put a lot of stock into- who knows what the Soldier's erratic brain really was thinking of. It probably didn't mean anything.

And still, Medic pulled a chair up, settling into it and choosing to pull an overnighter in the Medbay and catch up on some paperwork instead.

(to be continued?)