Pale Scar (Medic and You) ------------------------------------ When you wake up you can't quite remember why you were out in the first place. The first thing that comes back in the wave of sensory reflux is the pain. Your head is heavy, and there's a screaming ache like a thunderclap migraine that comes when you try to move, so you clench up tight and ride out the worst of it. It takes a while, seems like forever, but you regain some awareness though it all. Other sensations begin to present themselves to you as the pain in your head drifts into a low, throbbing hum. You're lying flat on a table, a cold metal one, and your legs...shit, your legs hurt, too, and as you focalize your attentions to that fact, you realize that it's a ripping kind of pain, it feels like your legs are full of razors. There are voices emerging from the fog. You make an effort to peel your eyes open against the greenish fluorescent light and look down, not moving your head, towards your feet. You expect to see your legs torn to ribbons. Instead you see bone, and quickly close your eyes again, adding nausea to the list of things you're not happy about. You listen to the voices, it sounds like someone is laughing at you. God, that sucks. You tell them to fuck off, but it might just be internal monologue. It's hard to tell what's going on. Your tongue is thick, difficult to manage, but control of your voice inevitably returns, and it sounds ragged in your own ears. "Augh...wh-what happened?" Cool hands are on your thighs, just above the knee. You try so hard not to think about your legs, but fear seizes you. The pain sears a hot, jagged line through your mind: was anything missing? It's foolish, but you find yourself begging feebly that there'd be no amputation. He senses it, and pats you lightly, as if you are a beast to be gentled. "Didn't quite make zhat jump, I'm afraid." It's the Medic. Of course it's the Medic. You're on his exam table. "What?" You jerk your head up, a little too quickly, and you regret it immediately. Your vision swims, and you grimace as the memory trickles back: the intel is on your back, you're legging it for home base. It feels natural to see the gap between buildings ahead of you and head right for it, even though you know there's a sheer drop between them. You gauge your trajectory, it's no big deal, you've done it before. You're chugging your way to the ledge, smirking. That is, until a concussion grenade goes off somewhere behind you and launches you prematurely into the atmosphere. There's a wall of heat behind you, sizzling, and you only have a few seconds to realize you weren't gonna make it, and then you were just falling, dead weight. It's an embarrassment. Somebody had probably picked your lousy ass up and carried you to the infirmary. You hope you didn't scream or cry like a girl on the way down. You'd hate for your teammates to have to see such a spectacle. "Don't vhorry," said the Medic, and his hands were gone from your body, causing you to open your eyes again to find him with his back turned, "I vhill haff you better in no time." When he turns back around he's got a pair of medical shears in his hand. His face is mostly passive as he adjusts his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. It's a dignified nose, it suits him. You think to yourself that he has quite a handsome face. You take a second to thank god that there's a dedicated Medic on site, and that you didn't have to get sewn up by a big Russian or stapled back together by a beer-swilling Texan. He comes towards you with the shears. "Hey, what're you doing?" "Removing your pants," he said. "I need access to ze vhound." Your eyes bulge open, but you watch him cut your pants off, until you see how bloody and mangled your legs are, and then you turn your head sharply to stare at the wall. You find yourself gripping your right wrist with your other hand, you suppose it hurts, too. You hiss in pain a little as the doctor maneuvers your limbs. You don't want to see what he's doing. "Ach. I must reset ze bones, und zen I can heal you." "Can't I get something for the pain, doc? It hurts." Of course it hurt. He pauses what he's doing. Please, lord, you hope he gives you something. He goes away and in a few moments he comes back and takes your arm away from your clutches, making you twitch, jerking your hips and fucking up your legs, and you cry out in agony. You do your best not to yelp and whimper as wave after wave of gut wrenching dread fills you to the brim. Trying your damdest to pretend there aren't tears welling in the corners of your eyes, you feel like this unhappy event will go on forever. "Mmn. Does zis hurt?" He moves your arm. From under your eyelids the whole world is dark, but full of savage, red misery. Instead of sobbing, you yell at him. "Yes, god damn it!" The Medic's brow arches at you, but he thumbs the inside of your elbow, finds a vein, and sticks you with a needle. He watches as your features slowly relax, the lines on your face lessening as the drug does its magic. The blades shredding your legs disappear as everything becomes melty and soft. This time you don't pass out so much as drift off into la-la land while the good doctor does his own magic. When you wake up for the second time, your breathing is much more even, and again, sensation creeps back within range slowly. You sit up on your elbows and look around, eyes bleary. The Medic is sitting at his desk, just a few feet away, his head down for a few seconds before he notices you. It smells like sanitizing chemicals and ozone and metal. He must have used the medigun on you. You check your legs. They're practically good as new. He gets up and comes to your side. He takes out a pen light and flicks it back and forth before your eyes, and his face is like a stone as he processes you. He ends every visit this way. The Medic makes a note on a clipboard and takes a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope from a drawer. You sniff and watch him curiously as he inflates it on your arm. "So," you begin, feeling awkward with the silence, trying for a bit of conversation with this acutely private man, "no long term damage?" "Shh." You purse your lips and wait for him to finish. He scribbles down a few more notes and sidles up next to the table. He gently pulls up your legs so that your knees are bent. The feel of his cool surgical gloves on your skin is...interesting, to say the least. Acknowledging that you've got no pants on makes you blush a little bit. He sees it, and chuckles lightly. His fingers move along the joints of your ankles, from tendon into muscle. His palm wraps around your calf and for an instant the movement of his hand around the sensitive skin of your knee seems insanely intimate, and sends shivers up your spine. "You'll be back to capturing ze point in no time," he said, suddenly balling his hands, straightening, and stepping away. "Doc." He clears his throat. "Ja? Vhat is it?" "Thanks." You shrug, to yourself, because he isn't looking, and try to ease the tension with a nervous quip, "What can I do to repay you?" It seems like people always say that, and it always sounds stupid, but you say it anyway. The doctor turns only slightly and looks at you, and his his eyes flicker over you with an intensity you've never seen before. His mouth opens, but he thinks better of it, and he closes his mouth. You want to know what that is, what that look means, and so you endeavor forth. You slide your legs off the table and sit on the edge, swinging your feet out so that you can look at the light scars left behind by the medigun. "I mean it," you say, lowering your voice and looking up at the Medic through your lashes. The doctor's back is to you, he is a vision of white in his lab coat, but you can see that he is all hard angles and lines beneath it, his shoulders hunched a bit. "Zat is not necessary. You may go." His voice is a bit weary. You feel brazen. He's very attractive, you've though so for a while, and you've got a soft spot for the stern quiet guy, so reserved, so refined in comparison with the others. He raises his hand and rubs his temple a few times, then rakes his fingers through his hair and presses his fingers into his neck, rolling his head forward. You lower yourself down from the table, bare feet ghosting over the frigid linoleum floor to stand just beside him. You put your hand on his arm, and you can feel muscle there, and can't help but squeeze it. You let your hand move upwards towards his shoulder, fingers exploring him through the heavy material of his jacket. "But I want to," you murmur. Your legs are a part of you, and you're thankful. Yes, it's his job to heal you and the others, but still...anyone who keeps you stitched up when there wasn't a hospital for hundreds of miles around deserves some recognition sometimes. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't withdraw either. "How about I give you a neck rub," you suggest. Before he can shut you down, you spot the metal stool nearby and hook your foot around the lower rung, dragging it over. You place it behind the Medic and pull him back and down onto it, and keep your hands planted on his shoulders. He begins to protest, but your fingers dig into the tight bunches of muscle at the base of his neck and he "aaahs" into your touch. It's a sigh laced with pleasure, laced with pain. You lean forward an whisper, "Relax, doc. Relax." The doctor heaves a much bigger sigh and relents, dropping his shoulders slightly and dipping his head forward to allow you more access. "I haff a mile of papervork to tend to..." "You can get to it later," you tell him. "Christ, you're tense." His broad shoulders are hardened with tension, unending long days on the battlefield and long nights in his office, researching, or filling out documentation. You can't believe how muscular he is, beneath his mantle of medical precision. You work on his traps, pinching them and trying to hide your smile as he winces and hisses at it, but does not tell you to stop. You knead and smooth and press him into a wad of putty. You get satisfaction from the periodic little grunts and sighs of pleasure he emits. You slow your ministrations and work outwards, towards his deltoids, and then back up his neck, working there for a while, until you find yourself really getting into it. You slide your fingers up into his hair, and he moans. That makes you hesitate, but only for a moment. Your body is pressing up against his, and when you realize this, you don't bother to correct it. Instead of stopping, or patting his shoulder to signify that the favor was done, you bring yourself even closer to the man, and you smell his aftershave, because your nose is grazing his cheek. You breathe ever so faintly against the shell of his ear, and then brush your lips there. He is stock still, waiting for more feedback. You nip at his ear, and close your eyes to this feeling. You let your hands wander around to the front of his chest, fingers splayed over his collarbones. You place a few very soft, airy kisses against his neck, and find the buttons of his coat, undo them, and then his tie. The smooth fabric whirs as you pull it free and undo a few more buttons on his shirt. His hand takes yours and he pulls you aside, and for a second you think you're screwed, he's gonna throw you out, but then he draws you nearer. The movement is so small and slow and shy, you start to blush even despite yourself. He looks at you with such softness, unsure of you, and unsure of himself. He pulls you just close enough and moves in, just barely places his lips on yours, and then retreats a half-beat to look at you again. Your heart is thumping fast, one corner of your mouth quirking up slightly, but you suppress it because you don't want him to stop. He leans in again, experimentally, and kisses you again. This time it becomes something more. His larger hands fit easily around your waist, and he pulls you into his lap. His kiss builds, becomes frenetic and needy, and you find yourself helpless against his will, but it's a good kind of helpless. His tongue invades your mouth and slides over yours, tangles around it briefly before he disengages and starts applying maddened kisses to your cheeks and then down the column of your neck, making you gasp. His breath his hot on your neck, and you trace your hands down his abdomen, finding yet more firm muscles there, and this seems to spur him on. Your hands wander down farther. You're glad to see that you're not the only one who's aroused. His cock is hard through his trousers, and you press into it, drawing a grunt out of him, and you quite approve of this. His mouth crashes against yours again, and your teeth click together. His gloved hands dip under the hem of your shirt and you let out a burst of awkward, sudden laughter. He looks at you, wholeheartedly confused, maybe a little hurt. "Your gloves," you say, and reach down to draw his hands out and remove the cold, slippery things one at a time, tossing them over your shoulder. "Now..." You snake your arms around his neck and press your forehead to his. "Let's continue." He resumes, and his hands, one on your breast and the other on your back, are pulling you tighter, are softer than you'd imagined they'd be. He strokes and palms and even tweaks your nipple, making you groan into his mouth. He lifts you by your bottom, groping it through your panties, and lifts you up onto the nearby countertop, knocking over a tall canister full of cotton swabs, which rolls and clatters onto the floor. Other things on the countertop shift around you as he pushes you insistently against the cabinets. Your fingers pull at his belt and manage to unbuckle it and further undo his pants. You spread your legs wide around his waist. He sucks on and tongues your neck for a while, and his five o'clock shadow bristles just a bit. Tracing up to your jaw and capturing your earlobe between his teeth, he shocks you with his boldness. He pulls aside your underwear and slides his fingers into your pussy. You're good and wet, and he rubs his long fingers up and down, spreading your slickness around as the heel of his hand cups you, pressing against your pubic bone. He tugs on your ear and then kisses his way back to your mouth, plunging his tongue against yours as he drives two fingers deep into you. The Medic guides your hand, which had flown up to clutch the collar of his lab coat, back down to his hips. Your fingers struggle for a second to work their way beneath the band of his boxers and pull them down out of the way, but you manage to wrap your hand around his cock. He beckons his fingers within you, pressing urgently against your g-spot, while his palm and the movement of his hand presses against your clit and sends vibrations up the root of you and into your skull, fireworks going off, vessels dilating, blood engorging. You work on his shaft with your hands, and his skin feels velvety and warm. You use your other hand to cup and softly squeeze his balls. He finds you sufficiently aroused and spares no time in moving your hands out of the way, grabbing the base of his dick, and slipping it inside of you. You grab onto his jacket and grit your teeth together. It's not quite painful but the sudden invasion is tight, and it takes a few seconds to ease into it, and all the while he's slowly rocking his hips into you. You give him the go-ahead by rocking back against him, and you nod at him when he glances at you. Sweat is beading on his forehead, and you find it impossible not to kiss and taste it. He thrusts into you, deeply, full of some repressed and demanding need. You are yielding and let him set the pace, expecting him to be fast and rough. He fucks you clamorously, hands grabbing and scrambling over your skin. It's uncoordinated, it's messy, but it's not careless. He bucks up against you, hard, but not so hard that it rattles you. You reach around his hips and squeeze, feel his ass flexing as he draws out and then buries himself into you, over and over, deep, hard, but slowly. His cock is thick and gives a fine feeling of fullness, and every few pumps he manages to thrust against that cluster of nerves at the front of your cunt and it feels like each time it happens a bulb of pleasure chemicals bursts somewhere and floods your brain with indescribable multi-colored flashbangs. Medic jerks your shirt all the way up and sucks a nipple into his mouth. He swirls his tongue over it and grazes it with his teeth. "Oh, shit," you groan, having to reach up and grab onto the cabinet. He digs his face into the crook of your neck and you can hear his grunts, though they are muffled. You're pretty close, but not there yet, and you guess he might beat you to it. You rub your own fingers into your clit to take things up a notch. The Medic's hands are on your ass, forcing you impossibly closer, beginning to speed up his efforts. The cabinets, the supplies within them, your heart, your head, everything is pounding and thumping. Your toes curl as you wrap your legs around him and really ramp up your breathing, pushing yourself ever closer to that ledge. On the other side of this jump, there's just stars and inky blackness and woozy, oozy goodness. You feel your hips twitching, a familiar seizing of muscles in your low back, and rising from deep inside is a cascade of warmth that overwhelms you. As you shake yourself into pieces, the Medic lets out a few final, frenzied gasps, and slams into you a few more times, until finally stopping, lodged against you, unfettering his seed inside you. His hot breath on your neck, your parted lips trembling, the two of you ride it all out. When he draws back somewhat, you smile at him. He looks a bit sheepish, but mostly just dazed, or tired. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't haff..." "It's okay," you say, shrugging, still catching your breath. You and he both know that it's corporate policy to take the pill. He's the one who gives it to you every month. Before now it had been an incredibly awkward exchange, but you soften at his look of concern. You crane your neck and kiss him gently, not only because your lips are swollen and tender, but because he's just so darned cute. His eyebrows raise at this, maybe he's suddenly mortified by the whole thing, but it doesn't matter. You don't regret it. The doctor licks his lips when you break away, and delicately retracts, pulling out of you, reaching for a hand towel and cleaning himself up. He steps away, turning slightly, pulling up his boxers and his pants, buckling his belt. You remain on the counter, adjusting your panties and watching him re-button his shirt, looking around for his tie. He finds it on the floor, picks it up, and then finally looks over at you. He stares and his face is thoughtful. "Danke shön," he muttered, and you could see a trace blush creeping across his stark features. You shrug, and look down at your legs, at the flesh he'd knitted back together where bone had been jutting through. There was a strip of skin there, whiter than the rest, a new, pale scar. You made the jump once, you figure you can make it again some other time. If you fell...well...you'd figure it out later.