>>14 Heh, yeah I think between JLI and early 90's cartoons, I'll always see the Token Russian Guy as being the one who's all about teamwork. >>16 Thanks! I'm still a little embarrassed by the "last stand of pudding" because it sounds way too forced, but if it gave you a giggle, I'm glad. Pretty sure I've finished editing this one. I'm going to post it and then suddenly remember whatever it was I meant to change. Anyway. Needs Moar Medic. ________________________________________________________ Chapter 6 The ancient pipes sang as water gushed into the allegedly-stainless steel sink. Medic ran his hands under the water on autopilot, not taking his usual care. What was a little blood, after all? Except for that spot, right there. Ugh, under his thumbnail too, in spite of the gloves, in spite of the Respawn. And then it would just sit there for weeks, old blood, old contaminant on his skin, right against his pores, getting older, growing things... Medic did his best impression of Lady Macbeth, losing himself in the maddened ritual while his mind was focused on other matters. Such as the Heavy. And his little speech. How very...unexpected. The pipe quivered, the water slowing to a trickle--one of the others having a post-match shower, no doubt. Medic blinked down at his hands. Yes, well...that was clean enough, then. He did not mind blood on the battlefield or the operating table--quite the contrary, in fact. There was a thrill of seeing another man burst open like a ripe fruit, his organs laid out like so much seeds and pulp, telling a sanguine fortune. To be able to look at the inner workings of the human body as they struggled and strained and slowed. The screams, the pleading, the glistening insides, that copper smell, the warm, sticky liquid everywhere because you were in control, and the sorry misbegotten creature before you knew that now...the blood was important then, coating skin and hair like primitive warpaint. But afterwards, it was just messy. A cooling, stinking, meaningless mess. And Medic couldn't abide a mess. He removed his glasses, neatly folding them on the countertop, and shook the last of the soap from his hands before splashing his face. The cool water brought him back to himself, the smells and tastes of battle fading to a distant chaos, quiet and contained, and eventually distilled down into three words to be included in his next letter to Elsie: We lost today. The letter itself was a thing so pat he could write it in his sleep; the words droned unbidden into his head, a too-oft repeated prayer that had long since become only a collection of syllables--Sept 6, 1967. My Dear Elsie, I hope this finds you well. I miss you and hope I will be able to see you soon. For Christmas holiday, maybe. We lost today. The men on my team are grossly incompetent-- Medic shook his head with an irritated grunt, rubbing at his eyes as he turned the faucet off. His glasses he unfolded and put back on, frowning into the mirror. The Heavy's words came back to him. Disgrace. Shame. He remembered those blue eyes, so cold beneath that heavy brow, and so very...disappointed. Especially, it seemed, when they had met his own. With a growl, he brought his fist down on the countertop, the sharp throbbing adding to his frustration. He was doing his job. The Heavy had no right to tell him otherwise, great brutish oaf that he was. He was a thug--impossibly strong, with muscles that shifted like iron cables under his skin every time he moved, and a frequent, mighty laugh--a jovial, gargantuan destroyer of men, to be certain, but a simple thug nonetheless. A shaved Russian bear with a big gun and little else, and yet that mistake of nature presumed to pass judgment on him? Ridiculous. The man was little more than a meat-shield, and an atrociously demanding one at that. Always he tried to tell Medic where to go on the field, what to do, telling Medic to follow him into absurd odds, telling him to put away his Bonesaw and use his Medigun instead when there were enemies right there. Yes, Heavy's precious Sasha was a very large gun, but did that neanderthal really think Medic was going to walk around unarmed in the thick of a fight and trust that massive goon's bullets instead of his own considerable skills? Really, it was the Heavy's fault that they had lost today. And the Engineer's--what had the man been thinking, building his nest so far back? Surely they'd held more ground than that! And also the Soldier's, diving headlong into a suicide push, to say nothing of the Scout, hiding back in the defense. Pyro certainly hadn't helped matters by getting himself killed. Sniper was clearly useless if he couldn't lay down enough cover-fire to give them a fighting chance, that sot Demoman had likely been too drunk to be any use whatsoever, and as for the Spy, it wouldn't have surprised Medic in the least to find the man had been having a nap under his cloak, or sniggering as they had been slaughtered. He could only hope that RED was taking note of their massive shortcomings and would be sending replacements for the least competent, if nothing else. Honestly, the only man on the field who ever was doing his job properly was... Shame. Disgrace. Every man act like he is own team. Medic sighed and turned the water back on, running his hands under the faucet. Those blue eyes were back, locked onto his. And they wouldn't go away. The Heavy had pulled him from an ill-fated encounter with the BLU Scout, literally imposing his own body between Medic's and what would have been a fatal blast from the boy's shotgun, shrugging off the damage (large and stupid he was, but still, a breath-takingly magnificent specimen in his own right) as his chaingun turned the little nuisance into a chunky pulp even as the BLU team advanced. And then he had carried Medic back for help. Well. That part had been more than a little humiliating, slung over that broad back like a sack of potatoes, to say nothing of the way Heavy had been holding him like some kind of child. Really, there was carrying a fallen comrade, and then there was...that. Humiliating. And pointless. What was it if he died on the field? That was what Respawn was for, after all. But still... A knock on the door pulled him back to his scrubbing. "What do you want?" he snapped, shutting off the faucet with more force than he'd meant to. "Is me, Doctor. I can...come in, please?" Medic's breath stopped at the sound of Heavy's voice. It was one of those uncomfortable moments, like being lost in thought on a train, only to suddenly make eye contact with a stranger, the awkward, dangerous feeling of being caught thinking the wrong thing by the wrong person, having someone walk in on a personal moment. He cleared his throat and shook his head. "If you must." Medic watched in the mirror as the door slowly opened and Heavy shuffled in, shutting the door behind him with care. Strange to see such a big man look so apprehensive, like a child expecting a scolding. Even moreso because not an hour ago, it had been Heavy doing the scolding. Medic did not turn from the mirror, did not glance up to meet those blue eyes. The silence stretched on. "Did you want something, Herr Heavy?" Medic said at last, with an impatient sigh. Heavy still stood with his huge hands clasped in front of him. "Da. I wanted to, eh...ПроÑтите. Er, forgive or..." The Heavy paused, thick brow knit in concentration, one hand raised just a little, searching for the word. "Sorry--no, apple...app...apologize. Is word." He sniffed thoughtfully, frowning, and nodded, apparently satisfied to have found it. "Da. I want to come and apologize." He said it slowly, carefully, as if reciting a code. "About how battle went. And about...t'ings I am saying before. In locker room." Now Medic did turn around, an eyebrow raised. "You are taking it back, then?" he asked. Heavy frowned and shook his head. "Nyet. I mean these t'ings. They are true." He looked up, meeting Medic's gaze with his calm, blue stare, no longer accusing, but solid and honest, and not even a little bit stupid. Medic felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. Heavy sighed and lowered his eyes again, and Medic released a breath he had never meant to have held. "But I am saying them...not so right, I am t'inking. Is hard to...to find right words. And so I say it wrong, and instead make team angry even more. We should feel shame, yes, but I did not mean to make everyone worse." He sighed again and shrugged, massive shoulders shifting under his vest. "I say it wrong." Medic stood there, blinking. Heavy did not move. Medic's eyes darted about, he licked his lips nervously, trying to find the right response. For some reason, a casual acceptance and dismissal didn't seem to be it. After a brittle moment, he nodded. "Nein. No. You did not say it wrong, Herr Heavy." The big man looked up at him again, with a hopeful puppy's gleam in his eyes. Why did it matter so much? Medic didn't know. "English...this is a stupid language to learn anyway, ja? It is very easy to make mistakes, even if one has been studying for many years." "Da, is true." Heavy nodded, and some of the tension broke. The subject wasn't so much changed as it was shifted slightly. Two foreigners' shared frustration with a complicated language--it was almost as safe as talking about the weather. "Doctor must have studied for many years to speak so well." "Since I was a boy." There was a chair nearby, but Medic stopped himself from sitting--what would that be? There was only the one chair. Would the Heavy take it as a cue that Medic was done and leave, or try to sit on the gurney, or stand there awkwardly while Medic sat, just as awkward? Which did he hope would happen? Better to stand, for now. "How long have you known English?" "Ah." Heavy shrugged. "Since RED gives me assignment." Medic blinked. "This assignment?" "Da. Before, I am speaking a little for, eh...contracts." He made a see-sawing motion with his hands. Of course. Contracts. "But then in..." He stopped, squinting up. "In Февраль...eh, early spring, RED tell me: 'You have new assignment in America. will work with team.' And it seems like good time to learn English more well, to speak with others, to...ah, what is word? With people, to speak and understand?" He made another searching gesture, passing one hand over the other, back and forth. "To communicate?" Medic ventured. The Heavy beamed. "Da! Yes! Is word!" He pointed at Medic triumphantly. "So I start learning English more, to communicate with team, on field and off. So we can be, типа, team, da?" "Instead of nine men acting on their own on the battlefield?" Medic murmured. Heavy's bright, broad grin quieted to a small, serious smile. He leaned over, bending his head so he could look Medic in the eye. "Da. Exactly so." He hesitated. "Is why I come to Doctor now, first--ну, one reason." He stopped abruptly, looking upset with himself, then continued, the sad smile back in place. "Doctor...you must trust me. On field. You must listen to me also." Medic opened his mouth for a defensive retort, then found he had none. He said nothing, and Heavy went on. "Is no good for you to run into fight, firing your tiny needles. Is cute, yes, but not so good. We need a Medic--need healing on battlefield so we can be strong." Medic pressed his lips into a thin line and dipped his head, not quite a nod. Heavy straightened, a fierce grin stretching over his face. "You stay near, Doctor. Bullets, knives--these are not your worries. Worry about healing. Sasha and me, we will make sure nobody touches you. You see!" He laughed. "Many BLU cowards will run screaming the next time we meet them. We work together, Doctor, yes?" Heavy held out a massive hand. Medic stared at it for a moment, as though he had forgotten its purpose. His own hand twitched, almost rising to grasp Heavy's, to seal some kind of bargain, flesh against flesh, before he stopped himself and lowered it again, unconsciously rubbing his fingers against his palm. He felt rather than saw the slight, disappointed slump of Heavy's shoulders, the smile slipping from his broad face. Heavy's hand wavered and began to drop. Before it fell completely, Medic surprised himself by raising his chin and meeting Heavy's eyes with a tight grin, the best he could manage. "Ja. Yes. Next time, Herr Heavy," he said. "We will try it your way." Medic felt his smile become less tight as Heavy's grin returned, strangely smug. Heavy tilted his head, regarding Medic with that knowing grin. "Very good, Doctor. I know you are being smart enough to listen. It will be good day." Heavy nodded, pleased. Even as he just barely bit back an indignant retort at the backhanded praise, Medic felt a quick warmth, small but surprising, in the pit of his stomach, seeing that smile. He stopped, blinking it away, and took a deep breath. Childish. The Heavy did not appear to notice. "так, I know you are busy, Doctor." Heavy straightened and reached for the doorknob. "I will leave you to be. Is good talk." He opened the door. Medic wasn't sure what made him speak up. Well-remembered admonishments from boyhood told him to be still, to be silent, to let it go and soon he would have his infirmary back, alone and comfortable, and he had every intention of obeying those warnings, as he always had. But he heard his own voice, speaking over the old memories. "Eigentlich...I am not so busy. Just now." Heavy turned around and met Medic's eyes for a moment, before the smile, the quieter, knowing one returned, slowly. "Ah. Then maybe, Doctor...you would be liking a game of chess?" he offered. "We have board." Medic hesitated, just for long enough to take another deep breath, and nodded, smiling in return. "Ja, I think...that would be nice, yes." ________________________________________________________