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thesimplyluxuriouslife · 5 years

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252: The Characteristics of Being a Late Bloomer, and How Embracing This Gift Could Change the World for Everyone

"By necessity, we late bloomers are on a different, more challenging trajectory. As we travel through life, we encounter obstacles like the push for conformity, the oppression of groupthink, and the pains of self-doubt. But . . . in all these challenges, we find our hidden treasure. We unearth our individuality. We see that a path to excellence, to reaching our true potential, is available to all of us. Within these challenges lies our true power, our covert talents and secret advantages as late bloomers." —Rich Karlgaard, author of Late Bloomers: The Power of Patience in a World Obsesses with Early Achievement.

Unsurprisingly, the new book by Rich Karlgaard spoke to me and offered an abundance of reassurance and exhilaration. If the comments on IG a few weeks ago when I posted an excerpt from the book are any indication, you are or will be as well.

Especially as Americans we greatly celebrate, strive for, and thus put pressure upon ourselves, and either unconsciously or consciously, to figure out our path early, to achieve success quickly and when we don't we make faulty assumptions about what we can contribute which can erode our self-confidence and potentially prevent the gem that resides within us all to be discovered and then shared with the world enabling us to find deep, lasting inner contentment.

Karlgaard's new book is worth reading in-depth, from cover to cover as he delineates the obstacles that our culture currently needs to address with historical details, new studies, multiple anecdotal examples of how indeed the "late bloomer" simply needs time, patience and awareness to blossom at their own time, as well as the most difficult support to refute findings - neurology.

So while I will encourage you to read the entire book, in today's episode/post, I wanted to share with you the characteristics that you might find yourself identifying with when it comes to being a Late Bloomer and not realizing the gift of opportunity you have given yourself to enjoy the rest of your life.

15 Characteristics of a Late Bloomer

1.Curiosity is the late bloomer's fuel

"By its very nature, curiosity demonstrates an independence of mind."

To keep on blooming throughout the entirity of our lives, forever remain curious.

2. We are predisposed to be compassionate

"In facing the ups and downs of life, many late bloomers gain a greater sense of compassion. They show greater reflective thinking, diminished ego-centeredness, and a deeper appreciation of others' challenges."

Because late bloomers have faced struggles along the way, have refrained from conforming at the expense of our social connections and acceptance into "the group", we can more easily put ourselves into the shoes of others, we are more empathetic.

3.Better leadership skills are developed

Due to elevated compassion, workers view leaders more favorably, and combined with "authenticity and integrity", this trifecta of skills "improves retention and employee performance".

4. Resilience is developed and strengthened

"When it comes to developing resilience, the regulation of emotions gives mature people an advantange over the young: 'There is a naturally learnable set of behaviors that contribute to resilience. Those are the behaviors that we gravitate to more and more as we age'."

5. Emotion regulation is easier which cultivates a calmer demeanor which leads to more effectiveness and better relationships

"Our brains are driven to seek calmness as we age. Columnbia University social psychologist Heidi Grant Halvorson claims that calmness is central to happiness . . . research has long established that calm leaders are more effective".

Late bloomers naturally develop the skills necessary to find calmness if we choose to keep exploring, learning, listening and observing what works and what does not. This is where our curiosity helps tremendously leading us to the blooming stage of our lives that is authentic and unique to each of us.

6. Extensive insight

"Our insights are the result of us drawing on our full mental library of experience, patterns, and context, yielding an idea of extraordinary value."

Karlgaard explains that "the right hemisphere [of the brain] matures in childhood; the development of the left is consistent with the development of the prefrontal cortex, which is not fully mature until the mid-twenties". Due to the left-side's difference in development compared to the right, it takes time for us to see the connection of the awesome or unique events, sights and experiences of our lives and make sense of how we can utilize them in our unique way.

7. Navigation of life's ambiguity becomes easier

"Perhaps this is the perfection defintion of wisdom: reasoning and cognition based on knowledge and experience".

In other words, we are not born wise, but so long as we choose to be curious, continue to be life-long learners, we begin to build it. "Wisdom is the ability to see the layers of light that were harder to see when one was younger". And consequently, we have the opportunity to hone our intuition as to how to best navigate our journey even with the unknowns that are presented.

8. More easily determine what's important versus what's trivial

To piggy-back onto #7, because we have acquired knowledge about the world over time and have made the conscious choice to continue to learn, we are then better at discern patterns faster and jump to logical solutions more quickly.

9. A desire to cut the apron strings with your parents

"To fully bloom, we must declare our independence from our family. That doesn't mean we must reject their love . . . it means only that we must reach our own conclusions about what does and doesn't support our blooming."

Creating a healthy culture in which to bloom is analogous to the proper soil and conditions for a plant to flourish. Each plant will need different types of soil, different amounts of sunshine and shade, varying temperatures - some extreme, some moderate, and it all depends on the plant. Unlike the saying, "bloom where you are planted", we should instead get out of the soil we have been planted in and explore to discover where we truly thrive.

10. Adult peer pressure is real, and if you've felt it and tried successfully or not to not succumb, you may be a late bloomer

"Some of this [peer group] influence can be healthy and positive, as when we join a hiking club or sign up for a program to quit smoking. But not every peer push leads us to a better version of ourselves; not all communities support growth and positive change."

To break free from our peer group, even when we don't know why it feels uncomfortable or wrong (but we know it does), is not easy and it takes great inner strength to do so. However, it does become easier because we eventually begin to feel more in tune with our true selves, we feel a burden lift, we feel our energy surge because we are no longer trying to be or do something that isn't truly in line with what we can offer the world.

11. Societal pressure to conform is limiting to our true potential

"[Today's media] also promote cultural, racial or gender biases, either through stereotyping roles and behaviors, or under- or overrepresentation of minorities. And repeated exposure to media content can lead viewers to begin to accept media portrayals as representations of reality."

From the media's portrayal of how to socially engage, what dating should look like, what children should be doing at certain ages based on their gender, the values are repeatedly shared and included in endless amounts of media such as video games, movies, television, newspapers, magazines, books and radio, and since it is a passive medium, unless we are critical thinkers questioning everything we receive, it is easy to accept what is applauded as normal and what we should adhere to regarding our life's journey.

12. Letting go of comparisons

"Mass media ask us to compare our body shape, sex life, marriage, house, car, family and community to unattainable television versions of perfection. Social media ask us to compare our own commonplace or even boring reality against the curated accounts of how absoutely wonderful someone else's life is — people we know!"

When we stop comparing and start celebrating, we liberate ourselves and enable the opportunity to observe our own awesomeness without the outside world's close-minded criticism or limited acceptance.

The author shared something that I think is worth sharing here as a reminder that there are many paths to success, to reaching a goal, to attaining contentment. He writes, "There are always many ways to achieve a goal, gain expertise, or find success. In sports or music, they are easy to see . . . But it's not as easy to see multiple paths for success in most endeavors . . . [which leads to confusion. As a result,] we default to following norms and take the road everyone else is taking". And these paths to success have as much to do with professional "success" as well as personal "success". Your definition of a life of contentment, as I have said many times before on the blog and in my books, will most likely be very different than mine, but that doesn't mean we both cannot feel the contentment that is spoken about and written about that provides deep satisfaction and peace.

It is important that we all recognize that each of us will bloom at a different time.

"Each of us deserves the opportunity to bloom in our own way."

When we do this there are many invaluable benefits:

1.We protect ourselves, and others we encourage to bloom, in our own time from the consequences of disappoitnment or failure. (this doesn't mean there won't be bumps along the way, but it reminds us that it takes time to understand where we are headed and why)

2.We learn how to work with self-doubt and let it be our superpower.

"To bloom, we all must learn not to fear self-doubt but to embrace it as a normally occurring opportunity for growth and improved performance . . . The key to harnessesing self-doubt starts at the very core of our individual beliefs about ourselves . . . self-efficacy".

3. We strengthen our self-efficacy

Self-efficacy is an individual's confidence in their ability to accomplish what they set out to do.

4. Obstacles begin to be seen as opportunities to grow rather than road-blocks

"While you may feel a general sense of self-doubt . . . [you] proceed anyway".

5. Improved positive self-talk

"Positive self-talk can improve our performance by helping us regulate our emotions, thoughts and energy".

When we begin to see skill-sets that render positive results, we are more likely to invest in them. For example, positive self talk leads to more confidence, a strengthening our self-efficacy and thus improved performance with whatever task is in front of us. And so we continue to practice positive self-talk and it becomes stronger with this skill rendering more positive outcomes.

6. Stronger, healthier relationships

When you bloom, gravitate toward those who celebrate your blooming, and for those who initially are not, give them a moment to understand why your blooming makes them uncomfortable. Depending upon the person, they may not realize that their discomfort with your growth is a reflection of their disappointment in what they feel they could have achieved but didn't. This is all about them. Some will grow from this and remain in your life, others will not, and you will need to move on. But all of the skills you have acquired and applied will help lead you toward building not only healthier relationships with others, but a healthier, less critical relationship with yourself.

7. Excellence will arrive when you let your curiosity take over

"When [curiosity takes over], a sense of exploration also takes over. I get in the zone, and I go for it. I feel pulled, not pushed — pulled by a beautiful power I cannot explain."

8. The courage to repot when necessary

"When it comes to repotting, late bloomers have a distinct advatnage over early bloomers. We're naturally curious and resilient. We're not afraid to follow a different path or break free of convention. We genuinely want to see what's around the corner or over the hill. These late bloomer strengths enable —even propel— the change we need to find the right people and the right place to help us thrive."

Once you have a clearer understanding of who you are and what cultures and communities are best suited for you to bloom, you will have strengthened, as was mentioned above in the first list, an awesome skill set. This skill set will be your bedrock for being able to repot when and if it is necessary.

"We need to give ourselves a break. We need to recognize and celebrate the fact that we're all different, with different skill sets, developmental profiles and backgrounds and that each of us will forge a different path toward blooming."

Being a late bloomer is most certainly something to celebrate, and when we "change our story, we can change our behavior and even our life".

Let me leave you with this lasting thought from the book that resonately powerfully with me:

"If we're not forced to conform to standard timetables for success, we can —and will—bloom on our own schedules. And we can do it with a deeper sense of mission and a greater feeling of contentment. What we accomplish in the marathon of life depends on our persistence, our patience, and an ability to see ourselves as we really are. Our cultural obsession with youthful talent, with early achievement, distracts us from this simple truth. . . . our late bloomer power is different. It is the power to renounce what's supposed to happen in life and intead embrace what actually happens in life, with its ups and downs, twists and turns. It's the power to explore and experience, to be an individual. It's the power that comes with knowing and valuing ourselves."

Petit Plaisir

~The Gown: A Novel of the Royal Wedding by Jennifer Robson

~read my review and reason for recommendation here.

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almosthumanophelia · 7 years

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Defective

Invader Zim Fic

Words: 2060

((WARNING! Very angsty. Heavy discussion of Zim’s defective status.

Found this little thing I wrote a while ago just sitting around and it still hurts my heart so I’m sharing the hurt.

@zimisnotdefective I believe this is what you wanted to see...))

"So not to worry, my Tallest. My next plan to defeat the humans will definitely destroy them once and for all."

Zim hated reporting these failed plans to his leaders. It wounded his self pride. Any self-respecting Irken Invader with the technical and strategic knowledge he possessed should have obliterated Earth ages ago. He knew it, and the Tallest knew it. Hell, all of Irk and half of the rest of the galaxy probably knew it too.

Yet somehow they never seemed surprised to hear of his failures. Nor were they ever particularly interested to hear from him. This time was no exception.

"Yes, Zim, I'm sure it will," Tallest Red told him in a patronizing tone as he monitored some unseen screens. He seemed far more preoccupied with whatever he was looking at than Zim's words.

Zim caught the barely audible voice of Purple saying, "Speak for yourself."

He could feel his fist automatically forming behind his back. They thought he never heard what they said behind his back, and occasionally to his face. But he always did.

It's not as if he could say anything to them. The Invader code of conduct demanded absolute respect for the Tallest at all times. No matter what they did to you. He had to accept any verbal abuse dealt to him, or face the consequences. The best he could hope for now was to end the call quickly.

"Will there be anything else, my Tallest?"

"No, no, you just get back to HEY DONUTS!" Red quickly got sidetracked as he and Purple expressed their enthusiasm for the newly arrived snacks. They left Zim's view, and after a few seconds of waiting, he assumed he was dismissed and hung up the call.

Left in the silence of his base to think, he focused his eyes on the controls for the screen, his magenta eyes narrowing slightly. Had they been anyone other than the Tallest, he would have called them back and started screaming, demanding their respect. He was an Invader, after all. Ask any race in the galaxy, and they would tell you that they knew better than to joke at an Irken Invader's expense.

But that was just it, wasn't it? He was a joke to them. He always had been. As much as he pretended he wasn't, and he put on a front convincing everyone of his high levels of self-esteem, that was all it was. A front, a facade, a masquerade. When derogatory whispers followed you wherever you went, it was difficult to have any self-esteem whatsoever. And the whispers, the ones that had dogged him since his smeethood, called him all sorts of things. Defective was chief among them.

Zim knew what it meant to be considered a defective Irken. Your PAK was faulty, the encoded data was corrupted, and you were either a waste of matter or a danger to your race, or both. It had never been proven in his case, of course. And he vehemently denied such accusations every time they arose. Doing anything else would be suicide. Defective Irken were almost uniformly condemned to full erasure from the collective, complete with deactivated PAKs, functionally leaving them to die. His sense of self-preservation was far too strong to ever allow himself to entertain such thoughts when he knew where they would lead.

But always, in the back of his mind, he wondered. Could they be right? His difficulties in conquering planets, in finishing his projects, even in staying focused and free of emotion - they all were common indicators. Even he didn't always feel in control of his own actions. The rampage of destruction that had gotten him banished in the first place had felt so surreal, as if someone else were making him do all those things. Looking back, he had never meant to go that far. And there were so many other incidents like that scattered throughout his life. Maybe those were glitches in his programming. Or maybe those were glitches causing him to dwell on the matter at all.

The logic chain made his head hurt. He gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut for a minute as his hands went to the sides of his head. No, he couldn't think that way. If he for one moment truly believed he was defective, then he was defective. And to accept that meant accepting he was as worthless as the others said he was.

Chores. He needed to do chores. Anything to busy his mind. His PAK needed some basic circuitry tune-ups. That was simple enough to do.

Making his way over to the nearest laboratory table, Zim had a few cables connect to his PAK and remove it, setting it on the table in front of him. At the same time, additional cables, used as a temporary life support while he worked on his PAK, connected to his spine where the metal hemisphere once was. Perfect. Now he could work indefinitely.

A few tools was all it took for him to get started. Zim found the repetitive motions of his circuit work easy to follow. Disconnect, check the wires, replace, reconnect, repeat. Focusing on this small feat of engineering was already helping to clear his mind. This, at least, was something he was good at. He had always prided himself on his ability to manipulate technology.

The minutes ticked by, and Zim soon had his upgrades complete. He nodded in satisfaction. Now the PAK would process data just the tiniest bit quicker.

Unbidden, a few wayward thoughts began to creep into his mind. Why stop there? Why couldn't he just rip out the circuits altogether and replace them with faster, better ones? And while he was at it, why couldn't he probe deeper into the PAK's inner workings? Maybe he could discover the malfunctions that caused him so much trouble.

Or maybe he could even fix whatever it was that made him seem defective.

He stared at the PAK. His tools were still in his hands, and he hasn't closed it up yet. It would be so easy to just reach inside and tweak a few things. But one wrong move, one misstep, and he could die. The PAK was a combined brain and life support. If Zim so much as touched the wrong wires, he could render himself a drooling vegetable, or suffocate because his lungs stopped functioning, or something even worse.

His hand shook slightly, and soon his entire body was shaking with it. For once in his life, he was really afraid. Just thinking about all the horrific ways in which damaging his PAK could destroy him was making him uneasy.

And yet, his hand hovered over the open panel, moving ever closer. He had to try, didn't he? Anything was better than living his life as a joke, an outcast thrown aside like last week's garbage. He was so tired of living this way. He didn't care how he changed, he just needed to change.

The spanner he had been holding clinked slightly against the metal shell of the PAK, and he blinked. It had snapped him out of a reverie, and he looked down at his gloved hand. The tool was causing a slight metallic echo as his hand trembled.

All at once, Zim felt a wave of nausea and horror hit him as it dawned on him what he was about to do. He immediately pulled his hand, and the spanner, back from the panel. Just as quickly, he threw the spanner across the room, not caring that it hit his consoles and equipment with a few loud clangs. He frantically pressed a few buttons to reinstall his PAK, then doubled over, arms curled around his midsection. He hardly noticed it reconnect, and it hardly mattered anyway.

Had he really been so ready to risk his life? Without thorough schematics of a PAK that he was sure he didn't have, he had no hope of making successful adjustments to his personality or complex thought processes. He knew that. And yet he had almost tried it anyway.

He crumpled further, curling up on the floor and pressing his hands to his head, ignoring the discomfort he caused himself by pressing on his antennae too hard. Whimpers began to force themselves from his throat, and his tiny body only shook more.

Thoughts were flooding his brain. If he even attempted such a thing, surely he had to be defective. There was no other explanation. All his failures, all his shortcomings, they all added up now. It all made sense. He had never amounted to anything because he never could amount to anything. It didn't matter how hard he tried or how much he wished he was different. He was wrong, he was fundamentally, irreversibly wrong. He shouldn't even have been allowed to live in the first place. The very fact that he existed at all was disgusting. He didn't deserve it. He deserved to be wiped.

The whimpers grew louder and tears burned in his eyes. His fingers dug into the skin over his skull and he started to rock back and forth on the cold metal floor. Why was he like this? Why did these things always come back to plague him? Every time he overheard the Tallest comment on his failures, and every time he could sense one of his kin laughing at him, this was inevitably where he ended up. The injustice of it all made him want to scream. He never asked to be made this way.

Soon he was screaming. But the screaming was mixed with choked crying as tears poured from his eyes and the convulsive sobs wracked his body. All the while, one word kept ringing through his head.

Defective. Defective. Defective defective defective defective defective.

It hurt, it hurt. Everything hurt. His antennae, his spooch, his eyes, his mind. It all physically hurt. Everything he was feeling was just too much. He found himself almost wishing he had shorted out his PAK after all, just to spare himself feeling all of this. But no, he wasn't brave enough to even try. What use was he?

His brain was screaming at him, and he screamed back. There were no words, only shrill noises born of pain. There was no greater pain than this, than knowing what he really was. He was a broken, useless thing. A defective, a monstrosity, a waste of skin and organs. Every inch of him was wrong, and that had to be why it hurt so much. The pain was unbearable now, and all he could think was make it stop, please, anyone or anything, just find him and make it stop.

But nobody did.

Zim didn't emerge from his base for two days after that episode. When he did, his steps were more cautious, more slow. He told the Skool he had been sick, and why wouldn't they believe him? They had no reason to care any more beyond that.

Even Dib had noticed his attitude shift. Zim's unwillingness to respond quite as well to his taunts had left the boy confused.

"Zim, what's wrong with you?" Dib said it in a mostly puzzled tone, tinged with contempt. But there was a slight concern underlying it.

What was wrong? Where should he start?

It didn't matter. Even if he were to tell Dib what was wrong, the child would never understand, not really.

Zim flashed his trademark smirk and assumed an air of superiority for his reply. "Nothing at all, pitiful Earth monkey. I am clearly amazing to my core. Not that I could say the same for you. You might want to have that big head of yours checked out."

"My head is not big!" Dib was exasperated and annoyed now, and stalked off, clearly satisfied with Zim's answer.

Zim fidgeted his gloved hands slightly as Dib left. For just a moment, he regretted being so harsh. But it was better if nobody got too close to him, given his unsurpassed abilities to cause collateral damage. Until he could get himself in proper functioning order, he couldn't afford to care. He couldn't afford to present himself as anything less than completely superior. So he would keep parroting how brilliant he was, how fantastic and so much better than everyone else he was.

Maybe if he kept saying those things, he would one day believe them.

#munwritesfics #invader zim #zim #my writing #((oops my hand slipped and I wrote a giant piece of Zim angst and feels lookie there))#((cleary posting this late at night because IZ has all control of my life now))

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phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 7 years

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TF2Jam, Fanfic in Progress

[Mostly unedited. Btw. Not sure if it’ll make the deadline, but I’ll keep writing it anyway. I should have started when the clock did but no... I am a born procrastinator] Chapters 1 & 2. Also tumblr removed all the italics???

No Quick-Fix for the Common Cold

- - -

Chapter 1: Deck the Halls, Interrogate the Smissletoe

Each and every mercenary, RED or BLU, had signed an ironclad contract before commencing their indefinite period of service at Fortress Industries. Each sheaf of paper was exceedingly long, riddled with fine print, and had contingencies for every situation; and they did mean EVERY situation. From everyday battle procedures and expectations; through to clauses concerning unanticipated, supernatural, or permanently-fatal events. It also guaranteed specific wages, terms of activating emergency leave, and annual holiday allocations.

Given the diversity of the gathered personnel, it was fair to say that only holidays of significant religious or international importance were granted to the teams, via their generally tight-fisted employers. As such, many American-based holidays, such as the fourth of july and thanksgiving, tended to be celebrated on base with teammates… rather than with family or non-mercenary friends.

Not that all the men, or Pyro, had the option to take advantage of permitted leave time. At the most, allocated holiday periods provided exactly one week of leave. Meaning, in layman’s terms, that a team member had to make it from base, to their designated and pre-approved location, then back again... all within the space of seven days. While some could catch flights or trains to their destinations within a reasonable amount of time, to ensure festivities with family and friends alike, many international mercenaries could not.

There were many reasons, of course. Heavy was unable to return to see his family without significant travel time and infiltration techniques being required; as he was still a wanted man, for escaping the Gulags. Likewise, Medic was entirely disinclined to return to Germany during holidays; and if questioned he would respond that there was no one waiting at home for him, save perhaps the authorities, who took a dim view of his medical methods of revenge against former oppressors.

Engineer often took Pyro home with him, for the holidays; he and the firebug had a good rapport going on, and it seemed the arsonist behaved well enough around the Texan’s family to be allowed to stay. Mask and suit on, as always. Otherwise they might have had to stay on base with the others; as, like Soldier, they did not technically have anywhere else to go, or anyone waiting for them. As it stood, Engineer was still working on trying to get the violently american military man to come and stay at his ranch, during the holiday season; because staying on base all the time had to get boring.

Demoman tended to aim to go home for the longer holiday periods; otherwise the trip simply wasn’t worth it. Sometimes he’d drag one of the others along, and they’d come back talking about whatever insane adventure they’d been on. More than once, they’d returned to base battered, bruised and sporting some evidence of a supernatural battle. More recently, his favoured companion was Sniper; whom the Scotsman knew for a fact, had neither home nor kin, and was in sore need of a change of scenery given everything that had happened in the last little while.

Scout, on the other hand, was almost always off like a shot whenever a holiday arose. The kid of the group had his mother, seven older brothers, six sisters-in-law, one older brother’s ‘live-in-not-boyfriend’, and a truly obscene amount of nieces and nephews to go see. Even the fact that Spy periodically turned up and interjected himself into the scenario of organised entropy, often stealing the majority of Scout’s mother’s attention, was not enough to dampen the runner’s spirits in relation to festivities and familial interactions.

He’d rush off for the earliest flight available, and explode back onto base a hair’s breadth before midnight on the last day; gushing about everyone at home, and showering the rest of the mercenaries in candid polaroid pictures whether they wanted to see them or not.

All the travelling involved never seemed to dampen his enjoyment of the situation; and he’d remain highly energised for the foreseeable future, which tended to turn the tide of battles in their favour.

Even if it made mornings far more unbearable for their night-owl inclined mercenary members. No one wants to be the target of that much perky before they’ve had their coffee of a morning; least of all Sniper, who often bore the brunt of it, given his ability to make noncommittal noises of vague affirmation in all the right moments whether he was listening to the verbal deluge or not.

Still, it was an anticipated event. Something familiar you could set your Mann Co. watch by.

~)0(~

This year, however, when Smissmas had rolled around; everything had been different.

The members of RED had only just been officially rehired by Fortress Industries after… all that Australium nonsense, just a few weeks before Thanksgiving; which meant they’d all spent the holiday together, slightly awkwardly trying to slip back into the familiar rhythms of camaraderie and cohabitation. Which had not been quite as easy as anticipated.

It wasn’t the slightly-singed turkey dinner that did it, however; but through the intervention of the perpetually-jovial-or-no-god-will-save-you Engineer, something close to cohesion was beginning to gel the RED team back together.

Though everything was still a bit awkward between them all; just as it had been back when being a team of mercenary roommates was new, unfamiliar and untested. It seemed so long ago, and yet here they were again.

Where there was once a pattern of behaviours that melded together and let each mercenary live their eccentricities in harmony with other team members; there was now a vague entropy, with clashes and conflicts caused by the returning REDs all trying to readapt to base life. Although many were still stuck in the behaviours they’d developed when away. Not all of them particularly pleasant to bear witness to, either.

Sniper kept accidentally sleeping half the day, due predominantly to the time differential between hemispheres, and then trying to shower at the time Spy usually claimed the bathroom; resulting in a loud altercation every single morning at 4am. Soldier, on the other hand, was back to his five am wake-up calls and drills; much to everyone’s frustrations. Engineer would spend all night awake, clanking away at some invention or other, completely forgetting he wasn’t in his own sound-proofed lab at home; and often got quite riled up when confronted about it by the sleep-deprived mercenaries. He tended to back down if you produced a sleepy Pyro or Scout, who tended to have that air of sad vulnerability about them when they were overtired. The other mercenaries found it rather adorable, in all honesty; but they valued their lives enough not to mention it.

Heavy wasn’t talking much anymore, trodding about stoically as if having such small amenities once more was entirely beneath him after the robust, mann-sized utilities of his homeland. Similarly abnormal was the manner in which Medic was uncharacteristically isolating himself from the others. Not a single word of future experiments, or mandatory physicals, had passed the man’s lips in casual conversation or during dinner conversations. In fact, he barely deigned to be present.

Something was wrong between the pair, but no one else knew quite how to come at the situation tactfully; without being shot down before they’d uttered the first syllable. So far, the unspoken majority felt that Spy would eventually get around to dealing with it eloquently, or through blackmail… whatever worked.

Pyro was turning everything and anything they could get their hands on, into glorious flames. Usually at some absurd time of day or night, when someone would have to drop everything to find an extinguisher in time. The scent of charred surfaces and fabrics seemed to permeate the base; and you never knew when you’d roll over and wake up to that eerie gas mask just staring at you, silently.

It had taken ages for them to get used to Pyro seeking someone out for comfort, late at night, before; and now it was almost impossible, given the six months wherein none of them had had such a concerning nocturnal visitor. The biggest concern was not actually waking up when Pyro sought you out… as the arsonist tended to try to get your attention by setting sheets aflame. It was causing some tension in the ranks; when what little sleep they could grab, was ended by the crackle and pop of your uvet going up in smoke.

In fact, the only two that seemed closest to normal functioning, bar the occasional sleep deprivation, were the Demoman and Scout.

The former was not drinking, and actually spent significant time in the training rooms trying to work himself out of the despondent complacency he’d developed at home; while jobless and facing the perpetual scorn of his mother. It had not been easy.

Demo was the one who tried to keep the peace while the transition was ongoing. Perhaps trying a little too hard, as he’d often end up exhausted after defusing small spats and squabbles all day long. Honestly, the only major frustration for many of the other mercenaries, was that the man tended to hog the television most nights; although it wasn’t Demo’s fault that his favourite serial just so happened to clash with the Star Trek schedule.

After much debate, RED decided that they would simply have to buy a second television next time someone went into town.

On the other hand, Scout, having spent far too much time in an enclosed cell with Spy, had taken to expressing his newfound freedom in the only way that could possibly piss off the entire team simultaneously… leaving his possessions haphazardly all over the RED complex. Certainly, that was annoying; but most managed to rein in the impulse to throttle the fast-talking, Bonk!-swilling runner, because not a single other man could fault the kid.

They could, however, get annoyed when the Bostonian’s insomnia saw the brat practicing his baseball swing at two in the morning; when all else were abed and trying hard to catch some shuteye. He could usually be dealt with easily enough; a pan of warm milk should do it, but if that fails… there’s always the pan itself, as Spy had taken to subtly threatening.

Scout and Spy tended to make certain they were as far from one another as possible, and it suited everyone rather well. However, when they met up or came to verbal blows over a disagreement… it was rather explosive. No real change there.

Of course, people still clashed over common tasks, like whose turn it was to cook a meal or do the laundry. Who was responsible for the care and feeding of the homeless warlock in their dumpster, which teammates were on raccoon-sitting duty, who should have vacuumed the loungeroom for stray bullet shells, which person was responsible for helping Medic hose down his experiment room, and so on. Some were resolved quickly, but other little tasks had caused minor wars as most mercenaries tried to avoid the responsibilities being handed out.

In short, the return had not been easy.

Small concessions and agreements tended to be made in order to facilitate some miniscule degree of harmonious functionality, as they all readjusted to a formerly familiar situation. Rosters were drawn up, chores and incentives doled out generously; with punishments sparingly provided and enforced only upon repeat offenders, and the like.

Slowly, things had begun to return to an even keel.

Thanksgiving had been a pivotal turning point for them all, as a team; as the mercenaries had finally had a chance to assist in the preparation of a meal, and relax as they enjoyed it. No pressure, no expectations, just dinner in the company of your coworkers-slash-roommates; a family of murderers all carving the same turkey, and telling bad jokes, until everyone was too stuffed to even leave the table. There were some fantastic candid pictures of the event that Spy was refusing to give up, so Pyro could burn them… in the name of dignity.

Such cohesion, brought on by the holiday spirit of ‘togetherness’ and ‘family’ and all things equally saccharine, had really helped to settle things down. Which was the main reason as to why there had been such significant hesitation in many a member, not a month later, when it came to the concept of travelling home for the upcoming Smissmas holiday. Battles had yet to resume, as Miss Pauling was still trying to track down a few elusive members of BLU team; but at the very least, the REDs had become a more formidable group in their absence.

For many REDs, leaving to see family when those left behind on base could not, or had no one they could visit with, just felt plain wrong… after all the team-building they’d done in the last little while.

Those who usually remained on base took to arguing that it was fine for their teammates to leave; would not their families miss them otherwise? It was not as if those who remained would be alone, after all. Besides, they could revive a few secretive festive activities that the REDs had created in years past, for those who stayed on-base.

Still, Engineer, Demo and Scout hesitated. Forcing the others to raise the stakes from calm reassurance, to cajoling, through blatant arguments, and then onto low-level threats; just to get the men to realise they were not breaking up the team, by taking a trip home to see their families.

That settled, plans were made in rather rapid succession afterwards. Engineer whisked the Pyro off to Bee Cave, Demo had plane tickets for Sniper and himself within the hour, and Scout had spent more than half his allotted packing time… pacing about trying to think of a good excuse for where he’d been the last six months. After all, he’d promised his Ma he’d come straight home after the teams disbanded, and only just sent word that they’d all been rehired by their original firm. There was a significant amount of time unaccounted for that she would definitely demand an explanation for; legal adult, or no.

It was a tad unusual, given his normal method of egress for the holidays; but then, it had been quite the odd year, for all of them. Heavy had had to literally carry the rambling runner out, and toss both batter and bag into the awaiting taxi; before Scout talked himself out of going for the third time in the last fifteen minutes. The Russian gave a cursory wave and trudged inside, as Scout’s journey home began.

Those who remained by choice, necessity or practicality, began to deck the base in familiar accoutrements. Unearthing ornaments and aged alcohols, records and recipe books from dusty storage boxes buried in the furthest depths of Engineer’s workshop; beginning the ritualistic transition of the base, from everyday accommodation to holiday home.

~)0(~

Twas the day after Smissmas, and all through the base, there were grenades used as baubles and so too, cans of mace. Streamers were everywhere, mercenaries were stuffed full, and those who were awake did not care to think on how midnight signalled the end of the holiday period for them. Those who remained were content that their Smissmas-on-base festivities had been recreated successfully this year around; even if it could have been slightly more lively, had more mercenaries stayed.

Of course, that did not mean the the returning were greeted with any less frivolity and delight, than usual.

First to arrive, obscenely early from the perspectives of the partiers, was REDs’ resident arsonist and inventor duo; fresh from Bee Cave, and exceptionally chipper. They were immediately forgiven for the somewhat-loud intrusion when it was revealed that the Engineer had brought several homebaked items to share. Equally as bright from their holiday adventure, the Pyro was excitedly mumbling a story at whichever teammate would listen; something about a new flamethrower designed by Engineer’s daughter, it seems. BLU Spy was in for a horrifying treat when battle recommenced.

Demo, on the other hand, strode in mid-afternoon with a crate filled to the brim with various clinking glass bottles; making a discordant cacophony of sound with the Scotsman’s every movement. He was beaming widely as Sniper slouched in behind him, the head of some paranormal creature dangling from a hand; and a well-utilised bottle from the other.

The New Zealander was laughing almost as hard as Demo, as they explained how they’d tracked down the Yowie through several swamps and eventually cornered the bugger in an abandoned playground. Thing was, the way Demo told it, the ruddy thing had given them the right runaround; utilising the equipment and trying to escape in zany, bordering on ridiculous, ways. Apparently, the Scotsman had pictures… which Sniper immediately confiscated, thus making them all the more desireable to the remainder of their base-bound teammates.

After the initial uproar of reintegration, intoxication, and subsequent retellings of the most interesting tidbits from their vacations; everyone seemed to settle down once more, shifting back into everyday mode. As per the roster, Heavy went to begin dinner preparations; and those who had just returned decided to use the lull to put their things away, as the others lounged about on various soft surfaces. Not yet ready to deal with full-on reality just yet, still somewhat entrenched in their post-Smissmas feast food comas.

By the time the sky was dark enough for a blanket of stars to shine through, the smell of something meaty and well-spiced was winding its way through the base and enticing many a hungry mercenary to congregate in the dining area. Though, the Russian warned, it may take a while longer to roast their evening meal to perfection. No one argued with the man, because he was always right when it came to cooking meat; and knew, intrinsically, just the right way roast things, to send the team into a slavering frenzy of rumbling stomachs at even the slightest whiff.

No one minded that dinner would be a while off yet, not overmuch anyway.

In fact, in the interim, eyes began to glance curiously towards the singular clock in the room, and talk turned to when their last member would return to the fold. Which swiftly devolved into bets being laid, as per usual, on exactly how close to midnight the errant Scout would arrive back on base. Previous years had seen him race in with mere seconds to spare; and others, with more than four or five minutes. It was always an interesting thing to wager on.

However, all thoughts of the annual gamble faded as delicious fare was placed upon the table before them; and those present took the opportunity to compliment Heavy on the meal, some more emphatically than perhaps was necessary. Though he seemed to enjoy all praise provided on his hard work. Indeed, rarely did the Russian cook such grand fare given how limited their evenings often were, but when he did... it was always a dish that the mercenaries would recall with fondness for years to come.

So enthralled by this feast were the men and Pyro of RED, that most present at the table almost entirely missed the realisation that they had all lost their bets in one fell swoop. Not but a few moments to eight o’clock in the evening, who should trudge uncharacteristically quietly past the dining room, but the Scout?

His footsteps barely made a sound, expression dazed and skin pale; Demo would have thought him a figment of his normally over-intoxicated imagination, had Sniper not elbowed him in the side and asked if he’d seen the kid too.

There was no verbal explosion, or torrent of photographs, or… well, anything.

Scout didn’t even seem to register the room full of people who were all slowly turning to stare at him. At least, until someone called out his class-name, startling the runner so badly he actually dropped his bag.

“Ye alright, laddie?” Demo broached, gently.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine.” comes the stuttered response, not allaying fears whatsoever.

The Scot shares a knowing glance with Engie, somewhat amused but mostly concerned, before trying again. “Are ye sure? Cause, no offence, boyo, but ye look like Death herself decided to half-ass the job and come back for the rest of ye later.”

He’s vaguely waved off by a shaky bandaged hand, as Scout mutters, “Long flight, s’all, Cyclops.”

Seeing the topic is closed for now, the demolitions expert switches tact. “Well then boyo, how about ye come in here and tell us all about ye trip back to bonny old Boston. Everything okay at home?”

Scout snorts, winces, and lets out a wheezy chuckle as he hesitates in the doorway for a long moment. “Oh, yeah, sure. Ma weren’t happy about the whole ‘jail thing’, but I told her Spy was gonna explain next time they were together, yeah? So that’s fine…”

He trails off, blinking rapidly as if to retain focus on the mercenaries before him. “Uh… seriously, it was a long flight... and I think I’m gonna go ta bed. See ya in the mornin’ or something.”

Now that WAS unusual. The Scout they all knew, and occasionally thought about tossing off a cliff for a moment’s peace, would normally offer at least a more elaborate reason why he wasn’t up to regaling them with tales of his holiday trials and travel-bulations. A word the runner had studiously attempted to argue, rather unsuccessfully, was ‘a real word’ and ‘not something he made up’, with various RED members over the years.

He was a frustration and a delight, for the mercenaries to whom English was a second, third or fourth language; although none quite forgave the speedster for teaching Heavy ‘beach-slang’ back when the team had first formed. It was one thing to hear Scout say something odd in praise or condemnation; and quite another for the mountainous Russian to say, in his booming voice, that the pasta Engie had cooked was ‘totally tubular’.

Indeed, his antics never really went unnoticed. In many cases, they were anticipated, and certain people on the base had perfected expressions of shock for when they ran into whatever blatantly obvious prank or surprise party had been set-up for them. It made many uncomfortable to see the high-energy murder child of the team so… lackluster, deflated, vulnerable.

Barely had the runner’s quiet footsteps receded down the corridor to the team quarters, when the quiet murmuring began. Eyes that normally studiously avoided the German, outside holiday festivities when all was forgiven that is, all turned to look pointedly at Medic. He’d already laid down his cutlery, frowning after the runner, as if trying to diagnose him from his place at the table.

“You are all terrible at subtlety,” he jests, rising from his seat. No one laughs, he hasn't earned that degree of trust back, just yet. He raises an eyebrow. “Do I need a chaperone with me to safeguard zhe junge?”

The Russian seated to the physician’s left scowls, waving a hand dismissively without making eye contact. “Nyet, just go.”

“As you wish, Herr Heavy.” Medic sighs, abandoning his delectable dinner in favour of chasing down his most reluctant of patients. So much for the lingering Smissmas spirit of camaraderie.

~)0(~

Everything is as before. In namesake, at least. Corridors still the same shades of red and grey-coated metal that wended their way about the small home base. Everything new, pristine, despite months of living here. It was almost a new record for the mercenaries. The kitchen had only been set on fire twice since their return, and nothing had taken on a worn look yet; so different to what had been here before.

Sometimes, you could catch someone looking over a wall where a scorch mark had been, or quietly trailing fingers over the unmarred surface of a piece of furniture and wonder what happened to the piece with the battle scars they had all come to know intimately over the years. Not that they were not grateful for the refurbishment, it was simply… that memories persisted, when the physical had departed. Such was the human condition, after all.

Memories… of a time now past, when they were a true team.

Quietly, Medic longs for how simple things had been before as he strides past new-old features towards his goal. Oh, how easily his teammates had finally seen past the frightening surgeon and his bonesaw, once they realised that that was not the be-all and end-all of the German’s personality.

They had laughed at his jokes, once. Raucous booming guffaws intermingled with higher-pitched giggles often echoed about the base as Medic had regaled RED with stories of misplacing patient skeletons, nearly-disastrous translation mishaps when he first arrived in America, and the time he had trained Archimedes to ‘divebomb’ someone whenever Medic worked the word ‘sauerkraut’ into a conversation. Better times.

Maybe, one day, they would do so again. Though his interests ran sometimes into the more obscene, especially in relation to experimentation, Medic was not naturally a terrible person. He longed for human contact, validation and the bond that only a close-knit unit can provide. And he knew when his actions had strayed too far for immediate forgiveness.

Medic knew the shame and self-loathing intimately; always somehow aware of the sudden trembling in his stomach, the nervousness that infused his every fibre when around his former… well, family. Always aware that it was his own choices that had wrought such a downfall upon his own head.

Certainly, he could justify his actions. Where else was he to go when the entire project shut down so swiftly, with only a few days to make alternate arrangements?

He held no external bonds with anyone; be they biological, legal or occupational. Finding somewhere to stay as the base was shut for good had not been as fruitful as he had hoped; though why he had not turned to the others for assistance in these matters, even the physician could not say outright. Pride, most likely.

Medic was a proud man, and it was definitely something that had seen him caught fast in his own web in the past. It was most likely the driving factor as to why the whole situation had gone sour so fast; how he had betrayed them all so readily, willingly, even though his only reward was contempt. And several baboon uteruses. But predominantly contempt.

Although, perhaps the main reasons he so readily leapt at the chance to join a team of grizzled old mercenaries, when a mysterious phone call came in the dead of night to offer him the position of medical officer, was the desperate need to continue to belong to something. Certainly such subterfuge to contract his services had seemed rather strange, but then… what was normal, in their line of work?

Still, every action has an equal and opposite reaction; such is the law of the universe. This time the consequences were proving harder to bear, than anything that had come before; indeed, Medic had mused on it frequently, and decided that he must simply be getting sentimental in his old age.

That his team, this collection of paid murderers from all about the globe, no longer felt they could confide in him? It hurt. An almost physical ache, remorse and sorrow intertwined, sitting more heavily in his chest than the uber-implant ever could.

Trust was such an important, yet fragile, thing. To have it was to hold great power; but to lose it, was utterly devastating to everyone involved. It took great time and sacrifice to rekindle shattered confidence in another, and even more to piece back together any relationship that was built upon it. But if nothing else, Medic was a patient man; and he would glue the shards back together no matter how many lifetimes it took.

And perhaps... this small task of helping their youngest in his time of need, would certainly have some sway on the rest of the team’s opinions, ja?

Catching himself, Medic shakes his head vigorously, sneering at the thought. How had it come to this? Thinking of using his most basic professional abilities to curry favour with the other mass-murderers on his team? The men, and Pyro, people whom he had come to trust above all else… and who no longer thought him worthy after his… defection?

What would they say if they realised where his mind went, when they asked him to provide aid to the ill? Such selfish thoughts, from the health care professional, whose very profession required a selfless attitude and steady hands, above all else.

Medic sighs, glasses skewing as he rubs at tired eyes. Everything had been going so well, he thought… the Smissmas festivities were good, and no one had excluded him…

Betrayal does not have a sell-by date, however, and there is a chance that it shall never be wiped clean; no matter the fact he had single-handedly conquered death and brought Sniper back from the brink. He had sided with their enemies, and smiled as the Kiwi had been shot.

That was the image they retained.

His delighted grin, and Sniper bleeding to death in waist-high sea water, as a cave crashed down around them.

So mired in his thoughts, Medic failed to notice that he had arrived at his intended destination.

The Medic symbol glared back almost accusingly, upon the door. One which he had most definitely closed earlier, and now stood slightly ajar, with seemingly little explanation other than an unintended guest. Of course, Spy had yet to show himself from wherever he was skulking on base; most likely nursing his hangover with equally-unhealthy cigarettes and whatever food the man had secreted away in that smoking room’s fridge.

Sighing, Medic decides he just doesn’t care either way, and steps inside. Somewhere in here was the old medical bag he had carried about with him during fieldwork exercises, and… well, the war. One could not go into battle unprepared to deal with injuries, illnesses and infections.

To be perfectly honest, he wasn’t entirely sure where he had stashed it. Seeing as how the infirmary was always well-stocked, his weapons were separate from his usual medical fare, and the majority of injuries could be cured utilising the various mediguns available. In fact, Medic had not had to use his more common medical instruments in such a long time, that clearly they’d been misplaced.

He could, of course, head to the infirmary for an additional set… but it was so very far away, and the German was tired. Frustrated at the fruitless search, Medic huffs and resists the urge to stomp his foot like a kind would under the circumstances; but only just.

Instead, he startles at the quiet cough somewhere in the general vicinity of his wardrobe, as a bag clunks metallically at his feet. The instruments should not be too disturbed by the rough landing, but he feared for the sanctity of his glass beakers.

However, Medic brightens immediately at the sudden appearance of the searched-for red-leather bag. “Herr Spy, I vould kiss you if I could find you!”

There is a faint sound of amusement. “Zen I do believe I will stay ‘idden for ze time being, Docteur. In anycase, I believe you ‘ave a patient in need of seeing to.”

The air is thick for a moment, with one party daring the other to question whether perhaps their interesting in seeing Scout attended to was of a less altruistic, and more paternal nature. But it passes. A fleeting, unvoiced thought, and both parties feel the tension drain.

Neither say anything further as Medic scoops up the bag in preparation to leave, and the invisible espionage agent continues to fill the Doctor’s room with the vague scent of clove cigarettes. As he exits, Medic makes certain the door is slightly ajar, to the exact degree it had been when he first entered… an action to which the response could be clearly heard in the faint laughter issuing forth from the seemingly-empty room.

~)0(~

- - -

Chapter 2: Three Strikes & You’re Scout

Like many things on the base that had failed to change after the refurbishment, it started with a fight.

“Herr Scout,” came a tone that was clearly vibrating on the edge of losing its temper completely, “bitte, grant me entry so that I may examine you more completely. Even from across zhe room I can tell you have clearly contracted some form of viral infection, but I cannot determine what kind, or how to treat it, unless you cooperate.”

He had been there some time, trying to quietly placate and cajole, only to receive outright frustrated hostility in response. Small wonder the German had held his tongue in check so long.

His patient was being quite stubborn, but that was to be expected, really. Scout’s mood was dour, as exhaustion battled his aching body over whether it would allow him a moment’s rest. He’d been trapped in this nightmarish cycle the entire trip home, forcing himself to stay awake throughout the seemingly never-ending blur of plane, train and taxi rides; and now the chance to rest had finally, blessedly come upon him… and nothing doing. Scout was utterly despondent at this point, for he wanted nothing more than to sleep this malady away; and it refused to let him.

To make matters far, far worse… just when the runner had thought he might finally fall into the welcoming nothingness of unconsciousness… the Doc had turned up at his door, knocking up a storm. Still, that ain’t no cause to be rude; Ma would tan his hide, legal adult or no, if he said any of the spiteful phrases that came to mind.

He wiggled fitfully, as his return to awareness now heralded the realisation that his former ‘comfortable position’ was now nothing but a conglomeration of aching joints and rumpled bedcovers that felt like brands where they pressed against bare skin. A none-too-subtly cleared throat at the door drew the runner’s flagging attention back to the fact he had a guest that needed dismissing, as politely as he could under the circumstances.

Scout chokes on the first word as it fights past a red-raw throat. “Ah-... I-...’mfine doc, y’can g’way.” It was not as convincing as he’d hoped.

“Ah yes, und schwein can fly like Archimedes, little Hase.” Medic rolls his eyes, appearing nonchalant as he finally pushes all pretence aside and opens the door fully, to step inside. “You are clearly quite unvell, Scout, und as I am your primary physician, I ask zhat you allow me to assist you if at all possible.”

The placation falls flat on its face, as two glassy blue eyes peer at the doctor, from under a pillow that the runner seemed to be of two minds about hugging. Medic’s clinical gaze observes, as the other mercenary fumbles for a good retort; noting the pale, clammy skin, the sweat-soaked red shirt that heaved with moderately laboured breaths, and what he assumed was once a made bed. Sheets were untucked and strewn all over, denoting to the trained eye that Scout was clearly running some sort of temperature and could not regulate the intense sensations of hot and cold that often accompanied virulent infections such as common colds.

He waits.

“N… Not sick!” Scout finally whines breathlessly. His tone seemed higher than usual, and with a slight crackle to it that has Medic donning his stethoscope in concern. The runner almost startles back as the older man moves towards him, and the doctor pauses to consider how best to approach his flighty patient. So stubborn and impulsive, the youth of today!

Medic settles for utilising humour to diffuse the situation. “Ah yes, Herr Scout, your vise vords have helped me to see zhat all my extensive years of medical training und experience are simply wasted time. Clearly zhey have failed me, if my noticing zhat you look like utter scheisse und most likely feeling far vorse, are entirely incorrect as you are, as you claim, ‘not sick’.”

He spoke in a calm, gentle tone learned long ago during a mandatory practicum. It tended to have an almost hypnotic effect on some patients; and a sick Scout was no exception, it seemed. The younger man did not object further, nor react outright, as Medic drew closer and closer. The German physician stretched out a hand to press against the clammy forehead, in an attempt to gain a rudimentary reading of the temperature the speedster was running... as he felt a thermometer might push the boundaries too far.

“It is alright, hase. Zhe team… ve are all concerned about you, Scout. Bitte, allow me to help yo-...” his calm reassurance is cut off by incredulous, if painfully strained, laughter whispering through the room.

“YOU?” Scout explodes to the best of his ability, and Medic jerks back. The runner’s eyes may not be quite focused; but his tone was sharp and bitter, even over the raw rasp of every syllable and breath. “Hah, don’t make me laugh doc… ‘cause it hurts like shit when I do. Whaddayou care if I’m not feeling great, huh? Ain’t you the guy who went and sold us out to the bad guys dat crazy-robot-guy hired to fuckin’ kill us? And for what? Didn’t dat team’s Heavy beat the crap outta ya, belittle ya crazy experiments and toss ya aside like an old gym sock?”

He paused to heave in air. “G-Great plan there, doc. R-real winner… but see, now ya crawled ya sorry ass back here ta RED base, like we’re all gonna just forget what ya did. The Admin might be happy to let you play god with our lives, but I’m tired of it, and I ain’t willing to play German fuckin’ Roulette with my life over some stupid cold. I…” Scout falters, looking two seconds from falling off the bed. “...’m just not feelin’ great, yeah? Thanks for coming and all but I don’t need no giraffe spleen or whatever weird-ass thing ya got lined up to make me feel better… can ya just go and find ya forgiveness elsewhere, please?”

Utterly taken aback, Medic doesn’t even notice when the stethoscope falls from his nerveless fingers to bounce on his chest with a hollow thud. There is blood pounding in his ears, and he fights down the sudden wave of nausea accompanying the sudden deluge of ill-tidings. Of course they resented his continued position here, and many were overt about such things… but not Scout, never Scout.

The boy had practically adopted them all into various familial roles, and tended to try and swing any situation positively. Even if they had forgotten to attend any of his four birthday parties the year before, which had mostly been due to a sudden influx of paperwork required by Mann Co. and not, as Scout had assumed, the apathy of the entire team towards him. They’d had to hold two separate surprise parties for him, to snap the young man out of his depressed funk.

Still, the fact remained that Scout could find the positive in any situation. Twist words to mean a win, even if he was battered to hell and back; because he had an air of naive trust about him that made it difficult to be callous around. The team could get infuriated with his constant chatter, but their admonitions never went too far, or they risked the emotional backlash of the young man’s devastated expression as they frantically tried to backtrack.

Indeed, Scout’s voice had been one of the loudest in the argument for Medic’s return; waxing on and on about second chances, family, friendship, and incessantly pestering the doctor to retell the story of how Archimedes had once made Scout a living jack-in-the-box for an hour or so. It was, perhaps, more to get him to stop talking… rather than the valid points Scout made, that convinced the rest of RED to accept Medic back.

Though not all the way back, evidently. No matter, because the moment he noticed this tension, Scout had gone out of his way to physically MAKE medic fit back into the team; with forced interaction smoothed over by tidal waves of words, and all awkward situations met with the sudden appearance of Scout about to do something distracting and most likely dangerous.

Twice Medic had had to use the medigun to heal the runner’s fractured limbs after he’d tried to double-jump off of something and misjudged the distance, as part of his elaborate distraction routine. The boy had put life and limb on the line to reintegrate Medic back into the fold.

So, to hear such harboured resentment… from the one person on the team Medic had felt was truly on his side… it cut deeply.

“I-... I-...” The beginning of hot tears pricked the back of his eyes, as Medic fought for control over his emotions, at this… this betrayal, of sorts. His hands shook, so he clenched them; and his jaw also, for good measure. The stirrings of sorrow evaporated into hot, thick rage, that suffused his tone as he spat, “Fine, junge. If you vill not accept zhe aid I so freely offer out of compassion, zhen I invite you to suffer on your own.”

With jerky, uncoordinated movements, Scout all but fell off the bed in his attempts to flee the wrathful doctor. Mostly wobbling jerkily backwards, until the wall stopped any further retreat; those glassy eyes were wide, fearful, and locked onto Medic.

But verdammt, the physician was not done admonishing yet!

“I could understand if you held zhe whole incident vith dear Archimedes against my person, as it vas quite distressing for you. But in everything else, every other medical situation, I have done nothing zhat did not at least vaguely benefit you in some way, ja? Healed your inexplicable 3am injuries, stopped headaches und hangovers, talked you zhrough nightmares that left you shaken but terrified zhe others vould mock you for it, und not once lectured you on any of zhe damage you have taken vhile trying out an incredibly bad idea or just showing off for poor Miss Pauling…” Medic was, quite literally, counting off the incidents on his fingers. “Und yet, vith all zhis evidence to zhe contrary, you still deny my vorth as a physician?! Incredible!”

His captive audience was sagging against the wall with a fearful expression plastered all over that peaky face. And, although Medic was downright shaking with fury, panting as he tried to contain it, and utterly ready to send the brat through respawn at any given moment… it was equal money that this would pass, and the tears that had threatened earlier would return. He would not allow such a thing, of course, for he was far too proud to allow his despair to be so publicly known, even if Scout would most likely forget the incident given his level of cognition was currently impaired by illness.

They stare at one another in silence for a long moment. Or rather, Medic maintains his glare, and Scout tries to maintain the eye contact, despite the way his eyelids kept closing of their own accord, forcing him to jerk awake and upright again.

Medic allows it to persist a few seconds longer, before sagging himself, recognising the futility of the exercise. It is of no benefit to either party to be arguing with a patient who is clearly not in full control of his faculties; even if the spiteful words are nothing but truth. The harsh, cruel truth of how the German had betrayed his team and dared to dream they would forgive him, if only he kissed a few boo-boos and pretended all was well. How foolish could he be?

Deflating, Medic allows his posture to relax, so his patient would not perceive him as an active threat any longer. “Come, kind, I should not have yelled at you like zhat. It vas unprofessional and inexcusable, your feelings are valid, I should not have anticipated anything else.”

“N-Naw Doc, ‘msorry, didn’t mean ta say that…” Scout mumbles back, quietly. He allows the doctor to take his arm and lead him back to the bed; it is a journey of only a few steps, and yet, feels like a small eternity to make it that far. “Y’doin’ good. Helpin’... yeah?”

Medic takes the proffered verbal bandaid, and lets the moments before slide. Words cannot be unsaid, but they can be forgotten until a more convenient time to address them, after all.

“Indeed, Hase. Do you vant to lie down, or I can examine you sitting on zhe edge of zhe bed? It is entirely up to you, und vhat you find most tolerable.”

Scout makes a non-committal noise that seems to mean, ‘I would like to stay seated’ and makes no move to shift to a more horizontal position. It is an amusing scenario, to say the least; but Medic does not comment as he flicks open the bag to retrieve a few items.

“Vhen I ask you to, breathe in und out slowly, bitte.” Medic informs, raising the stethoscope to press it against the patient’s chest, and then realising that the shirt may muffle some of his readings. “Ah, Herr Scout, vould you be so kind as to remove zhat or lift it up so I can listen to your heart und breathing?”

A long groan greets him in response, but Scout slowly moves to comply. “Couldn’tcha just… medigun?” he asks disjointedly, staring in bewilderment at the arm now stuck in his sleeve and refusing to come free.

“Ve both know it does not cure ailments of zhis nature, Herr Scout. Some diseases, yes, but in most viral cases zhe medigun fluid can exacerbate und accelerate zhe infection.” Medic answered gently, as if he had not had to have this conversation a dozen times over with every other member of the team anytime someone fell prey to illness, over the years. Which was, surprisingly, not that often when you considered what they did for a living, and the harsh climates to which they were consistently exposed. From dustbowl to coldfront was always a shock to the system; not to mention the time the teams had drunk the tapwater at Hydro, that had been quite the medical nightmare.

“Aw Doooooooooc…” Scout whined, half-stuck in his shirt, but with enough torso free that Medic could find somewhere to put the stethoscope.

The practitioner gave a small grin in acknowledgement, and amusement. “Shhh, junge. Now breathe in… und out. In… und out. Danke, very gut. Zhere is a concerning crackle, but it may just be due to excess phlegm production, nothing unusual.”

Scout, on his behalf, looked entirely disgusted with the prognosis. “Ewwwww, no, don’t tell me dat, doc. Sounds like I got slugs or something in my lungs, and dat’s just gross.”

He stifles a laugh, “Ah, your situation is not quite zhat dire, Scout, I assure you. Now do you zhink you can bear a thermometer, or shall I break out zhe one designed for zhe other end?”

To be fair, Medic was only half-joking, but the horror on Scout’s face said it all. He would hold it under his tongue or die trying.

After a moment, Medic retrieved the glass object and shook it, squinting down at the mercury within in concern. “It appears you have a high-grade fever, Herr Scout, zhat is most unfortunate… how on earth did you manage to contract such an illness? Did you not dress varmly vhile at home?” There was a pause, “Bitte, tell me you did not wear your normal attire in such cold veather…”

“H-huh? Oh, nah d-doc… I mean yeah, but our apartment’s warm, yeah?” Scout answered, distractedly, tugging at the collar of his shirt with increasing urgency. “Think I got it off one’a the kids, there’s so freakin’ many I can barely remember all’a the names most holidays… did I ever tell ya I got a lotta nieces and nephews? Real fucking bizarre. First one was born when I was only ten, so’s I gotta a lot of practice at bein’ the cool uncle scout and-... wait, I was talkin’ ‘bout something else before wasn’t I? Uh… oh, yeah, see I was holding one’a my nieces for the family picture, I think she was a Janice, purple-sweater and all… and right after the picture got took…”

Medic held back the urge to correct that particular inaccuracy, despite how uncomfortable it made him to hear the language he’d worked so painstakingly to learn… misused.

“...she up and sneezes in my face, yeah? Like, it was nasty, but also my mouth was open and everything. Ma thought it was hilarious, but my brother and his wife seemed real upset. I didn’t really care, long as I got to wash the snot off, right? ‘Cept looks like I brought it back with me.” Scout continued. “Actually, I think mosta the kids were coming down with somethin’ when I was runnin’ out ta catch the taxi for my flight… oh god, if I get it and none’a the other adults do, they’re gonna make kid jokes all easter vacation long!”

Scout’s stories of his household’s holidays always seemed utterly chaotic and delightful, especially to the team members without families. Every holiday he’d come back talking about his frustrated excitement at finding there was a new baby to someone, or how the kids seemed to idolise their uncle who could ‘run real fast and jump super-high like a superhero’, or how he’d tried to once again present the idea of colour-coding the children with their parents so he stood a chance of knowing who was who amongst the sea of small humans filling the apartment to bursting.

“I doubt zhey would do such a zhing, Scout, calm yourself. Did you succeed in getting zhem to colour-code your errant siblings’ offspring zhis year?” he asked lightly, subtly reaching for a tongue depressor, and knowing it was going to be a fight to examine the other’s throat. Scout hated the things almost as much as needles, and that was fair enough; few people liked the implications of potential splinters in the tongue.

“Well, sorta.” came the reply, as Scout tugged slightly more fervently at the collar of his shirt as if it was fighting with him. “Half my siblings did, dat’s where the purple came in… but half didn’t, so it was like organised chaos in a way. Even my brother and his not-boyfriend-even-though-they’re-all-but-frickin’-married put their kids in yellow, so I could guess. Oh, they adopted another little guy dis year but wanted to surprise me, ‘cause it turns out we got the same name… so that was cool. But I-... listen doc, is it… like, real hot in here all of a sudden?”

Medic attempts to gently restrain the hands plucking at the batter’s shirt. “Nein, kind, you are unvell und your fever is making your body zhink it is both unbearably hot und incredibly cold at different intervals. Perhaps you vould like to shower, und change, before you sleep. It may help a little.”

He was subtly zeroing in with the tongue depressor, but Scout saw him coming and slapped it away. The clarity of a moment before was fading fast, and Medic could only vaguely wonder how on earth the runner had managed to make it all the way back here to base under the circumstances.

“N-no, please…” Scout stutters, frantic in his efforts to remove the shirt collar and fabric from where it touched his skin. “Don’t touch me, don’t… can’t… don’t wanna be touched, please don’t…”

The wheezing was exacerbated, and it could not be doing the sore throat any real favours, but Medic could not see a way to assist with direct or indirect physical contact. Which seemed to be what Scout wanted nothing to do with, in this moment of time.

“It is alright, I can help you take zhat off if you vill let me.” soothes the medical man, movements slow and considered as he reaches out, Scout vibrating in place as he tries to hold still and let Medic assist. “Can you tell me vhat zhe problem is? Is the fabric uncomfortable, are you too hot?”

“T-too tight, can’t… don’t wanna be touched… feels like ‘m being… neck?” Scout tries to explain, as Medic succeeds in tugging the sweat-drenched shirt off, with some fussing and fretting on Scout’s part. It was then the German realised the sudden absence of Scout’s generally ever-present dogtags.

“You feel… as if you are being strangled by zhe shirt?” he attempts to clarify, as his eyes move across the floor and alight upon the missing metallic items, lying dejectedly upon the floor on a snapped chain. “It is alright Scout, zhe shirt und zhe chain are not touching you anymore, has zhat made it better?”

“S-Sorta… sorry for y-yellin’n’all… c-can’t… please don’t touch me yet. Still feels like somethin’s there… d-don’t…?” he seemed so puzzled by the concept of a phantom touch, which his mind was perceiving as a threat. Medic sighed, wishing he could just put a hand on the lad’s shoulder and reassure, but knew it could make the situation far worse, under the circumstances.

“All is vell, Scout… except you, zhat is. Und ve all say zhing ve do not mean vhen under zhe veather, ja? Vhy, last time Heavy vas unvell, he told me to take my bonesaw und ram it up my-... ah, but zhat is not an appropriate conversation to have vith you at zhe moment. I did not take it to heart, mein patient.” Medic responds, fetching out another tongue depressor and laying it on the bedside table, not quite willing to push that. It was a waiting game, as the majority of little diagnostic tools he had required physical touch, and he could see it would not be well tolerated just at the moment.

“M-maybe I will h-have that shower then…” Scout suddenly breaks the silence, and stands up far too suddenly, in complete reckless overestimation of his abilities at that moment. Medic, not anticipating the movement at all but recognising the look of bewildered confusion on the runner’s face as the dizzy spell hits, only just manages to grab the other before Scout hits the floor.

“Impetuous hase,” he chastises, righting the other and dropping him back to the bed. “Vhat vere you zhinking? Sitting overexerts you, vhat made you zhink you could make it to zhe bathroom unassisted?!”

Medic wasn’t really angry, more surprised and full of adrenaline, at having to react so swiftly. He was so caught up in the moment, that he didn’t see the fist until it connected with the side of his face, glasses crunching ominously.

“N-No, don’t touch me!” Scout was shouting, and Medic was cursing himself for not paying more attention. Hypersensitivity and fever-based delusions tended to cause people to act out in odd ways. Indeed, he’d once had a patient body-check him during nightly rounds, screaming about getting out of the line of fire of invisible martians. It was a story he was certain they still told interns about being aware of your surroundings. He could live with it, though… it was only a blow, after all. At least Scout hadn’t reverted to-...

“D-Don’t touch me… Sontcha dare fuckin’ touch me! If dey tried ta-... tried ta… h-hang me… ya gonna do worse! Crazy-ass doc, d-don’tcha touch me!” he was babbling, clearly not all there right now… and yet, the words hit home again.

Medic snapped. The runner was a broken record, and the physician’s current emotional fragility could only take so many hits in one go before his ability to passively absorb negativity shattered completely. He tried to grapple for any last little fragment of inner calm he possessed, and found nothing but emotionless void.

His expression closed completely, body language going cold and rigid as he snatches up his instruments and tosses them in the bag. “I have attempted to provide you aid in good faith, as teammates, Herr Scout. But if zhat is how you truly feel, und how you vish to behave… zhen I cannot help you. Bitte, feel free to die in your sleep… I have real vork to do, und zhe paperwork for your permanent demise vill not add to it overmuch.”

He almost pauses and turns back, standing in the doorway like a statue as he heard the runner call out in a hoarse, desperate whisper, “W-wait… please… please don’t… don’t leave me al-alone… I can’t-...” but he slams the door shut anyway.

Perhaps in an hour he will be calmer, more amenable to receiving aid. That is what Medic told himself as he strode away, anger pulsing under his skin, and an angry throb building on the side of his face. Yes, this was not abandonment, despite the harsh words… but a lesson. He repeated it over and over in his head until it almost sounded like the truth, like something he could believe.

“Say Doc,” came a voice that startled the Medic out of his thoughts, “sorry about that, thought ya saw me comin’ there Medic. Anyhow,” continued Engineer, “did ya have a chance ta look in on the kid yet? Ah’m a mite worried about him, boy tends ta go down hard whenever he catches what’s goin’ around, and all.”

“Oh, yes I vas just zhere, Herr Engineer. As far as I can ascertain under… zhe circumstances, Scout has contracted some degree of cold or flu, nothing to be concerned about. Although if you vish to help lower his fever, und can take a punch, I suggest you try to get him in zhe shower… but vithout any interference it should pass on its own.” Medic shrugs, projecting nonchalance. “I see no real reason to intervene at zhe moment, as he is quite delirious und tends to lash out vhen panicked.”

The Texan doesn’t comment aloud, but it’s plain to see the amused approval all over his face, as he beholds the angry bruise left by Scout’s flailing fists. He’s of the mind that Medic somewhat has a good old fashioned kicking coming to him, for the whole betrayal situation; but he tips his hat courteously anyway and thanks the doctor.

“Ah’m mighty thankful ya went and checked in on him, pardner, but ah’m of a mind to go look in on him myself. Maybe trick him into having a scrub, like ya said, could do the mite some good. Ah’ll let ya know if anything changes, alright?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. If something went wrong with Scout, Engineer would either hunt the doctor down, or he’d send someone else to drag Medic wherever he needed to be to treat the runner. Wisely, Medic nodded in acquiescence and let the moment pass, before adding, “Herr Engineer, please remember to be vigilant und careful vith Scout, as I have said he is somewhat delirious vhich makes telling friend and foe apart beyond him. He also spoke of… feeling strangled, like being hung, although I do not understand vhat he is referencing vhatsoever.”

Engie seems a tad perplexed as well. “...me neither Doc, ah’ll check in with the others and see if they got anything. Maybe he just dreamt it up, kid’s got a hell of an imagination, when he can focus, after all… ya should see his art. But here I am chatterin’ on and it’s late, ya should go rest up now, ah’ll call if somethin’ changes. Night, Doc.”

Medic tilts his head, extending the same familiar courtesy, without any of the normal sentiment; and turns on his heel, striding off to his own room.

It would be a long night indeed.

~)0(~

Chapter 3 being written

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #TF2Jam #attempt #Scout #Medic #sickfic #fanfiction #Demo #Sniper #Spy #Engie #Heavy #Soldier #Pyro

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