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phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 8 years

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@ursy153 & @imberbimber, can I prevail on you two to read this chapter 3 and tell me your thoughts. I was editing it, and put more in, then edited that... and it’s 3am again. Also tumblr stole the italics, again.

-> “No Quick-Fix for the Common Cold” Unedited Ch3

Chapter 3: Getting Uber Your Differences

The world burns as if Pyro had turned their flamethrower on it, until it’s almost unbearable; then, without any warning whatsoever, turns icier than Spy’s heart.

Someone’s talking at him, he thinks, but he can’t be quite certain. Sounds like they’re asking… something he can’t seem to make out; the words, the sounds… they don’t make any kinda sense?

Failing to understand who or what is being spoken just heightens the sense that something is so very, incredibly wrong… like he was broken, or the world was. And just when he thinks he’s maybe grasped onto a familiar syllable or tone, the voices start again with new phrases that sound alien in origin.

He doesn’t know what they want…

What do they want?

He can’t tell these mystery beings he doesn’t understand what they’re trying to communicate, however. All chance to do so ceased what had to have been eons ago; his throat felt as if all of Dustbowl was trapped in there. Searing heat and burning sand that had never known rain, rubbing everything red-raw, eroding his voice all but completely.

Everything is… everything is nothing more than impressions and ideas. Shades of hot and cold that flush through his body, head to toe; wracking his overtired frame with shudders that make his joints ache. It feels... like the two teams are facing off against one another, and his body is the battleground; the clashing roams all over, different areas experience pain seemingly without any warning or pattern, before the war moves to a new capture point.

Sure, maybe that’s a weird-as-fuck analogy, but it’s all he has.

The only certainty in Scout’s mind is that he is at RED base right now… probably. He clings to the familiarity of that scenario… it’s all he can do to stay in the moment.

Red, Blue, battle, team, win, lose, war… game. The words mean everything and nothing.

There is no equilibrium, up and down are utterly subjective for the moment, but he doesn’t want to open his eyes and find out which is which. It seems so superfluous, so… unhelpful, to be aware of. All he knows is that his body shivers, aching and numb in odd little bursts that seemed designed to undermine his tenuous grip on reality.

But he could not sleep. It eluded him, any and all rest that might bring a moment’s peace… held so far out of reach that he could cry, if that were still an option.

And then, something changes.

At first, it feels imagined, like the phantom fingers that had held fast his throat earlier in the evening. The ones that dredged up one of his single worst memories, and saw the runner strike the Doctor, even though the man had only tried to help.

He hadn’t meant it… Medic… so angry…

He didn’t mean to hurt the doctor…

Before he could concentrate on the thought, the memory... it happened again. Someone… touched him. And he felt his heartbeat accelerate in panic, as fingers brushed against shoulder, cheek, wrist, and finally, throat. He jerks back at the last tentative touch, not wanting to have to think about That Time again.

They said something, but it didn’t feel like it was for him; perhaps the other voices were sharing amongst themselves. That sounded like a thing they would do, right? He is aware of something clamping firmly about his shoulder, a solid something to focus on, even as it causes overstressed senses to go on alert.

Why couldn’t he open his eyes and see who, or what, it was?

Why was that so hard all of a sudden?

The pressure decreases, as if they thought he wanted them away… as if they intended to leave; and he flails out, with an odd almost-word of a cry. He wanted them to stay, he didn’t want to be alone in this. Alone in the dark and unable to communicate.

Someone shouts in alarm, as he realises he’s struck something. Had he done it again? He hadn’t meant to… you know, strike them; Scout just wanted them to stay, and couldn’t think of how else to tell these soft-voiced beings that. Especially as the cry from a moment ago refuses to make a repeat performance; his throat has closed for good or ill. Hah, probably because he was, ill that is. It was an oddly amusing thought. Still, no matter how much Scout feels like he wants to scream and beg them to remain here; there is nothing emanating from his ravaged throat. And worst of all, the hand is gone… his one anchor had abandoned him.

It feels like an eternity before something else happens, and he Bostonian is aware of every passing second in the void. In a way you might never put properly into words; like the first time you experience respawn, and you find there can be no true description of the sensation in anything as crude as words, it simply is.

Every sense is overstimulated, trying to work out where the voices went, even if his eyes refused to open and ears failed to translate the words they had spoken. A muffled whine of alarm escapes as hands return, touching first the pulse of his wrist and then brushes at the one in his throat; the memory rises like a tidal wave and threatens to consume him.

As in many of the recent nightmares he’d had since the team’s reintegration; the ones so vivid that they wrenched him from sleep in a cold sweat, screaming for help, and spurring him on to seek out even the most rudimentary form of comfort. Funnily enough, Scout always seemed to end up in the Infirmary perched on a cot, or sitting in the soft armchair in Medic’s room; shaking and muttering gibberish as the memory faded slowly. The German physician always just sighed, wrapped the runner in a blanket, and provided him with a myriad of reassurances in a soothing tone. Sometimes the intervention was nothing more than the calming repetition of ‘all is vell und you are safe, hase’, along with a cup of some of the best hot cocoa the Scout had ever had; but it worked miracles. He never remembered falling asleep again after a nightmare, only what happened afterwards; when he’d wake up in his own bed the next morning, the rest of the team none the wiser of the previous night’s incidents. Perhaps it did not show, but Scout had always been grateful for that.

The memory, so recent, etched so deeply on his mind, made him shudder once more. He would quite literally pay just about anything to erase it completely… to remove the sick flashes of little things that seemed to make it all the more realistic. The taste of dusty air heavy in his mouth, the groan of a wooden floor... that suddenly wasn’t, and the strong certainty of a rope looped about his neck, holding fast when his beloved Miss Pauling grew distracted in her attempts to save his life.

“Nnngg...ooooh… nnnnnoooo…” he manages, using what little energy he had left to exert enough control over his aching arms, in order to shove the intruding person away. “Nnnnooo… pl-...ss…”

“Crikey!” comes the startled response, and the runner cannot make hide nor hair of what it was supposed to mean. Only that the figure is close by still, hovering and uncertain what to do. Scout cannot really give them any suggestions, as he did not know himself. Nor could he think of himself as a singular being, at the moment… he was just a group of loosely connected aches and pains, extremes wrapped in confusion and left to suffer.

There’s someone else there too, he thinks; their voice is different but… he thinks he knows it. He can’t understand the words, exactly, but the tone is low and soothing; full of familiar sounds that might be phrases of comfort and explanation. It feels like they’re trying to tell him something, but it just doesn’t… translate.

But… most importantly, it feels safe. He wraps the cadence about his mind, almost like a physical thing, to block out The Memory… and it seems to work.

He tries to focus on them, he does. It’s a lot harder than he initially thought it would be, but they are patient. Up is down, the sun is cold, and his throat burns even as he struggles to make some verbal acknowledgement that he can sorta hear them. Can understand they are helping… but his mouth and brain are not on speaking terms.

And then someone is dabbing something cold on his lips… it’s cool and wonderful on the chapped flesh, with small dribbles of liquid seeping through. Not a lot, not enough to truly quench the burning in his throat, but even this taste of rain on the parched desert of his dry mouth is a blessing. It is appreciated, and he wants to say so… but all that comes out is a slurred, ‘Thah...kssss’.

“No problem kiddo,” sighs the voice, taking away the cool-wet thing, much to Scout’s distress. He knew that voice, he knew… knew who it belonged… to… why couldn’t… he think… of the… name?

“Kid, ya’in there?” they queried again, gently touching his shoulder. Then more vigorously, “C’mon Son, open those baby blues… we need ya ta stay with us.”

The hands that began to shake him were broad, and the voice familiar; but he couldn’t place them. His aching body protested the treatment, but the dribble of water seemed to be just what he had needed to finally feel the call of sleep. They were growing more frantic, and he… he really did want to respond, but… it was just so much easier to let himself drift off into the welcoming void of dreamless rest.

So he did.

~)0(~

Relentless banging jerked Medic back to something approaching consciousness. He shuffled upright, mind foggy and body aching from where he had fallen asleep over his desk… in what was possibly the worst possible position for someone his age. Ach, so much paperwork!

Donning his most scathing expression, Medic wrenches the Infirmary door open. “It is four in zhe verdammt morning, vhy zhe hell are you here?” he shouts, glaring daggers at the unexpected form of Sniper. The sharpshooter seemed oddly flustered, and had a welt on his neck that looked suspiciously like he’d taken a blow there, possibly due to a delirious teammate.

Medic immediately knew why he was there, but let Sniper explain the situation anyway.

“It’s Scout, mate. Looks like he’s gotten worse in the last little bit and Truckie said he’s real worried about the ankle-biter. He can’t seem to open his eyes or stay with us for more than a minute or two at a time… most of that is this weird strangled screaming, or trying to give you a good old shot to the chops.” Sniper grinned a little at that. “Oh, yeah, and Engie said the kid’s a lot hotter that anyone has a right to be… said he could feel the heat through his Gunslinger. Which I thought was impossible, but you never know with Truckie.”

“One moment,” Medic says, striding across the room for his bag; which had been dumped unceremoniously on the floor when the doctor had stormed in hours ago. “Yes, I seem to have everything I need, lead zhe vay, Herr Sniper.”

“You sure it’s just a cold, mate? Just seems to me like he’s gotten pretty bad real fast.” Sniper asked in his unobtrusive way. They’d never been overly close before… the whole Classics nonsense… and Medic dragging the man back from the dead had not improved relations overmuch. Still, he was less than totally indifferent towards the German, so there was that.

“Yes, vhatever zhis is, it has acted far more rapidly zhan anticipated.” Medic conceded, musing aloud. “But zhen, ve are not normal men… it vould not surprise me if the rapid acceleration of vhatever he has contracted vas in some vay linked to zhe fact his blood is most likely more than half BONK! at zhis point.”

Sniper huffed out an almost-laugh in response, more an acknowledgement, if anything. Medic was delighted, even if he hadn’t really been joking all that much; he was quite concerned with the youngest member’s continuous utilisation of that radioactive drink. It would be no great shock to anyone if it was altering the Scouts on a biomolecular level.

Reaching the room changed everything, however. The almost-companionable dynamic Medic had been sharing with Sniper was immediately crushed underneath the sudden realisation that pretty much the entirety of RED team was crammed inside the medium-sized Scout Class quarters. Those who did not quite fit, or had retreated to avoid being an accidental casualty, littered the hallway outside. The whole scenario sent Medic’s heart hammering wildly within the confines of his chest.

Many of the mercenaries present still harboured perfectly logical grudges against him, considering the whole situation with the Classics had been resolved not even three months prior; and even those who deigned to look past it, in the name of group cohesion, were still somewhat cagey about interacting with the good doctor. Holiday periods and feasts excluded, obviously, as both Thanksgiving and Smissmas had been delightful events where hatchets had been buried so that all may enjoy the celebrations.

The only problem… was that many of the mercenaries had recalled where, exactly, they’d buried them. Medic could see it in their faces as he entered, the brief flicker of mistrust that spoke volumes; he was not now, nor may never be, forgiven his transgressions. A fair call, from an objective perspective on the situation… but it still hurt Medic deeply to be alone in a room full of people he once considered family.

Individually he could bear their sullen stares and simmering ire, accept their curses and comments regarding his temporary defection as part of the road to reconciliation. There was time to hear them out, let them vent and talk them through it; but in a group, such as this, he held no chance.

A cold, clammy sweat broke out over the doctor’s entire body; though outwardly he managed to maintain some degree of his usual calm and collected persona. Though perhaps not as well as he had first anticipated; for Sniper, who always seemed to just know when someone was distressed, out a companionable hand to Medic’s back and steered the other through the crowd.

The others parted, silent as tombstones, but unlikely to stonewall this ‘home visit’ as it were, with the stoic sharp shooter standing guard. Of all those gathered, it could be said that Sniper had the greatest claim to mistrusting Medic; but if he chose to vouch for him, then no one on RED would contest it.

Slightly reassured, Medic found it possible to focus on the patient before him, and his hovering Texan guardian.

Engineer had taken a real shine to Pyro and Scout when they’d all originally arrived, liked to think of himself as some degree of father figure towards the pair; so when one of them went down for one reason or another, he was always there to throw down a dispenser to heal what ailed them, offer words of encouragement to keep going, or help them get a revenge kill. Engie tended to be a versatile paternal figure with more patience than most; he was perfect for the role he’d adopted.

In anycase, it was no great surprise to anyone that the builder had placed himself by the bedside of the team’s youngest member; monitoring Scout’s every breath and twitch like some sort of living medical monitor. Although, Medic himself had had a… well, a hand, in helping Engineer affix his Gunslinger; a [piece of technology for which the specifications were both impressive and ambiguous. There was a very real chance that the metallic hand lightly holding a concerningly limp, bandaged wrist, was taking an accurate reading of the runner’s resting pulse and oxygen saturations.

The silence was beginning to press, as Medic tried to perform a visual assessment of Scout; mentally comparing current observations with those he had taken earlier in the night. Indeed, the lack of proper response to stimuli was of concern, and the majority of symptoms appeared to have increased in severity over the previous hours. It seemed to be acting rapidly, though for all his medical knowledge, Medic could not think of what this could be outside of a rather virulent strain of a cold or flu. Those sorts of everyday infections tended to breed like wildfire in cities, after all; every person who contracted it mutating the disease to a degree before passing it on. Children, of course, were the most frequent carriers of the pathogens; therefore Medic was feeling quite confident in the prognosis, given the information the runner had imparted before their rather unfortunate encounter ended.

“Vhen did you first notice he vas in zhis state?” he enquired aloud, moving closer slowly, so as not to raise anyone’s hackles. “Or, I should ask, vas he conscious or coherent vhen you first saw to him… how long ago did zhis unresponsiveness start?”

“Ah… ah reckon it was about ten or eleven when ah came ta look in on him again after ya checked the boy over,” Engie answered, goggles fixed on Medic’s every movement. “He seemed a bit shaky, real tired and the like, but he was talkin’ a little. Said his throat was bad, but didn’t wanna be touched, and ah can respect that.”

Medic nods, both in affirmation and as a polite means of requesting that Engineer continue speaking. There’s a pause.

“He did say he wanted me ta tell ya he was right sorry about hittin’ ya, made me promise ta say it if ya came back and he’d finally gone ta sleep. Thought about comin’ ta getcha then, so he could at least hear me say it, might help him settle down and all, but ah couldn’t leave him. Didn’t wanna be left alone, see?” Engineer tossed a meaningful glare over his shoulder. “And ain’t none’a ya gonna hold that against him when he’s better, ya hear?”

After everything the team had been through, it was doubtful anyone would be callous enough to mock a teammate for finding comfort in the presence of another living being when they were unwell. Though many had a feeling it might be more aimed at the Spy, who had a tendency to prod each mercenary’s weak points when he felt rankled, or was just exceptionally bored and ready to start drama to relieve the doldrum of it all.

“Alrighty then, now that’s settled.” Engie turns back to face the Doctor. “About an hour back aways, me’n’Stretch thought he’d dropped off ta sleep finally. We were gonna switch out, so he wasn’t alone but ah could get some shuteye… when Scout starts shaking worse, mumbling and the like, and we realise he ain’t asleep… just can’t open his eyes. Tried to talk ta him, calm the little fella down, but then he clocked Sniper one… and went real still.”

Medic was nodding, half-listening to Engineer and focusing on the rabbit-face heartbeat under his stethoscope; the crackle was still there, but perhaps not as severe as earlier. Satisfied, he takes the runner’s hand, and pinches him. There was a full second where he thought the Texan was going to lay him out for the movement… but it passed, as the doctor tutted worriedly. There had been a slight flinch, but it was very weak.

“What’s the prognosis, doc?” prods the inventor, after Medic seems disinclined to elaborate on the purpose of his tutting.

For his part, Medic starts somewhat, as if he’d forgotten there were other people present. “Oh, yes. Vell, apart from zhe fact he did not respond properly to zhe external stimulus of pain… it is also apparent zhat he is somewhat dehydrated, given the lack of elasticity in his skin. Und, it vould most likely not be far off zhe mark to suggest he may not have eaten in approximately zhe same amount of time, given his sore zhroat. Neither of vhich vill be helping him.”

“You might be right there, mate. Truckie and I got a little bit of fluid in the ankle-biter earlier with the old cottonball method, but it didn’t sound like he was able to do anything even close to swallowing with a throat that scorched.” Sniper adds in his no-nonsense manner, quietly watching the physician who had brought him back to life not a few months back, lift one of Scout’s eyelids.

“Mmm, at least zhere seems to be some dilation occurring in zhe pupils…” Medic mutters to himself, snapping the penlight off as he straightens. “Indeed, Herr Sniper. I zhink it vould be best if he is moved to zhe infirmary so I can start some intravenous fluid und do further tests to see vhat else can be done to hasten zhe virus’ egress from our resident Scout. I vould caution you to perhaps consider laundering your attire and showering, to prevent any spread of infection; und, could someone tell… Her… zhat Scout vill not be able to attend any match in zhe foreseeable future, should Blu be returned in zhe next veek or so?”

“Of course, docteur.” Spy answered, materialising far closer to the bed than anyone would have assumed him to be. For once, the man does not take out a cigarette to smoke, with his ominous statement; clearly having heard and understood Medic’s warnings pertaining to potential contagion.

“Danke, Herr Spy.” he nods in acknowledgement, and turns to the problem of transporting Scout. Of course, he could carry him, but then he would have to leave the boy alone in order to retrieve his medical bag, and-...

“Doktor, I vould be happy to carry small Scout to infirmary for you.” Heavy offers, resolving the problem, and acting as if this wasn’t the first time they had exchanged more than a fleeting verbal exchange since being back at RED base. The Russian mountain of a man moved over to the small bed, slipping his hands under the ashen runner and lifting him with all the care one would take with a baby, or a puppy.

To be so large, to have such power and yet be so kind, so gentle and caring… it was one of the many reasons that Medic had loved the man. Well, before everything happened. Heavy’s curtness held more weight than that of the other members of their team, for the ‘good doktor’s betrayal had struck on many personal levels. Medic understood, and he bore the weight of such a burden silently.

“You have my thanks, Mi-... Herr Heavy, danke. Let me grab my zhings und I vill precede you to open zhe infirmary door…” Medic pauses as he clasps the bag shut, turning to address the rest of the room. “Und everyone else? I vill let you know in zhe morning vhat is happening vith zhe junge, or sooner should something change drastically, zhough I do not feel zhat is a distinct possibility in zhis case. Rest assured, from vhat he told me, it is most likely just an unintended Smissmas present from one of his nieces; for vhich rest und some fluids are zhe answer.”

There was grumbling, but not even Soldier had anything to say regarding the matter, so Medic decided now was the best time to take his leave of the room. Heavy followed behind at an even pace, cradling the runner carefully, as he had no doubt done for ill sisters in the past.

Neither man said anything; the only sound filling the corridor was the soft, wheezy rasp of Scout’s breathing.

And when it stuttered slightly, both men unobtrusively picked up their pace; urgent footfalls echoing throughout the seemingly never-ending corridors of the base complex.

~)0(~

- - - - - -

Tell me your thoughts, people... most has been re-edited, but thee’s about a quarter I can’t get to or i will fall asleep in the shower, as it’s 3am. Ch4 is well under way but I was double-checking this chapter for continuity, and... got distracted. Also 1 & 2 are on AO3, if you want to read them with italics and bodl in place... >.>

#tf2 fanfic in progress #tf2jam #ursy153 #imberbimber

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phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 7 years

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@ursy153 & @imberbimber

Can you proofread Chapter 4... of my trashfic (below)

[itaics removed by tumbr]

Chapter 4: See You Later, Amputator

His eyes burned from lack of sleep, but still the Medic clung stubbornly to consciousness. Somewhere outside a bird trilled as the next day dawned; the newly-risen sun sending far too bright rays through slatted blinds, no matter how vulgarly the medical man mentally cursed out the fiery ball he had come to loathe in the last hour or so. Soon, he would need to switch the saline drip to a new bag, and check the runner’s vitals once more; despite how leaden his limbs felt.

He would not fail Scout in providing the most excellent care possible. For one, it was quite literally his duty, his role on the team as a Support member… and yet, that was, in truth, not the predominant reason he was doing this. Certainly, the relationships with his teammates were fractured, some perhaps irreparably; but he still cared for them, no matter their reciprocal ideologies as to his character. And of all the mercenaries, Scout had been first to bridge the gap with his incessant, oft-overbearing degree of affection… thereby forcing all the others to accept Medic had returned, or have their ears talked off.

Scout seemed to be responding somewhat, now that he was not quite so dehydrated as the night before; but it would be touch-and-go until the speedy little kind awoke and could verbalise, or at least gesture, to the areas of greatest discomfort. Then Medic could do what he did best, and alleviate suffering… and if, perhaps, he was testing out some new formulas for analgesic lozenges in the process, then so be it. Of course, he hoped they would help… but could not be completely certain until they had been tried by a human subject.

Gott im himmel would he sell at least one of the souls in his possession for the chance to take a nap!

Or at least, the chance to shower and eat something filling; given he had been forced to abandon his dinner the night before, and nothing in the Infirmary fridge could be considered ‘edible’ unless your tastes ran toward the more obscene delicacies. Besides, it’s not as if he can cook a mega-baboon heart on the small bunsen burner in the room, that would be ludicrous!

One of his hands was trapped in the awful crux between numb and searing discomfort, thereby forcing the medical man’s bleary attention to focus on the appendage. He makes a soft, questioning sound of confusion as he realises the reason for the mild pain is that the doctor has been holding onto one of the ice-packs for Scout; something he’d removed more than half an hour ago, when the runner’s temperature finally began to subside. Without a word, he drops it to the floor and begins to shake his hand to shock some feeling back into the appendage.

Then, with a frown, Medic decides to quickly check that perhaps he hadn’t over-chilled the resident mercenary child; utilising the hand he could still feel, naturally. Satisfyingly, Scout felt somewhat warm to the touch, but nothing too alarming, which was right where the doctor wanted him.

The fever-flush was still bright in the boy’s cheeks, but not so concerningly as before. Indeed, Medic allowed himself a brief moment to feel uncharacteristically optimistic about the whole situation. Certainly Scout was not out of the woods, but he seemed markedly improved, which was always a valid cause for elation. A win, at last, for the German physician.

With a glance at the nearly-depleted bag of saline, Medic decides it would be prudent to switch it out swiftly; making a conscious effort not to let out too loud a groan as tired, stiff muscles and joints protested having remained still so long. Now cruelly forced to perform such a delicate, intricate task on short-notice.

His whole body ached, begging for rest; but he could not, would not give in to such a base urge, until he was quite certain the Scout would be safe in his absence.

Thankfully, long years of working nightshifts had ingrained certain processes in his muscle memory; he could practically switch the IV bag blindfolded, at this point. Unfortunately this rather impressive ability was hampered by the fact his arms weighed more than a cache of australium at this point. Medic swiftly grew frustrated at the ridiculousness of his fumbling fingers failing to adequately find purchase on bag or tube; clenching them into shaking fists to avoid screaming and waking his patient.

How had it all come down to this?

He was a renowned, feared mercenary medic who healed allies in a heartbeat, stole souls and slaughtered targets with a dashing smile. The mere sound of him unsheathing his bonesaw was enough to make even the most bloodthirsty men tremble in fear; the sight of it, sent them into paroxysms of terror. There as a good reason he could never return to his own country, after all; and that was a predominant part of it. With the whole ‘mercilessly exterminating those who had wronged him’ coming in as a vague second place on the list of reasons. As it turns out, corrupt or otherwise, authorities tended to take a rather dim view of stealing skeletons from the living.

Even if Herr Bones, who was propped in a far corner of the Infirmary, really livened up the place. So to speak.

And yet… for all this, here he stood. An exhausted old man with trembling hands, a parched throat, and a body rebelling against him as it fought for the rest he denied it; failing to perform the most basic feat of his profession, something he managed on his first try, as an intern all those many years before. The sheer gall of the universe to reduce him to this! The absolute audacity of the cosmos!

But then, he supposed it was fitting, in a way. Atonement was rarely in a form of one’s own choosing; nor was it pleasant for the penitent involved. Honestly, it was most often the opposite.

Medic gave a wry smile to no one in particular, and took a breath; exhaling shakily, centering what little patience he had preserved over the past few hours, and tried again. His hands shook, but he persevered; trying again when he failed to grab hold of the item, and again after that. It was then it occurred to the medical man to squint, which provided unto him the epiphany that he was not wearing his glasses and therefore, of course he could not make vision and physical object align correctly.

He would have laughed aloud at himself, disoriented and disjointed from the lack of sleep and normally ever-present visual aids, if he knew it would not most likely awaken his patient. Instead, Medic allowed himself an amused huff of air, and moved over to the desk in order to prod about until he found-... ah, there!

The world returned to high definition once more, and it was startling to realise how far gone he must be to have not even had an inkling that something was incorrect, before. He blinks, and then does so again a tad more forcefully, trying to stave off the desire to just sink to the floor and nap a moment. How tempting… and yet, how… counterproductive.

“Nein, stay avake you silly old fool…” he mutters to himself, casting about for the forgotten replacement bag of fluids. In less time than it takes his tired eyes to blink, he has finished switching out the items and is in the process of double-checking the line’s flowrate is correctly metered.

Scout twitches a little, burbling something that sounded half like an apology and something vaguely about chicken, but ultimately relaxes again. This time, Medic does quirk a smile; both at a minor procedure well-done, and also at the discovery that Scout talks in his sleep. Not even unconsciousness or illness could silence the child.

Earlier in the evening, after he had managed to assure Heavy that they would be fine, and the Russian could go and rest if he wished; he had finally sat down beside the bed, and just watched the junge. Eyes roving over the runner’s chest in reassurance that the earlier stutter had finally begun to even out; hands periodically checking pulse and temperature. But predominantly, playing the role of a silent observer to a patient who would not, could not, be still.

At first, Scout had squirmed instinctively in reaction to the coldbricks being utilised to lower his outrageous temperature. Medic had wished to place him in an icebath, but there were too many factors that could go wrong under the circumstances; such as how humans tended to seize when their core temperatures exceeded certain parameters too swiftly. But eventually, the runner had calmed, as had the outrageous fever he was sporting; and the restless agitation that covered the Scout seemed to slide into actual rest, even if it was a fitful one.

And then he started to talk. Oh, it was not all distinct, or even language sometimes… just snippets, statements, half-sentences that made little sense when strung together. Occasionally Scout would whine or make a sound of displeasure at his circumstances, and Medic would check to see if he had returned to consciousness one more, only to find the boy wholly asleep still.

It was endearing, in its own way. Far more positive a situation than that which the boy had been as they’d entered the Infirmary; Scout entirely limp, burning hot, and unable to cling to the waking world no matter how hard he tried; so uncomfortably vulnerable in the arms of the over-protective Heavy.

Medic was relieved that this had not devolved into something far more serious, as things in his life tended to do; he was quite fond of the speedy little hase, and could not bear to have such a young life slip through his fingers. It could have, though. The thought replayed in his mind all those many hours of wakefulness, jolting him to awareness like a thunderbolt of clarity, and keeping him alert for any change or sign of deterioration.

Though it never came.

Archimedes nearly startled Medic to death, as he dropped onto the human’s shoulder without due warning. It took a considerable amount of effort to hold in the scream that nearly escaped as the German’s frazzled nerves were tested by this surprise visit; and yet, he managed, for the sake of his patient. He was a professional, after all.

“O-...oho, you sneaky bird, you!” he admonished Archimedes fondly, “Scaring me like zhat after zhe night I’ve had… I should take avay your pretty-bird mirror for a veek!”

The dove cocked his head so that one beady little black eye could stare at Medic, as if trying to ascertain whether the human was being serious or not. He added an inquisitive coo, and ruffled all those gloriously fluffy white feathers; for once, blood-free, as Medic had painstakingly captured and bathed all his dear dove darlings over the past week. Starting the new year clean was always a good omen; or so Heavy had once said, during their first Smissmas on base. Perhaps the Russian was simply appalled by how much blood and gore the pristine white feathers could attract and found a way to trick Medic into cleaning his flock...

At the thought, Medic let out an involuntary snort, finding the whole situation disproportionately hilarious; which could be put down to either the sleep deprivation, the stress of the last few hours, or the man’s rather messed up sense of humour. Which was, at best, impossible to comprehend or predict.

Which naturally, of course, happened to be the exact moment someone decided to enter the room; for it was, as fate would have it, the worst possible moment to arrive into such a situation without some degree of context as forewarning. That tended to happen to the Medic rather frequently of late. He had toyed with the idea of having ‘I can explain’ tattooed on his forehead in several languages, to expedite such circumstances.

The Texan clears his throat, as if to say something, and stops short. Medic cannot see the man’s eyes from beneath those ever-present goggles, but he can imagine what the builder was thinking as he surveyed the scene. Of course… from the Engineer’s perspective he’d walked in on a rather dishevelled looking Medic, who was apparently giggling hysterically at his bird, looming over a mumbling Scout; the latter of whom, at least, appeared to look a tad better than the night before -when the runner was playing ding-dong-ditch with the Grim Reaper.

They stare at each other for a long, long moment; inventor and practitioner equally surprised by the other’s presence, unable to break the stillness filling the room between them. Until, finally, one of the other doves decides to take matters into their own wings; with Socrates landing on Engie’s hardhat, decisively, and settling down on the slippery surface.

Medic finds himself on the verge of giggling once more; unable to hold it back, considering the provided visual delight of a stern, stout Texan all riled up and ready to lecture...and the poofy bird that has settled atop his headwear. He digs short fingernails into his palm to keep the sound inside, sensing it would not endear himself to the other man under the circumstances.

It was Engie who broke the silence first, by clearing his throat. “Is this, uh… a bad time, Doc?” he asks, straight to the point and goggle lenses fixed on the German’s face.

Likewise, Medic shoves down the impulse to laugh and clears his throat. “It… it is a good time, Herr Engineer. I do… apologise for you having to see me like zhis, I do not…” he trails off, vaguely, uncertain how the sentence ended and not much caring for it anyway.

The hard expression on the Texan’s face melts a little; Engie, oddly enough for a man who delighted in the many murders he managed to purvey via sentry each match, was never able to hold onto anger against someone he perceived as suffering or vulnerable. It’s why he never got too angry with Pyro for doodling on his blueprints; or lost his temper at Demo, when the man ‘borrowed’ a new invention to test how well it handled explosives. The latter had different demons than the former, but Engineer seemed to sense it somehow and always had time for the team if they needed to talk.

“Ah… Ah reckon ya in mighty need of a nap, there Doc… how about you go and rest up for a minute, whilst ah keep an eye on Scoot for ya?” he suggests softly, in a tone that Medic hasn’t heard him use since before the disbanding of RED and all of the subsequent incidents.

He made it sound so tempting… just a quick rest of his eyes, and everything would be okay. Engie would not allow any degree of harm to come to Scout whilst Medic slept, of course not; but… but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t… take that risk.

“I-... I… nein Herr Engineer... danke, but I cannot-...” he falters, mind going oddly blank as he sifted for the correct words in any of the many languages he knew, even though it felt oddly like trying to find correllating puzzle pieces at a yard sale, before managing “I must…stay... here.”

Yes, that sounded about right.

...or not. Engie was frowning. That was never a good sign, and especially not if he was already mad at you for some slight or another; much less when the guilt of betraying your team hung so heavily on you.

“Now see here, Doc, ah don’t think ya gettin’ what ah’m sayin’ right now. Just lookin’ at ya, ah’m gonna go right on ahead and guess y’ain’t slept yet, ‘cause ya look like hell.” Engie was using his displeased tone of voice, which never meant anything good for the person it was aimed at; Medic could feel himself trembling with something that was not exhaustion. The inventor continued, “Which is why ya can’t getcha words workin’ right, right now. Meanin’ ya can’t be all that alert, or maybe ya too alert, when it comes ta carin’ for Scoot here.”

He was clearly leading somewhere that the German was not quite able to get to, yet. His deductive reasoning tank was stolidly tapping ‘Empty’, and he couldn’t quite work out how to refill it.

“So hows’about ya’ll go rest for a minute… and I’ll keep an eye on Scout, here?” the Texan placates. “Wake ya up immediately if anythin’ changes, good or bad, alright?”

“Nein.” Medic responds, tone confused and oddly petulant. Scout was HIS patient, and gott im himmel, Medic was going to look after him no matter what! He would show them!

Who was this interloper to intrude on his Infirmary and make demands?

“Now see here, Doc, I-...” Engie tried, but Medic immediately cuts him off.

“Please Leave, Herr… you. All is in…” he pauses, failing to find the right word, and just pointing at his other hand to emphasise the point. Engie kept taking a halfstep back for every stride Medic made his way; trying to keep himself non-confrontational in the face of unexpected adversity.

He didn’t notice until the last moment, that he’d been chased out the Infirmary doors.

Before the bewildered Texan man can even form a rudimentary protest, the German flashes a slightly manic winning smile, bids him “Guten morgen”, and shuts the door in his face. Leaving the Engineer spluttering in surprise and frustration at the slab of wood and wondering just what in tarnation he was going to do about it now.

~)0(~

By the time breakfast had rolled around, the rest of the team had gathered in the kitchen for an impromptu meeting on how to handle the whole situation. Even the reluctant early riser trio of Sniper, Demo and Heavy had managed to make themselves attend; each downing far more coffee than a human being probably should be capable of containing, before six am.

“Ah’m just sayin’ ah’m concerned. Darn near slammed it in my face, when ah went to check if he was alright… looked like he’s been up all night frettin’ over Scoot. An’ ah ain’t ready to forgive him just yet, but… it ain’t right.” Engie summarises his argument for the others, fidgeting with his gunslinger as he did so, because physical tasks always kept the man grounded when emotions were high.

“Righto lad.” Demo agrees readily, crunching his way through a second slice of ‘untainted’ toast. He and Sniper were good pals, but they differed in their opinions on what counted as appropriate breakfast condiments. For example, Demo loved plain toast, and considered the New Zealander to be a heathen of the worst sort for putting something as bitter as vegemite on his morning meal. Even now the man’s one remaining eye flickered back at the lanky man, with mild disgust, as the Kiwi determinedly attempted to imbibe enough coffee to remain conscious.

Sniper, for his part, inclines his head. “So, what’re you thinking of doing about it then, Truckie?”

They all knew Engineer clearly had some sort of a plan already outlined in that devious little mind of his; it was now a game of teasing it out in a language they can all understand. Soldier was usually the best at this, as he tended to ask a lot more questions than people tended to assume he would, and the Texan would always explain as broadly, patiently and simply as he could. However, the military man had been patrolling the base most of the night to ‘keep the Private safe’, and was not entirely awake enough to be involved in the conversation to that degree.

Endearing, but ultimately frustrating.

Pyro was currently attempting to feed the American some sort of overly-sugary cereal, one ‘airplane’ spoonful at a time. And, surprisingly, Solly was allowing it.

It was a mesmerising sight, if you got suckered into watching. Engineer found himself wasting a good long minute or two on it by complete accident; maybe he hadn’t had a full night’s rest either, they were all worried about the kid.

“What? Oh, yeah, right. Well, ah was thinkin’ that perhaps it’d be best for both of ‘em if we sent in someone… that can be mighty persuasive, even if Medic ain’t inclined to cooperate at first.” Engineer edged about it, definitely not making eye contact with the mercenary in question. The entire room could feel him shift, however, as the sharp intellect caught on to the plan.

Silence seems to stretch and elongate for a long moment, before the human tank lets out a weary sigh and relaxes his posture. “Da, is good plan. Vill be able to talk doktor into rest, or… be more persuasive.” Heavy flashes a mildly menacing grin that makes the rest of the room’s occupants damn glad they were not on the receiving end of the Russian’s ‘care’ in this instance.

“Y’sure this is fine by you, pardner? ‘Cause I can always make Spah go, if it’s too… y’know, close to home for ya.” Engineer prods, trying to ascertain if he’d crossed a line somewhere and backed the Russian into a corner. Giving the other an out.

“Nyet. Have experience, doktor is stubborn when it comes to self, leetle Scout is same… carried both to bed many times when they finally fall asleep in strange place. Is no trouble, Engineer.” Heavy affirms, clearly resolved to this course of action. It was true, of course; he was somehow always able to convince or cajole exhausted teammates to take care of themselves. No one said it aloud, but many suspected it may have been learned through being both big brother, and pseudo-parental figure, to his younger sisters.

“Thanks for that, Heavy.” Engie beams tiredly, standing a little taller, like a weight had been lifted. “But don’t hesitate to call for help if Medic, or god-willin’ Scoot, are bein’ right stubborn about taking good care of themselves.”

Heavy nods, and says nothing. The Russian deigns to not look entirely perturbed when Pyro begins to offer him cereal… by way of ‘choo-choo train’ spoonfuls. This is not the oddest thing their firebug has tried at the table, and certainly will not be the last…

“Oh, and Spah… ‘cause I know you’re lurkin’ roundabout these parts, don’t you go interferin’ and rilin’ up the Doc before Heavy gets a chance to talk to him, y’hear?” the Texan scolds, seemingly thin air.

In the silence following the statement, they can hear the flick-click-hiss of a cigarette lighter being utilised… an inhalation, exhalation, and then an answering, “Oui, labourer.”

That seemed to be all Engie was looking for, as he actually beams, clapping his hands together. “All righty then, now that’s settled, everyone get about their business… and no more coffee for you three or ya’ll gonna phase clear through into another dimension, alright?”

Demo, Heavy and Sniper, suitably chastised, nod; and only go back to sipping their caffeinated beverages when they were sure Engie had exited the room for good. Didn’t want to go hurting the feelings of a man who could program the toaster to assassinate you, now.

~)0(~

His eyes are wide in startlement at the hulking silhouette through the Infirmary’s internal windows. They are frosted, looking out into the waiting room, but he knows that figure anywhere.

“Scheisse!” he splutters, gritting his teeth. Of course they would send Mish-.... Heavy, of course! Those cruel, sick, twisted mercenaries knew exactly who would be most likely to make him-… make him-... ach, what was the word? To make-do?

Ah, comply. Yes, to make him comply with their odd notions of healthy habits… as if they all held doctorates in the medical sciences, hah!

It was certainly amusing, to say the least… and utterly terrifying also. Which was ridiculous.

“Nnngh.” Scout offered, helpfully, as Medic’s dwindling focus snapped back to his patient. He was still clearly in the throes of this unfortunate illness, but since the fever had started to settle earlier that morning, the Bostonian seemed to be mildly better than before. To use a metaphor, the runner was not out of the woods yet… but at least he had clearly rolled up his sleeping bag in preparation to journey home. Or… however that went.

Medic’s hands were shaking he was so tired. He was reminded of his hellacious first year of internship once more, all those hours of attending to emergencies in conjunction with the briefest moments of sleep interspersed throughout never-ending shifts… running on the stale buns the kitchen would throw out each evening, and coffee. Whatever could be eaten or imbibed on the move… you took as sustenance. That was a form of self-care, from Medic’s perspective.

The shadow did not knock, as he assumed; nor did the man it belonged to enter. This was all part of the game, Medic remembered… back when they were teammates, friends, more… Mish-.... Heavy had more patience, could out-wait even the most obstinate refusals to cease experimentation and sleep. The German both hated and loved that about the mountainous man; now, more than ever, he detested the trait, for he knew what was going to happen next.

Of course, when he was Heavy doing such things to other members of the team, he always found it equal parts endearing and amusing. A glare from the Russian could halt drunken shenanigans from Soldier or Demo, could break apart even the most vicious verbal battle between Spy and Sniper; by presence alone the man could get Pyro to stop setting ‘inside things’ on fire, or make Engineer realise it was time to ‘hit the hay’ after losing track of the hours while inventing.

But when it came to both the Medic and Scout, things tended to get more intensive. Heavy knew and understood the complex, stubborn personalities of both the mercenaries; could see why they would remain awake beyond normal limitations, and validate their reasons. However, he could also argue that they needed rest and refuelling more than any arbitrary reason they could provide as to why neither of those tasks had been completed. And, if all else failed… the man was built like a shaved bear… one that brooked no argument from his charges.

As now, he waited. Patient and ready to act when Medic finally opened the door for him to enter… and Medic would, whether it be five minutes from now or in two hours; Heavy would be there.

He was an infuriating man.

Sweat trickled down Medic’s neck as he stared at the door through searing eyes, the shadow so ominous and final that he could not look away. He could feel his willpower draining, dwindling; the confrontation was inevitable, might as well get it over with.

With hesitant steps across the neat red and white room, Medic reached the door. His hand paused over the handle, everything he wanted to say jumbling with splashes of fear and uncertainty inside his head until he couldn’t think straight. He was shaking, his head hurt; everything was too much…

The German physician let out a soft sigh and allowed his head to butt against the door with a quiet thud. He was so tired. But he could not fail his duty, Scout needed him; the team finally needed him once more, and he couldn’t…

...couldn’t...

With a metallic whisper, he felt the doorknob shifting under his hand of its own volition, and the wood suddenly gave way to air… then to something reassuringly, horrifyingly solid. It was not the first time Medic had rested his forehead here, with red filling each and every corner of his vision… but it may very well be the last. He fumbles for some sort of apology or excuse, but nothing comes; words are almost beyond him.

That gentle, rumbling tone is soothing as it says, “Come Doktor, you are very tired and must rest.”

“Nein…” he mumbles petulantly, enjoying the fact that the large hand resting on his shoulder hasn’t been used to fling him across the room just yet. “Patient.”

The laugh can be felt more than heard, as it reverberates through the fleshy mountain. “You are stubborn Doktor, but need to sit, eat sandvich Heavy has brought you, and rest. Leetle Scout vill be safe, I vill vatch over, da?”

He really does want to argue that point, as the hand guides him over to his deskchair, but he can’t think of a good response. A small plate is placed before his blearily focused eyes, and he recognises the sandvich for what it is; a meal miraculously filled with all the power of a medigun’s rays, though none can quite explain how or why.

Medic feels his stomach protest at the hollowness it has been forced to endure, but he says nothing. His mouth is dry, rebelling the very idea of food; no matter how his body is howling for it. Such a strange sensation.

“Come, Doktor… try a leetle bite… or must Heavy feed you like precious birds vith their babies?” Heavy adds in the silence, oddly gentle considering the animosity between them recently. Medic manages a small almost-laugh at the very idea of such a scenario taking place.

Without a word, he manages to convince one of his hands to pick up one of the… oh.

Heavy had cut it into triangles, just like he liked it. For some reason, sandviches in triangles made him think of autopsies, and that was a fun thought!

He nibbles on it for the longest time, before his body finally feels like it can accept the offering of nourishment... and then Medic is wolfing it down like tomorrow there will be a global famine. What even is dignity? Why bother with it? There was food for the eating!

He can only imagine how disgusted Heavy must be to witness such as this, but he just cannot bring himself to stop until the hollow ache was sated. But, as with all good things, the sandvich ended with an empty plate, clean of even the crumbs, and Medic finally feeling more like himself.

“Danke Heavy, zhat vas just vhat I needed to keep going.” he says, turning languidly to look at the other mercenary.

“Indeed. Now Doktor must have shower, change, and rest. Is important. Vill vatch Scout vhile you do so.” Heavy adds, tone helpful but with an undercurrent of command to it.

“I….” Medic began to argue, and halted himself. It would do nothing for either mercenary, should he contest this point. With a sigh, the German relents. “Ja, Mish-... Herr Heavy, as always you are right. I vill shower, zhen, to alleviate your concerns... but I cannot rest no matter how capable you are to caring for zhe hase in my absence.”

Medic was so engrossed in the effort of getting upright, finding new attire, that he did not see the indulgent smile on the Heavy’s face. “Da, Doktor… as you say.”

~)0(~

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