Chapter Text
“Hmm… full house,” Demoman said triumphantly as he slammed his cards down on the table, then taking another swig of whiskey. He then snickered and looked back up at Soldier sitting across from him on the table. “I’d like ta see you beat that, Janey.”
“That is an impressive play, DeGroot,” Soldier admitted, rubbing his stubble, “I don’t know if I can beat it.”
“Ach, no worries, mate,” Demoman assured, leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head, “Jus’ gimme the money now an’ we’ll save you the pain o’ loss.”
“No, I’m not going down a coward!” Soldier announced. He took a solid minute to decide his cards, then placing them down in front of Demoman’s. Demoman nearly fell out of his chair as Soldier smirked. “Straight. Flush. Where’s your full house now, cupcake?”
Demoman blinked his eye in disbelief, then let out a roaring laughter, pounding his fist on the table and nearly knocking their drinks over. “Oh, ho ho ho, Jane, you’re a riot!”
“I’m not a riot, I’m a war machine!”
Demoman waved his hand as he rubbed the tears out of his eye, then he pushed the bets across the table. “Alright, alright,” he said, “It’s all yours.”
As the two laughed and shared their drinks, they didn’t notice two of their comrades come up behind them. Even though it was the afternoon of the last ceasefire before Smissmas, Medic was wearing his usual outfit minus the lab coat, whereas Engineer was in yet another hideous Hawaiian shirt and overalls. Medic was holding a wrapped present in his arms, which he was holding as awkwardly as the rest of his posture.
“Go on, Doc,” Engineer ushered, pushing Medic forward.
Medic cleared his throat. “Ehm… Herr Soldier?” he asked.
Demoman and Soldier stopped their merriment and met Medic’s gaze. Demoman went into a more defensive stance, glaring his eye and ready to start yelling on cue. Soldier just blinked with stony indifference, unsure what to say to Medic after their conflict two weeks ago.
“What do you need, kraut?” Soldier said.
Medic chose to ignore that nickname for now. “I, eh… I vanted to… apologize,” he replied, slowly.
Soldier cocked his head. “Yeah? For what?”
“For… for…,” Medic muttered with forced emotions he normally didn’t express, looking off to the side, “It has come to my attention zhat I may have been… unfair to you vhen ve teamed up several veeks ago. You’re much more spontaneous and rough zhan I am. You’re physical and mental deficiencies made you… unfit to be a team like me and Heavy are.”
“This is an apology?” Demoman warned, “Try again, lad.” Soldier still didn’t say anything, but his blood was beginning to boil as well. Engineer kept a neutral expression, looking back and forth between the two.
“But, I am no better,” Medic confessed.
Soldier raised his eyebrows underneath his helmet. “I’m… listening,” he said.
“I’m a convicted criminal in several countries, and I take sadistic pleasure out of tearing men apart due to psychotic tendencies I appear to have. I took my anger and hurt from not only my fight vith Mish… Heavy, but also from the frustration of how much you reminded me of myself. I used your own shortcomings against you.
“Zhe truth is, for a man as insane as I am, you are far from stupid. You’re actually rather good at battle strategies, and can hold your own ground- vhich is rare for zhis team. I know I can never take back all zhe horrible zhings I said to you. I just hope zhat you can understand. I’m… I’m still learning, and I’m sorry.”
No one was prepared to say anything. Demoman and Soldier just stare at the doctor in awe that a man of such haughty arrogance was willing to step down for once in an act of humility. Medic’s face was bright red, and he refused to exchange glances with the others. At least, not until Engineer nudged him forward.
“Oh, right,” Medic said, holding out the present to Soldier, “Zhis vas in case my vords didn’t persuade you. Material objects generally make good apologies… or so I’ve been told.”
Engineer grimaced at the horribly blunt delivery, but held his tongue for the time being, as the other two didn’t seem to mind.
Soldier took the present and shook it lightly. It was a couple of feet on each side and bit heavy, with not much rattling came from within, so it couldn’t be a weapon. He was quick to tear off the neat wrapping paper (which was most likely done by Engineer, considering how perfect it was) and opened the box within.
Inside the box, within a layer of tissue paper and packing peanuts, a pair of boots. They were dark brown and had three belts on the same color on each boot. The material was leather, but a sturdy kind that was fit for combat. Soldier took the pair out and examined them with increasing curiosity.
“Vhenever I vas behind you in zhe air,” Medic explained, “I noticed zhat your boots- zhe same vones you’ve had since ve vere hired, it seems- vere getting vorn out. Zhese vones are from high grade military manufacturers here in America. Zhey should last you through many, many more battles.”
Wordlessly, Soldier stood up and faced Medic, setting the box on the table next to his poker winnings. The ball in Medic’s throat bobbed, and he gave Soldier an uneasy look. Then, without warning, Medic was pulled into a crushing hug by Soldier, who still didn’t say a word- he didn’t need to.
“Eh… yes,” Medic said stiffly, looking somewhere to the side of the room and patting Soldier’s back with one hand, “Let’s not get too friendly now, Herr Soldier.”
Demoman chuckled and took another swig of his whiskey, and offered one to Engineer, who gladly obliged as they both watched Medic act like he was getting hugged by his grandmother.
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Fixing his van during early evening of ceasefires had become sort of a tradition for Sniper at this point. There was always something to work on; if nothing needed to be tightened or replaced, he could spend time washing the outside or cleaning up on the inside. There was probably some kind of science Engineer knew behind this cathartic effect, but Sniper didn’t care about the reason. All he cared about was that today, the front axles needed to be tightened.
“Hey man,” Scout said as he approached once more after his short trip back to the base, “Got you some soda.”
“Thanks, mate,” Sniper said, smiling and rising from his spot on the sand, knees cracking loudly as he did so. He groaned, rubbing the joints and wondering if he really felt like thirty-two or sixty-two. Still he took a soda from Scout’s hand and chugged it, scratching his bare chest with his free hand.
Scout could feel his throat get dry and his face getting red (and not from the beating sun), so he drowned that out with his own can of Bonk! in one go. The two sat under the umbrella and lawn chairs they set out for themselves, staring at the expansive desert before them.
“Nice day, h-huh?” Scout commented.
“Only place in the entire bloody country that’s still eighteen in December,” Sniper groused.
“What? Eighteen degrees? It’s a million friggin degrees out here!”
“Eighteen Celsius, genius,” Sniper snapped, “Most places don’t use your backwards American measurements. Never learned it, not plannin’ on it.”
Scout rolled his eyes and flipped his empty can in the air out of boredom. During the third flip, he finally noticed a large figure approaching them coming from the base. Out of reflex, Scout reached for the baseball bat he had nearby, but calmed down once he saw Heavy approach, but still was cautious. Sniper’s bruises just finally healed completely, and Scout was pretty sure he didn’t want a brand-new set.
“Oi, hey there, big guy-” Sniper greeted nonchalantly when Heavy reached the two.
“Whadda you want?” Scout interrupted.
“Hello to you, too, little man,” Heavy said, nodding in Scout’s general direction with his hands behind his back.
“Hey, twerp,” Sniper offered, “Why dontcha go and hit that baseball ‘round a bit while the grown-ups talk?”
Scout cursed under his breath but got up with his bat and baseball and went towards the base reluctantly. Sniper motioned to the seat beside him, but Heavy shook his head.
“Am too big,” Heavy explained, “Will break tiny chair.”
Sniper shrugged. “Suit yourself, mate,” he said, taking a drink before continuing, “So, what can I do you one for?”
Heavy didn’t say anything, instead taking his hands out from behind his back. He held out a jar of chunky peanut butter larger than Sniper’s head and as thick as Heavy’s bicep and looked down at Sniper expectantly. It took too much willpower for Sniper to not even peep out a chuckle; the sincerity of the act seemed to be too genuine to laugh at.
“Gee… thanks,” Sniper said, taking the jar and examining it, “So… this is your way of sayin’ sorry for nearly murderin’ me?”
“да,” Heavy replied, “Did not know what you like. We never talk, and you are always in van. But Spy say you eat this stuff for meals sometimes.”
Suddenly Sniper stood up, peanut butter in hands and he turned towards his van. “Wait ‘ere a sec,” he commanded, then shutting himself in his van. About a minute later, he re-emerged with a shirt and his signature hat on and his van keys in his hands. “That ain’t ‘ow you apologize. C’mon, lemme show you.”
Heavy blinked but obliged anyways by climbing into the passenger’s seat of the van. Besides, if Sniper wanted to drive out far away from the base and shoot him in the head, Heavy was strong and could easily disarm such a scrawny man. Despite the unnerving possibilities of the sudden excursion, the car ride was short, as downtown Teufort was only a ten-minute drive (though it felt longer by neither party talking).
They ended up in both RED and BLU teams’ favorite- well, only- town bar, a family-owned pub named Leaky Louie’s. Thankfully neither were in their team colors today, so they only got dirty looks from only one or two people who cared enough to remember the resident mercenaries’ faces. Heavy and Sniper sat at the bar and Sniper ordered them both some beers to start off.
“I take it you’re payin’,” Sniper said, smirking, “So I can order whatever I want, eh?”
“Be nice to Heavy’s wallet,” Heavy warned, “Want to buy Smissmas presents for Medic and family. But, it is least I can do.” He paused as he took his beer from the mustached bartender. “How is neck?”
Sniper scratched the body part in question idly. “’bout fully healed by now,” he replied, “The bloody cunt really makes sure we don’t go ‘round poppin’ each other’s ‘eads off all day- respawn’s a bitch.”
“Indeed,” Heavy said, “Should we have invited little Scout?”
“Nah, ‘e’s a bloody light-weight. Don’t drink anything beyond that wretched soda he loves so much.”
“But he looked upset when I come.”
Sniper went quiet and glanced at the table. “He’s fine. He’s just… just a friend.”
Heavy hummed with thought and took a moment of silence with Sniper. He then turned back to the bushman, furrowing his brow. “Why… why are we here?” he inquired, “Was gift not acceptable?”
Sniper swished around the beer in his glass and shrugged. “You said we never talked,” Sniper answered, “Thought we could change that. Look, I ‘ppreciate the sentiment, but I can just buy my own food- job pays well enough. But I hardly know you.”
“We are always on different ends of battlefield,” Heavy agreed, “I am in front, and you are way in back in towers.”
“So, let’s talk,” Sniper offered, holding up his beer and smiling.
Heavy returned the expression with a mutual feeling of understanding spreading through his chest. He clinked his glass with Sniper, and they both took long drinks to start off a long several hours of idle chat.