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“You goin' somewhere, Doc?”
“Ja.”
Medic didn't look up from his packing. He hadn't so much as glanced up since Sniper entered the room, easy smile on his face, only to stop dead in the doorway.
“When?” Sniper asked, his mouth feeling get drier with each passing second.
“Tonight.”
“Where?”
“Away.”
Medic had folded his shirts neatly, methodically. He stacked them one by one in his case, lining them all up, making sure everything fit in its proper place. His ties were laid out neatly as well, ready to be tucked away. Sniper swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper.
“You were gonna leave without sayin' anything? To me?”
“That was the plan.”
The doctor still hadn't looked at him. Sniper wasn't a man known for his fondness of eye contact, but this was just...
“Why?”
The word left his mouth before he could think better of it. Before he could decide how he wanted it to come out, or what he wanted it to mean. It didn't have an edge to it, as it was. Just a bit of roughness. A bit too much honesty. He watched Medic's hands – hands too soft for a man who did the kind of work that he did – as they reached for another shirt.
“My contract expires at midnight,” Medic explained, frowning slightly, smoothing an unseen crease from the fabric. “My work here is done, the money has been transferred to my account. There is no reason for me to stay.”
I'm a bloody reason, Sniper wanted to shout. I'm a reason to stay, and I'm standing right here.
But he didn't shout. Couldn't. Didn't matter how much he wanted to, or how badly he wanted to ball his fists at his sides, or walk the rest of the way into the room past the bed – I thought it was our bed – and stand in front of the man, he couldn't do it. There was a tightness in his throat that held his voice in check, and a numbness in his limbs that made them useless. It happened when he was upset. It'd been happening all his life, making him freeze when he needed to run, making him falter when he needed to stand his ground. Making his Dad think he was weak, and making his Mum think he was “sensitive.”
He didn't want to know what the doctor thought of him now. Standing there and watching him pack. Just standing, like there wasn't a hole opening in his gut.
“You're going back to Germany?” he heard himself ask, sounding too forced to be casual. It got Medic's attention, though. Got him to pause and glance up, blue eyes flashing behind his glasses, if only for a moment.
“Nein. I am not welcome there,” was all he said. He looked away again.
Sniper had never wanted to grab a person and shake them so badly in his life.
“You got a ride into town?” he asked, hating himself for still standing there, trying to talk, trying to pry answers out when he knew he wasn't going to get any. The Doc was leaving. He was packing his things and going away, and Sniper was never going to see or hear from him again. He wasn't even supposed to be here now. This was the goodbye that Medic didn't want them to have. Dammit. Fucking dammit.
“Yes,” Medic answered simply. I don't need anything else from you, was the underlying message that Sniper took away from his tone. From the emptiness of it all. I already got everything that I wanted.
“Right,” Sniper breathed, more to himself than anything. He cleared his throat. “Right, then. Well. Best of luck, I s'pose.”
Bastard. You fucking, fucking bastard.
He waited, lingered a half second too long, just to see if Medic would reply.
He didn't.
Sniper shoved his hands in his pockets as far as they could go and spun on his heel, letting his long legs carry him out of the med bay in as few steps as possible. He didn't want to be here anymore. Wasn't bloody welcome, that's for damn sure. His own contract would be up in two days time, and then he could go. Get his money, get in his van, and drive until he ran out of road. And he wouldn't think about fucking doctors, or traveling the fucking world, or too-soft fucking hands holding him in the night.
Fuck it, he told himself, shouldering open the door with enough force to bruise. Fuck him, fuck him, fucking fuck him.
In his haste to escape, he didn't notice that the doves were silent in their roost.
In his state of heartbreak and confusion, he hadn't seen the sole of a polished jackboot on the floor, sticking awkwardly out from behind the bed.
Caught up in his own internal turmoil, he didn't even hear the sound of the disguise kit falling in the bedroom behind him, followed by a soft sigh of relief.
The Spy ceased in his act of packing and looked down at the Medic's corpse. The blood was congealing into the carpet now, and into the man's hair. A small amount had dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. It was a mess for someone else to clean.
He pinched the wire-framed glasses off the bridge of his nose, blinking at the sudden improvement of his vision, and knelt down. The Medic did not move as the glasses were carefully slid back onto his face. His eyes were wide, pupils blown open to black, lightless pits. Staring at nothing. His skin was cold now, cool to the touch through the Spy's gloves. He drew away quickly.
“Nothing personal,” he said to the body of his former comrade.
The body did not reply. Not that he expected it to.