Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When he first set foot on the sandy ground of the New Mexico base, Mikhail had been fully intent on keeping to himself. After all, he had taken this job with Reliable Excavations and Demolitions to support his family, not to make friends. Besides, his grasp of the English language was tenuous and he doubted any of his colleagues would be fluent in Russian, so the deep conversations he was fond of—pondering philosophy and the intricately crafted meaning of a text, or even a verbal expression of his appreciation for a well crafted firearm- would be beyond his capabilities.

Thus, after the basic pleasantries of being introduced to his new teammates (a strange lot of men he wouldn’t trust as far as he could throw them) and given a tour of the base by their purple clad superior, Mikhail— or Heavy, rather. He really should get used to being called that, he figured— resigned himself to settling into his tiny room. It didn’t take him long to put away his belongings in the chest of drawers provided. There wasn’t much for him to bring along. After all, even at home he hadn’t been one to tie himself to a hoard of material items. All he really needed was his gun. Everything else was superficial.

Well, that didn’t mean he had only brought the bare essentials. There was no bookshelf in the room, so placing his modest collection of books in an orderly stack on the nightstand was his best bet. Two had made the trip with him across the iron curtain: a well worn copy of Tsar Hunger his father had gifted him as a boy, and a copy of The Brothers Karamazov he’d been annotating since his university days.

Other than that, well, they weren’t quite what one would expect a man of his appearance or education to enjoy. The pulpy dime romance novels looked puny in his hands, and they certainly weren’t high art, but he had originally begun reading them because they were cheap, plentiful, and worked with his bare-bones vocabulary. Over time, however- blyat he was a bit embarrassed to admit it— he found himself itching for more.

Heavy had never thought of himself as a romantic, mind you. Living a life as he had made one value practicality above all else. The fairytale ideas of true love and grand romantic gestures meant nothing in the gulag, and would be outright detrimental to his family if he couldn’t protect and provide for them. He had been with a few women— relationships that hadn’t lasted long— and wasn’t above casual engagements with either sex if it was safe to do so, but it had never been his greatest priority. These books, uncomplicated as they were, brought him to a mindset where it was possible for anyone to be swept off their feet if only they found the right person. Then when his eyes swept over the last page he would be left yearning for his own dashing stranger to drop into his life with shimmering dark eyes and perfectly coiffed hair to make him feel like the only person in the universe. Then Mikhail would close the book, carefully put it away, and return to reality.

* * *

The team had eaten dinner together, which Heavy supposed would have been a clever way of encouraging comradery among the team, if only it didn’t further expose the unpleasant quirks each man possessed. The Engineer had insisted upon cooking for them, his voice coated in sugar in such a way that each granulated crystal rubbed Heavy’s nerves raw. In the corner of the room, the Pyro had sat in uniform, moving little aside from flicking his lighter. Dark lenses bore into Mikhail worse than any stare-down had ever before. Already at the table were the Soldier and Demoman, having a heated discussion about… something, looking like they were both about five seconds from leaping across the table at the other.

As he pulled his seat out- as far from the others as he could possibly get, Heavy noticed their field medic make his way quietly through the doors. More so than any other man on the team, their doctor was charming. His greeting had been pleasant, and— despite his accent giving him away as german, the man had little reaction to Mikhail’s own nationality other than to offer a ‘ z dravstvuyte ’ , alongside an apology for his pronunciation. Medic’s gloved grip was firm around Heavy’s own massive hand, and the pressure had lingered after they parted. Even now he was smartly dressed and perfectly groomed. Perhaps the only strange thing about him was that he still wore the red gloves from his battle uniform. The moment he smiled in Mikhail’s direction any thoughts of Medic’s peculiarities vanished. A light feeling danced in his chest, which he quickly tried to soothe by looking away. Peaking back at him, Heavy found himself disappointed as the doctor took the empty seat nearest Engineer. He was further disappointed as the seat to his right was taken by a certain scrawny young man.

As the team ate, Heavy’s head began to pound. The Scout refused to cease his yapping as though being silent would kill him outright. Between barely chewed bites of food, he would ramble about his home and baseball with an almost impressive speed. If the boy had been a dog, Mikhail would have put a hand around his muzzle to quiet him. As it was, he was losing the last of his willpower to not strangle the little man, considering how easily he could just reach over and grab his neck in one hand. There was no doubt that his colleagues would have thought it justified.

Spy had been in a foul mood since before Heavy had introduced himself, and it left him wondering if the Frenchman had ever known a single moment of happiness in his cowardly, bitter existence. As the brat continued to drone on it seemed that Spy’s rancid attitude hit it’s peak. He threw venom at the boy in a growling, accented voice, which were returned in kind. Given everything spoken was either outside his current vocabulary or said so fast it may as well be a third language entirely, it left Mikail to ignore them and finish his meal.

Unwilling to listen to the bickering men and the Engineer’s tepid attempts to mediate, Heavy simply excused himself from the table. Even if the man was unable to keep the peace, he was an excellent cook. Not as good as Mama, of course, but the meal was flavorful and the meat was tender. Heavy was well on his way to his room to nurse his growing headache and perhaps read when Medic had called out to him.

“Herr Heavy,” he had said, “could I ask a favor of you?” The doctor’s brow was furrowed, and it seemed like he had similarly been developing a headache as their teammates argued.

“What favor?”

“Just some help setting up my lab— aheh, no. I’m forgetting the english word for it,” he said nervously, making a show of looking away in thought, “ah, yes, infirmary. I could get it done myself, but these things go much faster with help, ja?”

“Da. This is true,” Mikhail agreed, following as Medic lead him towards the medical wing. Well, wing was generous, but it housed no other rooms of any importance, only storage and janitorial closets as best Heavy remembered from his tour earlier that day. Medic pushed open the double doors, then flicked the lights on. There were a few larger boxes on the floor, likely containing equipment that had yet to be set up, but that was nothing compared to the rest of the boxes. Most were rather small, but they looked to be overflowing with old documents and small jars.

“I’ll handle the papers and specimen jars,” Medic explained, “if you could handle the others, that would be wunderbar.”

And so it was, Mikhail unboxing medical equipment and placing it where he was directed, while Medic placed jars of semi-cloudy fluid in the cabinets. Eventually all that was left was a weighty box of glassware, which he brought carefully over to the doctor.

“Ack, sorry. There isn’t any space for you to set that down on the counter yet,” he explained, “would you mind holding it for me while I put these away?”

With a nod, Medic began pulling test tubes from it’s cardboard prison. It was no problem for Mikhail, of course— he took pride in how light the box felt to him, but he noticed as the doctor’s eyes lingered on his arms. Flasks and beakers clinked as Heavy shifted uncomfortably under the man’s stare. When the last of the glass was put away, Medic placed his hands on either side of the cardboard box to take it from Heavy, the rubber of his gloves gently kissing the calloused skin of his hands. The light feeling returned with a vengeance, making his heart jump. The doctor now focused his gaze on Heavy’s face, making him squirm and look away.

“Danke, Herr Heavy,” the man said, grinning- though his lips looked stiff and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, “this will make it much easier to do your physicals before our first battle.” At the mention of examination, his smile widened, baring sharp teeth.

Heavy frowned, “Already had exam with doctor when I was hired. Do you not, er, have results?”

“Aheh, well,” he straightened his posture, leaning back and fidgeting with the cuff of one glove, “I do have those results. However, they lack certain details and precision. As I will be responsible for keeping this team alive and at peak performance, I must have a baseline from which to work from! Perhaps you will be exposed to a gas based agent that damages your lungs, how will I know the degree to which you have sustained long term injuries if I don’t know your baseline oxygen saturation!” He grew more animated as he explained, hands clenching and unclenching, eyes widening.

“Or perhaps your heart may stop in the field and I may have to borrow a battery from Herr Engineer’s equipment to use as an impromptu defibrillator. If I am uncertain of your skin’s electrical conductivity, there is a high chance of burns or death outright! You see, Herr Heavy, the skin’s electrical conductivity is quite variable to the individual based on age and sex, among other factors. Mine is quite high, you see! But yours may be lower and—!”

He stopped abruptly as Mikhail took a half step back, pulse quickening as the doctor leaned toward him, the cardboard box long discarded on the floor next to him. Medic cleared his thoat, “ah, sorry, I got carried away. My point remains that it would benefit you— and the team as a whole— if each member submit to a thorough physical before battle.”

“I come in tomorrow, if you would like, Doctor,” Heavy supplied, chest still full of bubbles as the man stood close to him.

“Fantastic! If you see the others before then, please pass along my request,” Medic said, hastily adding, “and thank you again, for your help. I’m sure you have your own unpacking to do, so I’ll let you leave now.” A gloved hand found itself on Mikhail’s mid back, gently pressing him toward the door. “Good Night, Herr.”

The doors swung slightly as they closed behind him. Heavy stood frozen in confusion at the doctor’s behavior. Though, if he was honest, his own behavior was also befuddling. He shrugged it off, deciding to finally retire to his bunk.

* * *

Early the next morning, Heavy found himself outside the infirmary once again. The Medic hadn’t been in the kitchen or pantry when Mikhail had gone in search of breakfast, so he assumed the man was simply an extremely early riser, and that his own early arrival to the infirmary would be unobtrusive. After a minute, he rapped his knuckles gently against the door. Soon after, there was a peculiar fluttering sound, followed by a sharp sound of discontent from Medic.

“Doctor?” Heavy called, peeking around the door.

“Ah, Herr Heavy! I wasn’t expecting you to come in this soon,” the man answered, sounding flustered. His clothes were slightly rumpled, likely the ones he had worn the day before, but his hair was neatly combed and gelled into place.

“I do not like being late.”

“That is admirable, unfortunately I may have slept past my alarm this morning,”Medic said, turning more toward Mikhail. At that moment, he noticed the round, white mass perched atop his brilliant red glove. It peered at him with its beady, black eyes, tilting its head as it cooed.

“Doctor has little bird?” He felt stupid for saying it like that. Every time he opened his mouth in front of the handsome doctor thus far, he had sounded unintelligent and it was causing frustration to boil within him. Then, with that thought, a wave of exasperation washed over him. Too many of his romance novels involved a handsome young doctor sweeping the protagonist off her dainty feet. Well, Medic was young by no means- though he certainly looked younger than Mikhail by a couple years, with his full head of greying-black hair and soft wrinkles- and Heavy’s feet were far from dainty, especially in the combat boots that had been provided as part of his uniform.

With anyone else he had met since coming to America, he would have simply beaten them for insulting his intelligence. The mental image of Medic roughed up and covered in blood, however, was discomforting on many levels. Regardless, he cursed the English language for being so complicated.

“Ah, yes. More than just the one, actually. I have twelve other doves,” he said, stroking the dove fondly on the head with a finger, “look up.”

Doing just that, Mikhail saw the other birds, white and pure as fresh snow, peeking down at him from the rafters. He looked back at the doctor, who had also craned his neck up to watch the doves preen above. Those sharp teeth showed as his lips pulled back in a grin, his head tilting down at Heavy once more.

“But, aheh, you didn’t come to admire my flock,” Medic declared, his face tensely neutral, “hop up on the table, Herr, and we can begin.”

Hesitantly, he did as he was told, carefully testing the sturdiness of the table. It creaked only slightly as it supported his weight, so he decided it was safe to relax. As soon as he was settled, the doctor was upon him, slipping a cuff on his arm to check his blood pressure.

True to his word, Medic’s exam was thorough, his fingers and tools probing insistently. Blood pressure, body temperature, heart rate, and reflexes. He checked his hearing— surprisingly good given his lifelong love of firearms, his sight— slowly failing with age to nobody’s surprise, and his memory— exceptional, he was told. The doctor measured the circumference of his arm and the breadth of his chest with a look that could only be described as enthusiastic. Calipers pinched at the generous layer of fat that covered his belly, and the doctor’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as he wrote down the measurements. A red clad hand grasped his jaw firmly as he was encouraged to open wide. While the man probed his mouth with tools and fingers, a feeling stirred in Heavy’s gut, so strong it made him dizzy.

The conductivity of his skin was tested with an unprofessional looking implement that Medic assured him was perfectly safe. As was the oxygen in his blood. Three vials of the sanguine fluid were taken from him as well, and he recognized the quickened breath of the doctor as he pierced Mikhail’s flesh with the needle. By the end of the exam, Medic was practically sitting in the Heavy’s lap, blue eyes wide with excitement.

“Ich hatte noch nie eine so perfekte Kreation in meiner Hand,” the doctor breathed, grinning like a wolf, eyes wild. Mikhail felt the intensity of his gaze like ice down his spine. He shivered. Medic drew back, grabbing the clipboard with a flourish. Clearing his throat, he straightened his posture and tie. “I have been looking for a subject for a particular, ah, let’s call it a clinical trial for many years now. One that will revolutionize the will guarantee our victory in battle! No, in war! One that would change the world!”

“Doctor? What is—”

“No, I mustn’t get too ahead of myself. Diese Eier wurden nicht gelegt. There is still much to do before I consider this done. After all, I have yet to examine our other teammates! When you leave, could you send one of them in?”

“Yes, doctor, but what is—” Medic grasped him firmly by the shoulders.

“Heavy. I assure you that if you are a patient man, the answers to your questions will be that much sweeter. I will see you at dinner, ja?”

Heavy nodded.

“Perfect. Now, really, I must see to the others’ examinations as well!”

* * *

Those answers were taking quite a while indeed. In fact, ever since his examination, Mikhail had seen the doctor only a handful of times. Occasionally in the kitchen when they both decided to eat with the team, and when he had to drag the Scout to the doctor kicking and screaming. Of course the last of the team would be the hardest to get into the infirmary.

He had stayed briefly during the young man’s physical, just long enough to ensure that he wouldn’t run away again. Though he complained loudly and squirmed like an infant, Scout made no move to leave. While Heavy watched, it seemed as though Medic was far less enthusiastic about the boy’s measurements and results than he had been about Mikhail’s. He wondered if it was because the boy was so puny ( I should cook for the team at some point, he thought additionally, it would only make the team’s performance worse if our Scout is too weak to pull his weight ) or if he was just tired from the all the work a new job entailed.

That obnoxious romantic part of his mind chimed in too, reminding him of the doctor’s breathy voice and the warmth of his closeness. The way hands clamped firmly on his arm or knee brought back to the front of his mind. He shook his head to clear the idea from it. It was ridiculous to dwell on. He was overthinking this, as he always had. Given he was their doctor, Medic was likely the only member of the team who had duties to complete off the battlefield, beyond weapon maintenance and training. There were eight grown men— men who lived dangerous lives— that he had to monitor the health of. He had likely found that the other members of the team would be good candidates for whatever he had planned. If Heavy had to guess, the Soldier would be a good choice, as would their demolitions expert.

Still, Heavy felt he should take a break from the romance novels, they were obviously rotting his mind.

In the meantime he had been making sure his Sasha hadn’t been damaged in transit, that each part was as perfectly machined as it had been from the start. He assembled her carefully, applying grease where it was needed— and though the New Mexico heat had been unpleasant for him, he could appreciate that it kept the gun lubricant from freezing up; if he never had to use powdered graphite again it would make him a grateful man indeed- and tested the rotation of the barrel.

The repetitive click-click-click as his weapon’s chamber revolved soothed him. He knew his Sashenka inside and out; she never confused him with her motives. Her motives were his- to fill cowards with lead and holes. Aside from the rare jam, she never disagreed with Mikhail. With her weight in his hands, he didn’t need to overthink things. Just point and shoot, then feel each shot reverberate up his arms and through his chest, the whirr of her motor harmonizing with the blood rushing in his ears. Through all of the mercenary jobs he had done, she had been by his side.

Sitting in the armory, Sasha whole and shining on the table in front of him, Heavy sighed. People were so complicated. That was part of why he had taken this job. It paid well, would let him work closely with Sasha daily, and mercenaries had no need to know intricate social scripts. Click-click-click. He had thought the team would be, well, larger. Nine men was a well sized group for a night of drinking, but for what had been called a war? It was no better than a group of children playing soldiers in the woods.

In all likelihood, they would suffer casualties in their first battle. The Scout was likely, small and scrawny as he was. Perhaps the Sniper, if he was poor at hiding. Maybe even Medic. Click-click-click . He was a healer, after all. Likely, he had few combat skills. Heavy doubted Medic had a fighter’s build under his sharp dress. Not that he was small, but he was certainly smaller than Mikhail. And they were not young men. He was not in peak condition. Well, regardless, Medic had read whatever contract he’d signed. So had the little Scout and Sniper. The nine of them had chosen to sell their lives and bodies for this war, and if they died? So be it. Click-click-click.

So why did he still feel so uneasy? Click-click-cli—

The armory door swung open, the Engineer walking in with a swinging gait. His goggles were around his neck, revealing his squinting eyes. Mikhail thought offhandedly that it and the prominent white mask around his eyes where the eye wear rested made him look like a badger. Heavy huffed at the thought.

“Oh, Heavy,” the texan greeted, “didn’t expect anyone to be in here this late. Good to see ‘ya.”

Late? It couldn’t be that late. Mikhail peered at the wall clock ticking away by the door. No, it really was late. He grunted.

“So,” Engineer began, “our first battle is tomorrow morning. You ready for it?”

“Am always ready for fighting. Cannot say the same for rest of team.”

“Really now, what’s got you thinking about that?”

Heavy shrugged, standing to secure Sasha in her locker, “Little men will be killed. I am not so sure they realize this. Would make them act, hm, careless ? Would not be good for team to lose people when we have so few.”

“Oh, that,” the Engineer said with a chuckle, eyes crinkling as he grinned, “you don’t need to worry about that, big guy. Trust me.” Mikhail was taken aback. Was every member of this team unable to process their mortality, or simple unwilling to? No matter. This just further proved that he was surrounded by madmen.

“Will try not to, Engineer,” he simply replied, stepping around the shorter man as he left the room.

* * *

Early the following morning, as soft rays of sun filtered over the New Mexico desert, each member of the team slowly trickled into a tiny room on the ground floor of the base. During his tour of the building earlier that week, Heavy had taken note of the frosted glass doors that served as a barrier to a smaller space with tiled walls and flooring. He recalled Miss Pauling calling it a spawn room and saying nothing else. Perhaps it was like an emergency shower, like the one he’d seen in the lab during the only science class he took in university. This was far less utilitarian in nature, though. Strangely, there were no handles on the doors, and he could see no shower head within, but he shrugged it off despite his curiosity. If it became of importance, it would be explained to him.

Heavy pulled his flak vest off the hook it hung on in the cabinet and began to shimmy it over his head. He turned to see that the doctor had appeared next to him, fully dressed in his uniform. The tails of his white coat flared out from where it rested on his hips. He carried a boxy pack on his back and a strange instrument in his hands, their weight balancing his posture. Attached to the pack was a harness, and it made his coat cling in such a way that, if he were so inclined, Heavy’s eyes could follow the arch of his back from his squared shoulders to his buttocks.

Mikhail coughed into his hand and looked to the clock on the wall. Five minutes before they would be ordered to move onto the battlefield.

“Are you ready, doctor?” He found himself asking.

“Of course!” Medic replied, lips twitching into a grin, “It’s been so long since I’ve had a proper chance to test this. And this will be the first it has seen of a real battle.” He gestured with the apparatus in his hands.

“What is it?”

“You’ll see, mein Freund.”

Around them the others finished checking their equipment or made idle chatter. Scout swung his bat- an odd choice of weapon, but Heavy could respect a little man choosing blunt force over trickery- almost hit the Demoman as he drew it back for another swing. The scot sputtered and swore as he jumped back, falling into Soldier who cried out about insubordination. Soon enough half the team was pushing and shouting, including the doctor, who had been shoved into Heavy’s chest.

Glasses crooked and face turning red, he spun around to join in the yelling. His face contorted as he jabbed a finger into the Soldier’s chest. As he watched the man give his teammate a tongue lashing, Heavy was vaguely aware of the room’s speakers buzzing to life. Unfortunately, he couldn’t hear any of it over the ruckus around him. Soldier grabbed Medic by the lapels, spittle launching from his mouth as he shouted. Snarling, the doctor returned the favor, hauling him closer with one fistful of his shirt, the other hand gesturing wildly.

The speakers’ call rang weakly once again and Heavy grit his teeth. No one seemed to care that they were missing out on what was possibly vital information. Children. His team acted like babies throwing tantrums.

“Shut up!” He bellowed, voice cutting through the cacophony, “we are here to fight enemy cowards, not own team.” He sniffed, hefting Sasha as the speaker finally played clearly.

“Mission begins in ten seconds.”

Soldier straightened his posture, rocket launcher held securely over his shoulder.

“Five.”

Demoman pulled a bottle from his belt and took a hearty swig. Next to him the Spy lit a cigarette, fidgeting with his knife.

“Four.”

Engineer shifted a toolbox in his arms.

“Three.”

Scout straightened his microphone and shared a determined look with the Sniper.

“Two.”

Medic pushed the lever on his contraption, a wicked grin splitting his face as he trained crimson fumes on Heavy.

“One.”

At once the team rushed out, battle cries leaving their lips. Mikhail’s heart pounded like a drum, the red gas tickling his lungs. As soon as he saw the enemy- convenient blue blobs popping into view, he revved his minigun and let Sasha grace their bodies with bullets. Their bodies dropped like sacks of grain and, once they were down, MIkhail laughed. It had been a while since he had something like this. He looked back to the doctor, who still had the beam focused on him as they advanced toward their destination.

“This is very good, doctor! We stick together!”

Medic laughed and nodded in affirmative, following close behind. Ahead their target lay, marked out neatly with stripes on the ground. A few BLU mercenaries stand on it, fending off Heavy’s teammates. WIth a roaring laugh he pulled Sasha’s trigger once more, spraying brass wrapped gifts in his enemy’s direction.

Heavy found himself looking back again at Medic, watching as he cackled, lips pulled back to show his canines. Sunlight glinted off his glasses lenses as he threw his head back. Mikhail’s stomach fluttered, this doctor he was so—

POP . Blood sprayed from the doctors head, his skull shattered like a vase. Dead before his body hit the ground.

“DOCTOR!”

He scanned wildly for the gunman as Medic spasmed among the gravel, a sickening gurgling coming from him. Fury and nausea rising within Heavy, he located the BLU Sniper’s hiding spot, and pumped him full of metal. Heavy breathed hard, shoulders quaking as he searched for more cowards. His own team had since advanced to the next target, and he was left alone. His hands quivered. Mikhail felt sick.

“Heavy! Go! Schnell! Our team is waiting!” Mikhail heard the doctor cry. Jogging meters away from puddle of blood and chunks that had once been his brain, Medic appeared good as new. The quaking body that had been laughing with Heavy moments before was gone, leaving it’s stains behind, proving it’s reality. And yet the doctor, pushing firmly on the small of his back, was just as real.

Mikhail squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, willing down his dizziness. These things would be explained to him, right?

* * *

“—and that’s about it,” the Engineer said, removing his hardhat, “any questions?”

RED Team had won the engagement, though it had been a close call. After the battle, the texan had corralled the team back in spawn to explain the more… unusual aspects of their job. When Heavy had followed his teammates to the second capture point, he had felt white-hot agony in his spine before finding himself retching, forehead and palms pressed to the floor’s cold tile. When he regained some of his composure, he stood, wobbling like a foal, and stepped through the automatically opening glass doors. He grabbed Sasha from the bench and stepped out of the room.

As he had rushed to the capture point again- now not only overly hot, but also squinting against the desert sun and disoriented, he passed Engineer, who kneeled to tighten bolts on a strange contraption. Upon noticing Heavy, the man had spared a moment to turn and smile at him. I told you not to worry, didn’t I? He had told Mikhail before returning to his duties. At least he had the manners to elaborate on what had happened.

“Herr Engineer, this respawn system,” the Medic began, fidgeting with the strap of his pack’s harness, “what are it’s limitations?”

“S’long as y’all are within range, I can’t imagine anything it won’t bring you back from. Only thing is that the settings are different during ceasefire than battle. Once the Administrator tells us to pack up, respawn won’t work the same.”

“Meaning?” Sniper asked, an impatient tone in his voice.

“It falls back on older systems. They’re slower and less efficient. You might not be fully healed. You know how bad y’all felt coming out the first time today?” The texan waited for his teammates to nod in acknowledgment. “Well, the modern system will get better every time you respawn. It learns your body pretty damned well. Less delay, less disorientation. Eventually, it’ll feel as natural as getting out of bed in the morning. The old systems can’t do that, though. So, unless you’re partial to being sick as a dog, I’d recommend you try not to get yourselves killed during off hours.”

“Yo, why couldn’t ‘ya have told us that before?” Scout demanded impatiently.

“I’ve got my orders, too, boy,” Engineer said in a warning tone. He looked around at his teammates, then, snapping back into his pleasant facade, said “well, if there’s nothing else y’all want to ask, how about we hit the showers? I’ve been sweatin’ like a sinner in the front pew!”

Despite the uneasy feeling he got from the american’s words, Mikhail chose to follow the group along as they left for the comfort of a cool shower. A hand latched on to his forearm, stopping him in his tracks.

“A moment of your time, bitte,” Medic said, staring at him.

“Of course,” Mikhail replied.

“This evening, after dinner,” Medic began, eyeing him,“I would like your company. If you are interested, that is.”

“Interested… interested in what?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Just conversation.”

If that were the case, why would he be asking so secretively? Was Mikhail missing something? The romantic in his brain sang a song of secret meetings, and he imagined pummeling that part into paste. Still, aside from maintaining his weapons, there was really nothing else he had to do after he showered and ate. And he would have that opportunity the next morning.

“Alright. Will come by infirmary after dinner. Are you not joining rest of team?”

“Ack, no. Not for a shower. That would be a mad house. If Soldier tried to intimidate me while nude, I would simply rip his penis off,” Medic deadpanned. Mikhail winced at the mental image.

“After dinner, then,” he reiterated as the doctor walked away, heels clicking against the floor with purpose.

* * *

Medic had been right about the showers. By the time he got there, Scout, Soldier, and Spy were already arguing like three petty babushki debating who had the better recipe for jam or the most impressive grandson. The Scout’s hair was wet, but he was fully dressed as he shouted. Unlike Soldier, who had rid himself of all clothing without a hint of shame. Once again, Heavy was willing to look for traits he respected among his teammates, and that level of body confidence was uncommon with Americans, it seemed to him. Spy’s suit was wet, and it looked as though he had slipped in a puddle left by the youngest member of their team. Truthfully, Mikhail didn’t want to know.

He made it quick and headed straight to the kitchen when he had dressed. As he walked, he considered simply making himself a sandwich and going back to his room rather than deal with his screaming teammates once more. However, as he walked in, he saw Medic sitting with a cup of coffee— this late in the evening? Odd— speaking with the Engineer as he stood at the stove.

“Ah, howdy, big guy,” Engineer greeted, “soup’ll be on in just a few if you’re willin’ to wait.”

Heavy nodded. “I am surprised that you are cooking for team again.”

“It’s no big deal,” the man said, “like I was tellin’ the doc here, it just makes it easier on our rations than everyone coming through and snagging ingredients. ‘Sides, I doubt many of y’all know how to cook.”

“I will have you know that no one makes kotlet like Heavy,” Mikhail said with mock arrogance. Mama’s would always be much better than his attempt at the juicy, flavorful dish, but he knew for a fact that he was a better cook than his sisters. Zhanna if no one else.

“Well, you’ll have to demonstrate that sometime, slim,” the texan said good naturedly. Somehow Mikhail felt it was the first time he had heard the man be genuinely friendly in the week since they’d met.

* * *

While they ate, Medic had stared at Mikhail like he was the meal rather than what sat in his bowl. It made Heavy feel like a hare being watched by a fox, glowing eyes piercing him like hooks. Despite this, they both made polite conversation with their team. Sure, Spy and Scout still fumed in the presence of one another, but things were calmer than they had been in spawn earlier that day. It gave him hope for their future engagements on the battlefield.

Partway through, the doctor had excused himself for the night, and Heavy had made the conscious choice to wait to do so on his own. Perhaps it was overly cautious, but something about following the man directly felt risky. He took his bowl to the sink and, pacing himself, made his way to the infirmary.

He only needed to knock once before the Medic greeted him at the door. He was dressed down more than he had seen yet, in only his dress shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“Guten abend, Herr Heavy. Come in,” he said, guiding him by the elbow. The doctor pushed him toward two chairs that seemed to have been dragged in from some other room and urged him to sit.

“What is this about, doctor?” Heavy asked.

“Well, as I had mentioned before, there is a technique I have been looking to test for many years,” Medic answered, sitting in the other chair, propping his elbows on his knees, “one that requires a subject of a more resilient nature than most. Of course, I had hoped that there may be another compatible subject among our team, but, ah, that is not the case. Maybe in the future it would work, but for now you are the only one I could comfortably administer the treatment to.”

“What sort of treatment?” Mikhail asked, suddenly nervous for entirely separate reasons.

“Surgical in nature. Oh, don’t look so unnerved,” the doctor tsk’d, “it is nothing so serious as to worry about. It is an implant, not a transplant. And there are still many things to do before we plan the actual surgery.”

Silence grew between them as Medic chewed his lip. Sighing, he stood up again and began to pace.

“I can’t stand lying,” Medic said, exasperated, “when I was performing your examination, Heavy, I was more thorough than I really needed to be. Your body is just so... fascinating. I would like to examine more, please.”

Heavy’s brain stopped working as he processed the other man’s words. Smugly, the romantic returned to gloat. “You want to… examine me more.”

“Sexually, Herr Heavy.”

“Sexually,” he repeated a little dumbly. The doctor looked instantly anxious, grimacing as he tugged at the color of his shirt.

“Aheh. I, ah, suppose I have misread this situation. Es tu mir leid, I—”

“Nyet, doctor. Is fine,” Heavy stood to get closer to the man, “you are very handsome man. Did not think you would be interested in me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Heavy,” Medic said, grinning, eyes half lidded, “you’re just what I have been looking for.”

Mikhail stood still as the doctor began to touch him, hands trailing up his arms. When the man reached his chest, he began to slowly push the Heavy backward until the back of his knees hit something. He reached behind him to realize that a gurney had been locked down at the perfect height for these purposes.

“Doctor thought ahead.”

“One can never be too prepared,” he replied.

Heavy gasped as the doctor pushed him down against the gurney and, planted firmly between his knees, began to suckle and nip at the sensitive skin of the russian’s neck. Gloved hands roamed his chest and down his belly. Were it not for the friction of rubber in his body hair, this moment would have been ruined by Mikhail’s ticklish yelps. Instead the dimly lit infirmary was filled with deep groans as fingers pressed hard against his hip bones and a clever mouth marked his flesh.

“Doctor,” he breathed, unable to string together the proper words for this situation. All at once the smaller man pulled back from him, hovering over Heavy’s gut with his hands braced at either side.

“My apologies,” Medic said in a measured tone, “I suppose I got carried away.” He shifted his weight to one side, bringing his free hand to Heavy’s thigh to firmly massage the muscle there. “Lift your hips a bit, so I might examine you more thoroughly.”

Wordlessly, the doctor stood once more, straightening his tie. Despite his outward composure, there was a slight tremor to his hands. “ Sehr gut, ” he exclaimed, smirking, “you are quite healthy for a man your age, Herr.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Mikhail replied dumbfounded. What did it mean that the man had just pleasured him without making a move to receive the same? It was, contrary to the typical wisdom, not easier to think now. Everything was blurry and unsteady around the edges. As he made himself presentable again, Heavy tried to sneak a glimpse of Medic. Somehow, the man had already gone back to organizing the cabinets in the time it had taken Mikhail to put himself back together.

“Feel free to leave when you’re ready, mein Freund. I wish we could talk more, but I have things to do before I sleep. If you’d like, though, you could keep me company tomorrow evening as well?” There was a hopeful tone to his voice, even as his lips quirked in an alluring manner.

“I would like that very much,” Heavy replied.

* * *

“You’re sweet,” Pamela told Doctor Bevin when she returned from the chart room after covering the exhausted girl with a blanket. “That was a very kind thing to do.”

“Think nothing of it,” the young man said waving it aside. “Internes do have hearts, you know, believe it or not. I felt sorry for the poor kid. She was scared out of her wits. Ever hear of this Fornesi or Garbinsky before, Ware? Unpleasant wench, isn’t she? Seems to me I’ve heard something about the Eel, though—something about hijacking, petty thievery and the like. Nice people!”

Pamela agreed. “Isn’t it queer, Doctor, that Benny and I were just talking about Receiving? She doesn’t like working here—too boring she thinks, and I told her things happened when I was here and see what did happen.”

Mikhail put the book down next to him on the bed, pushing his reading glasses up with a broad hand and wiped down his face. He just couldn’t get into the book. It was no worse than any of the others but— those sharp blue eyes, pupils carving into him like daggers from beneath the feathery, black frame of eyelashes, haunted his mind like an afterimage.

The intensity of it all had been overwhelming. Mikhail had never been treated as Medic had treated him. Even in his earliest intimate experiences, Heavy had been expected to take control. He had been expected to be dominant, a conqueror. After all, if one was blessed with a body built for war, should he not partake in the spoils it afforded him? The thought was an unpleasant one to him.

Yet being on the receiving end of such treatment was… well, he wasn’t sure it was pleasant, but he hadn’t felt the same discomfort. When the doctor had looked at him with a hunter’s eyes and tasted of him with that ravenous mouth, it brought up new, unfamiliar feelings.

Perhaps, like a rich text, it would take another reading to uncover their meaning.