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No. 398
Every repost is a repost repost. By Pippers.

--

That Pyro.

That unstoppable fireball of a person. That dangerous, risk-taking fool.

He’s lucky to be alive; I’ve told him so. I tell him every time he comes into my office.

And, believe me, he comes in quite often. As one of my more adventurous teammates, he’s always in the front lines.

(Even if he weren’t, I have no doubt that he would get hurt one way or another. He’s very good at that sort of thing.)

But he’s most peculiar whenever he’s here. It’s hard to explain.



He takes off his mask for me, you know.

He knows now that he has to one way or another, so there’s no struggle like there was in the beginning.

God, it gives me a migraine just thinking about it.

But, yes, the matter at hand… his first examination.

He came in, mumbling as he always does, setting his flamethrower near the door. And then he just stood there, looking at me through his mask, as though I understood what he said.

“Sorry, Pyro,” I told him sadly (and I did feel bad about it). “I’m not that good yet. Disrobe.”

He nodded and began to take his clothing off. He’s the type who always has to do it in a particular way, as though changing it might upset some sort of dynamic. The patient-doctor dynamic, I suppose. Point is, it was very tedious to watch.

It was the left boot first, followed by the right. He put them by the door neatly and took his right glove off, finger by finger, before starting on the left glove. He threw them into the opposite boot – the right glove into the left boot and so forth – and then unhooked his belt, being careful to place it on the back of the chair. I think, at this point, you have a faint idea of what it was like.

It was all just so delicate. That’s what intrigued me. Usually, he was a fire-breathing monster. Very vicious. Very unforgiving. Very, ah… unrefined.

But here he was perfect. He took his time, made sure none of my things were scuffed or accidentally knocked out of place, and even sat on the examination table without any prompting.

His mask, however, was still on. I pursed my lips and tapped my head a few times, hoping he would get the message.

He looked at me for a few moments and shook his head, folding his hands in his lap and squeezing them together.

It was peculiar, really, to see Pyro sitting there in such a way. He was shirtless, pantsless, hunched over and looking very insecure, completely unwilling to take his mask off. It was as though someone had taken his head and put it onto someone else’s body. He’s just so, how do I put this delicately?... scrawny. There’s a lot more padding to his suit than I originally thought.

But the scars… the scars were the worst part. They lined his arms and lower legs, since his abdomen seemed to be a burn-only zone, and at first I thought he was just born with some strange set of markings. They were almost methodically placed, those wounds. They were very fitting, considering the careful movements he made while undressing.

“Pyro. Take off your mask, please,” I said gently, as though I were talking to a child. (But of course, I was only joking myself. Children are much easier to handle.)

He sat there. At first I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me or not, but after a few moments of silence I decided it didn’t matter. He heard what I said.

“Pyro,” I said. “Now.”

He made a small ‘hmm’ noise and adjusted his sitting position.

“Go ahead, doc. Look at my body all you want and stick your needles in my arm and do whatever you need to do. Just, please, not my face.”

That was what I was expecting him to say. In reality, it was a one-way conversation. It was me talking to someone uninvolved.

It’s like a security blanket for him, I suppose. It offers him protection from the world and from the eyes of his teammates; although, why he would want to hide from his trusted partners I can’t imagine. Sure, it was tough for him at first, what with the mumbling through the mask – Scout gave him hell for that – but he got through it fine. I see them sharing a drink every so often.

He didn’t really trust them, that was the problem. I imagine he trusted me even less then; everyone hates doctors, don’t they?

“Pyro! Your mask, please!” I said finally, punctuating my words with an authoritative of my foot (that usually makes them realize I mean business).

He looked to the door, as though making an escape in his underwear was preferable to this, before sighing lightly. He raised his hands from his lap and brought his mask up over his chin noisily, as though he was trying to make it sound as rubbery as possible. I turned, figuring he would take it off the rest of the way as I searched for his medical file.

I turned around to find that his mask hadn’t come off any more than that. He left it sitting on his upper lip so that all I could see was everything below that.

He was smiling a little.

“Cute,” I said, tapping my pen on my clipboard. My patience was running thin. “But it’s going to have to come off all the way.”

He stopped smiling, almost before I even said it. Heartbreaking, to say the least.

He heaved another heavy sigh and pulled it off all the way, setting it onto the table beside him.

I realized why he wanted to leave it on.

His forehead was, more or less, one big burn. The red, leathery flesh covered the length of that area, right up to his hairline and around the top of his right ear. His nose was scarred right down the middle almost perfectly, all the way down to the tip. It was puzzling the first time I saw it and it’s puzzling even now. It looked as though someone has tried to cut his nose off. (Someone who didn’t have a very good idea of the way the nose is attached to the face, at that.)

Other than that, it wasn’t as bad as I anticipated. His chin was nearly perfect, after all, as were his lips. I imagine that was what he prided himself on now, since they seemed to be the only parts of him that were untouched.

I must’ve stared too long, however, as he quickly looked toward the floor and folded his hands in his lap again. He stuck them between his thighs and squeezed his legs together a bit, as I had seen many young, nervous people do at their first examinations, and it was then I realized that he was a child.

This fire starter, one of the most dangerous people on our team, hadn’t quite grown up yet. He was inherently childish in his mannerisms without the suit on and spoke very little.

He looked up at me and smiled a little. He was so nervous.

It was hard to believe that this was the man who set people on fire and laughed about it.

Then it dawned on me that he might not be laughing at all.

Crying. He might be crying.

Sobs of pain, guilt, or maybe even apology, muddled into laughter by his mask and further contorted by our ears on the battlefield, which were so used to hearing war cries and taunts that it all sounded the same.

Of course, that is just speculation on my part.

I bit my lip and thanked him for removing it, remarking on how well his burn had healed and that perhaps I would be able to make it less visible with the right medicines. It would take time, of course, but maybe he would consider.

“It’s okay, doc,” he said softly, his accent vaguely Polish. (Again, speculation.)

“Ah, so you’re okay with them? It must get hot in that mask, though. I’m worried about what that might do to you.” I said.

He shrugged. “I’m alright.”

Few words were exchanged between that time and the end of his check up, but I felt it better that way. I didn’t want to make him work too hard.

When I was done he smiled, leaning towards me a little and craning his neck, attempting to see what I had written. I hugged the clipboard to my chest and quirked an eyebrow at him, smiling.

“Confidential,” I said, glad he was warming up to me now. “You can get dressed again.”

He put his suit on the same way he had taken it off: belt, left boot, right boot, right glove, left boot, and so on and so forth.

But just before he put his mask on he turned to me and paused. He smiled, speaking just a few words that he must have spent a while practicing for me. His pronunciation was nearly perfect.

“Danke, Herr Doktor,” he said softly.

I smiled back and waved as he put his mask back on and walked out the door, ready to become the mysterious, mumbling Pyro he was so used to being.

And so I sat at my desk and scrawled a few extra notes on the file stating his height, weight, hair and eye colors:
Wants to be loved.
Marked for deletion (old)
>> No. 399
Scout causes a lot of problems.

Namely, a lot of problems that I have to resolve. He likes to make things up.

“Doc, Heavy broke his fuckin’ leg!”
“Holy shit, Doc! Demo’s other eye just freakin’ popped out of his skull!”

He goes on like that forever until I’m close to having a heart attack or until I’m about to beat his skull in.

So when Pyro came to my office again to ask me something “important”, I knew Scout had something to do with it.

“Medic, what is… gaydar?”

I looked at him.

He looked back at me, earnestly, before pulling his mask down over his mouth. I ran my hand through my hair and paused, sighing.

“Pyro, did… did Scout tell you about this?”

He nodded.

“Well, um,” I began, standing up and gesturing uselessly. How does one explain a concept like that? If only Pyro had a better grasp of English. (And perhaps of sarcasm, as it were.) He continued when I failed to supply him with an answer, pulling his mask up and resting it on the top of his head.

“Because Scout say when I watch Solly-“

Solly?

“-when he is rocket jump, I get pose that makes his gaydar go off.”

Of course. Soldier.

I rubbed my chin, trying to look pensive, as though this was an issue of utmost importance. I’m sure he knew the concept of homosexuality in his native tongue, but…

“Pyro, can you show me this pose?”

…it’s awkward to talk about, regardless.

Pyro smiled a bit and looked at the floor briefly.
“Well…” he said, as he put his hands on his cheeks excitedly and brought his toes inward slightly, assuming what couldn’t be anything other than ‘the position’. “Like this.”

He did look a bit gay.

(The only reason I wanted to see the pose was because I wanted to see whether or not Scout was right about the “gay” issue.)

“Hmm,” I said, returning to my desk and shuffling a few papers around. I thought about lying to him, saying that a gaydar was nothing bad, or that it was perfectly natural for a young man’s gaydar to go off sometimes, but I didn’t want Scout to tease him more than he already did.

Pyro watched me with a furrowed brow, obviously worried. This whole thing was really getting to him.

“Pyro,” I said, putting my hands behind my back and sighing. “Doctor’s orders: Don’t listen to Scout anymore.”

His face fell; obviously that wasn’t the answer he was looking for, but I didn’t know what else to say to him.

Scout burst into the room suddenly, causing us both to jump.

“Hey, fags!” He yelled, grinning from ear to ear.

I looked over at Pyro, who had already gotten his mask back over his face.

“Scout, you’ve been telling Pyro about your gaydar?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. I wasn’t amused, but it would have taken a miracle to have Scout figure that out.

“Hell yeah,” Scout said, hanging from the doorframe, one hand still on the doorknob. “I figured you’d be able to tell him all about that crap.”

Pyro turned toward me, in what I could only assume was confusion. Scout saw him do this and continued.

“Whenever I look at you and Heavy, Doc, my gaydar goes off real bad,” He laughed and left us alone, closing the door behind him. Pyro and I said nothing as we listened to his footsteps disappear down the hallway.

Pyro slowly slid his mask back up, mouth open slightly, eyes wide.

“Doctor…” he began, slowly putting the pieces together. “Heavy!?”

I covered my mouth and blushed wildly, sitting at my desk and putting my head down. How humiliating.

He finally understood what a gaydar was.
>> No. 400
-----

When Soldier comes into the infirmary, it’s to do one of two things: 1) to criticize me for letting “those other maggots” be too weak, or 2) to berate me for being German.

“Why, this is AMERICA, Doc, and I think we should have AMERICAN doctors taking care of the brave warriors fighting here! No offense to you, of course, but…” He said to me, on more than one occasion. (And I’m certain he meant offense each time.)

But when he came in one day carrying a certain passed out Pyro, I knew something was different. Soldier set him on the examination table with a gentility I didn’t think he possessed, and turned to me, looking more serious than normal.

I looked at him and waited for an explanation.

“The sissy passed out…” he said, uncharacteristically quiet, before saluting me and exiting, slamming the door on his way out. I heard him curse loudly as he walked (stomped, actually) away.

I noticed that Soldier’s helmet was resting over Pyro’s face and smiled. At least the brute had enough common sense to know how much Pyro hated being seen.

It occurred to me that Soldier might have beaten the poor boy up for one reason or another, and had brought him here as a strange act of apology. I didn’t think he had much tolerance for someone who couldn’t speak up, and Pyro certainly fit that description.

Though I would have to prepare myself for the inevitable shitstorm that would follow, when Soldier would try something else inane later on, I focused on the matter at hand and removed the helmet slowly to assess what damages had been done.

Red, slightly puffy eyes, a runny nose, and flushed cheeks.

The poor boy has allergies.

That moment made me realize that Soldier actually /had/ a heart. (That, or he was damn good at pretending to have one.)

Perhaps there really /was/ hope for that lunatic after all.

Pyro awoke with little prompting, and since the problem wasn’t enough to warrant a full-on examination of any sort, I left him alone for a few moments to gather his thoughts.

He sat up, sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve (something I don’t recommend), before drawing his knees up toward him and wrapping his arms around his legs.

“Doctor,” he said, sounding very congested. “Dzień dobry.”

“Hallo, Pyro.”

He didn’t seem alarmed at all that he was there, and I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t ask why he was. That’s the first thing out of a person’s mouth, normally. Waking up in an infirmary isn’t exactly everyone’s idea of a normal Sunday afternoon.

But Pyro’s not exactly the healthiest young man out there.

I was a bit disappointed that he thought he still had to greet me so formally, but said nothing of it.

“You’ve got allergies, I see,” I remarked.

He nodded, scratching the back of his head as though he had forgotten. He then told me that he /had/ forgotten.

I’m convinced that Pyro belongs in some undiscovered category organism.

In his suit, he’s unstoppable. He could set himself on fire and never stop to save himself (or stop to /die/, for that matter), and god knows what sorts of things he must say while wearing that thing. (Some of his mumbles are said with a force that could only mean he’s swearing.)

Outside of his suit, he won’t hurt a fly. He doesn’t say much, let alone anything obscene, and he’s the only one who changes the roll of toilet paper regularly. (Well, that has little to do with when he’s wearing his suit, but it’s a good deed regardless. My point is that it’s not something I expected of him the first day we met.)

He’s very gentle, shy, and polite.

For a while I thought he might have some sort of rare mental illness.

But, no. He’s just a bit socially inept.

I asked him what happened.

“Solly was rocket jump again, doktor,” he began, while holding his finger under his nose, trying to stop it from running. “And helmet is, uh…”

He gestured to his eyes while he looked for the right words, moving his fingers in small circles, pantomiming a pair of goggles.

“Helmet is dark,” he said finally, furrowing is brow, no doubt upset with himself that he forgot such a simple word. I nodded and urged him to continue.

“I could not see Solly well, so I took helmet off,” he positioned his legs over the side of the table and began to swing them to and fro, looking very serious. “Eyes began to burn and itch…”

He trailed off, rubbing his eyes gently. They were still a bit red.

“And nose dripped much. I felt dizzy, doktor,” he said. “I fainted?”

“Yes, Pyro,” I said. “Soldier brought you here.”

His eyes widened, as I had seen them do in the past, and I knew a million worries had just hit him.

Who had seen his face? Where did his mask go? Were they all talking and laughing about his scars right now?

He touched the rim of Soldier’s helmet and bit his lower lip briefly, looking positively ill.

“Solly… saw?” He touched his face, lowering his voice as though someone were listening to us.

“I imagine so. But he was nice enough to put his helmet over your face so no one else could see you.”

He looked up at me and seemed better almost instantly, nodding a little.

He then smiled slightly and touched his cheeks, as though hiding from something, and looked at the helmet again. The boy was smitten.

“I will have to thank later, then,” he mumbled, looking at his boots.

I thought of Soldier and how gruff and loud he always is, and couldn’t stop myself from smirking. It was a ridiculous thought, that anyone should have feelings for that man, but it certainly wasn’t out of the question.

Everyone’s loved at some point, my mother always told me, even the ugly ones.

Pyro hopped off the table and opened the door slightly, poking his head out to look up and down the hallway. Once he was sure there was no one in the general area, he grabbed Soldier’s helmet and held it up to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Bye, doktor!” He said quickly, taking a deep breath and putting the helmet on top of his head, holding it down slightly while lifting his chin in a futile attempt to watch where he was going.

His footsteps faded quickly, and as I emerged from the infirmary for dinner a few hours later I knew all had gone well.

Soldier was wearing his helmet again, pounding his fist into his palm as he spoke authoritatively to none other than Pyro, who was wearing his mask.

Though I couldn’t see his face, I could tell he was the happiest he had been all day.
>> No. 401
On the rare occasion all of us gather for dinner there’s always something to complain about, be it the food selection or who is sitting next to who. (I certainly won’t forget the incident where Sniper took it upon himself to chastise me for my selection of tablecloth.)

Sniper and Spy were quick to sit next to each other, as they had been spending a peculiar amount of time together. It was much in the same way Heavy made sure he sat next to me, but everyone expected that.

We were seated across from Soldier and Pyro, who had become friends more quickly than I had thought. I was pleased for Pyro and gave him a subtle thumbs up when Soldier was busy scolding Demoman for drinking so much when there was a war going on. He gave me a happy nod and returned the gesture.

Engineer sat next to Heavy and gave us a polite “Howdy, fellas”.

Scout arrived a bit later than everyone else (as per usual), and when he realized he had to sit next to Engineer he looked a strange combination of frightened, nervous, and possibly aroused.

There was little conversation in the beginning, and at that I wasn’t surprised.

These men didn’t seem to be familiar with friendly conversation (at least, not in such a family-like setting).

There /are/ rules that go along with eating at a dinner table, but I guessed they weren’t quite sure what they were.

“This stuff sucks,” Scout said finally, eyeing the food with disgust.


“Eat it, Scout,” I said. It had been my turn to cook. I had enlisted the help of Pyro that night, figuring his ability to wield a flamethrower with such grace on the battlefield carried over into the kitchen.

I was correct, but not in the way I had hoped. He was good with fire, yes, but precision and detail work on a small scale turned out to be something he didn’t have a concept of.

I was hoping no one would notice that the night’s dinner was slightly, ah, how do I put this?... /charred/.

“Nah,” he said, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms. “I only eat food.”

He flashed me his ‘I know I’m annoying you and I love it’ smile.

“Leetle man should stop whining,” Heavy said, furrowing his brow. “Medic and Pyro work very had to make dinner.”

Pyro, who normally didn’t eat anything when anyone was around, had worked up the nerve to slide his mask up over his mouth so he could eat with us. I saw him smile bashfully.

“I don’t give a crap who made it, it /sucks/,” Scout said. He tugged the bill of his cap over his eyes and folded his arms in protest.

“Listen, you fairy,” Soldier piped up, slamming his fork against the table suddenly. “When a man’s given a meal he should be thankful for it, since it might be his last! Why, when I was in the war you wouldn’t believe what we had to eat-“

“Alright, fine, I gotcha,” Scout said, holding his hand up as though surrendering. “Anything but another of those lame stories…”

“You’re not a real American man until you’ve had at least one burnt meal in your day, kid, lemme tell you, and I am /all/ American!” Soldier said.

“You use a damn Soviet rocket launcher, moron,” Scout replied, wrinkling his nose.

Soldier gritted his teeth and gripped his fork much harder than before, trying to calm down only at the suggestion of Pyro, who had lightly put his hand on Soldier’s forearm.

“Scout, be nice, will ya?” Engineer said, nudging the boy in the shoulder gently. I could tell he wasn’t enjoying the food much, either, but his polite nature made him unable to say anything about it.

Scout threw a sideways glance at Engineer and shrugged, picking up his fork again and proceeding to poke at his food. He seemed almost embarrassed. (It’s amazing the effect Engineer has on that boy.)

Then everyone fell silent.

Up until that point, I had thought that being a doctor to the same 8 men would be the most awkward thing I would ever experience.

Heavy put his hand on mine and gave it a gentle squeeze, and I could almost hear him saying something like “Is ok doktor, not everyone is good cook”.

Humiliating, really.

But poor Pyro had taken it worse than I did, as I could tell when he choked out a quiet “I’m sorry”.

Everyone looked up in unison, genuinely confused as to where the voice had come from.

“My fault dinner is bad,” Pyro said, swallowing audibly afterward.

No one said a damn thing.

There he was, standing there and apologizing for something that he didn’t exactly ruin himself and no one said /anything/.

No “it’s okay”, no “don’t worry about it”.

Not even a “holy shit, you can speak”.

They were simply too stunned to figure out what to do.

Pyro took this as a bad sign and stood up quickly, pulling his mask back over his mouth as his chin began to tremble. He left in quite a hurry.

Scout rubbed the back of his head, lips pursed.

“Well, shit,” he said.

“Now look what you’ve gone and done, dummy,” Engineer said, gesturing to where Pyro had exited.

I noticed that Soldier had left as well.

“Excuse me, Heavy,” I said, patting him on the shoulder and leaving Scout to be reprimanded by everyone else at the table.

I did feel a bit sorry for the boy.

I made my way to the courtyard, where I could faintly hear Soldier’s voice.

“Listen, that maggot didn’t know what he was saying,” he said. “Why, when I was out there, about to fight Hitler face-to-face, the only way the food came was ‘burnt’. No one cared a bit! It was delicious, you know, and-“

They were standing there, Pyro looking dejected, and Soldier thumping him sharply on the shoulder as he tried to make his point.

“-A little charcoal is good for a man’s diet.”

Pyro looked up and slid his mask over his mouth, opening it in an attempt to say something.

He closed it. I bit my lip and wished he’d just say something. /Anything/.

“Thank you, Solly,” he said at last, smiling.

“You’re a good kid, Pyro,” Soldier said, putting his hand on his shoulder and grinning toothily. “Can’t understand you much, but we can work on that.”

“Oh, yes, mask makes hard to talk,” Pyro said.

“Damn right,” Soldier said, adjusting his helmet. “Here, lemme show ya some of the finer points of my rocket launcher…“

And he began to walk towards the armory, Pyro following him closely and nodding. He left his mask up, a huge achievement for him.

I breathed a sigh of relief and returned to the kitchen, where Scout was still being scolded by Engineer.

Sniper and Spy were long gone by then doing God knows what, and Demoman was passed out at the table.

Heavy put his hand on my shoulder and smiled, welcoming me back with a small kiss on the cheek.

“Going well with Pyro, doktor?” he asked.

“I think so, Heavy,” I said.

“Ha, reminds me of time doktor and I first met,” he said, tapping his chin with his finger lightly, putting a special emphasis on the word met.

I coughed softly, embarrassed, and looked over at Engineer and Scout, who now appeared to be dangerously close to kissing each other.

“Yes, Heavy, I remember quite well.”

From far away I heard a rocket go off, the muffled laugh of Pyro and Soldier’s loud, booming one.

I didn’t wonder what they were up to, since I had no doubt Pyro would tell me all about it in the morning.
>> No. 1237
There needs to be more. Or does there? I don't know but if there is I want to read it.
>> No. 1264
This is adorable.

Is there moar? Please say yes.
>> No. 1265
I love the way you write Pyro! All of this was adorable and I love the group dynamics.
>> No. 1267
there needs to be more or i will be incredibly sad
>> No. 1269
This is incredibly adorable. I must have more.
>> No. 1590
I really like this story. Please continue!
>> No. 1637
This is the most adorable thing ever.
>> No. 1689
C'este belle!

pardon my french.
>> No. 1690
>>12

Saaaage. Sage.
>> No. 1691
Pyro is my favorite. You knocked me dead. Love this, write more.
>> No. 1696
Shy Polish Pyro with a crush on Soldier is incredibly adorable.
>> No. 1710
asdf stop making think there was an update, non-saging anon :(
>> No. 1855
This is amazing.
>> No. 2965
I love Polish Pyro. Write more, please.
>> No. 2966
Ah geez I thought there was an update as well. It was fun to re-read, though.
>> No. 2977
My god, a good story about Pyro. I want more. I really, really want more...
>> No. 2982
I second what Akai said! Please this is so awesome/adorable!
>> No. 2999
This is so adorable! I like my Pyro's cute and cuddley, me thinks X3
>> No. 3000
fffffFFF SAGE PLZ ;A;
>> No. 3001
>>23
But if we do that the OP will never know how much we long for more of this miracle writing! D:
>> No. 3018
how cute. I like Pyro's speech pattern. Uhh, could I make a small suggestion though? Try giving Medic a bit heavier of a German accent.
>> No. 3319
UPDATE.

THIS IS ADORABLE.
>> No. 3321
>>26

Damn you, fooling me into believing this is an update D:
>> No. 3323
But ya' know, now that it's been brought up an update would be most welcome, eh?
>> No. 3394
This is the cutest characterization of Pyro I've ever read. :D
>> No. 3493
I don't think I could love a story more then this. The epitome of D'AWWWWWWWWWWWWW
>> No. 3929
i love this, please do more i love your uber cute pyro to death
>> No. 3939
This is beyond amazing!! I can't wait for more! There will be more right? I LOVE IT!
Great freakin writing and great characterizations!!!!!!!
It is all love!
>> No. 3944
any other adjectives besides adorable?


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