Title: Five Things That Never Happened to Medic. Rating: Adult Pairing: Heavy/Medic Disclaimer: No profit made. All characters belong to Valve. Notes: Lurker and first-time poster here. Hope you all enjoy this; it consumed three afternoons' worth of my life. Also, I would like to state here and now that Medic's fate in Part I is inspired by TeratoMarty's young Medic in 'Coldfront'. Any constructive criticism is appreciated. Thanks for reading :) ---------- i. The One Where Medic is a Serial Killer --- Medic is waiting, sitting, legs crossed, in a small and comfortable armchair by the window. The streets are dark, wet still from the rain. Small things betray his impatience: he alternately drums his fingers on a small side table, spins a syringe about his thumb as students do pencils, or caresses a razor-sharp scalpel sitting in his lap. The professor will be home soon, he thinks. He sighs a little, rearranging small trinkets to stay his boredom. For all his lassitude, he springs to his feet as nimbly as a cat when he hears the door handle turn. A tall man steps in, divests himself of his hat, hanging it up still in the dark before he realizes he is not alone. "Who's there?" he calls. "Who – oh. It's you. You had me worried for a second there – " "Don't." It is the first word Medic has spoken in hours. The other man raises his eyebrows. "Don't what?" he asks shortly, turning his back to Medic and divesting himself of his raincoat. Medic sidles up behind the man, pushing the door softly shut and locking it. With his other hand, he places the scalpel directly on the professor's neck, so close to the jugular that one small move of his wrist would kill him. The professor stiffens. "Don't use my name," Medic says, his voice soft and low, intimate. "I've been informed by my father that he would rather I renounce all claim to his surname, since I am such a disgrace to it." "What shall I call you then?" The professor's inquiry is mild, but mocking. "You may call me by the title I should have earned. Call me Medic." This draws a laugh from the other man, which Medic cuts short by increasing the pressure from the scalpel. "Very well... Medic." That mocking tone again. Medic smiles. "What is it you want? I can do nothing for you now. I expected that as a man of the world – as the son of a respected politician – you would understand what happened, and why. I am sorry." He doesn't sound sorry. Medic tastes blood where he's bitten through his lip. "You would have made a fine doctor. But you need to leave now. There is really nothing I can do." "Then I am sorry, Herr Professor... but there is really nothing I can do, either." With that, he pulls out the syringe he had pocketed, uncaps it with his teeth and plunges it into the side of the other man's neck. The professor roars in pain. "Ah ah ah ah," Medic cautions. "No yelling, or I will make this so much more painful for you, Herr Professor. You know my capacities, sir. I did, after all, learn from the best." The professor blanches. Medic is genuinely enjoying himself. "After all, I am a man who is – what was it? Oh yes. 'Almost as skilled at surgery as he is at sucking co – '" "Shut up," the professor snarls, but he's trembling. "Sit down." Medic shoves the professor away from him, settling the other man in the chair and taking the armrest for himself. "You will notice, Herr Professor, that you are now quite unable to move. A little concoction of my own devising." He smirks before continuing. "It is fast-acting, entirely non-fatal. You will remain fully conscious – for a little while, or until I am bored of your whining. And then I believe I shall indulge in a little fun." "You're sick," croaks the professor. "Simply ill in the head. I thought they... cured you." "Cured!" Medic slams the table with his fist, shattering ornaments and startling himself with the force of his own rage. "Cured! Eight months they held me in the darkest, most remote, most forsaken corner of this country. They starved me, and they flogged me. They froze me, and they burnt me, and they passed a current through my body so strong it stopped my heart," Medic shouts. "All on your word! Your word, that I was a, a deviant and a pervert, that I broke into your quarters and flung myself at you. While you dined and drank and licked the ass of the president of the college, I went through the crudest of tortures – all because you were too stupid to lock a door!" His father had been a frequent and generous donor to the college. Even so, neither his coin nor his influence could have done anything to buy his only son out of a swift and unceremonious expulsion. Neither could it have prevented everything that had followed after. It had been Medic's word against that of a celebrated professor and pioneer in the field of medicine. Once Medic was out, he had been promptly disowned. He turns away from the professor, inhales deeply, releases a shuddering breath until he is sure of his control over his temper. When he turns around, his smile is back in place. "Such ignominies I suffered, Herr Professor. You have no notion. And I know you are just as sick as I am. I remember – eight months is not enough to make me forget that you are the kind of man who enjoys pain. A little pain... perhaps even a lot of pain. But I promise you will not enjoy this." The professor's eyes widen and he opens his mouth – to beg, or to scream? It doesn't matter. Medic backhands the man once, viciously enough that it hurts his own hand. "There are others who can expect similar treatment soon," Medic confides, pulling on thick rubber gloves. "But you are the first, Herr Professor. I think you've earned that place of honour." He lets out a bark of laughter at the look of terror in the professor's eyes. "I must admit, Herr Professor, I've always wondered what it would be like to relieve a man of all his bones." Medic strives for a conversational tone, but is too exultant to be casual. The professor begins to weep, gently. Medic feels nothing but a fierce and angry joy at the sight. "Now sleep," he commands, and another sharp blow sends the professor into unconsciousness. ---
ii. The One Where Medic is Female --- Stalingrad in the winter is far colder than Stuttgart ever was, though it might be because Medic speaks little Russian and the people seem so remote. It is warm in bed, though, with the presence of the large, muscled man Medic calls Heavy. He is sitting upright, perusing the pages of a thick book by lamplight when he notices her glance. "What ees it, leetle Doktor?" he asks in clumsy German. It is still better than her Russian. "I was just thinking," Medic replies, "of how strange fate can be." This catches his attention. He marks his page before closing the book, looks at her carefully. "What you mean?" he asks. Medic opens her mouth to answer before closing it again, trying to marshal her thoughts and make it clear to a man who spoke little of her language. "When we first met," she says slowly, "you asked me – why I wanted you to call me Medic. Well, my mother was a – a kept woman of one of the higher ranking Waffen SS, barely two months after the death of my father. She left me alone, in that house, and told me to tend to the soldiers who were on leave." This had been in the early days before the war, when a man might still take leave. "Da," Heavy replies, seeming not to notice that he had lapsed into Russian. He knows this already. "I was... never made a medic, never even made a nurse. The soldiers, they called me Medic because I provided the basics of first aid, and more than the basics as the war got worse. I also provided... other comforts, when they wanted. All at my mother's request, of course. All for the sake of civic duty." Memories rise, unbidden, thick as bile: the rough and sometimes violent pawing of her countrymen and – her mouth twists bitterly – kamerade. The hot and angry tears she had wept, after. "And so," continues Medic, finding herself unable to stop now that she's started, "I gave you that name. I did not... want you to know, I did not want anyone to know my real name." She takes in several deep breaths, before confessing, "In Germany I am wanted for drugging a medical officer with opium and killing him with his own bonesaw. I – I had my reasons. Good reasons." Her voice trembles, but she can't help the little strain of pride. It had been a messy, but ultimately satisfying endeavour, and if ever a man had deserved such a death, it had been that one. "But I wanted nothing more than to shed my old life, my old name. You understand, Heavy. You must." Heavy says nothing for such a long time that Medic is terrified and turns to look at him. Heavy is quiet, but seems undisturbed by the Medic's confession of murder. He seems instead thoughtful, as though contemplating a chess move. "When I was grabbed by your men, I thought I was going to die." What Medic doesn't say was that it had been relief and not fear that had driven her to her knees; she had been waiting for the kiss of a gun's muzzle and the bullet that would inevitably follow. "Why did you send them away, that day?" she asks now, curious. Heavy continues to think for a moment, and Medic can almost see wheels turning in his head, exchanging words in Cryllic script for Latin characters. "They were saying... not polite things. It make me angry. I bang table, tell them go away or I will rip with hands. Is not way talk about lady. Then leetle Doktor look..." He struggles for words. "Look like going to spit fire. I ask name; Doktor tell me name is Medic. I ask why, but no get answer." He shrugs, a surprisingly fluid movement for one so big. "I think, must be she was nurse in war. I am once heavyweight boxing champion – so I tell Doktor, call me Heavy. This is for try earn Doktor's trust. Do not want Doktor to feel like she need tell me name... if she not want." "But why did you decide to make me that singular offer – to come here, with you, to be your medic? I am not the prettiest girl you have ever seen, I am sure." It is a statement, not a question. Heavy is nothing if not scrupulously honest. "No," he says. "Doktor is not prettiest." The blunt truthfulness of this stings, for a moment, and Heavy seems to realize it because he lifts her hand to his mouth to kiss inside her wrist. "But still, Doktor is very beautiful, is full of... spirit. Makes me want... protect. Doktor should not die in place where no friends. Doktor should not be torn apart by men like bears. And I think – my house empty, sad. No light. Only work, and guns, and cold. Need woman touch, maybe then not so lonely. And maybe one day Doktor see Heavy in different way. " The slowness of expressing himself in halting German must be annoying, but Heavy plods on so patiently. It wrings Medic's heart a little. "Not all Russians bad men. I think I am good man. I try." "I never expected to be still be alive today." Medic offers a small smile. "I am sorry I was so ungrateful in the beginning." "Is okay. I know Doktor is like wet angry cat when first meet. Need time before give trust." Medic finds it hard to swallow around a sudden lump in her throat. "In any case, I was saying fate is strange because... I truly expected to die, when I left Germany. I prayed for it. But instead I find you, or rather," she chuckles, "your men find me... and I am here, and alive, and well, better than I've ever been. I expected a penance," she whispers, laying a hand against Heavy's strong jaw. "I expected a lifetime of penance. But instead, being here... it's like I've being whole, or being born." "Am glad," Heavy whispers back, leaning towards her as he turns off his lamp. Soon, she is arching her back, elated, ecstatic as he slides into her to the hilt. She spurs him into action with all the filthy words she's heard from soldiers and what little Russian he has taught her. He is gentle, so unbearably gentle that she grips his shoulder with teeth and nails, drawing blood she'll tend to in the morning but right now, right now he is striking that spot and she is mindless of anything but the scent and feel of his arousal. He reaches a huge hand between them, down between her legs and watches with some amusement, but mostly with lust, as Medic is torn between screaming and sobbing. The pleasure mounts sharply as he begins to rub. It is too much, the circling of his fingers, his hot hard length inside her. Medic imagines mercury climbing inside a thermometer, shattering the bulb, and comes with no warning, splintering with a noiseless cry. A few more hard thrusts and he joins her, pulsing inside her as he floods her with his release. Later, much later when she is curled against him as he sleeps, she watches his face in slumber and thanks God they didn't shoot her after all. It is not love, Medic thinks with a yawn, not yet. But it could be, someday. She closes her eyes. ---
iii. The One Where Medic Refuses RED's Offer --- He straightens his tie, peering at himself in the mirror. He is cleanly shaven, his hair orderly, glasses gleaming in the morning sun. There are dark circles under his eyes, but then, he has had those since his youth. They were born of sleepless college nights in his youth, and of too-early mornings during his life as a medic with the Heer. He looks no more tired than usual, though he feels it, deep inside. It is unusual to see himself wearing something different than the while lab coat he wears every morning to attend his modest medical practice. His shirt is freshly laundered, but ironed clumsily, unaccustomed as he is to such household tasks. He adjusts his suspenders, pulls on his suit jacket and smooths the lapels. He notes grey hair at his temples that seem to have appeared almost overnight. With a sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose, under his glasses. Turning away from his self-examination, he walks towards the kitchen. He has not made coffee today, but then he has not had to make coffee for the full latter half of his life. The dishes are in the sink, unwashed now for days. The remains of the last meal he had eaten with someone other than himself for company still sits on the table. Next to the plate of congealing bacon grease and eggs, there is a manila envelope thick with documents, stamped with the logo for 'Reliable Excavation and Demolition.' He picks it up, gingerly, and throws it into the bin full of three-day-old garbage. He does not feel hunger. He does not feel anything, but he makes himself fetch a glass from the shelf and drinks some tepid tap water before he shrugs on his overcoat and heads to the cemetary. Outside, it is foggy. He gets into his automobile, driving slowly, methodically down cobbled streets. He does not pay particular attention to where he is going, but ends up at the right place nonetheless. The deceased's family is already gathered there, waiting, eyes red. They are gathered together, huddling as though to form a human wall against him. He chooses to ignore their behaviour, feeling nothing but a hollow sense of amusement. The ceremony is mercifully brief. The coffin holding his wife's body seems absurdly small for a woman whose laugh had seemed to fill every room she was in. It is a closed casket affair – the medical report was more than enough reason to justify his decision on that front. He does not want this to be the last memory he makes of the woman who gave him a good life for so many years. He throws the first handful of dirt and stays long after everyone else has left. Damp air wraps around him thickly. He imagines himself as an empty Erlenmeyer flask, sitting in the grass, filling up with grey vapour. "You must be doktor." This voice comes from a figure shrouded in mist. A few steps forward reveal a giant figure of a man, not tall – barely a foot taller than he himself – so much as broad. "Am sorry for your loss," the man says. English. The man is speaking English, albeit with a Russian accent. It is such a supreme effort to switch from German to English, but the doctor manages it somehow. "You vere sent by vone of zhose RED bastards, veren't you?" he rasps. The Russian man hesitates. "Da," the heavy man concedes at last, "but RED want to express sorrow for what happened. Should not have come to this." "No," he agrees, "It should not haff." "Doktor maybe not realize how serious Administrator offer is," the other man offers by way of consolation. "Is not your fault." "I never said it vas." He can hear is own voice is calm, so calm, and he feels nothing. "I don't vant to hear anyzhing more you haff to say. Guten tag." He turns on his heel and makes to move. "Doktor, I think you should accept offer." Heavy man's voice contains a warning that makes him bristle. "Is not good idea, Doktor – more bad things can happen. Will happen. Doktor has more people can get hurt – maybe even Doktor get hurt." At this, he snaps completely. He whirls around, seizing and pulling handfuls of his hair in rage. "Vhat," he shouts, "do you vant? For me to roll over like a trained mutt und say yes? To say zat now that my vife is dead, I vill just – just fall into ze lap of you REDs?" The rhythm of his speech is flagged both by his unfamiliarity with the language and the clumsiness of his own overwhelming rage. "Do you zhink I haf no pride? I did not survive years of service under ze thumb of one führer, Herr Whoever-you-are, to serve anuzzah. Tell zem to do their worst. I haf nozhing more to lose, und I vill be waiting." "Doktor," Heavy calls, but he is striding out of the graveyard already. "Doktor!" Sunlight is piercing the fog, now, driving down on his back. He thinks of her – he thinks of the scent of her hair, her laugh in the morning, but although she made his life sweet, he does not miss her, and he knows he never loved her. He misses talking; he misses her pride in his medical abilities; he misses her delighted clapping at the end of his spontaneous violin concertos. He does not miss her. It almost makes him hate himself. The worst part, the absolute worst part, is that he almost feels like he might say yes. If they send another messenger... but not today. Not today, and not tomorrow, and not soon. But perhaps someday, he thinks to himself. Perhaps he was never meant to be one of the lucky ones who escaped the ghosts of war. It had been almost ten years' reprieve, which is a goodly length by anyone's reckoning. Lastly he knows that what he had said is true: he really does have nothing to lose. A flock of doves scatters before him. He watches as the birds burst into flight, climbing higher into the sky. The sun shrivels up the last remnants of mist. Though he is tempted to, he does not turn to see if the heavy-set Russian is still watching. He puts one foot in front of the other, and his steps take him to his car. Before he knows it he is at home, with the blinds closed, sleeping for the first time in days. ---
iv. The One Where Medic Lives a Mostly Normal Life and is Relatively Sane --- "Guten tag, Herr," is the first thing he says to the massive man who is to be his new roommate soon. "How are you?" "Well enough," replies the other man in a rumble. His accent is thick, but understandable for a man who's only been in the U.S. for a week. He holds a heavy-looking pack with all signs of ease, taking Medic's hand in his free hand. His large palm all but dwarfing Medic's fingers. He shakes firmly, but carefully, as if some incidents in his past with broken fingers have trained him to such care. It is a small thing, but already Medic finds himself warming up to the man. "And you?" "Sehr gut, sehr gut." Medic hums a little, tapping his thigh with a pen he had been using to fill the crossword. He looks his new roommate over, pleased with the broad, honest face and noting that the man does much the same in return. "Vhat is your name?" he asks at length. The reply sounds like pure Russian. Medic knows he will be able to pronounce not even two syllables of it. "I apologize, Herr, but you take me beyond my skill in Russian, here," he says. "May I call you somezhing else?" The man pauses, racks his mind for a suitable alias before breaking into a laugh. "My mother said before I born, she drink what seem like water, but is heavy water. Is why I grow so big, she say. Call me Heavy," he says, sticking out his hand again. Medic takes it again. "Very vell, then you must call me Medic, bitte. It is ein peculiarity of mine zat I am not very fond of mein given name, and prefer to be known for zat one vhich I have earned for myself." Heavy nods, as if this makes perfect sense, and looks around. "Oh – I am standing here like a dummkopf vhile you still hold your luggage. Forgive me, Herr Heavy, und let me show you to your quarters." Heavy follows. "As you can see," Medic calls down to Heavy as he climbs up a short flight of stairs, "ze apartment is laid out in two floors. Ze top is ze bedrooms und bathrooms, vhich are adjacent. Zere is also ein small office next to my room. I haf claimed for zis my work, if you don't mind." "Nyet," Heavy hastens to assure him. "I zhank you, Herr Heavy – my work encroaches on my entire living quarters if it does not get its own space. I haf reserved the bigger bedroom for you to make up for ze inconvenience." He ushers Heavy into this room now. It is plainly attired, with a bed that will obviously not fit even half of the Russian. Other furnishings include a desk and chest of drawers. Medic watches as Heavy sets the pack in the middle of his bed. "Baby bed will not fit giant man," notes Heavy, prodding the mattress with a thick finger. "Zis is the standard furniture zat comes vis the suite," Medic explains. Heavy considers the room and its size, which can obviously comfortably accommodate a bed three times the size of this one. "Is not problem. I have friend. Will build bed for Heavy. He come tomorrow, when Doktor is at work, so build-noise not make angry Doktor." "Danke for your consideration." It is a surprisingly thoughtful offer for a man who looks like a hired mercenary. Medic finds his curiosity roused, but opts not to show it, settling for a half-smile instead. "I haf also taken ze liberty of arranging for some dinner. Come down to the sitting room around six, bitte. I hope you are not a vegetarian, because I am afraid I did not consider ze possibility until after ze arrangements vere made." "Is okay, Doktor. Am not vegetarian." He inclines his head, going to work on his pack. "Am gratitude." "Ja, ja. Is nozhing." Medic leaves the man to his own devices, returning downstairs to finish his crossword and amuse himself in other ways for the next few hours. At precisely six o'clock, he hears footsteps on the stairs. It startles him momentarily, engrossed as he was in his anatomical sketches, until he remembers his fellow lodger. He looks up. It is a long way to look up. "Ah, Herr Heavy – I am afraid ze dinner is a little late, but it should be here soon. Please, sit." Heavy nods his thanks and tests the chair before he commits to sitting fully. "Do you play chess?" asks Medic. Heavy seems to consider this question. "A leetle," he replies. "In gulag – chessmaster taught. Has been long time since I play. Maybe not good anymore." "Come," laughs Medic, "it is like schwimming, no? Vone can alvays learn again." He sets up his chessboard, a beloved set that was a gift from his late mother. They play, stopping only for dinner, which arrives late enough that Medic has sharp words for its deliverer. Heavy is obviously much more skilled than he remembers – it takes Medic until ten to checkmate him. "Am tired, Doktor. Sorry for sad game. Next time, will do more, longer," Heavy says as he tips his king onto its side. Medic waves away the apology. "Nein. I look forward to it," he says, and is surprised at how earnestly he feels about it. They walk up the stairs in silence, Medic's steps cat-light, Heavy's drawing groans from the wood. "Good night," Medic says, retiring to his room. He hears his fellow lodger do the same in the room next to him. He removes his suspenders and shirt, folds them carefully. A brief five minutes in the bathroom prepares him for bed. He extinguishes his lamp before shucking his trousers and climbing into his sheets. Already he can hear gentle snoring from across the hallway. "I think this could be the start to a fine friendship," he murmurs to himself in German. It is the last thought he remembers having before slumber claims him. ---
v. The One Where Medic Never Gets to See 'After the War' --- "Italy. I will 'ead to Italy, to indulge in wine and women," says Spy. He is smoking in the common room again. Medic disapproves, but he doesn't really care enough to ask Spy to stop. Soldier grunts. "Been so long since I been fighting it just don't feel right when I ain't. Guess I'll have to go find somewhere else that'll need me'n Shovel." "Yeah, well, make sure wherever the hell you end has got a TV and access to the news, 'cause I'm gonna be all over it in four years. The Olympics ain't never seen anyone as fast as me. Just you watch." Scout jabs a thumb into his own chest, striking a pose for good measure. Engineer guffaws. "Boy, just you watch. Once you find the love of a good woman and settle down with a hot little wife, you won't wanna do anything but wake up to her face every mornin'. And that's what I plan to do when I get back." Sniper has already retired to his van, but they all know of his plan to buy his parents a nice house and settle back with them. Demoman is oddly silent. Possibly he has accepted Medic's cautionary prediction accepted that his liver won't hold out long enough for him to see the end of the war. Or he might be sleeping. Pyro's thoughts are also unknown, mostly because no matter how hard they try, no one has yet managed to decipher "Urrr huddah hrrrm; urrrr drrr crrrrrr hrrr huddah hah thhhhh." "Doc?" Scout prompts. Medic sniffs from his position on the couch. "I don't think it is vorth discussing right now as ve haff preparations for tomorrow. I am going to bed. Come, mein Heavy." He propels himself off his seat, not bothering to glance back at the assembled teammates. He feels, rather than hears, Heavy fall into step with him. "Something wrong, Doktor?" asks Heavy, closing the door to Medic's quarters as he begins to divest himself of his flak vest. "Nozhing," Medic lies. He looks over to see Heavy giving him a look. "Okay, fine. I don't like to discuss zis topic of after ze war. I zink it is pointless." "Doktor has no plans for after?" Heavy inquires. "Nein, it is not zat – I just – I don't zink zat ve vill just be able to... valk away from zis." He shrugs helplessly, trying to convey an idea he still can't put into words. Heavy's smile warms him up from the inside. "Doktor. Come here." Medic obeys, as always, stepping into Heavy's arms. "Doktor is scared," says Heavy, conspiratorially. "Nyet," he chuckles, when Medic attempts to wriggle out of his hold. "Is okay. I not make fun. I make better." Medic sags against him. "Not scared, mein Heavy. Just... vorried, I guess." The truth is that, since coming signing the acceptance letter, Medic has lived as though each day might find him cold in his bed with a bullet in the back of his head. It is the kind of living that has brought Heavy and him together. He never dreamed that such happiness could exist, much less find him, so normally he gives little thoughts to 'after'. Tonight is different, feels different in a way Medic can't pin down. "Let me make worry go away," Heavy suggests, placing his hands on either side of Medic's face. "Ja," Medic breathes, before Heavy seals the remaining space between their mouths with a kiss. He feels safe are when he is with Heavy. He knows that Heavy is but a man – a big man, a strong man, but only a man. However, the feeling of being protected persists. Heavy slides the shirt off Medic's shoulders, kissing ancient scars earned from a time before the Medigun. Straddling his lover, he slides the ammo belt above Heavy's head, settling it carefully on the end table before he does the same to Heavy's t-shirt. Heavy's mouth is at the crook of his elbow, and Medic struggles to liberate Heavy's cock with his free hand. When their bodies come together, he feels like they are invincible, bulletproof. It is the closest Medic has ever come outside of battle to the crackling, electric high of an Übercharge. In these moments they are one living, breathing organism. With every touch, Heavy is waking nerves that light up like fiery constellations all over his skin. The feel of the Russian's response is like standing in the middle of a storm and riding the lightning. In a fit of fancy, Medic imagines he is astride a colossus carved entirely of ancient bronze. He marvels. "You are vonderful, mein Heavy," he whispers. His teeth find the side of Heavy's neck as his lover eases the pants off his hips. "Nyet, Doktor. You are... are amazing," Heavy pants.The gasp Medic gives as Heavy takes them both in hand is lost against sweaty skin. He whimpers when Heavy slides a slick finger inside him and whispers Russian endearments hoarsely in his ear, smoothing back the errant curls in his hair. Such vulnerability is normally abhorrent to Medic, but in this context it swells his heart to such ridiculous proportions. When Heavy enters him, it drags forth a moan from Medic. Their coupling is passionate, almost violent. Whatever has been troubling Medic seems to have infected Heavy, and he fucks Medic desperately, methodically aiming for all the spots he's mapped out over months and years. Medic is helpless to do anything but ride out wave after wave of pleasure that threaten to crash over him and drag him under completely. When he comes, it is like a supernova. A fierce, triumphant joy blazes in his heart as he looks down at Heavy and half-smiles, half-smirks. One flex of his inner muscles, and he swallows Heavy's howl as Heavy fucks him and fills him. That night's sleep is the best Medic has ever had. --- In retrospect, he should have seen it coming. Medic knows this mood, knows this atmosphere that is the precursor to a death or a loss. He has felt it countless times, but has been too afraid to shatter the illusion that everything will work out. For all this expectation, the end is still bitter, when it comes. Medic is lying on dusty ground, now, warming rapidly beneath his body, though this may be a consequence of the rather alarming amount of blood puddling under him. His head is propped on something soft – familiar. Comforting. He glances up, and his heart fills, as it always has, at the sight of the face he loved best. "I vill be okay, mein Heavy," he murmurs, but even as his eyes close he knows it is a lie. Respawn has never felt like this – this terrible, luring calm towards inexorable sleep. He had hoped they would do it another way – break the news properly and let them choose the method of their exit. But this? This is a cowardly act. He should be livid, he knows, but he only feels sluggish. His heart is labouring violently in his chest. For a wild moment the image of Engineer reaching in with a wrench assaults him. He opens eyes he never remembered closing to see Heavy's face contorted in a paroxysm of grief and rage. He tries to smile fondly, finds that the muscles of his face will not respond properly. His eyes seem to shut of their own accord. "Doktor. Doktor!" Heavy is screaming. Heavy has never yelled like that. "Mein Heavy." He feels so weak. He has something to say – it is urgent – something that needs to be said, before... before. Medic's eyes snap open and he remembers, suddenly. "Heavy." He is sobbing. Is he sobbing? Or is it simply that Heavy's body is shuddering against his in sorrow? Medic can't tell. "Ich liebe dich. I love you... I love you. Now go." Breathing is so hard. It will not be long, now. "I vill see you soon." He hears Heavy's roar of pain but finds himself, for the first time since coming here, for the first time in his memory, unable to respond. For the last time, he shuts his eyes. ---
Those were awesome little stories! I think the female medic one is my favorite. Almost cried at the last one!
Guh. I love you. I'm all wrung out and dead from this... beautiful.
These are beautiful. Thank you for putting them here.
I cried. Beautiful
I'm so glad you delurked. These were wonderful stories. We will be seeing more from you in the future, I hope?
this is full of win and awesome and awesome win. I do love a good serial killer medic. I loved all of these a lot and I hope to see more from you. Medic character development is always enjoyable.
holy shit. these are all gorgeous. the last one especially was painfully delicious. If I could fund the continuation of the fourth one, I honestly would. Please? For metaphorical money?
Thanks everyone! I'm not totally sure how to respond directly to comments - or edit my previous posts (is this possible, actually?), because holy shit do errors get past you when you're posting at 3 a.m. However: >>11 I'm working on a couple more things and turning a bunch of ideas over in my head. My classes start up in a week, though, so I may not be able to get to them for a while. Unfortunately school munches up pretty much all of my time (and sanity). >>13 I actually imagine that Heavy and Medic end up striking up a Holmes-and-Watsonesque relationship, except instead of solving mysteries they're guns for hire. And, of course, eventually ending up totally gay for each other.
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I am very pleased to have played a part in inspiring these stories! I know how it is when you write a nice, tidy little one-shot and some bastard yells for MOAR, but I would genuinely enjoy any further serial killer Medic you might care to write.
I really liked all of these. If there's more to say, I haven't found it yet.