1 . Name: Steve @ 2011-09-05 19:55

This is a gift for my dear friend Greenstor, who is a wonderful, magical inspiration to me. She pointed out the sad lack of Soldier/Demoman, and I was more than happy to help out.

The following is based heavily on the WAR comic, so it's predictably bloody and angst-filled. Enjoy!

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Projectile Weapons: Part One

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The first time it happened, they were drunk.

Their mouths were bloody from a good-natured bar fight between each other. ‘Good-natured’ though it was, it nonetheless ended with each of them having a split lip and a bloody nose.

They stumbled back to Soldier’s hole in the wall, a dark hovel littered with empty soup cans and magazines. Laughing, they fell to a threadbare mattress on the floor, tangling around each other.

“Did’ye see the look on the barkeep’s face? Ahaha!” Demo laughed. Soldier was silent, but grinned all the same. Alcohol had an interesting effect on him. It was one of the few things on the planet that could quiet him down.

They rolled, pushing each other down just to see who was stronger.

They did this often; have little contests. Just to see who could take just one more drink. Who could win an arm wrestling contest. Who could fire a shot farther, who could hit the center of a dart-board more often, who could…

“Gooodamnit, Solly,” Demo slurred, looking up at Soldier. “Get off me.”

“Negatory,” Soldier breathed, staring down at Demo from his position straddling the man. He had him pinned. He’d won this round.

Demo pushed, a bit half-heartedly, at the man’s shoulders. This wasn’t a one-time occurrence. They’d wrestled in the past, sure, but something was registering in the back of his head. This time was different.

Soldier grinned and grabbed hold of Demo’s wrists, pinning them above his head.

Demo’s mind was hazier than usual. He was drunk, but it was pretty rare that he’d ever gotten this drunk.

When Soldier buried his face in the crook of Demo’s neck and mumbled, “Tavish…” his meaning was clear. The straining erection in Soldier’s slacks didn’t leave much room for speculation, either.

---

Demo told himself he didn’t remember it. The burning of his blush and the pain in his arse served as reminders. What’s more, he couldn’t very well overlook the shirtless Soldier who currently shared his bed.

---

The second time it happened, they weren’t drunk. Just pent up and full of a lot of strange feelings that neither of them understood, feelings that they didn’t try too hard to define.

Their love was kind of like projectile weapons; fast, explosive, and hard to dodge.

---

It was understandable, then, when Soldier’s wrath didn’t subside after the faceless messenger with the television left. He marched around in circles, attempting to clear his head. Failure. Stalking his way over to the wall and punching it, leaving a hole in the sheetrock. Breathing in. Breathing out. The sharp sting of betrayal. After all they’d been through, after every whispered word and burning touch. After every little smile and muttered reassurance. All that, and that damned Scot had betrayed him.

He had called him a civilian, even after promising. That had been classified information. Classified. He’d promised, damnit!

He sunk down onto the threadbare mattress where multiple times he had been reassured of his sanity. Others had called him crazy, sure. So often sometimes he believed it himself. But the feel of a stubbled chin against his was all he needed to know.

“Yer not crazy, lad, jus’…passionate.”

Passionate. Fervent. Obsessive. Adoring. Loving.

He clenched his fists. This meant WAR, and he’d be damned if that Scot got away with this.

---

“If fighting is sure to result in victory, then one must fight. And if fighting is sure to result in defeat, then one must fight anyway because surrendering is for little girls and one-eyed Scotsmen!”

“They may take our lives. They may betray us and they may break our hearts. But they will never take our satisfaction!”

---

Over the course of the WAR, more than once, Soldier felt the sting of a sword entering his back, sliding past his spine and his internal organs, and emerging from his chest.

Wide eyes. A cough. A sound, not unlike the sudden twang of a violin . Breath at his neck, and a mumble of “Bested ya again.”

After each time, he woke up in Respawn; hand over his chest where that RED devil’s sword had been. Peering beneath his jacket to see if there was a trace of him left.

Breathing in and out. Shiver running down his spine.

At night, when the base was quiet and rockets paused in their whistling through the skies, he would map out imaginary scars on his body. A spot above his navel; the Eyelander. He had gripped his shoulder and grinned at him, the same way he used to when he’d just got done telling a joke. And then he had plunged his sword in, still smiling, even when Soldier choked on his own rising blood and suffocated.

Shifting uncomfortably, he touched his temple. An invisible bruise from a scuffle earlier that week. Both of them out of ammo, they wrestled, hands clutching at each other in a desperate attempt to see who would come out on top. What had once been a situation that ended with lips touching, this time ended with Demo bringing down his empty bottle of Scrumpy against the side of Soldier’s head, his helmet long knocked off.

He shook his head, waving away those thoughts. He leaned down, gripped the laces of his boots. Earlier that week he’d lost this foot after stepping on one of those damned mines. Howling in pain, he had caught sight of Demo laughing. Soldier had grit his teeth and yelled at himself for being so foolish. For not looking down before he took a step. The yelling in his head didn’t stop, even as he looked up to see a grenade sailing through the air and landing in his lap. Only Respawn was able to silence his thoughts.

Back of the neck; that damn Eyelander again. He had caught him unawares, coming up from behind. Whispered a quick farewell, muttering “Gotcha, love,” before quickly slicing the air and taking off his head.

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, brushing away the ghost of his touch. Breathing out. Breathing in. Getting off to the mixed thoughts of rough hands and the cool feel of steel.

Lying back on a lumpy mattress to stare at the ceiling, gasping for air.

Hands that had once touched him so tenderly were now working overtime to kill him, over and over. Laughing in his face like the damned RED bastard that he was.

Such is war.

---

On the off-times when Soldier managed to get the upper hand in a fight, he often savored the feeling. He never killed Demo immediately. He let the sight of his ex-friend suffering fill his sights. This time, he had managed to throw Demo off of him, back him up against a wall, where he was weaponless and injured.
Demo was on his knees, worn out from their brawl.

“Now’s who’s besting who?” Soldier growled, anger peaking behind his eyes. Demo refused to look up, spitting out blood and wiping his mouth across his sleeve.

Soldier brought up his Disciplinary Action, running it up Demo’s chest and resting it beneath his chin. He tapped it twice, lightly, against the Scot’s jaw.

“I asked you a question, private,” Soldier said, his voice low and warning.

“Go tae hell, ye bloody yank,” Demo spat, glaring up at Soldier. Soldier was taken aback for a moment, before he yanked back his whip and brought it down just as fast, smacking Demo on the side of his face. It left an angry red line across the man’s dark skin. Drops of blood seeped out as Demo howled in pain.

“One more remark like that, private, and I’ll see to it that you lose that other eye of your’s,” Soldier snarled,
leaving his whip dangerously close to Demo’s bleeding cheek.

For a moment, there was nothing just silence, punctuated only by both of the men’s heaving breaths.

“J-Jane…” Gasping for mouthfuls of air, Demo looked up at Soldier, silently pleading. Soldier stared down at him from under the rim of his helmet.

Something snapped in Soldier at the sound of his name. The only other time he’d heard Demo say ‘Jane’ was when they were in bed together, and even then it was only when he was being thrown over the edge that even considered breathing out his real name.

He dropped his whip and turned around, scrambling for his shotgun. Demo leaped up and tried to stop him, tried to wrestle the gun from his grasp. Soldier turned over and brought the butt of the gun up, ramming it into the side of Demo’s head.

“Ye BLU sonuvabitch!” Demo shrieked, clutching at the knot that had suddenly started to swell on his head. Stars shot across his sight from the pain.

Turning his head, Soldier lifted his shotgun. Ignoring Demo’s gasp, he pulled the trigger.

He didn’t turn his head to look; even as Demo’s lifeless form slumped over him. He kept his eyes downturned until Respawn picked up Demo’s body, and even then he remained here, breathing in. Breathing out.

“Godspeed, you magnificent bastard,” Soldier muttered, at long last. He picked up his gear and staggered off in the direction of his base, ignoring all questions from his team mates.

---

Other times, when their brawls didn’t immediately end in either of their deaths, things could get pretty interesting, pretty fast. And sometimes, that meant both of their weaknesses were able to escape through their hardened exteriors.

Like the instance when, despite the fact that blood was issuing forth from the cut across his gut, Demo reached out and grabbed hold of Soldier’s collar, pulling his face close. Soldier was stunned for only a moment. When Demo tried to kiss him and missed, his mouth knocking awkwardly against Soldier’s cheek, Soldier didn’t hesitate. He put his hands on either side of Demo’s head and kissed the damn Scot with everything he had, because goddamn he missed him.

And that wasn’t girl talk, either. That was just facts.

Demo’s hands struggled, weakly clutching at Soldier’s shoulders, until his strength faded away. Most of his blood had pooled at his feet. His hands fell away, but Soldier refused to believe it. He kept a desperate hold on the man, resting his forehead against his, refusing to break the kiss.

When he finally did pull back, Demo was dead. Dead by Soldier’s hands. This time, he had come out victorious. The act should have left him feeling triumphant, but all he felt was an overwhelming sense of emptiness.

He buried his face in the crook of Demo’s neck, quietly sobbing, and stayed there until Respawn picked up his enemy’s body. He was left with only blood on his hands.

---

Boots.

It had all been for boots.

Soldier clenched his fist as he looked down at his prize. What an accolade, what a trophy! And all it had taken was him killing his best friend over and over. Losing both a friend and a lover.

He picked up the boots, aptly titled ‘The Gunboats’, and threw them against the opposite wall.

He had never felt like less of a man.

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Thanks for reading! Part two should be posted in the next few day. Let me tell you, this fandom has taken me by storm. I just can't seem to stop writing for it.