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No. 4852
And sure enough, exactly thirty minutes later, it's with the same confident smile that Medic re-enters the room. A smile made all the more confident, perhaps, by the fact that Soldier immediately turns to shout at him, weapon in hand... then drops his precious shovel -- and his jaw -- when he sees what Medic is wearing. Medic adjusts his glasses and smooths his freshly-gelled hair back as if nothing is wrong and walks silently over to the table as Soldier stares him up and down, even pulling his helmet up to reveal his usually hidden blue eyes, now wide with shock.
But that's always been the intended effect of the uniform of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, Medic thinks with pride -- an air of unmatched efficiency and authority in military black, fitted and formed and designed to accent the male figure: shoulders, chest, hips, waist, legs. It's been years, but his uniform has kept quite well, right down to the sleek black jackboots and the silver pips on his collar. And he, too, has kept well, it seems, from the way Soldier's staring at him with something like awe.
"Herr Soldat," Medic snaps, neatly folding his hands behind his back, and is quite pleased to note how Soldier actually has to tear his eyes away from the medals hanging above his jacket pocket. Back ramrod straight and boots crunching over the tiles that probably haven't been cleaned in weeks, he takes a step forward, then another, then another that brings him nearly chest-to-chest with Soldier, then another as Soldier blinks and stumbles backward, and another, and another, and another --
And when the backs of Soldier's knees finally hit the edge of a chair and he drops to an abrupt seat, Medic smiles down at him. "Ve vere," he says, unhooking a bonesaw from the leather belt across his waist, "discussing the matter of the leadership of this team, ja?"
It takes Soldier the time to stare and blink twice to remember what they were doing in this room in the first place, but when the braincells connect -- "NAZI SCUM!" -- he leaps out of the chair, reaching for his shovel -- only to find that he's left it half a room behind.
And that Medic's bonesaw is now at his neck.
"Sit, bitte, Herr Soldat. Und ve vill discuss this like civilized people."
"CIVILIZED PEOPLE? YOU NAZIS WERE THE LEAST CIVILIZED -- "
The bonesaw presses down just hard enough to draw blood, which reminds Soldier that he is in fact in danger and that Medic knows exactly where and how to cut -- and he sullenly sinks back into his chair and falls silent, hands balling into fists but remaining at his sides. Medic gives him a satisfied murmur of "sehr gut" and takes a seat in a chair opposite him, crossing his legs with a whisper of leather on leather, a tug on the sleeve of his uniform jacket, and a quiet "ah, it's been too long."
And Soldier's just about had enough of Medic looking down his nose at him (and looking so damned pleased about it, too) and is about to make a screaming dive for his shovel, bonesaw be damned, when said bonesaw gives him a warning tap on the shoulder and Medic asks a question that draws his interest like a brewery draws a Demoman.
"Shall ve get back to the point at hand?" is what Medic asks. "Vat, Herr Soldat, might be dein military rank?"
"MY MILITARY RANK?" Soldier frowns intensely and straightens up in his seat. "I WAS TOO LATE TO JOIN THE WAR BECAUSE YOU NAZI BASTARDS LOST SO FAST, BUT -- I'VE KILLED ENOUGH PEOPLE TO BE A SERGEANT!" When Medic doesn't look impressed enough (or impressed at all), Soldier sputters on, "AT LEAST! NO, A SERGEANT MAJOR!"
Medic reaches up with his free hand to touch his own collar. "I vas ein Obersturmführer."
"I DON'T SPEAK NAZI-ESE -- "
"Ein Lieutenant, mein Soldat. Ein Lieutenant."
That shuts Soldier up in a hurry, and he's staring at Medic's medals again, which he's just now understanding are real medals, not like the kind he makes out of Engineer's spare parts and awards to himself. And he's barely able to make the mental connection between Sergeant Major, Lieutenant, and superior officer before Medic is rising to his feet, pulling a manila folder from his jacket, and tossing it with a thwack on the table.
"Dein medical records," Medic says before Soldier can ask, and leans forward so that their noses are almost touching. "As dein medical officer hier, all I have to do ist report that you are mentally unfit for combat. Considering mein rank, BLU vill most certainly take mein vurd over deine. Und you," Medic finishes, punctuating this with several taps of his bonesaw, "vill never. See. Another battlefield. Again."
Silence fills the room for a few short seconds as Soldier reaches up with a trembling hand to pull his helmet back and stare Medic in the eyes. And in them, he sees an entire lifetime of living with the SOFT, SHELTERED CIVILIANS back home, an entire LIFETIME of nobody giving or getting orders, an entire LIFETIME OF NEVER VIOLENTLY MURDERING ANYONE ELSE WITHOUT CONSEQUENCE EVER AGAIN -- he's never even imagined it before, and it's just too big, too horrible, to wrap his mind around at once -- a soldier! He is a Soldier! Without an army, who would he be --
"No," Soldier whispers, his voice dropping out of its typical capslock range out of sheer terror. "You can't do that."
"Ich kann," Medic replies, pulling a pen from his pocket and flourishing it threateningly, "und ich vill, if dein problems with discipline continue -- "
"NO!" Soldier grabs for the pen and hurls it across the room, scrabbling at Medic's jacket for something to clutch at. His hands wind up clinging to Medic's belt, which Medic looks down at with distaste, as he starts to babble in a panic, trying to clutch and cling and salute all at once and failing at most of them. "NO! I JUST REMEMBERED YOU WERE RIGHT TODAY, YOU CLEARLY HAVE MORE MILITARY EXPERIENCE THAN I DO! I JUST DIDN'T KNOW! I WAS SADLY MISINFORMED! I BLAME THE ENEMY SPY, BECAUSE HE IS A CONVENIENT SCAPEGOAT AND IT IS THE AMERICAN WAY! BUT I AM THOROUGHLY INFORMED NOW! THERE WON'T BE ANY MORE PROBLEMS, YOU HAVE MY WORD!
"SIR!" he adds as an afterthought, snapping into an at-attention pose and finally managing to get that salute going even though his hand still shakes a little. Medic smiles and pushes up his glasses, and Soldier breathes a sigh of relief and relaxes just a bit -- until Medic speaks again.
"Good effort, Herr Soldat, but that vill unfortunately not be enough."
"BUT -- "
"Today, you have once again attempted to undermine mein authority," Medic says, folding his hands behind his back again and slowly beginning to circle around Soldier. "In the past, I have overlooked such subversive actions, but today, you openly declared this challenge in front of the entire team. Now that ve have established a chain of command, I believe a punishment is in order. Vat do you have to say about that, Herr Soldat?"
"NOTHING, SIR," Soldier booms, regaining himself a little. "I CAN DO FIVE THOUSAND PUSH-UPS IN UNDER TWO HOURS, JUST TELL ME HOW MANY TO DO -- "
"Nein," the Medic chides, "it is nothing so simple. Out on the battlefield, you challenged a direct order. Push-ups vill not ensure that this doesn't happen again."
"BUT THEN -- "
Medic stops his circling, turns, and reaches out to catch Soldier's chin in one of his black-gloved hands, forcing the man to face him. When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous, his breath brushing past Soldier's cheek. "Are you villing to take mein orders, Herr Soldat?"
"SIR!" Comes the immediate response. "YES, SIR!"
Medic's smile only grows wider as he lets Soldier go and casually waves a hand toward the table. "On der Tisch, then, bitte. On dein hands and knees." When Soldier only blinks and stares, Medic crosses his arms and arches an eyebrow. "Vill I have to include faulty hearing in dein medical reports as vell?"
"NO, SIR!"
The table creaks and rocks as Soldier clambers onto it in a panic again, pushing the folder of his medical reports carefully aside as he takes up his awkward position and glances back over his shoulder at Medic, searching the man's face for any other signs of disapproval. There aren't any -- Medic only draws closer with more quiet sehr gut, sehr guts and places a warm hand on his back. That hand begins to move in slow, soothing circles, tracing the taut muscles beneath Soldier's shirt, as Medic leans forward to murmur in his ear.
"This vill be a test of dein loyalty und discipline, Herr Soldat. Are you ready?"
"SIR, YES SIR," Soldier shouts louder than necessary at the far wall, and is relieved to find he sounds far more confident than he feels. "WHAT ARE YOUR ORDERS, SIR?"
"They are qvite simple. Do not move, under any circumstances, until I say the test is over. Verstehst du mich?"
"SIR," Soldier acknowledges, and squares his shoulders with a flood of relief. Just not move? Simple enough, he can stay in this room for hours! Days, if it means he can stay on the battlefield! He's been through far worse out there in the field right outside this base, been through things far more horrific than kneeling on a table! With a Medic... petting him oddly.
Not that Soldier minds. In fact, it's kind of nice. Medic's got surprisingly large, strong hands and they seem to know what they're doing, moving smoothly over his back and shoulders and working out the knots in formed through use in the battlefields earlier today. Soldier's just getting into it, arching as much as he can into the touch without actually moving and maybe starting to imagine that Medic's a pretty field nurse in one of those cute white uniforms doing this for him, when Medic jars him abruptly out of that fantasy.
Mostly by reaching down, curling his fingers over the bottom edge of Soldier's jacket, and stripping the whole thing over his head.
Soldier yelps a little as the cold air of the room hits his skin, and turns his head to stare over his shoulder at Medic with a questioning "SIR?" as his jacket pools around his arms on the table.
But Medic only snaps, "Have you forgotten dein orders already? Talking ist moving!" which shuts him up in a hurry and has him jerking his head back around to face front.
And a few seconds later, Medic slowly walks into his field of vision, trailing two gloved fingertips up along Soldier's side and down his arm as he does. And Medic stops in front of him, pushing Soldier's helmet back with one hand so that he can see his eyes and reaching into the collar of his own perfectly pressed black jacket and pulling out something silvery on a thin steel chain with the other. Soldier immediately recognizes it and has to suppress the reflexive urge to hiss.
"Do you know vat this is, Herr Soldat?" Medic asks, pulling the chain from around his neck. He delicately holds the object by two of its points and turns it in the light so that Soldier can see the swastika stamped into the center of the glittering black iron cross. "It is ein Eisernes Kreuz, first class. I am sure you have seen such before, ja?"
ONLY ON DEAD MEN, Soldier doesn't reply, just staring straight ahead at the silvery buttons on Medic's jacket, and after a moment, Medic murmurs another "sehr gut" and presses his helmet firmly down over his eyes. Now entirely blind, Soldier hears him walk back over to the side, humming softly --
And then suddenly Medic's voice fades to a soft drone in the background and all his senses jolt toward a single point on his skin where there's suddenly ice cold metal sliding its way down his side, and he has to steel himself against twitching away, muscles going taut with the effort. It's that Nazi cross thing, Soldier knows, he can tell from the sharp, pointed feel of its edges tracing the edges of his hips and then trailing back up to scrape at the ridges of his collarbones. And Soldier finds that he has to repress a shiver as well as the urge to pull away. Not that it's a bad feeling, that thin, slicing, metallic coldness, but --
What the hell is Medic doing? it occurs to him to wonder, but then the cross is on the move again, over the back of his shoulder and down to his waist before coming back up and under. And Soldier's thoughts go with it, like his entire being's been reduced to the single point where steel meets skin and maybe the hypersensitized trail that moving point leaves behind. He finds himself clutching harder at the edge of the table, trying to predict where it'll go (left? right? up? down? just a little further, just a little -- ), getting small rushes of satisfaction when he's right and rushes of -- of something else, when he's wrong --
"Enjoying yourself, Herr Soldat?"
Medic's sudden voice in his ear makes him twitch and collect himself, straightening and locking all the joints that have somehow gone loose again. His heartbeat is louder than he remembers, he thinks, and he's breathing faster than he should be, for some reason. Just the weirdness, he tells himself, pay it no mind! It's paranoia from being blind and in a room with a superior officer and punishments and -- and --
And then Medic's fingers are tracing their way down the center of his chest, right down past his stomach, past his waist, and dipping slightly into the waistband of his pants -- and Medic's tongue is finding that cut he made before on the side of his neck, hot and wet and reopening the drying wound with a rough sear of pain, and Soldier can't help but buck his hips once and gasp out a "SIR!" as he realizes exactly what the reason is that his heart's now slamming in his chest like one of Demoman's grenades.
DON'T ASK DON'T TELL, scream alarm bells in his head, and he's about to turn and protest when he feels Medic make quick work of his belt and somewhat more importantly, feels one of Medic's hands curl around that reason, rough and still gloved but warm and firm and -- and Soldier decides that nobody is asking and nobody is telling much of anything, so this is entirely okay. Not that it would have made a difference, as his body goes ahead and strains forward for more contact anyway -- only to get a sharp, stinging blow to the leg for the effort.
"Vat did I say about not moving?"
"BUT -- BUT -- "
"Und vat did I say about talking?"
Soldier clamps his teeth together and squeezes his eyes shut beneath his helmet (he can't move, he can't talk, he has to listen to Medic because -- why? Some important reason that his mind's gone too foggy to really even remember any more, but it's important, damned important -- ) as Medic strokes him in long, slow, smooth movements that have him fighting to keep still and not follow them through when they end. His knuckles are turning white with how hard he's clutching the table, and when Medic licks a trail up the side of his leg, Soldier can't help but groan -- and when he doesn't get hit for it (apparently groaning doesn't count as either moving or talking), he does it again, as encouragingly as he can.
And Medic continues until Soldier is gasping for breath as silently as possible, chest heaving, his shoulders quivering from the effort of keeping himself motionless -- and then that iron cross is back again, its thin steel edges tracing over the now-wet skin of his cock this time. Soldier's breath catches in his throat as Medic murmurs in German in his ear (sehr gut, sehr gut, weiter so, you are doing so vell, mein Soldat) and those edges trace around his head, down the shaft, curving along his balls and back up the thick vein on the underside of his cock and now Soldier's whining at the back of his throat, the cords in his arms and neck standing out visibly, enough for Medic to smooth and caress and lick his way along them, and oh god, Soldier can't take it any more --
"SIR!" he whispers, voice gasping raw. "PLEASE, SIR -- "
And Medic hums to himself and obliges, switching hands and pumping at Soldier's cock as Soldier hisses and half-sobs and clutches at the table edge -- in a few seconds, Soldier's hips are moving along with him, thrusting blindly into Medic's hand as Medic places a hand on the table himself to keep it steady -- and a few seconds later, Soldier's arching his back, thrusting into Medic's hand a final few times before coming with a final, despairing, ragged noise onto the table beneath him --
And then collapsing flat upon it, desperately trying to catch his breath, as Medic calmly wipes his hands on his back and removes his soiled gloves. Soldier lies there for a few minutes, just trying to get himself back together, then rolls to one side.
"SIR," he starts between gasps, "SIR, THAT WAS -- "
"That vas you failing dein test, Herr Soldat," comes the whiplash answer, and it's all flooding back to Soldier now -- the battle, the meeting, the ranking, the test -- and he's pulling himself up on still-wobbly limbs, finally pushing his helmet back and turning panicked, begging eyes toward Medic, who doesn't appear to look even slightly winded by the whole ordeal.
"BUT -- "
"But," Medic says, and picks up the folder of medical records from where it's fallen onto the floor. "Dein effort vas qvite impressive. I have been convinced of dein dedication to this team and this var..."
"SIR!" Soldier cries in jubilation, sliding off the table and awkwardly buckling up his pants.
Medic smiles. "In fact, I vill even send back to BLU reqvesting that they make you mein official second in command. You may continue to give the orders on the battlefield, as long as they do not contradict those given by me. Vould you agree to this arrangement, Herr Soldat?"
"YES, SIR!" Soldier beams, snapping to a salute. "THANK YOU, SIR! I WON'T LET YOU DOWN -- "
"You had better not," Medic replies, stepping forward to place one boot precisely between Soldier's feet. "I vould not like to have to discipline you another time. Especially if you keep up this record of failing."
"N-NO, SIR," Soldier replies, hurriedly backing up a few steps. "I'LL NEVER DISOBEY AN ORDER AGAIN. THAT'S A PROMISE."
"Vell, then," Medic says with a cheerful snap of the manila folder in his hands. "I think we have worked out our differences, ja? According to our Freund Engineer, ve may now leave..."
"SIR. YES, SIR."
Medic waits for a few seconds and is pleased to see that Soldier makes no move to go anywhere until he says, "Dismissed." -- and then Soldier's diving for his shovel and running out of his own War Room as fast as his legs can take him, shouting down the hall about his new status in the base as SECOND-IN-COMMAND and how ALL YOU MAGGOTS BETTER LISTEN TO HIM -- AND MEDIC --
And Medic sits down in one of the chairs with a sigh, idly brushing specks of dirt from the side of one of his boots, only looking up when there's a quiet knock at the War Room door.
"Ja?"
Another BLU Medic makes his cautious way into the room, looking around in fascination at the chairs strewn across the floor. "I take it dein meeting ist over," he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste at what he sees on the table. "Did the plan go vell, Herr Doktor?"
"As vell as vun could hope," Nazi Medic replies, shaking his head with a tired air. "He failed the test, but I let him go..."
"I am sure you have done a finer job than I could have," Other Medic says, patting Nazi Medic warmly on the shoulder. "I heard him go yelling down the hallvay outside."
"As did most of the base," Nazi Medic snorts. "But danke nonetheless."
Other Medic just laughs quietly and reaches into his bag -- then holds out a small key, which Nazi Medic accepts graciously and slides into one of his jacket pockets. "Oh, I believe the health ban ist over, as far as I am concerned. Und on that note, I believe this belongs to you, ja?"
"Ah. The storage room key? Danke schön. I must have dropped this outside."
"So you must," Other Medic says, pressing his hands together in satisfaction. "Und if there is anything else I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask."
Nazi Medic thinks about this for a few seconds.
"Nein," he says finally, "nein... or vell. There ist vun thing."
"Vat is it you vish, Herr Doktor?" Other Medic says with a smile.
And Nazi Medic's head melts away to reveal a familiar masked face.
Spy smiles back.
"May I keep ze uniform?"
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