Inspired by a line in I eat paste's hilarious fic (http://www.tf2chan.net/afanfic/res/6517.html). First TF2 fic; tell me if I'm doin it wrong.

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The first rule of war is to keep a close eye on your enemies, especially if they're your allies. That's how they get you.

Lunch is the ideal time for reconnaissance. Because nobody EXPECTS it, that's why! Soldier can just sit himself right on down at the end of the bench and hunch over, and with this here helmet over his eyes there's nobody what can tell the difference when he's giving them the old once over. Well, Spy maybe, but he's so blatantly compromised it makes the most trustworthy man on the base, because that would be obvious.

No, the ones Soldier had his roving eye on are Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Rooskie.

"Lookit 'em," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth to Sniper. "Always off schemin' together. They've gotta be brewin' up something. It's a Nazi-Soviet tea party is what it is. Tryin to finish off the Cold War with a BANG!"

"The Cold War is over," said Sniper.

"Yeah," Soldier said darkly, tapping his helmet. "That's what they WANT you to think."

Figured the only one who willing to go under Medic's knife without praying for deliverance was a godless Commie. Men of few words in the normal run of things, they had more'n plenty for each other. They were sitting close together, what to keep their voices low and foil listening devices, chatting it up like schoolgirls at an ice cream social. Heavy was miming punching somebody with the hand that wasn't holding a sandwich. Medic was laughing, and pushing down his glasses to give his Rooskie pal a significant look. Soldier knew it was significant because if you NEEDED glasses looking AROUND your glasses don't make a damn lick of sense! Is nothing sacred in this day and age?

There was something rotten in the state of Denmark, and it wasn't sulphur because Pyro was downwind.

"The Soviet Union fell twenty years ago," said Sniper, not sounding one bit like he was taking this with the gravity it damn well deserved. "The Nazi party fell apart in 1944."

"Ex-ACT-ly." Soldier propped up his helmet to give him the old bugeye. "They're due."

Sniper didn't say anything else, and maybe some people would say that was because he was ignoring him, and others who weren't goddamn blind deserter maggots would say it was because he was mixed up in the whole mess, too. Soldier'd heard Spy muttering to him, something like, "Feelthy jar man." Discount the Spy's pinko accent and that's 'filthy German.' Dirty. Like a dirty bomb. JESUS MARY AND MOSES THE COMMIE-NAZIS HAD A NUKE.

By this time tomorrow they were going to be eating cockroaches and shitting body parts! That was unless Soldier had something to say about it, and Soldier was the man who always had something to say about it even when he was not entirely sure what 'it' was! You know who gets all mugged up in the details? Nazis, that's who!

Wait a gol dang minute. They weren't just talking. Medic's hand was on Heavy's knee.

The sneaky rotten bastards were communicating by Morse code!

They were up to no good! Murder! Treason! Public health care! Soldier wasn't going to stand for these shenanigans!

Heavy said something else, looked around the mess hall - helmet lowered! nothing to see here! - and put his sandwich down.

Repeat, repeat. THE SANDWICH IS DOWN.

The other first rule of war that is MORE important is to never let your targets out of your sight, which is exactly where Soldier's were headed, giving each other glances that were semaphore for skullduggery.

He stood up and followed, for AMERICA.

The targets plotted a course for a little barn in the harvest area. So that they wouldn't be seen - and a silo, of course! That must be where they were storing their biological weapons or mind control ray or whatever it was for destroying freedom and imposing a commune farm under the iron grip of Hitler-loving hippies!

Soldier snuck in through the back, shinnied up the ladder and set up a vantage in the hayloft. High ground, that's the key. Gotta be able to see em coming. Just in time. The two of them headed in from the front, sticking close together to avoid the traps and land mines they had no doubt seeded the place with. Soldier lost sight of the Doctor until he came out from behind the meat shield to shut the door.

"So hard to find zee privacy zeese days," he sighed, voice carrying nice and clear. Damn it, why hadn't Soldier brought a recording device?

Privacy! There were only two things anybody needed pri-va-cy for in the field of combat - one was a one-man operation between his hand and himself, and the other was selling us out to the Neo-Nazi conclave run by Hitler's brain in a jar. Soldier was primed and ready to drop down and catch them in the act, but the first law of war and rockets is timing, timing, timing. The targets were coming closer - hot damn, they settled down practically right beneath him, with the best angle a man could ask for when it came to catching em red-handed!

Heavy'd left his weapon somewhere - unusual enough - and now he was taking off his bandolier and dropping it on the dirt floor with no regard for regulation. He leaned against the wall, and Soldier had damn well better not have just heard the building creak.

"Come here, Doktor," he said, in a tone that any jury in the whole damn world would call conspiratorial. "I hev something for you."

'K's for 'c's. The sure sign of a Trotskyite.

Medic was leaning in close. Hell, they were nearly on top of one another. If they were going to start whispering, the hell with it, he might as well hop down and plant a grenade where the-

Soldier shuffled some hay around and craned his head.

No. No, they weren't talking at all.

Soldier tried to think of a lot of other things they could be doing, like if he'd been spotted, and Medic was passing Heavy a cyanide capsule. About now, Soldier would ask politely if he could borrow one. Cause yes all right maybe we have all experimented in the trenches that one time in Hanoi, but still there was no excuse for two mercenaries engaging in a mutual tonsil examination! Medic was all over Heavy like a greased weasel on a jungle gym, and neither one was paying any attention to the rules of engagement about how one of them was supposed to have the decency to look like a girl! Heavy was shucking off Medic's labcoat and his shirt, and Soldier would say the Doktor was in pretty good shape for a lab type if he were the kind to notice that sort of thing which he is not thank you very much. Medic was muttering about leebchens or some other Nazi gibberish, and sweet sainted Reagan Heavy was dropping down and fiddling with Medic's pants.

Boxers with little red crosses.

In profile, that was one hell of an un-Nazi look he was getting. Eyes all lidded and a weird little smile, while his glasses were sliding down his nose, a lot slower than Heavy was pulling down his shorts.

Here's the point where Soldier's brain broke down, and if God had any mercy it would've taken his eyes with it.

Ears too. Criminy and all that is good and capitalist and holy, ears MORE SO. Cause Medic was making all these little noises no red-blooded man was meant to, in between babbling Hun-talk, and there was slurping. Soldier may have called Heavy a Commie cocksucker once or twice, but he wasn't supposed to take it literally! Even if by current reports he was damn good at it!

Well, Soldier could pull his helmet over his eyes and burrow down into the hay until everything went away, but that would be...would be...damn, but the big boy was going to town on his comrade's rifle.... would be cowardice is what it would be! A soldier did not avert his eyes from the ugly truth, no matter how disturbing and well-toned in the abdominals it may be!

Heavy grabbed the doc's ass in his huge hands, and Medic held onto his shoulders like his knees were about to give out. What kinda fascist weirdo kept his gloves on while more naked'n not? Then his hips were going like pistons, he gave a shout that wasn't words in any language, and Soldier couldn't believe that he was, with his own eyes, seeing the oldest one in the book.

The commie was stealing the Nazi's precious bodily fluids.

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Medic sank forward onto Heavy's shoulder, body warm and pleasantly depleted. Heavy caught him, his laugh a low rumble in his chest.

"You think ve hev traumatized him enough?" Heavy said, pushing the dark, sweat-dampened hair back from Medic's forehead.

"Hmm." Medic fixed his glasses and studiously did not look toward the hayloft. He looked down pensively as he removed one glove. Someone looking very closely might have discerned a hint of a diabolical smirk as he slid his hand into Heavy's pants.

"I zink...maybe not yet."