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" 'M carkin' it," he moaned, as miserable as he was tall. The bushman couldn't find a comfortable position to lie in, his muscles tense and sore. When he tried to force himself to relax, various muscles in his back and shoulders seized and twitched and drew reluctant groans of pain from the mercenary.
Sniper was no stranger to aches and pains. Growing up as a lanky, tall kid ensured that he was prone to growing pains and that he was exposed him to a higher risk of bodily injury. It also meant he craned his neck downwards a lot in the company of other, more average-sized folks. His job demanded long hours of physical inactivity, and that caused stiff muscles among other medical maladies. It took him nearly five years to determine that pissing in a jar was a lot less embarrassing than having to piss in a cup for a doc to tell him he had another bladder infection.
As it was, Sniper was in the midst of a string of bad luck. Body aches were a distraction, which caused poor performance. Poor performance made for more and more painful deaths and trips through the unforgiving Respawn Machine. Running through Respawn so many times left him feeling stretched thin and raw. He didn't even have the energy to work up his usual fiery temper when heckled about his plunging scores.
He carefully rolled out of bed, trying his damndest not to jar his already overtaxed body, and shuffled to his feet. He wore yesterday's clothes, unable to easily remove them, and gave them a quick, helpless brush down with his hands. The wrinkles remained, of course, but they were the least of his worries. The most recent, most insistent instance of pain started halfway through the match the previous day, and he lasted through the wee hours of the next morning. It promised to make his weekend wretched, eating through the time he usually used during ceasefire to relax.
Sniper dragged himself inside the RED mercenary compound, sparing a glance at the red, rising sun. It was unlikely anyone would be awake this early in the morning, save for the man he was really hoping to see. Well, hope was a strong word. He wouldn't have gone this long without seeking treatment if he thought this was going to be an easy task. Or if he thought he could get through a short exam without being rendered unconscious and implanted with animal organs in the name of SCIENCE!
The compound was quiet, his assumptions correct, and he ran into no one during his trek to the infirmary. He pushed his way through the swinging doors and took a look around. The infirmary was empty and dark, and he was equal parts relieved and disappointed. He turned to leave when he heard the movement in the attached office Medic used as his main living space. He managed not to gulp in fear, and he counted that as a small victory.
Medic pushed open the door with his elbow, drying his hands as he stepped into the infirmary.
"Oh! Herr Sniper, how can I help you?"
If he swallowed audibly at the sound of the medic's voice, he still didn't consider it a gulp. His mouth was just dry in the morning, that's all.
"Ah, y'know what? Didn' mean to bother you this early. S'nothing that can't wait. See you at breakfast?" he tried to beat a hasty retreat, sharing only the barest hint of a smile, but managed only to run into a surgery table. He hissed out a curse, clumsily stepping back and away, only to bump into the medic. Sniper jumped, not noticing how quickly and quietly the doctor moved. He did come to the sudden realization that he'd left his sunglasses back in the van. Without them, it almost felt as though he'd lost a protective layer between himself and the rest of the world.
"Herr Sniper," Medic said, his eerily melodic voice sounding like both an admonishment and personal amusement. "Please, whatever brought a solitary person like you to my door must need attention."
"Uuuuh, yeah. Yeah, you're right," he sagged, giving in. He was positively exhausted, his entire body feeling like a welt that kept getting jostled. Sniper was desperate for even five minutes of relief.
"I'm having some muscle pain," he admitted with a wince. That didn't quite define it, but it was a start.
"Oh? If you could describe it, bitte?" If Sniper could have given a shrug, he would have.
"Jus' sore. And stiff. Bugger," he cussed softly, tired of beating around the bush. "I can't turn my head when it flares up like this. An' my back hurts like hell. I can't get comfortable. Don't think I slept more'n a couple hours in the last three days."
Medic could see how much it was taking a toll on the other man. He was rumpled and unkempt more so than usual. His face was drawn and pale from exhaustion and pain. Without being able to hide behind his customary hat and sunglasses, he seemed almost sickly.
"Hmm… have a seat," he nodded towards the table Sniper had run into. Sniper just stared at it a moment, wondering if he could manage to lift himself onto it in the state he was in. It seemed like a monumental task from where he was standing. Well, look like a fool for failing, or look like a fool for needing help. Sniper settled for giving the Medic a helpless look.
"That bad? Hm. Einen moment."
Sniper watched him wander off, wondering just how they were going to accomplish this, but only raised a brow when Medic came bustling back in, several large books cradled in his arms.
"Though I wouldn't normally condone the mistreatment of books, I can't imagine an easier way to get you up on this table," he explained, arranging the tomes on the floor so that they could be used as steps. When he finished he placed his hands on his hips and smiled, proud at his own ingenuity.
It wasn't until he was seated that he could appreciate what the doctor was doing for him. He wasn't poking fun at the situation, just watched how Sniper moved, how he winced when he overtaxed certain parts of his body in the simple act of stepping up and sitting down.
"Perhaps without the shirt, ja?" he said, moving behind the other man. The casual action cause Sniper to tense up involuntarily, used to having BLU spies approaching his unprotected back and not curious doctors. Sniper forced himself to take a deep breath and to comply, reminding himself that he was in the infirmary and not in a nest in the midst of battle. He succeeded in unfastening all the buttons of the shirt, but grimaced and came to a near stop while trying to shrug out of it. Medic simply grabbed his collar and tugged down, pulling it from his shoulders and arms before he could form a protest.
His skin immediately formed goosebumps in the cool air.
"If only I had an EMG machine," Medic mused, not able to see anything wrong at first glance. "They're all the rage right now. Very useful for seeing problems in the muscles. Unfortunately, we don't have one here."
When his hand made first contact with Sniper's skin, the bushman jumped. Neither man said anything about it, but he was sure his face burned with embarrassment. Medic drew his hands down either side of his spine, his touch clinical and assessing. He could feel the stressed, strained, and knotted muscles beneath his fingers. They made a hellish path of suffering from his lower back all the way up to the finer muscles that led up and under his skull. The medic made a distressed sound that Sniper didn't care for.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It looks like you've been torturing yourself, Herr Sniper. How long have you had this pain?"
"On and off over the years. It's just gotten worse since I took up this job. Too many long hours in my nest, I reckon. This time it's been really bad, just this last night, but I've been aching the last couple-a days."
"I'm certain that's precisely it," he patted the sniper's shoulder. "I don't want to solve the problem with medication, as that's not really a way to solve it at all. It would only put off the symptoms for another time. No, I suggest a good old fashioned massage."
"Now wait a minute, mate, that's a bit rash, innit?" he made to turn and give Medic a look, but the twinge in the neck prevented any such action. Luckily, Medic stepped around the table so they could talk face to face.
"It's the simplest solution, Herr Sniper. And it's medically sound. The stressed muscles are causing "knots," which in turn is causing you pain. This is also contributing to poor blood circulation and stiffness, which I'm to believe, is no picnic. The choice, however, is yours."
Sniper took a deep breath, fully intending to say, 'thanks anyway, see you later,' but what came out was, "Y'all right, what do I need to do?" He frowned once the words left his lips, feeling betrayed by his body in more ways than one. If it hadn't been acting up in the first place, he wouldn't be here at all. Bugger.
Less than ten minutes later found Sniper lying face down on a cot. It was located in the corner of the surgery, separated from the rest of the room by an ugly, threadbare, mint green curtain. He had to turn his head to prevent his face from being smashed into the thin cushion, the position making his neck and shoulders ache. He didn't even want to think about what possible monstrosity of medical science had last graced this very cot, but given Medic's fussy nature, he assumed it had been cleaned thoroughly.
The bushman didn't naturally sleep on his stomach, preferring to lay flat on his back or propped up against something. Working amongst spies ruined any and all security he felt exposing his back to other people, much less his bare back. His tan skin was also pockmarked with various scars from his past and he didn't have the social energy it took to explain them to others. As curious as Medic was, he didn't mention them, much to Sniper's relief.
As for the Medic, the man hovered on the right side of the cot, poised and waiting for something Sniper didn't understand. He was afraid to ask, already wholly embarrassed to find himself in this situation. Eventually Medic scoffed.
"Are you going to try to relax?"
"Doc, if I could, I woulda done it by now."
Medic made a small, almost sympathetic sound before placing his hands on the Australian's shoulders. Sniper's mouth drew into a thin line, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn't remember the last time he was so uncomfortable, and it wasn't due to the pain he was in. Growing up where he did, alone as he was, human contact was fleeting and impersonal. This was a bit much. At least his hands weren't cold.
If Medic could tell how unsettled his patient was, he didn't let on. He just squeezed the tough bands of muscles of his shoulders like a kneading cat. He wasn't rough, just gentle enough to tease the muscles into relaxing. Even Sniper had to admit that it didn't feel half bad, though his overactive imagination conjured images of a seedy massage parlor with scantily clad masseuses. There were such businesses in the city back home, giving him an exaggerated idea of what a massage was meant for, or what it meant to receive one.
Kneading away, Medic began asking inane questions about his home country. It was conversational, and Sniper found himself replying, distracted from what they were doing. Perhaps Medic knew more about his apprehension than he realized, and he was grateful.
He spent nearly fifteen minutes on his shoulders, manipulating and pressing carefully until Sniper's fingers were tingling with renewed blood flow. He used surprisingly strong thumbs to push into the problem muscles along Sniper's spine, hands smoothing over his sides. Sniper wondered how long he could pretend he wasn't ticklish along his rib before it became an unavoidable problem and he had to explain, inevitably red-faced, why he was suddenly squirming and giggling breathlessly.
This was solved when Medic ran his thumb down a particularly hard knot about halfway down his back. Sniper jerked and gasped, unconsciously trying to move away from the hands that hurt him.
"Stay still," Medic admonished, but let up the pressure he was putting on that spot. He circled it with the same thumb, pushing gently, but still working to relieve the tension trapped there. It was sore, like a bruise, when he finally moved on, but the muscle was no longer hard and agonizing. He moved back to the top of his shoulders and made the circuit again, mindful and searching, in case he missed any knots.
By the time he reached the other man's lower back, Sniper was calm and his breathing was deep. He was relaxed for the first time in days, all of his extremities tingling pleasantly. Medic stopped asking questions and Sniper stopped providing answers, not even noticing that they'd lapsed into silence. His fatigue had finally caught up to him, making him lethargic and damn near agreeable to whatever Medic wanted to do to him. He didn't even put up a token protest when he felt the German pushing his fingers into the dimples of his lower back.
Sniper had curled an arm up, pressing his knuckles against his mouth to prevent any humiliating sounds from escaping. Now he just looked ready to sleep, his eyes half-lidded and his fingers held in a loose fist near his face. Remembering what he'd said about not being able to sleep due to the discomfort, Medic smiled a little smile.
Once on the battlefield, bearing down on a rude and crude BLU scout with his bone saw, he remembered hissing at him that hurting was more rewarding than healing. When the scout's face had gone slack with fear, his will faltering, he'd known what he'd said had rattled the young man enough to win the fight. With his blood-spattered attire coupled with his wide, toothy grin, Medic knew he was a menacing sight to behold.
In reality, he quite liked his teammates, despite how irritating they could be on a daily basis. Being able to help one of them overcome their suffering was plenty rewarding. When he finished, he quietly moved away to find a blanket to drape over the prone man. Sniper didn't protest, already drifting off. On his way out he turned off the light.
Monday found the mercenaries far too soon for any of their liking. With the weekend ceasefire ended, they were right back out on the battlefield, contesting each other's control point and vying for each other's briefcase of damaging secret information.
Sniper slept until around lunchtime on Saturday, sneaking out when Medic wasn't present. He'd made himself scarce all of Sunday, perhaps still embarrassed at needing help. Medic wasn't overly bothered by the recluses' predictable behavior. If the treatment worked, that was good enough for him.
Medic grunted and twisted to shield his face when an enemy soldier's rocket exploded far too close for comfort. Heavy glanced behind him to make sure his partner was all right, moving to better block any incoming bullets or shrapnel. He was a great shield for enemies coming at them from the front, but the medic was sorely exposed should someone sneak up behind the duo.
It was during the second attempt at a backstab from the BLU Spy to the RED's own medic that Medic realized how closely Sniper was watching out for him. He heard the whine of a passing bullet before he could tell what was even happening, turning only in time to see the body of the blue-suited Spy collapsing behind him. There was a neat hole in the man's forehead, the obvious work of the RED sniper.
Medic had far fewer deaths this round than he ever remembered having. If this was Sniper's way of saying thanks, he was incredibly thankful.
"All is well, Doktor?" Heavy asked, hefting Sasha's weight in his massive hands. Medic nodded, his lips pulling back into the kind of smile that struck terror in the hearts of their enemies.
"Alle ist gut."