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Mick had always felt cold. From as long as he could remember, despite whatever conditions thrown at him, he was cold. He’d stood outside in blistering summers, having piled on four sets of clothing, and still felt a deep chill in his bones.
His parents’ concern came to a head when he passed out from a case of hypothermia on one of the hottest days of the year. The first doctor had theorized it being a rare disease, but after a second opinion they found that the only viable option was the simple case of cotactus.
Mick only had the unfortunate luck that his shared recipient lived somewhere entirely opposite to him. He was doomed to be cold, and his partner warm.
He’d only been four at the time, and the sensation would only grow. Cotactus, while benign in nature, was an unstoppable ailment. As the partners grew, other sensations beyond temperature would develop as well. Pain and emotions were the most common symptoms, though many described them as having more “distance” than temperature. Psychological treatment could help further or control these, but the practice was new and difficult without the other party present.
Mick had hardly thought of the possibility at the time, being only a child, but the diagnosis could not be dismissed for long.
When Mick is six, he fears the worst. At a moment he was preparing dinner with his father, and the next he was keeled over in the dirt. Sharp pain aches all through his sides, though no blood will come of it. Mick stifles his cries, refusing to let his father see him until he finally pries the child’s arms away.
“It hurts,” he tells him, “it hurts, Dad. ”
His father holds him to his chest, stroking through his hair as Mick shakes. It’s only phantom, they know, and while medicine can help, there’s a certain element that cannot be cured in moments of weakness. To know your loved one is in danger, and suffering as well.
His mother will fetch him painkillers and the episode will pass in due time. Still, the memory will cling to him. He takes solace in the cold, taking it as a reminder that his other half is still alive, and sleeps in constant worry.
Mick is an adventurous child. The scrapes on his knees never deter his pursuits—mostly because he can’t feel them—and he’s got several scars before the time he’s ten. He feels guilt, the first time he breaks a bone, and again the second time around. He’s reminded of the splitting pain in his side, and the incidents after.
Still, Mick continues. His affinity for the outdoors and his discomfort for his fellow kids makes his entertainment simple. His imagination takes him wherever he wants, and he returns home before the sun sets. His father takes him on hunting trips frequently, and Mick’s got a knack for guns. A natural aim despite how large the weapon feels in his hands.
He gets his first knife on his eleventh birthday, and blooms pure joy. He spends hours cutting away at branches, carving little figures into the wood, or simply severing through to pass the time. He sharpens them into spears, attaching make-shift tails to them and firing them using a bow of his own design.
It’s not perfect, but easier to handle, and improves his aim. He thinks when he’s older he’ll hunt, though he can sense his parents’ apprehension at the prospect. ‘Hunters’ were usually more the hands-on, fisticuffing type, and not the ones who killed from a distance. Those, everyone knew, were foreigner ways.
Mick is not blind to his parents looks, but he’s been told that doing good, hard work is worth just about anything. It didn’t matter if you didn’t act like other kids, didn’t look like them, it mattered that whatever you set your sights on, you worked at it. Mick knows they’ll come around eventually.
All the dread he feels is counterbalanced with a soothing assurance that is not his own. He attempts to tug at the feeling, to try and reach out for something more, but the connection never sways. It makes him feel better, though, and that’s all Mick can really ask.
The feeling becomes the norm not long after his thirteenth birthday.
He loves his parents, but he can’t help but fight with them. They warn about his habits, his career, all over things Mick refuses to budge on. Mick’s honed his skills, he takes good shots, he’s good with his weapons, and that means something. He knows he’s different, knows he’s never going to be like the rest of this godforsaken continent, but why should he care ?
Fury and hurt race through Mick more often than not, only cooled by the presence of cotactus comfort and the solace practice brings him.
He burns off anger with his targets, with his bullets, knives, and sometimes just the steel-tipped end of his boots. He exhausts himself outdoors, venturing further into the backyard he’s known all his life and learning the environment until the warning tug on the other side of him reels him back in.
He knows when he’s his other half. The heat makes him uncomfortable, and Mick listens. He comforts his partner all the same, still battling with the occasional pains that came with the contract. Mick wonders why he gets hurt so often, but doesn’t have the ability to ask. He wants to know so desperately, but it’s never granted.
Mick moves out at seventeen. He works as a guide for tourist hunters, lacking the usual intimidation factor of his fellow Australians (though where he lacked in muscles, his personality made him off-putting enough). He’s young, but professional. He makes himself more tolerable, learning less anti-social habits for the sake of business, and where he falls short he makes up for in good hunts.
He works like this until he’s 22. He’s no closer to understanding his cotactus partner, but his presence is an unfailing element in his life. He’s startled awake by the strength of sensation, on occasion. Either anger, panic, or the feeling of bloodied knuckles that leave him scratching his skin until it breaks.
Mick visits his parents when he gets time off, sending partial checks like clockwork, but all end up in a dispute of some sort. It’s out of worry, he knows, and it’s his fault he shut them out so easily, but Mick needs the distance.
People have never been his strong suit, not even his own family. Mick’s better alone, and he’s positive if his parents didn’t approve of his job now they'd certainly shun him for his most recent ‘promotion’.
Mick was an independent hire. He’d been offered a ‘side job’ by a frequent client of his: an American woman who spent the good majority of their trips complaining about her husband. He’d sympathized with her, but Mick was only a guide.
She’d finally said she’d had enough, and asked if he could ‘tag along’ on their next outing. When she’d explained further, Mick had been struck with pure shock.
He’d never killed someone before. Animals, yes, but people? Even if the man deserved it, it would be something irreversible. Mick could never look at his parents again if he—
$5,000. It was a job. A legitimate job, offering him his yearly salary in a single shot.
Mick had never claimed he was the most righteous man. Life, as he saw it, was the same whether it was human, animal, or plant. And he had no qualms about killing the latter two.
And if he accepted it, he’d have to follow through. He’d finished the job like he always did, and then wash his hands clean of it. It wasn’t malicious. Mick didn’t hold any personal grudge against the man, it was...business. Easy, professional business.
Two months later, Mick killed his first man. Half of the money went to his parents, maybe a sorry excuse for an apology, but it felt a little better that way.
They’d burned his body, and she would return to the USA a widower whose husband had died in a tragic boating incident. The entire world none the wiser.
Guilt ate through any comfort given to him. He’d stuffed his emotions so deeply he wasn’t sure he could feel them anymore, then all at once they came back up.
Mick had cried in the privacy of his camper for the first time in six years, cold and nauseous.
He attempted to continue his work as usual, but the idea kept coming back to him. It was a lot of money, and just business after all. The people who were assassinated had a reason behind it, never some barbaric heat of the moment maiming.
After a month, Mick’s profession changed entirely. He killed efficiently, and picked up on the trade quick. The only times he killed up close we’re out of self-defense, never out of obligation. He did clean work, good work. Nature always ran its course, whether at his hands, or the succumbing of old age.
And so it went, for four years.
Then, Mick slipped into a full-time contract and was shipped to the states.
For the first time, the cold in his bones dissipated. Excitement and dread beat loudly in his chest, answered by a similar tone to his other half.
It was not long after that he met Mikhail.
-
The compound had always been cold. Everything was cold, though Mikhail had grown immune to it over the years, but nothing had compared to the stale air of that prison.
He’s aged 18 and taking his first step out of the compound when the heat hits him.
Inescapable heat, warming him to his very core. He keeps Yana close to his chest when she shivers, and his other sisters pile on with ease. The winter will not yield for them, but Mikhail knows the hearth is now a title of his own. The burning feeling inside him, though once mistaken for rage, clings with him wherever he goes.
With spring comes their first relief. A new home—their previous now nothing more than ash—and what Mikhail can only hope is a permanent residency.
The place is old, abandoned. The ceiling is shifted, torn into, and the interior laid bare except for the built-in decor.
Mikhail wastes no time getting to work. His sisters are young, two of them perhaps being fortunate enough to not remember their years, but eager. Bronislava caters to their mother and expresses her desire to do more. Mikhail hesitates to involve her, though he knows she will find her ways eventually. He takes her hunting, equipped with the stolen weaponry of the compound, and speaks of the trade in ways she will learn by heart and later pass onto the others.
The hunts feed them, and when food comes in excess, what they cannot preserve, Mikhail ventures out to trade.
Mikhail’s first purchase is an axe even heavy in his hands. He acts as the central heat of the home, never seeming to run low on temperature, and continues to do so. His nights are spent with his family, and the days spent working.
He tears down local trees, repairing the house bit by bit. He continues to train Bronislava, with Yana and Zhanna often observing them. In the months to come, the house will recover, and wood will fill the fireplace with enough strength to outlast Mikhail’s.
The other kindling can be traded along with their wins from the hunts, and the home endures. His family now has clothes strong enough to last the seasons, and he’s left with new goals in mind.
He carves furniture with the help of his mother, whittling tables, chairs, and toys for the girls. Bronislava picks up her own method of carving, and teaches it to Zhanna soon after. Yana pouts at her exclusion, but she’s not old enough to handle knives yet. Someday, but not now.
The next winter comes in no time, and hits with less kindness than the last. Repairs are made in the off moments of calm, but Mikhail’s frustrations are transparent. He wants more for his family. Though he cannot bring them to the world, he wants to bring the world to them.
Mikhail seeks work in town. He fears leaving his family for long, but they are capable.
Mikhail takes up labor, hauling things that people ask of him and being paid under the table in all instances. The wages are cheap, but they give him more to do than bartering.
He continues to hunt, continues to work, and promises better things for his family. The home fills with art, and soon a stove joins them as well. Despite their progress, Mikhail feels stifled.
He doesn’t have enough. Might never. His father—still so recent in his mind—would’ve provided for them. Would’ve done anything for his family. Mikhail must as well. To take his father’s place is...terrifying, if he must admit, but dire. He will not let anyone— anything— harm them again.
Mikhail ventures further than he ever has before. After weeks of preparation, he treks miles. The weather pushes at him, he can see the hints of frostbite on his hands, but the cold never comes. He burns, hot enough to make him shed his coat, but he will not be so foolish. He will not succumb, not now.
Outside work is dangerous.
Outside work pays well.
He’s given a security detail, first thing, and subdues only out of obligation. It pays handsomely, more than enough to simply return home with, but he waits.
They ask him again, then later, ask if he would be willing to kill. There are men these people want gone, and Mikhail will not busy himself with the ‘why’ of it all. It helps his family. It enthralls him.
He gives his family luxuries reminiscent of their old home. His mother worries furiously over him as his sisters flaunt around in new sheets and dresses, but he sets her concerns aside. He will continue to provide, no matter the cost.
Mikhail splits his time up more. He spends time away until his mind convinced him that he must return. Without fail, his family is fine, and awaits him eagerly. The home is returning and the hearth is now stable.
His work is dangerous, and at times Mikhail cannot risk going out again. He’s grateful for it, in a way. The years blow by without him realizing, and suddenly Bronislava is 14. Zhanna, 7, and Yana, 5. Mikhail himself has now grown past his boyhood, and experience ages everything rapidly.
Bronislava hunts when he’s gone, though still knowing better than to face something beyond the norm. Zhanna and Yana pick up the trades of their mother, keeping their childhoods despite what tragedy laid behind them.
It’s been five years since their father has passed, and yet it somehow feels like no time at all. Was Mikhail always working? Has he even begun?
Mikhail doesn’t allow himself to question anything unnecessary. All he has to ask is Have I done enough for them? To which the answer will always be, No.
Mikhail learns his trade well. Though he’s strong enough on his own, weapons offer him an easier time. Guns, he is particularly fond of. Of the ones he has, he puts hours into taking them apart and putting them back together. Of memorizing their clicks, their strengths, their weaknesses.
His jobs don’t require much secrecy on his account. He is a ghost. A 6’2”, 160kg ghost, but still very much a phantom. Guns are just as fine as fists, and not any easier to trace than the man himself.
Mikhail makes few mistakes. He’s got no time for them.
But the mistakes don’t seem to care about that.
It’s his first poor job. Blood gushes out from a heavy wound in his side, Hugh he feels nothing of it. The injury can be ignored for now. He’s already broken the man’s weapons, and Mikhail has no reason to even think about sparing him.
He leaves the building undeterred, and directs himself to the nearest doctor he knows. He swears him to secrecy, vowing to return if the man tells anyone, and he complies.
Mikhail spends two days unconscious, and returns home to recover.
He’s cluttered with a chorus of shouting voices, scolding him worriedly over the bandage on his side and pulling him down to inspect him closer. It’s an occupational hazard, the first of many, but hardly the assurance his family wants.
Still, when his mother demands he rests, he complies.
He’s later stricken with bouts of pain that aren’t his own. He feels freshly scraped skin on his knees, the cutting of thorns into his arms, but no injury ever reveals itself. Mikhail will recover, and he will return to work without fault.
Life moves on, as will he.
Though, it would only be six years later when he would be stricken with the full gravity of his pains and aches. Cotactus, the name he’d heard some twenty years ago. The shared sensation with someone of your destiny. Not a widespread phenomenon, but too common to be fraudulent.
Mikhail had figured going his first 18 years without a sign meant he was clear.
But the emotions in his head are not his. He knows for a fact. They come all at once, and he latches onto them as easily as he would his sisters. An immediate force of support, no questions asked. Not that Mikhail could ask if he tried, anyway.
He’s met with open arms, though his other half feels closed off in a way. Sparks of stronger emotion come through, but fade like a muffled voice not long after. Mikhail pushes on regardless, and holds every feeling close. Like the attachment alone would be enough so substitute physicality.
The bond festers from then on, fully realized, but Mikhail knows his place. His family comes first and he continues to do whatever he needs to do for them.
Years down the line he will take up a job that pays better than anything else he’s ever done. It is out of the country, a prospect that makes Mikhail hesitate, but his sisters are no longer children. They are capable, and Mikhail will do this all for them. Just as he always has.
Halfway through the flight, the warmth that has been with him for 26 years dies. Mikhail can’t help but panic at the feeling, wondering if something has happened. Now, of all times.
A short while later he will calm his nerves, and meet Mick.
-
Mick was ready to leave. He didn’t work in teams. Ever. Judging from the current spectacle, he was on a team of psychopaths as well.
Psychopaths, and the man sitting beside him.
Who might be a psychopath anyway.
Well, seeing as they’d be working together for the foreseeable future...
Mick glanced over, swallowing down his nerves. His partner is just as nervous as him, and he’d yet to have the cold return. He could do this, he’d done this countless times.
Mick offers a hand, “pleasure to meet you, mate.”
The man looks over at him, dead glare making Mick pale. Okay, maybe this was a bad idea.
He glances down at the hand, “it is pleasure as well.”
Mick’s heart leapt out of his chest entirely. He bit down on his tongue, trying to soothe his anxiety. God, he...well, he did expect a man of his size to be that intimidating, but his voice was something else entirely.
Realizing he isn’t going to shake his hand, Mick drops his arm back down and tries to ignore him again. At least the man didn’t seem loony. A little rude, and a lot scary, but Mick grew up with everyone like that. He could deal with that.
The rest of them, perhaps not.
Mick suddenly realizes he’s calmed down. His partner is the same, and he’s never felt so in synch with them. He thinks he could reach out, maybe. Finally hear the thoughts, feel someone there with full absolution.
Instead, he’s snapped back to the present by the sudden firing of a gun.
“What in the bloody fuckin—“
His head snaps over to look at the door, a woman dressed in purple holding a still-raised gun to the ceiling. “Thanks.” She says, a sigh in her voice. “For...finally shutting up.” She lowers the gun, “I’ll be explaining your new positions to you. And I’m going to do so without interruptions, because I really can't afford to go look for replacements. This will all go easier if we do this in one take. No objections? Good.”
-
Mick dies for the first time two days later. Though the system of revival had been explained to them all before, he was unable to predict the actual idea of it. Everyone he’d ever known had, or would die once.
Mick, as far as he’s counted, has died six times. All were close to instantaneous, but hardly painful. He only feared what it must feel like for his partner, from the burnings to the stab wounds to the gun shots. He’s supposed his partner must also work in some dangerous conditions, but he didn’t think death would quite feel the same.
Though, judging from the random bouts of agony that strike him, both of their days aren’t going so well.
The most terrifying aspect, however, is something new entirely. The lack of cold has been substituted for moments of complete silence. An emptiness in his mind that lasts only seconds, flickering like an open flame. The moments he cannot feel anyone but himself, a loneliness he’s gone without for fifteen years.
His nerves are fried, hands trembling so intensely he struggles to reload. His secondary emotions are flushed with exhilaration, only serving to make his heart pump even harder.
He calms significantly after some time, realizing he’s got a job to do—one that he’s bound to perform well—and relaxes into the routine of it all. Uncertainty lays dormant in his stomach over the silence, but it’s pushed aside. Mick can not afford to get distracted over something at a time like this.
He doesn’t sleep that night. He’s been offered a room on the base, but keeps to his camper. The flickering has ceased, and he buries himself in the comfort of company. Mick never did develop a fondness for people, but...this was supposed to be the exception, right?
By the next day—and 9 deaths—Mick figures death must have something to do it. His body wasn’t coping with the quick movement of living and dying is all. It has to be.
He thinks of bringing it up to the doctor, but hesitates. The man...Well, Mick can’t say he trusts anyone here, but the Medic in particular deters him. The Scout and Demoman seem to have already made their own connections, and the Engineer has personally approached Mick. They, at least, have attempted to be welcoming.
Some of the others, the Spy and the man Mick had first spoken to have also made an effort to separate themselves. Though, the latter appears to get along easily with the Medic.
Mick isn’t too keen on knowing the other two, if he’s honest. The Soldier reminds him of Australia in the worst way possible, and the Pyro is simply...off.
Which, he supposes, is a bit hypocritical of him to say, but true regardless.
Talking to Medic, unlike the others, might be a necessity. Mick hasn’t said a word to him, but he’s his physician now. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary to go to him for something like this. Especially since the issue is born of his new work environment.
He passes the Heavy on his way to his lab. He nods once in his direction, though the man looks just about how his partner feels. A deep concern toppled with confusion, so vivid Mick wonders if his deaths have spurred the connection.
The Heavy raises a hand to him in return, but continues on without a word. Mick reaches the door not long after and knocks.
“ Come in! ” The Medic trills.
Mick walks in, stopping short at the sight before him.
The Medic is leaned over a table, a scalpel and hook in hand. A dove rests on his shoulder, matching the collection in the further corner of the lab. Mick wonders if it’s too late to turn back.
He glances over his shoulder finally, smile all teeth. Blood is streaked across his cheek, already smeared on his glasses. “Ah, Sniper! How could I help you?”
“Uh...” Mick is positive the moment he dies for good, he’s going to be dissected. Or, given how bloody weird his doctor is: taxidermied.
The Medic sets his tools down, spinning around on his stool to face him completely. He looks at Mick like he’s reading a diagram, cataloguing parts and names. His smile doesn’t fade, willing to wait on Mick’s response.
“I’m having trouble with...” How does he explain this? He’s a doctor, so he must be somewhat familiar with this. Right, yeah, of course. “My cotactus has been acting strange, since I arrived.”
“Oh!” The Medic blinks, “well, first: congratulations.”
“Thank you,” He doffs his hat, “but I was wonderin’ if it was...normal.”
“Well, I, myself don’t have an epafandere . Though I can imagine why death would be such an obstacle,” he chuckles, “could you describe it?”
“I don’t feel anything. Only for a couple seconds, but ‘s frequent. Pain’s intense, as well. Everything feels stronger.” He hesitates. “I don’t know if it’s all me, or not. Already hate the idea of them feelin’ me die all the time, and I’d figured it was connected. Except there’s not much of a pattern to it. Get it an hour after I’ve died, or moments before.”
He hums, expression turning analytical. “And your areas?”
“Emotions are a bit high. Temperature’s alright. New, but alright.”
“‘New’?” The Medic asks.
“Been cold since I was a babe. Don’t feel it anymore.”
“Ahh.” He nods, understanding. “At the moment I don’t see any solid solution. Painkillers, for discomfort, but it’s a very new area of medical sciences, you see. Very difficult.”
Mick had figured, but he’d hoped for a little more than that.
“I could look into some psychiatric treatments, but given our unique situation it could simply be an occupational hazard.”
“Was afraid you’d say that.”
The Medic gives him a sympathetic look, “I am sorry, Mr. Mundy. I wish I could do more.”
“You’re good, mate. I’ll, uh, get out of your hair, then.” Mick nods goodbye and leaves. His stomach twists with the reality of it all, but he didn’t except a solution so soon. Everything about cotactus was new, even with its immortal presence. Mick had grown up in the most technological country in the world and even they had barely scraped the surface of it.
It wasn’t likely some psychotic free lance doctor would have any better luck.
-
Ludwig definitely found the theory worth investigating. He’d never thought of specializing in cotactian science, though theoretical medicine would always be a love of his. If the leading medical world was testing the ice, Ludwig was already twenty meters down. Who had even thought to theorize the presence of death on cotactus? In almost every case before, the pair only experienced the other’s passing once.
These people were feeling it on the daily.
In fact, Sniper’s story mirrored Heavy’s almost exactly. Though Heavy’s inversion of temperature had only begun when he was eighteen.
“Oh,” Ludwig breathes into the quiet of his lab, “oh dear.”
-
Mikhail returns home troubled. His first week was intense, but not in a way he particularly despised. For the issues that had arisen with his cotactus, he’d made a fair acquaintance, and had an instant fondness for his gifted weaponry.
The moment he walks through the door, he’s met with mixed emotions. Yana barrels into him with all her might, and then explains that Bronislava is out for the day. Zhanna is curled on the couch, head rested on their mother’s lap. A blanket is pulled up to her nose, and her eyes are exhausted.
Yana quietly speaks of Zhanna’s “episodes”. Sounding too akin with Mikhail’s own troubles. Moments of silence, harsh sensations of pain. Mikhail wonders briefly if, by chance, his sister’s other half could possibly be...
He scowls at the idea of any of those men being in his house and rejects the idea outright. Coincidence, it’s all coincidence.
He goes out again for medicine, returning with a supply that will last them long into the next season. He tells his mother his next paycheck will be larger than any he’s had before, and that his new work is fine.
He omits details, of course. Though his mother gives him a look that tells him she knows of his avoidance, she will not press him just yet. Some aspects of his jobs are left best in the dark, but she worries nonetheless.
When Bronislava returns, however, he does indulge his sisters on the details of the outside world. America—for what little he’s actually seen of it—and his new coworkers. They take immediate fascination, asking more than he knows the answers to. He vows to try and answer them by the next time he returns, but doubts his own abilities.
Mikhail has spoken to few of them. Medic, most of all, and a few spare words between him and the Spy. Yana immediately asks him for an idea of his accent, but Mikhail finds himself unable to mimic it. English is difficult, and hearing it from a Frenchman is almost indecipherable. The Spy’s Russian, too, takes a moment to understand.
His weekend dispels the issues of his past days, spent focused only on his family and nothing else.
-
Mick gets cold over the weekend again. It fades by Monday.
-
Heavy approaches Ludwig over concerns of his sister the moment they see each other. Ludwig expresses the desire to help just as he had before, but cannot dispell the parallels between everything.
He looks around briefly and wonders of the possibility. Though, seeing Heavy’s scowl at his own viewing, finds it best not to point it out to him.
He’s then left to grapple with what to do. Surely, he tells his teammates of their connection. It would do no harm, and the two would receive instant clarify.
Then again, these are matters of the heart Ludwig cannot force. An attempt to push them could be null. As torturous as it may be, some things must come in their own time. Truly, how much time could it take for the two to simply brush hands? A single touch, easily achievable even without intent.
Perhaps there’s some entertainment to be gained from the spectacle. Best enjoyed while it lasts.
-
He settles into the presence of the others. After two months, post-battle drinking and food was the norm. Mick has only indulged himself a couple of times, finding himself exhausted from the chaos, but knows the festivities are frequent.
Often, his socializations come in the early morning, either dealing with Demo’s hangover, or discussing whatever with Spy. They’re short, and not particularly intimate, but enough for Mick. He’s gotten used to the chronic pain that cotactus has inflicted onto him, simply counting down the hours until it fades.
His partner, he feels, has relaxed into it as well. The connection has not lost its vividness, but now passes on more familiar emotions. Happiness spikes on the weekends as his temperature dips, but it’s nothing noticeable to the outside.
Few of them stay on base for the weekends. It’s only him, Medic, and Pyro. Both whom Mick doesn’t make a habit of touching. The cold is his to deal with and his alone.
Today, however, he’s in odd company.
Ms. Pauling had asked him to do a job for her and he’d agreed. The details were sorted out just fine, and he was set to be leaving at five on Saturday.
When he reaches the garage he is not alone.
Heavy is sat on one of their steel benches, gun laid beside him.
Mick had assumed this was going to be a solo job.
“It is 5. Time to go.” Heavy gestures to his watch for good measure.
“Yep.” Mick turns to grab the van keys off their hook, but meets empty air.
Something jingles behind him and he hears the thrum of the engine start up.
Right.
Mick moves to the passenger’s seat instead, setting his gun case between his legs.
Heavy reverses the van, hand swamping the small handle of the gearshift. Mick hasn’t spoken to Heavy much at all. The man made himself seem the most sane of the mercs (off the field, that is) but seemed of a similar nature to Mick. They were stuck being polite, desiring privacy over substance.
Now, however, Mick has nothing else to think of.
Heavy has a good 100kg on Mick, despite their minimal size difference. He’s seen him move, though. There’s pure muscle beneath his skin.
And Mick knows he weighs less than that minigun. Heavy could throw him with ease.
His heart leaps at the thought, though it doesn’t quite feel like fear. Mick grew up around people built like tanks. None of them had instilled the same emotions in him that Heavy did.
Mick looks to the window instead, feeling warm in a way he knows is not the work of his partner. Still, his mind clings.
Heavy had proven himself a man cut short by nothing but language barriers. He works efficiently, uses his strengths to his advantage, and has more common sense than half of them. He’s best expressed through his actions than his words. Mick doesn’t mind it at all.
Their conversation stays dead as they reach their destination. Mick’s fine with the silence, as is Heavy. His discomfort stems from nothing but his own thoughts, going over everything he knows about Heavy thus far and allowing that warm feeling to fester into a bonfire.
The moment the van stops, Mick sets it aside. He’s got work to do.
He’s aware they have different styles of combat. Given the mission details, this is more playing to Heavy’s advantage than his. Still, if Ms. Pauling felt the need for him to come, Mick was not one to argue.
The building stands off-road, scene undisturbed by so much as a power line. It’s industrial, still recent, but visibly dead. No windows, no cars. Just a set of doors.
It’s unspoken between them of what their plan is. Ms. Pauling said no witnesses, which meant no survivors. No need to pull punches.
They idle by the door for a moment, trying to listen for signs of life. The concrete gives them nothing.
Finally, Heavy raises a foot and kicks the doors in.
The interior is luminescent, countless people whipping around to face the oncoming spray of bullets.
Blood splatters across pristine counters and lab coats, those attempting to hide then snuffed out by Mick’s own gun. They attempt to scatter, some lunging for a supposed alarm on the wall, but none reach it before collapsing. The two block the doors, still, and no one gets out.
It’s done in a matter of minutes, element of surprise giving them the advantage.
Mick steps over the array of bodies, peering down at their work. “What d’ya suppose they were workin’ at?”
Heavy picks up a small Petri dish, a thin sample of what appears to be gold foil laying in a bath of liquid. “Not sure.”
Mick’s got no idea what any of it means. The notes are soaking up the surrounding blood, and even then it’s so thick with jargon Mick can’t make out a single thing.
He thinks of salvaging some better copies, maybe giving them to one of his teammates who actually went to college, but rids himself of the idea. “No witnesses” also probably not meant taking evidence with him.
The two scour around the lab as the scent of death soon becomes overwhelming. Nothing gives them an idea of why they were asked to do this, but it doesn’t matter much in the end. It was a job, you don’t have to ask questions.
They leave soon after, informing Ms. Pauling of their completion the moment they get the signal.
“Want me to drive back?” Mick asks.
Heavy considers it, shrugs. “Sure, why not.”
Mick holds out his hand. Heavy tosses him the keys, walking around to the other side.
Mick pauses as he sees Heavy load his gun. “How much does she weigh?” He asks.
“150 kilograms,” he pats the barrel fondly. He looks over at Mick, “would you like to try?”
“Not sure I could, mate.” He admits, smiling. Heavy chuckles. He sets the minigun on the ground, stepping back.
“Go on. Try.”
Mick sighs, walking to stand beside him. “I’m gonna fuckin’ embarrass myself doin’ this.”
Still, he reached for the handles. Immediately he’s met with resistance. Mick grunts, replanting his feet and attempting to jerk the gun at least a centimeter off the ground. He hears something in his arm pop and groans. “Jesus.”
Heavy erupts into ravenous laughter, a loud, delighted thing that immediately makes Mick fluster.
“Oi, not all of us can be built like bloody freight trains, alright?” He says, feeling the laugh rattle in his chest.
“No, no, is fine.” Heavy recovers slightly, moving one of his hands off his belly to pat Mick’s back. He settles his palm on the back of his neck, still shaking with amusement.
Immediately, the joy amplifies. Mick’s sure he’s never going to get that feeling out of his chest, so vivid he mistakes it for his own emotions. The touch on his neck feels like nothing else, sending shivers down his spine while also heating him to his very core.
Heavy pauses, and the feeling is gone. Mick misses it the moment it fades, attempting to tug it back with every part of him, and finally realizes why it’s stopped.
Mick looks at Heavy and loses every word he’s ever known.
-
He doesn’t know what to say to him. Mikhail didn’t think this would happen. Not now, not with him.
Sniper’s anxiety feels like a knife, suddenly so close to his heart and too painful to process. When Mikhail first moves away he’s struck with an immediate sense of hurt and rejection. Mikhail packs up their equipment and gets into the van.
Sniper gets into the driver’s seat, and Mikhail grasps his hand. Though the journey back is silent, though he’s now attune to every little change in Sniper’s emotions, he does not let go. Sniper holds on just as tightly.
Is it supposed to feel like this?
He hardly knows him, despite their decades long connection. Suddenly, Mikhail wants to do nothing but keep close to him. Shouldn’t there be something before this? Shouldn’t he know him before he loves him?
Mikhail doesn’t think he loves him. Not yet. He’s positive of his attraction, though perhaps that was something underlying for these past two months. It feels more as a bridge finally completed, giving them access to each other at last.
“Mick.”
Mikhail looks over for the first time.
“My name’s Mick.” Sniper repeats, “Michael.”
“Misha...Mikhail.”
Mick cracks a small smile, “can’t imagine the chances of us havin’ the same name.”
His amusement breaks through the tension with ease, intense in Mikhail’s own heart. He returns the sensation, holding his hand a little tighter. There is much to discuss with each other—lifetimes, truly—but it can be left alone for now. It is not a process they have to rush.
For now, the connection is enough.
-
Mikhail has always been aware of how his profession must feel to his partner. He did dangerous things and got hurt, but the pain was never his to feel.
Mick tells him about his childhood. About the tear in his side when pain first manifested. He was only six at the time, crying his eyes out as a twenty-four year old Mikhail stitched the wounds he could not feel.
Mikhail discloses little details of his own: the random scrapes he could feel on his knees, the broken bones that would leave a phantom ache in his arms. He does not tell him everything. Not yet.
They visit Medic soon after they get back, still having a hold on one another as they walk through.
Medic looks oddly pleased and exasperated at the sight of them.
“Everything worked out, then?” He asks. “Now that you’re...conjoined, it may be a little easier to find a solution to your issue.”
“You knew?” Mick asks, scowling.
“It was not the most subtle thing in the world,” He scolds, “I can’t believe it took you this long. I mean, ‘if looks could speak’ and all that.”
Embarrassment rises from Mick, realizing that his staring is, perhaps, not as hidden as he’d like to believe. “What are we supposed to do now?”
“Well, I’d prefer to understand the reasoning for these ‘flashes’, as you say, but traditionally this would be the time when you get to know each other.”
Mick looks over at Mikhail, radiating nerves and happiness. “Sounds good to me.”
Mikhail returns the feeling, squeezing his hand, “perfect.”