Chapter Text
Feelings didn’t belong on the battlefield.
Battlefields and feelings, notoriously, do not mix. No, they shouldn’t.
But that doesn’t mean that feelings can’t find a way to be precisely where they shouldn’t be.
Eyes narrowed, feet planted firmly on the ground, poised to take a shot… Ohh, hell. Sniper let out a calm exhale through his nose as he relaxed his posture to his routine, comfortable slouch. His sharp-shooting, capable hands let themselves drift away from a - mind you, very easy - headshot to the BLU team’s Heavy, who was absolutely ripping through his own team’s Scout, Pyro and Demoman’s defenses. Sniper swore his hands and gun had minds of their own as they seemed to float to a position that would let the gunman observe his team’s Medic.
Oh, doctor. Sniper could sit in his tower all day and think of poetic fancies to say about the mercenary, his thoughts safe within his head. Not even a Spy could pry them out of him. Of course, Sniper wasn’t delusional enough to believe that the doctor was putting on some kind of show for him like this, head thrown back in sadistic ecstasy as he slashed and shot at their shared enemies while sustaining the life force of their teammates. Staying light on his feet as powerful, muscular thighs propelled him across the battlefield, kicking up dust as he went, sometimes only findable by his white coat, flitting about with each and every flourish of his weapons. It was incredible to watch. Never got old, really.
Sniper still hated being healed. He wasn’t sure that would ever change, not with pride like his. But he’d gotten better lately, even calling out for Medic if he’d needed such assistance when he was moving between towers. He’d always made sure to give himself plenty of time to rehearse the few words he would say to the doctor when he’d arrive, of course. “Thanks, doctor.” Sniper always said (or some variation thereof), which to their teammates, might have sounded plain. But the good doctor knew better. ‘Thanks, doctor’, spoken like a lover, breathed out like a secret of which there was no shame. The sounds of the carnage around them meant little in the sparse moments that they had together like this.
The doctor would grin at him and impishly reply “Gern geschehen, Krokodil.” He’d let his fingers go to Sniper’s crocodile-tooth necklace, taking it out from where it was safely tucked between the gunman’s warm skin and the linen of his white undershirt, just to have an excuse to let the backs of his gloved knuckles dust against Sniper’s pronounced collarbones. Medic could hear Sniper’s breathing hitch at the gesture as he’d drawn in a sharp breath through his mouth, pushing his body against the doctor’s fingertips as subtly as he could. It never got old. With that, he’d trot back down to the front lines and look over his shoulder, eager to take Sniper’s attention again. Medic enjoyed this playful exchange, often shooting glances up at Sniper’s nest and giving the building a dashing smile, as though Sniper could possibly see him from that far!
Which, he could.
Of course, professionals such as himself see everything. Mostly everything. When he’s paying attention, he scolded himself. Stop acting like a giddy school girl! That troublesome enemy Heavy that Sniper had been pointedly ignoring was now teaming up with a Soldier. That was quite a bit of firepower. Should probably take care of that. He was typically not this distracted when he worked, even with his feelings for Medic. Today the feelings pressed against him and stuck to him like static cling, bits of electric heat zapping and simmering along his spine unpredictably as he watched Medic’s polished boot slam down on the kneecap of a Scout who had been trying to ambush their Heavy.
Medic knew little of the fine art of sharpshooting. He knew about breath control, and he knew that any Sniper worth the title had his eyes on just about everything and anything at any given time. That, Medic thought gleefully, included him. In the past few months, they’d become closer, friends, even. The doctor wasn’t typically an… emotionally-inclined kind of person when it came to fostering relationships with others, but lately, well… he’d been… running some experiments. Hypothesis and theorems cataloged themselves within his hyperactive mind, categorizing every pulse-uptick from himself in relation to how often he got to see Sniper’s crooked smile, and so on. The categories! There were so many categories. He really should write them down, make use of that journal he’d been itching to use, but he got along best with his own mind. Recently, he made a fascinating discovery:
He quite enjoyed being able to catch Sniper’s eye. Better than that, he was good at it, too.
It wasn’t that he was showing off, he’d told himself, but if Sniper were to conveniently catch him in the middle of some display of his skills, well… Medic supposed he would take the gunman’s entranced expression - and sheepish grin, should the doctor catch him looking - as very suitable rewards. It thrilled Medic to know that someone as focused as Sniper, the one who was among some of the most difficult of the mercs to really get close to, got distracted by him. Someone that, before their team’s disbanding, wouldn’t have casted a second glance at him. Their relationship had been growing with a pleasant crawl; not too fast for his own taste, not too slow to bore him. Just when he thought he knew Sniper would zig left, the gunman would surprise him and zag right. Reliable, but just unpredictable enough that made learning him fun and new each and every time they spoke.
With an ear-ringing BANG, a flanking Pyro was shot down, the corpse collapsing neatly at Medic’s feet. Practically wrapped up with a bow.
Medic often knew when the bushman was slacking off , given the occasional lull in these kinds of gifts when they were in battle, but Medic found that just as sweet as the presents themselves. “Nicely done, Kamerad!” He’d complimented over the radio, knowing that Sniper could hear him. He never acknowledged Medic’s praise over the comm channel, but he didn’t have to; another BANG , and a BLU rocket-jumping Soldier landed just to the doctor’s left with a sound thud. Medic let out a shrill laugh, rocking on his toes as he circled the corpse as though waiting for him to get up. Of course, he wouldn’t. There would be no sloppy kills from his sharpshooter.
Objectively, feelings didn’t belong on the battlefield. Battlefields and decision-impeding emotions, notoriously, are utterly incompatible. Rules are often results of proven facts.
Theorem: war should not include feelings.
Indisputable fact: Medic was never someone who liked following the rules.