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It was wintertime.
Thick layers of snow coated the ground, buildings, and now, even the Payload. They'd been stuck outside of BLU spawn for over an hour as a gentle snowfall had progressively powdered the muted landscape. The REDs were accomplishing their jobs in the form of preventing the cart from being moved but suffering for it by refusing to be driven away by the icy windchill. They were getting paid, after all. The opposing BLUs had not left spawn, no doubt trying to plan an attack that would allow them to successfully burst through the team-wide RED camp outside their spawn gate.
All around him, Heavy's coworkers were bundled up to their respective tolerance levels, all shoulders dusted with delicate snowflakes. Sniper, for one, the poor, sun-tanned bastard, was perched on a balcony a ways back. Not an inch of his skin was exposed, bundled in a down coat and a scarf/hat combination, pulled away from one another only far enough to expose his yellow-tinted aviators. Scout, on the other hand, was much more accustomed to the weather. He buzzed around the BLU spawn doors, occasionally launching a taunt inside, but mostly kept moving to keep his blood pumping. His only coverage was a light jacket, to remain mobile, and a patterned bandana tucked over his nose, to keep his face warm. There was only one mercenary Heavy cared to keep an eye on, though, watching as he entertained himself by jotting down notes in a small pocketbook.
Medic wore a thick, woolen sweater underneath his lab coat, along with a fluffy, black ushanka to cover his ears. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, face buried in the generally issued scarf, striped red and yellow, everyone had been given at the beginning of their employment. His brows were furrowed in concentration and, despite the scarf, Heavy could tell he was muttering something to himself.
His concentration only broke—he flinched—when Scout shouted something volatile, launching his aluminum bat off of the BLU spawn doors, the frustration evident in his voice. Heavy watched as the doctor curled his lips at the man's outburst, slipping the pocketbook back inside his coat with a huff that sent billowing clouds of hot breath into the air.
The peacefulness of the battlefield made them all tense, so used to the constant rain of gunfire, only ever cut with the occasional retreat to strategize before moving out again. Now, the stillness had begun to drive goosebumps up even the Heavy's winter-hardened forearms.
Heavy had, maybe stupidly, not bundled up. His bright red T-shirt was the only thing protecting him from the wind chill, with his vest being his only extra layer. He'd thought that the exertion of battle would keep him warm during, what he had believed to be, a mildly cold day.
The cold shouldn't have, and had never, been an issue for Heavy. He'd been born into, forged by, and fought in, it. He spilled hot blood onto its cold exterior and had used its unforgiving, yet encompassing, nature to protect his family from threats unknown. It shouldn't have bothered him, not outside of what his human instincts told him was life-threatening, which he tended to ignore.
Now though, the cold and the anticipation formed a restless little pit in his stomach, and it made his body threaten to react accordingly.
He heard the pt-choo of a launched sticky bomb, and then another, and curiosity promoted him to look over his shoulder to see Demoman carefully aiming his gun at the snow. With Soldier dutifully at his side, he fired three more bombs, just enough to make a recognizable phallic shape. Heavy sighed irritably and turned his head back as Demoman and Soldier guffawed, harsh heh-heh-heh's mixing with an accent tinged hah-hah-hah. He returned his attention to the doors before sneaking another glance at Medic. He found that the Medic was looking at him too.
Upon catching each other's gaze, Medic gave him a knowing smile, crunching snow underneath his boots to meet the Heavy by his chosen spot: a boulder.
He shifted the Medigun pack, the heavy equipment no doubt digging into his shoulders. Heavy knew the doctor would never want to be caught off guard during a fight, and thus didn't take the pack off, even for a break.
His boots stopped a couple inches from Heavy's, having left a short trail of prints in their wake.
"доброе утро, Herr Heavy."
"Guten Morgen, Doktor."
"It seems our BLU friends have wisely decided to stay warm today."
Heavy grunted in response, trying not to focus on the shivers threatening to erupt from his core.
"Not nice for us," he rumbled.
Medic sucked his teeth in resigned agreement. "Nein, it is not."
They sat in comfortable silence for a bit, before Heavy became, trying not to show the other man how cold he really was, acutely aware of how close the Medic was next to him. It was casual from an outsider's perspective, them waiting for the battle to begin together, given that they tended to stick to each other during a fight, but, looking down at his friend's bored expression, cold flush high on his prominent cheekbones, Medic suddenly felt too close. Broad shoulders too near to Heavy's own, black, polished leather boot just a shimmy away from touching his. Even the flaps of the ushanka threatened to brush up against Heavy's bandolier. Heavy felt a weight in the air, one of his imagination, get heavier as he tensed up. He lost focus on trying to forget the cold.
An aggressive shudder wracked Heavy's body, teeth chattering. His fingers suddenly felt numb, and he wiggled his toes in his boots, trying to regain feeling.
Medic started, looking at him in surprise. The Russian, will-of-iron man, shivering violently in the cold. Heavy felt a warmth rise to the tips of his ears, at the sudden, involuntary reaction, a mild shake still lingering in his core. The doctor turned away from his friend, kindly not commenting. He hummed and, for the first time all morning, put his Medigun down.
Heavy was trying not to look at him, feeling unnecessarily embarrassed at the product of his poor clothing decisions, until the Medic knocked on his arm.
"Bitteschön," said the now bare-necked Medic, shirt lapels revealed to have been neatly folded over the edge of the thick sweater. He held out the red and yellow striped scarf to Heavy. "I imagine it will be easier to fight with some cover, my friend."
Heavy shook his head. It was a kind gesture, but he rather Medic stay warm. Heavy could mow down a line of enemies, but he was one man. Medic, on the other hand, made a job of keeping the entirety of their team moving, expelling more damage collectively than Heavy could alone "Нет. You need it more than me."
"In my medical opinion," Medic frowned, voice hardening, "a beating heart is more useful than a frozen one."
He shoved the scarf further in Heavy's face. The man held fast, gripping Sasha tight, for only a beat longer before giving in. He grumbled, going to take it from the Medic. Just as his hand came close, Medic snatched it away with a small smile. He tutted, "Lass mich."
Heavy kept his face stony, but leaned down slightly as the Medic waved him closer, allowing the all too pleased man to wrap the scarf around his neck. "Na bitte! Much better." He bent to pick up his Medigun, lightly bumping Heavy with the barrel. "Warm?"
Heavy straightened his back again, avoiding Medic's expectant gaze. He reluctantly buried his face into the fabric, huffing hot breath into the space to warm up. He hoped the item would hide his flush, the one not from the cold.
The scarf was a small gesture, but an infinitely kind one. It was still warm from where it had sat on Medic's neck, and when Heavy lifted it further to cover his frozen face, he stopped, finding that it smelled like the Medic too, or whatever soap he washed up with. Something citrusy, with notes of spice. Not what was provided to them by Mann Co., the one Heavy used. This probably meant that other parts of Medic, right after a morning shower, smelled like this too. The thought only served to deepen the flush high on Heavy's cheeks. He grunted affirmatively, satisfying the Medic who nodded in response.
A sentry whirred, then beeped, catching Heavy out of the moment. A pinpoint red light suddenly appeared on the BLU's spawn door. He heard boots shuffling, men sighing in relief and readying their weapons as the BLU spawn door finally, finally slid up. They waited with bated breath, guns at the ready, all eyes trained on the entryway.
The BLU Pyro stepped out and cheerfully waved, only to have their head immediately blown clean off their shoulders, spattering the doorway with blood. Cannon fodder. But that first kill was enough, because it spurred the rest of the BLU team to stream out of spawn, guns blazing, finally kicking the battle into action.
Heavy looked over to Medic, offering a silent question as bullets began to rain down like hail. He heard Demoman's work of art blow an enemy to smithereens.
The doctor kicked his Medigun into gear and pointed it at him, the red beam immediately sending a wave of warmth over Heavy's body. He flinched at the sudden, pleasant feeling, looking suspiciously at Medic. The man only looked at him over his glasses and gave him a knowing smile. "I couldn't possibly use the Medigun for such trivial manners, Herr Heavy, but now, there is a battle to win."
Heavy grunted in resignation, and the Medic spread an arm out with a curt bow.
"So, after you, mein Freund."