Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

art by @ragri5!

Fingers drummed in aimless rhythm upon the metallic surface of the counter, free hand rubbing his chin in thought as he turned his gaze back towards the chalkboard filled to the brim with sketches, ideas, and various equations. All dedicated towards the straightforward goal of excelling in his field. Even if his job description required little more than keeping his teammates alive upon the battlefield, he would be a fool to not make the most of the vast resources at his disposal.

In fact, ever since he’d started working for the Reliable Excavation Demolition, he’d made more progress in the field of medicine than the world as a whole had accomplished in the past centuries. A perfect example being his more recent innovation, the ÜberCharge. The Medi-Gun itself was already revolutionary, but the UberCharge? It was completely groundbreaking! In fact, had their enemies not blatantly stolen his design, there wouldn’t even be a question about which of the two of them would win. It was his fault, he supposed, for having used the enemy Spy as a test subject. Details, details.

He’d succeed in bestowing his teammates the invulnerability of a god, but it wasn’t enough.

Not fault of his, certainly. No, the real issue was the fact that there was only so much he could do with what limitations and odd restrictions he had to deal with. While he didn’t fully understand why his employers had barred him from continuing to perfect his new Medi-Gun’s ÜberCharge, he knew better than to outright break the few regulations they’d been given.

Even if it meant an annoying lack of progress. With a sigh, he tossed the bloody bonesaw in his hands he’d forgotten he was even holding to the side, pursing his lips with furrowed brows as he glanced towards Archimedes.

“It is quite the enigma, is it not?” he sighed, shaking his head, “I can make these men gods, but what use is goodhood if it only lasts for eight seconds? Even less, if more than one’s in need!”

Keeping the average person alive on a normal day was difficult enough. Keeping the men he worked with - all of whom had long disregarded care for life, their own or his - was a challenge of a completely different level.

“Perhaps I could continue to experiment with the serum… avoid breaking the rules, but not bending them,” he murmured to himself, his frown deepening, “How shall we keep these men alive…?”

“Heavy uses gun to protect. Enemy dies, team lives.”

Medic’s head snapped towards Archimedes in startlement. He was fairly certain he hadn’t given his friend the ability to talk—

Before remembering that he had other company in hand. Oops. He’d forgotten all about the Heavy and his regular checkup. The man left sitting on the gurney in the middle of the room with a book in hand.

“Ah! That you do, that you do,” he chuckled in reply, breaking the brief silence that’d followed Heavy’s statement, “And quite efficiently as well, might I add! Admirably so.”

The words were sincere. It hadn’t taken long working together for Medic to see the way the Heavy flourished in battle. Though less efficient at getting rid of larger groups of enemies on his own - a task more suited for, say, the Demoman or the Pyro - the weapons expert was undeniably reliable in a way few others were. Far less likely to go gallivanting on his own and leave the man healing him behind to fend for himself than some of their other teammates, in a way he couldn’t help but be grateful for.

“I am curious,” he piqued, a bit suddenly, but, like many of the things he did, without hesitation, “How did you come by such a proclivity and proficiency for blood?”

The Heavy blinked at him for a moment before seemingly pondering the question, his brows furrowing as he looked to the ceiling. The Medic felt his intrigue only grow as time went by without an answer. Thinking about it, he didn’t know much about the man’s life or anyone else he worked with either. Certainly, he knew what was written in flesh and in whatever bastardized version of medical records he’d skimmed over regarding them, but nothing much regarding more personal aspects.

Then again, none of them seemed all too inclined to share. At least, not in the same way he was, always happy to talk about whatever comes to mind during one of the many surgeries he carries out.

Then again, none of it was of much importance. Simply curiosity and nothing more, but he supposed he’d only gotten so far in life by being curious.

“At first, it was necessity,” the Heavy eventually said, slowly and carefully with each word holding purpose, his eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall and distant when the Medic glanced back towards him, “My family. My mother and my sisters. They needed protection. So, I protected them.”

Heavy shrugged, steady eyes turning to Medic, “And then, Heavy needed job. It is easy. Kill bad people, protect team.”

“That simple, hm?” he said in reply, amusement lightening his tone but leveled with sincerity, turning away distractedly as the Heavy nodded in reply. He mulled over the new piece of information, slotting it into what else he knew about the other man. It made sense, and in a way, it was that simple. Even his job could be reduced to it. “Kill bad people, protect our team, indeed.”

He heard the Heavy make a humming noise in agreement, though he said nothing more, surprisingly accustomed to his quirks in the short time they’d worked together.

Not quite accustomed to him enough, the man jumped as the Medic abruptly threw his head back and let out a loud, barking laugh.

“That’s it! That is it!” he exclaimed, not noticing the concerned glance Heavy was giving him in favor of grabbing the first blood-soaked rag in reach and messily wiping away at his chalkboard, stopping only once enough failures were erased in order to make room for genius.

“You, my Freund, are brilliant!” the Medic exclaimed, sparing Heavy the briefest of glances with a wide grin as his hands flew to grab onto chalk, “We wish to protect our team, ja? I can keep you all alive far better than any other dummkopf in this field, but what if we simply reduce the need? Supply and demand!”

“Uh, doctor-”

“Exactly!” he barreled on. It was so wonderfully simple, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t worked on it earlier, “After all, the healing is not as rewarding as the hurting. Hippocrates had no idea what he was talking about. If we change the Medi-Gun’s properties from boosting the natural regenerative properties for healing to, say, boosting one’s adrenaline, muscle structure, and reflexes, or perhaps- ja, that could work, it would need… oh, that would work.”

He chuckled, a darker sound from earlier, and continued to mutter to himself as he quickly jotted down equations and notes as they passed and continued to process in his mind. The outside world was nothing but a tedious afterthought he had no time to pursue in light of his own brilliance.

It could have either been minutes or hours before he suddenly slammed his chalk down hard enough to shatter it. He paid it no mind as he spun around on his heels and ran over to where the Medi-Gun was fixed, wasting no time in adjusting the various wires, valves, and liquids connected to it.

“Come over here, come over here, schenll!” he gestured wildly towards where the Heavy had remained sitting, “Stand over there,” he pointed towards one end of the room, moving the Medi-Gun so that it was directed towards where he’d indicated.

Satisfied that the Heavy was complying, he went towards the opposite side of the room, pausing briefly on the way to grab - what did he have? Ah, that would work - a spare severed leg from one of his minifridges. Putting the leg on top of a random stool, he hurried back towards the Medi-Gun and the Heavy with a wide, toothy grin on his face, putting his hand on the lever in both preparation and anticipation.

“You have your bullets, ja?” he gestured towards the other man’s bandolier, “Would you do me the favor of taking one out and throwing it at that over there? As best as you can, bitte.”

Heavy gave him another odd look, but rather than walking out, he only shrugged again before doing as he was told. The man’s aim was impeccable, without a doubt. Even with the distance between him and his target, Heavy had managed to hit the frozen leg. Both of them watched as the bullet bounced off and clattered onto the floor.

“Perfect!” Medic smiled, fingers tapping on the Medi-Gun in anticipation, “Alright. Now, on my command, throw another one at the same leg as hard as you can again, understood?”

“Da,” Heavy replied, though he seemed a bit hesitant as he turned his head towards Medic again with a slight frown, “Doctor, what-”

“Just trust me!” he shushed, “Okay. On drei. Eins, zwei…”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched as the Heavy readied a bullet in his hand. As the man raised his arm, Medic slammed his hand down on the lever. The Medi-Gun spluttered to life, shaking more than it ever had before as red sparks started flickering into existence, flying around them in bursts of color.

“Drei!”

There was no wash of metallic red over their skins as the ÜberCharge brought. Instead, it looked as though bright red lightning was enveloping them, surging underneath their veins and sending sparks flying from their skin. His heart was hammering in his chest, similar to the ÜberCharge, artificially elevated, he noted with a grin, though there was certainly a sharper intensity to the sensation. However, his self-evaluation was secondary as he watched Heavy’s eyes glow with power as the bullet left his hand and flew to the leg in a blur of motion, and—

All but disintegrated it. The leg exploded in a small shower of gore as the bullet not only burst through it but broke the wall behind it as well. Leaving a hole in it and leaving the both of them staring wide-eyed at the damage.

“That was,” Heavy started, his breathing sounds labored, but his mouth was stretched into a wide grin, “That was incredible, doctor.”

Medic cackled, loud and just as breathless, soon joined by his companion in his laughter. Putting a hand on Heavy’s shoulder, his enthusiastic smile turned back into a sharp grin.

It was brilliant. Completely brilliant. The fools at BLU won’t even know what hit them. He would give his colleagues the utter power of God’s fury so that they might raze all those who dared to stand in their way.

“You did excellent, mein Freund,” he complimented, slapping Heavy’s back in approval before rushing back towards his chalkboard with his mind still racing. Clearing space in the center of the board, he wrote there in scrawling letters:

Kritzkrieg.

Without a doubt in his mind, a grin stretching further up his cheeks, it would become his latest masterpiece.

“Would you like to help me perform some further tests?” he asked the other man, enthusiasm bleeding into each word as he met Heavy’s eyes, “We will make Sasha sing songs she’d never known she could sing! And we will make our enemies cower and bow before our might!”

Heavy’s grin was wide enough to match his own, sparks of the leftover energy from the Medi-Gun - the power of the Kritzkrieg - still running beneath their skin. He didn’t answer right away. Taking out another bullet from his bandolier, the Heavy held it up and looked at it with appraisal and excitement on his face, giving away his answer before he had a chance to voice it.

“Da.”

Oh, this was going to be wunderbar.

Chapter Text

One of these days, he truly ought to consider putting in a request for a portable heart rate monitor. He was certain that the data he would gather from it would result in some fascinating results! For all he enjoyed playing god, he acknowledged he was ultimately human. Fear and adrenaline had as much sway over him as any other man. While the threat of death was something he’d long grown used to with his repeated exposure to it, it was still far from a pleasant experience.

Perfect for getting the heart running!

He should get some for his teammates as well. A considerable amount of time had passed since he’d first attached the ÜberCharges to their hearts, but he had yet to do any real research on any possible consequences or side effects. Although, given the lack of fatalities as a result of it, as far as he could tell, it was a lesser concern.

Regardless, it would all have to wait for later, making a quick mental note of them before being thrown back into focus on his current task of surviving as he jumped out of the way of a rocket, barely avoiding a direct hit from the BLU Soldier. A grimace flickered across his face as shrapnel from the explosion dug into his side, further ruining his already tattered coat.

None of his wounds were worthy of note, thankfully. Close proximity to the Medi-Gun granted him faster natural recovery than the average man, though far from the speed of healing it would be if he could administer the Medi-Gun to himself. Nevertheless, it was still enough to keep his muscles from fully exhausting and enough to heal superficial cuts and bruises, preventing them from accumulating into something serious. Less effective with the larger gashes littering his body, many of them still bleeding and steadily wearing him down.

With a huff, he continued to run, resisting the urge to sigh loudly. Just where on earth was his team? When he first started working for RED, he’d been expecting his biggest issues to be needless questions regarding silly things such as ‘ethics’ and a lack of proper resources to do his job.

He hadn’t expected the real problem to be so often losing sight of the men who were supposed to be protecting him so that he could live long enough to heal their injuries.

“Enemy doc over here!” a voice shouted out nearby. The BLU Demoman.

Swearing under his breath, he ducked into the first side tunnel he could, sending him up a flight of stairs. For the love of— he just needed someone. Anyone. The ÜberCharge meter was nearly full, roughly reading 98% in his hands. Just a few more seconds—

“Doc?”

His body moved on instinct, drawing out his syringe gun from his hip and shooting at the figure before him.

“Ow!” the supposed RED Sniper shouted, flinching at the attack in a way that was evidently natural. The man tore the syringe out of his leg with a look of pure indignation, “Bloody hell, what was that for?”

Instantly, the Medic’s demeanor flipped, his scowl turning into a wide grin as he aimed his Medi-Gun towards the Sniper and flicked its levers on, making quick work of the minor damage he’d caused and the few other scratches he could see on his friend.

“Herr Sniper! Excellent, excellent. Just the man I needed! Well, not quite, but any man is better than none, ja?” he rambled, his smile widening at the familiar sound of confirmation from the Medi-Gun, “Say, you’ve never been ÜberCharged before, have you?”

It was a rhetorical question. He was plenty aware of who he’d ÜberCharged before. The honor was typically reserved for those who specialize in their prowess in battle: the Soldier (if the man could stand still), the Demoman (if he wasn’t busy), the Pyro (on the rare occasion they were close enough to the enemy), and, of course, the Heavy (admittedly a preference due to the man’s reliability and his own nostalgia).

“Of course not,” the Sniper scoffed anyway, sending a glare he elected to ignore, “My job’s sniping. I ain’t built to go around guns blazing. You Über some wanker, and I give coverfire from afar. That’s how—”

“Perfect!” Medic interrupted cheerfully, doing a quick check over to ensure nothing was amiss before returning the Medi-Gun’s glowing beam to the Sniper, “Because the enemy Demoman and Soldier - and I might have heard their Scout as well? Are coming up the stairs to kill us rather brutally any second now. So, hah, if you could do me the favor of killing them before they could do the same to us…?”

“What?!” the other man squawked, staring at him as though he’d grown two heads - which wasn’t something he was even allowed to do - with his jaw open, dumbfounded. Whatever other complaints he might have felt compelled to make were interrupted as battle cries echoed from down the stairway, the sound of boots running up wood growing louder by the second.

“Oh, don’t be a big baby! Just point your gun or your sword and attack! Anyone could do it,” Medic waved off the other man’s spluttering, flinching as he dove down just in time to avoid another rocket, quickly moving around so that Sniper was between him and their approaching enemies.

“It’s not a sword, it’s a bloody kukri—” Sniper retorted, but the rest of his sentence was lost as a grenade exploded in his face, the force of it pushing the man stumbling backwards and sending his hat flying.

“How’d you like that, you bloody camper!” came the drunken taunt from the BLU Demoman as he clambered into view, quickly flanked by his Soldier and Scout. Matching bloodthirsty grins on each of their faces.

Medic smirked in reply, sharp and baring just as much teeth, eyes flickering away from their enemies to watch his Sniper’s face as he slowly blinked and realized, with shock, that he was alive. Alive, and unharmed. The world washed in pulsing red.

Pointedly ignoring his companion’s scowl, he brushed dirt off his coat and stood with some fanfare, gesturing the glowing Medi-Gun towards their foes, “Raus, raus! Kill them all, mein Freund!”

“Ah, piss,” was all the Sniper grumbled, exasperation clear in his tone before he gave in. Grabbing his sword - or kukri, Medic supposed - he made a dash towards the BLU Scout first without another moment of delay, taking advantage of the surprise clear on the BLU’s face to stab him in the neck, much to the Medic’s delight.

He could always count on the man to be a professional.

“Victory!”

Medic’s eyes opened just in time to hear the echoing yell of their success over the intercoms. Grin on his face despite the lingering phantom pains that came with having one’s body exploded and shot at repeatedly in a short span of time.

It would seem his gambit paid off. With three of their men distracted by their Sniper and his antics, the rest of RED was able to fend off BLU’s bomb, even without his healing. Regardless of the fact that it hadn’t been his intended goal, he hardly minded taking credit for it. Who knew that the enemy would be so enraged at being unable to kill their Sniper?

Shaking off the remaining disassociation associated with revival, he’d managed to run through a quick mental checklist to confirm his body was as it should be - an old habit - before he heard a loud gasp to his right.

The Sniper was back, leaving the two the last ones left in the lockers. The rest of their team had likely gone back out to claim the remaining blood or gone to base to celebrate. With a grin, Medic strode over towards his teammate and clasped his shoulder with glee.

“You did amazing!” he laughed, “You know, we made a surprisingly good team! You recovered from the sensation of being ÜberCharged far better than I would have expected, and out-sniping the BLU Sniper at the end there? Hah! The man will remember that insult for days to come.”

Sniper glared at him, muttering something too quiet, and likely very unpleasant, under his breath as he shoved the Medic away so he could stand up from where he was crouched. Yet Medic could see the annoyance was mostly for show, or at least, he suspected as much from the lack of force behind the Sniper’s push.

“Just-” Sniper sighed, irritation coloring his words, “Just try not to do that again, will you? I’m a sniper, doc. That means long distance, you got that?”

“Of course!” he said flippantly, his tone falsely innocent and mouth still smiling, “...But I did see you having some fun. Come on, mein Freund. Let’s not put the option of giving out enemies a… how did you put it? ‘A little of the old chop-chop’, again?”

Despite his goading, he was well aware the chances of such an opportunity or necessity arising again were slim. Though they held different work ethics, he liked to think he had a good sense of battle. It was certainly more beneficial, for both himself and the team, to ÜberCharge someone who prided themselves on their quick killing.

But he couldn’t deny that there’d been a certain sense of vindication at the sight of their enemies scattering in the face of two men who were typically the ones with targets painted on their backs. And judging by the way the corners of Sniper’s mouth twitched, barely perceptible but nevertheless there, as though he were fighting a smile, the man felt similarly.

“...Maybe,” was all Sniper said, the word a grumble, but Medic took it with a blinding grin. One that Sniper took note of and pointedly drew a few steps back, “Now get out of here, mate. I’ve got better things to do than babysitting you.”

“Of course,” Medic replied cheerfully, giving a wave before turning around and walking towards the exit, “I’ll see you tomorrow then!”

“Maybe,” Sniper called out after him, his voice sharp yet betraying a sliver of something lighter, “I said maybe, you bloody nurse!”

Chapter Text

Out of all of the expectations that were part of his job, he would have to crown the mandatory check-ups as the most tedious one.

It wasn’t necessarily an unpleasant experience. It was simply, in his humble opinion, a complete Zeitverschwendung. The revival mechanism that kept them alive during their fights against BLU, as well as his own consistent administration of the Medi-Gun, meant that they were all as healthy as health could allow. There was rarely, if ever, a cause for concern.

Still, he had yet to retrieve a reply after his last complaint regarding the matter, and thus he continued to dutifully do as he was instructed. Checking on each and every one of his colleagues for any lasting damages left in between the constant cycle of death and resurrection, ensuring no one had anything infectious, and - for his own amusement - conducting whatever surgery that came to mind at the time upon his willing test subjects.

Unfortunately, his patient of the day, the Spy, rarely allowed him to alleviate his boredom with the occasional fantastical bodily modification without interrupting the process by asking about purposes. For some reason, saying it was for his own entertainment did not suffice.

The man was different from the others in that way. Intentionally secretive, while others merely didn’t care enough to share. Never cold, moreso private. By all means, Spy’s behavior ought to be tedious to him.

But he rarely found himself annoyed by the Spy. If anything he’d felt a sense of camaraderie with the other man, a bit earlier than most of their other teammates. He supposed it had to do with their shared role designation of ‘Support’ upon their contracts.

Regardless of his opinions on the man, or lack thereof, he could say without a shadow of doubt that he found at least one part of the Spy utterly fascinating.

In all of his years with all of his patients, he had never seen anyone whose lungs were even half of the horrendous state the Spy’s lungs were in. Yet even so, the man always managed to conduct himself with certain grace. It was a miracle he didn’t cough enough to get himself caught whenever he was out in the field.

It was times like this that he wished he was privy to the details of just how the revival mechanisms functioned during their battles against BLU. If it could bring them back from the brink of death or from death itself, then it ought to give them fresh organs each time they died out on the field. But Spy’s lungs were a testament that, as he’d suspected, it was a different case.

Unless the Spy somehow managed to utterly ruin them in the downtime between their jobs. The scenario was just as likely. If it weren’t for the benefits of their jobs, he had little doubt that the man would’ve been long dead if he’d maintained his current habits.

As he’d said, fascinating.

“So, can I go?” the Spy drawled, dragging the Medic out of his thoughts. The man looked bored as he sat cross-legged on the gurney and doing a rather admirable job of smoking without a pair of lungs. Exhaust flowing out from both his mouth and open chest, mingling in the air with the red glow of the suspended Medi-Gun.

“Soon, soon, mein Freund!” Medic replied with cheer, attention drifting away again from the other man’s annoyance, “Patience. I’m running just a few more tests, nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

Out of all of his colleagues, he would have to say that the Spy and the Scout were certainly the most impatient when it came to their checkups. It hadn’t even been that long since they’d begun. Although, in Spy’s case, it was more likely that he was impatient due to being aware of how unnecessary the semi-regular inspections were. Whereas the Scout was a simple case of restlessness.

Different in nature, but the comparison still brought a small chuckle out of him as he absentmindedly poked the pair of pulsing lungs laid out on the tray before him.

“You know, it would be amusing if your penchant for smoking passed down to the enemy Scout,” he mused, shaking his head with amusement at the thought, “It’d certainly make our lives easier.”

Vaguely, he registered the sudden coughing fit from the Spy, though his attention had focused on some scribbles at the corners of some of his notes. A list of various restaurants that were now available to them after the Engineer had rigged some teleporters to the nearest cities.

Perhaps he ought to indulge himself with some decent food… Although he never found much meaning in wasting time with frivolous things such as eating, even he tired of the questionable rations that RED provided them with. He certainly made more than enough money to splurge on such extravagance.

“What-” the Spy cleared his throat roughly, impressive considering his lack of lungs, as he caught his breath and recomposed himself, “What exactly do you mean by that?”

Medic glanced back at the other man, blinking owlishly with a confused smile on his face, “Oh, was I speaking out loud? I was just thinking about going to the nearby city for dinner,” he paused, his tone betraying hesitance as he tilted his head in question, “Did… you wish to join me?”

While he did consider himself amicable with the Spy, he didn’t think they were all that close—

“I’m not talking about your meal plans,” Spy snapped - a bit rude, but Medic had forgiven worse offenses, “I was… simply wondering why you would bring up the enemy Scout.”

Medic’s confusion only grew at that, letting out a light laugh to cover the growing awkwardness in the air, “Ah, is that what this is about? There’s no need to be shy! Certainly, at first, I had found it a bit surprising that you were the BLU Scout’s biological father, but stranger things have proven themselves true, ja?”

It had taken him off guard the first time he’d made the connection. However, that was more so due to the discrepancy with their own Scout. It was a medical curiosity he was still investigating on the side.

Believing that to be the end of the conversation, he returned his eyes to the dissected lungs before him when he heard shuffling sounds behind him. His head snapping back, he saw the Spy trying to get up from the gurney and away from the Medi-Gun. With some alarm, he quickly hurried over to manhandle the Spy back down, grimacing slightly as blood splashed onto his face at the sudden movement. Arteries. Sometimes they were far more trouble than they were worth.

“Ah, let’s not do that until after I’ve returned your lungs, shall we?” his tone was light but order clear. One that Spy understood, given the way he reluctantly lied back down with a deep scowl on his face.

“Thank you,” Medic said cordially, wiping the blood off his face with the back of his hand. While, if the Spy had died, it would’ve been far from the first time one of his subjects had died in his operating room, he wasn’t particularly inclined towards wasting his time disposing of any more bodies that day. Not to mention, he already had plenty of spare parts from the Spy.

“...How did you find out?” the man in question asked with a sigh, irritation clear in his voice as he rolled his eyes, lighting another cigarette from his kit. Likely nauseous from the blood loss that’d occurred from his temporary disconnection from the Medi-Gun, if his pale face was to go by.

“Oh, I’ve known for ages,” Medic shrugged, waving his hand flippantly. Was it truly so surprising for him to know? “One of the first things I’ve done on this job was to run DNA tests on everyone, and then tests on the various body parts we’ve recovered from our counterparts at BLU,” his eyes lightened at that, enthusiasm entering his voice, “Haven’t you ever considered how intriguing it is that we are fighting near identical doubles of ourselves? In fact, in my tests—”

“Did you tell him?” Spy cut through, a frown marring his face, “Does he know? Does the Scout know?”

He allowed the twinge of annoyance he felt towards being interrupted again to be set aside. While he had always suspected there might have been a reason for the Spy to have never mentioned it, perhaps he had underestimated how… sensitive a topic it was.

Oops.

“No, of course I haven’t, mein Freund,” he said as plainly as he could, raising both hands placatingly, “Besides! It’s hardly as if there’s much room for conversing with anyone from BLU when we’re both busy with trying to kill each other.”

More intrigued now, he lowered his hands, inspecting Spy closely as the man’s face twitched in irritation. Though, perhaps it was as much discomfort as annoyance. There was little in doubt in his mind that, had it not been for how Medi-Gun was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment, the man would have long fled the room.

“Is this… some big secret of yours?” he tried.

“Preferably,” the Spy hissed a sigh, rubbing his face wearily, “Must I really explain why it is not so great of an idea for the Scout to be my son, even if only in blood?”

He was tempted to say yes, to tilt his head to the side with a confused smile, and try to get a bit more information to satiate his curiosity.

But then again, the Spy looked genuinely uncomfortable. Different from the ways he would grimace when he’d walked into Medic, arms deep into a cadaver, and different from the ways he would gag when Soldier would shove all manners of disturbing items into his face.

Reluctantly, he let his smile drop, shaking his head. Perhaps in the future he would bring it up again, but for the time being, it wouldn’t hurt to let it slide.

“And… I would rather if you didn’t speak of this to anyone else,” the Spy grimaced, averting his eyes to the side, “Not to another soul. Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course, of course,” he dismissed the pointless threat as casually as a beating heart, the beating heart in question carelessly thrown to the side in a random bin as he continued digging through his fridge.

“Say, Herr Spy,” he watched as the Spy stiffened out of the corner of his eyes and continued as though he hadn’t.

“I could improve your lungs,” he offered, ignoring the way Spy’s shoulders slouched in silent relief, “Allow you to smoke as much as you do without so much damage! Perhaps it could help in battle as well. Easier to pretend to be the enemy if you can breathe more easy, ja?”

It was something he had planned to do, regardless of something as silly as permission, but it seemed a good distraction from their former discussion as any.

“...I would be much obliged, doctor,” Spy said after a long pause, his eyes glancing to the side before meeting him. Head inclined in silent agreement. With a grin, he waved his hand as a gesture of it was all in the past.

“Nonsense! It would be my pleasure,” Medic said with a joking tone, “I’m afraid we won’t be able to fit the lungs of, say, a whale, but I assure you, I shall do my utmost best. You won’t even notice a thing!”

He hummed and made a mental list of supplies and organs to order for this project, cheerfully missing the way the Spy’s face fell into a look of immediate regret behind him.

Chapter Text

Medic had never considered himself an old man. Frankly, he considered himself quite youthful! There was nothing quite like playing God, creating life, and dying multiple times a day as part of his job to put the vigor in his steps.

No, he wouldn’t consider himself old by any means, but that hardly meant he could quite keep up with the sheer boisterousness of the Scout when he was babbling on some nonsensical tangent, leaving Medic several steps behind the conversation.

“—And so, I was like, ‘Oh yeah, you know, I work regularly. I hit the gym like, always. So much, it’s more like the gym hits me. You know?’ And then she was all like—”

“Quite fascinating, Scout,” his reply distractedly. He still wasn’t quite sure why the Scout had barged into his office while he was working, but he allowed his attention to return to the pulsing eagle lungs resting on the surgical tray in front of him.

It was proving to be more of a challenge than he’d expected to transfer the advanced property of avian lungs to a more suitable form for the Spy. Really, the simplest solution may be to simply dump it in and see what happens - which worked for him so far - but, regrettably, the Spy continued to prove himself far pickier than any other of his colleagues. Perhaps he could…

“—Well? Hey, are you even listening to me over here?” the Scout spluttered, “I’m telling you about genius. Genius! And you’re just ignoring me! Un-freaking-believable!”

He blinked twice, a roll of bandages thrown in his direction, causing some equipment to shuffle across the table and barely missing the exposed organs in front of him. With a flicker of irritation, he glared at the Scout before forcing his expression to smooth out.

It hadn’t taken long for him to learn that showing the Scout he was annoyed only prompted the younger man to loudly point it out and make further mess of it in increasingly obnoxious ways.

Then again, it also hadn’t taken long for the Scout to learn that the man who often decided whether he lived or died was not to be messed with lightly. Unfortunately, it also appeared that the Scout tended to forget his lessons as soon as he was taught them.

Holding back a sigh, he rewinded the past few minutes of conversation in his head. Ah, right. Some requests that were absurd, even by his standards.

“I could," he answered simply, readjusting the table to its state before Scout’s interruption.

In theory, artificially and surgically giving the Scout increased muscle mass, toned ones for that, was possible. Simple enough a process, even. All he needed were the right parts, and he could get it done within a few hours at most.

“Well? What are we waiting for? A note from Ma? Buff me up, doc!”

But there were other factors to take into consideration, and with other projects taking his interest, he didn’t particularly feel inclined towards wasting his time helping the Scout chase his fantasies.

“I could,” he repeated more firmly, “But I believe that it would… Defy the point, ja?”

The Medic spoke as simply as he could, tilting his head and hand towards the Scout for emphasis, “After all, it is thanks to your slim and light physique that you are capable of moving as you do. You can hardly run gracefully if you’re considerably weighed down.”

That seemed to put the Scout at a pause, the younger man fidgeting on the heel of his feet, eyebrows scrunched as though he were pondering the mysteries of the world. Half convinced that was that, the Medic returned to his task at hand. He’d need to stitch the lungs together with another pair. Human one’s should suffice, although he wasn’t too certain. Upon further consideration, perhaps glue would be more appropriate than a thread and needle.

“Listen, doc. That’s nice and all, whatever you mean, but all girls love muscle. And, well, I mean, I’m already jacked as well, see?”

He barely had time to react as the lungs on the table were carelessly tossed to the side, sliding onto the floor, as Scout pushed them away in order to sit where they used to be. Flexing what truly amounted to near zero muscles in his face as he stared blankly at the project he’d been working on for the past few hours, now mangled by its fall onto the dirty floor.

He took a deep breath, his hand going to rest on his colleague’s shoulder.

“Scout,” a falsely sweet tone in his voice as he said the name in warning, squeezing down in death grip, patiently waiting.

The threat seemed to have registered, as Scout winced and shrugged off Medic’s hand, raising his own in mock defeat. Still, he jumped off and took a few good steps back in acknowledgment. The Medic suspected it’d last a minute at most.

He didn’t bother holding back his sigh that time, kneeling down to pick up the dropped equipment and specimen with a frown. It was a setback, an annoying one at that, but he supposed it was only a matter of time before he would have started over.

“Well, uh. I… yeah,” Scout muttered, awkwardly shifting in place for a moment longer before contently shoving his mistake to the side in favor of returning to his demands, “Listen, you gotta trust me, doc. I know you don’t get around much, but if I want the girls to love me, I need you to make me jacked up enough to give Saxton Hale a run for his money.”

He half expected the walls of his room to break open in a shower of debris as the name was uttered. Speak of the Devil, and he shall appear (unless the Devil was ignoring your calls) had always seemed to apply to Herr Hale.

After a few pauses where the burly Australian decidedly did not appear, Medic briefly debated instead if he ought to let the younger man know that he had been married before. Though, admittedly, less out of love and more out of convenience. Romance had never been a particular interest, if he were honest.

However, it was too long of a story for him to believe the Scout was capable of sitting through. Another day, perhaps.

“Listen, Scout,” he began, waving his fingers around in search of words that might get him some peace from the younger man, “You love her, ja?”

“Uh, duh. Haven’t you been—”

“And you love her for who she is?” he ignored the interruption, continuing as if it hadn’t happened and nodding in encouragement when Scout actually paused to think.

“Well, yeah. Of course,” he sounded hesitant, or perhaps suspicious was a better word for it, so Medic offered him a bright smile.

“Sounds like you don’t want her to change into someone unrecognizable, so I quite simply find it odd that you would wish the same for yourself,” he pointed out, going to his fridge to see if he had any spare lungs.

Really, he couldn’t imagine wanting to change himself for someone else’s sake. Oh, he had changed others for his own amusement plenty of times. But to do the same to himself? For someone else? Quite an absurd thought indeed.

“Yeah, but in case you hit your head, doc. She… She is peak. But she’s always too busy or something stupid like that,” Scout scoffed, fidgeting with a baseball he’d somehow taken out of his pockets, “I mean, I’ve been flirting for ages, and she still hasn’t picked up the hint!”

Vaguely, he recalled his last conversation with Miss Pauling, when she came by to drop off some body parts. He was fairly certain she had mentioned something about a gun show she had gone to with Heavy and some complaints regarding the Scout for some reason or another.

Deciding against mentioning it, he switched tactics.

“Anyway, as I mentioned before, I can’t,” he said cheerfully, a relieved huff falling out when he found a backup specimen of avian lungs in the corner of the fridge, “If the process considerably alters or interferes with our specified uses, our employer’s will step in and ask me to revert it. Either that, or you’ll be reverted to your current form upon death.”

Another one of the clauses in their contracts he had never fully understood - truly, some days it felt as though RED didn’t want them to win - but in this case, it was convenient enough.

“But- But-”

He took pity on the dejected look on the Scout’s face, patting the man’s head (perhaps a bit patronizingly, but he had to find his fun somewhere).

“Listen, Scout. Perhaps you can’t sculpt yourself to look like Herr Hale, but you have plenty of other virtues!” he started merrily, meeting the Scout’s scowl with a simple stare, “If you have a chance with her, you ought to do it as yourself, whoever you find that to be, ja?”

Encouraged by the silence he retrieved in response, he continued talking before the Scout could open his mouth.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. After all, is it not your agility and ability to be so light on your feet that’s secured us countless victories?” Even if he knew he could be faster than the Scout, no matter what the man claimed, he couldn’t deny that Scout was ruthlessly efficient at his job.

“Yeah,” Scout said, quietly at first, and then again with more confidence, “Yeah! You’re right! I mean, you all would’ve been long dead without me! I am a gift! I’m the quickest on the market, ain’t no one comes close to me!”

Medic nodded with a grin, “Exactly! Now go on, show the world what you’ve got! Who you are! Take pride in it, mein Freund!”

“Yeah, yeah!” Scout cheered, a grin wide on his face as he then scoffed at the Medic, “I don’t need you, you can keep your fake surgeries! Can’t believe I was going to let you touch this bod. Hah!”

He didn’t bother correcting the other, keeping his smile steady and waving until the younger man sprinted out of the room.

The moment the doors closed behind him, he rolled his eyes and sighed, returning his eyes to the mess Scout had left in his wake and the pair of lungs he was working on. Thank god the younger man was at least gone now.

“Now,” he muttered to himself, trying to see what else was recoverable in the chaos, “Where was I?”

Chapter Text

For once, he hadn’t been working when the doors to his operating room burst open. He looked up in mild surprise, earning a faceful of water to the face as Archimedes took advantage of the distraction in order to jump out of the bowl of water and flap towards one of the metal poles above him.

“No, Archimedes!” he frowned, lunging to grab his friend and failing. Glaring at the avian for a beat or two longer before sighing in defeat.

It’d been a fool’s gambit from the start to try and give him a bath. He’d long given up on the seemingly permanent blood stains on Archimedes’ feathers, but he had hoped to make some progress on the dirt and internal fluids the bird always got himself into.

Wiping the water from his glasses off his vest, he turned his attention towards his sudden guest, a smile on his face as he realized it was the Pyro, waiting impatiently while tapping their feet on the ground with hands on their hips.

“Pyro! My arson-adoring Freund, what brings you here today?”

A series of muffled exclamations served as his answer. Unsurprisingly, he couldn’t make out a word of it. Even after having gained a decent amount of experience with and time in the arsonist’s company, he could admit he still struggled with fully understanding them.

He blinked, his vision suddenly blocked by something dark and fuzzy held up to his face. Leaning back his head in confusion, he realized that the thing in question was… a rat.

A deceased one at that. Pyro was holding it up like a trophy, or perhaps a doll, waving it enthusiastically in the air with more incomprehensible words. Medic continued to watch, bemused, as they seemed to pick up on his confusion, rocking back and forth on their heels before pointing up towards where Archimedes was perched.

“You…” he hesitated, hazarding a guess, “Wish to feed that to Archimedes?”

The dove cooed in protest, supported by the way Pyro shook their head, making sounds that sounded chiding in nature. Instead of trying to explain it again, they turned out, making a beeline towards one of the cluttered piles in the rooms and digging around it as Medic shared a perplexed look with Archimedes.

It didn’t take too long for the Pyro to let out a cheerful noise, triumphantly turning back around to shove Medic their prize—two glass beakers that were partially filled with blood. At least, he was fairly certain it was blood. It was hard to keep track of everything sometimes.

Pyro hummed happily, shoving one of the beakers into his hands and keeping the other one for themselves, the hand that was wrapped around it lifting a pinky into the air.

The pieces quickly clicked together in his head, and he let out a joyful laugh as well, “Ah! You wish to play tea with Archimedes and your new friend, ja?”

The delighted nodding and half-clapping - somehow managing to spill nothing - that followed confirmed his claim. With a nod of his head, Medic returned the beaker and gestured towards the empty gurney in the middle of the room.

“By all means, mein Freund. Archimedes, go play with the Pyro, ja?”

The dove cooed, whether in agreement or protest, he wasn’t quite sure, but wasted no further time before flapping his wings down and settling on the gurney as the Pyro hurried their way over to him.

Letting out a quiet laugh, he settled with keeping an eye on the tea party as the Pyro managed to find some miscellaneous body parts to serve as the cake. Although, perhaps in Pyro’s eyes, they were cake.

After all, it was somewhat of an open secret - in the sense that those who cared to know knew - that the Pyro saw the world differently from the rest of them in quite literal fashion.

Although how much of it was related to the optical mask they wore and how much was related to the person underneath the mask remained a mystery. One that was likely to remain that way. He couldn’t recall a single time where the Pyro had ever taken off their mask. Whether to eat, bathe, or for any other reason.

Of course, his train of thought quiet and clinical in his head, he could simply inject the mercenary with some sedatives and take a glance himself at the effects. Take some notes on the consequences. Perhaps even take the mask to the Engineer and find out how much of the psychological effects are chemical and how much of it is mechanical. It’d be quick and easy, taking up a few hours at most.

But the thought remained that. A simple thought. And he waved it off without further fanfare. The curiosity was negligible, hardly enough to act upon it. Besides, psychology was hardly a field he fancied. He was far more invested in actual results.

A sharp jab to his side drew him out of his thoughts, the finger retracting from where it poked him. Medic glanced down with a raised eyebrow. He hadn’t even noticed that the Pyro had abandoned their tea party and now stood in front of him.

“Is something wrong, Pyro?” he asked, a bit puzzled.

They shook their head, grabbing Medic’s rolled-up sleeve and tugging at it, pointing towards their tea party, which had gained since he’d last seen it: two more beakers, a severed head, and a few more decorations in the form of various body parts and his medical tools.

“You… wish for me to join you?” he asked, uncertain.

The Pyro nodded, clapping their hands gleefully with a muffled affirmation, wasting no further time and dragging the doctor towards the party.

Amused, Medic allowed it. Why not? It was hardly as if he had anything else more pressing to do. Nodding at Archimedes, he sat on a crate (where had they gotten them?) facing the opposite of Pyro, taking the beaker in front of him with a bit of hesitation. Going by the pulsing glow of it, it was filled with spare liquid from the ÜberCharge.

“Thank you for the invitation. And, ah, the cake?” he said politely with a smile as the Pyro passed him a ‘plate’ of severed fingers. Muffled was speech no less excited, doubtlessly weaving some story for the both of them to listen to.

It was hardly what he had expected his day to turn out to be, but he couldn’t find himself with any complaints as he settled in further. Archimedes could have his bath later, for now, he was content to listen raptly to the fantastical tale hidden within the veils of Pyro’s muffled laughter.

Chapter Text

The feeling of something heavy falling onto his legs woke him up with a start, his hand shooting out and scrambling for the bonesaw he left on his nightstand. Bleary eyes opened as they adjusted to the dark, struggling against the siren’s call of sleep and exhaustion as he readied himself to fight off the BLU fool who thought they could—

A burp interrupted his line of thoughts, and he let out a huff as the alarm bells in his head quieted.

“Demoman,” he said, his voice a bit rough and more than a little perplexed.

Surely enough, the Demoman was kneeled on the floor next to his bed, bent over with his arms spread over his legs. Unsurprisingly, a bottle of alcohol rested securely in the man’s grip, glass digging into the Medic’s calf.

An odd sight, certainly. But far from the strangest.

Holding back a yawn, the Medic returned his weapon to where he’d grabbed it, tiredly patting around for his glasses while his hand was there.

“Mein Fruend, what brings you here at—” he squinted at the clock on the wall, confused for a moment before remembering he had to put on his glasses first. Shaking his head to pry off the remaining fog of sleep clinging to him, he slipped on his glasses and tried again.

“Four in the morning? If you are having issues with sleeping, I’m afraid I’m out of medication for that,” a pause, “I could, however, perform some mild brain surgery if you truly insist.”

“Ach, doc,” Demoman’s voice was muffled by the blankets and inhibition, but still comprehensible. One of his hands raising up and waving around listlessly, “I got- I got a request, aye? You busy?”

“Well, I was sleeping, but I suppose I’m no longer doing that anymore,” he replied begrudgingly, though there were hints of amusement in his tone.

Sleep was something he rarely indulged in, so to have one of the few times he was inclined towards the habit interrupted wasn’t something he could say he was fond of.

But as long as it didn’t become a regular occurrence, he’d show mercy this one time. He’d always found it difficult to be mad at the Demoman, anyway.

“So, what seems to be the issue?” he asked, nudging at the other man with his blanket-covered leg.

“I need you to…” Whatever the man was asking was quickly muffled as he dropped his head fully into the blankets, his voice dropping with it.

Sighing, the Medic tried again, “I’m afraid I didn’t catch that, could you—?”

“I need you to give me back my bloody eye,” the Demoman said with perfect clarity, lifting his head back up to do so before it dropped again, as though the effort to talk had drained him, “Need both eyes, doc. This time it’ll stick, I’m sure of it. It’s gotta.”

Ah. So it was that time of year again. A sigh fell out before he could stop it, rubbing his face wearily. He was struggling to keep count of how many times he’d tried to give the Demoman a new eye, only for it to go awry come October. What would this be? The fourth time? The fifth?

It was frustrating, of course. After all, he was a genius! He could play god, and he played it well.

And yet something as simple as an eye seemed to be his biggest failure. It was a difficult pill to swallow, with each failure only adding to the bitterness.

And that wasn’t even touching upon the Demoman’s feelings on the matter.

“Mein Freund…” he began, his hesitance clear, “I’m… not quite sure it’s a good idea. You know as well as I how this surgery ended each time we attempted it.”

The Demoman grumbled, pulling himself up with some difficulty, hand gripping onto Medic’s leg for balance hard enough to make him twitch in discomfort.

“You gotta, doc. This time it’ll work. We gotta try, at least! I can’t… I gotta… you gotta…”

The rest of the Demoman’s words were too slurred and mumbled for him to make out, and with a huff, Medic resigned them both to their fates. It’d been a battle lost the second he’d been asked anyway, and already he’d been taking note of where he’d stored spares of Demoman’s eye.

“Ja, ja,” he yawned, gently prying Demoman off of him so he could stand up, grunting slightly as the man’s weight leaned nearly entirely against him, “Let’s get you to the operating room, ja?”

With some difficulty, he managed to get the other man’s arm around his shoulders, shifting their positions so the Medic could drag him out of the bedroom, making steady progress towards the operating room down the hallway.

“You know, I’m not quite sure why you need the eye,” he said, interrupting the incoherent mumblings coming from the other’s mouth, “I mean, you’re perfectly capable as you are. Even more than most, truth be told. And if what you’ve said is true, you’ve lived more of your life with one eye than you have with two.”

It was a conversation they had every year, every time the Demoman came by with his request. And every time the Demoman shook his head stubbornly.

“No, it ain’t. It’s not enough,” he’d mutter bitterly, taking another swing of whatever choice of poison he’d chosen.

Tonight it seemed to be some generic alcohol provided by their employers, if the RED logo on the label was to go by.

“Now, that’s not true,” he argued gently, but let it drop for the moment at the glare he was given in return. Shaking his head slightly, he turned his focus towards making sure they both made it to his operating room without incident and kept an eye on the connected doors and hallways as a lookout.

Last year, the Soldier had barged in as he was in the process of dragging the semi-conscious Demoman and believed him to be an enemy Spy. Needless to say, the surgery had to be delayed considerably as he had to wait to be revived.

Thankfully, this time around, he’d managed to successfully reach their destination and dump the man onto his gurney without any further incident. Grateful for that at least, he started to prepare them both for the surgery. Moving around some lights and dimming them as the Demoman groaned at them in protest.

“I am serious,” he said, interrupting the silence as he pushed some disembodied arms and legs from earlier to the floor - he could clean them later, “When I said that, I’m uncertain as to why this is all necessary.”

“And I told you, doc, I need it,” the other man sniped, taking another sip as he readjusted himself on the gurney to a more comfortable position, “If I got me depth perception back, I’d be… I’d be a thousand times better!”

He frowned at that, lowering the forceps he had picked up, “I don’t believe that’s how math works, mein Freund.”

“See?” the Demoman shouted with surprising vigor, his hands gesturing wildly, “If I get an eye back, maybe then I’ll understand your bleeding math better! Maybe then they’d all shut up and listen to me! Can you imagine all that I’m missing because I don’t got a head full of eyeballs? No! Because you don’t bloody have to!”

The words seemed to have drained him of his remaining energy, leaving him empty as he sagged back into the gurney with a dull thud, covering his eye with his arm as if he could block out the world and his own existence.

The Medic stood still in place, taken aback by the sudden outburst. They were frequent, certainly, during these operations, but they never failed to confound him. Silence passed for a few more moments before he walked over towards the Demoman, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Demoman,” he said, his voice gentle.

“I ain’t here, call again later,” the man groused, muffled by his arm.

“Tavish,” he said, more strictly than before. A rare moment where he used their real names, and it felt unfamiliar on his tongue. Out of place and uncomfortable.

But it worked. The Demoman jolted in place, lowering his arm just enough to look at him in confusion.

“What on earth are you talking about?” he pressed, shaking the man lightly for emphasis, “Are you trying to imply you’re an idiot here? Because that just makes no sense! I’ve seen you make grenades and cause explosions of militaristic proportions out of crumpled beer cans and scrapped wires!”

He shook his head, “Mein Freund, you are brilliant, and I know you know it! Even if some Dummkopfs refuse to acknowledge it, I know you know it.”

“Some what’s?” the Demoman muttered in deflection, though his eyes were glossy, averted to the side.

“Idiots,” he translated fiercely, a frown on his face, “Tavish, you could be missing both eyes, your arms, and your legs, and you’d still be better than any of those who try to insult you!”

He wasn’t sure if his words had gotten through to the Demoman or if the man had passed out when he didn’t get a response, so he let out a sigh and turned away to turn on the Medi-Gun ready. In his own defense, he had never claimed to be good at encouragement.

As the Medi-Gun let out a groan and flickered to life, washing the room in a red glow, he felt something grab at his pajamas - he’d never gotten the chance to change out of them - and looked down, seeing Demoman’s hand loosely gripping at his shirt.

“Thanks,” the man said with surprising clarity, letting go with his eye looking up at the ceiling, “For… for doing this.”

Huffing, he patted the other’s shoulder and walked towards where he’d stored the man’s eye, “Ja, ja. Now go to sleep.”

Before he could open his fridge, he paused, a sudden thought crossing his mind, “You know, Demoman, the Engineer and I sometimes get together to work on some projects or experiments together. Perhaps you would like to join us in the future, ja?”

“I…” Demoman’s voice slurred again from a mixture of alcohol and exhaustion, “I think I’d like that, doc.”

“Then I look forward to it, mein Freund,” he hummed, content with the reply.

With more reluctance, the Medic took out a familiar brown eyeball, trying not to think about the impending failure as it seemed to stare at him mockingly. With a sigh, he got ready to work. Who knew? Perhaps the sixth time would be the charm.

Chapter Text

Taking in deep breaths to steady himself, he paced around the room restlessly. If he pinched the bridge of his nose just a slight bit harder, he knew he’d end up breaking it. With the Medi-Gun at his disposal, he considered the pros and cons of throwing caution to the wind before eventually deciding against it.

However, it was a close call. A very close one.

There were few, very few things that could get under his skin. He was a man with an open mind, one that took pride in taking things in stride and seeing the bigger picture. After all, one could hardly break limitations if they were controlled by them.

“I am,” he sighed, long suffering, turning his gaze up towards where Archimedes was busy preening, “I really am! But I swear, if I have to be blown up in the face one more time because the Soldier called for aid - called me! My name! - only to go gallivanting on his own the second I get to him-”

The frustrated noise he let out was close to a growl, letting out yet another sigh as he threw his hands into the air in exasperation.

“I don’t know how many times I have to explain to him that I am incapable of healing all of his wounds instantaneously! The Medi-Gun accelerates the healing process and boosts one’s health in groundbreaking fashion - something that doctors around the world would do unspeakable things to covet just a look - it still takes longer than a single second! It takes time. Time and protection.”

He sat down abruptly on a random chair, ignoring the way it creaked in protest, rubbing his face and shaking his head.

“How exactly do they expect me to heal everyone if I am constantly dying? Our enemies are Dummkopfs, without a doubt, but they are not so idiotic as to ignore me if I’m standing right there, dumbfounded because I was abandoned by some rocket jumping enthusiast.”

Archimedes merely cooed at his complaints, doing little to soothe his frayed nerves. It had been that way for months. At the start, at least the Soldier would try to listen. Nowadays, no matter how many times Medic tried to explain it, it never seemed to stick longer than a couple of deaths.

“If only I could- I could invest in some kind of leash for these fools,” he hissed. Maybe if he was physically tied to them, they’d stop trying to run away. Or at least, he’d know where they were.

“If only,” the Medic said distantly, his eyes glancing towards where the Medi-Gun was suspended, ready for the next subject.

Some of the earlier variants of the Medi-Gun had rays that were considerably more physical than their current, perfected form. The healing had also been slightly faster, even when using older formulas, without it having been divided between healing his target and fueling the ÜberCharge.

“A leash. A physical connection,” he rolled the words around, standing up subconsciously and walking towards the Medi-Gun.

The original version was somewhere in storage, left amidst the Engineer’s various scrapped projects. It wouldn’t be too difficult to retrieve it.

“Perhaps it could work, ja,” he muttered to himself. Going over it a few more times in his head, solidifying with each pass, “Ja, es könnte klappen.”

Without further delay, the Medic spun around on his heels, marching towards the door. He needed the original Medi-Gun, some parts, some chemicals, and wherever he had left the scribbled blueprints for both devices.

“Archimedes! You’re in charge while I’m out,” he called out, anticipation drumming under his skin as it always did in prospect of ingenuity on the horizon, though it didn’t stop him from sighing under his breath, “The things I do for these fools.”

It’d taken some trial and error to get to the point where he was satisfied with it enough to test it in an actual battle and, likewise, test it with the Soldier.

Perhaps he ought to have tested it with the targeted man beforehand, but the Medic had never claimed to be a patient man, and the Soldier had been stubbornly absent whenever the opportunity came up. The downsides of having an unruly magician for a roommate. Allegedly.

Still, he had found a more than suitable substitute in the Demoman. The two of them and the Engineer made quick work of converting the original Medi-Gun to its current form as the newly christened Quick-Fix. Unfortunately incapable of utilizing the ÜberCharge, but its accelerated healing ought to somewhat make up for it.

Not only that, it should solve the accursed issue of the Soldier’s rampant rocket jumping habits.

“C’mere, cupcake!”

The familiar cry shouted out, and it took no time to see the Soldier waiting expectantly from the other side of the room. With a nod, he ran over, the Quickfix connecting to the Soldier without issue.

“Men, let’s go kick some ass!” the man barked, either ignorant or careless of the change in the healing beam being administered to him. So far, so good.

Their teammates behind them cheered as the countdown blaring above them reached zero, with Medic joining their cries as the gates rolled open and dust from the badlands blew into the room.

And predictably, the Soldier immediately pointed his weapon at the ground, launching himself into the air with practiced ease.

The feeling was uncanny. It was as though the blast had transferred to him where his hands held the Quickfix, throwing him out after the Soldier like a child yanking a leash. It was far a more sharp sensation than the Demoman, and he winced as it pulled at his sockets. Still, the Soldier continued jumping, seemingly not noticing the man he was dragging across the battlefield or the discomfort (borderlining on pain) he was in.

It was only when the man had finally stopped, ready to charge in and face their BLU opponents, that he noticed he was still being healed and spun around in slack-jaw, surprise clear even beneath the helmet.

The Medic’s hair was a mess, and his glasses were skewed, his arms were covered in bruises from when he’d been thrown directly into a wall, and sharp pains coursed through his legs, unaccustomed to the rough landings.

Still, there was an expression of smug pride on his face. A self-satisfied smirk at the clear proof of his genius.

The Soldier recovered from his surprise, his face breaking into a fierce and delighted grin as he threw a fist into the air, “Hah! Now that is how you do it, soldier!”

Chuckling, he shook his head as he heard enemy roars approach. There’d be time to gloat later, preferably when the enemy was there to admire his superiority. He waved his hand back towards the fighting, “Let us go then! Los Weiter!”

He didn’t need to tell the Soldier twice; the yanking feeling of weightlessness soon dragged the Medic back into the air right behind him, “Affirmative!”

By the end of the battle, he was covered in bruises that not even reviving seemed able to get rid of. His arms and legs left aching in unfamiliar but sore ways. How the Soldier even learned to do such things so frequently was beyond him. But for such early stages, the Quickfix had proven to be successful without doubt, though he was still hesitant to consider it a replacement for the Medi-Gun and the ÜberCharge.

Whatever its fate, it would certainly take some getting used to. Within the day of field testing, he’d found that there were ways to gain a little bit of control of his movements when he was tugged along with the Soldier, but those would take some more time to figure out.

“Medic!”

Speaking of the Devil, an arm wrapped around his shoulders, dragging him into a side hug that was closer to a chokehold than anything. He grimaced, unhappy with the manhandling, but mollified as the Soldier beamed down at him in unabashed glee.

“That was some brilliant fieldwork, doc! Incredible! Those dancing commies didn’t see it coming!”

Soldier’s voice was a bit too loud for being so close to his ear, so he pried himself out of the man’s hold and leaned back, readjusting his clothes from their crumpled state.

“Ah, my invention is quite ingenious!” he exclaimed with pride, “I’m glad you agree.”

“You’re a true American,” the Soldier nodded sagely, punching the Medic’s arm with affection, though the force of it was bruising, “You’ve made your country proud today! We’ll be sure to mop the floor with those blue scums together every time with this!”

He grimaced at the punch, laughing briefly - though more for his own sake, it was still beyond him how the Soldier believed him to be an American - and nodded.

“Naturally! We’ll make them all pay in blood,” his tone cheerful, lightly pushing the man towards the exit before he could get into his mind that they needed to do push-ups or something else equally ridiculous.

“Now come on, mein- my friend! Let us go celebrate a victory well earned!”

Chapter Text

Ever since he’d begun to work at Reliable Excavation Demolition, he’d been introduced to more holidays than he knew what to do with. Truthfully, before this job, he’d never found much time or care for holidays as a whole. After all, how could they be a priority when there was always medicine to be practiced?

But as the years went by in this company, amongst the men he worked with, it was… nice, in its own odd way. They were good company he’d found, whether in a battle, with a drink, or in celebrating some ridiculous night of the year where they all dressed up in order to scare children for fun. Even the knowledge that they’d be roped into some pretend magician’s schemes had grown to be something of excitement rather than annoyance.

Events to think about later, in any case. Shopping had gone swimmingly, the candies he bought en masse and the pumpkins he’d chosen carefully selected. The stores had been busy, busier than he was used to, but it hadn’t been unpleasant. Some had even complimented him on his costume, to his amusement.

Bags in hand, he ducked into an alley, whistling a playful tune as he looked for the ladder that would bring him to the teleporter that’d take him back to their current base.

The sound of someone clearing their throat halted him in his steps. Medic turned around with a raised eyebrow and a question on his tongue when he saw the gun pointed his way.

“Hands in the air,” the man said with a smug tone.

Briefly, he wondered if it was one of his former employers or disgruntled clients, but he was fairly certain it was nobody he recognized. Or who recognized him for the matter.

“Hallo there!” Medic greeted cheerfully, giving a little wave, “Wonderful evening, is it not? No need to mind me, Halloween is quickly approaching and I am simply buying some blessings. For the decorations and youth, ja?”

The man laughed, a scraping sound, and his grip on his pistol stayed unwavering as he smirked, “Yeah. Your money, cash, and any valuables will make plenty blessing for me.”

Ah. A simple robbery, then, not a murder. Part of him was almost disappointed, but amusement was quick to grow, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smile.

“I’m afraid I can’t recommend that,” a small chuckle slipped out, putting down his purchases before he could ruin them, “Theft on this fine Hallow’s Eve seems like such bad… What was the word? Karma? Ja. It seems like bad karma, would you not agree?”

He could hear the disbelief and ridicule in the robber’s scoff, and he watched clinically as the man waved his pistol around in what the Medic assumed was supposed to be threatening.

Really, it was almost adorable.

“I won’t say it again, you weirdo. Give me your money and no one gets hurt,” the robber repeated, ignorant or uncaring of the way Medic’s smile stretched further up his face into a wide grin. Another laugh fell out, his eyes sharp and clinical.

“Well, ahah, I wouldn’t be too certain about that, mein Freund.”

The Engineer had found him in the middle of carrying one of their beer coolers down the hallway, a bemused expression on the man’s face as he greeted the doctor with a tip of his hat and drink, a warm smile on his face, wings taped on the back of his black overalls, “Welcome back, Doc.”

Medic spun around on his heels at the voice, a smile on his face as he exclaimed in delight, “Ah! Engineer! Wunderbar, wunderbar. Just the man I had hoped to see. Kommen Sie mit! Follow, follow. I have a brilliant idea for tonight’s festivities that I could use your help with.”

He didn’t wait to see if the Engineer would follow - he already knew the man would - and continued his trek towards his operating room. A generous title, perhaps. The formerly abandoned building they’d been occupying for the past month or so had little going for it beyond distance from cities, functioning electricity, and running water, so he’d taken his operations to a corner of the garage he’d hung curtains around. Perhaps it was crude, but what’s important was that it was functional.

“What’s with the cooler?” There was amusement in the Engineer’s voice as he followed the Medic, leaning against the wall while sipping a beer, “We already got plenty of alcohol for the party, you can thank the Demoman for that.”

Medic chuckled, shaking his head as he dropped the cooler onto the floor with a thunk, “I assure you that it’s nothing like that! I was just hoping to stave off degradation. Come see.”

He crouched down, opening the box and pulling out another container, a bit smaller, with a perfectly preserved brain floating within translucent red liquid; showing it off with a gleeful grin towards the other man.

The Engineer let out a low whistle and a smirk stretched across his face as he took the brain from Medic, turning it around in his hands, “Didn’t think you needed a cooler s’well if you’ve already dunked it.”

“Hm? Oh, no. The cooler was more for the pumpkin,” he corrected, taking out the pumpkin as well and putting it onto the nearby table, “So I was thinking, what if we put the brain inside the pumpkin! A sentient pumpkin! Wouldn’t that be quite something?”

He’d thought of the idea while getting rid of the body. It was hardly every day that he got to work with such a fresh brain, and he wanted to make the best of it. His original consideration of a scarecrow had been too cliche, but a pumpkin? The mere idea tickled him.

And, to his delight, going off the Engineer’s laughter, the man agreed with him.

“Well, I’ll be damned, what’re we waiting for?” he said as his laughter died down, setting aside his drink and wiping his hands off his pants.

“That’s what I like to hear!” he smiled, grabbing the nearest knife, and began to work on opening the pumpkin as the Engineer went to grab his toolbox from the other side of the garage. Adding after a brief moment of silence, “You think we should ask the Demoman if he wishes to join?”

“Nah, think I remember seeing him getting up to some tomfoolery with Sniper and Spy before I joined you.”

He hummed noncommittally in reply, beginning the arduous process of tossing pumpkin guts into the nearby trash can, adding further to the gore already within it. They’d have to clean it soon before it started to smell, but that was an issue for the future.

“So, did I miss anyone while I was out?” he asked curiously, glancing up as the Engineer set shop next to him.

“Nah, not much,” the Engineer shrugged, nudging him for his attention and showing Medic a motherboard, jerking his head towards the brain in silent question, “Although Miss Pauling’s been trying to teach some of the guys this game she likes - Gargoyles and Gravel or something like that - for the past couple hours or so. Reckon that’s about it.”

“Ah, I thought I saw her car out the window,” Medic laughed, nodding in approval at the circuitry before returning his focus towards the pumpkin in his hands, “You know, this reminds me of that time we found aliens.”

Medic grinned at the way the other man exaggerated a shudder, his face scrunching up behind his goggles, “Here I was trying to forget about all that. Damn things nearly left me brain dead.”

“Oh, please, don’t be so dramatic!” he teased lightheartedly, moving to the opposite side of the table where Engineer was working on connecting some circuitry, silently gesturing towards what the Medic ought to work with, “Even if they had successfully managed to penetrate your hardhat, short circuited your neurons, and caused any lasting damage, I would have had you back into working order in no time.”

It’d been an odd few weeks, that was for certain. Perhaps some of their oddests. Although he couldn’t deny that being able to dissect and study the fallen bodies of those whom the aliens had parasitically attached themselves to hadn’t been a fascinating few days.

He took out the brain from its container, satisfied that it’d marinated enough to allow them to proceed without issue, and began prodding it around for the best injection spots.

“Y’know, doc, I don’t think I ever took you for some of them neurologists,” the Engineer chuckled, digging around his toolbox for his soldering iron, “You sure you’re not the one with eleven PhDs?”

“Hah! I assure you that I’m not,” the reply was immediate and cheerful, interrupted by an aha as the metal attachments went in without issue, “I’ve simply dabbled in it now and then for curiosity’s sake. It’s hardly as difficult as people make it out to be. Just memorize all the various lobes, cortices, and so on, and then you’re goldrichtig!”

He pretended not to notice as the Engineer repeated the last word underneath his breath, the southern drawl converting it to something near unrecognizable. It was easy to hide his smile when he was already smiling, but by the faux offended twitch in the other’s mouth, he hadn’t hidden it completely.

It was always so refreshing to work with the Engineer. There was no one else who could match him on an intellectual level. Barred from the Demoman, although the man rarely enjoyed indulging in science and innovation quite the same way as the two of them did.

A mystery for another day, for the time being, he’d continue to figure out the best way to connect the device the Engineer was rapidly constructing to the fresh brain he’d acquired earlier. A perfect little project to occupy their Halloween night, if he said so himself.

Truly, there was nothing quite like teamwork.

Chapter Text

The radio crackled upon the gurney, the sound of guitar strings twanging in an unfamiliar melody that filled the operating room with its song.

It wasn’t often that he indulged in music while working. The radio wasn’t even his, belonging instead to the Engineer, who’d left it there once it became a fairly regular habit for them to enjoy each other’s company every other week or so. Nevertheless, he’d grown to appreciate it now and then as a rare indulgence. White noise occupying the space where whispers of mischief and bloodshed typically dawdled.

Although it had also been the reason he didn’t realize he was no longer alone. Disassembling the Kritzkrieg while whistling his own tune, unaware of the other person in the room for a good while. It wasn’t until he heard a pointed cough behind him that he turned around in mild surprise.

“Hey doc. You, er, busy?”

“Ah, Miss Pauling!” He greeted her with delight, waving at the familiar figure standing in the doorway, “Come in, come in. You’re not interrupting anything.”

He got up when he noticed her carrying a black bag behind her. Pauling followed his gaze, a hopeful smile on her face as she jerked her head towards it, dragging it further into the room.

“Got some more bodies, if you want?” she asked, a bit sheepish at the edges, “Sorry, if not. I would’ve buried them, but, well. My shovel broke the other day. Some kid tried to shoot me but ended up shooting my shovel instead, and I haven’t had time to get a replacement.”

Curious, he did a quick inspection of the other for bleeding wounds or visible injuries, nodding to himself when he failed to see anything more serious than the occasional scratch or bruise on her arms.

“Of course! You know me, I could never turn down a good cadaver,” he grinned, hurrying over to take the bag from her, “If I may inquire, how old are these?”

“Oh yeah, this one here’s pretty fresh, about forty minutes ago or so,” she nudged at the bag with the tip of her shoe, “Found him and his friends on my way here trying to find the base, so I thought I'd take care of it while I was in the area. The other two are closer to an hour, I think.”

“Perfect, perfect,” Medic hummed, doing his best to shove the bag into his fridge with some difficulty. Perhaps he ought to invest in a larger chest freezer, “Thank you, Miss Pauling. Always appreciated! And please, take a seat. Although I’m afraid I don’t have any refreshments if you wish for a drink,” he chuckled, “Unless you care to pretend blood is tea?”

“Huh?” she looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Although it could have also been that she simply didn’t hear him, the black circles were heavier than usual under her eyes.

“Nevermind, nevermind,” he waved off his comment - he’d tell her about the Pyro and his tea party another day - and gestured towards the other side of the room where lockers were situated, “If you want a shovel on your way out, I should have some spares in the closet over there. Had to dig up a skeleton the other day, you know how it is.”

She let out a tired laugh, sinking into a nearby stool wearily, “Thanks, and tell me about it. Had to dig a grave for a job a few days ago. Only the grave was one of those solid stone ones and, god. It took me so long to dig it up enough to open it. Hours wasted over some key that’d been buried with the body that’d been nearly too rusted to use anyway.”

She shook her head in disbelief, “It’s like- I know how to pick locks! Why couldn’t they just let me pick the lock?”

Medic let out a sympathetic hiss, “Schrecklich. Some people, fools I tell you. My experience was significantly easier I’ll say. Just a few dug up graves for some decaying bones for an experiment of mine, nothing more complicated I’m afraid.”

“Well, you always were lucky,” Pauling chuckled. Medic watched absentmindedly as she laughed, noticing with curiosity the way she since winced on herself as she did. Perhaps there was a greater injury that he was missing, hidden away from sight.

“Would you like to sit underneath the Medi-Gun for a bit?” he offered lightly, tilting his head towards the gurney, “A little bit of a pick me up to get you ready to continue tackling the day.”

She looked hesitant at first, likely debating something ridiculous or not in her head - and he thought he saw issues where there weren’t any - before nodding to his relief.

It wouldn’t do to have her pass out in his operating room again. The last time she’d done so, on one of her past visits, she’d ended up panicking quite a storm when she woke again. Water under the bridge, of course. He’d never even bothered keeping track of how many times he’d been shot since he’d joined RED.

He busied himself with lowering the Medi-Gun, aiming it towards Pauling as she sat, and flicking it on without further delay. The silence that passed was a bit awkward, as it always was at the start, considering there wasn’t much Medic could ask that’d get an answer within the confines of their contracts, but it didn’t take too long for Miss Pauling to speak again.

“So, um. How’s things been over here? Haven’t had much time to check on you guys beyond sending a few contracts here and there,” she asked, some lost color entering her cheeks as the Medi-Gun worked its medicine.

“Isn’t it the Spy who reports these things to you?” he replied with amusement, going towards a pile of nearby crates and digging through them in search.

“Yeah. Guess I’m just asking for, er, something less official, you know? Don’t have to say anything, I’m not recording you at the moment.”

The implication that he was being recorded, even if not directly by her, wasn’t amiss, though hardly of any surprise. Not with the camera in the corner of his room pointedly aimed towards them. Privacy was something he’d long forgotten about and hardly found reason to care for anymore.

“Hm, well, I suppose things have been more or less as they are,” he hummed, letting out a small victorious exclamation as he found a pack of unopened water bottles from whenever they stayed at Teufort. Holding it out in offering towards Miss Pauling, he pondered on her question, “It took a bit longer to clean the mess that Merasmus left behind than usual, we’re still finding pumpkin guts everywhere. I did take your advice regarding burying bodies, and that location you gave me was quite useful! Thank you for that.”

She took the bottle with a small thanks, sipping at it as he spoke before smiling at him, “Glad to be of help! Sorry we couldn’t get a cleaning crew by. Something about a company policy changed, can’t clean them after they’re done with their jobs anymore.”

Medic shaked his head in amusement, “Ah, it’s tedious, but we’ve lived through far worse.”

They shared a laugh, then Miss Pauling looked away, the tension from earlier returning as though someone had raised the pressure in the room. He only tilted his head slightly to the side in response to it, curious, but not much more. Waiting.

“Hey, can I ask- Can I ask a bit of a weird question?” she eventually said, the words spilling out suddenly and quickly. Her eyes were firmly on the bottle in her hands.

“Ja, natürlich. Of course,” he replied without hesitation, shrugging lightly, “We’re friends, you can ask me anything.”

For some reason, his words only seemed to make her more distant. She muttered something a bit too quiet to be heard, although her lips seemed to repeat the word friends. But he wouldn’t want to make assumptions.

“Do you…” Miss Pauling bit down on her lip, eyes briefly glancing towards the camera above them before looking back at him, her voice lowering as she continued, “Do you like your job?”

That… hadn’t been a question he was expecting. Nonplussed, he adjusted his glasses and cupped his chin in thought, slightly leaning on the gurney.

Was it some kind of test? He couldn’t tell, though they’d been given stranger tests. While his time with the man had been brief and straightforward, he recalled hearing his colleagues talking in a displeased manner about the time some film fanatic interviewed them all, only to end up threatening them.

But it didn’t take long at all to find an answer.

“Ja,” Medic answered honestly with a characteristic smile on his face, “Within this company, with the resources I have and access to human test subjects as I please, I’ve managed to make god-like strides in the field of medicine! The fieldwork is entertaining. Challenging in a fascinating way that I’d struggle to believe you could find anywhere else.”

“And the people you work with?”

Another interesting question, he looked at Pauling from out of the corner of his eye, vaguely wondering what she meant by her inquiries. But she only looked back at him with sincere, as far as he could tell, curiosity.

“On a biological level, I’ve changed and altered them beyond recognition,” he began, mulling over his words, “Over the years, I’ve modified a majority of their body parts and organs, not even going into the constant use of the ÜberCharge or the Kritzkrieg. All part of the job, ja?”

‘Part of the job’ would be the simplest way to say it, but even as he said it, he could feel it didn’t quite fit. Colleagues, certainly, but also friends. Comrades. Partners in crime. People who he felt a desire to help and improve in a way that benefited him, yes, but also benefited them.

“I suppose in terms of whether I like them? Ja, sicherlich,” Medic smiled, wide and stretched as they usually were, but no less sincere, “They’re quite odd people! But I wouldn’t say bad ones. I would never replace who they are as people.”

He wasn’t sure what kind of answer Miss Pauling was looking for, but what he said seemed to appease her. At least she didn’t seem disturbed. Her gaze lost to the distance of her thoughts, the water bottle held loosely in her hand forgotten.

“...I should get back to work,” she said eventually, dismissive in tone, but there was a smile on her face when she looked at him, “Thanks, Medic. And, uh, thanks for healing. And the water. And shovel.”

He nodded, going to turn off the Medi-Gun as she went to collect his spare shovel. He didn’t press for the unspoken words. As peculiar as her behavior was, he knew it wasn’t any of his business, and so instead he let out a bright and cheerful laugh, patting her shoulder briefly in farewell

“Anytime, Miss Pauling! Anytime.”

art by @doctor-phil!