Chapter Text
Glancing over his new teammates, he couldn't help but analyze them as if sizing them up for dissection. It didn't help that they were all injured in some manner. The first battle took place before he and three other members could even settle in, and by the time Medic was ready, the other three were out in the battlefield the fight was won. Not that he liked being shot at. But he never liked missing the action.
Soldier and Heavy would be difficult to dissect, considering the amount of muscle on them. The engineer too. Spy, Scout and Sniper would probably slip through his fingers like wet noodles with how spindly they were. Demoman would likely implode from all the alcohol in his system. That would be a nightmare to clean up. And he didn't have a single clue on even how pyro looked. He decided to leave that alone.
For a moment, he worried he was staring too much, but quickly realized they were either doing the same, or entirely ignoring it. Spy and Soldier looked weary of him, but everyone else seemed as if they couldn't care less.
Archimedes fluttered impatiently on his shoulder, ruffling his feathers and preening.
"Alright, zhen," He said, looking over them each to analyze the wounds. "Soldier, you first."
Soldier looked up, his severed arm (or, lack thereof) dripped onto the floor, grimacing at him.
"I still don't see why I need to be here," He grumbled, still not standing. "I've had worse than a missing arm! Back in the trenches I had to peel away the bottom layer of my foot so it wouldn't rot my entire leg off!"
"Zhats wunderbar. Limb reattachment should be no issue for you!" Medic smiled at him, but considering his reaction, it was probably not the most comforting move on his behalf.
"I don't need no mad scientist pickin at me! It'll grow back anywho," Soldier huffed.
"Just get her arse in there! I'm not waitin' forever!" The Demoman said, drunkenly waving his near-empty bottle at him, nearly whacking Sniper in the face.
"Watch it, will ya?" He snapped.
"I don't trust 'im! I ain't goin in!"
"Then let me go farst," Demo rapidly stood, wobbling in place for a moment. If Medic was a certified doctor, he'd be required to take the most injured first. But considering he was refusing service, and considering he really didn't care, he let Demo swerve to the operation table first.
Luckily, almost as soon as he lied down, he passed out. And from his very delayed or non-existent reflexes to needles and scalpels, it looked like the alcohol numbed him too.
"Thanks again, doc!" Demo slurred, jumping down with a stumble. He rotated his arm experimentally, as if Medic hadn't just spent half an hour replacing his shoulder blade. "Good as new!"
"Yes, yes, now send Soldier in as you leave," He said, sloppily wiping up the blood off the table.
"Will do- oh," He paused. "Can I get a swig 'O that?"
Not looking, medic agreed. He could assume it was rubbing alcohol, but if it was a bag of blood or some embalming fluid, it didn't matter to him. A gulp later and the Scott was out, sending in Soldier after him.
He must've noticed how much blood he'd lost, or how much pain he was in, or maybe how he couldn't fire his launcher without both hands, because he marched in without any argument. He hopped up on the table, unfazed as the medic took the severed arm.
"How do I know you won't replace my arm with a giant blaster or something?" He asked, spitting as he did.
"Ha! Do you vant me to?" He asked eagerly. Soldier scoffed.
"I want my good American hands, thank you very much!" He bit back. Medic tried to ignore his disappointment as he began the procedure. If everyone was going to be as boring as him, He wasn't sure he'd like this as much as he'd expected.
But he couldn't complain too much. It might be boring, but that was far better than nothing. He appreciated that he had his own lab- clinic. He meant clinic. It was nice not operating out of an abandoned building or leaking shed or the remnants of a hospital.
He had a real operation table, rather than creaking floor bloods or a narrow countertop. And it came with leather straps! Perfect for experiments.
He had a fridge for body parts, a dozen different jars of varying sizes for organs and more than three needles. How helpful! That would lower the rates of tetanus or blood borne diseases exponentially.
And it was spacious. Enough room for his beautiful doves to roam or for him to disembody a corpse or two (there was a drain in the floor too, to his luck.)
Before he knew it, he was finished with Soldier. A quick beam from the medi-gun ensured it'd stay on until he could upgrade it. Not that Soldier even noticed Medic's medi-gun, which was a scientific breakthrough on its own.
But he supposed it was because Soldier was too busy talking b.Medic was surprised he didn't lose his mind with how much this maniac talked. Something about zoos. Or farms. Or Noah's ark if it were a dog fighting ring. Nonsense. But he left without another word but "thanks" and sent the scout in.
This one was only mildly wounded, at least compared to the previous two. But he had dozens of deep cuts, burns and a broken rib.
"Heya, doc. Can I eat somethin before I'm put under?" He asked as he waltzed in. Medic arched his brow.
"Put under vhat?" He asked. Scout hopped onto the table, kicking his legs back and lacing his hands under his head.
"Uh, some amnesiathesia?" He said, as if it were obvious.
"Do you mean anesthesia?" Medic said, trying to decipher it.
"Yeah yeah, tha sleepy drug, the uh laughin gas, tha one that numbs you-"
"Ah, Ve don't have any," Medic shrugged as he threaded the surgical wire through his needle.
"What?" Scout gasped. "NONE?"
"Oh, poor you," Medic teased, patting him on the shoulder. "Good zhing all your limbs are intact!" He laughed, quickly taking advantage of how distracted Scout was by sliding the needle in the first injury.
"Ow! A little warning next time!?" He whined.
This kid did not stop complaining. Or trying to chat. Or both. Very much to Medic's dismay. Typically, Medic didn't care whether or not the patient was awake, but he made a note to himself to order anesthesia, to use on Scout in particular.
From what Heavy could hear, Scout was giving the Medic trouble. Not that it surprised anyone. The entire battle, he was shouting nonsense and even after, wouldn't shut up.
In the waiting room sat Heavy, with Sniper, Engineer and Spy. Pyro must've lost patience and went to fix their wounds themself, as they'd left pretty quickly into the first hour.
Heavy looked down at his large hands, covered in blood and gunpowder from firing Sasha. His shoulders and back, however, we're bleeding and painful. Were bullet wounds less pressing than those scratches that baby man had? Hopefully, he'd be next. Though, he'd had far worse than this and gone quite some time without any medical attention. He just hated the inconvenience of dealing with it.
But until he was taken in, he figured now would be a good time to wash his hands, in case the medic wouldn't appreciate the filth.
He stood to his feet, about to head to the restrooms to clean up, when he heard shouting from behind the medics double doors.
"What the hell is that!?"
"Vait! Sit down, I'm not done-"
"I grew up in Boston, I can take care of this myself! WITHOUT no red glowin gun!"
Suddenly, the doors flew open and Scout came sprinting out, loose threads of surgical wire hanging from several wounds and his burns covered in gauze.
"Dummkopf! You're going to get zhem infected, you-" He medic burst out after him, but quickly lost hope of catching him as Scout disappeared around a distant corner. He pinched his nose bridge, muttering something in German under his breath.
Looking up, he noticed Heavy, facing towards the exit and huffed.
"Vhere do you zhink you're going?" He asked, wiping his blood covered hands off on his coat. Heavy was about to explain himself, but Medic wasn't having any of it.
"Vhatever, get in," He said, gesturing in to the clinic.
It was a large, dingy room. The evening light shone through the windows, casting specks of dust into golden light and the various white doves became a soft yellow. One fluttered down and landed on the Medic's shoulder as he rinsed off his tools.
"Archimedes, not now, Vögelchen," He said, his tone losing its bitterness in replacement for a sweet cooing to the bird. He gently took the bird up in his still-bloody hand and tossed him up to the overhead operation lamp, letting him flutter to it moodily.
"Oh, don't have zhat attitude vis me," He teased. He turned to face the operation table, surprised no one was there. Heavy assumed he should've sat there, but with blood still on it he wasn't sure it was safe yet. But as Medic spotted him, nodding his head to the table, he took the hint. Not necessarily the ideal place to be treated...
The medic gave him a once over, tapping his finger on his chin curiously. Heavy wondered for a moment if he needed him to explain what was wrong, but before he could, Medic took up a pair of pliers.
"A few minor bullet vounds," He said casually, as he reached towards his shoulder. "Unfortunately, I'll have to pull out ze bullets wizout amnesia." Medic gave him another once over. "Actually, I'm not even sure amnesia vould vork for someone your size," He laughed, though not cruelly. Heavy grunted his reply as Medic rolled up his sleeve to access his shoulder wound.
"Zhen I hope you don't mind too much me digging around in your injuries," He chuckled. Heavy tried to shrug, but decided against it as the pair of pliers came close to the bedded bullet.
Trying to conceal his winces, he didn't realize how quick it was that the first bullet was out.
"Turn, please," Medic asked, turning to his back. Setting down the pliers and picking up a pair of scissors. He carefully cut his shirt around the area before proceeding with the pliers, swiftly pulling the bullet out with ease.
"Do you have any allergies?" He asked, as he prepared a cotton swab and rubbing alcohol and some strange dark salve he kept in an old mint tin. Heavy shook his head.
"Zis will sting," He stated, before dabbing the cotton ball into the gashes. Heavy did not like whatever salve Medic had used; it stung worse than he expected, like he was being pricked with needles deep in the wound.
But Medic quickly finished cleaning him up and began threading surgery wire into the eye of a needle. He gave him a small warning before inserting the needle and beginning to sew him up.
Heavy wasn't entirely sure how professional this was. In the past, there were many other steps, namely, painkillers of some sort. Even when he had to do stitches on himself, he at least rinsed them off in the river first. Now that he thought of it, those ones always got infected the worst… regardless he kept quiet and let Medic do his job.
As Medic examined the holes he was sewing closed, he noted the large amount of scar tissue in similar areas. Clearly, Heavy wasn't new to bullet wounds. And his miniscule reactions to the process of removing them only further proved his point.
This hulking figure of a man could withstand it, no doubt. He'd already had up to this point. Yet, Medic couldn't help but wonder if Heavy had tried any sort of protective measures. He doubted any bullet proof vests would fit him. What else could be done?
"When am I ready for battlefield?" Heavy asked, yanking Medic out of his thoughts.
"Hmm?" He asked, distracted.
"When wounds heal?" He simplified.
"Not long, vizin the next 15 minutes or so," He shrugged, tying the loose ends and moving on to the next.
"Dat… doesn't seem right…" Heavy said, concerned.
"Ha! Vell, for any ozher medic, it vouldn't be. But I have my Medi-gun vis me," He said, nodding his head to where the large gun sat on a desk. Heavy looked over, pausing for a brief moment.
"Look like heavy weapon," Heavy said.
"Ja," He laughed. "But not too heavy, I downsized a bit."
"I mean. It is similar. To a heavy weapon," He corrected himself.
Glancing back, he understood what he meant. It was a large machine, had a huge barrel and required two hands to hold.
"It is. Somevhat. I'll show you," He said, tying off the last stitch neatly. Wiping his hands off on his coat, he approached it, then heaved the thing into his arms.
"See, I built it using ze basic schematics of an older artillery veapon's model. But I replaced a few details for it to function," He said, his mind leading back to how he could upgrade it. Perhaps he could make the interior chamber larger? To sustain the charge for longer, but it would make it heavier than it already was.
Looking up, he saw Heavy's hands outstretched, asking to hold it.
"Vatch out, it's heavy, especially vis your shoulder," He said, trying not to drop it into his hands. But when he let go, it was almost as if Heavy hadn't picked it up at all. As if it were lighter than air.
Shifting it in his hands, he examined it, noticing the port for the pipe and power source to connect, the handle and trigger both being taken from another gun, as well as how many scuff marks it had.
"How does work?" He asked, handing it back. Finally a question he wanted to hear. He had at least one interesting patient here so far. He couldn't help the devious chuckle escape him as he retrieved the gun.
He set it down beside Heavy, then grabbed the box-like source pack from behind the desk.
"See, I hook it up here," He said, extending the pipe and attaching it. Then, slinging the heavy box over his shoulders like a backpack, he took hold of the medi-gun again.
"Now," He said, pushing his glasses up. "Vatch!"