Archive of Our Own

Spy wakes up at two in the morning and he can’t get back to sleep.

Some days, he thinks that God is personally out to get him. 

He shuffles around his bedroom for his balaclava, but decides that no one in their right mind would be awake at this time and leaves for the kitchen without it.

In doing so, he fails to realise that none of the nine mercenaries who routinely threw themselves into battle every day are even close to being sane, let alone having their head screwed on the right way. 

So, it really should come to no surprise to him that the man who performed open heart surgery while laughing maniacally is also awake. 

Medic is already known for getting less sleep than he should - routinely giving anyone up at five am heart attacks by lurking around base - and he’s already in the kitchen by the time Spy stumbles in. 

Spy is barely half-awake, so it isn’t until he’s walked past the doorway that he spots Medic, and belatedly realises the lights are already on. He freezes , and considers turning around and leaving without Medic noticing him, but it’s too late. 

Medic glances up at him from the notebook he’s scrawling in. His eyes scan Spy up and down for injuries, presumably, and when he doesn’t find anything he goes back to whatever he was doing beforehand.

He doesn’t bat an eye at Spy’s uncovered face.

That shouldn’t surprise Spy either, considering Medic has seen it before for his health exams, but he still feels uneasy continuing to the kitchen fridge.

He grabs a bottle of chilled water and makes sure the seal isn’t broken before opening it himself. Last time he hadn’t checked, Scout had spiked all the water bottles in the fridge with vinegar, because he’s a nuisance like that.

Spy takes a refreshing draw from the bottle and sighs. 

His body is sore and tired, but his mind won’t take a hint. His consciousness is surrounded by a haze of exhaustion, but his brain keeps running and running and running like it has a marathon to win.

Spy blames his sleep deprivation for what he does next.

He shuts the fridge door.

He walks over to the rickety dining table that Medic is already seated at.

And drops into a chair.

Medic glances up at him again, eyebrow raised in question, but it seems like he doesn’t really care about what Spy is doing. Spy, like the nosy bastard he is, takes a peek at his notebook. It’s all in German - judging by the umlauts - which he can read just fine, but it’s also very, very messy.

Somehow, Medic had managed not to take the Hippocratic Oath but still got the crappy, barely legible doctor’s handwriting anyway. Spy is pretty sure it’s shorthand, which he can also read quite skillfully in both French and English, but he had never had the need to learn German shorthand.

“You are aware it is two in the morning?” Spy asks, wishing his water was alcohol. He gulps down a few more sips anyway.

“ Ja, ” Medic replies in a mutter. “Except it is almost three, by now.”

Spy huffs and flips the bottle’s cap, only to catch it while it's midair. He absentmindedly runs a hand through his pepper-salt grey h air , imagining how much of a mess it must look right now.

They sit in silence for a minute or two.

Above them, the light buzzes, and clinks, making the sort of noise you’d expect from a run down building.

Medic’s writing never ceases. Spy watches out of the corner of his eye as he flips through the worn pages, paper still white and surprisingly unsullied by any form of blood.

Eventually, he gets bored of sitting around and doing nothing. As tired as he is, he’s always liked having a good conversation partner, and in his line of work, it isn’t often you find one. But when he’s not raving on about ethically irresponsible and morally dubious experiments, Medic can prove to be quite articulate.

“Do you believe in God, Docteur?” Spy asks, propping his elbow on the table and holding his chin in his hand. English is sloppy on his sleep-clumsy tongue.

Medic pauses his almost frantic scribbling. His eyebrows draw together in confusion, but his lips part with an answer, “ Nein. Und du? ”

“Not really,” Spy mutters with a grimace. He’s too tired to translate his French into German, or English into German, so if Medic wants to speak German he’s free to but Spy won’t be engaging.

“In a vay, I think ve are all our own little pieces of whatever Gott you speak off,” Medic begins, a little distractedly. “After all, vhat ve can do is vell beyond any normal human.”

“It did take Jesus three days to resurrect. It only takes us three seconds,” Spy remarks dryly. He wonders if there are any cigarettes in his pocket, though he can’t find the effort to lift his hands to check.

“ Wunderbar, Herr Spy, ” Medic chuckles, quiet and low. It sounds sincere enough though. “I am also speaking of our own feats. The fact Sniper has not keeled over from double kidney failure is incredibly intriguing!”

Ah, mad scientist raving. Spy gives a jerky shrug and drains his water bottle halfway down. If he was drinking red wine instead, sleep would come a lot easier. He would also prefer red wine. 

“However…” Medic starts, but doesn’t finish. He trails off, but doesn’t devolve into the quick, science-medical jargon filled mumbling that no one else can understand. He just trails off.

“However?” Spy prods, turning to him properly.

“However, some may argue that Gott once existed. Simply that Gott ist tot, Gott bleibt tot, Und wir haben ihn getötet.“ ”

Spy’s mind turns over to German slowly and without actually absorbing any of the words. He spends a good few seconds staring into the distance before he gives up. 

“What is that?” he asks, rubbing at his face to wake himself up a bit.

“God is dead, God remains dead, and we have killed him,” Medic translates without a beat of hesitation. He scrunches his face up in distaste, and draws a long straight line in his notebook. “While I do not agree with Friedrich Nietzsche’s other philosophies or the ones… what is it? Angepasst by political parties, there is a certain flair to the saying.”

“I did not know you were someone who appreciated flair,” Spy remarks, totally missing the point, with a sleep deprived snicker.

Medic smirks dryly and fixes his attention on the pages for a moment. His pen pauses, before it starts again with longer loops and sharper lines. “Perhaps you should head to sleep, Herr Spy.”

“I can't,” Spy mutters, irritation colouring his tone. “I mean it. I cannot.”

“I have sleeping pills,” Medic offers almost immediately. His words are concerningly  hopeful.

“No, no, I am enjoying this… conversation, ” Spy replies, dismissing him with a vague gesture.

“You do not seem experienced in late nights. At least, not while speaking with other people.”

“Docteur, you do not need to worry,” Spy tells him, though he’s not entirely sure why his first instinct is to reassure him. “You. You don’t seem to sleep much.”

Medic inclines his head in agreement, though he offers no words, so Spy has to parse through his knowledge of the English language to form a coherent sentence.

“How do you do it? I… rarely see you… what is it? Schlafen .”

“Sleep?” Medic tells him.

Spy bobs his head in confirmation, finding his self-control and consciousness quickly slipping away from him. “I am not sure I have ever seen you sleep.”

A smirk pulls at Medic’s lips as Spy sinks closer and closer to the dining table, feeling his exhaustion hit him at full force, all of a sudden.

“Do you want to know my secret?” Medic asks.

Spy stares at him, far too tired to be having a conversation in his second language, not to mention… about whatever Medic is going to say.

“Sure,” comes out of his mouth anyway, because he’s too tired to care.

“It’s Kokain.”

Spy pauses at that, his already slow train of thought sliding to a stop. He stares at Medic, who seems greatly proud of himself.

That…

Sounds like an English word as well as a German word, and they both mean the same thing…

“I’m kidding,” Medic tells Spy before he can get any ideas. “I use an experimental version of a combination between the Medigun and the Respawn Machine, so that it rejuvenates me vithout requiring my death.”

He’s grinning.

That’s pretty much all Spy is aware of, at this point, his consciousness quickly slipping away from him.

“Too many words,” he groans into the table. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night, or the one before that, so he’s quite literally running on fumes alone. 

Today, the Blu Pyro had managed to find him almost every round. If the physical beating of battle wasn’t enough, he’d had to deal with being burned alive and the Administrator’s screaming too.

“Herr Spy?” comes Medic’s voice, but it sounds strangely far away. “Are you going to fall asleep? Without arming yourself?”

“I have a knife,” Spy mutters into the table’s wood. His fingers drift towards his pocket to pull it out and prove it, but fall short halfway.

One moment he is staring at Medic’s form through half-lidded eyes, and the next his eyes and he sinks into blessed sleep.

When Spy wakes the next morning, he’s still at the dining table, which is beyond embarrassing. 

Fortunately, though, he is not face down on the table in his own drool.

Instead, someone had taken the liberty to prop him up against the back of the chair, crossing his legs at the ankle and his arms over his chest so he didn’t look as stupid. His chin is stacked to his chest, and someone has pulled a spare balaclava over his face.

Spy has to admit that he appreciates the effort, even if there’s a crick in his neck now and everything is a little sore because he slept in a literal chair.

“Sleep vell?” Medic asks him, finishing brewing a pitch-black pot of coffee. Spy levels him with a flat stare until he chuckles and offers Spy the first cup of coffee for the day. “ Es tut mir Lied. Vould you like some painkillers for your neck?”

Spy regards the little plastic baggie of pink pills with a raised eyebrow and a vaguely mortified expression across his features.

“It’s not Kokain,” Medic reassures, like a man reassuring a group of kids that the white van with Free Candy on the side of it is completely safe.

Spy squints at him, then holds his hand out with a long-suffering sigh. “It better not be.”

Medic tips two pills into the palm of his hand then four into his own mug. Spy is… quite concerned, but he swallows the two he’s been given.

They leave a slightly sweet note on his tongue before sliding down his throat.

“Any better?” Medic asks, seeming hopeful.

Spy rolls his shoulder and rubs at his necks, easing out the coiled of muscles. “Yes, actually,” he replies, pleasantly surprised.

“Glad to be of assistance!”

“…You’re sure that wasn’t cocaine?”

“I’m sure.”

“Because, docteur-“

“ Herr Spy.”

“Doktor?”

“Hm? Yes, Heavy?”

“What was little pink pill you gave Spy?”

“Ah, das? Das was just ein placebo. Amazing what the human body can do all on its own, ja? ”

“ …Da… ”

“They’re just sugar, vould you like some?”

“ Nyet .”

“Suit yourself.”