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The atmosphere surrounding the clinic was quiet.
Even in the middle of the night, it was strange. The doctor would often stay up late, working on his projects, with the excited little “hoohoo!” that was music to Misha’s ears.
The lights were on. Another red flag. Ludwig would always switch the lights off if he wasn’t in the room
“Doktor?”
His query was met with silence.
Misha’s worry increased tenfold as he carefully nudged the door to his doctor’s lab open.
His heart dropped at the sight before him; Medic was sprawled out on his own operating table, his chest swollen and covered with blood. His scalpel was tossed carelessly on the floor beside him. He was pale, his hands dripping with presumably his own blood. The only sign that his doktor was still there with him was the subtle rise and fall of his chest.
Misha carefully grasped his lover’s hand in his, kneeling on the ground beside him.
Ludwig’s eyes fluttered open.
“Bärchen?” His tired voice creaked.
“Doktor!” Mikhail sat up, wrapping his arms around Ludwig.
“Be careful, Leibling.” He grunted. “It’s very sensitive.”
Misha loosened his grip. “What happen to doktor?”
“I did it.” Despite his exhaustion, his face glowed with a similar crazed excitement to that of when he had popped his first successful Über. “I performed my own mastectomy.”
Misha didn’t exactly know what a mastectomy was, but given his doktor’s sudden lack of breasts and healing scars across his chest, he could only assume one thing.
His face flushed with pride and joy for his beloved. He had remembered all the times Ludwig had spent crying in his bed, every moment he spent sweating under layers and layers of clothes to cover the part of himself he hated the most. Only Ludwig could pull off such an operation on himself.
He leaned closer to his doktor, earning a soft giggle as he ruffled his hair.
“My crazy genius. My dove.” The large man whispered.
Ludwig leaned closer to Mikhail, the MediGun switching off automatically.
“Zhe wounds are closed. Can you carry me to bed, bitte?” The German man whispered.
“Да.” Heavy carefully carried Medic off of his operating table and to his room. He held him like one would hold a baby, whispering soft Russian words to him.
He placed his Medic on his bed, and the German leaned up on the wall, murmuring something about needing to sleep upright.
Misha placed a blanket over his lover as he held a pillow against his chest. He placed a kiss on his forehead.
“Sleep good, моя любовь.” He closed the door behind him and let his doktor rest.