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With such a job as Medic’s, it could be easily argued - and settled with little dispute - that his was one of the most stressful on the team. The constant keeping track of eight other team members on the battlefield, keeping them all alive whilst simultaneously having the entire enemy team sicced on him (when they somehow miraculously figured out he was within a fifty metre radius) was difficult to handle. A bit of an understatement, really. Not to mention the endless hours of paperwork off the battlefield, ensuring he rarely had much free time outside of his completely ethical experiments to sit down and enjoy time with the team, despite it being his birthday. Especially since, well, a few certain teammates had a somewhat healthy fear of his needles and general presence.
It was something special, being a Medic. Not only did the job give him all he wanted (virtually unlimited unethical experiments to run, protection from the government and most importantly, a generous paycheck), he had a stable, close-knit team - some members of which he was particularly close to. Well, stable in the sense that they would be together for the foreseeable future, not quite stable in their heads. Most of them were crazy in some way or another.
Yet, even with all these benefits, there was just one issue with the job. Despite his team members generally being decent people, on the battlefield and in the base were different matters. From the moment the first shot was fired during the fight, each and every one of them suddenly felt entitled to the beam of his medigun. They yelled for him from the complete other side of the battlefield, expecting him to scramble through the warzone - dodging bullets and rockets and bombs - just for a rolled ankle. And don’t get him started on when multiple of them called for him at one time. He couldn’t clone himself, verdammt! At least healing off the clock was much simpler: no worries about getting sniped, and they would stay still. Mostly, that is. Scout (his most frequent patient for idiotic or small injuries) was quite irritating the times he interrupted Medic’s work.
Medic broke out of his musings with a small shake of his head, looking down at the fresh heart in his hands. He frowned at all the blood staining his once-clean laboratory floors - he didn’t look forward to scrubbing the red out afterwards. Well, that was a matter for another hour. In the meantime, he looked forward to happily dissecting the organ, perhaps sneakily giving it a new home in one of his teammates when one unfortunate fellow was next under his knife.
That’s what he would have done, if not for his sudden breaking out in a cold sweat. Alarmed, his head shot up, a chill running down his spine, hairs on the back of his neck rising and ears pricking up in the way that only multiple people yelling his name could do. At once. Medic felt his heart begin to race, his instincts as a doctor flaring as his scalpels and heart clattered messily to the ground.
“Was zum Teufel?” he gasped, frantically pulling his labcoat on (fumbling and getting slightly tangled in the process). What could possibly have happened to warrant what seemed like the entire base shouting for him? Did Soldier set off one of his rockets in the living room again? He swore again under his breath, stumbling towards the mounted medigun. Did something really go wrong? What if he walked into an absolute crime scene and his teammates were rapidly bleeding out before him?
Medic tried to stifle the growing sense of worry churning in his gut as he swung his infirmary doors open violently, medigun in one hand and a panicked furrow in his eyebrows. If this was a proper emergency, he needed to hurry in case his team really was in danger - the Respawn machine was off and for now, death was permanent. His intuition was pinging at him: through that corridor, turn and down that flight of stairs, and through the doors to the dining hall. Another wave of anxiety rushed through his gut and he started sprinting, boots pounding loudly against the floor and echoing through the empty base. Another cause to be more panicked: where was everyone? He couldn’t be the only person who wasn’t in danger as of this very moment - his team needed help.
He thundered down the stairs, coattails flapping out behind him like wings. He made it from the last step to the door in record time, apprehension creeping up his spine. Hesitating a little, he stepped forward to reach for the doorknob, and mustering his courage, twisted the handle and threw open the door.
Darkness.
He felt around for the light switch.
Click.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEDIC!”
The other mercenaries’ faces beamed back at him with shit-eating grins, all eight of them crowded around a small black forest cherry cake. Heavy was in the middle, a laugh clearly threatening to bubble out of his chest. Pyro was next to him, trying surreptitiously to add unicorn figurines to the torte and light the candles on fire. Engineer stood on the other side, looking both proud (undoubtedly half the reason the cake turned out edible) and keeping an eye on Pyro. Demo and Soldier had their arms slung around each other, ready to break out into song at any moment while Sniper stood awkwardly off at the edge, but smiling nonetheless. Scout had apparently already seated himself, a fork at the ready to immediately dig in when permitted. And last of all, Spy stayed at the back, the tell-tale wisp of smoke wafting from his cigarette. He had the air of someone who quite obviously was dragged unwillingly into the situation, but had a fond quirk to his lips.
Medic, panting heavily and sagging in relief and mortification, observed the scene - from the outside, it would’ve looked like he was observing silently, at least. No, what he was actually doing was mentally sorting through his catalogue of various swears and curses, trying to find one suitable to describe his current state of mind. His skin prickled, making him acutely aware of a droplet of sweat rolling its way down his temple. Finally, he settled on one, but not speaking without an underlying tone of affection:
“Hurensöhne.”
Hours later, when dinner and the party had concluded, the nine mercenaries lounged in some state of drowsiness around the living room sofas. Medic looked around at this scene and chuckled softly under his breath, a soft feeling of contentment and belonging welling up in his chest.
“Thank you, all, for tonight.”