Chapter Text
Heavy settles next to Medic on the couch, sinking into the plush cushions. Tom Jones blares on the stereo behind them, a steady beat infecting the air, as Demo attempts to teach Scout how to breakdance while raging drunk, much to the amusement of the rest of the onlookers. The din of the room drowns out the howls of the wind outside. It’s one of those rare snowy nights in New Mexico, when the wind and the ice whip and claw anyone brave and foolhardy enough to challenge the outdoors. Which explains Soldier's current state, shivering in the corner with a blanket, forcibly being fed hot soup (under the threat of Pyro), insisting to anyone who’ll listen that he is not, in fact, cold, despite the chatter of his teeth clearly giving him away.
Inside, though, it’s remarkably warm. Heavy chalks it up to the fact that he’s had a bit to drink (along with almost everyone else), attributes it to the pot of soup Engineer has left to warm on the stove, the crackling fireplace. But instinctually, he knows it’s because the stars have aligned for this one winter evening. All the mercs are here.
It’s not often that all nine mercenaries show up to “Weekly Bonding Time,” (something Miss Pauling had instated years ago, back when the mercenaries were just mercenaries to each other, not something more, not a team, not friends). It’s rare, but when it happens, they celebrate. Not openly, (the mercs will do anything but use their words), but quietly, (more laughter, more smiles, more drinks). Parties always get a touch more chaotic, games a smidge more heated.
Heavy’s not sure any of them actively notice, now that he think about it-- but Demo only brings out his finest liquor when they’re all present, Spy will allow himself an extra glass to regale them with tales from before the wars, and even Pyro, the most unaware of the mercs, won’t set a fire when they’re all gathered, perhaps sensing, for once, that the room is warm enough without one. And so Heavy sits, quietly basking in the warmth of the room. It reminds him of the log cabin in Siberia, the family that he’s left behind. The family that he’s begun to find in this room.
“Doktor.” Medic ignores him, unintentionally. It’s clear the man is engrossed in his own thoughts, the mug of hot chocolate in his hands growing cold.
“Doktor,” Heavy tries again, scooching a little closer in an attempt to get his attention. Still, Medic is unresponsive, lips pursed in deep thought as Archimedes pecks at his shoulder.
“Ludwig,” Heavy tries at last, and this catches Medic’s attention.
“Vhat?” he startles, looking around, slightly disoriented. “Oh, Heavy. My apologies.”
They lapse into a comfortable silence, satisfied with the other’s mere presence. It’s not as if they need to speak-- the loud conversations behind them fill the room. A heated debate over frogs, and a passionate speech about America crowd out any other noise. Even still, Medic speaks.
“Did you need anything?” Medic can hardly imagine anything important enough for Heavy to call him by his name-- his real name-- but with this group, anything is possible. “Is someone injured?”
Heavy shakes his head, beginning to look slightly unsure of himself. “Doktor looked stressed." A pause. "Want to make sure Doktor is okay.”
Medic offers a slight smile at that, one of the few he’s capable of that lacks his signature evil or smug tint. “Danke. Zhere is no need for worry. I am simply working on my latest project-- making zhe medigun fluid even more effective-- and have hit zhe latest roadblock in a series of problems.” He frowns at that last sentence, threatening to retreat back into his thoughts as his brows furrow.
Heavy’s never been particularly insecure about his lack of a formal education. He knows he is not just-- no matter what Scout says-- a “big dumb brute”. There are sides to him that most of the mercs never see. Besides, he’s never needed to know trigonometry, at least not in his line of work. He’s smart enough on the battlefield, and if he does have a problem, it can typically be solved with his fists. And if he cannot solve it with his fists, Sasha can usually finish the job.
So there are very few times in life where Heavy feels completely helpless. But here before him is one of them-- a problem Heavy cannot punch or shoot. In moments like these, it’s impossible for him not to wish that he was just a little bit smarter. A little bit more useful. And when these rare moments flutter by, he hates that all he can do is stand and watch. He offers to let Medic experiment on him-- and Medic assures him that alone is exceedingly useful-- but he can’t shake the feeling that it’s not enough. That no matter what he does, he will never be able to aid his friend in the ways that matter most.
It upsets him deeply, even moreso because he knows that it’s not something he can achieve. It’s an impossible task in the first place-- no one on the team is smart in the ways Medic is. Engineer comes close, but he tinkers with machines, not men. He’s not mad like Medic is, with impossible dreams of immortality that he rips from the sky to make reality. Engineer builds guns, Demo builds bombs, but Medic? Medic outsmarts their weaponry, finds ways to subvert death. The first man to outsmart death, to outsmart Sasha. The first man to gain Heavy’s respect.
And currently, the same man that is drifting back into his thoughts, retreating further and further away from him. A pit of despair grows in Heavy’s stomach as he watches it happen, knowing he can’t stop it from happening. It’s a subtle change-- Medic’s brows furrow slightly, the lines on his face a tad more pronounced. It’s a change Heavy has grown to recognize after years of working together. And so he knows, despite the fact that Medic is physically sitting right next to him on the couch, in actuality, he’s never been farther.
Heavy’s always been proud of his heritage. As much as he’s ridiculed, no matter what he’s suffered, it’s something he keeps close to his heart. But a small part of him, his secret shame, wishes that he could speak their shared language better. Even at the cost of losing a bit of his mother tongue. Because if he could speak the English language a little better, perhaps he’d come close to being able to convey how desperately he wants Medic to stay with them. In the present. And maybe then, he will choose to stay.
Medic already rarely shows up to group activities, choosing to forgo them in favor of conducting experiments alone. He only comes when Heavy urges him to, weeks of wearing down his defenses until he gives in. And even during those rare occasions-- he still can only think about work. It makes Heavy worry, a strange, irrational emotion he has only felt around his family back home. Consequently, he lets out a world-weary sigh. Caring for others is exhausting. It’s never been this complicated with the other mercs.
Unbeknownst to him, however, his sighing is what actually draws Medic out of his thoughts. Heavy is one of the most patient mercs on the team, second only to Sniper. It takes a mountain to make the man sigh, and when Medic glances at him, it really does look like a mountain is weighing on him. His face is stormy, absent of his typical cheer, and darkened with worry. Medic hopes it’s not because of him, but-- he knows it is. It’s always because of him. Guiltily, he gently rests his hand over Heavy’s, conveying with a gesture what a million words cannot.
Heavy looks at Medic in surprise. “Oh,” he says, “you are back.”
Medic nods, offering another smile, this time with a little more of his distinctive…charm. “Yes. I am…sorry for being so distracted. I know you very much wanted me to be here.”
Heavy looks away shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Da. But it is okay. I know you are a busy man, Doktor. I am sorry for forcing you to come out here.” He takes another deep breath, “I will walk you back to the lab, if you wish.” Bitter disappointment laps at his throat, the taste of defeat polluting his senses. But Medic should do as he wishes, and the last thing Heavy wants to do is hold him back.
Medic hesitates at the offer. He’s tempted-- it’s what he’s been thinking about all evening. But thinking hasn’t netted him any progress, and he’s not sure if returning to the lab will either. And strangely, he feels a little reluctant. Maybe it’s the look on Heavy’s face, his poorly disguised disappointment. Or maybe it's the clamor of his team behind them. He’s not used to them sounding this happy. Medic detests chaotic noise; it brings him back to the battlefield, pained cries calling for him, over and over and over, but today? Perhaps he’s willing to tolerate the excited hoots, the questionable cuisine. Perhaps he is willing to try something new.
“Nein,” he decides, and instantly Heavy’s crestfallen expression brightens, “Danke for zhe offer, but--” he looks around, stiffening at the strobing lights and chaos. But at the center of it all, his team, smiling, laughing, happiness in a bottle. He allows himself to relax, just a bit. “I am glad you brought me out here.”
“I am very glad you came.”
Heavy stands up, offering a hand to Medic as he does. They enter the fray, gradually enveloped into the fold as the party continues into the late hours of the night. The hours pass in a blur of drinks, cards, and karaoke that he knows he (thankfully) will not remember in the morning. In fact, he barely remembers stumbling down down the hallway, hauling himself to bed, collapsing amongst his sheets with a sweetness in his stomach.
Notes:
as much as i love russian literature phd heavy i do not consider it to be canon. heavy is undoubtedly very intelligent, and could learn anything quickly if given the chance, but the gulag and subsequent life on the run likely doesnt lend itself to a very formative environment for formal education.
Chapter 2: Quick-Fix (The Medigun)
Summary:
In the wee hours of the morning, Heavy wakes up hungover, to the sound of an explosion in the medbay. He investigates, and finds Medic tinkering with a new medigun. On the other hand, Medic struggles with his ambition, against his attachment to the team. Inevitably, the medigun leads to introspection from them both, and a confession long overdue.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The linoleum floor is exceedingly cold as Heavy swings his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the ground. He massages his temples, trying to (unsuccessfully) contain the pounding in his head. A quick glance at the clock hanging on the wall tells him it’s 4:00AM. The same time he’s woken up at for the past decade. It also means that he’s had around 40 minutes of sleep. With his hammering head in his hands, he contemplates grabbing something from Medic’s lab, weighing his odds of survival. On one hand, he’d have something to treat his raging headache. On the other, Medic might just kill him if he discovers that Heavy’s been rummaging through his lab. He’s nearly finalized his decision-- “It’s not really worth risking Medic’s wrath…”-- before a piercing clap echoes through the base, the sound of a small explosion reverberating through his room.
He must still be dreaming. Attacking a base, off-duty no less, is beyond expressly forbidden. It’s never happened in all his years on the job. A searing flash of panic runs through him. His team-- none of them are in any shape to fight. He’s not in any shape to fight. But still-- he must. Instinctively, he reaches for Sasha, hand closing around the handle-- before finally regaining his bearings. The explosion had to have come from inside the base. He hadn’t felt any vibrations and-- oh. It must’ve come from the room down the hall. The medbay.
The panic doesn’t subside. He lets go of Sasha; she’d only slow him down. He stumbles out of bed, slamming his door open, veering sharply down the hallway. He’s never been fast-- but in this moment, he swears he could outrun Scout.
“Medic!” He barks, real fear in his voice as he barrels into the medbay.
Medic looks up, covered in soot, leading his ensuing grin to look all the more terrifying. “Ah, Heavy,” he says, wholly oblivious to the frazzled state his friend is in, “Did I wake you?”
Heavy stands by the swinging doors, frozen, a crushing wave of relief flooding his senses. He’s safe. The near-grief is raw and real as it sinks back into the depths of his mind. It never gets better-- the split second before an incoming rocket, a careless sticky-bomb-- again, again, again, whistling over his head to target the man behind. To make flesh chunks out of his dearest friend. And although he knows Medic will simply walk out of respawn, ten seconds to make him whole again, it does nothing to assuage the anguish and guilt that rakes his throat each time. His desperate need to prevent it. But the fighting does not stop, so neither can he, neatly shelving his sorrow in forgotten corners of his mind. So his fear, his grief, this incident is compartmentalized, washed away by the waters of relief. And in the space of a mere breath, he’s calm again, ready to face Medic.
At least that’s what he initially thinks. He’s only just quelled his anxieties when a fresh surge of worry and confusion surfaces as he processes the bizarre scene before him. In front of Medic is a disassembled Medigun, spread across the operating table, while Medic himself clutches a lit match. The scene doesn’t disappear after he rubs his eyes. His headache is beginning to return with a vengeance.
“Doktor.” He starts cautiously, unsure how to interpret what’s going on, “You are…awake. At four in the morning. Making…explosions?” He frowns. “That is Demoman’s job.”
Medic waves off the worry in his voice, a manic fervor in his eyes. “No, zhe explosion wasn’t intentional, but-- ah, you know, last night inspired me. I have found my missing spark!” he exclaims, irony completely lost on him as he waves a lit match around wildly.
Heavy raises a concerned eyebrow. “Doktor. I did not bring you to party just for you to work more.” A pang of guilt strikes. Perhaps he should’ve predicted this turn of events, made sure that the doctor made it to bed. Despite being the team’s medical professional, he’d begun to form the habit of neglecting his own health.
“Ja, ja, I am aware, mein Freund. However, speaking to zhe Pyro made me think-- I have not tested the medigun fluid under zhe controlled presence of heat! Or zhe lack of it, really.” His eyes glow under the light of the fire, the dark circles under his eyes growing more prominent. “I theorized a heating effect could potentially speed up zhe healing process-- really, I should’ve realized when the medigun first cured afterburn-- zhis could be--,” he frantically gestures, trying to convey the importance of the discovery, “riesig! So, I used my prototype medigun, you know zhe one, from our very first uber-- nostalgic! Such a shame it broke. Ah, no, but where was I….”
Heavy stands in the doorway awkwardly. He never knows what to do when Medic goes off on one of his tangents. It brings him back to when they first met, before he'd mellowed out. And although he is deeply relieved to see his friend safe, a mixture of the lingering adrenaline, his headache and the lack of sleep has left him a little cranky. Though, he ruminates, since he is here already, perhaps he could at least leave with one of those problems cured.
“Doktor,” he interrupts, somewhat abruptly, “can it cure headache?” He points to his skull, hoping that the new and improved medigun is ready for use, despite its current state.
Albeit a little startled, Medic quickly slips back into his scientific mode. “Hm. It should. I haven’t tested it extensively-- only a little on Archimedes when he crashed into zhe wall-- ah, are you volunteering to be a test subject? I promise it is safe.”
The words test subject causes him to internally wince, just a little. But he trusts his doctor, and as mad as he may be, Medic has never let him down before. So he refuses to doubt. Besides, under the sterile white lights, his original medigun in his hands, with his maddening, maddening grin…it’s reminiscent of the beginning of their journey together, when Medic had first installed that uber valve on his heart, all those years ago.
So he nods, a small movement that Medic beams at. His smile erases any remaining apprehension. It’s a smile that Heavy has learned to trust, years of partnership overcoming the natural instinct to shy away from Medic’s innately evil grin.
“Ooh! Wunderbar! Give me a moment to reassemble my gear….” A pause, genuine enthusiasm radiating from his movements as he hurries to and fro, gathering up the parts for his medigun, “Aha! I am ready.” He looks up at Heavy, confirming that he has not changed his mind. Heavy shoots him a reassuring glance, so he continues. “If you’ll look this way for me, please….”
The tingling sensation of the medibeam latches onto him, spreading like a wildfire. It’s a welcome one, easing the pain in his head. It’s always had a cooling sort of effect before; Heavy supposes the tweaks Medic made is what has caused it to take on a warmer feel. A crackling fireplace, the warm flush of alcohol, a pot of stew bubbling away on a stove-- it feels like a gathering among friends. It feels like the party they had last night. He looks at Medic, puzzled.
Medic simply shrugs, looking away guiltily. “Last night was…inspiring, to say the least. Perhaps you were right. I will…consider attending these gatherings more often.”
Heavy looks genuinely appreciative. “Thank you, doktor.”
Medic waves his appreciation away. He's not sure he deserves it. He’s received his fair share of gratitude over the years, (a surprising fact, considering what brutes the mercs are), but this feels odd, wrong. Heavy has done so much more for him than Medic has ever managed to do in return. The first and only merc to ever enthusiastically consent to his little experiments, to persist in trying to coax him out of his shell. This, frankly, was the least he could do. He’s not sure Heavy will ever understand the extent of what he has done for Medic. How indebted he is. Without him, his prowess in the fields of both science and battle would be significantly diminished. Medic hates leaving debts unpaid; worse to be unacknowledged. He knows he has to express his gratitude somehow-- the thought of Heavy remaining unaware of how much his actions mean to Medic makes him feel sick. But every time he thinks to tell him, the words dry in his throat, something else catches his attention, or their conversation is interrupted. So it’s left unsaid, their absence pointedly hanging in the air. He wishes he knew why he was like this, but alas-- he doesn’t. So he turns to other, more silent ways of expressing his thanks instead.
This latest medigun being one of them. Medic is a man of action, more than words. Telling Heavy last night had inspired him wasn’t exactly a lie; it very much had. But, he supposes a lie of omission is a lie nonetheless. The full truth was he’d made it for Heavy. His version of a gift. Last night had been a final piece to a complex puzzle, more than anything else. He’d never admit to its origins, of course, but perhaps its use on the battlefield would lend Heavy a clue as to who it was designed for. A heartfelt thank you, one he’d never say it out loud.
He almost lets a slight smile flit across his face, before he catches himself. His own behavior worries him, sometimes. He’s going soft, dull, all the things a Medic of his caliber should not be. For Gottes sake, his callousness and his intelligence are intrinsically linked. Before, he could do anything-- but now? Now, he’s less willing to conduct the painful experiments; less willing to break the boundaries of science. The caring has left him worse off, a shell of what he should be. The hurting should be more rewarding than the healing-- and it was, back when he first started-- but somewhere along the way, things got mixed up. At last, he’s forced to grudgingly admit that he’s grown attached, that somehow, somewhere, the healing became the point. It’s a train of thought he gets stuck on frequently.
When he’s a little too deep in his thoughts, (which is often), he will wonder what the person he was five, ten years ago would have to say about him now. Such a bitter irony that he’s able to conjure a perfect image of his past self; such a bitter shame he’s unable to become him. Regret consumes him, sends him down a spiral for days at a time. He’d love to stay there, wallowing in the shadow of his former self, but he lately, he hasn’t had the opportunity to. Heavy and the others rip him from his state of self-pity, either purposefully, or accidentally. These days, simply looking at the people around him, his teammates, softens the sting his thoughts bring. And he finds he minds that fact less and less, as time goes on.
The thought of his teammates reminds Medic of the one he’s currently operating on, drawing him out of his stupor. At last, he shuts off the beam, determining with something akin to a sixth sense that the operation has finished. “26% faster. Still a work in progress, but an improvement nonetheless.”
“Hm,” Heavy hums thoughtfully, “was a quick fix. Will be very useful, am sure.”
“Yes,” Medic replies slyly, “--a quick fix indeed." Internally, he chuckles, partially from the euphoria of a successful discovery, and partially from delirious exhaustion, which has begun to hit him all at once. During the day, he will handle talking to Engineer about possible designs, but only after he gets some sleep. For tonight, he’s done-- save for one, last task. Naming the medigun. Luckily, he already has an idea.
The Quick-Fix, in honor of Heavy’s remarks, the subtlest of nods towards the man it was made for. The only hint towards its origins that he’ll ever give. It’s not a bad name-- it has a ring to it, anyways, compared to what Heavy normally names his guns. Medic shudders to think what Heavy would actually suggest, if given the chance.
He’s too tired to think, ready to sleep. Pointedly, he ignores a quiet nagging in the back of his head telling him that he’s missing something; his opportunity to acknowledge an obligation long overdue. It grows louder, despite his best attempts to disregard it. He turns back towards Heavy instead, attempting to drown out his thoughts via soft laughter and sleep.
“We’re both due for some rest, Mein Freund.”
Heavy nods in agreement, his eyelids beginning to droop. He feels much more tired now that the adrenaline has escaped his body, along with the throbbing pain in his head. He slowly stands and starts to shuffle towards the doors. But, right before he leaves, he hears Medic hesitantly call his name.
“Mikhail.”
Heavy looks back, surprised.
“No,” Medic groans, head in his gloves, “don’t look back.”
Heavy dutifully looks forward again, curiosity rising. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Medic this embarrassed; he can’t fathom why he’d be like this now.
A moment of silence passes before Medic continues. “I vant to say thank you. For volunteering to be in my experiments. For bringing me out; always, not just last night.” He pauses again, in slight disbelief of his own actions. “I am sorry I do not say it enough.”
Once the words are out though, he instantly regains composure, casually gesturing for his doves to close the lights as he walks towards the back of the lab, where he usually sleeps. “Now, gute nacht.“
Heavy stands, frozen in shock as the lab doors swing shut behind him, Medic's uncharacteristic gratitude ringing in his ears. He’s still in shock by the time he collapses on his bed, thoughts running at a million miles per minute. It takes a long, long time for him to be lulled to sleep, but by the time he has, the confusion and shock have morphed into something greater. Not the searing heat of battle or the fleeting burn of vodka he's accustomed to, but something gentler: the quiet joy of being acknowledged, thanked. An all-encompassing warmth forms, settles in his chest. He sighs with contentment. Appreciation and love are all Heavy could ever want. And at last, he’s found it. In a home of his own making, accompanied by a lingering sense of happiness he’s sure will last a long, long time.
Notes:
yay!! i love these two bad
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