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Chapter Text

Medic POV: (??:??, Day ?)

The creak of old, battered floorboards was a noise that Herbert Ludwig, (un)trained and (un)authorised field medic, was quite familiar with by now.
The lack of that particular wake-up call was momentarily pleasant, before he realised what it must mean:
He was no longer in the well-worn, cramped, outdated halls of the Tuefort base.

Eyes flinging open suddenly, his suspicions were immediately confirmed by the complete darkness around him. The creaky footsteps of the Soldier, pacing at the ass-crack of dawn (because for some god-forsaken reason he felt the need to wake at 4am) were replaced with the subdued rattling of… something. He was moving, he knew that. A van? He also became increasingly aware of his immediate surroundings; a wooden box that his feet were kicking at the back of the van, a hand over his mouth, the warmth of someone next to him and yet another few someones on the other side.

He pretended he was still limp, asleep, as he listened, trying to get any indication of where he was or who he was with. How could he have possibly been kidnapped? With the Soldier never sleeping, the Sniper’s van posted up keeping watch outside of base, the Spy’s uncanny ability to sense everything and the Heavy’s fierce protection of the mercs, especially of ‘his doctor’, that would be near impossible.

He heard nothing save for the rattling of wheels, the squeak of metal, and the occasional sniff/grunt. Medic’s eyes, readjusted to the dark, made out the massive hand over his mouth and he realised he recognised the creases and wrinkles. The scars and callouses on the palms and fingertips, the particularly thick skin over its thumb, the remnants of nail polish on its nails. He relaxed instantly. This wasn’t a kidnapping.

‘Doktor?’ The presence on his right, feeling this shift, whispered. A rather loud ‘Shhhhh!!’ comes from the person on his left, cut off by a thwack to the head. The hand lifts, and Medic turns to see Heavy, who smiles at him tiredly.

‘Guten morgen, Heavy!’ Two more shushes. Heavy grabs Medic by the shoulders, bringing him up to sit directly next to him on a crate. Leaning into his ear, his warm breath ghosts Medic’s neck, making his hair stand on end for just a moment.

‘Sorry about the hand, could not risk you screaming. We must whisper. Will explain everything like this but cannot make too much noise.’ Heavy considered something, then tapped the Medic’s arm twice. ‘Do this when you want to talk, or ask question, da?’

Grateful for the silence (because he didn’t trust his voice right now), Medic nodded.

‘Good.’ Heavy cleared his throat. ‘Miss Pauling came to base, early this morning. There is threat to whole team – someone wishes to kill us all. Permanently. Is not like regular killing that we do every week.’

Medic considered this. The RED team faced threats of death daily – it was a consequence of the job. They had many enemies. Why was Pauling so worried about one person?
‘Killer came into headquarters, knocked out Administrator. Broke the screens, cut all surveillance, respawn, communication. She is fine, but this is first time this has happened. Nobody has gotten close to her before. They left Pauling a message – a file with every medical record, family information, life histories, her own as well. Is big threat. Do not know who this is from at this point, just that we must all go off grid.’ Heavy paused, sighed, continued. ‘Pauling is coming with us. Appears that she is main target. While RED figures it out, we are in hiding. Cannot make noise incase truck is bugged, or we are bugged. About to arrive at RED cargo port. We will be scanned for bugs and then flown out of America, temporarily.’

Okay. Maybe this was more serious than anticipated. Medic tapped Heavy urgently on the arm, and the man turned his head to listen.

‘How do we know it isn’t the BLU team? They hate us more than we do them. What if they just got tired of the war?’

Heavy shook his head, turning to whisper again. ‘BLU has been threatened also. They are being shipped elsewhere.’

Medic called his attention back. ‘Well, where are we going? Somewhere ‘off-grid’… what exactly does that mean?’

A huge grin overtook Heavy’s tired, stoic features, and he whispered ‘Have offered house in Siberia. Impossible to locate, except by me. The killer has no information about current residence, only gulag. We ran very far from there, in thick forest.’ His grin widened. ‘Only someone very dumb, strong or suicidal would live where I built home. And family is very, very strong.’

Chapter Text

Medic POV: (4:30:AM, November, Day 1)
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The hour and a bit after that passed in relative silence. The guy on his left – now recognised as Scout – fidgeted constantly, albeit silently, with his cap, chewing on the inside of his mouth. Pyro sat uncharacteristically still, wringing their hands as the Engineer soothingly patted their shoulder. The Demoman’s drunken ramblings had subdued, thankfully, from last night, as even in his sloshed state he understood the severity of the threat. Sniper and Miss Pauling were absent, driving Medic assumed, and Soldier’s snoring was stifled by Spy’s annoyed shoulder. Heavy was upright, vigilant, ready for any surprises, whilst Medic searched in the dark for his glasses, the only light the embers crackling at the end of the Spy’s cigarette, as the smoker waved the horrible billowing tar away from the sleeping patriot at his side. Not that the stench would be much worse than the piss-stained, sun-baked reek of the Sniper’s mobile den.

Suddenly, the truck rolled to a halt, and Pauling opened the double-doors of the truck bed to blazing New Mexico sunlight and the smell of jet fuel. Motioning with her hands like a runway director, she quickly filed the mercs into the dilapidated building that RED called a ‘cargo port’. After countless sandy hallways and doors whose handles had rusted shut, they reached a room labelled ‘SECURITY’.

Pauling entered first, approached the blackboard, and scribbled out a message in her manicured handwriting:
‘We need to check you all for microchips, bugs, anything. Medic will then remove them. When you are in the clear, you will help bring in supplies from the van to be de-bugged too, and then we will all load on to the plane. Spy will drive, and this should take no longer than a half-hour, if we are efficient, silent, and cooperative.’

She waved a metal stick that Medic recognised from the airport, but seemingly modded with cords and wires streaking out, and beckoned Heavy first to demonstrate. He gladly made his way to the front, grabbed the wand, and ghosted it over his body. Pauling began to say something but stopped herself, instead turning to write on the board ‘I or someone else will scan you, you will not be scanning yourselves. Except, I guess, Heavy.’

Heavy finished up, nodded to confirm no bugs, then walked under a similarly wiretapped metal scanning arch, which let him through with no issue. He nodded at Pauling again before pointing back toward the door they came from and departing to begin loading items from the van.

Pauling shook her head but crossed Heavy’s name off the board. She beckoned again, and this time Scout bounded up to her, grinning ear to ear. She handed the wand to Medic, and the boy’s face deflated like a sad balloon.

Chapter Text

Medic POV: (5:15:AM, November, Day 1)
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He felt security for the first time all morning, slicing through the muscle of the Soldier’s left thigh to pull out a shiny sliver of microchip, tossing it into his sharps bin, and sewing him back up. The Medigun was still being scanned, and so he had to do things the old-fashioned way, but Soldier didn’t mind. Medic wasn’t entirely sure he could feel anything below his collarbone.

The Pyro, scared of needles and exposing their skin, was last in line. Thankfully, after a scan from Miss Pauling and an all-clear form the arch, they were free to bound into the waiting area. The other mercs were loading approved cargo onto the plane as Heavy scanned remaining items, his huge hands currently delicately deconstructing Oksana to slide a tracking device from her barrel. He whispered at her in Russian, something that Medic couldn’t understand but he knew was a threat.

The last one through would be himself, as Pauling gave him the thumbs up to head to second check. He noticed the pile of items left to be packed; a pallet of BONK! Energy drinks, a wonky set of forged military medals, a set of picture books in a language none of them recognised (Pyro liked the pictures) and a cage full of white, cooing doves. Doves?

Medic almost cried out in joy; someone had remembered his doves! He shook his hands out in excitement, racing over to them, poking his finger through the bars to give Archimedes a well-deserved scratch under the chin. Heavy lifted the crate away from him apologetically and began to tediously scan every dove before depositing them back into their carrycase. Then he got to Archimedes.

A shrill BEEP emanated from the device at the point below Archimedes’ wing. Medic’s chest tightened. Heavy stiffened, running the wand over the point again, to be greeted with another beep. Someone had bugged his children.

Swelling with anger, Medic stormed over, inspecting Archimedes, lifting his wing and seeing a faint black tinge under his skin and feathers. After a calming breath, Medic prepared to cut the chip out. Having saved his doves from many an injury, he knew Archimedes would be fine, but internally he was panicking. This had crossed a line. Everyone seemed to know, falling solemn and silent at the first beep, waiting with bated breath for their Medic to close the sutures on the dove’s belly.

Wordlessly, carefully, but feeling sick, Medic lowered his baby back into the crate. Silently he gathered it up, ignoring Heavy’s grunt of exasperation at being left behind, and walked toward the plane. Pauling greeted him with a wave and helped him load it in.

Settling into a seat between Engineer and Heavy, across from the Scout, Sniper, and Pyro, Medic steeled himself for another long distance, this time with cold air stinging his lungs and the finally free chattering of an annoying Bostonian.

‘Miss P, what’s the deal? Where are we goin’? What’s happenin’?’ Scout’s voice rang out, causing flinching from everyone only hearing spoken word for the first time in twenty-four hours now.

‘Well, Scout, we have been compromised. We are no longer safe at Tuefort, fighting in the gravel wars. Someone wants us dead, and they’re coming a whole lot closer than anyone before them. We’re flying to Siberia for a while s-‘

‘WHAT!’ Soldier barked, indicting another round of flinching. ‘WE ARE NOT LEAVING OUR BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY TO GO LIVE AMONGST SOME COMMIES! I REFUSE IT! I WON’T DO IT! I WILL NEVER BETRAY LADY LIBERTY! I WILL NEVER BACKSTAB THE RED WHITE AND BLUE THAT RUNS THROUGH MY VEINS, THROUGH ALL OF US!’

‘-o we can stay with Heavy’s family. They live in quite the secluded area, so we will be safe until we can stifle this threat.’ Pauling ignored the crazed yelling of their resident American ™.

‘Aww, yeah! Vacation!’ Scout laughed. ‘Finally! I told ya we need more breaks, huh?’ He nudged Sniper, who flicked him a mildly pissed off look.

‘Is not vacation, is survival.’ Heavy spoke up, and all eyes fell on him. ‘Siberian wilderness is not for little baby men. You must be tough. It will be cold, rough, dangerous. Many, many risks. Frostbite, for one. Starvation, bear attacks, the chill, limited resources. Must be able to overcome.’ He leaned into Scout, who scrambled back only slightly. ‘Cannot run away screaming. Heavy has been fighting and killing mother bears since he was thirteen, for survival. Little Scout must understand this.’

Scout gulped, audibly. ‘O-kay, new topic.’

Chapter Text

Medic POV: (11:10:AM, November, Day 1)

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For the next six or so hours, Medic drifted in and out of consciousness, his only measure of the passing time the laughter and chatter of his fellow mercenaries, who seemed to have settled into this new adventure already. Of course, he did not expect to be quite literally carried out of his nice, warm bed (or in his case usually his cold hard desk) before sunrise, so his usual 1-am bedtime was working against him.

As the trip progressed, the air turned colder, and Medic felt himself begin to tense up. As cold as it was in Stuttgart, he had lived in America for the better part of ten years and was not prepared for the transition between the sweaty heat of New Mexico and the freezing temperatures of Europe.

‘Sheiße…’ He shivered, turning in his seat, pulling the starched white sleeves of his medical coat over his arms tighter in his half-asleep state. He missed the terrible, dusty hallways of the Tuefort base already. His mind drifted, imagining him back in his quarters on the rare event he went to bed at a normal hour. Soft blanket over his shoulder, pillows perfectly fluffed, rain pattering against his window and turning to steam in the South American heat.

An obnoxious chuckle from across the plane snapped Medic out of his fantasy. God forbid the poor man wanted one bit of rest! He opened one eye to stare pointedly at the Scout, who was looking right at him, giggling behind his hand.

‘Was ist es, Dummkopf?’ He huffed, shifting in his seat. The warmth of his dream still hadn’t faded, thank god, but he was anticipating the chill seeping back in. ‘Is there something on my face?’

‘Uh, yeah, Heavy’s shoulder!’ Scout laughed, and Medic squinted. Heavy’s shoulder? He looked beside him, and his brain registered what was happening: he was propped up against Heavy’s arm and chest, body tucked into his huge winter coat that swallowed his entire upper body. His side was pressed against Heavy’s for warmth. ‘You wanna snuggle in a bit closer there, sweetheart?’

Oh god. He must’ve drifted to lean on him during his sleep. Medic sat bolt upright, scowling at the giggling Bostonian across from him, and looked around the plane. Engie was politely looking away, whilst Demo was engrossed in his scrumpy, but the rest of the mercs were not-so-discreetly looking at the sleeping doctor. Oh god.

‘Sorry, Doktor, you were shivering. Could not get another coat from the back, so thought we could share, da? We will be there soon.’ Heavy gave his doctor a brief smile, and Medic adjusted his glasses on his nose, face still pink from embarrassment. Scout’s snickering was beginning to get to him.

‘Ahah, well! Dankeschoen, mine Freund. Frostbite is a serious condition.’ He cleared his throat and shot a look in Scout’s direction. ‘Fortunately, if any of us are afflicted, we have here a living cadaver to use for spare phalanges.’ That shut him up very fast.

Heavy didn’t move away from his touch, so neither did Medic. It was just a bit of extra warmth, after all. The last thing he wanted was to die on the plane.

Chapter Text

Medic POV: (1:PM, November, Day 1)
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Medic was starting to feel like cattle, being moved from vehicle to vehicle with no breaks. The transport was getting increasingly more decrepit as Miss Pauling was determined to keep the team out of reach of whatever lunatic was out to get them. It had been at least ten hours since Medic had woken up in that van, and he missed the dark, dirt-stained floor of the truck bed.

Currently, he stood shivering out the back of yet another truck, this time driven by Heavy who had decided to give Sniper a break. Pauling was passing out huge bags, packed to the brim with stuff, to each person. During the first truck ride they had taken upon arriving in Russia, they had banded together to fit everything into the duffels and backpacks Pauling had brought. Scout almost fell over under the weight of his bag.

Medic strapped a camping backpack tightly to himself, picking his medical satchel and dove cage out of the boot. Archimedes cooed, wings shivering.

‘Ach, Archimedes! You’re shaking, mein liebling!’ He looked around to try and spot any spare jackets; unfortunately, everyone was rugged up like they were trying to get the most out of packing limitations at the airport, with one to two jackets each. ‘Mein gott, what are we going to do? Huddle up, bitte!’ The doves pushed together, but they still weakly squawked in the cold.

‘Doktor, what is the matter?’ Medic jumped again, spinning around to see Heavy behind him strapping Sascha’s case onto the top of a camping pack. It was much harder to hear the giant man move when they weren’t cramped into a concrete box. ‘We must hurry if we want to get to house before night. There is nowhere to stop and sleep on Dzhugdzhur mountain, and it will get colder.’ He sniffed, pointing with his head over to the rest of the group. ‘Not sure Sniper, Scout, Engie will survive the night.’

‘Well, ah, it’s just that mein doves are very cold. They are much less capable of regulating body temperature than us, because they are so tiny. Are there any blankets in the front of the van?’

Heavy shook his head and wordlessly removed his jacket, unceremoniously draping it over the cage. ‘Heavy, nein! Nein, you will freeze!’ Medic tried to return to him the coat but Heavy shook his head. He motioned to the fleece long-sleeve he was wearing, his ushanka, his gloves.

‘Heavy will be okay, little birds will not. Walk is three hours at least, probably four. Birds will freeze. Heavy has done this hike in less layers. Will survive. Do not worry for me.’ He grinned again at the Medic, then in one swift movement, swung the backpack onto his shoulders and buckled it to his waist, before hefting two huge bags underneath his arms. ‘We go now.’

‘Danke, Herr Heavy. That is very kind of you.’ Medic sighed. ‘But if you start to get too cold, please take your coat back. I can revive my doves, but I do not think we could all carry you, and you are the only one who knows where we are going. Or even where we are.’ He leaned in to whisper, ‘I think Soldier doesn’t even know we’ve left America.’

Heavy laughed heartily and clapped Medic on his shoulder. ‘Okay, мой друг. I promise to you.’

‘Alright, schnell, schnell! Move out, dummkopfs!’ Medic strode forward, determined, calling out to the mercs behind him. ‘We have a long way to go!’

‘Err, Doktor?’ Heavy laughed. ‘That is wrong direction.’

Chapter Text

Medic POV: (1:30:PM, November, Day 1)
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‘Are we there yet?’ Scout whined. ‘We’ve been walking for daaays! I needa take a leak!’

‘It has been half an hour.’ Heavy huffed, trudging further uphill, trying to avoid Scout diving and grabbing onto his leg like a toddler, as he had been trying to do for the past twenty minutes.

‘Maybe you wouldn’t need a piss if you hadn’t drunk five bloody cans of soft drink, ya dingbat,’ Sniper piped in. ‘You know where piss comes from, champion?’

‘We can stop when you can’t walk anymore.’ Pauling was reading from a clipboard. ‘We’re making okay time, boys. If we reach the halfway mark in an hour we can take a quick break, unless you want to push until we get to the cabin. And Scout,’ The boy stopped in his tracks, halfway toward the thick foliage of the inner mountain, ‘If you must run off, tell someone and bring a buddy. Heavy said there’s a lot more hazards here than New Mexico.’

‘Hah, I can handle myself! I grew up in Boston! I had eight frickin’ brothers! I can take a ‘hazard’, Miss P!’ Scout boasted.

‘Does Boston have tigers?’ Heavy countered.

‘…Demoman, can you come with me when we stop?’

‘Aye, laddie, let’s get a move on then.’

Medic kept his mouth shut. The usually chatty practitioner was focused on keeping his breathing steady and trying not to think too hard about their current situation. He was about as fit as a man of fifty could be; however, a mix of age, weather and incline was making him feel faint. He thought about his poor doves; they would get so much whiplash, moving so abruptly.

Then his mind began to wander. He had never met Heavy’s family. Sure, Heavy was the most well-adjusted and normal mercenary Herbert had met in his career, aside from the impressive build and language barrier that made people tend to avoid him. Being his closest friend on the team and battlefield, they knew each other better than anyone. From their late night and early morning conversations, Medic knew he cared about his family more than anything else.

But what if his family was crazy? Love did strange things to people – the rose-tinted glasses of shared trauma and familial bonding could be more of a blindfold. Now, Medic had been called his fair share of synonyms of that very adjective, but what if these people were cannibals, or serial killers? What if they were violent, or nudists, or on some kind of extreme diet?

Or worse, what if his family was extremely normal? What if they were regular people, wary of blood and gore? What if they were prejudiced, like so many people are in this age? What if they fainted at hearing curse words, or seeing Soldier’s heads, or smelling Demo’s rancid alcohol breath? What if they were extremely religious?

‘Nice weather we’re havin’, hey, Doc?’ Engie fell into step beside his friend.

Medic gave an exaggerated shiver. ‘Nein, I feel like a seal stranded on a glacier!’ He sighed. ‘Though, a change in environment is exciting! I am interested to see how everyone reacts to a new place! And with so many animals that are expensive in the States just roaming around! Oh, the experiments available to me now…’

‘Well, I kinda agree with ya there, friend. Sure is nice to get out of Tuefort, even if it is ‘cuz of a death threat.’ Engie yawned. ‘Though I’m not sure that my Texan ass is gonna do all too well out here in the European frost. This is a far cry from the type of sun that could shuck and pop the corn straight off the stalk,’ he chuckled.

‘Yeah, mate, I get ya.’ Sniper surfaced on Engie’s other side. ‘On a good day back down under you could cook steak and eggs on the hood of a car! The old base was barely a shift from the outback, red dirt and all.’

‘Stuttgart could get very cold, so this should not be much of a challenge! Though it has been almost a decade since I was back there… I fear my body had only just adjusted to the New Mexico heat! Heavy looks as though he had never left Europe,’ Medic motioned to the man up ahead, making joyful small talk with Miss Pauling up the front as she visibly tried not to barf from the shift in altitude.
‘Mighty kind of our gentle giant to lend your birdies his jacket. Mate must be freezing his dick off.’ Sniper grinned, exchanging a look with Engineer.

‘Ja, it certainly was! Heavy has a unique affection for my birds, ha-ha. They like him almost as much as they like me, though of course I’m still their favourite!’

‘I think he has a ‘unique affection’ for more than just your birds, partner,’ Engie quipped. Medic tilted his head.

‘Well, yes, we have bonded far more than you all have with him. He’s quite the secluded man, after all,’ Medic looked at Engineer suspiciously. ‘What are you implying?’

‘No, nothin’,’ Engie grinned, ‘nothin’ at all. Of course, unless you’re readin’ somethin’ into it. I think that says more about you, though, friend.’ Sniper laughed, and Medic felt a blush begin to overtake his face.

‘I have no idea what you could be talking about,’ he insisted, before adding, ‘or why you are giggling like a bunch of schoolgirls.’

‘I think you know exactly what Cowboy here is saying. Come on, it’s a bit funny. Like the setup to a joke – the world’s most ripped and sensible Russian gunsman and the world’s most eccentric unlicenced German doctor become instant friends in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, New Mexico. The guys not exactly a teddy bear, mate, and he lets you rummage around in his guts like you’re looking for loose bloody change! Biggest man I’ve ever seen, and he acts like your demure housewife!’

‘Pshhh, he is not my housewife! He is merely… a good friend. Anyone worth their weight in Australium would let their friends experiment on them! Maybe that’s why we’re so close! And it’s not like he gets nothing out of our relationship; he gets companionship, advantage on the battlefield, access to my birds, my stash of alcohol. We’re a pair on and off the field, like Demo and Soldier!’ Medic defended himself.

‘Doc, he brings you the meals you miss, lets you read the books he brings from home, makes notes on your research, helps clean your lab and wash your laundry and make your bed. If I didn’t know any better, I’d bet you’d have to be at least courtin’ each other.’ Engie shrugged. ‘And there’s no purely heterosexual explanation fer the way Soldier and the Demoman are with one another, bless their hearts.’

‘Well, you do know better. He is just… very considerate.’

Were they right? Were he and Heavy ‘courting’ each other? Of course, he had considered a romantic relationship with Heavy before but had been too scared to inquire on his views about homosexuality. Though he knew Heavy would never hate someone based on their identity unless they identified as part of the BLU team, and he knew Heavy was about as far away from religious as a dead fish, the man’s intimidating stature made him wary of talking about such divisive and personal topics.

He doubted Heavy would be interested in him regardless of whether he was a homosexual or not. Heavy was strong, handsome, and moral, with a good education. He was a family man and a hard worker with an affinity for guns (of both kinds). He probably had every girl he met tripping on their own feet trying to get close to him – he wouldn’t go for a lunatic who worked with him, who knew all his quirks and flaws and vice versa.

‘Wait,’ Scout piped up from behind the group. ‘Doc doesn’t have a license?’

Chapter Text

Medic POV: (5:PM, November, Day 1)
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They were so close. They had to be.

The sun had begun to slowly descend toward the horizon line, casting a peachy glow over the icy grey sky. Scout has given up, and was currently piggy backing on Heavy, who already had four bags.

‘Is fine,’ He had laughed. ‘Heavy has three sisters, can handle a piggyback. Though, sisters have not been this small since maybe… sixteen.’

Scout had batted him across the head with his cap but was ultimately grateful for the break. Heavy warned him that if he told him to ‘giddy up horsey’ one more time he would be made to walk again.

Soldier and Demo were leaning on each other for support, babbling incoherently. Medic wondered if Soldier knew Demo had been speaking Scottish for the past half an hour.

Heavy abruptly stopped. The mercs looked to him, curious, as he slowly approached an inconspicuous tree and suddenly kicked it with all his might. The tree, however, didn’t break; the bark took a hit, but the dull sound Heavy’s foot had made in contact with it alluded to some inner structure.

‘This is signpost.’ Heavy grinned, then laughed giddily. ‘We are very close now! Is relieving.’

With a renewed energy, the mercs began to scramble behind Heavy as they trudged through thick woodland. They had all joined hands in a chain as not to lose anyone.

When Medic saw a wooden building ahead, he almost wept. Scout began to tear up too but insisted it was allergies. Heavy let him down and stopped the group before they properly approached.

‘I have ground rules.’ He said, sternly. ‘If not followed you will be used as kindling on next long, cold night. Understand?’

Eager to get inside somewhere warm, the group nodded.

‘Da, okay. First rule: Do not bother Mama. Heavy knows all of you are... eh… strange, and this is okay, but pretend you are normal person around Mama. That means no experiments,’ He eyed Medic, ‘No communism-talk,’ He looked at Soldier, ‘and no Jarate.’ He squinted especially at Sniper.

A murmur rose above the crowd. Heavy narrowed his eyes threateningly.
‘Understand??’ he demanded to a chorus of reluctant yeses.

‘Second rule: Leave sisters alone. No flirting, no experiments, no anything. If any of you do anything to them, Heavy will crush you like insect beneath his shoe. And third rule: do not do anything without telling Miss Pauling or me. Cannot go missing at time like this. Da?’

More confirmation from the RED team, and Heavy nodded, turned, and began to trek to the front of the cabin.

On further inspection, the house was extremely nice for where it was; huge, covered in a blanket of snow for camouflage, built from unmatched wood planks. There were two entire floors, and the door boasted nothing of value. It was obviously meant to look abandoned from outside, as if maybe someone very affluent had once lived here but was long since gone. Heavy approached first, knocking on the door three times exactly.

The house didn’t move. There was no sign of life, but Heavy tried again, before saying ‘привет?’ in a strong but hushed whisper. Suddenly, the sound of a metal latch sliding open cut through the icy chill, and the wooden door flung open. In a blur of blonde and white, a young girl leaps with the agility of a hare into Heavy’s arms, enveloping him in a hug that for anyone else would be bone-crushing.

‘Misha!!’ She exclaimed, grinning ear to ear. She was huge and muscular, the size of Engie, and donned a beanie and thick coat. She pressed rapid fire kisses to Heavy’s bald head between giggles and affectionate phrases in Russian.

Heavy unceremoniously dumped all the stuff he was carrying to hug her back, swinging her around with a hearty laugh before setting her down. As soon as her feet hit the floor, another girl, somehow taller than the last, dashed into his arms as well, exclaiming excitedly in Russian as well. Soon after, a third and somehow even taller woman emerged to join the group hug. The whole group looked like a set of nesting dolls.

Though it was mildly awkward for him, Medic had never seen such pure happiness on Heavy’s face, and his heart swelled with warmth. This display was worth the frostbite risk.

‘Team,’ Heavy announced, disbanding the hug. ‘These are my sisters! Yana,’ he motioned to the blonde, who moved her bangs away from her eyes and waved at the group with a shy ‘hallo!’,

‘Bronislava,’ the second girl, hair cut choppily to her chin and cheekbones chiselled like a Grecian god, nodded with a warm smile on her face,

‘and Zhanna!’ Zhanna, the tallest of the three, clasped her hands together in a gesture of anticipation, her black ponytail snaking over her broad shoulders. Each of his sisters looked like Heavy’s relatives, being the most superhuman-esque people Medic had seen outside of the comic books he read as a boy. Medic wondered what colour it would have been when Heavy had hair, as each of his sisters sported a different style and Medic doubted that they had access to dye in the wilderness of Siberia.

‘Nice to meet ya’ll, I’m Dell,’ Engineer took off his hat, bowed, and shook each of their hands in turn. ‘I’d love to introduce myself to ya’ll properly later, but could we get inside, and all settled in first?’

‘Da, of course. Come in.’ Heavy told his sisters something in Russian, and they stepped aside. The team finally collapsed in the entryway, dropping bags like ragdolls, except for Heavy, Engineer, and Soldier, who began moving things into rooms whilst the rest of their dramatic team kissed the ground and cried out in victory.

‘You are all very strange men,’ The tallest sister, Zhanna, observed them bluntly in a Russian accent even thicker than Heavy’s. ‘Misha is… generous, in talking of you.’

‘How did you find walk? Okay?’ Yana went around, handing blankets to the worst victims of the chill, smiling kindly. ‘Is not easy. Very impressive with time to get here.’

‘I can’t feel my legs…’ Scout complained, swaddled in his blanket like a flood victim.

Bronislava entered the room, passing around cups of steaming hot drink as Engie and Soldier came to sit with everyone else.

Chapter Text

Medic POV: (5:15:PM, November, Day 1)
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Once the initial haze of finally being in an indoor space after three and a half hours trudging through the killer Siberian snow, Medic peered around the space. The mercs were currently crashed in what appeared to be a living room, with a conversation pit in the centre of the room bordered by hand-made couches and crowned with a massive, crackling brick fireplace. This house was even bigger on the inside, Medic marvelled. Polished wooden floors and walls made the cabin look more like a vacation house rather than an emergency dwelling.

Photos adorned the walls, scribbled with small phrases in Cyrillic that Medic couldn’t quite read. Photos of a kind-eyed young couple, a woman with a bright smile and a man with a shy grin on his face, holding hands in front of a much more average dwelling in a bustling city. Photos of the woman, now much older, knitting on a chair in the room they were currently in. Photos of the couple with four children; a boy that couldn’t have been older than twelve, carrying a baby in his arm and holding the hand of a toddler girl with messy brown hair, standing next to a black-haired adolescent.

So many drawings, pictures, sketches of their family. Heavy smiling more than Medic had ever seen him in the years they had known each other. Even more intriguingly, photos of Heavy in his young adulthood with a healthy mop of brown hair and the spark missing behind his eyes.

Amidst these photographs were tapestries, crotchet and embroidered and macrame. Herbert figured that there wouldn’t be much else to do when you live in hiding away from most civilisation. His train of thought was broken by Bronislava offering him a mug, which he accepted graciously before peering into it. Plain black tea.

‘Dankeschoen, eh… Bronislava?’ He tried. He really wasn’t good with names.

‘Da, Bronislava. You are…?’ She responded, her stark features giving way to a welcoming grin.

‘Oh, forgive me. I’m the Medic,’ Herbert held his hand out to shake Bronislava’s, and her eyes widened for only a second before she clasped Medic in a firm and concise handshake.

‘You are Medic? Misha’s Doktor?’ Bronislava’s smile only widened, and Medic felt himself blushing at the turn of phrase. ‘He writes about you often! I have wished to meet you for some time! You are partners on battlefield, yes? Thank you for looking out for him!’

‘Ahaha, oh, it’s nothing! We work together, he protects me as much as I do him, aha. Ha...’ Medic paused, before sheepishly asking, ‘how often does he write about me?’

‘Every letter!’ She cheerily nodded. ‘You always make interesting story, and even if you do not, he writes of you anyway. Last letter he wrote asked for Mama’s Shchi recipe to make for you because you had cold.’

He remembered that. Two months ago, they had just moved base, and the sudden relocation had really triggered Medic’s immune system. Unfortunately, the Medigun was not made to heal illness, so Medic was bedridden for a week.

Every Saturday on base was mail day, but Heavy only got mail from his family once a month due to distance. He must have paid priority shipping, though, because that Saturday whilst Medic was confined to his room, Heavy had an air of excitement and happiness about him uncharacteristic for any regular Saturday. He walked past Medic’s door clutching a worn envelope, in the direction of the kitchen.

When he woke Medic up two hours later, he had on a rag tied around his head like a line cook and an apron on that said KISS THE CHEF that the mercs had pitched in to buy for him last Smissmass. He loved that apron and used any excuse to wear it, a reminder of the closeness of his team – his family away from home. Heavy was holding a big bowl of some kind of hearty soup, with diced cabbage, potato, and beef, that would’ve smelled heavenly if Medic’s sinuses weren’t clogged.

‘Doktor, try this,’ Heavy had said, holding a spoonful out to the semi-conscious Medic. ‘Will make you feel better.’ He had eagerly steadied the spoon with his hand before quickly eating the sample.

It was extremely well made, as usual with Heavy’s cooking, and very delicious, warming his stomach and soul instantly. He wrenched the bowl from Heavy with some ferocity, making the weapons expert laugh, before he began to scarf it down like he hadn’t eaten in years.

‘Heavy, this is incredible! As is all your cooking, liebling.’ Medic paused to cough. ‘Danke, mein Schatz. This is very kind of you! Where did you get this recipe?’

‘Is soup, Shchi. Whenever I was sick in Siberia, Mama made this for me. It always makes me feel better so I thought maybe would also work for you.’

‘I feel so much better already, thank you, bärchen!’ Medic thought for a moment. ‘Oh, dear, did I miss dinner? Is that why you’re bringing me this? Have I missed out on a second helping?’

‘Eh… No,’ Heavy looked slightly nervous, scratching the back of his neck. ‘Shchi is… just for you. Not for rest of team. The rest is in fridge in your lab, when you want it. I made pasta for everyone else with leftover ingredients.’

‘Just… just for…’ Medic looked down into his bowl, suddenly a hurricane of emotion – gratitude, disbelief, and a mix of nerves and dread he couldn’t quite place. He wanted to cry. It was stupid, crying over a bowl of soup, but he was currently so sick he couldn’t stand and hadn’t talked to anyone in over two days – whenever Heavy came to check on him, he was asleep. There was also the small detail of this being perhaps the nicest thing anyone had done for him since Engie had helped build the Medigun.

‘Doktor, are you alright?’ Heavy crouched beside his bed, reaching up with a massive hand to swipe away a tear that was beginning to run down his cheek. ‘You can have pasta too, is plenty in kitchen. Dinner is in ten minutes. I can bring bowl in here for you, if you still cannot walk?’

‘Nein, Heavy, get away!’ Medic barked, a bit too aggressively, and Heavy immediately moved away from him. ‘Ach, I did not mean that. I just don’t want you getting sick because of me.’

Heavy laughed, a sound that almost rattled the unstable, cheaply built walls of the Tuefort base. ‘Do not worry about me getting sick, Doktor. I will be fine! I have immune system like a tank. And if I get sick, then your misery will have some company, da?’

That night, Heavy brought his dinner into Medic’s room. They ate together, and for once it was Heavy telling the funny anecdotes, for the most part. Medic’s head still swam with the flu, but the Shchi had boosted his spirits – whether that was the soup or the chef, well, why not both? It was endearing to listen to Heavy stumble over his English phrases. Medic had never seen the man talk for so long, uninterrupted, and he felt like he had been missing something in his life until that moment.

Naturally, Heavy woke up sick the next day, just as Medic had finally recovered enough to get back to work. Medic had just scolded him, then laughed at him and pumped him full of medicines (not the advised technique, but oh well), sending him on his way to go have some bedrest of his own.

‘Ah, yes, well! Your mother is a very talented woman.’ Medic grinned, and Bronislava nodded in thanks. ‘Where is she, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Misha is in with her now, telling her about team and sleeping arrangement. You will see her tomorrow morning, after good night sleep.’

‘Misha… is that his name? Heavy?’

Bronislava’s eyes suddenly blazed with anger. ‘What? What do you call him? Heavy?’ She grabbed Herbert by the shoulders, and he let out a little gasp of surprise at the impulsivity. ‘Misha is not HEAVY, he is STRONG. BIG difference. Could use you as a dumbbell!’

‘No, no, no,’ Medic panicked. ‘No, not ‘heavy’! It’s a nickname because he’s our Heavy Weapons specialist. I am Medic, we call that one Scout,’ He pointed at Jeremy, ‘and so on. I would never insult him like that, I promise!’

Bronislava eyed him with suspicion but let go of him. ‘…Okay, I am sorry. I do not like when people are mean to my brother.’

‘I don’t like it either,’ Medic smiled, and the tension in the air lifted as Bronislava smiled back.

Chapter Text

Medic POV: (7:30:PM, November, Day 1)
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The rooms had been assigned, and everyone was currently in the living room eating leftover rations before they prepared to fall into hibernation. Miss Pauling would have her own room, fashioned from an old office Heavy had built for himself during his university days, across the hall from his own room in case she had any problems or updates.

Soldier was to share a room with Demoman, in one of the spare bedrooms in the place. The basement had been cleared to act as both a room for Engie and Pyro but also a workshop for the Texan, much to his approval. Sniper, wanting to keep look-out like he did on the old base, was given the attic, with Scout there to keep him company (Sniper was not particularly stoked on this). The Spy, thankfully for himself, got to stay in another of the spare rooms, and Medic was to sleep in Heavy’s room in a separate bed.

Heavy hadn’t come down yet, valiantly offering to set up beds and blankets for everyone, and as everyone started to drift to their assigned dwellings Medic grabbed a cup of cooked instant noodles and began to ascend the staircase.

It was easy to tell Heavy’s room – Yana’s door had a sign on it, Zhanna’s a macrame tapestry, Bronislava’s a hat-hook holding a ushanka and a scarf, and Heavy’s mothers had a crotchet doily hanging from the handle. Heavy’s door was blank, and the spare rooms were marked for the other merc’s convenience.

Herbert pushed into the room with the noodles, and Heavy was currently folding back the blanket on Medic assumed was his bed – a mattress on the floor for now. The room was only partially what Medic was expecting – wooden flooring and walls, an intricately patterned rug, a huge wooden desk with a battery-powered lamp, and an oak bedside table covered in candles. Bookshelves lined walls with what could only be hundreds of books, majority in Russian but some English, German, and Spanish as well. Weighty velvet curtains sat on metal rods above polished windows, and the walls were covered in posters, pinned insects, and one diploma written in Cyrillic. Medic’s doves looked at home in this serene space, already perching on bookcases, dressers, and curtain rods. Archimedes specifically sat on Heavy’s shoulder.

‘So, Mishka,’ Medic grinned, finally secure in his knowledge of Heavy’s name. He hadn’t known how to ask before but learning it naturally seemed acceptable. Except Heavy froze in place and whipped around so fast he almost (almost!) lost his balance. Medic felt the colour drain from his face.

‘Oh Gott, is that not your name? Did I misremember? What did I just call you?’ Medic said in horror, and Heavy burst into laughter.

‘Haha! Doktor, ha, you are close! My name is Mikhail,’ He pointed to his diploma, which clearly said his name. Medic felt stupid as blush crawled its way up his ears. ‘Family calls me Misha. Is nickname. Mishka is similar, but it is like… it is not family nickname, or friend nickname. It is like…’ The man paused. ‘If we were, eh, together, you would call me this nickname. Is romantic nickname - What is it called? A pet name, I think? It means ‘little bear’.’

The blush overtook his whole face, and Heavy thundered out another hearty laugh at this sight. ‘If you want, you can call me Misha. I can’t believe we do not know each other’s names! How long has it been, five years? More?’

‘Well, we aren’t supposed to know each other’s names, really,’ Medic scratched his chin. ‘In usual circumstances, we wouldn’t work together for more than a year or so, but considering how… strange, our job is, we will likely be working together for a while. And we are quite close, so…’ He offered a smile. ‘My name is Herbert. Herbert Ludwig.’

Heav- Mikhail’s eyes widened slightly, but he settled back into cleaning up the room. ‘Herbert suits you, Doktor. Is good name.’ He stopped again and turned to face Medic with a decisive look on his face. ‘You do not have to call me Misha, also. Heavy is still ok. I assume the same goes for you. Would you rather Herbert, or Doktor?’

‘Either is fine, bärchen,’ Medic assured him, and moved toward Heavy with the noodles. ‘I made you some dinner, though it is not great… but I did manage to wrestle the last pack of noodles out of Scout’s greedy little hands.’ Heavy laughed at this and took the noodles with a grateful nod. ‘Ah, by the way, Schatz, where is the bathroom?’

Chapter Text

Medic POV: (8:PM, November, Day 1)
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After being directed down the hall and to the right, Medic entered the quaintly decorated space. A few bars of soap, shampoo, and conditioner, as well as a bottle of pine-cranberry lotion sat on the shelf outside the combination shower-bath, but Medic had his own hygiene kit. His shower was warm and relaxing, and when he returned to the room he was freshly clean and wearing about three jumpers. The main bed was empty when he entered the bedroom. He assumed that Heavy had left to talk to one of his sisters and walked around to his mattress to find the man lying on it, reading.

‘Misha?’

He looked up, still looking a bit surprised by the sudden use of his nickname. ‘Yes, Doktor?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Reading. Why? Do you need something?’

‘You’re on the floor! Why not your bed?’

‘I thought you would want the proper bed. Is good for your back.’

‘It’s your bed!’

‘You are my guest. I will be fine here until I can get Engineer to help me make another bedframe, da?’

‘I’d be fine on the floor, liebling.’

‘I would worry about you.’

Medic felt a stirring in his chest. ‘Well, that’s very… very kind of you, Misha. You always take such good care of me,’ Medic was stunned. Heavy always went out of his way for other people, especially his Doktor. Maybe it was his childhood, growing up the oldest of four with three younger sisters and a traumatised mother, his father dying when he was young. Medic always felt as if he wasn’t doing as much as he could for Heavy in return; the man took care of the whole team, cooked for them, let Medic experiment on him constantly, etc.

Heavy turned back to his book with a smile, and Medic slipped into his covers, feeling confidence begin to build in his resolve. ‘What if we just shared the proper bed? It would be big enough for us both, and that way you could get a good night’s rest, and you wouldn’t have to worry for me.’

Misha faced him again and chuckled a bit at his offer. ‘I will be okay down here, but thank you, Herbert.’

‘I would feel awful making you sleep on the floor.’

‘You do not have to. I want to sleep here.’ Heavy reached over and blew out his reading candle. ‘Good night, Doktor. Please try and sleep.’

Gott, that man is stubborn, Medic thought. He couldn’t let him take the bachelor pad special while he slept atop a real bedframe – he would have to be more creative and play on the man’s selflessness to try and get him to take the better bed. Though his cheeks flushed at the notion of sharing a bed Heavy, he reasoned that he would wait till Misha was asleep and slip onto the mattress. The Siberian winter chill seeped through his blankets and clothing, freezing his bones.

‘Ah, Heavy, do we have any more blankets, bitte?’ He knew that they didn’t. With the houses population going from four to fourteen overnight, every doona, sheet and towel was in use. Nevertheless, Heavy got up and left the room to check. Taking this chance, Medic crawled out of his current sleeping situation and rolled onto the mattress. Victory.

When Heavy re-entered the room, he was confused. ‘Medic?’ He peered around until he spotted the man on the floor, and he huffed out a laugh. ‘This is silly, Doktor. You are grown man.’

‘So are you! Just take the bed,’ Medic pleaded, and he turned away from the other in finality. What he didn’t expect is to be picked up by the man ten seconds later. Medic clawed at the mattress, trying to tether himself to the springs, but Heavy was just too strong. The unlicenced practitioner was unceremoniously dumped back onto his original bed.

Last resort time. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to let this go. He felt so spoiled and ungrateful, coming into someone else’s house and taking their bed. Of course, with any other person this would likely not be an issue considering who else he knew (see Soldier), but not with Heavy, the man who was so silently helpful and selfless to everyone around him.

‘It’s quite cold in here, isn’t it?’ Medic whispered into the darkness. It wasn’t entirely a lie; he was freezing his ass off, but it was more of a setup.

He heard Heavy roll over in his bed toward him. ‘What can I do?’

Here goes. With a nervous gulp, Medic said, ‘Could you come sleep up here, bitte? It would be good to have some more body heat.’ Heavy was silent, hesitant, and Medic could feel his reluctance. ‘Unless that would make you uncomfortable,’ He added. Oh god, was this weird? He would never want to pressure Heavy into proximity – is that how he saw this? Did he somehow know that Herbert was a homosexual and think this was an elaborate ploy (which it was not – Medic would never pursue someone without confirmation that there was at least a sliver of a chance)?

His overthinking was broken by Heavy’s voice. ‘Da, okay. I just don’t want to take up too much space.’ He felt the bed sink beside him as Misha sat down, slowly swinging his legs under the blanket and lying down next to the doctor. Instantly, Medic no longer felt as cold – whether that was because of his closeness to the weapons specialist, his burning embarrassment and guilt, or the swarm of butterflies in his stomach.

‘Tomorrow I will go into the village and buy some more blankets for everyone,’ Heavy told him. ‘But this is okay for tonight.’

‘Danke, Misha.’ Medic thanked him, settling into the mattress with a smile. ‘Just for tonight.’

Chapter Text

Medic POV: (9:AM, November, Day 2)
______

The morning came faster than Herbert would have liked, the coldly lit sun peeking through the half-drawn curtains of the Heavy’s bedroom.

At first, Medic was confused; the comfy bed, chilly air and bright white sunlight was unfamiliar after years sleeping on Mann. Co issued memory foam mattresses in the red-dirt deserts of New Mexico. Sitting up, he fixed his rounded glasses atop his hooked nose, finding himself tethered to the bed by a heavy object over his stomach.

Not a heavy object – it was the actual Heavy, his arm drawn across the Medic’s waist holding him closer to himself then Medic remembered them being when he had fallen asleep. A dove sat perched on the man’s muscular shoulder, pecking at his bald head gently and making him twitch in his sleep. Medic stifled a laugh.

This wasn’t too bad, he supposed. Usually avoidant of physical touch, Herbert never minded it from Heavy – he was a gentle giant off the battlefield, which sustained a level of comfort between them that he didn’t feel with the other borderline insane people on his team. A man can only zap you with a handshake-buzzer so many times before you start restricting the number of times you let him actually shake your hand, and a Pyro can only singe your coat tails so many times before they get shoved out of the bubble of your personal space.

He settled back down, preferring to let Misha sleep for as long as possible before they both had to wake up and brave their new reality – that they were currently on the run from an apparently omnipresent stalker that wanted to turn them into permanent, exclusive versions of Soldier’s heads.

After a second dove decided to use Heavy’s musculature as a perch, the man finally awoke, rolling his shoulders with a yawn and scaring the birds back onto the curtain rods. The pair met each other’s eyes, Heavy’s sleepy smile against Medic’s adoring grin.

‘Good morning, Doktor. Did you sleep okay?’

‘More than okay, bärchen. It almost makes up for the four-hour hike we took yesterday,’ Medic grumbled, and Heavy laughed.

‘I told you. If you had slept on the mattress-’

‘We are not getting into this again! It all worked out in the end, didn’t it?’ Heavy shrugged in agreement.

A sudden knock on the door made Heavy panic, as he removed himself from the doctor and put distance between them, pressing himself flat to the bed. Strange. Yana poked her head into the room. ‘Good morning, Doktor! Tell Misha breakfast is in twenty minutes. We will see both of you then?’

‘Ja, Danke, Yana.’ The girl left just as soon as she came, leaving the pair in awkward silence.

‘Am sorry about the arm,’ Heavy said nervously. ‘You were shivering. Didn’t want you to freeze.’

‘It’s okay, Heavy, you don’t need to explain yourself. I asked you to come up here in the first place, didn’t I?’ The Russian reluctantly nodded. ‘Sehr gut. Now come, we need to join the others downstairs.’

Chapter Text

HEAVY POV: (9:15:AM, November, Day 1)

Even after being away for over five years, Heavy felt instantly at home the second he had crossed the threshold of his front door.

Sure, it wasn’t quite the same – his sisters were much older than he remembered, his mother was now frailer, and he had to share his childhood home with seven strange men and a pyromaniac (and Miss Pauling, but she was the opposite of an issue, being a self-sufficient and polite woman.)

And yes, he was sharing his bedroom (and apparently his bed) with his EXTREMELY charming and handsome best friend, Herbert Ludwig, after 40-something years of sleeping alone. But that was out of necessity, he told himself, as he lay still, trying not to breathe and disturb the sleeping doctor during the night. Trying his hardest not to think about the moment they had crossed the barrier between the snow and the wood of his front porch.

When Yana had greeted him at the door, no longer the 15-year-old girl she was in his memory, Heavy had begun a slow spiral that had lasted the past day. As he busied himself with house chores – fluffing cushions, hauling mattresses, unpacking clothes – he couldn’t help but sink deeper into a pit of mild despair.

He had missed so much of his sisters young adulthood. His job was necessary for the money to keep his family afloat but his unforgiving contract had caused him to lose the opportunity to watch them grow up – he had missed the chance to celebrate with them on their graduation, the chance to take them into town for their first official drink when they turned 18 (alcohol was a luxury when you were in the middle of nowhere), the chance to help them progress their language studies.

What would happen to him when he was unneeded by his family? His team? His friends?

After his father’s death, Heavy had always been active; he had to fight for his family, protect his sisters, teach them how to fend for themselves, financially support them. He had helped build this house, he had hunted for their food, he had learnt how to braid their hair through trial-and-error. And he was glad how self-sufficient his family had become – but what use does he have now?

He doesn’t have the idle and productive comfort of the battlefield, the convenient distraction of university, the feeling of pride from killing dinner at night and smuggling sacks of rice and flour from the town in the morning. All he knew was helping others – and now they could help themselves perfectly well. So Heavy did what he could, fluffing cushions, hauling mattresses, unpacking clothes, just to feel helpful.

When Medic had asked him to keep him warm in the night, Heavy saw through it. Medic was pitying him, humouring him. Not only was Misha’s role as provider lost in the transition, so was his status as a strong man who could take care of himself. A night on the floor was nothing to him. Why did Herbert want him to take the bed so bad? Was he really so pathetic?
He had relented after a while when he had heard his doktor’s teeth chattering in the dark, but he had hesitated, not wanting to worsen his sleep by adding his immense weight and presence. He didn’t want to do anything that could make him less helpful than he already had become.

Of course, he wasn’t mad at others for this shift, not at all. He wasn’t emasculated, or upset, or mournful. He was just struggling to think how he could fit into a world where his original role had changed so differently.

For example, on a regular morning his household, Heavy would wake before the sun to make breakfast for his family, usually kasha with honey and muesli, and black tea or powdered-milk coffee depending on what they had in the cupboard.

However, this morning was quite different. The hearty chatter from the kitchen hit Heavy before the smell of the orange juice and eggs that he was so familiar with from the base did. When he turned the corner, instead of the lonely call of birds in the early morning accompanied with a dull grey sky casting shadow across the countertops, the sun beamed upon the biggest mess he had ever seen, even by RED Team standards.

Engie stood at the windowsill fanning smoke from a burnt, black… something… into the atmosphere (Heavy wondered if he knew not everywhere had smoke detectors) as Pyro sprayed the steaming dish with their extinguisher (how they had found one already, Heavy was unsure). Sniper was pacing back and forth with his signature scowl and his hand curled around a mug of black coffee, holding his jaw with the other.

Pancake mix was splattered against the wooden cabin walls and flour dusted every surface as Scout panicked, trying to use water to put out a grease fire that had erupted from the pan over the gas cooker, inadvertently creating more steam. He tried to grab the pan by the handle, but it was too hot, and with a yelp Scout dropped the scorching metal onto Spy’s foot, who cursed up a storm in French and began to hop around clutching his burnt appendage. The rest of the mercs and Heavy’s sisters cowered in the corner of the kitchen away from the chaos.

Heavy rushed into the kitchen, pushing Spy over with an /oof/, and grabbed a tea towel from the metal rack above the oven, wrapping it around his massive hand and grabbing the saucepan from the floor. With urgency, he ran over to the window where Engie and Pyro were and threw the pan out and into the snow, and he shoved the dish of charcoal on the ‘sill into it too, despite the protests of the latter group. Heavy then scooped some snow from the outside of the windowsill and smoothed it over the sizzling ring of black on the wooden floor where the blistering pan was dropped to eradicate risk of the whole house going up in flames.

When he stood, the whole team were looking sheepishly at him; Scout covered in flour like he had been breaded, Sniper with a huge purple bruise on his face, Spy with a sour twinge in his cheek.

Heavy sighed. Maybe he was still needed for something.
‘Go clean up,’ Heavy broke the silence, ‘and Scout is not allowed in kitchen anymore.’ Scout cringed but nodded his head.
‘Spy, Sniper, and Pyro are not either.’ The Frenchman and the Gunman began to protest but Heavy stopped them with an authoritative stare. ‘Do not argue with me. Now go and I will make breakfast. Everyone into living room.’

The group filed out relatively easily, with a few grumbles of indignation and embarrassment. Heavy tied his KISS THE COOK apron around his stomach, moved to the pantry, and grabbed the oats and buckwheat. His house was now a little more similar than he remembered, but this time the birdsong he was so familiar with was replaced by the comforting sound of family.

Chapter Text

Sniper POV: (8:35:AM, November, Day 2)

This morning was going about as well as it could have been, all things considered, thought Mick Mundy as he sipped at his mug of black coffee. He leaned against a wooden countertop on his elbows, watching Scout attempt to make a breakfast of substance; though Heavy’s sisters had each volunteered, Scout had decided he wanted to ‘impress’ them, and Soldier refused to eat anything made by someone who wasn’t an American.

Engie was on lookout, watching Scout’s chaos, with Soldier beside him, and Pauling sat with everyone else at the kitchen table. The group made small talk, the language barrier between the girls and the mercs apparent, but manoeuvrable, nonetheless. Sniper tore open a sugar-packet with his teeth and poured it into his drink.

Not only was Scout moving faster than a speeding bullet, but he was also chattering like a broken radio, anecdotes and cooking hacks that simply had to be false. ‘So, then I just went WHAM! And I socked him and his stupid moustache in the face! Aw, man, it was awesome, Solly. Anyway, that’s why I was kicked outta school, but who needs the eighth grade? I’ve got this awesome job an’ I getta blow people up all day! I don’t think Johnny McCallister’s doin’ anything nearly that cool! I bet he hasn’t even seen anyone explode inta blood!’

‘I am going to go tell Misha and the Doktor that breakfast will be soon,’ Yana announced, standing and giving the group a nod of farewell before ascending the stairs. The chatter resumed as soon as she had left.

Soldier had somehow smuggled a carton of eggs and a few litres of orange juice throughout the long trip from Tuefort to Russia, again sticking by his strictly red-white-and-blue diet. Scout was shoving who-knows-what into ovens and over gas cook-tops, cracking and pouring and mixing and cutting up a storm. He had just poured oil over a pan that sat over a small fire when he moved toward the counter to grab the pancake batter that rested in a bowl behind where Sniper lazed.

He reached his arms under the gunman’s armpits to get the batter, almost shoving his face into his chest. He was still yapping to Soldier, not even looking what he was doing, until he turned back and noticed the scruffy Australian between him and the bowl. Sniper raised an eyebrow, and Scout trailed off, meeting Mick’s eyes for a second, his cheeks red from the sudden proximity – after all, it couldn’t be the heat, of which there was none – and freezing still.

‘You alright, city boy?’ Sniper asked, a grin crossing his stubbly face. Scout began to stutter but was rudely interrupted by the saucepan catching flame and starting a grease fire.

‘Ah, shit!’ Scout grabbed the pancake batter and, in a panic, threw it toward the raging fire. It missed entirely and splattered against the wall, and in the process, he knocked his hard skull against Sniper’s jaw, causing him to grunt in pain and rub the sore bone. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’

‘Aw, piss.’ Sniper groaned, preferring to begin pacing the kitchen instead of helping the fire. Scout knocked the bag of flour over making his way to the sink, grabbing a glass jug full of water and beginning to pour it on the fire, making no proper progress into putting it out. Just then, smoke began to billow out from the oven in small streams, and Pyro noticed immediately, pulling their eyes from the beautiful ember before them. They dashed toward the fumes and wrenched a brick of charcoal in a baking dish from the oven with their rubber gloves and ran over to the windowsill to rest it outside the flammable wooden house. Engie hurried after them, helping fan the smog out into the atmosphere.

Just then, Sniper heard the steps creak as someone descended them to come downstairs. Heavy, he thought. Shit. The kitchen looked worse than the warzones they regularly fought in – he reckoned it could give even Dustbowl a run for its money – and half the mercs were currently running around like headless chooks.

Sure enough, Heavy turned the corner with Medic trailing behind him, pyjamas still on and eyes full of sleep, Medic’s glasses threatening to tip off of his nose where they were haphazardly balanced. The second he saw the chaos raging in his house, Scout accidentally dropped a burning pan on Spy’s foot, eliciting a shriek of profanity from the older gentleman. Heavy kicked into gear, and within seconds he had evacuated all of the problem items (other than Scout) unceremoniously into the outside snow. Sniper had a feeling he wouldn’t be allowed back in the kitchen anytime soon.

Chapter Text

Heavy POV: (9:45:AM, November, Day 2)

The excitement of the almost-house-fire had died down by now, as everyone in the house started in on their breakfast. Heavy had made kasha, as usual, and put out honey, cheese, muesli, jam, canned fruit, sugar, anything he could think of on the table. He used some of the eggs to make apple cinnamon muffins using tinned apple, and the other half to make omelettes. A jug of coffee sat alongside a teapot full of black tea, a pitcher of water and two litres of orange juice. It was an ok job for twenty minutes, and it would be enough to feed everyone before he could go to the village in the day. Just now, the mercs were fighting over who was responsible enough to come with him into town, though Heavy already had a list of people in his head.

‘I promise I won’t run off!’ Scout complained, stirring oats and honey together in his bowl. ‘I’ll stay super close, and I’ll be super quiet!’

‘Huddah ha!!’ Pyro argued, pointing at Scout accusatorily as if to say “why should he get to go and not me?”

‘Neither of you will come today. Little Scout will not cope with walk or carrying supplies and Pyro will freak out townspeople with mask.’ Heavy said through a mouthful of fruit cocktail. Both mercs slumped into their chairs like children, arms folded and heads downtrodden. Pyro reached out and took the smoothie that Heavy had made specially for them (frozen fruit, ice and orange juice – Pyro never ate in front of the others because they refused to take off their mask, so Heavy or Engie made sure they always had some sort of drink to keep them fed) and slurped it extra loud in defiance.

‘So, who’re you planning on takin’ then, big guy?’ Engie asked, pouring himself some coffee as he spoke and proceeding to dump in two heaping spoonsful of sugar.

‘Need two or three people who will do okay in cold and can carry many supplies. We will get blankets, food, material for clothing, new filters for water and tools. Any other things needed will be by request.’

‘Well, as long as I have a few jackets on me, I can hold a lotta stuff no problem, friend! I’ll be your pack mule,’ Engie offered with a grin. ‘Now, I know you wanted me to build your bedframe, but I can do that when we get back. I can also help you buy some stuff to get a lil’ garden set up; I was talkin’ to Py here and they said we should make an indoor planter for cherry tomata’s and other thingamajigs so we can have some fresh food and I agree.’

Heavy considered this, then nodded. ‘Da, you can come. Good idea. I was thinking also to take Spy and Demoman, maybe Sniper, Pauling or Doktor too.’ He asked his sister to pass the jam in Russian, and Spy moved before she could pass it to him, handing the condiment across the table. Heavy forgot he knew so many languages; it was not a big surprise he would know Russian but nonetheless he felt his eyebrows raise momentarily.

‘I am choosing Spy because he can speak some Russian, and Demoman because he is very strong and without Soldier, he is sensible. I think Pauling should stay here, take care of house and monitor team members left here. And I am not sure how much Sniper could carry or how he would do in Siberian wilderness for two-hour hike down the other side of mountain, but I think he could make it.’ Heavy explained as he poured a generous dollop of raspberry preserve onto his kasha. ‘And Doktor should stay behind too.’

‘Why me, mein Freund? I used to live in Stuttgart; next to you, I am the most adjusted to the cold, not to mention I have the second most muscle volume after you in the team! I would do well in a materials expedition; I carried that huge crate of doves up the entire mountain yesterday!’ Medic asked, cocking his head to the left inquisitively, a gesture that he did without realising that made Heavy’s stomach do a flip in an… extremely platonic way. His brows were furrowed in confusion, and he was chewing on the side of his cheek in consideration.

‘There is room off the side of living room that we use to cut up bears for meat, thought you could use it as lab when we are not preparing food.’ Heavy smiled. Medic’s eyes widened in shock, a sinister (normal for Herbert) smile spreading across his face, slicing it in two. ‘I thought you could set up today when we are out getting supplies. I will show you where it is after breakfast.’

‘Really??’ Medic breathed, still in disbelief. ‘Oh, gott, Heavy! I don’t know what to say, I- Thank you, mein Schatz!’ His smile shifted into something warmer, more grateful, and Heavy’s stomach started on a machine-cycle, a blizzard of butterflies. ‘In return, I will refrain from testing my more… adventurous, ha, experiments on your sisters. Speaking of experiments, can I request some sharpening and sterilising equipment from the village? I need to do some maintenance on my instruments before I can continue my research.’

‘What do you do?’ Bronislava asked, confused. ‘I thought that you are field medic – what could you do in lab here?’

‘I do a variety of things,’ Said the Medic, displaying his more cheshire-cat smile now. ‘I heal, I operate, I make plans for devices, I do, eh, unusual procedures. I replaced your Misha’s heart once, and everyone else on the team, and they can now connect to my equipment and become invincible! Pretty cool, ja? Anyway, I wanted to do some tests on Soldier… I just need a slice of his brain and the ball of his left foot.’

Bronislava turned to her brother, a concerned and stubborn wrinkle creasing her forehead between her eyebrows. ‘It’s okay, he mostly knows what he’s doing,’ Heavy assured her in Russian, eliciting a snort from Spy and a small cough from Sniper. ‘And, regardless, he knows that you, Yana, and Zhanna are off limits for surgery. It’ll be alright.’

‘So,’ Miss Pauling chimed in. ‘Who exactly is going, and who is staying behind, and can we make an itemized list of what we need so I can factor it into the budget? We have quite a bit of money if we pool together everything we have, which we kind of have to do if we want to survive, but we still need to convert it to Rubles and factor in how much things actually cost here. We need to meticulously monitor everything to minimize risk of any of us going missing or starving, etcetera, etcetera.’

She tucked a traitorous strand of her black hair behind her ear, a tell-tale sign of her overthinking and clinical-mindedness that Heavy had picked up over many years of working alongside her; as it was, most of the mercs were too drunk, lazy, or busy to help Pauling with her duties when she visited the Tuefort base, and it was usually Heavy, Engie and Pyro doing most of the heavy lifting once Scout had tired himself out. Heavy didn’t talk much, especially at the start of his employment when his English was still very rusty, so him and Miss Pauling had fallen into a routine quite quickly.

Once or twice a month, Miss Pauling would come to audit the base, the storage, warehouse supplies, weaponry, kitchen supplies, rations and budget. She would have to make note of every box, every t-shirt, every spoon and fork. She had to inspect every gun and pocket-knife and grenade for quality control, interview every mercenary to determine whether they were a threat to RED and confidentiality (the only criteria was that they weren’t at risk of sharing company secrets – the contract clearly stated that mental problems were expected for this role).

The first time she had come down to the base, to settle the mercenaries in and do a preliminary check of the premises to see what materials had to be ordered and what could be re-used from the previous RED team, she had almost (key word: almost) quit on the spot when she had seen the huge iron shelves of the garage, stacked with boxes of all shapes and sizes up to the ceiling. But Flo Pauling was a hardy woman, and so she rolled up her mid-length sleeves and pinned up her ebony hair with a pen from her clipboard and climbed the Mann. Co issued rusty ladder on the wall.

‘Hello?’ A voice from the doorway almost spooked her into falling, and she scrambled to catch her foot on the lower grate, pushing herself back up to sit in a shelf. She faced the door to see that it was just the Heavy Weapons specialist, an intimidating man in his thirties or forties, with a thick accent and a permanent look of blunt anger. She had just shown him to his room minutes earlier with little more than a wave and a nearly indistinguishable ‘thank you.’

‘Ah, Mikhail. It’s just you.’ She let out a half-breath, still wary of this strange and threatening man. ‘I’m just doing maintenance. Did you need something?’

‘Just call me Heavy, like rest of team.’ Heavy replied, descending the stairs into the lower ground of the warehouse. ‘You are doing inventory? Uh, finding boxes?’

‘Yes, inventory. Mann Co mandates that I have to make note of all the supplies we have here. Uh, I mean, I have to check what we have.’ Flo gave him a polite smile and turned back to the cardboard crates beside her. ‘I’ll be out of your hair- um, I mean, I’ll be gone soon, Heavy.’

‘Does Miss Pauling want help?’ Heavy asked, walking up to the shelves and putting his hands on his hips. ‘I could write or count or move the things.’

Flo considered her options; spend the next five hours canvassing each room in the sizeable Tuefort base or let this guy she didn’t know help her out a bit. She had hired him; she knew his background, his strengths, everything there was to know. He was still new to America, and he was very VERY muscular – she knew better than to underestimate him based on a bit of belly. ‘Yes, okay, Heavy. Can you make note of everything I tell you? Do you know how to tally? I’ll tell you what we have, and you can mark it on the sheet.’ He gave her a brisk nod, picking up the clipboard and pulling a pen from his jean pocket.

From there the pair fell into a bit of a schedule; every time she visited, Heavy would have gathered all the weapons for inspection the day before, Engie would audit the kitchen, and Pyro would check all the bedrooms for anything not up-to-code. This cut down Flo’s work time by at LEAST two hours; of course, she had to double-check every nook and cranny, but delegating her busywork to the more reliable members of team RED freed up time to hang around the base, eat some food, and relax a little. Heavy would help her with the warehouse inspection, and Pauling found he was surprisingly easy to talk to.

She would ramble about whatever she had on her mind, and Heavy would listen stoically, focused on the task at hand as she called out item after item down the rows of stocked shelves. He would offer advice, practice his English, give his input at times, but most of the time he was just a really good listener. Occasionally Scout, Sniper or one of the other mercs would join their conversations; whoever wasn’t currently helping out or otherwise occupied. Scout’s attention span was too short to last more than 30 minutes and 10 rejections, so more often than not it would be just Flo and Misha, working in a practiced sync. Maybe that’s why, when they had gotten the death threat, Pauling had come to him first; he was the most trustworthy and level-headed person on the team.

‘We can discuss after breakfast,’ Heavy answered the woman, taking a sip of his black tea, finishing off his cup. ‘I will wash up now, and you can ask Zhanna about prices; she has been to town the most recently, and you can ask Yana about supplies because she does the organising. After I am done, we can talk people, da?’ He stood and began collecting empty plates up to a chorus of thank you’s and grunts of acknowledgement from his team.

‘Yes, thank you, Heavy.’ She smiled gratefully.

‘Come with me, Miss Pauling.’ Zhanna stood up; she towered easily over 80% of the team, startling them a bit with her sudden speech. ‘I will help you. Come to living room so we can focus.’

‘Let’s go then! Thank you again for breakfast, Heavy,’ She trailed after Zhanna, waving as she left the room.

‘Yer too nice, laddie,’ Demoman said to Heavy as he tried to take Demo’s scrumpy, mistaking it for syrup. ‘Far too nice. Have ye got a thing for Pauling, eh?’ He wiggled his eyebrows, and Heavy simply laughed.

‘No, no, not at all. Just work friends. Do not like anyone being stressed,’ Heavy thought about this. Why didn’t he like Miss Pauling like that? They talked a lot when she visited, she trusted him and vice versa; but Heavy just didn’t see her in that way. He thought of her as more like another one of his sisters.

‘Yeah, you better not have the hots for her, big guy! I got dibs!’ Scout puffed out his chest and earned a playful thwack from Sniper.

‘You can’t have ‘dibs’ on a sheila, Scout.’ Sniper shook his head. ‘She’s her own bloody person. Ya gotta let her do what she wants, mate.’

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’ Scout rolled his eyes.

‘YOU HAVE TO TREAT WOMEN WITH RESPECT! THAT’S WHAT SEPERATES THIS COUNTRY FROM THE REST OF THE WORLD – WE TAKE GOOD CARE OF OUR LADIES OF LIBERTY! IF A WOMAN WANTS TO DO SOMETHING, LET HER! IT’S A FREE DAMN COUNTRY, PRIVATE!’ Soldier barked.

‘You are in Russia.’ Bronislava deadpanned.

Medic managed to block his ears in time, and he said to her, ‘Eheh, best not to mention this to Herr Soldier. He might go a bit cuckoo if he realises we aren’t in the states.’

Heavy shook his head with a huffed sigh and walked out to the kitchen with the dishware, preparing to scrub the daylights out of the huge pile of bowls and plates.

‘Er, Misha? Can you show me where the lab space is before you get into cleaning, bitte? I want to investigate,’ Medic popped his head in the door, and Heavy had to oblige; anything for his Doktor.

Chapter Text

Heavy POV: (10:30:AM, November, Day 2)

‘… Anyway, that’s what I was doing last time I was in Russia. Never been to Siberia, though, until now. My Aussie ass isn’t built for this bloody-’

‘HEAVY!’ A voice floated through the sharp winter air. Mikhail stopped in his tracks, as did his companions; they all turned to face back toward the house in time to see a rather frantic-looking Medic trip over his own feet running to catch up to them.

‘Aw, hell.’ Sniper sighed. ‘I thought you said we’re leavin him behind.’

‘We are,’ Heavy confirmed, confused at why the doctor was currently rocketing toward them at speeds unheard of for a man of fifty. The gunman let out a grunt of annoyance as the expedition team began to ascend the icy mountain to meet the poor doctor halfway.

Miss Pauling had helped the team develop a game plan; Heavy was to take Engineer, Sniper, Bronislava and Spy into town, and the other mercs and Misha’s relatives were to stay behind and help her organise the house properly, with Zhanna helping gather game and wood in the forest and Yana locating household materials.

Heavy currently had a checklist neatly tucked into the pocket of his winter coat outlining the essentials that he needed to buy, cheap staples like rice, flour, and salt, as well as a variety of spices, blankets, a toolkit and some gardening equipment. Of course, some special requests had been scrawled in glitter-pen, illegible cursive and blunt pencil; plush toys and lemonade and alcohol and a new baseball. In his other pocket was every cent the team could scrape together from their pay checks and Pauling’s emergency fund which he would need to get converted into Rubles. Was he forgetting anything?

‘Heavy, wait,’ Medic puffed as his sprint stuttered into a jog, and he braced himself on his knees to hopefully avoid the inevitable ker-plunk into the thick permafrost. ‘I… Miss Pauling, she said… she didn’t tell me… tell me you’d left until after…’

‘What is wrong?’ Heavy fussed over his doctor, pushing a massive hand on his shoulder to keep him upright and accidentally forcing a heaving gasp out of his comrade. He sensed the rest of his group gathering at his sides. ‘Is everyone okay?’

‘Yes, yes, hah, we’re all fine, ooh, mein Freund. I just forgot to give you, ah, my list. Hand out, bitte,’ The unlicenced doctor panted out the words, lungs still choked by the sting of the icy atmosphere, and he very unceremoniously dropped a crumpled piece of paper into the Heavy’s palm. Turning it over, he could see many items delicately written on the back; scalpels, forceps, and other medical equipment, all manner of drugs and needles and a request for something called an ‘autoklav’ with a small note of ‘I couldn’t remember the English word, but I think it is similar’ and a drawing of what looked like a slow-cooker.

Bronislava peered over her brother’s gargantuan shoulder. ‘Those are medical things. Where are we going to find in Dzhigda? I don’t think there is doctor supply – maybe we find an actual doctor, and bargain with him to buy his tools?’

‘I will figure it out,’ Heavy decided, de-creasing the list before tucking it alongside the first.

Engineer, over Mikhail’s other side, let out a whistle of consideration. ‘Y’know, If worse comes to worse, doc, I can probably solder you a mean set a’ little knives. Just gotta get some metals and some alloy. Though I’m not too sure I can make ya’ one a’ them pots you got there. Autoklav… Autoclave?’

‘Oh, ja, that’s what it is! Autoclave! Danke, Herr Engineer. Of course, that is only an if-you-can; it is not necessary for my work, but it would be useful for the health of my instruments and my… patients, heh, because it is for sterilisation.’

‘When did you ever bozher with patient health-and-safety before, Medic?’ Spy looked the German up and down, scowling around the cigarette nested between his lips. He still insisted on wearing his balaclava for warmth, but there was a hint of greying stubble peeking out from the mouth-window.

‘Oh, pshh,’ Medic hissed, waving his hand in dismissal. ‘Since we no longer have respawn, dummkopf! Anyway, I need to get back before I freeze to death. You will try to get everything, yes?’
‘Da, I will see what I can do,’ Heavy smiled at his best friend warmly and found himself met with a pair of gloved arms briefly wrapped around his neck in a grateful hug. He instinctively wrapped his arms around the doctor’s waist, feeling a flush crawl across his face.

‘Oh, danke, mein Bärchen! Have a safe trip, everyone!’ Medic grinned, and just as soon as the embrace had begun, it ended, leaving Heavy stood frozen with the ghost of blush mixed with his frostbitten cheeks. With a final and enthusiastic wave, he turned and ascended the mountain once more. As Mikhail came to his senses, he heard muffled snickering and rather confident laughter coming from the team’s Sniper and Spy, the former immediately avoiding the piercing gaze of the Russian when he turned toward the noise.

‘Does he really call you that? Bärchen?’ Spy chuckled, cigarette precariously hanging from his mouth. ‘Do you even know what it means?’

Heavy met the Frenchman with a serious cadence, readjusting his scarf and resting his hands on his hips like a defiant teenager or a stern parent. ‘Doktor calls me a lot of things, I don’t notice it. Why?’

‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ Sniper grinned, nudging Spy and starting to walk back down the mountain; Heavy kept forgetting how many languages Sniper knew, too. He’d been around the globe on different odd jobs and was proficient in German and Russian. If he was blushing before, by now Heavy was fully pink like a slice of pork belly; not only was this nickname obviously something embarrassing, but his teammates still thought that he was so dumb that he wouldn’t pick up on their joking.

‘What? What is it?’ Heavy moved in front of the group, stopping them with his arms crossed as he glared down at them in demand. ‘I know you are having an inside joke. What does it mean?’

Sniper gulped, raising his hands in surrender. ‘Alright, alright, mate. It means, like, little bear or teddy bear. ‘s just funny because, y’know…’ He motioned up and down. ‘You’re not quite a little bear, are ya? Ha! Also, it’s, like, a romantic name too.’ Spy began to laugh again, but this time Heavy could hear the rest of the expedition group laugh along with him. He was surely red now; his ears burned, and his heartbeat quickened in humiliation.

‘We need to go now, before midday,’ He managed to get out, before turning heel quickly and marching down the snowy slopes of the Dzhugdzhur. The team scrambled to keep up with him, all laughing at his embarrassment and shame.

‘What else does he call you? ‘Liebling’? ‘Schatz’? ‘Kuschelbär’?’ Sniper snorted, crossing in front of the giant and running backward so he could grin smugly in his face. If this kept up, Heavy thought he might die, or maybe at least have to take his scarf off as his face felt like he was leaning into the hot air coming out of an oven – especially because he recognised some of those nicknames from Medic’s usual roster, even if he didn’t know what they meant.

‘Knuddelbär? Großer? Schönste?’ Spy joined in with a cackle that could only be described as pure evil.

‘He has nicknames for everyone,’ Heavy deflected, picking at the hem of his glove (god he was sweating – he had never sweated outside in Siberia before. Maybe embarrassment was a good survival tactic. Next time he was stranded in the woods he’d just think super hard about this very moment, because he felt like he was being grilled on high heat.)

‘Not like that, big guy. Sure, he calls us his ‘freunds’, but never anything more. Maybe ‘Herr’ or ‘Frau’ or ‘Junge’ with Scout, but nothin’ like what he says to you.’ Engineer piped in. Was everyone going to have their say about this?

‘I think this is cute, that you have relationship like this.’ Bronislava giggled (now Heavy was officially considering flinging himself down the mountain.) ‘This is not common with men, da? When I was in school, my friends called each other names like this but boys thought it was weird. Is it different for men when they are in war?’

Spy slyly took a draw of his cigarette, blowing out a controlled cloud of fine and expensive smoke. ‘Not all of them,’ He smirked. ‘Just the ones who don’t have wives waiting for them at home.’

This was the most humiliating conversation Heavy had ever been the subject of. ‘It is not like that,’ He chuckled, shaking his head and hoping that this came across as convincing rather than giddily in denial. ‘He is just a very affectionate man. If you knew him better, you would know how this. He talks the same to his doves. We have been best friends for many years, so we are close. Nothing more.’ Did he even believe that? Yes. He had to. There was no way that anything else was going on between them – was there?

He doubted that Medic was even into men. Of course, if he was, Heavy had no problem with it; after the atrocities he had witnessed and even committed throughout his life he had no negativity left to give toward something as pure and harmless as homosexuality and love. In the gulag, he had met many gay people who were just like him. Nothing humanises a group faster than being in the same boat, and luckily, he had never given in to homophobic propaganda, as he was a very intelligent, well-educated and open-minded man. Especially since Heavy assumed he was somewhat a homosexual himself, but not quite; he found women and men equally attractive.

He also doubted Medic would even be attracted to him; a balding, fat man in his forties that works as a trained assassin, who doesn’t even speak well in English? What a joke. What could a handsome, well-built, perfectly styled man like Medic even see in him? That was what he was really laughing about. Only in the dreams that Heavy refused to acknowledge in the morning, the ones filled with the smells of coffee, the sound of cooing doves and the feeling of sunlight and skin on skin, would that happen.

And anyway, he saw what happened to homosexuals – social ostracization, religious discrimination, imprisonment and violence and so much suffering just for the right to love. He would never admit to the feelings that swirled in the pit of his stomach when he saw his coworker push his glasses up his hooked nose, or down his mug of coffee in one fell gulp, or grin in that terrifying way that made him seem like he had three rows of teeth.

‘Ah, it’s okay, big fella, we’re only just ruffling your feathers. You’re whatever you say you are,’ Sniper snickered. Heavy shot him a death glare that shut him up real quick, and sped up a bit to avoid getting stuck in whatever inane and vaguely gibberish-y conversation his squadron of idiots would be cooking up about this newfound bargaining chip of information.

----
Btw:
Liebling = Darling/Favourite
Schatz = treasure
Kuschelbär = cuddly-bear
Knuddelbär = cuddle bear
Großer = big/large
Schönste = most beautiful

Chapter Text

Heavy POV: (12:00:AM, November, Day 2)

Flour, rice, salt. Flour, rice, salt.
A canvas rucksack crumpled between Mikhail’s huge fingers. Bronislava was breathing too heavy, peering over his shoulder, laughing too loud at Sniper’s mediocre jokes.
Flour, rice, salt.

He wished the other mercs were even a fraction more interested in actually gathering materials than they were in laughing and swaying around like they were drunk – at least Engineer was trying his best, but he was the only one of the group that couldn’t read Cyrillic, so he was struggling a bit. Flour, rice… what was the third thing?

‘Aw, what, is that a pub? Can we go grab a few bevvys?’ Sniper chuckled, elbowing Heavy in the shoulder.

Heavy responded with a slightly pissed-off grunt, giving him a more forceful elbow back as he wrestled the shopping list from his pocket. ‘Once we get groceries, Bronislava can supervise, and I can find Doktor’s things.’

‘Oww, okay, mate. Calm down. I’ll go for spices and veg,’ Sniper scowled, disappearing into the aisles of the general store.
‘I’ll go get the gardenin’ and buildin’ tools, if someone comes with me to read the labels,’ Engineer offered and was soon similarly led away by Bronislava. That left Heavy and Spy to get the blankets, staple foods, and special requests.

Spy slid into step next to him as if his feet were covered in oil, gliding silently and smoothly across the floor as he always did, carding through sacks of grain and lentils like he was flipping through magazines at a newsstand. ‘I take it you aren’t a big fan of stores, Heavy? Come to think of it, you never were very talkative during grocery trips back at Tuefort,’ He mused, selecting a kilogram bag of plain flour from the shelf and with some effort placing it in his own carry bag.

‘No, too loud and cramped and stale. No fresh air.’ Heavy replied, keeping conversation short. He was still recovering from the group humiliation session he had endured an hour-and-a-bit ago and, despite Spy being one of only three people in his team that spoke Russian, most of the pair’s conversations related to books and the weather on the occasion Heavy would join Spy in his smoking-room post-match. ‘I am also still suffering with… нарушение суточного ритма? What is it in English?’

Spy smiled. ‘Circadian Rhythm Disorder? I assume you mean jetlag,’ and he pulled another bag of salt for purchase. ‘And I understand that. Though it must be nice being back in Siberia, yes? If only because of family and familiarity. You seemed a bit… down, for a few months. I hope this change will help with that, Heavy.’

‘Down? What do you mean?’ Heavy turned his head to face the Frenchman as he scooped rice into a sack. ‘And when did you start worrying about others?’

Surprised laughter. ‘Well, I suppose it’s true that I’m not… known for my sentimentality, but I notice everything. You also happen to be one of the more tolerable men in the gaggle of idiots and miscreants that I have to work with, especially when you aren’t being persuaded into ridiculous schemes by the rest of them. This past, say, four months, you’ve become a bit dull, I’ve observed. Monotonous. Wake up, eat, kill some unexplained doppelgangers of your friends, sleep. Your spark has faded, mon ami. You are such a beacon of stoicism for everyone else, it’s unusual to see you so reserved.’

Heavy felt his face flush, not because of embarrassment like earlier that day, but with the fuzzy heat of guilt and shame. He had barely noticed it himself, the change in his demeanour. It started small; he took a few minutes longer to get out of bed on workdays, his footsteps grew heavier with effort, his brain became a bit foggier, and he seemed a bit more tired no matter how long he slept. There wasn’t any one thing that caused it, but gradually, Heavy felt himself become slower, sinking deeper into the earth like he was walking on a decline of quicksand. His chest felt thick with disgrace.

How did Spy even pick up on that? Heavy thought a lot of his lifestyle changes could be attributed to old age; earlier bedtimes, waking up later, moving slower, mental block and the like. Sweat ran a thick trail down the back of his jumper. He was getting a bit disillusioned, he supposed; robotically going through the same motions day after day.
Mikhail had always been a worrier, first out of necessity and now out of habit, and his fears seemed to grow every day until they took over his waking mind; fears of being left behind, unneeded, unloved, wasting his life away in a tin-can in the desert thousands of miles away from his family. He regretted missing out on so many experiences in his youth. He never used his PhD, he had only had one girlfriend (and that was in his twenties), and he had no prospects. He was a lonely man who spent his time staring at the popcorn ceiling of his shoebox bedroom into the early hours of the morning wishing he had someone, anyone, to keep him company in those moments, dreaming of an unreachable homeland and distant family.

He felt already better after a night and a bit back with his family. Of course, he considered RED his family-away-from-home, but his flesh and blood family were the reason he was even a mercenary to begin with. He missed Yana’s snorting laugh, the photos on the walls, the jars of mysterious jams with the labels scratched off by age. However, Heavy could still sense the sinking feeling of stress and monotony weighing him down, a permanent pile of stones in his stomach.

Heavy answered simply, ‘I am just… thinking, lately,’ tying the bag of rice at the top with cord and putting it in the shopping-basket. ‘About many things. Is not anything serious. I will be okay, but… thank you. For worrying for me.’ He met the Spy’s sharp, hazel eyes, and offered a warm smile, which was quickly returned as the Frenchman let out an inaudible held breath, sinking his shoulders as tension left his muscles.

‘I am glad to hear, mon ami.’ Spy dipped into his jacket-pocket, flipping his cigarette case into his palm with precision and sliding one of the cancer-sticks into his thin lips. ‘And tell no one we had this conversation. I can’t have my reputation sunk to the same level as some cry-baby fool like the Scout,’ He shuddered as he lit up with a lighter that seemed to appear from nowhere. Heavy gave him a hearty laugh and a brief nod.

‘I can find the rest of the items in this store, Heavy. You should go, try to find the surgical items your maniacal beau requested of you.’ Spy smirked. ‘I will wrangle the rest of the grown children we are babysitting and make sure they do not get too drunk in the meantime.’

Heavy turned red in the face. ‘Okay, this sounds like good plan.’ He dug most of the rubles out of his pocket and handed them to the Frenchman. ‘I will meet you all at bar after. And… Doktor is not ‘beau’. Or maniacal.’ He wanted to die again when Spy laughed.

‘Why, Mikhail, I never mentioned our dear Medic. Though it’s very telling that when you hear ‘beau’…’ Heavy, now fully red again, rolled his eyes and exited as quickly as possible.

Walking the snowy streets of Dzhigda, Heavy felt at peace; birdsong, the calming lull of hushed chatter in his mothertongue, a soothing blanket of snow over every surface. He scanned every storefront, looking for anything vaguely medical, and he searched his jacket for Medic’s list. When he finally found it, he pulled it out of his pocket and another scrap of paper floated out and onto the ground; when he picked it up and turned it over, he noticed that it was another request-list which read, in Miss Pauling’s unmistakeable chicken-scratch:

‘BEER AND CIGARETTES!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

Chapter Text

APPLE UPDATE LOG 1:
THURSDAY, 23rd OCTOBER, 2025

Hey gang!!!
Its been a while… a few weeks for sure…
Im terribly sorry!!!
The next chapter will be a bit longer yet! I have a lot going on rn 
Im trying to get it done as fast as possible, but I also want to start spending more time refining my chapters into something I’m truly happy with. I’ve missed spelling errors and made continuity mistakes before and I wish to rectify this.

So where have I been? Great question! I’m still in school, and the final term started recently, so its taking up a lot of my time – not to mention im a theatre student (who could’ve guessed) and im currently head of costumes for my class (again, who could’ve guessed) and the show is in two weeks. Most of my time has been costumes lately. To put this into perspective, I have to assemble costumes for 3 ½ stories for a cast of 27 people. I’ve had some help recently from some friends and whilst my class is being super sweet and kind and cooperative, it’s a huge undertaking for one person (me) to be sourcing and putting together outfits for everyone for half the segments. And some cast members have multiple costume changes per story. Including me!! Im opening the whole show and I have like a 30second costume change on stage in blackout so. Pray for me?

This costume stuff is also exclusively during school hours (save online shopping) so ive been getting to school an hour early every day for a while and also it’s taking up a ton of my breaks and after-school free periods. Jinkies! The other classes heads of costume are awesome though and as tiring as it is it’s been a fun and really worthwhile experience.

Also I have a social life (new to me – ive only made serious friends very recently and im still adjusting to having people who want to spend time with me) and a ton of birthdays coming up so that’s my whole weekends for a bit and my weekdays making gifts…

And… schoolwork…. Art class…. Mathematics…. Boo!

Unfortunately, this means my writing will take way longer. I have a cocktail of mental health issues and disabilities which cause me to tire out really quickly, and I try to keep going for as long as possible but sometimes it gets to around 9-10 pm and im dead asleep (sometimes even 4pm but shhhh) especially with earlier wakeup times.

I’m also going through a bit of writers block which is sad because I love this fic but my brain is fighting me abt it. I’m not happy with how its turning out and im unsure of some empty scraps of the story I haven’t thought of yet. Im gonna push through though!!!

So this post is somewhat of an announcement; not of a hiatus, but me saying ‘please bear with me!’

I’ll try to post every 2 weeks!! (consider this a chapter – so countdown from now)

In other news….

I GOT A TUMBLR!!! YAY
Its under pinkapple-danish (my first account got unlawfully banned because I spamliked too much heavymedc fanart) and it has this same pfp. Follow me!!!! If you dare…. (it has no posts so far lmao)

To say thank you for sticking with me, I wanted to give you guys something else: a very loose map of the next few chapters! Who’s pov it is, where is it set, what occurs ect. Have a look!
(SPOILERS FOR THE NEXT CHAPTERS!!!!!! IF U DON’T WANT THEN SKIP!!!!)

Chapter 18:
• Sniper POV
• Bar scene
• Bronislava, Spy, Sniper and Engie drink + talk about Heavy
• Sniper flashback (?) to an interaction with heavy (friendship!!!)
Chapter 19:
• Heavy POV
• Medical supply warehouse
• Either buys tools/beats a guy up + steals them
• Finds a small trinket for medic
• Buys for him
• Meets others at bar
• They go back
Chapter 20:
• Medic POV
• The others come back
• Pyro is painting the sister’s nails and they convince Bronya + Misha to join them
• Medic is carving into soldier doing some freak shit
• Engie goes + builds them a bed
Chapter 21:
• Heavy POV
• Rooftop
• w/ miss pauling!!
• They drink and have a chat about work, life, romance
• Flipped dynamic – heavy asks pauling for advice (medic)!!
• Pauling maybe comes out to him?
• Pauling tells heavy that medic is in love with him
• Heavy doesn’t believe her
• They smoke
• Heavy goes back down to go to bed
• Medic scolds him for smoking (cancer)
• Asks to sleep in the same bed as him perhaps
Chapter 22:
• Medic gets out of bed to get water
• Finds Mama in the kitchen
• She makes him tea and they chat
• Medic gets sad abt his own mum
• Cry
• Misha cuddles him

And that’s all ive planned ahead so far!!!!!
Again im so sorry for the wait! Im going as fast as I can! Eek!

See you next chapter! Happy scream fortress!

- ‧˚꒰🐾Apple ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

Chapter Text

i have the flu

update: got tested and not only do i have Influenza A i ALSO have covid... right bang on exam block and the theatre perfromances ive been dedicating the past month to, which i now can't perform in...

Chapter Text

Sniper POV: (1:00:PM, November, Day 2)

‘Over here, thanks,’ Mick called out in Russian to the stoic and confused-looking waiter currently balancing 3 pints of beer and a glass of red wine on a single metal tray. The group was about two rounds in – save the Spy, who was still nursing his first Merlot and awaiting his next. Bronislava had been slamming back shots of vodka like she had trained for it but had thrown in the towel eventually when Spy had reprimanded her and was now laughing giddily into a cup of lukewarm water.

Though he had zoned out around the fifteen-minute mark, he knew Engineer was telling one of his old anecdotes again from back when he got his professional start out in Texas. Probably the one about how he used to have to do repairs for his local laundromat, Sniper guessed, and Bronislava seemed to be enjoying it. Even Spy was in an okay mood; Sniper heard him huff in amusement at one of Engie’s bad jokes.

Mick nodded in appreciation as he helped the server slide the drinks onto their booth-table, grasping his hand around the new cup of homebrew he had ordered for pennies and taking a deep sip. It tasted foul. Perfect. The Камин looked like a nice enough place from the outside, and sure enough it was; true to its name the building was cozy and warm, fire crackling in a centre hearth and heavy velvet curtains over the frozen-over windows, the patrons laughing heartily with flushed rosy cheeks and wide smiles (that last one was the effect of the alcohol).

‘So, Bronny, while he’s not here,’ Sniper slid into a lull in the conversation, ‘Give us the dirt on Heavy. The guy barely talks to us!’ He defended as Bronislava shot him a glare. ‘I wanna know more about him! I don’t think he’s as tough as he looks.'

‘Mm, no, Misha is a big teddy bear.’ Bronislava laughed. ‘He is gentle giant. Like egg – hard on outside, soft and gooey on inside. But don’t tell him I said that.’ She gulped down the last dregs of her water and wiped her mouth on her wrist.

‘Misha?’ Engie asked, cocking his head in question.

‘Misha, Mikhail. You call him Heavy.’ She paused for a moment, scratching her chin in thought, blinking slowly in the haze of alcohol and indecision. ‘What do you want to know?’

Sniper thought about this as he swirled his glass around on its cork coaster. ‘Well, what’s he like when he’s here? In Tuefort, he’s quite the intimidating fella on and off the field,’ He cocked his head in remembrance. ‘Barely says a word, really. He’s a great cook, I’ll give him that, and a better tank.’

‘No, no, Misha is like bird – always chatting and chittering. Maybe is different in English, but in Russian he has a lot to say. He is big fan of words. He has a phD in literature, you know. Very smart man. I am lucky to have him as a brother.’

‘What kind of literature?’ Engie piped in, now very interested. His love of learning always kicked in when the conversation turned toward education. ‘I have one in good old Victorian writing – Shakespeare, Poe, all that ruckus.’

Bronislava grinned. ‘Russian literature, but he can read Russian, German, English and Latin, and a little Ukrainian. Not a lot to do when you are stuck in middle of Dzhugdzhur mountain. Though speaking is much, much harder. English is stupid language. Why is there so many words? So many meanings? I do not get it. In Russia we are straight to point – English needs little meaningless cushion words between important ones.’

‘I wouldn’t expect the guy to be a big reader,’ Sniper raised his eyebrows at this new information.

‘Heavy reads all of the time.’ Spy finally contributed to the conversation. ‘But you are always in your little caravan, and you do not see it. We have good discussions, Mikhail and I, about all manner of things. He is quite the intellectual when you even the playing field with a bit of Russian language knowledge.’

Sniper rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, yeah, enough of the dogpiling. I get it, I’ll hang out with you rugrats more often.’ Mick took another sip of his warming beer, and suddenly he thought to ask another question:

‘Has Heavy ever had any girlfriends?’

Bronislava laughed as Engie spat whatever he was drinking in a spray across the floor beside him and Spy choked on his mouthful of Merlot. ‘Why do you wish to know?’

‘I’m morbidly curious! I’d ask the same about any of my teammates. I have asked the same about all of my teammates, actually, but Heavy is the one of the only ones resistant to my questions, the cheeky bugger. Now tell me! I wanna know what romance could go so wrong a man would shutter himself in a desert shack for something called the ‘Gravel Wars’ in the prime of his bloody life! Well, his middle age.’

‘Well,’ she began, ‘He has had one partner. She was very nice woman, beautiful red hair and strong jaw. Big hands for making pastries. She worked bakery near Misha’s college. They date for a year or two, but they got separated by gulag and when Misha escapes, she has moved into forest with a girlfriend and does not wish to date again. He also had brief romance with girl in his class in high school that did not last. I only know that because he keeps poetry journal.’

‘Well, that’s not very climactic. So he hasn’t had a girlfriend for thirty years?’ Sniper grimaced. ‘That fucking reeks. Poor guy.’

Spy slyly raised a too-manicured eyebrow under his balaclava. ‘And when was your last relationship, bushman?’

‘Aw, get off it, spook! I’m a busy man!’ Sniper sourly grimaced at this jab.

Bronislava shrugged. ‘He is happy by himself, I think, buried in books, baking, poems. Has always liked reading and writing about romance, but do not think he wants it himself. Seems much happier at job with you all, especially Doktor.’

‘He’s a big ball a’ sunshine with the doc, isn’t he?’ Engie commented. ‘Gosh, makes me jealous sometimes. Though I guess it aint uncommon to find a friendship like that when you’re in service, huh? You hear stories about that camaraderie schtick all the time; men dyin’ side by side, holding hands, more like brothers than friends.’

Bronislava chuckled. ‘Oh, do war-brothers often sleep in same bed?’ She earned yet another spit-take from her audience of mercenaries.

‘What do you mean, the same bed? I helped Mikhail set that room up! There were two mattresses!’ Spy gawked.

‘Well,’ She started, ‘Yana told me when she woke them, they were in bed together; and Heavy was startled by her, hiding behind Doktor. Is very strange for Misha to be embarrassed,’ She pondered this for a moment. ‘But second mattress has no frame. They are very old men. Maybe they are being sensible. Bedframe is good for back.’

Sniper smirked. ‘Maybe,’ he chuckled. ‘Or maybe we’ve found the reason Heavy’s so happy without a lady friend.’

‘And the reason he gets so uptight when we joke about his relationship with the doc,’ Engie mused.

Bronislava looked confused at this. ‘And the reason he’s so content living in our cozy little Tuefort desert-shed. Similar reasons to why his ex-amour moved to the forest with her girlfriend, I would assume,’ Spy hinted at the woman, taking a long, slow, finishing sip of his glass.

‘Oh,’ Bronislava said finally, snapping her fingers. ‘You are saying my brother is homosexual!’

Sniper couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the bluntness of her statement; in combination with the looks of horror on their companions faces and the relative silence of the moment, it was too perfect a situation; a tableau, like Da Vinci’s The Last Supper; like every Smissmass nativity set that Australian mothers set upon their teak coffee-tables in the warmer months.
Her eyes hardened as she glanced around the table, suddenly more serious. ‘Is a problem for any of you?’ She was met with shaking heads across the board; half out of genuine acceptance (Sniper himself was an equal opportunist when it came to love, and he assumed the same was true for the Spook; and Engie had a big heart full of good old Texan tenderness) and half out of fear that this immense woman would beat the living daylights out of anyone who didn’t respect her older brother. ‘Good, because neither do I.’

Engie sighed. ‘I just hope he soon realises it too,’ He said, finishing off his bottle. ‘Poor fella’s been lonely for too long, and while he’s got plenty of arrows in his quiver, he aint the sharpest knife in the kitchen-drawer. Someone’s gotta give him a good old shove, I tell ya. Maybe it’s the doc, y’know? He sure as hell isn’t gonna make the first move.’

‘So, what, you want us to play matchmaker with grown men? Push them together and make them kiss like children’s dolls?’ Spy asked in disdain.

‘No, no, not matchmaker, per se.’ Sniper chimed in. ‘It doesn’t have to be matchmaker, more like dominoes, I reckon. Give the Medic a push in the right direction and watch the little plastic tiles fall, fall, fall into place.’ He mimed this with his fingers, making tchk-tchk-tchk noises with his teeth as he mimicked the gamepieces clicking towards eachother and finally falling into a loveheart pattern. ‘For the good of the big guy, of course.’

Spy sat back in his chair, fingers curling around the neck of a new glass of vino. ‘But who? And how? And this is not me volunteering,’ he held up a hand, ‘just being nosy. It is my job, you know.’

‘It could be any of us! Engie’s the doc’s second-best mate, Bronnie’s Misha’s sister, and the rest of us know both of em in SOME capacity! So I reckon if we three – don’t worry Spy, you sourpuss, you don’t have to help – tell him a little something about how, oh, Heavy said this the other day or, oh, Heavy did that this morning, it’d be easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy!’ Sniper downed the last dregs of his terrible home-brew with a hiss. ‘If anyone planted a teeny-eeny-weeny seed of thought into his damn freaky mind he’s a smart enough cattle-dog to chase down that rabbit on his own. I believe in him! Who’s with me?’

‘Is with you on what?’

A familiar voice, a deep rumble, pulled Sniper from his train of thought. He turned around and, as he feared, there stood Heavy with three huge canvas bags full of stuff tied to his back and draped in his arms. ‘Heavy! Hey, big guy! We’re just talking about, uh,’ he fumbled around for a bit, glancing at each of his drinking buddies in turn. They all gave him a look of ‘you did this to yourself’, so he turned and saw the game of bingo being played in the back corner, ‘Those old blokes playing over there! I was saying I believe in that grey geezer with the scarf.’

Heavy’s eyes narrowed. ‘I do not believe you.’
‘Come on, Misha, we must get going,’ Bronislava said in an attempt to diffuse the conversation. ‘We have spent too much time here already. And plus, you do not drink! We can come back next trip.’ She and Spy arose and began to walk out to the porch of the Камин.

‘And I still have to build you a bedframe, cuddles,’ Engie stood, giving Heavy a friendly slap on the shoulder before continuing to walk through to outside.

‘…Cuddles?’ Heavy, still confused, shook his head, helping Sniper out of his seat to follow the rest of the group.

The pair emerged into subzero temperatures, the kind they had been trudging through for days, the kind that Sniper should have been used to; but after a few hours lazing around in the firelight of the pub, it was still a jarring transition.

Mick turned to Heavy and asked, ‘So, I take it you got everything, mate?’ He received a nod in return, and the five of them began their unforgiving trek back through the metres-thick snows of the Dzhigda trail and the freezing winds of the Siberian mountains.

Камин = fireplace!!

Chapter Text

HEY GUYS!!!
im mid exams rn so i have not very much time at all to write BUT as i have mentioned i have an art tumblr!! @pinkappledanish

so to give ya'll your yaoi/yuri fix heres some heavymedic art ive done recently!
the watermark, lala.in.luv.xx, is from my instagram art acc of the same name. I havent posted most of these on insta yet though! will do soon.
i can't draw men so its mostly my femme-designs...
enjoy!! (link below)

https://www.tumblr.com/pinkappledanish?source=share

ive been spending more time on art recently because i want to improve my drawing skills so most of these are studies that i have fanartified!
also my friend said i look like my femme design for heavy which is one of the greatest compliments i've ever recieved??? especially from my latest fanart (the saturday evening post one)