Work Text:
He knew this feeling. He didn't realize it until it was too late.
Medic was on the ground several paces ahead of him; the man sent to kill them stood in his way. There was panic in Medic's eyes even as he recovered from being pinned by his throat, he lifted a hand — "he has a gun."
Why had Heavy stopped there? Bothered to continue speaking? Space filled with words leaves no time for action.
(The man was armed. The bolt-action hunting rifle in Mikhail's hands would be enough to bring him down, enough time to get away before the reinforcements inevitably came. He made the mistake of looking up to press for his father's approval, and in the time it took)
Two rounds were shot into Medic's chest, and a strangled gasp is the last sound he would hear him make. The bullets pierced his lungs. He would not survive it.
He stood stock still for a moment. He shouldn't have. It wouldn't help anything. (The man pinned him to the ground and demanded to know where the rest of his family was. His rifle had been kicked out of reach. If he'd just) But he remembered, vaguely, how this all went, and this was wrong. He wasn't frozen this long.
His mind strained. Part of him knew this wasn't real, now, but another part panicked — move, move. His paralyzed body did not listen to his commands. The man came forward, taunting him, but his gaze stuck to Medic's form, not quite dead yet, but dying, shallow breaths, it was his fault, he shouldn't have trusted, shouldn't have hesitated, if he'd just—
Heavy's eyes opened to the off-white ceiling of the barracks, and his modified heart hammered in his chest. Breathing was a struggle at first; he forced himself to do so through his nose. The hyperventilation eased.
Night terrors. He had not missed them.
When he was a child, he often had nightmares. Incongruent little things he no longer remembered. Following the death of his father, and the things he saw during his family's imprisonment, they devolved into mindless repetition of things he'd rather stop reliving.
He'd allowed his mother to comfort him at first. You're still my little boy, she'd tell him, though he was nearing his twenties. The words sat like lead in his chest. He stopped coming to her, vowing to deal with the problem himself. Maybe it would make him the man he now had to be. The man he should have been, to save his father.
They had dwindled over time. He made use of his grief. The terrors, when they still occurred, were woken up from with a sigh of mundanity. He'd long grown used to them. They stopped almost entirely once he was hired by TF, and resumed, to his great indifference, once he returned home.
Heavy couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up so agitated from a dream. He must have still been a teenager at the time. So why now?
Why Medic?
Had he not watched the man die countless times? Perhaps this time held the unique quality of the risk that it could have been permanent, but it hadn't been. Medic was alive and well – just down the hall, in fact.
Temporarily immortal again, as they all were. Tying up loose ends before everything got shut down for good, and everyone went home.
Heavy's hand rested over his chest, feeling his still hastened pulse. He exhaled slowly.
He was far too awake now. To be awake was to think. To lay motionless in bed was to allow his thoughts to wander too far in unhelpful directions.
Anxiety still tensed the space between his shoulders.
He stood.
Keeping busy would help him settle, at least. It made him feel childish – like a little boy asking his mother to check for monsters under the bed – but the alternative would likely prove far more humiliating.
The base had not been maintained in the mercenaries' absence, and as it wasn't acting as long-term lodging, nobody had bothered to clean it up either. He frowned as he scuffed dust into the air just by walking. He shrugged into a pair of pants before exiting into the hall.
Even all these months later, navigating the halls was easy at night for him, the dark providing little obstacle due to the lack of decoration. His plan was simple; he would check all ways he knew someone could get into the base, and once assured everything was as it should be, he could return to his room with a sound mind.
This was interrupted almost immediately.
The kitchen, a bizarrely homey room for as standard issue as the rest of the base could be, had its light on. A dim buzz and the clicks of a coffee maker could be heard as Heavy followed it.
As soon as he entered, he made eye contact with Medic. His shoulders tensed again – it felt like his chest did as well.
“Oh!” Medic exclaimed. He looked as exhausted as one could expect from a man who was up in the middle of the night brewing coffee. His voice spoke of it also, though he seemed cheerful. “I haven't been too loud, have I? You all will need your sleep.”
Heavy couldn't articulate this feeling. He'd expected whatever residual emotions had come from his dream to be easily shed, but somehow, in the face of the man who'd been at the center of his terror, now proven to be perfectly fine and happy in front of him – he almost felt worse. Like he'd been snared into something he'd rather not be a part of.
“No,” he answered after a moment. “I did not know you were awake.” He glanced down at the machine, which had already produced a couple cups’ worth. “I think you could use sleep, also.”
Medic scoffed dismissively, waving a hand. “I'll be fine. The newborn requires around-the-clock care, you know. I've prepared plenty for this, aha.”
He looked back up, once again bewildered by the mention of the monkey Medic now had in his possession. It was of little concern to him, he supposed, but that didn’t mean he understood. With a hum of acknowledgement, he wandered over to the fridge.
There was nothing in particular he was looking for in there. It was barely stocked – everyone only intended to be there for a couple of days. He wasn't hungry, either. There was water, at least. His mouth was a little dry.
“Heavy?”
Medic was staring at him like he was expecting something. He had no idea what. His heart squeezed again. “Mm?”
A bemused smile grew on Medic's face. “Your mind must be elsewhere, my friend,” he said with a chuckle. He'd been stirring sugar into his coffee (he took it with just one, Heavy remembered), tapping the spoon against the rim of his mug before elaborating. “I asked what you were doing up.”
The snare closed tighter, and he still had no idea what the trap even was. He took a breath. His mother always told him he was a terrible liar. “Nothing,” he said, letting the fridge door fall closed without taking anything.
Amusement still lingered in his tone; “nothing?”
“Mm.”
He didn't dare meet Medic's eyes again. He didn't need to in order to know the exact look he was giving him – one that was analytical, trying to determine exactly what he was trying to hide. Had it really been so long that it had started to bother him again? Only a year ago, part of him had enjoyed the thrill of such games with the doctor.
Heavy couldn't stand another minute of it, now. He abandoned all hope of surveying the rest of the base; he was going back to his room. “You should rest, doctor,” he said, heading back out the way he came.
“Wait.” Maybe it was a bear trap, digging its teeth into his leg. “While I have you here, I would like to check on your injuries.”
He finally turned to face him. There was no playful glint in Medic's eyes; his brow was slightly furrowed, smirk half-hearted. He was concerned.
“Heavy is not some little baby who needs a doctor for bruises,” Heavy said, his tone carrying no bite.
Regardless of his protests, Medic approached him and nudged his cheek gently with his hand, running a thumb under the black eye Heavy honestly would've forgotten he'd gotten were it not for his slightly smudged vision.
“Oh, humor me,” Medic said, almost scolding. “It's going to bother me until the Medi Gun is fixed.” He retrieved his mug of coffee and patted Heavy on the shoulder. Heavy flinched briefly. “Come along.”
Heavy took a breath, more complaints eager on his tongue. Medic was already a few paces ahead of him by that point, however, and it all dissipated into a sigh. He followed him.
It felt like it had been a lifetime since he was last in one of Medic's infirmaries. This one was currently a disaster area, likely having been looted for supplies between his employers, and had little of the equipment Heavy recognized. The only cleared space was for the examination table, an incubator for the baboon, and a cot he assumed Medic was to be sleeping on for the next few days.
How the man didn't have back pain when half the mercs younger than the two of them did was a mystery.
He dutifully sat upon the exam table, where many of Medic’s experimental vivisections on him took place. If you’d told him ten years ago he’d allow such procedures to be done to him, especially with the relative enthusiasm he often offered, that version of himself would call him crazy.
It had been like a series of falling dominoes. One day, Heavy, in all his blunt awkwardness of having hardly held more than passing conversation with anyone outside his family in decades, had offered Medic an offhand compliment on his medical expertise. One that, apparently, in all his years of being considered mad and routinely getting chased from any practice he’d wormed his way into, Medic had never been spared.
Somehow, that one interaction evolved into Medic, on more than one occasion, literally holding Heavy’s heart in his hands.
(Bronislava did tell him he was crazy for this. Zhanna said it was a sign of a good man, that her brother would allow him to do it. Yana asked how she would know. Heavy tuned them out at that point, and never told them how his relationship with Medic often toed, if not outright passed, the line of what was acceptable between two men.)
(He doubted they would mind, but he didn’t want their fussing about him needing a wife to turn into much more annoying prodding about when he was making things official with a man they’d never met.)
“I’m a bit concerned about this swelling here,” Medic said, drawing him from his thoughts. He was investigating Heavy’s arm, the one that the enemy had struck hard enough to produce an audible crack. Heavy frowned, lifting it slightly and curling a fist. Didn’t feel bad enough to be broken. “Does it hurt?”
Heavy shook his head, grunting noncommittally. The hands left him as Medic pulled away with a sigh. “That’s good.” He adjusted his glasses, and left Heavy’s side, seemingly to look for something. “All I can prescribe is sleep, then. If you would like, I have some pills you could take–”
“No,” Heavy interrupted instantly. He’d always hated the idea of relying on pills to sleep. “You know I do not want this.”
When he looked at him, Medic’s face managed to be, through the concern still clear on it, almost smug. “I do.”
In being so concerned about the made-up feeling of being trapped his mind had given him, he failed to realize that he was falling for a very real one; Medic had dragged him into a quiet place that Heavy knew was safe, put him in the headspace of a patient communicating his problems, and had now put him in a position where he had no reason to not explain what was bothering him.
Of course, he wasn’t truly trapped. Medic wouldn’t do that to him. The door was right in front of him – he could leave, and Medic wouldn’t stop him. It would never have to come up again.
He stared at his hands. He considered his words carefully. “You would not think less of me–”
“Ach, sei nicht albern!” Medic said, a lilt to this tone telling Heavy that he was being teased even if he couldn’t translate. “My friend, you have been nothing but a saint to me. I’m not so stupid as to start judging you now.”
Heavy huffed, leveling him with a look for a moment. He quickly returned to looking anywhere but his eyes. This shouldn’t be so hard. He was a grown man – well past grown, now, even. Why did it feel like he was going to be punished somehow? Why did it matter to him?
“When I was a boy,” he started stiffly, wringing his fingers; “after my father was shot, I had dreams. Often.” He took a breath, looking towards the wall. His jaw tense. “Of my failing.”
Unfortunately, starting did not make it easier to continue to the point, as he’d hoped. The words caught in his throat, and he couldn’t force them out. Shame swelled in his chest, and he pressed his thumb into his palm until the nail dug dull pain into his skin. The images felt stained to the insides of his eyelids. He had failed his closest friend, the man he wished he could spend his life with, the same way he had his father.
How could he sit here, now, vying for comfort from the very man who’d died because of him? How could he act like he deserved anything more than pacing the halls, making sure nothing came of his people again? His sisters insisted he’d done enough, that they could care for themselves now – but if anything ever happened to them, how could he ever forgive himself? His failures would never be repaid by his successes. It was all he could do to keep trying, to live out the rest of his days in service of those he cared for
“Misha.” Medic’s voice was so gentle for that single word that Heavy almost didn’t recognize it. All amusement was gone from his expression. He only hesitated a moment before resting his hand on top of Heavy’s – it drew another involuntary cringe, but wasn’t unwelcome. He withdrew his thumb from his palm, frowning at the sting that burned even through the callous there.
There was a pause. An uncomfortable silence. Medic was no psychologist. Heavy believed he shouldn’t have to act as one, just for him. This all should have been left unsaid.
“I don’t think,” Medic said before Heavy could voice any of those feelings, “that you have failed anyone. The world isn’t so black-and-white, you know.”
He’d heard it many times. He furrowed his brow, curled his lip like a growling dog. “I will not be told there is nothing I could have done.”
His hands were being cradled gently now between Medic’s palms. “Maybe there was,” Medic admitted, thoughtfully. He ran his thumbs over the backs. “But you wouldn’t have done what you did if it hadn’t felt right in the moment. We are all just animals, doing what we learned to do to survive. You live to learn your lesson…” He shrugged. “And you move on.”
Heavy didn’t respond.
Medic chuckled to himself, somewhat nervous, but his amusement was partially genuine – “if you had not been there, well. He could have done much worse than killing me.” Heavy lowered his head at the confirmation that Medic had read between the lines well enough to confront it. “And if I hadn’t been there, he would have killed you. We could sit here all night worrying about that, or we could talk about what is happening now.”
A soft squeeze just before letting go nearly sent Heavy over the edge. He wanted the relief he was being offered so badly. He wanted the safety. He wanted the warmth he’d felt when his mother let him rest his head in her lap and told him that everything would be okay, someday.
It shouldn’t matter what he wanted. He needed– “I do not need to be–” He couldn’t find the English word even when racking his brain. Frustration pooled over, he scrambled to articulate himself– “treated like child.”
“I am treating you like a friend, Misha,” his tone was still gentle. Some part of him was terrified of it more than anything, like the very idea of comfort could only bring misery. It wanted out like a cowering dog, tail between its legs, straining as far as its chain would let it. A gentle hand against his cheek grounded him. “Do you think you cannot be cared for?”
The words were so thick in his throat he almost couldn’t speak them. The wall was collapsing, and he was starting to believe it should. Even if his mind claimed it was dangerous.
“I,” he managed, a final effort, “do not deserve this.”
“Oh, hush,” Medic said. He cupped Heavy’s face more firmly, and followed his scolding with a gentle kiss just under Heavy’s bruised eye. “You know I’d give you the world if I could, dummkopf.”
Heavy did not cry. He figured he’d lost the ability decades ago. His eyes burned all the same. Sniffing, he set his lips in a thin line and leaned into Medic’s touch. “Я бы поделился этим с вами.”
Medic sighed, easing himself onto the table and pressing himself against Heavy’s shoulder. “You keep so much inside you, Liebling. I worry it will kill you someday.”
“Нет, я… I would not let this happen.”
The response was genuine, but Medic was amused by it regardless. “Ach, you say that,” he insisted, “but look at you. You’re so tense, Bärchen. I think you could pop.” Heavy let out a huff; ironically, it made his shoulders relax a bit. “And what a mess that would be. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”
He finally smiled, no doubt what Medic was hoping to see. He hummed, vaguely confirming that he would not do that to his lover, before saying, “I think doctor needs sleep.”
Medic briefly buried his face in Heavy’s neck – he may have even groaned – before pulling himself back up. “I could say the same to you.” He stood, casting a glance across the room. Vague disappointment crossed his face. “Ah, Heavy, I would love to share a bed after all this time, truly, but…” Heavy followed his gaze, which led to the incubator. “I’m afraid I cannot leave him.”
“This is fine,” Heavy said, getting up himself. His lack of sleep and thoroughly spent emotions briefly made him feel unsteady on his feet. “Staying in the same room is good until then.”
He made his way to the sole cot – he knew Medic would insist he take it on account of his (superficial) injuries, and he didn’t want to argue now – and briefly looked down at the animal in the incubator; curled in the fetal position, sucking his thumb. “Have you named him?”
Medic was across the room, shutting down the lights. He took a moment longer to respond than Heavy anticipated. “Heh. It’s a little embarrassing, really,” he started. Heavy had already laid down, and he watched Medic’s silhouette as he began to elaborate. “I initially did not intend to give him one – or maybe just something I would name one of the doves, but…”
As the man looked down over the incubator, soft light bathed his face. His expression was hard to read.
“I was so worried about him imprinting on me, but I think I have wound up imprinting on him.” He chuckled to himself, then lowered himself onto the floor next to where Heavy rested. He maneuvered his arm so it draped over Medic’s shoulder. “I have always wanted children, you know.”
Heavy’s eyebrows raised; he didn’t. “You never told me this.”
Medic took a breath. It seemed he’d breached his own sensitive topic. “I never had any interest in women, but that did not stop me from wanting a family. It was treated as a given I’d never have one.” He leaned against Heavy’s arm. “My whole life, I was told that. I began to resent the idea of a surrogate. I eventually figured out a possible method to having children with another man, but…” He sighed. “Well, I turn fifty-three soon, and a successful human trial could take several more years, perfecting it would take longer…”
He was rambling a bit. Heavy cut in; “I see.”
They were silent for a while. Ultimately, Heavy didn’t want to leave it there.
“So,” he started, carefully, “you are returning to Germany after this?”
“Ah. Ahah.” The question saved Medic from his train of thought. “It’s a funny story. After our last visit, I believe I am, er,” he waved a hand, “‘banned’ from Germany. Quite permanently.”
“I see,” Heavy said again. “We are both staying in America, then.”
The notion still made him feel aimless, even if he was happy for his sisters. If he didn't have stable work and wasn't protecting his family – to be blunt – he had no idea what to do with himself.
Maybe it didn't have to be that way, though.
It wouldn't be an easy life. A Russian and a German, openly homosexuals, living just about anywhere would be a potential struggle. But they'd both hidden from those who'd prefer them dead their whole lives. In a perfect world, maybe they wouldn't have too anymore. But he knew how often the world wasn't perfect.
Even then, sharing the burden with a man he knew was just as capable as himself would be a much welcomed change. Especially now that he believed fully in it.
Heavy shifted his weight onto his good shoulder, considering his phrasing. Then, he spoke; “for long time, I could not imagine ever having children.” Not because he didn't care for them, though he could admit he wasn't very good with them. He just couldn't imagine risking putting a child in the same position he had once been. But now, “if it is with you, I would not mind.”
Even just from the view of his back, Medic appeared stunned by the comment. A thousand gentle touches, a million quiet assertions of love, and as many overt confessions of it meant little in terms of permanence when it came to their kind of bond. This was the first time the sentiment of wanting to spend their lives together had ever been spoken in more than a passing fantasy of what could be, if their lives weren't so hectic.
He recovered quickly, though, as he always did. To Heavy's best understanding, he was briefly insulted in German as Medic whirled around to face him, then kissed, then – “you say something like this, and you expect me to be able to sleep afterwards?”
Heavy couldn't resist the urge to chuckle. He propped himself up just enough to return the kiss. “Yes. You will have more energy to discuss in morning.”
It was one of those moments where Medic resembled a dog more than a middle-aged man. As Heavy's large hand continued to cradle the back of his lover's head and neck, he practically pouted. “You are cruel to me, Misha. After all of that, you are being cruel to me.”
The teasing wasn't humored beyond a smirk. “Rest, doctor.” He ran his thumb over the back of his head, and Medic sighed. “Think of a name for the baby. This will be the first step.”
His pouting only continued, but it seemed he was too tired to truly keep it up. He settled into his awkward position at the bedside, now propped up facing his lover. He gave a hum of affirmation, then said, “ich liebe dich, Bärchen.”
It was strange. He woke that night so frightened from an open wound he was sure had scarred over years ago, but now, he was discussing something he was so sure he'd never get to. That he'd so thoroughly believed he wouldn't live long enough to see through, or wouldn't deserve if he did. Now, though, his heart wasn't even racing. There was none of the fear he was so sure he would have.
Any apprehension was easily snuffed out; his Medic was here, and they'd face it together.
“Я тоже тебя люблю, голубчик.”