Disclaimer: The characters belong to Valve. I just borrowed them. I'm not making money off of this.
a/n: This story is dedicated to those who bring joy to the TF2 community without asking anything in return.
"Go… and learn three truths: Learn What dwells in man, What is not given to man, and What men live by."
-Leo Tolstoy
Chapter 1: Overture
Late afternoon sunlight filtered into the small room and fell across a worktable littered with metal. The Heavy lifted the barrel of his gun from the other parts, set it across his knees, and began to rub. The oily rag left a circular pattern that gleamed in the sunlight. Chopin-a nocturne-played from a turntable across the room. This was, in the Heavy's opinion, the best time of the day. The battle had been satisfying; his muscles ached pleasantly from exertion. The puny offense of the BLU team proved to be no match for RED's coordinated strength. Sasha performed beautifully, as well. Today they had moved in unison, her bullets singing as they sailed across the field of battle, cutting the enemy like small trees. His ears buzzed in echo of their song as Heavy polished, content in the calm that surrounded him.
He broke from his reverie and became aware that the music was no longer playing. Heavy turned and saw the Medic watching him, leaning against the wall near the turntable. Blood stains splashed across his grey vest, indicating where he'd spent his afternoon.
"...did not...liebling."
The Heavy thought for a moment, puzzling out the doctor's words.
The Medic shook his head and approached the larger man.
"I said, you did not notice when I came in," he repeated, speaking more loudly. "Why did you not come earlier, when I was working?"
"Is not bad."
"It never is, according to you," the Medic sighed, placing a kiss on Heavy's forehead. "Come, my friend."
Heavy followed his partner through the corridors to the hospital bay. It was empty of patients and had been cleaned since the post-battle healing. Surgical utensils lay piled neatly in bins, waiting to be sterilized. Four beds were arranged about the room, the sheets stripped off all but the last one. Medic pointed to the fourth bed, indicating that Heavy was to sit.
There was no real preparation required, which disappointed the Russian. He found he enjoyed watching the Medic's nimble fingers as he stitched up lacerations, set broken bones, or extracted bullets. But he hated watching his lover work on his teammates. Seeing those fingers dexterously manipulate the flesh of his teammates inevitably caused the Heavy's mind to stray as he imagined them on himself, leaving him painfully distracted.
The Medic pulled at the gun suspended from the ceiling, leveling it behind Heavy's ear. A pleasant tingling sensation trickled from the surface to deep in his head.
"Better?" the Medic's voice sounded too loud to his now-sensitive ears.
"Da. Thank you."
"You know that it is nothing, Liebling. I am happy to do it. However, I do have a favor to ask: I'm afraid my gun is in need of repair. Would you take a look at it?"
In contrast to the relative clutter of the main room, the tiny space that the doctor appropriated for an office was compulsively neat. Hulking file and supply cabinets dominated the room. A window looked out into the main wing; mini-blinds obscured the view. The only sign that the room might have a purpose was the desk, which occupied a corner under the window. Papers were scattered across its surface, and the weapon lay across the desk at an odd angle-hastily discarded in the hustle of post-battle triage.
The Medic retrieved the gun, and passed it to his partner. Heavy examined the weapon, turning it in his large hands. A hole had been blown through the side, and he heard the slight clink of glass against metal.
"I will fix. Finish cleaning." Heavy left the Medic to his scrubbing.
The team streamed in behind the dinner bell. It was Demoman's night to cook, which meant that the meal was sure to be bland and overcooked. Heavy poked dubiously at the contents of his bowl. It appeared to be beef stew. Again. It was all the same color. No vegetables, no variety. A sad potato, boiled to a lumpy gray, clung to the corner of the dish.
"Oh, man, I don't even know what this is! Does anyone know what we're eating?" the Scout called from the other end of the table. Rude child, thought the Heavy. Of course, Scout would then eat every bite and ask for seconds.
The Medic, his vest now clean and his hands free of blood, leaned over. "I'll make you a sandwich later," he murmured. He did not mind the Scotsman's cooking so much, and proceeded to eat his portion.
Chatter filled in around them. The Spy repeated a dirty joke he'd overheard during his reconnaissance mission earlier in the day.
Scout began to tell one of his own, but was cut off by the Pyro waving a hand to catch the attention of the others.
"Hud! Hud Hudda hud!" Pyro chattered to the group. "Hud hud."
The Pyro began to recite, and Sniper looked up from his meal. "I'm not sure that counts as a joke, love."
"Hud hudda hudda hud!" A small hand clenched into a fist made Pyro's meaning clear.
"What's she sayin'?"
"How do you know Pyro's a she?"
"C'mon, Snipe. You know we can't understand a word he says."
With a roll of his eyes, the Sniper translated:
"Twas on the good ship Venus,
By God you should have seen us,
The figurehead was a whore in bed
And the mast the captain's penis"
The audience exchanged glances ranging from intrigued to surprised to embarrassed. "Keep going, private," the Soldier prodded.
Pyro continued the tale, translated by the Australian, each verse more disgusting than the last. When the Pyro finished, the entire table was silent. The Engineer sat with his mouth hanging open. The Spy stared at the orator, impressed, his cigarette slowly burning to a nub in his fingers. The Medic stirred his coffee, a thoughtful look in his eyes. The Demoman stood in the kitchen doorway, a half-washed pot in his hand dripping water on the floor, forgotten. Even the Scout had nothing to say.
After dinner, the Heavy went to work on the Medic's firearm, while its' owner lounged on the bed with the latest copy of Bird Fancy. A bullet had blown holes through the housing that covered the barrel and the spring firing mechanisms.
"How did this happen?" Heavy asked, running his fingers along the dent in the stainless steel barrel. The weapon would be useless until it was repaired.
"A scout. It was near the end of the day," the Medic replied. "He was rather obnoxious."
"I do not remember killing this scout."
"You didn't."
The Heavy looked up at the Medic, his eyes guilty.
"He came up behind us during the push to take the cap point. I tried to get your attention, but you didn't hear me," the doctor explained.
"I thought you were behind me."
"Ja, I was," the Medic confirmed, a glint of accusation in his eyes. "You didn't hear my shouting. In the end, I disposed of him myself. With the Pyro's help."
The Heavy fingered the mangled casing. "Sorry I did not hear you ask for help."
"Liebling, you are not the only one to blame. I should—" the Medic was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Ja?" the Medic called.
The door opened slightly. The Engineer stood at the threshold in jeans and a faded black t-shirt, an off-duty mufti suited for work. His jeans were covered with grease stains and bleach spots, and there was a hole in the knee. A greasy bandanna was wrapped clumsily around his hand.
"Hey, sorry to bother ya', but I was hopin' the Doc was around."
Heavy opened the door fully, admitting the Engineer.
"Doc, I, well, sorry to intrude. I know you're off duty and all..." The Texan looked oddly contrite as he held out the rag-covered hand for the Medic's inspection.
The Heavy found the appeal interesting. Most of the team did not give off-duty requests a second thought. And yet, the Engineer was apologizing for interrupting. This man was unusual, Heavy thought. But not unwelcome.
"Ach, what is this filthy thing?" the Medic asked as he uncovered the wound. The Engineer took the bandanna and shoved it into a back pocket. Underneath was a cut across the Engineer's palm, oozing blood. "Oh, this does not look so bad."
"I was fixin' one of my sentries, and my blade slipped," the Engineer explained. "That metal's always sharper than it looks. Do ya' think you could you fix me up?"
The Heavy returned his attention to the syringe gun as his partner patched up the Engineer. He dug through his repair kit and withdrew the bullet extractor he kept especially for the weapon. He separated the barrel from the clip, slid in the tool and rotated, catching the base of the needle. With a careful tug, the trapped projectile popped and slid free of its housing and into the Heavy's palm. He returned it to the clip, knowing that the doctor cared little about hygiene when it came these particular needles. He examined the barrel a third time. It wasn't a bad dent, but it would be easier to replace the entire piece.
"There," the Medic said, applying the last bit of tape to seal off the wound. "That should hold until morning. Keep it clean and come see me before we get started tomorrow and I will heal you up."
"Thanks, Doc," the Engineer replied. "I really appreciate it."
The Heavy sat up a bit straighter on his stool, listening to the exchange. This little man was odd. The Medic was always quick to point out that he felt surrounded by ungrateful, whiny swine who felt slighted if they had so much as a bruise for more than a minute. Of course, the Heavy welcomed his efforts, and while he typically acknowledged them after hours, he did make a point of thanking his partner on the battlefield, as well. To be a good example to the team. Not only was the Engineer apologizing for disturbing their free time, he was thanking the Medic for his efforts.
"You're…welcome." The Medic stumbled over the words a bit, clearly as disarmed by the unbidden expression of gratitude as the Heavy.
The Engineer turned to leave and spied the disassembled weapon on the workbench. "What ya' got there? " He gravitated to the gun like a child who spotted a new toy. "Hmm…looks like a fairly straightforward fix," he commented with the voice of someone long-used to rebuilding his weapons. "Just a couple of patches and you should be good as new." He reached out to pick up the damaged parts.
"I am repairing." The words came out more harshly than the Russian intended, but the damage was done: the Engineer withdrew and backed toward the door. The Heavy immediately regretted his phrasing.
"Well, then, thanks for this," the Engineer raised his injured hand. "Have a good night, gentlemen."
The Heavy sat at the bench and resumed his tinkering. He filed down the jagged edges of the entrance and exit holes created by the bullets, refining them to neat ovals. This still did not solve the problem of how to fill the holes, or how to repair the damaged barrel. He dug through his repair kit yet again, slammed it shut, stood with a huff, collected the parts and left the room.
His lover's surprised glance followed him out the door.
Heavy walked through the barracks corridors, on the lookout for the Engineer. The Demoman and Spy lounged in the hallway with several bottles between them. The strains of cheering and a sports announcer emanated from the Scout's room. "One more, baby, just one more. Don't choke now…Don't walk him!" the Scout coaxed an unseen player a world away. The Sniper emerged from his quarters with the Pyro's sooty asbestos suit held at arm's length. The sound of running water followed him. Shutting the door carefully behind him, he turned toward the courtyard. "I don't know how anyone can stand to be in this thing."
Across from the Sniper's room, the Engineer's door stood half-closed against the noise from the hall. The twang of a guitar and a crooning male voice filtered through the doorway.
Heavy knocked on the door frame and peered into the room. From his angle, the Heavy could see that the Engineer's work bench was larger than his own, and was littered with bits of scrap metal. Tools were lined across the back, and a tackle box sat open to one side. A vise in the front corner held a block of wood with bits of metal attached at odd angles. The Engineer stood with his back to the door over a half-assembled sentry, a welding torch in his bandaged hand. He applied the flame to a section of the metal, re-joining two pieces torn apart by a sapper.
"Doctor would not approve," Heavy commented during a break in the activity.
The Engineer turned to greet the visitor. "You're probably right. But he also didn't volunteer to come down here and finish my work for me, either. And I'd like to live through tomorrow," he replied with a grin, moving his goggles up to his forehead. His green eyes twinkled in the light from above the workbench, and the carbon black sprinkled across his cheeks looked like industrial freckles. "Did ya' need somethin'?"
The Heavy held out the parts of the syringe gun for inspection. The Engineer set down the welding torch and approached the door, opening it to the Russian.
"You need this fixed tonight?"
"Da," the Heavy confirmed.
"I can do that. Wanna have a seat?" the Texan indicated the stool next to the workbench. Heavy sat, feeling too large perched upon the shorter man's stool. On his right was the vise with the block and the metal. The Heavy could see now that it was a figure of a man. Two bolts served as legs which supported a rectangular torso. Bolts became arms, and the figure had a washer for a head, with little nuts for eyes. Gears at the joints posed the little man's arms in a salute.
The Heavy's curiosity got the best of him. "What is this?"
"Oh, just a little something for my niece," the Engineer told him without looking up. "She's fascinated with robots. She wants to go into space."
Heavy watched the Engineer work. He withdrew a pair of tin snips from the jumble of tools and cut a couple of corners from a bit of mangled metal laying on the bench-a destroyed sentry gun. He laid the pieces out and hammered them flat with a rubber mallet. Two small squares of metal no larger than the tip of Heavy's thumb remained. "Now…solder," the Engineer mumbled to himself as he worked. He retrieved a soldering iron from its perch on a pegboard above the bench and switched it on.
Shouts from the hallway interrupted the peace in the room. "Hey, Sniper! Come have a drink with us!"
"Sorry, mates," he heard the Sniper reply. "But Pyro's a fuck sight better looking than you lot." The door across the hall opened and shut again.
The Texan was applying a metal file to the borders of the patches, wiping stray filings off with a rag. The same bandanna he'd used as a bandage earlier, the Heavy noted.
"Are they always so loud?" he asked. He was used to the quiet at his end of the hallway. The Medic's quarters were situated across from his own, and since they frequently shared, that room was empty. Pyro and Spy were assigned to be their neighbors, and, like the Medic was frequently not in his…her room. The Spy was a courteous neighbor, though he also kept odd hours.
The Engineer looked up from his task, finally paying attention to the noise from the hall. "They're not so bad. A little loud sometimes, but I'd rather hear that than the alternative," he replied.
"You do not like the quiet?" the Heavy asked, bewildered.
"No, not that," the Engineer clarified. "I don't like the implications of a quiet hallway." He rummaged in a corner of the bench and pulled out a spool of coiled metal from the pile. "Ahh, here we go," he said, more to himself than the Russian beside him. He picked up the stylus and began to apply solder to the patch.
The Heavy looked around the room as he waited for the Engineer to complete the repair. Though their rooms were similar—they were RED-issue, after all—this room felt different. Warmer. A turntable in the corner still played, projecting a country twang into the room. The standard issue woolen blanket had been replaced with a worn quilt, its colors faded with age. A photograph was tacked above the small bedside table, occupying a place of honor above a well-thumbed book. The front cover was half-torn, and the binding was held together with duct tape.
The casing repairs finished, the Engineer laid the part to one side and got to work on the barrel. "Let that cool," he absently reminded the Heavy without looking up from his work. "Ya know…" his words trailed off as his mind moved on to the next idea. Putting the barrel down, he crouched underneath the bench. Metal was stored there, too, a jumble that obviously was maintained in some hidden order to the Engineer. Within a few moments, he had emerged from his hunt with an undamaged barrel.
"I picked this up last week when we got that BLU Medic. His gun went one way and he went another. The Scout was obliging enough to bring me the weapon for parts." The Engineer handed the barrel to the Heavy. "I think this oughta work for you."
When the Heavy left the Engineer's room, the noise in the hallway had died down. The Pyro's suit hung from a hook outside the Sniper's door, drip-drying. Doors were shut and lights peeked out across the floorboards. Only the Scout's door was still open, the strains of the game reduced to a whisper. Heavy couldn't remember the last time he'd been on this side of the barracks after hours. As he opened the door to his rooms, he realized he felt like he'd spent an afternoon laying in the sunshine.