Author's notes: Here's the eighth commissioned story for my Fanfiction Fundraiser, courtesy of janetmadjesters1! It's also the first story for the fundraiser that isn't NSFW. *gasp* And my first Medic/Sniper story, with touches on Sniper's background and Sniper hurt/comfort too! I wish there was more fan material of them. I certainly like this pairing more after writing this, haha.
The soundtrack I listened to while writing this is Kalimba Solo for Lotus, by Youtube user, SaReGaMa. The song always makes me think of running across boundless deserts at noon and soaring into the sky.
In the haven of his camper van, Sniper dreams of running across sweltering desert sand. A vast blue sky extends above him into infinity. A massive, soft-feathered bird runs beside him. It's an emu, its clawed, three-toed feet pounding clouds of sand behind them, its vestigial wings flapping in the air. Its strides are wide, at least nine feet, and although he knows that this isn't real, he wonders how he's able to keep up with the emu and what it's doing here in the desert. Emus prefer the forests and savanna woodlands, they do.
Perhaps this one's lost. Perhaps it's looking for its partner. Perhaps it's already found its other half.
The thought makes Sniper smile. A shiver of delight jolts his spine and he sprints faster, heat surging an unerring path through his skin and muscles. He realizes now that he's garbed in only threadbare khakis, that he is barefoot, that the sand and the sun don't scorch him. Everything feels surreal, hyper-vivid. He can hear the rush of blood through his ears, his veins, his heart. He feels every grain of sand that touches the soles of his feet. He feels the cooling breeze that caresses him from head to toe, the graze of grey-brown feathers along his arm and flank.
He feels alive, more alive than he's ever been before. He laughs aloud and his eyes crinkle. He turns his head to glance at the great emu beside him. He gasps when their eyes meet. The emu has blue eyes too, just like his. He's never seen an emu with blue eyes.
The emu abruptly slows down and vanishes out of sight without a sound. He gasps again, and he tries to slow down, to stop, but he can't. He has to keep running. He has to keep going before those BLU mongrels get to the control point, and he's going to bloody well fight them to the end to defend it.
He hears someone shout at him from behind. He can't turn his head but somehow, he knows who it is. He knows to whom those blue eyes of the emu truly belong. The sky above is becoming brighter and brighter, giving way to blinding, radiant whiteness. He can hear that glorious revving of the red-beamed ÜberCharge building, building and building.
It's his turn. Finally, it's his turn.
Now, Doc! Do it NOW!
His bellow pierces the white sky like an arrow and rips it asunder. A noise like TV static fills the world. Fire rains down from the torn sky onto him and he's burning up, the sand is swallowing him up and he's burning, he's burning –
His eyes snap open. He's greeted by the steel ceiling above his narrow bed in his camper van. His breaths escape him in harsh exhalations. He's damp with sweat, and his lower body and limbs are tangled in the blankets, baking in them. A shudder crawls down his spine.
It was a dream. Just a dream, the same bloody dream.
With a groan, he flops back down onto the bed and slaps both hands over his face. This is getting ridiculous. It really is. It's disgusting enough that everyone else on the team has experienced the ÜberCharge except him, but he has to dream about it every night too?
He doesn't even want to think about why Medic appears in his dreams as an emu.
Emus travel in pairs, his treacherous brain tells him.
"Yeah, an' they don't mate for life," Sniper mutters behind his palms. "Wot you got t' say 'bout that?"
You're not an emu, his brain retorts. You're a man, ya smelly wanker. So when are you going to act like one and tell that German bastard what's going on in that heart of yours, then?
Sniper has nothing to say to that.
He hates Spy and Heavy so much right now. He doesn't want to, but he does.
"It's … better than sex."
Coming from Spy, this French, sex-mad scoundrel who's probably fucked everybody on the BLU team on top of the BLU Scout's mom, that's really something.
"It's better than sex, oui," Spy reiterates as he blows out rings of smoke, lounging on the couch in a striped suit and balaclava like a giant snake sunbathing in the desert noon. "It consumes you, like a hungry lion. Or like a tidal wave, it floods over you until you don't know where it begins and where you end, and you don't care."
Sniper rolls his eyes behind his yellow-tinted sunglasses. He slouches even more in his cushioned chair, scowls and glares at the television. Oh, bloody wonderful, they have a poet in their midst. Where's his kukri when he needs it?
"Is true. Feels so good every time Doktor give me ÜberCharge."
Heavy is on the couch next to Spy, munching on his third sandwich. Heavy isn't wearing his bandolier or vest this evening. Bread crumbs scatter across a red t-shirt stretched thin by a broad, brawny chest.
"Is like … million Sandviches in one bite. Vhen bullets bounce off you like leetle stones, you feel like god. No vone can stop you!"
"Did I tell you about the time the BLU Medic gave me an ÜberCharge? I was disguised as their Scout. You should have seen the look on his face after he ÜberCharged me and I stabbed him in his neck!"
"Hahaha! You must teach me how to get ÜberCharge from BLU Doktor too!"
"Ah, mon ami, everything has its price."
Sniper grits his teeth so hard that they make an audible crack. All he wanted to do tonight was watch the telly in peace, but oh no, these two yubbing curs just had to come here and sit with him and talk about, of all things, Medic's ÜberCharge. He scarcely leaves his camper van as it is. Medic always tells him to come into the base more often. Mingle with the others, the Doc said, keep your enemies close and your friends even closer.
Why couldn't it have been Medic sitting here with him instead? Why couldn't it have been Medic chatting with him and flashing that brilliant smile at him instead?
It isn't fair. It just isn't fair.
"Sniper! Will you not share your experience with the ÜberCharge?"
Spy's eyes bore into his. Spy is smiling that reptilian smile at him, the one that propels nervous energy into his arms and legs, that makes him itch to hit something. His hands clench into fists, hidden from view by his crossed arms over his chest. Although he still has his sunglasses on, all he sees is red. The red thickens when Spy's face twists into an utterly insincere expression of sympathy, exaggerated puppy eyes and pouting lips and all.
"Oh, that's right! Poor, deprived bushman, you've never been given an ÜberCharge, have you?"
He doesn't regret the full-on, swinging punch to Spy's face that sends the smarmy wanker hurtling off the couch, not one bit.
When he dreams of Medic this time, Medic appears as he is in reality. Human. Tanned-skinned. Tall, back straight and head high, attired in that smart, beige coat and tailored trousers and military boots. Handsome. So very handsome and regal, and something in him becomes alarmingly bashful, vulnerable whenever Medic gazes at him with gleaming, unguarded eyes.
This is a dream and yet, it is also a spinning rolodex of memories. He's sitting next to Medic in the mess hall and they're having dinner together. Heavy sits on the opposite side of Medic, gobbling down a humongous heap of spaghetti and meatballs, and Medic is watching the big man eat with an indecipherable expression. Some of the other fellas have whispered that Heavy and Medic have become … more than friends. He isn't sure what to feel about it. He isn't sure if he should feel anything about it. It isn't as if he's got any right to lay claim to Medic.
His vision goes unfocused and hot at that. He's in the Infirmary now, reclined on the stretcher as Medic heals him with the Quick-Fix attached to the ceiling. Today's injuries are mild, but Medic insisted on him coming in to be treated, and he's definitely not one to deny himself the doctor's company. He wonders if Medic can tell his heart is hammering in his ribcage almost to the point of cardiac arrest. He wonders if the air is as viscous as treacle for Medic too when Medic rests a hand on his upper arm and doesn't move it away.
His breathing quickens. He can still hear the anger, the disappointment in Dad's voice over the phone, and Mum won't even talk to him anymore. Medic's hand is firm around his forearm. It keeps him up, keeps him standing, but he doesn't want to stand around anymore, he wants to lie down, yank the covers over his head and disappear and maybe he feels like spewing his guts out too. That's what he gets for drinking so much in one go.
But this is a dream, and in dreams, he can skip the grossness of nausea and hop straight to the moment of feeling Medic's arm around his waist, feeling the alcohol make his blood and fingers and toes tingle so lusciously. He's in a good sort of haze now, the sort that'll help him to sleep better tonight, to stop dreaming about sweltering deserts and running like the wind beside unattainable, majestic creatures.
All he needs is his bed. Just his bed. Tomorrow he'll wake up and he'll forget he ever heard Dad tell him how ashamed he and Mum are of him.
"M'not mentally sick. M'not."
He sound slurred and he doesn't like that, especially not in front of Medic. He's not some drunk bogan. He's a bloody professional and professionals have standards and no feelings. None. Not a one.
"S'a job, s'my job an' I'm a prof– … a professional."
He slides into his bed like a lizard, boneless and gauche. The whole world is spinning, going round and round and round, spinning forever. It's become so quiet. There isn't a single noise from outside, not even a gust. Once upon a time, when Mum and Dad still looked at him with the stars in their eyes, he'd hear the croaking of frogs and the booming calls of Tawny Frogmouths through his bedroom window. He can't hear them anymore. He can't remember what they sound like.
The buzz of TV static fills his head.
He blinks.
He thinks about miles and miles of sand hills, grassland plains and salt lakes. He's a great desert skink, his smooth, rust-colored scales so lustrous in the sunlight. He's a great desert skink who's thousands of miles away from home, with no family here or there, not anymore.
Sshh.
He's got an arm around Medic's shoulders. Medic's hand is on his chest, over his heart. Medic says his name once. Medic kisses him on his lips, his cheek. Medic's breath is warm and soft. Medic traces the length of his nose with a gentle finger.
"Stay?" he whispers into Medic's mouth.
But this, this is just a dream within a dream. He never hears Medic's answer, and his eyes flutter open to be greeted by the steel ceiling of his camper van, his lips still throbbing with an imagined kiss.
He can pinpoint the very instant he develops his obsession with Medic's ÜberCharge: They're being overrun by a colossal horde of BLU Soldiers outside the Infirmary, and he's taking cover behind an outcropping of rock with Engineer. There's Scout on the ground nearby, beat up, bleeding and missing teeth. There's Demoman in a wheelchair, casts around his left arm and head, veering in a right panic towards Medic who emerges from behind formidable, steel doors in a flare of rising doves.
Medic moves like a storm encased in sacred flesh, potential destruction in every graceful step and flail of that beige coat, dazzling and terrifying as lightning. It makes him dizzy and weak in the knees to watch Medic like this, to linger here in the shadow and bask in Medic's presence even from afar. Medic's a storm and he wants to be in its eye while the world is shredded to ashes and dust all around him.
Ah my god, Medic's a magnificent vision to behold, he is.
Heavy lumbers out of the Infirmary and past Medic. Heavy's completely healed from his ghastly injuries. The big lug carries his Mini-gun with ease as he dashes into the melee and then dives for cover from several rockets fired at Demoman. Demo, the poor bastard, gets hit dead on by every single one and soars through the air to crash on the earth in front of Medic.
He hears Engineer hiss in empathy. He's grimacing himself, having felt the brunt of his face slamming into pitiless soil before. He smiles with Engineer as Medic heals Scout and Demoman with the Medi-gun. Scout's grin is infectious, like the fierce reflection of sunrise in a side-view mirror.
Then, Medic ÜberCharges Heavy for the first time, and his face slackens with awe at the power that infuses Heavy's entire being. If Medic's a storm, Heavy is a gargantuan planet of rampant storms, aglow in fearsome red and laughing thunder from a cavernous mouth.
"HAHA! I AM BULLETPROOF!"
The earsplitting roar of Heavy's Mini-gun drowns out the cries of the BLU Soldiers who collapse like felled trees before the newborn, invincible embodiment of death.
His eyes linger on Medic's face as Medic and Heavy stand proud upon a mountain of dead BLU Soldiers beneath the rays of dawn, linger long after the battle is over. While Medic treats the others, he takes a nap on one of the chairs in the waiting room, and even in slumber, his mind lingers on Medic's distinct features, on the small smile Medic had aimed at him as the team returned to the Infirmary.
The storm isn't over. Not for him. For him, it's just starting.
"I want it. Th' Über-Heart transplant," he says to Medic on a later day, the stretcher between them, the Quick-Fix switched off. He doesn't need it. Yet.
He envisions Medic prying his chest open and pulling his heart out. He envisions telling Medic that Medic's already done that, and that whatever Medic does pull out is also the doctor's to keep and possess.
He doesn't tell Medic any of that. He's as quiet as Medic is as he observes the surgery on and into his chest. He'd been so anxious in the waiting room, pacing up and down the floor between the rows of chairs lining the walls, but now, staring down at his beating heart in Medic's hands, he doesn't feel a thing. Certainly no pain thanks to the Quick-Fix.
He can't help his grin of elation as his Übered heart pulses and glows ethereally under the healing beam. It's beautiful, just bloody beautiful. Soon, he'll be a tremendous force of nature to be reckoned with too, unpredictable, uncontainable. Soon, Medic will see him with all that power. Medic will finally see him.
But Medic never gives him an ÜberCharge. Not once. Medic won't even glance his way during battle, not with Heavy there as Medic's trustworthy bastion against the enemy. Heavy, the human wall in front of Medic who obscures Medic from view. Heavy, who may very well be Medic's lover now, and not him.
And so, he dreams of sweltering desert sand and unattainable, majestic creatures, and says nothing to himself when he awakens with blurry, stinging eyes, alone.
The bullet plows through him from back to front, in mere inches above his left kidney and out his lower abdomen. It hurts like a fucker and a scream rips out of his throat at the wrecking agony. His rifle plummets from his hands. He crumples and gasps for breath, curling around the expanding ball of pain in his side. His sunglasses go askew on his contorted face. His hat miraculously stays on.
He's on one of the lower rock steps leading up to the control point of the Spire. He's exposed, so fucking exposed here, and he knows he isn't going to get any help from Heavy who's sprawled on the ground farther below. Most of Heavy's head is gone, blown away by a bomb. The big fella's going to be Respawned soon enough. He, however, isn't so lucky. He's bleeding a lot and god, it hurts like a fucker, but he's been shot enough times to know he isn't going to die fast from this injury.
He has to get up. He has to move, get up to the control point!
His experience races to the forefront of his mind, takes charge of his brain and body: Get up now, push yourself with your hands and knees and get up now, push your hands over the exit wound and stop the gush of blood, it's not arterial so you've got time, now move, damn you!
His right hand leaves a ghastly track of red on the rock wall as he struggles up the sloping trail to the top of the Spire. He's still bleeding out the entrance wound in his back. His vest isn't doing much to stanch it and aww, fuck it, it's going to be pain in the arse to wash it later, if he can still salvage it. It's his favorite vest too, the one he'd bought in that supply store in Port Augusta before he headed into the Flinders Ranges. The check out chick had been a brunette beauty, single, no ring on her finger and naturally, he'd behaved like an utter cartoon and made her laugh for all the wrong reasons. Still, she'd smiled at him as he blundered out of the store.
Now he's the one laughing. Look at him, he's hobbling like an old geezer, panting, bleeding out front and back, he's dying and all he can think about is some random sheila who's probably forgotten he even exists. It's funny what being near death can do to a fella's mind –
"Sniper!"
His senses sharpen all at once, along with the agony. He has to bite down hard on his lower lip to not scream again.
"Sniper, it's me. Look at me."
Oh. It's Medic. Medic sounds so calm, so confident.
He opens eyes he didn't know he'd shut. He's sitting on the trail, both hands on his bleeding abdomen, and Medic is kneeling in front of him, cupping his left cheek with a gloved hand, holding him up. He smiles dreamily at Medic. So they're done with the drinks, are they? Is this where Medic puts his arms around his waist and takes him back to his camper van and kisses him?
"Sniper, Sniper. It's just you und me. Do you understand?"
Medic looks so focused, so intense.
"A whole army of BLU Soldiers und Pyros are coming zhis vay right now, und you're it. You're zhe vone."
Sniper nods, or he thinks he does. The one. He's the one. Okay. The one for what?
His senses sharpen in a very different way when Medic flips a switch on the Medi-gun and then lifts and aims it at him. Oh, oh, the voltmeter on the gun is at full and there's that panel saying the ÜberCharge is ready and oh god, it's the ÜberCharge, it's finally time, it's finally his turn.
He feels the heat of Medic's gaze upon him. He sees Medic looking back at him and seeing him, seeing him. His smile widens into a triumphant grin.
"Now, Doctor … now."
The universe explodes into blinding, radiant whiteness. He can't breathe, can't touch the ground, can't remember what it feels like to hurt, to have a corporeal body, can't remember the last time he feels so bloody incredible. It feels like paradise before the fall. It feels like the deepest, most primal hunger fulfilled a thousand times over, peaking over and over, never stopping. It feels like being the storm of all storms, free to conquer the skies, the land and seas and be worshipped by its puny denizens. His Übered heart, powered up for the first time, thumps violently in his chest and envelopes him in glimmering, striking red.
He hears someone screaming at the top of his lungs in ecstasy. He has his kukri in hand and he's flying, he's flying through the air like a bird and the ground is quaking with the stomping of a thousand emus of war behind and beside him across the sweltering desert sand. He sees human heads pop off fragile necks, sees crisp blood fountaining from liberated carotid arteries, sees chopped off arms and legs sail through the air like wingless, gory fairies. He smells the stench of urine as jars of it are hurled and smash open on puny, puny creatures that shriek in horror of it. He hears someone laughing uproariously at that, someone who sounds suspiciously just like him.
"I AM THE STORM OF STORMS, THE HARBINGER OF DEATH AND DESTRUCTION! HAHAHAHA!"
There's blood and piss everywhere, everywhere. He isn't dying. He's alive, more alive than he's ever been before, and as the glow fades from within him and without, he gazes up at the cloudless, afternoon sky and laughs once more. The thunder from his throat shakes the heavens. The crimson wetness that coats him is his trophy of war. He is a god on earth, and he will claim what is rightfully his.
"Put me down zhis instant, you filthy dummkopf!"
He hears laughter of amusement all around him, but he doesn't care, he has Medic, he has what belongs to him in his arms. He whirls them around and round over the corpses of BLU mercenaries. He doesn't care about the punches that land on his head and shoulders. They feel good, just like Medic's lithe body against his, like Medic's arms around his neck.
More laughter is interspersed with gasps of shock when he plants his lips on Medic's. He tastes the salt of blood and the sweetness of the strawberries for breakfast. He tastes something else, something that hooks him like a fish on a line, something delicious and hot and so Medic. He wants to taste some more. Taste it again, and again.
He doesn't even care when Medic punches him in the face and makes him fall down hard on his arse and causes everyone else to laugh yet again. He's experienced the ÜberCharge. He's proven himself worthy of it.
His dreams will plague him no more.
That evening, Medic shows up at his camper van. He's sitting on a rickety sofa set against the right side of his camper van, clothed in a white tank top, khakis and slippers and stoking a small fire when he notices Medic standing there. Like him, Medic is casually dressed, wearing a partially unbuttoned shirt, brown trousers and soft leather shoes.
For a second, he feels like a trapped animal. If Medic's here to punch him another time, he'd … he'd let Medic do it. He would. And he'd let Medic do it again, if that's what Medic wants.
They stare at each other across the flickering fire. A draft ruffles Medic's cowlick and the loose lapels of his shirt. Medic's eyes are warm and soft like the fire, like the coalescing heat in Sniper's chest and belly. He feels like he's already drunk numerous bottles of beer. He feels like the world is spinning, round and round and round, like he's in the eye of the storm, bold and unscathed by the dark chaos. Like he's stopped running and he can finally turn around to see that not-so-unattainable, majestic creature who's been at his side every night. Finally.
Without glancing away from Medic, he slowly shifts on the couch to make space on the paisley cushions. His breath catches in his throat as Medic saunters over and sits in that space, like he's meant to be there.
His arm trembles as he rests it across and around Medic's shoulders. Medic doesn't tense up. Medic doesn't punch him. Medic doesn't leave.
They stare at the fire for a while.
"Stay?" he whispers, still staring at the flames.
He waits for an overwrought eternity for an answer. It is worth every moment, when Medic silently leans against him and lays a head of freshly showered, salt-and-pepper locks upon his shoulder.
"You vere beautiful in your madness," Medic murmurs. "You alvays vere. You still are."
Sniper bites a suddenly tremulous lower lip. He tightens his clasp around Medic's shoulders. He's sitting here in the semi-darkness, in the hush of a slumbering desert and yet, he feels the sun shining down upon him. He feels the rush of life through his ears, his veins, his heart. He feels the cooling breeze that caresses him from head to toe, the graze of soft, dense hair along his jaw and neck.
And entranced, stunned, he murmurs back, "So are you, love. So are you," knowing for the first time that it isn't so unprofessional to have a lot of feelings for someone whom he loves and loves him back, after all.
Fin