So I read "In the Cold Russian Winter" by CatBountry, who is one of my favourite people right now. It was amazing, but I couldn't help but notice there was a very abrupt jump of 24 years, from the remote Russian forest to 2Fort. And I was like "Hey, it would be interesting to see their first reactions to seeing eachother after so long and blah" because I think my thoughts a lot more interesting than they are in reality.

Link to the inspiring fic: /?p=2101Read that first if you want a better experience. I'll still try and keep it clear to lazy people without sounding like I'm just narrating the whole thing but bear with me if I fail.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN TF2 BLAH BLAH BLAH

They'd all arrived at the station differently.

Pyro had been sitting patiently on a bench, reading an upside down newspaper and laughing heartily at the Sudoku puzzles and crosswords. It seemed friendly enough, jumping up and down, clapping it's hands every time there was a new arrival, often taking their hands in its own and hopping around in circles with them, or simply engulfing them in a bone-crushing hug.

Scout, Soldier and Engineer had all arrived on a coach, and were already well acquainted with eachother by the time they'd arrived. Engineer seemed to be making the most effort to get to know everybody, shaking everyone's hand and offering them a big, toothy grin, charming them instantly with his easy, Southern drawl. Soldier stood at attention and saluted each new team member, learning their class-types by the badges on their arms, but made no further effort to be particularly amiable. Scout just seemed a little nervous; he had probably already guessed that everyone else here would be at least ten years his senior, and he'd have little in common with them. The fact he was a Bostonian who sounded more like he was from Brooklyn didn't really help matters. He seemed to take a shine to the Sniper, though. This was probably because he had at first thought he was British, and got all excited because he'd only ever seen Brits on TV and treated the idea of meeting a living, breathing one with similar curiosity to Demo's obsession with the Loch Ness Monster. When he was corrected, though, his enthusiasm didn't waiver in the slightest.

Speaking of Sniper, he and Demo had both come by sea, but obviously not on the same boat. In fact, Demo had only just arrived and was currently in the process of introducing himself. The former of the two generally kept to himself, tipping his hat to new arrivals and only speaking when spoken to, with minimal, one or two-word answers. It was clear he wasn't a people person. It was impossible to differentiate whether his job had made him like that, or if he took the job because he was like that in the first place. Demo, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. He was extremely friendly, and had obviously learned not to take offense easily. This was evident in the genuine, warm belly-laugh that erupted from his already wide grin as he saw the looks of utter confusion on everyone's faces when he first opened his mouth and they heard the Scottish vowels and R's punctuating his speech. He told them not to worry about upsetting him; most people just assumed he was from South Africa. The general impression of him seemed to be that he was a good man, a good laugh and hopefully a good mercenary.

Heavy had mostly walked. He could tell what everyone's first impression of him was. It was the same every time, no matter who he met. He often felt like a big, bald Gulliver, washed up on the beach of the Little People. The Pyro had visibly jolted when it first saw him approaching, apparently soothed moments later by the fact he was wearing Red. He pretended not to notice the wary glances everyone flashed him at least once, save for Scout, who couldn't seem to stop staring at his monstrously large form for about five minutes. He felt very much in the same boat as Demo; He had learned over the years how people reacted to his visage, as Demo had learned to predict how people reacted to his accent. This helped him to brace himself for the inevitable 60-second awkwardness he would never be able to escape, and harden himself to it. To counteract this he focused on coming off as something of a gentle giant, which seemed to do the trick, especially with this team. They were a haphazard band of freaks and social rejects, and they knew it. Why else would they have been employed by RED?

Their Spy and Medic should be arriving shortly. They were on the same plane, from Belgium, if the boys had been informed correctly. Apparently they were French and German respectively. Heavy had no problem with the French, although if he were to get along with his teammate he knew he had to dispel of the stereotypes in his head of the suave, chain-smoking lady-killer that all Frenchmen seemed to be portrayed as in movies. The Spy would probably be nothing like that. He'd probably throw his head back and laugh at the image, to be honest.

Heavy was unsure how he felt about the team's Medic. Of course, the mention of Germany tended to make a good chunk of the team subconsciously bristle, himself included. It was only to be expected, afterall. However, Engineer had pointed out that he was probably not a Nazi, or at least not a particularly committed one, else he wouldn't have taken up the job. Reassurances aside, something spooked Heavy that nobody else could possibly know; the strange coincidence of their Medic's nationality. Twenty four years ago, during the war, when he was just twelve years old, he'd stumbled upon a German field Medic out in the cold, on his own. He was a young man, it seemed. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. Unable to believe his luck, he'd held the man at gunpoint and led him back to his home, where his older sister, Natascha, lay sick with Diphtheria. He "persuaded" him (albeit rather aggressively, but it was persuasion nonetheless) to heal her, but had decided to still keep him in the house for the night. Heavy remembered how, that evening, he'd sat down opposite the strange man, at first just to observe a foreigner, but before he knew it they were talking. Who said what, he couldn't remember. He just remembered that this man had told him that he did not believe in the Reich, and that he had just wanted to get away from it all. It turned out they were not so different, and at that moment Heavy remembered feeling a great pity for him. He had brought him out the next morning, to the spot where he'd found him, and fired a single shot into the air in feigned execution. He had always hoped that man would make it out of the war alive, and leave Germany behind. He often imagined him stepping off a train at a station - much like this one, in fact – suitcase in hand, beaming at the prospect of starting anew, as he drank in his new surroundings and new air and new life and new hope. The harsh reality was that he had probably ended up face down in the snow on his trip back to the German base. If the cold hadn't got to him, Russian snipers or patrols would have.

Still, much like with the Frenchman, he resolved to wipe all memories of prior experience clean from his mind. Heavies and Medics were expected to work as a team, which meant they'd probably spend a lot of time together on the battlefield and off it.

He was rudely jerked from his thoughts as Pyro practically exploded at the arrival of the last train, taking Scout and Demo by the hand and running alongside it like an overexcited little dog.

The first character to step out into the New Mexican sun was a dark, willowy figure in a balaclava and dusky-red three piece suit. He surveyed his new landscape with a cool serenity and seemed to smirk to himself. He stuck a hand in his pocket and strolled over to the team, a precise nod of the head signalling that he was indeed with them. Pyro hurried up to him and shook both his hands violently, jogging an almost-spent cigarette from his mouth. He eventually managed to salvage his hand, now miserable and limp from the blood being sent awol by the Pyro's 'unique' hospitality, quickly regained his composure and cleared his throat.

"You all know 'oo I am, I'm sure. Pleazure to meet you all at last." He seemed very sure of himself. Not quite self-satisfied enough to be completely dislikeable, but this would probably prove to be a grating quality as time pressed on. It was actually rather notable that there was something at least a little irritating about everyone. These men were only human, afterall. The group descended back into the depths of not-quite-fluid conversation and the Spy went about acquainting himself with everyone. Heavy went through the introductory motions for the seventh time that day. As the Spy moved on to Demo, Heavy remembered the Medic had yet to emerge from the train. He looked back over to the heaving vessel, and saw a bespectacled man in a long white coat slowly making his way down the steps from the carriage, heaving with him a behemoth cage full of countless little white doves. He cursed quite profusely in his native tongue as he stepped on his ankle wrong and nearly twisted it, almost dropping his pets. He looked somewhat aged, well into his forties. From here, Heavy could make out that he had very strong features – Roman nose, well defined cheekbones and a long, solid jaw… he also noticed a delicate little curl deviating from the rest of his receding, dark hair and onto his forehead. By this time the others had noticed the newest and final addition to their strange little party and were just sort of standing there, save for Pyro, whose actions by now required no further description. Spy's nose wrinkled as he obviously understood what the German man was saying;

"Really, Docteur. You are a man of intellect; profanity iz ze crutch of ze inarticulate fellow."

He earned himself a confused glance from various teammates, Heavy included.

"I vill go and help Doktor. I can carry little cage, no problems."

"Ah! Danke, mein kamerad!" He patted the pyro on the back and sent him on his way back to the group "You ah ze Heavy Veapons Specialist, if I am not mistaken?" The Medic obviously had better hearing than anyone had given him credit for.

"Da," Heavy took the cage with all the care he could take "Is good you arrive, we are full team now! Why do you have all dese leetle birdies? Not practical on battlefield."

In the split moment the Doctor looked up at him, Heavy knew. Now that they were walking side by side, chatting casually, he knew. There was no doubt in his mind. Sure, he was a little harder to recognise; his voice was huskier, his hair was thinner, and it had been so long since that night and he'd been so young that Heavy was sure the amount of times he'd replayed it in his head since then had probably warped and distorted and blurred the memory of that face into oblivion. But at this proximity, in perfect light and a distraction-free atmosphere, the Heavy Weapons Specialist just knew...

It was him.

"Oh, I know…and I should get vid of zhem, I know zhey'd be so much better off away from here, but I just couldn't bring myself to part viz zhem. Zhey are my little guardian angels." He smiled at them fondly, and petted one through the brass bars with a rubber - gloved finger. Noticing Heavy's confused expression, he went on "Vell, zhey don't actifely go and help me in battle or anyzhing, but I believe every man schould have his own good-luck charm. Just to help vhiz personal morale, and vhat-not."

Heavy had gone quiet, the puzzlement engraved even deeper into his face. Medic just assumed it was because his English was not spectacular and he was probably just processing what had just been said. Despite this sudden loss of cognition, Medic found this man appealing (in more ways than one - he'd always had a certain 'thing' for big, burly shaved-bears, but would certainly not let that obstruct professionalism). He seemed like a good natured fellow, just trying to get along with everybody. He too was aware of the symbiotic relationship Heavies and Medics shared in action, and looked forward to spending more time with him. His thick, Russian accent reminded him a little of the child he met in 1945. Medic had thought about that child often after the war; about his sister and how he hoped she'd got better, about the little remote village he lived in, about whether that boy was ever able to leave Russia. He'd never know – If the boy had survived (which was likely since the war ended the year they'd met) he probably wouldn't recognise him if he passed him in the street. By this time they'd reached the rest of the group, and Medic did his best to reassure everyone that he was not a Fascist, nor was he going to cut anyone up and experiment on them. The team seemed rather accepting of him after that, and introductions flew back and forth as if everyone were afraid they couldn't make an impression that would last long enough. Heavy, having already spoken to the Doctor, stayed silent and pensive. Whatever he was smiling about, Medic mused, it was no longer his own poor justification for bringing pets into a conflict like the one they were headed for. They were all odd characters, yes, but so was Medic.

He rather liked this team.