This is based on a RP I did with my buddy chai. Mostly it's sad things and some Heavy/Medic and Sniper/Spy. Enjoy.
A heatwave had settled over 2Fort as though the desert itself was making an attempt at killing both teams before they left. The Announcer did not see fit to cancel the fight - not on the last day - and so both teams were left to the mercy of the elements, trying even harder to cross the bridge and enter the cooler bases. Worse off was Heavy: the giant Russian simply wasn't built for these temperatures no matter how long he spent under the cooling rays of the Medigun. BLU Medic had therefore favoured the sewer route today. The moat water was of suspect purity but at least it had cooled down the larger man, enabling him to continue mowing down REDs. And that was the only reason that the rest of their team-mates need concern themselves with. Heavy's grateful smiles - worth any number of waterlogged labcoats and damp boots - were none of their business.
Equally none of their business was what happened in the infirmary after the battle. Namely when he was pressed up against his examination table with Heavy looming over him. His enormous hands sliding up and under his shirt, the palms coasting gently over the ribs, fingers settling above the intercostal spaces. Then moving on to meet above his spine, tenderly feeling out the vertebrae, first the lumbar group then up to the thoracic. Medic was finally relaxing into those hands and the pleased rumble coming from the Russian's chest was promising an enjoyable evening. So typically it was at that moment the infirmary door slammed open. It bounced off the wall, making the window rattle in its frame,
"Ey, Doc you in- Aww geez!"
Medic's back tensed instantly. Moving away was not an option so he settled for leaning around Heavy's broader form and shouting,
"Get out!"
"Naw, Doc, I'm serious, man," Scout did look rather pale, a problem only emphasised by the infirmary's harsh lights, "You gotta-" he interrupted himself with a bubbling groan, arms cradling his stomach. Before Medic could speak again Scout was bending over the sink, rapidly taking leave of his dinner.
The German sighed. His bare heads left the back of Heavy's neck and pushed gently on the wide forearms. Obediently the warm hands reappeared from under his shirt. One came up to Medic's face, blunt thumb stroking his cheek absently.
"Vill Doktor be long with leetle Scout?"
"Ja, I am afraid so," Medic waved a hand at the neat boxes prepared for tomorrow's journey to Coldfront, "I vill have to unpack und-" Scout gave another moan into the sink, back trembling, "I do not vant Scout to be vandering ze base und making a mess."
"Could wait for Doktor to finish," Heavy's hand slid down Medic's cheek and underneath his chin, "I like watching Doktor work," he leant in for a kiss and Medic was happy to oblige but then Scout groaned and he remembered the younger man was there.
He jerked his head back and out of Heavy's grip. He met his confused expression with a glare and then a meaningful glance in Scout's direction. Heavy nodded then took Medic's wrist in one of his giant hands, leading him to their room despite Medic's hissed protests,
"Good night, leetle Scout. Hope you are better in time to fight RED. Have to talk to Doktor now."
"Stay zere, Scout. Do not touch anyzing!"
Heavy gently pushed him into their room - Medic's really but they'd been sharing it for a long while now - and closed the door behind him. He stood there, arms spread, ready to accept and shake off any blows, physical or verbal.
"You ah getting careless! You should be more careful vhen zere are ozzers around!" Medic's hands tucked his shirt back in with sharp, angry gestures, "Trying to kiss me vhen Scout vas right zhere! Vhat vere you zinking of?"
"Vas tinking of Doktor," Heavy chuckled and Medic frowned at him over his shoulder until he stopped, "You vere pinned against table, Doktor."
"Zhen ze blame also lies vith me. Und I should know better."
"Did not expect leetle Scout to come in. He does not care. Not really. Team does not care, Doktor."
"Und vhat of outside zhen?" They said habits of a lifetime were hard to break and Medic had insisted on keeping any displays of affection within the private confines of the infirmary. Some would say that was overcautious but someone of their inclinations only needed one careless moment to invite trouble. Medic realised that he was stroking the scarred flesh of his abdomen through his shirt and his frown deepened.
Heavy's hands settled onto his shoulders, gently working at the tense muscles beneath the layers of his uniform, deltoid first then the trapezius then back again,
"...Am sorry, Doktor."
Medic sighed,
"It is fine. Just remember in ze future, ja?"
"Will do," the Russian glanced at the closed door, "...I can kees Doktor now?"
He turned and kissed him, standing on tip-toe to do it. Heavy's hands slid through his hair and across his back. The rest of the BLU team would have been surprised to hear of the protective urges he felt towards Heavy, a man twice his size. Not that he would have told any of them but it was not as absurd as it seemed. Their roles on the battlefield followed them off it.
"Could still wait for Doktor."
"Nein, nein. Ve have a long trip ahead of us tomorrow. Go to bed," Medic offered him an apologetic smile, "I vill make amends vhen ve are at Coldfront."
"Must keep Doktor warm in cold base, da," he kissed him on the forehead, "If Doktor is sure..."
"I am. Get some sleep und I vill see you in ze morning, meine liebe."
"Good night, Doktor," Heavy kissed him again then released him. Medic was at the door before he spoke again, "Do not be too hard on leetle Scout."
"He did interrupt our evening."
"Da. But is really sick. Cannot be helped."
"I vill try. But if he is a baby about it zhen I promise nozzing."
"Cannot help being baby either," Heavy chuckled to himself, stripping his T-shirt off. Medic watched him do it, watched the play of immense muscles in his back - trapezius, latissimus dorsi, rhomboid major, all begging to be picked out and studied. It was a closely fought match, but he quashed the urge to leap into bed and leave Scout to his fate.
Medic's mood only worsened when he found Scout slumped over his tidy desk,
"Vhat are you doing?"
"I ain't doin' nothin'. Jus' had to sit down or somethin'," he said, turning towards Medic, fixing him with a pleading look.
"Zere are plenty of places in vhich to sit zat are not mein desk," he took Scout by the elbow, half-leading, half-dragging him to the examination table, "Und since I already have to clean ze sink I vould rather you not vomit on anyzing else."
"Got nothin' else to puke up, Doc. Swear to God."
"Ve can only hope," he pushed Scout gently towards the examination table, watching the younger man wobble across the floor with very little of his usual athleticism, "Now how long vere you feeling nauseous, Scout? I have some pills here zat should-"
Evidentially Scout had not quite emptied his stomach the first time round. Medic took a long look at what had been his pristine floor.
"...Sorry, Doc."
"Just- Just go by ze sink again. I vill be vith you in a moment."
Medic reached for the box with his largest needles.
Just as he had told Heavy, Medic was a long time dealing with Scout. Scout himself left after half-an-hour - and rubbing his sore left arm - but he'd left his mess behind. Really he should have made the brat clean up but every minute he stayed in the infirmary was another minute that could result in further chaos. And after the cleaning was done the needles and drugs still had to be put away again and resealed and all Medic wanted was to climb into bed with Heavy and-
"What is zhis, Docteur?"
Medic managed to swallow any embarrassing gasps of surprise but the bottle in his hand tumbled to the floor. Luckily the cap stayed on and it merely rolled across the tiles instead of spilling pills. Spy was perched on the end of his desk, one of his vile, brown cigarettes in his mouth and Medic's little notebook in his hands.
"I vould have thought zat you vould have learnt your lesson about reading mein private notes after ze last time, Herr Spy," the pills had rolled beneath the examination table and Medic went to get them, "I assume zat you came in behind Scout, ja? Vell go avay. I am in no mood to argue viz you."
Abruptly he was pressed backwards onto his own table, cold metal under his back, cold metal knife across his throat and an ache in the back of his skull. The lines around Spy's eyes were tight with fury,
"What. Is. Zhis?" the gritted teeth of BLU Spy hovering above him were replaced by lines of the Medic's own neat handwriting. Not his private journal - Spy had already read that much to Medic's fury - but still something he would not show the rest of the team.
"Zey are mein work notes. BLU vants full reports on ze team."
Spy tossed the book to one side,
"What kind of reports?"
"Physical und mental," there was the slightest narrowing of Spy's eyes, "It is mein job, Herr Spy."
"What 'appened to confidentiality, Docteur? I seem to recall you promising zhat it would not leave zhis room," Spy's left hand, no longer holding the book, gripped Medic's shoulder tightly. His right was steady. The knife was pressed against the side of his neck, exactly where the carotid artery ran up and underneath his jaw. Medic could appreciate that kind of anatomical precision if he wasn't the one it was being demonstrated on.
"Und it has not. Not even Heavy knows."
"I do not give a damn about 'Eavy!" from the next room Medic heard the Russian give a sleepy grunt as though reacting to mention of his name, "What I care about is zhat you are telling BLU! My career is 'anging on zhis, you demented quack!"
"I am not a quack," said Medic, "Und as for ze issue of ... ze Incident ve are capable of discussing it in a civilised fashion are ve not? Let me up," when Spy and his wickedly sharp knife did not move the German gripped Spy's left arm tightly in one gloved hand, "He vill come if I should call. Und his views on teamvork vill not matter if he sees zis."
Spy smirked,
"'Ave to get your meat-shield to fight your battles for you, Docteur?" but he let him up anyway.
Medic brushed the lump on the back of his head with a winch. At least the Medigun was unpacked - you never knew when a careless team-mate might narrowly, and rudely, avoid a trip to Respawn. He pressed the handle down and blue fumes coiled about his head, soothing the pain. When he began to feel the first symptoms of overheal - the powerful heartbeats, the rush of blood to the muscles and, of course, the glow across his skin - he let go.
"Did I interrupt an evening of you 'uffing Medigun fumes?"
"Nein," Medic brushed a hand over his labcoat, the overheal fading already. He was not particularly upset. Overheal was nothing compared to the dizzying heights that the Übercharge offered, "Let us just say zat you vere not ze vun I vanted pinning me against ze table."
Spy wrinkled his nose and blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling,
"I did not come 'ere to discuss zhat, Monsieur Docteur."
"Of course," Medic settled behind his desk. His files were still neatly locked away in his briefcase and he slid Spy's out. The Frenchman watched it like a hawk, "Strange as it may seem, Herr Spy, I do not vant BLU informed of your-" a warning glare from Spy "- of ze Incident. I have mein professional pride to think of. If vun member of zis team has to be taken avay zen I have failed in mein duties as a Doktor, ja?"
"I can take a 'int," Spy stubbed out his cigarette on the pristine surface of the table. More to clean, "What do you wish of me zhen?"
"I can hide mein findings in medical subtext and omissions. But it vill be difficult. Zey are very interested in ze condition of ze team. Und zey vill verify mein reports. After all I am also vun of zere mercenaries under ze same pressures und stress. Simply put I vant zhem to see vhat I vant zhem to see. Vhat you vant zhem to see."
Spy appeared to be studying the ceiling in a perfectly calm manner. No doubt that within the privacy of his mind it was a different matter.
"... Oui. Oui, I can do zhis. As long as my illness is played down. I cannot say zee next Spy will be as accommodating as I am. Willing to overlook certain things," he lit up another cigarette, "If zhey would consider me as a risk zhen what are you, Docteur?"
Medic thought of black marks in a file somewhere with BLU and kept up the cold glare. He wanted to be in his too-small bed, pillowed on Heavy's chest and letting the fifty-two beats-a-minute lull him to sleep,
"I am vorse."
RED Spy leant on the bridge railing, waiting for dawn. Without the explosions and gunfire and the constant threat of BLU Sniper it was actually quite pleasant to be smoking here. Until the morning alarm roused everyone for the long journey to Coldfront he was alone with only his thoughts for company. He flicked his cigarette into the moat and reached for a new one without taking his eyes from the eastern sky. It was earlier than he usually got up and, what with his play-acting yesterday evening, he was going to be sleeping all the way to Coldfront. But it had to be dawn. It was only apt to begin his work anew at the beginning of a new day.
Not that he didn't enjoy what he did here with RED and the many interesting toys that came with the position. But there was just no comparing it to the purpose that came with his personal work, the sheer joy that he felt when the neat package of files came. Like a personal note from God telling him that here was an opportunity to do Good. Not just to spend his days killing the same men over and over and watching his bank accounts fill.
That morning he had woken up to find himself hugging the hard-won papers to his chest like the worse kind of bureaucrat. He had chuckled when he thought of himself as one of those fussy little men that scurried around RED Headquarters.
It was light enough to see the ripples down in the moat. RED Spy let his cigarette fall and join the others. From his pocket he pulled out the little plastic bag. He had suffered to get these, his arm was still sore and his throat still burnt a little but his poor stomach had been the worse off. It gave a little twinge when he poured the pills into his open hand. A few rolled off and into the moat prematurely but that was fine.
They were so small. So difficult to believe that a man's life could be saved or ruined by such tiny things. It was humbling, beautiful even. They were beautiful, the little white oblongs with their tiny perfect BLU logo stamped on each one so precisely.
He tipped his hand. The pills slid over his leather glove and down into the moat to be swallowed up by the water.