The Side Effects of Oktoberfest

Rating: T for profanity, alcohol, violence, and general crap.
Characters/Pairings: Medic, Heavy, undertones for the two at most.
Disclaimer: Team Fortress 2 belongs to Valve.
Notes:I'm in a bit of a writer's block for my other main TF2 fics, so I wrote this yesterday, which would explain the day the fic takes place on. I felt like I needed to do something related with the Medic before Oktoberfest 2011 ended, it seems only right. Feedback and reviews are always appreciated, enjoy reading!

It was October 1st, 1968, and it was Tuesday.

One would think whoever made the Gregorian calendar would decide to put every 1st of each month as a Sunday rather than calculate these strange days of 30 and 31 (excluding the black sheep that was February) just to make things more simpler. But no, the 1st of October fell on a Tuesday, and that would mean Oktoberfest would be ending on the 6th rather than the 1st since that would be Sunday.

It was certainly surprising when the supplies train had rolled in containing - amongst ammunition, rations, and other materials - more than an ample supply of imported, German-brewed lager. Equally as surprising was how delighted and joyful the Medic had been when he had realized his imports of homeland alcohol had managed to make it. Since beer counted as a personal item rather than a necessary commodity, many had wondered exactly how much money had gone into getting the beer to their base rather than the more refined things he would order with his own earned wages, like his musical instruments. (Then again, he and the Engineer would get paid more by the company for creating some type of chemical substance of scientific contribution; not that any of them had to worry about unfair wages at all with their employment at TF Industries.)

The whole thing had started off more than nicely, actually. Since the next day after the shipment had come was a Saturday, Medic had taken advantage of the ceasefire weekend to cook up all sorts of cultural foods back from his home for dinner, mainly consisting of grilled meat, cabbage, sausage, and potato dishes. While it didn't suit everyone's tastes (mainly the Soldier, who complained about how absolutely un-American it was), nobody had complained after Medic had popped open the lager kegs with an "O'zapft is!" and had passed tankards all over the table for everyone to enjoy.

It was probably one of the most drunken, entertaining evenings next to how they had all celebrated Saint Patrick's Day. Nine angry, crazed, mercenaries who were often fighting day and night long five days a week, were now all gathered together arm-in-arm, their free hands waving frothing beer glasses in the air as they all belted off-key renditions of various medleys and songs, internationally known or Germany-originating, at the top of their lungs. (Engineer had broken a string or two on his guitar, but that didn't stop him from joining in and strumming that instrument to its limits.)

Everyone had woken up somewhere in the mess within the appropriately named mess hall in good spirits, regardless. And since it was still Sunday, they'd celebrate Oktoberfest again that night with that good ol' German beer Medic was more than willing to share with carefree smiles, joy, and laughter not usually seen so shamelessly from the stoic, strict, and straightforward doctor. Nobody was complaining about this change, not even when Medic started the festivities a little earlier than usual as the days passed by. A happy Medic was a good Medic.

Then, sometime in the second week of Oktoberfest, Medic started showing up to battles more smashed than a BLU dispenser wrecked by the Scout's bat.

Calls of "MEDIC!", "DOCTOR!", "DOC, C'MON, MAN!" and even "EXCUSE ME, I AM IN NEED OF MEDICAL ATTENTION!" went by completely ignored as the Medic waltzed around in a stupor on the battlefield, lecturing rocks he thought were birds, humming Beethoven's "Kreutzer" as he played imaginary violin on his bonesaw, mixing up his healing shots with his battle syringes, and not even making it out of Respawn room when a rocket or arrow would blow him up - no, when somebody else would return from Respawn, they would find the German passed out over a flipped-over, broken bench, snoring obnoxiously loud.

What was once more than a welcome improvement was beginning to spiral downwards into a disaster of unpredictable proportions. It was more than just bad; it was detrimental in every meaning of the word. Their performance began to worsen without the aid and assistance of their most important team support. The Heavy had used up all the week's bread in one whole night for his special sandwiches. The Spy had now resorted to turning his own revolver to his head should he become gravely injured, just so Respawn could get him back to regular state. The Demoman, their alcoholic Demoman, would voice his complaints vocally about how somebody he was hoping would be his next favourite drinking buddy was now crippling their entire team (ironically enough), and had actually begun showing up to battle sober just to carry the defense line.

Everyone's nerves were beginning to shorten as their losses became a streak. It was ridiculous too, considering that the BLU Team's Medic was also celebrating Oktoberfest, yet he knew how to keep the alcohol off the battlefield and on the base for ceasefire. The Soldier and Scout even teamed up to perform a stealth mission of trying to steal Medic's remaining beer, but had returned several minutes later missing various limbs. Spy, after mercy-killing them both (with emphasis on mercy, normally he would have taken a rather sadistic approach to the two fools trying to do his job, but Medic's intoxication was weighing down on him as well), had called together a meeting opting for any other means of intervention possible, and it would have to happen as soon as possible - Oktoberfest would not end for another few days. (Five, to be precise.)

The situation was enough for Soldier, Scout, Sniper, and Spy to vouch for filing complaints directly to the higher-ups and therefore jeopardize the Medic's job. Pyro, Demoman, Engineer, and Heavy voted against this - whether out of genuine concern or just sympathy during that time did not matter. (Empathy was distinguishable in Demoman's defense, though he did argue he still did his job even when he was full-out wasted.) Because of this, the meeting had ended with one person being assigned the task of successfully intervening Medic's alcoholism, or else.

It was why the next day, after another embarrassment of a match and apologizing to Sascha dearly before tucking her in to sleep, the Heavy Weapons Guy had went to find Medic and was now knocking on the door of Medic's assigned quarters.

A very off-key rendition of Wayne Newton's "Danke Schoen" came to a halt. It was soon followed by the unpleasant sound of retching. Heavy cringed. After a moment or two, he had managed to catch a weak "come in", and Heavy opened the door without hesitation.

He was greeted with the sight of his fellow comrade with his head poking outside of the room's window, hands gripping the table near it and head pointed out the frame. The large man pursed his lips disappointedly, before he closed the door behind him and walked over to where Medic was. He saw the man's shoulders heave as he stepped forward. "I am going to deeply regret this in ze morning, aren't I?" the Medic's voice groused feebly.

Heavy scoffed. "You look like you regret everything already."

The back of Medic's head turned enough for Heavy to catch the glare in his strained, groggy-lidded eyes. "Vell, vould you like to fetch me some niacin, pyridoxine, and cobalamin then?"

The look that sprouted on Heavy's face needed no words to add to the confusion already on it. Medic gave a sigh. "Never mind, I'll get it later," the doctor murmured, before he leaned back over the window frame and gagged again.

Heavy could not help but wince. He continued walking forward, just so he could get a better look at Medic. The older man looked terrible. Part of his tan-coloured waistcoat was not tucked in, hanging out crumpled. His tie hung loosely around the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt, as did one sleeve that had also unbuttoned itself at the cuff. His hair was disheveled, his front curled fringe completely tussled. His glasses were crooked, absolutely askew.

The stench of vomit lingered as a drained groan escaped Medic's dry lips, before he glanced up towards Heavy and forced a dazed smile on his face. "So, vhat brings you here, my good friend?" he asked.

The Heavy's gaze narrowed. "I think you know why I am here," he responded.

"Do tell, bitte. I am not too sure we are thinking ze same things right now."

Heavy shook his head. He folded his arms, his expression almost stern and lecturing as he fully faced the Medic. "You are drinking too much, Doktor. You are not being credit to team because of this."

Medic replied with a baffled exclamation, blinking his eyes at Heavy. "Nonsense!" he rebuked, one his hands reaching up to push his glasses back in place (or just pushing them closer to his eyes; they were still crooked). His eyebrows furrowed. "How dare you, Heavy. Vhat gives you ze right to accuse me of such incompetence?"

The Heavy grabbed Medic's shoulder, hoisting the man upwards to stand properly and face him. "You have not done well at all in teamwork," he chided. He raised a finger with his free hand. "When we need to push cart, you are off having chat - with rocks! You sniff Kritzkrieg when you have it instead of use it on team, and then fall asleep in middle of round! You walk off cliff once when Scout call for help! You give me Ubercharge FIVE SECONDS before match even STARTED!"

"Oh, psh, it cannot be THAT embarrassing!" Medic retorted, waving a hand dismissively.

"You give Ubercharge to SNIPER!"

Medic's eyebrows raised.

"Really?"

"YES!"

Medic just snorted and smirked. "I think you, my friend, are lying. Perhaps you are not so good at handling alcohol yourself, Heavy! I know you like cocktails more than you do vodka, so German bier vould surely put you under faster than most. HA, that's it, isn't it? You're just jealous!"

"Does it look like I am jealous?"

Medic made what sounded like a snicker and a giggle combined together. "Vell, surely you are exaggerating!"

"Nyet! Is no joke, this is what you are doing to us!"

"But that can't be right!" the Medic replied with a pout. "Vhat about ze Spy and his chain-smoking? Or ze Demoman and his drinking? That fool gets drunker than I do almost every day - do you know exactly how many verdammt liver replacements I have given him?"

Heavy just rolled his eyes. "At least he is doing job right."

"Vhat did you just say?" Medic snapped, anger causing his eyes to widen in great offense. His hands fumbled forward and grabbed Heavy's red shirt, gripping it tightly as his forehead collided with Heavy's. "You take that back right now, dummkopf. I am a doctor and a professional, and though unlicensed, I can still do - " He belched. "My job better than Demoman vishes he could sober!"

The Heavy's nose twitched at the foul smell. He gently pushed back Medic. "But Demoman is doing great job, SOBER! Better than ME!" He exhaled sharply. "Is not good, not good at all! Doktor, you must do something about this problem."

Medic simply scoffed. "There is no problem. I do not require assistance!" He gritted his teeth as he jabbed his finger into Heavy's chest repeatedly. "If anything, I should prescribe YOU something for your wild accusations, you...you..." He paused, tongue lolling out and eye glance changing direction as he thought of the appropriate insult to use, before he re-clenched his molars and resumed glaring at Heavy with one final jab. "SHTUPID!"

Heavy was not impressed, nor did he think Medic would have been either if Medic was sober right now. "Doktor, I am not happy with you," he said.

Medic growled. "Vell, neither am I right now," he muttered, turning away and folding his arms with a huff. "Honestly, I vould think you vould be ze von supporting me right now."

"I do support Doktor! I support you almost all of times!" The intensity in Heavy's glare subsided. "It is you who is not supporting me."

This prompted Medic to arch an eyebrow, before he just scoffed again. "Ach, don't be so soft on me just because I can't be perfect! Nobody can be perfect, especially with all of you not appreciating vhat skills and efforts I am putting into this verdammt team of dummkopfs!" He sniffed, shifting his eyes. "All day, it is 'Medic! I need ze heals!' or 'Medic! I require assistance!'. Every single battle, 'Medic!' 'Medic!' 'MEDIC!'" The man's lips curved downwards bitterly. "And vhat happens after I assist all of you? A courteous 'thank you' is nice but vhen you all talk about my 'mad scientist tendencies' and how I'm 'crazy' or 'clueless', how do you think that makes me feel? All of you, so ungrateful!"

Heavy blinked. Medic just groaned again as he placed his face in his hands. "Sometimes, I vonder vhat you vould all do vithout my assistance. If von day, I vould never come back from ze Respawn system, or if ze company let me go, or if..." The lump on Medic's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Oh, I don't know, I just know you fools vouldn't survive vithout me, and I don't think any of you realize it!"

"Doktor..."

"Schweinehunds, ze lot of you!"

"DOKTOR..."

"Du kannst mich nicht verstehen - "

"DOKTOR!"

Both of Heavy's hands were placed on each of Medic's shoulders. The German let his fingers slide enough to see the Russian looking back at him with genuine sympathy. "Entire team does realize this!" he exclaimed. "I am sure everyone thinks Doktor is credit to team." He frowned. "It is why we do not want Doktor's drinking to become problem anymore. Is problem not only to team but to you! How can you not see this?"

The Medic opened his mouth to speak, before he closed it. His hands fell away from his eyes, which he blinked rapidly. (Heavy prayed he wouldn't cry - not that he would not mind comforting the doctor if the man did suddenly burst into tears at that moment and cry into his shirt, except that the man was still fairly intoxicated and it would probably be more than just tears that would ruin his clothes.) They looked away from Heavy again as he shook his head. "Do you know ze troubles I vent to just to import proper bier into this place? I can't let it go to vaste!"

Heavy shrugged. "Could keep, or share with team. You are not being forced to drink it all at once, and I am sure German beer will stay good for long time!"

"Vell, yes, but there is more than plenty to be finished, and I am obliged to drink during Oktoberfest! Oktoberfest does not end until Sunday!" The Medic let out a small chuckle as he turned back around, staring off at the clear, star-lit desert sky of Badwater. A warm smile graced his face. "I remember going vith classmates to Munich vhen I vas still studying for von whole veekend, or after that shtupid war vhen I still had my medical license - even ze professors and ze hospital Stabschefs vould book time off during ze time of ze festivals! I vould have fun with my friends and colleagues, eating good food, drinking good bier, and celebrating good times during Autumn Fest and Oktoberfest. I vould not have to vorry about anything trivial, like vhere this bone vent or vhere that disease came from, who vas dominating in ze war or vhat ze hell vas going on..."

He turned his head back to face Heavy. "I vould just be like everyvon else. Having fun." He laughed rather gleefully. "Lots of fun!"

All previous concern and frustration that Heavy had held against his friend seemed to have disappeared. This was why the team had liked Medic initially - he was just so friendly, so cheerful and merry that it made him approachable and charismatic (well, not that he wasn't like that in his good moods, but that usually meant somebody was getting operated slash experimented on that day, which meant everyone had to be wary). There was that look in the man's eyes, though, when he was reminiscing - that homesickness Heavy recognized in everyone at one point or another, even himself.

"Why did you not go back to motherland then?" the Heavy inquired. He shrugged. "Why not have fun again, with friends and everyone back home?"

There was a silence that hung in the air as Medic glanced down in contemplation. He looked back at Heavy, and the Russian saw a hint of depression cross his features momentarily. The Medic pressed his lips together, before he spoke. "Vell, I still vant my two-veeks vacation for Italy, and ze weekends is not enough time to visit home, if I ever really vanted to go back. Ach, who vould I even contact anyvays? I've lost all contact vith my classmates from medical school and my old friends, and considering how I am still in trouble vith plenty of things back in ze whole verdammt country..."

Medic clicked his tongue, shifting his eyes uncertainly again. His hand pushed his glasses back up again, properly this time. "It's not like I don't miss it, my 'motherland'," he confessed. "I do. I really do some days. But here, I feel like..." He took a deep breath in, before he closed his eyes, and the warm smile from before returned back to his face. "I feel like this is home. Vhen ve all toasted our tankards and shouted songs around ze mess hall table, it vas as though I vas ten to twenty years younger again, vithout a care in ze vorld as we all just ate and drank and sang."

He opened his eyes, and grinned back at the Heavy. "That...vas fun too, vas it not?"

Heavy could not help but smile back as hazy fragments of off-key singing and cheering were recalled to mind, as well as how absolute happy everyone, especially the doctor, had looked.

"Da. It was, Doktor."

The Medic laughed heartily as he threw his arm around Heavy, his fist clenched. "Excellent!" he whooped. "Perhaps this calls for another round then!"

"Doktor!" Heavy snapped warningly, his eyes narrowing once more.

"Oh, PSH, lighten up, you lightweight!" Medic drawled, punching Heavy's arm. His eyes brightened, and he snorted as he continued to chortle. "PFFT, HA HA HA! Did you see vhat I did there? Oh, I crack myself up! HA HA, OKTOBERFE - "

Medic suddenly froze, before his hand shot up to his mouth as he gagged.

Heavy sighed. He grabbed Medic's head, turned it away from him, pushed it back outside the window, and forced himself to look the opposite direction as he heard the Medic empty whatever was in his stomach once more.

The Russian was not sure whether or not he was looking forward to next year's Oktoberfest.

The End