Written for as a gift for fat-mabari and my 20 Fandoms Challenge.
When he tries to move he finds a large arm holding him in place. He lets out a snort of indignation and attempts to pry himself free of it with no avail. He frowns, expression darkening. "What is the meaning of this?" he asks as the Heavy's arm tightens ever-so-slightly. "Let go! Have we not finished for the night?"
"Doktor," says Heavy. "Why not stay?"
He feels himself still, not sure his hearing is quite right. Scout has complained about the noise coming from his operating room, but he never really notices that volume when he's got a bonesaw in his hands.
"Were you not the one who said sleeping in the same bed raised the chance the enemy Spy would get two of us at once?" he replies, his tone sharper than he means it to be because the memory rubs at him the wrong way, although he knows he nodded and agreed when the Heavy had said it to him, too busy thinking about his newest experiment to fully care about the things being said. That was then, though. Things have apparently changed.
"I know what I said," are the words that come out of the Heavy's mouth, and the big man furrows his brow. He is lying on his back, exhausted from their earlier exertions. He is glad to see he is not the only one who will be sore.
"Have things changed? Have BLU suddenly forgotten their goals and we are safe to sleep once more?" Once more, as though he can remember what it was like before their lives became this endless cycle of battle, rinse and repeat, respawn to fight and die another day. Once more, as if he doesn't know he can remember and wishes he couldn't.
"No," says Heavy. "Things have not changed."
"Oho," he replies, because he is the Medic at heart and if he is trapped in this iron grip he may as well make some fun of it. "Nothing has changed! Then tell me why you have me grasped so, hmm?"
Heavy lets out a grunt, his face coloring. He is not a fool; he knows that the Heavy must be feeling something. Hopefully it is not indigestion, because the Demoman stole all of his medicine for that, claiming he needs it for some dangerous and likely ineffective bomb he is developing.
"I like the Doktor," says Heavy.
"You like many of our teammates, if I do recall," he says, cocking an eyebrow, although he is tragically not in a position where the Heavy can see his perfectly crafted expression. Instead he is still being held captive by the man's mighty strength.
"Not the way I like you," says the Heavy. "Stay."
"You are not giving me much of a choice at the moment," he says. "If I cannot choose for myself, what is the point?"
"You are not small, Dokter," says Heavy. "You can leave?" The big man sounds confused, and the question in his deep voice makes him realize that the massive man does not realize how strong his grip is. Does he really want him to stay so badly? What is so important that he must be the one who warms the man's bed? He knows he has not been the only one in it. Well, he assumes. Heavy is too good at what he does in it for that.
"Your arm is quite heavy," he says, and his tone is again darker than he wants. "Strong and big and very useful for preventing me from moving. I have much work to do."
"It is nighttime," says the Heavy. "Sleep now."
He sighs because he does not know how to tell the other man that sleep does not come easily, that he often spends hours reading the few medical journals he can get his hands on, that some nights he does not sleep in favor of plunging his hands deep into a dead (or sometimes not so dead) body with a dove on each shoulder. Don't all the great scientists suffer? He believes he has read that somewhere, and he certainly lives it.
He struggles to sit up, finally wrenching Heavy's arm to be at least loose enough to do that. Baleful eyes watch him as he does so, perhaps looking at all the red marks on his collar and shoulders. Heavy becomes so quiet afterwards, but he is anything but during the act. He likes both sides of the man, and he likes the third side that he shows even more rarely, the man who has a PhD and knows more about the written world than he does.
He leans his head back against the headboard. He is regretting sitting up. The blankets were warm, and he isn't sure where his glasses feel when they barreled into the room. He doesn't want to look for them. He doesn't want to put his clothes back on. He doesn't even want to head back to his operating room and unfreeze any limbs tonight, something he's been looking forward to ever since the BLU Demoman had gotten drunk and wandered into their base.
The arm around him reluctantly lifts, and he realizes the Heavy isn't going to say anything if he leaves. Glaring at the other man, he slides back into bed, wondering if he will speak at this turn of events. The Heavy smiles, but not in a way that screams 'I've won', because that kind of smile would spurn him to change his mind and throw the covers off. It is a soft smile, gentle. The Heavy is happy Medic is here.
He takes Heavy's arm, nearly too heavy to lift (this is an exaggeration, but he does not care), and places it back over his side. It's warm, and Heavy's room has a draft. That is, of course, the only reason. It is entirely a coincidence that he sleeps better that night than the night he discovered you can substitute a man's liver with three much small liver-shaped objects arranged in a pleasing fashion.