It started with a cough.
Every single winter, one of the mercs got sick. Said merc got the other mercs sick, and Medic was sick and tired of babysitting everyone.
So, one snowy winter's morning, when Scout coughed, the doctor was on high alert.
"Herr Scout." He had said almost instantly, and the boy turned to him with a curious gaze, before it clicked in his head and he groaned. "I ain't sick, Doc," he insisted. "Just had somethin' in my throat."
And now look at the situation the young Boston had gotten himself into. Shut in his room, away from the prying eyes of his team, stomach lurching every 15 or so seconds. He tried to count the space between each bout of nausea, but he'd always miscount. As far as he was aware, none of the other mercs had noticed his disappearance yet, so the agile boy just had to wait it out.
Until a knock sounded out.
"Herr Scout? You've been in zhere for two days, you missed zhree missions." The boy instantly recognized the thick accent. Panicking, he attempted to come up with an excuse in his delirious, fever-riddled mind.
"No I haven't, I was practisin' yestaday. Didn't ya see me?"
There was silence from the other side of the door, before a soft sigh sounded out. "Alright."
Retreating footsteps rung out muffledly from the corridor, and Scout knew he had fucking nailed it. God damn, he was the best at excuses and timing, because any longer and he would've thrown up while the inquisitive doctor listened in like a damn bat.
After emptying whatever was foolish enough to still lurk in his stomach, internal organs included, the boy was ready to just close his eyes and wake up in time for another mission feeling way better. Such unfortunately was not the case, as when he did eventually lull himself to a feverish light slumber of a measly 30 minutes, he was awoken by the sound of knocking.
Alright, play it cool, if he stayed silent he'd probably- "Open zhis door or I'm breaking it down."
Well fuck.
"Listen, Doc, I-" He was rudely interrupted by Heavy merely plucking the door off of its hinges, setting it aside obediently for his medical companion, who gave him a slight smile in response. As soon as he turned to Scout, though, his eyes narrowed and he groaned.
"So, somezhing in your zhroat, hm?" He mocked after overcoming the oncoming migraine. The boston gave whatever he could manage of a noise resembling a growl of irritation, yet was interrupted by the usually scheduled bout of nausea- yet he didn't puke.
Great. He had reached the point in a stomach bug where there's nothing else to throw up, but for some reason you still feel like death on a wagon embarking to the very gates of Hell itself. He was broken out of his small trance of defining the feeling, though, when Medic, wearing as much protection against skin to skin contact as possible, reached down and picked him up bridal style.
He would've cracked a joke, but he really didn't feel up to it.
After that, Medic had been treating him in the infirmary with the mercs visiting every so often to either talk in hushed whispers with the good doctor or give him small words of encouragement, and just Scout became Scout and Demoman, and then Soldier joined their ranks, and soon after the entire base succumbed to the sickness.
Naturally, Medic was the first to be free of his feverish chains, due to hygiene. Then Spy, and Engineer, and it felt so unfair to the boston boy because even though he was the first to get sick, he was cured two days after all the other mercs, Pyro unincluded. Can they even get sick? Who knows?
All Scout and Medic know is that it started with a cough.