#7:
Aftermath
Hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, the Medic couldn't feel anything but the steady pounding of his own heart as the merciless hail pelted his little car on the abandoned and snow-filled stone street. He lowered his head until it lightly touched the edge of the wheel, and relaxed his grip on it a bit. Why he thought this stupid idea would work, he didn't know. He wanted some semblance of what had been, what was now far-gone and unattainable. But the war, it was finally over. The conclusion of the endless fighting was the main topic of conversation back at the base camp for all of them. Sometimes, people even bet money over when it would finally end. And the Medic would always sit very still when they spoke about the end, barely ever saying a word. Training his mind to think that his friends would always be there. Like little spirits doomed to haunt one place for the rest of eternity, except that they would never be alone because they would always have each other. It was blasphemous to think that his comrades had lives to return to.
The Sniper lived in a camper van; he didn't need to see his disappointed folks.
Not much was known about the Spy, but there couldn't possibly be anything left for him in France.
Even less was known about the Pyro, but his only talents assured the doctor that the masked person would never be able to integrate them self properly back into society.
Why would the Heavy choose to go back to Russia?
Soldier would always be the leader; he wouldn't leave because he adored war as if it was his only son.
Demoman's constant drunkenness would never be tolerable to anybody else but all of them.
The Engineer probably had a family, but there was no real reason, in the Medic's eyes, for him to want to leave them.
Scout was probably the most promising out of the group, mainly because he was so young and his skills would possibly lead him to pursue a career in professional baseball. But when that more than likely crashed and burned, where would he be? Right back at base camp, of course. Ready for more killing.
And of course, the Medic himself had nothing else to return to; he wanted to be able to perpetually be with his friends and use them to satisfy his medical curiosity. Until the end of time.
"They will always need my help," he told himself when they were all waxing nostalgia around the campfire about their old homes. "That will never change."
But now, five years later, the Medic was all alone. All those nevers and always had proven false, vanishing into thin air like smoke from the end of a cigarette. It was driving him crazy. The person who he assumed would want to see him the most, the Heavy, was nowhere on this road, and now his car was stuck in all this piled-up snow, unmoving like his resolve.
This was the street where he was supposed to be.
Except, how useful would that information be when the doctor didn't even know the Russian's goddamned name? How was he going to ask for him (once he found someone who spoke English)?
"Oh, I am looking for an old friend of mine, back in the war we fought in. His name? It is…uh, the Heavy."
They would have looked at him like if he was crazy, which wasn't far from the truth, but the Medic still wanted to wallow privately in his own insanity. The entire world didn't need to know that he was still suffering so much.
It wasn't insane to think that nine people could still be friends, even when the war that bound them together was over, right?
The sad part about it was that Heavy's address was the only one he knew. None of them thought to give each other the tools to find one another again; mainly because the war ended so soon that they had all been dazed when it was over, and most of the team vanished without a trace soon after.
Did they hate each other that much? Was I blind?
Still, if anyone had ever received the Medic's address, it was probably long-past invalid now, because he had moved around so much that even he didn't know where to tell the various companies to send the bills. The one thing he always clung to, something that had always comforted him, however, was the slip of paper written in Heavy's own messy, child-like handwriting that told him where he would be able to find him.
It's been five years. Of course he isn't here anymore.
That sudden thought smoldered within him even worse; it was as if a live coal burned a hole right through his chest and landed in the pit of his stomach. His only hope was destroyed, and the façade was crumbling into ash.
He began to ram his forehead against the horn on the steering wheel, not caring if he managed to press it down hard enough to activate the blaring noise. The doctor didn't want to admit it, but he also began to cry a little bit. He raised his glasses with a finger to wipe the little tears away.
Suddenly, someone was knocking on the window outside. The Medic immediately knew he didn't want to see who it was. Good God, what if it was an angry Russian ready to tear him apart for disturbing the peace? He wasn't sure if he wanted to die yet.
But when he turned his head very slightly to his right, he saw the Heavy's face in the glass. The man was squinting at him as if he wasn't sure he wanted to believe what he was seeing. The Medic wasn't sure he wanted to believe it, either.
As quickly as Scout with the intelligence on his back, the Medic leaped into action and opened the car door. "Heavy!" he shouted, hoping that the tears had dried enough so that it didn't look like he had been weeping earlier. The man looked a bit different, seeing as he had aged a bit and had many layers on to protect himself from the cold, but the Medic could tell that it was him nonetheless.
The German felt big and strong arms pull him into a big hug, dragging him straight out of the car so that his head was completely covered by weighty snowflakes in the minute or two of silence that preceded the embrace.
"Heavy…i-it's c-c-c-old," Medic spluttered after a while. It was embarrassing that he hadn't bundled up enough to tough it out in Russia, but he had to be honest that when he boarded the plane he wasn't thinking about the cold.
Wordlessly, the Heavy placed him back in the car and then joined him within it, closing the door after him. He hadn't spoken yet, but he seemed just as elated as his former comrade.
"What is little doktor doing here?" he finally inquired, once the silence between them had stretched on for far too long. His habit of calling other people small apparently hadn't left him.
The Medic was still shaking, for more than one reason, but he was still able to answer him. "Looking for you…" He had to turn his head so that the other man wouldn't see him acting so weak; he felt as though he would have fallen to the ground if he was forced to stand up at that moment.
"But why?" the Heavy seemed genuinely confused about this. "Your life is good, da?"
"I just had to see one of my friends again, and you happened to be the only one to give me your address…" the Medic explained hastily. "My life is not as good as you probably think it is."
"Your accent…" Heavy was taken aback; the recognizable German accent was one of the things that really made the Medic stand out. Now it was barely there.
"I learned a bit more English when I temporarily lived in America. It is nothing big." Medic looked at him once more.
It was then that the Russian man realized how much things had changed. "Been a long time," he muttered, mostly to himself.
"Yes. It has." The Medic tried to smile, but it was full of pain. "I always wanted to see you all again, but I thought it was impossible. When I got the chance to come here, I took it. But, ah, my car is stuck and I could not find you. I was angry…" he paused. "But now I feel much better."
"That is good," Heavy commented softly.
"Have you seen anyone else? Er, besides me?"
"No."
"Ah, I see." The Medic tried not to look disappointed. "Well, then, how has your life been these past five years?"
"A little strange without the others, but it has been fine." The Heavy had always been a man of few words, and it didn't help that an extremely awkward sentiment overcame the pair. "And you?"
"Uh – same. I traveled quite a bit, and was a university professor for a while. Somewhere in America. I guess I traveled to run away from myself…" Medic was pensive for a few moments. "The Administrator promised me my medical license back, but I never worked as a doctor again. I highly doubt that anyone wanted me to care for them anyway. The client I told you about so long ago, the one with that is now literally spineless? I am pretty sure he told everyone about me. He was one of those famous or rich men, I cannot remember." He chuckled slightly. "Didn't matter, of course. He is still without a spine."
Heavy started to laugh at the memory, which made the Medic snicker more as well. When their amused cackling had subsided, it was awkwardly silent again.
"It was…good to see you again," Medic said, his voice cracking a tiny bit. "Do you – do you miss the old days?"
"Sometimes, but…" the Heavy stopped, trying to think of a proper word. "It is best to move on."
"Yes…I agree." It was a lie. There was no way in hell the Medic wanted to see eye to eye with him. If he could have, he would've started a whole new war; perhaps he force Blutarch and Redmond to fight anew. Anything, anything to get everything that mattered to him back.
"Why do we not talk more over lunch?" Heavy offered. "There is a place down the road from here that we can eat at. Da, it is very good."
"Sure."
The Medic didn't know why he agreed to the offer at all, because he was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't talk much after that. Still, they exchanged phone numbers after they had eaten, and the doctor kindly told his comrade that he didn't want to bother him any more than he already had. As his last act of benevolence, the Heavy freed the Medic's car for him so that it could be on the road again without any problems. He even gave him some tips on how not to get stuck again.
"One last thing!" the Medic tried to yell out the window just as he began to pull away. "What is your real name, Heavy?"
"My name? It is –"
Although the German man saw his mouth moving, it was as if sound itself had been cut out from the very earth, and too soon, the whiteness swallowed up his friend and left the former doctor all alone again, on a journey that had no discernible end.
A/N: This is one of the ideas that was sitting in a Word document full of random ideas I had before I started this fic. Didn't think I'd do this one, since this fic mostly turned into happy fun friendship stories. But I wanted to do something else, so I hope it's alright here. Could be a new fic, but ehhh. I wouldn't be able to finish it, and it would probably disappoint a lot of people.