A/N: So, really, this and the previous chapter was one long sequence, but it was a tad long to be a single chapter, the way I've been doing 'em, and there was no nice even break right in the middle so... if you felt the last one was a tad shorter than average, this one is a tad longer. So, without further ado: Part deux, pour vous. Enjoy?
When the Sniper didn't immediately continue, the Medic eyed him, apprehensively, and prompted, "For...?"
"From what I understand, the BLU Scout was a mate of yours," the Sniper answered, his tone neutral.
It took a moment for the meaning of the words to sink in. "Was a mate of yours." Past tense. He felt numb. Gottverdammt. I should have been zhere... Then his expression hardened. There would be time for guilt and mourning later, and frankly, he didn't want to get caught up in either with these two studying him. Or anyone else, for that matter. "Vhy would you apologize. I expect...," he said, carefully, removing any hint of emotion from the words, "zhat you were just doing your job." And I vasn't doing mine.
"True," the Sniper nodded, expression and tone still neutral. "'E was about to cap the point. If I 'adn't taken the shot, 'e would've run down my mates before they could get clear." He paused, then added, "Still! I doubt that means anything t' you. So, you 'ave my apologies, Doc." He didn't sound apologetic, but neither did he sound insincere. And certainly not sarcastic. It was... professional. Polite. He seemed to mean what he was saying: even if he didn't feel any real remorse, he acknowledged his responsibility.
Vell, good for him. Zhat makes it all better, ja? But, the words "run down my mates" kept repeating themselves, over and over, in his head. If the BLU Scout had succeeded in capturing the point, and thus winning the 'round', the Medic had to admit he probably would have chased the nearest REDs down. The losing team's weapons had the disturbing tendency to jam, run out of ammo, or simply fail to work during those agonizing minutes between a point's capture and the beginning of the cease fire, and the winning team always jumped on the opportunity to take part in a little wholesale slaughter. And the Scout had had plenty of not-so-pent up aggression he would have loved to take out on the REDs. Someone would have died.
Who would it have been? Who did the REDs put on defense? Their Engineer, certainly. Obviously the Sniper... who else? Does it matter? Thinking uncomfortably of the RED Heavy, he had to admit that it did.
Verdammt, vhat does he vant? A pat on zhe back? "Zhanks for feeling sorry, for killing mein comrade"? Well, tough. He set his jaw. "Don't apologize. You vould do it again, I'm sure, if you got zhe chance."
---
The Spy was startled to realize that the Sniper looked almost... chagrined. Not so that the Medic would notice, of course, but he was very good at reading the gunman. Catching the his companion's eye, he shot him a look that said You couldn't possibly have been expecting him to forgive you.
Of course not, the Sniper retorted, silently. Don't be an idiot.
Zen what, pray tell, are you up to?
Trust me.
Well, he certainly wasn't going to dignify that with a response. He turned his attention back to the Medic, who was still not-quite glaring at the Sniper. The Sniper nodded, apparently unconcerned. "True enough." Tipping his hat, he turned as if to leave, then paused, as if he'd just noticed the fixed sink, despite the fact the Spy knew he couldn't possibly have missed it. To the Spy, he remarked, conversationally, "Looks like Truckie stopped by."
Recognizing the Sniper's nickname for their Engineer, the Spy shrugged, casually. "And ze Scout. And ze Pyro."
"Pyro?" The Sniper actually sounded a tad surprised. "Really? What for?"
The Spy shrugged, "I honestly have no idea." Then he quirked an inquiring brow at the Medic.
A pause, and then, somewhat grudgingly, the Medic explained, "Zhey... brought him in to dry off zhe bunk."
The Sniper looked bemused. "And 'e didn't set it on fire?"
The Spy smirked, "Obviously not."
"Hm." Then, with a dismissive shrug, the Sniper tipped his hat to the Medic again. "Doc," he said, politely, then nodded amiably to the Spy, adding "Bloody wanker" in the same tone, and strolled out.
The Medic watched him go, frowning. "I'm surprised you haven't tried to kill him, yet," he muttered, dryly.
Perhaps the Medic hadn't been quite as oblivious to the tension as the Spy had thought. Or... Could it be possible, he's actually making a joke? He kept forgetting the Medic had a rather dry sense of humor, much less a sense of humor at all. "I have been tempted," he admitted, with a smirk.
From somewhere around the corner, out of sight, he heard the Sniper snort, almost imperceptibly.
Ignoring this, he added, with some genuine sounding sympathy, "I am sorry about your Scout friend."
The Medic sighed, wearily, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are not."
This was not entirely true. He regretted the incident, if only because it was detrimental to his plans. Never mind that it was their job---when he was trying to encourage the Medic to like the REDs, it was counterproductive to have his teammates slaughtering the Medic's former companions. Of course, he couldn't say this to the Medic. "Very well, shall we say zat... while I don't regret zat my teammates' lives were saved, I am sorry zat one of yours had to die for zat to be possible?"
"Zhey are not my teammates anymore," the Medic pointed out, softly, as if that could possibly matter to him.
"I am sorry about zat, as well."
"Liar," the Medic snorted. Then he looked up at the Spy, suddenly scowling, and growled, "Und I am still not joining your team."
Oh, indeed? The Spy hid a smirk."I don't zink anyone's suggested it," he replied, smoothly. "Except for ze Heavy, of course... but I'm sure he wont be too disappointed."
"Good," the other man said, firmly. Then his scowl slipped somewhat. "You... really told zhem? Ah, zhat zhe BLUs..."
No sense in denying it now. "Fired you? Yes." When the doctor winced slightly, the Spy admonished, "Oh, please. I said I'd get you out of zis alive, didn't I? You might have just a little faith in me."
The Medic sighed, again. "I am trying. It vould help if I had zhe faintest idea vhat you were up to," he added, dryly. "I don't suppose you actually have a plan?"
He managed to look insulted. "Of course."
"Zhat you're villing to tell me about?"
The Spy tried not to grin. "You'll just have to trust me."
"Yes," the Medic grumbled, "I zhought you vould say zhat."
He smirked, and straightened, abruptly changing the subject. "If zere is nozing else? Zen I should be getting some rest... We have another battle in ze morning."
The doctor couldn't possibly have looked more surprised if the Spy had told him the Announcer was going to show up in person, and dance naked on their Control Point. "Vhat? But we... zhe BLUs... zhey aren't going to replace zhe Scout?"
"I couldn't tell you," the Spy shrugged. "But zey have not requested ze time."
"Vhy aren't zhe REDs ordering some down time, zhen? Even if zhe BLUs don't request it-"
"Because ze BLUs won zis round. Zey get to set ze time of our next engagement."
He'd been wrong. The doctor could actually look more surprised. "...Sie gewann?" the Medic managed, finally, his usually commendable grasp on the English language abruptly failing him, "Du machst wohl Witze!"
"I wouldn't joke about somezing like zis."
The Medic gaped at him for a moment more, and then leaned back against the wall and laughed. It was a short, bitter bark of a laugh, one that plainly said Without me. They won without me. The BLUs hadn't needed him. Not only did they not want him, but they didn't need him, either.
Occasionally, the Soldier would bully his teammates into sitting down and watching American football on the television. And, occasionally, when one team or the other managed to make something called a 'touchdown', the player responsible would perform some ridiculous little dignity shattering victory dance. The Spy would never, ever, ever indulge in such a vulgar display, himself---the very thought was repugnant---but he was reminded of the practice just now because if he had been the sort of person to do so, this would have definitely been the moment for it.
Except for the whole 'displaying triumph at an inappropriate moment and thus showing your hand too early' part. Nevertheless, the point was moot. He worked to keep the maniacal glee from his expression and tone as he arched a brow. "You find zis funny?" he inquired, adopting a mildly irritated tone (an easy thing to learn, if you lived for any amount of time on the same base as a Scout), as if he didn't have the faintest idea what the Medic was laughing about.
"Nein," the doctor replied, smiling grimly, "Don't mind me."
The Spy hmmphed, as if unconvinced.
"It's late," the other man pointed out, obviously in no mood to try an explain the 'joke.' "Don't let me keep you."
He let the irritated mask slide, marginally, as he nodded. "Quite. Goodnight, Doctor." With a dismissive wave, he turned to go. "Sleep well."
"You, as well." A pause. "And for God's sake," the Medic grumbled, "don't die, vould you?"
The Spy tried to look genuinely insulted, but couldn't quite keep the grin off of his face. "Of course not. What kind of amateur do you take me for?"
The Medic snorted and settled back down on the bunk, resting his head next to his Medigun. "My apologies," he deadpanned. "I must have confused you vith some uzzer Spy I found lying half dead in zhe gutter, zhen. I am terribly sorry."
"I should certainly hope so," the Spy sniffed, haughtily, and shut the door behind him.
---
The world was still spinning when the Heavy dropped the Scout onto his bunk. "Ow!" he grumbled, though it hadn't even remotely hurt. "Friggin' watch it, would ya?"
"So. When it comes to vote, you will to be voting against killing leetle doktor, da?" The Heavy was not quite looming. He was just standing there, looking huge and carrying a really big freakin' gun, which pretty much amounted to the same thing.
"You threatenin' me?" the Scout demanded, trying to sound tough for someone who was seeing double.
"No. You want that I should?"
The Scout growled and struggled to sit up, but then gave both up as a lost cause. It wasn't like he needed persuading, anyway, and as much as he liked a good fight, he knew when not to pick one, too. "Yeah, okay, I'll vote not ta kill the Doc. Was gonna do it anyway," he muttered, and added, for the show of things, "It'd piss the Soldier off."
The Heavy nodded, satisfied. "And... if it comes to vote, you would not be against him joining team... da?"
Whoa. Waitaminute there. Alright, so, the thought had occurred to him, but he'd immediately dropped it as being too stupid for words. Of course the Doc wouldn't want to join up. He was a BLU. Well, used to be a BLU. He wouldn't join the REDs, that was like... against the laws of nature, or physics, or something. The Heavy was just pulling his leg, he had to be. "The Doc's not gonna join our team," he retorted, "Don't be a moron."
"You are so sure about that?" the Heavy replied. He sounded smug. The big, thick bastard actually sounded smug, like he knew something the Scout didn't. It was like he was talking to the Spy, all of a sudden. Well, if the Spy had spontaneously become huge, dumb, and Russian, and had taken off that stupid mask he always wore to reveal he was actually bald. On second thought, it really wasn't that much like he was talking to the Spy. Or, at all.
The Scout eyed him, suspiciously. "Well, yeah... I mean... look, its a stupid idea, nobody's gonna go for it." Even if it would be kinda handy, having somebody around to patch them up after a fight. But no, that was stupid, the Doc wasn't going to turn around and help them kill the BLUs. He sure wouldn't, if he was in the same position. 'Cept... They did kick him out, for no good reason. Heck, if they gave us their answer yesterday, we prob'ly would've killed 'im already. He's gotta be pretty pissed off at 'em. But, still, it wasn't going to work, because this was the Heavy's plan. The Heavy didn't make plans, and there was a friggin' good reason for that, which was that he was thick. Oh, sure, it probably made sense in his head, but out here, in the real world-
The Heavy glanced at the door, and then leaned forward, conspiratorially. "Spy thinks it will work."
That made him sit up, even if the whole room lurched and spun for a second or two afterwards. "Spy's going ta get him to join? Seriously?"
The Heavy nodded, firmly. He obviously didn't have a doubt in his mind, and the Scout couldn't really blame him. If there was any chance the Doc could be convinced, then the Spy was the one who could convince him. But why the hell's the Spy on our side, anyway? What's he gonna get outta it?
"Well... Yeah. Okay, then. If we vote on it, and the Doc's up for it. Which is a pretty friggin' big if, if ya ask me."
"Good." With a grin, the Heavy turned and headed for the door, humming cheerfully. With a groan, the Scout flopped back down on his bunk. While he waited for the world to stop spinning again, he did a quick tally. Him, the Heavy, the Spy... He'd hafta start pestering Hard Hat tomorrow. If the Scout annoyed him enough, Hard Hat would agree to anything just to get him to go away.
---
The Spy wasn't surprised to find the Sniper waiting for him around the corner, and didn't bother to slow his stride as he passed him, or wipe the smirk off his face. His comrade easily fell into step beside him, and muttered, "So that's why you're so interested in what 'appens to the bloke. Not like you, mate."
The Spy ignored this. Loudly. Pointedly. When the Sniper seemed content to let the observation continue hanging in the air, he firmly changed the subject, "If you are going to stick your enormous nose into my schemes, you might at least attempt to be subtle about it."
"That was subtle, ya git. Just because a bloke can occasionally 'old a conversation without subtext doesn't mean 'e can't be a sneaky bastard, too."
"Hmph. I'm surprised you didn't just shout 'I'm tryin' ta gauge yore reaction, mate!' and get it over with."
The Sniper smirked, smugly, "So that's what ya think I was doing, issit?"
"Among other zings, I'm sure," he replied, his tone patronizing. "Zat was very clever. For ze next battle, would you like to try your hand at my job? I'd be more zen happy to hide up in ze battlements all day, in your place."
"You? Snipe? With that little pea shooter of yours? Good luck with that, mate."
They'd be bantering back and forth all night, at this rate. Normally, this would have been almost agreeable, but it was late, he was tired, and if the Sniper continued to tamper with the Spy's delicate manipulations, he could still cause serious harm. "Stay out of zis," he snapped, abandoning his amused tone. "I am sure you find it most entertaining, but I will tell ze Heavy we have you to blame, if zis-"
"You 'ave 'im," the Sniper interrupted. His tone was softer, but still conversational. "I dunno 'ow ya did it, but you 'ad 'im this morning. Probably before." The Spy quirked a brow, skeptically, and the Sniper continued, "Yesterday, Truckie slugs the man over a broken sink, and today? Today, the Medic fixes 'im up without a bleedin' word of protest, because you bloody well asked 'im to."
"Zat means nozing," the Spy shook his head, dismissively. "He believes we are conspiring-"
"Yep, I heard. Which means 'e trusts you." The Sniper made a disgusted noise. "You. What kind of bloody lunatic trusts you?"
"If you zink he trusts me, zen I have obviously been giving you too much credit," the Spy replied, disdainfully. "He more zen half expects me to throw him to ze Soldier, or perhaps ze Pyro, when I have 'got what I want' from him."
"Of 'course 'e does. 'Is own team just left 'im twistin' in the wind, what's 'e going ta expect from us?" The Sniper shook his head, and a note of irritation crept in to his tone, "But 'e's followin' your lead. I would've thought 'e'd need persuading, ta get 'im to fix up Truckie and th' little hooligan, but nah. You ask 'im, and its all business. Not a single complaint. Just did 'is job, didn't even try and make 'em squirm."
It was obvious this was really bothering him, though the Spy couldn't be sure if it was that the Sniper thought he'd been mistaken in his previous predictions, or if it was the mere fact that the Spy was winning (Smirksmirk). There was something about the way he'd put that last bit, that reminded the Spy of their previous conversation, as well. He cast a sidelong glance at the Sniper. "Yes... Very professional, non?"
"Hnnn," The Sniper growled, and the Spy knew he'd "struck paydirt," as their Engineer would put it. "Ya smug blighter."
He would have smirked at that, except they'd almost reached the Sniper's quarters and there wasn't time for that luxury just now, not if he wanted all of his questions answered. "I take it your curiosity was well satisfied, zen?" When his companion didn't immediately reply, he continued, "You were testing him, of course. What do you zink of him, now?"
"I wasn't testing 'im," the Sniper replied, with a shrug.
"Indeed? Pull ze uzzer one."
The Sniper shook his head, "I figured he might need some reminding."
"Of what, pray tell?"
"We know 'e came 'ere with four other blokes, to replace the old BLUs, right? We've already accounted for three of 'em-"
"And I still do not see how it would be helpful to remind him of zat-"
"I was reminding 'im," the Sniper continued, pointedly, "That 'e's just got one mate over there, now---if th' wanker was 'is friend, t'begin with." They'd reached his door. The Sniper paused, significantly, with one hand on the knob, and added, "'E's got five, over 'ere."
The Spy did a quick mental headcount, and arched a brow. "Five?"
The Sniper smirked, ever so slightly, then tipped his hat and shut the door, firmly, in the Spy's face.
Zis, the Spy noted, contemplating the wood grain of the Sniper's door with a smug smirk, has been a good day.
...Except for ze humiliating defeat, of course. But never mind zat.