A/N: You have the Soldier to blame for the extra time this update took. I have the toughest time writing for him. Ah well. I am satisfied with how he's turning out...

In anycase, I will endeavor to update again, as soon as possible... but at the same time, I don't want to rush too much and sacrifice good story. So! Be assured that I'm going to finish this, though I can't say anything more specific than "soon."

Someone knocked on his door, and the RED Spy took a quick assessment of his situation. He was clean again, at least as much as a quick shower and some rather un-dignifiedly frantic scrubbing could get him, and he'd had a chance to change into a clean suit. The old suit... was not worth mentioning. Ever. Ever. Again. His cloaking device was still fritzing, he'd had to throw out a whole pack of cigarettes and his disguise kit/cigarette case was going to need a thorough cleaning as well... But, he supposed he was presentable. And, while he would have liked nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die from the horror and humiliation, he was better than that. He would not be broken by a ridiculous, uncivilized buffoon, not even one so obviously depraved.

So, the Spy selected a cigarette from his new pack, and lit it. Savored it for a moment. Then, making sure he was carefully composed, his dignity at least seeming to be intact, he opened the door and glared at the Sniper on the other side of it. "Yes?"

"Truckie knows. He 'ad a bit of a concussion, apparently, and th' good doctor took care of it."

The Spy arched a brow. "And?"

"'E's a bit... pissed."

If it had been anyone but the Sniper, the flinch would have been completely imperceptible. Unfortunately, it was, and so it wasn't.

His comrade arched an inquisitive eyebrow. Determined to ignore it, the Spy pushed his door open farther, so he could slip past the Sniper. "I will handle it, zen."

He heard the Sniper sniff. Then, "Think you might've overdone it on the cologne, mate."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," the Spy lied, dismissively, without looking back.

The Sniper caught up with him after a few strides. "Pyro mentioned you were... what'd 'e say? Said you were pissed off when y' left the Point." There was a pause, and then the Sniper added, cheerfully, "At least, that's what it sounded like. 'Course, it was a bit 'ard t' make out. 'E was laughin' pretty 'ard."

"He was mistaken," the Spy replied, calmly, making a mental note to find a way to kill the Pyro without anyone noticing.

"If you say so." The Sniper fell into step beside him, and added, "Any'ow... Th' Soldier didn't meet up with us at th' point, so Pyro's gone off t' look for 'im. I told th' kid t' show our new Medic around th' base. Figgered it'd keep 'em both out of Truckie's way." Then, obviously unable to help himself, the Sniper needled, "Y'know, I bet th' good doctor could fix your nose right up, if ya wanted."

Firmly clamping down on his composure, the Spy didn't allow himself a glare, or a sigh, or even a clenched jaw. He did, however, allow himself a brief fantasy about the Sniper's swift and brutal death. Strangulation, perhaps?

The Sniper whistled, softly. "Its really got you rattled, eh, mate?"

The Spy shot him a glare, and, carefully enunciating his words so that the uneducated, unwashed, inarticulate imbecile could not possibly fail to understand him, snapped, "I am not rattled."

"You sneaky, underhanded, conniving, gutless bastard!" The Engineer's voice, furious as it was, was a welcome interruption. In fact, as the Texan approached, the Spy noted that he had never, in his life, been so happy to see an irate Engineer charging towards him with a wrench.

The Engineer didn't have it raised, of course. While a certain amount of infighting was tolerated, attacking a member of your own team with a lethal weapon was... frowned upon. He was, however, smacking it rather menacingly against the palm of his other hand. "This mess has got your greasy prints all over it. What d'you think you're up to? That... BLU... cain't just join up, just because you say so!"

Well, technically, he could. At least as far as Command was concerned: The Spy was, officially, the leader of this little band. However, it might not be prudent to say so just now. "Of course not," the Spy agreed, silkily, instead. "Obviously, we will have to vote on ze matter," he added, with the smug confidence of a defense lawyer who had already seen fit to bribe the jury.

"Yeah, I bet." The Engineer scowled. "I noticed I was th' only one surprised to see th'..." He paused, and seemed to struggle for a moment to find a less insulting word, because he finally settled for the unimaginative "...Medic show back up on th' battlefield. In our gosh darn colors." He shot the Sniper an accusing look, and added, an injured tone suddenly underlying his irritation, "Y'all went sneaking around behind my back."

The Sniper had the decency to look a bit shamefaced at this, for a moment or two. (The Spy, of course, had no decency whatsoever, and kept his features carefully schooled.) "Didn't think you'd go for the idea, mate."

The Engineer growled. "This is about th' gol darn sink, isn't it?"

The Sniper arched a brow and opened his mouth, but the Spy cut him off, smoothly. "Non. Of course not. Why ever would you say zat?"

The Engineer glared at him, and muttered, "You're a damn liar."

The Spy smirked, slightly, and placed a hand on his chest, adopting an obvious mockery of a shocked and hurt expression. "Moi?"

"You 'ave been a bit... 'igh strung, lately, mate," the Sniper interrupted, mildly, before the situation could devolve. He was, the Spy had to grudgingly admit, fairly quick on the uptake.

A snarl on his face, the Texan whirled on the Sniper... and then stopped himself. He let out the breath he'd been about to yell with as a sigh, instead, and scrubbed a hand across his face. "Yeah, yeah... I know." He took another deep breath, and let it out. "Still, woulda been nice t' get a heads up." The Texan frowned at the Sniper again, but there wasn't as much fire in it, this time, and added, "We're a team, aren't we?"

"S'right." The Sniper touched the brim of his hat, apologetically. "Wont 'appen again. 'Sides..." The lanky man jabbed the Spy with one boney elbow, and added, "It was 'is idea."

The Engineer snorted. "Figured."

Pointedly brushing off his suit where he had been so inelegantly jabbed, the Spy sniffed, disdainfully, "If you two ingrates have finished wasting my time-"

"Wasting?" the Engineer interrupted, scowling.

"-I still have work to do." With a dismissive wave, the Spy brushed past him without a second glance. And realized he was already starting to feel better. Apparently, there was nothing quite like taunting an Engineer to lift one's spirits, even if it was your own.

---

The Medic hadn't realized he'd actually been relying on the Spy, until the other man hadn't reappeared after the battle. Ironic as it was to rely on a Spy, it was even more ironic to realize he was worried about one---and not in his usual paranoid He's out zhere somewhere, Mein Gott, he could be anyvun! way about an enemy Spy.

He would have been more worried, if they hadn't heard by word of muffled mouth that the Spy was alive and well, just stalking back to base, apparently in a snit. It wasn't all that reassuring, however. Hesitant as the Medic was to believe he could even begin to guess what the Spy was up to, it didn't seem like the man to disappear just when all his plans and schemes were starting to come to fruition. And this, after all, this had to be what the Spy had been scheming, all along. Probably. Possibly. I mean, how do you know for sure vhat a Spy is up to, really? But, no... It had to be. He was just being paranoid again.

Probably.

The Medic stifled a sigh. He was starting to miss the days when he hadn't needed to try and think like a Spy, just to keep up. How does somevun live in such a twisty, sneaky mind and not go crazy?

Anyway, that wasn't the point. The point was, he was actually genuinely worried about a Spy's welfare. One who---and admittedly, it was becoming rather redundant and pointless to cling to this fact---had been trying to kill him less than a week ago.

It was... incredibly strange.

Not that he wasn't worried about himself, as well. But, while the Engineer had been by no means pleased to see him, the Texan hadn't been murderous. Nor had the Pyro. And the Soldier was nowhere to be found. As the other shoe, so to speak, continued blissfully to not drop, and his inevitable doom kept completely failing to descend upon him, the Medic was having some serious difficulty keeping his hopes from rising. To quash the mad idea that he might actually get away with this, maybe even in one piece. Because there was no possible way that this was going to actually work. He just knew it. Nothing in his life could possibly be this easy.

Easy. Ha. He tried not to remember the way the BLU Pyro stared at him, across the battlefield. They'd been allies just a few days ago, and now... How... how could he do this?

Seeking reassurance, or possibly just distraction, he turned his attention back to what the RED Heavy was saying, and tried to look interested.

His tour of the RED base had been fairly short, mostly because the Scout's patience was almost instantly worn thin when he found out he'd have to slow up for the Heavy, who insisted on coming along. It was, however, a better tour than the one he had gotten back at BLU base, which had more or less consisted of "This is BLU base. Pick a room." The tour ground to a halt next to the Control Point, but not because the point itself was of any great interest. The Heavy had noticed the dead BLUs.

The big man knelt down next to his deceased, BLU counterpart. His attention was not on his doppelganger, however, but on the huge gun that the dead BLU had dropped. According to the big Russian gunner, it was not like Sasha. All the Medic knew (and cared) was that it was big and had recently shot at him, but the Heavy seemed to think it was interesting, so he was willing to stand and look attentive. "See?" the big man was saying, "She is using strange ammunition." The Heavy made a dismissive noise, holding one up for the doctor's inspection.

The Medic eyed the offered bit of ammunition and made a noncommittal noise.

A bullet was a bullet, as far as he was concerned: Just a little deadly piece of metal that he had to dig out of a teammate. Or dodge. Usually dodge.

Not put off by his audience's lack of enthusiasm, the Heavy continued, "These... they will not do so much damage."

The Scout, who was balancing on the dead BLU Heavy's back like a miniature colossus, arms folded and obviously bored, interrupted, "Hey, Doc. Does 'she' look thinner'n Sasha, t' you?"

The Medic started to reply in the negative, though he really couldn't see any difference between the guns, himself. It was better to be safe than sorry. The Scout, however, hadn't been looking for an actual response.

"I mean, Sasha's kinda chunky, isn't she?"

The Heavy shot the young man a dirty look and gave his own minigun a loving caress. "Don't listen to tiny man, Sasha. You are not fat."

"Chunky," the Scout insisted.

The Heavy glanced up at the Medic, "What do you thi-"

The big man broke off, abruptly, his gaze sliding past the Medic and focusing on something behind him. His features rearranged themselves into a frown, and the Heavy stood and cracked his knuckles, menacingly, glaring at the something over the top of the Medic's head.

A small part of him was quite relieved that he'd been rescued from the awkward position of trying to carefully avoid offending a gun. The rest of him froze. Oh, Scheiße. Zhis cannot possibly be good.

The Scout followed the Heavy's gaze, and muttered, "Wuh-oh."

Against his better judgment, the Medic turned around. The Soldier was standing at the top of the stairs, scowling down at them. His uniform was smoking, and the burns on the one side of his face were obviously not doing anything to improve his mood. Slowly and deliberately, he began stalking down the stairs.

A big hand landed on the Medic's shoulder, and he found himself being propelled backwards as the Heavy interposed himself between the doctor and the incoming Soldier.

---

The Heavy had been serious when he'd told the little doctor that, if anyone wanted to hurt him, they would have to go through the Russian, first. That the "anyone" in question was one of his teammates was unfortunate. Command would probably not be pleased. But this was more important. He finally had a Medic again, and he was not going to let this one down. This time he wouldn't screw up. This time was going to be different.

The tiny man hopped down off the dead BLU's chest and, to the Heavy's amusement, adopted a defiant stance that was just asking for a fight. Apparently, the tiny man was of a similar mind: If the Soldier wanted the Medic, he would have to go through the tiny man, too.

"Yo, Cap'n America!" The Scout heckled, "Where've you b-"

The Soldier stalked straight up to the Scout, and kept stalking. Startled, the little man tried to back away, but the Soldier kept on coming, until the Scout had backed right into the Heavy (who had absolutely no intention of moving). Then, finally, the crazy man rocked to a halt, an inch from the Scout's nose, and demanded, quietly, "You call yourself a RED, private?"

The Heavy had never heard the Soldier use a volume that was any less than the top of his lungs. This was new and different, and possibly a bit troubling. On the other hand, he could live with new and different, so long as it wasn't being directed at his Medic.

"Of cour-" the Scout started, trying to sound belligerent, and failing. He seemed just as surprised and confused by this sudden lack of volume as the Heavy was.

"Did I say you could talk, maggot?" The Soldier hissed. The Scout's mouth snapped shut with an audible snap, though, knowing the little man, more out of surprise than a sense of self preservation. "Do you know what RED stands for, you worthless piece of scum?"

Ooh, he knew this one. "Reliable-" the Heavy started, helpfully.

"It stands for courage," the Soldier ploughed on, ignoring the Russian gunner. "Determination. Loyalty." He growled the last one, drawing it out. (The Heavy frowned. That couldn't be right. Those words didn't even start with the right letters.) "Don't you dare stand here and tell me you're a RED after you abandoned your-"

"Hey, th' BLUs had a Sentry on th' point, what was I supposed-"

"Abandoned," the Soldier repeated, fiercely, cutting the tiny man off. "Your. Team. You ran and left the Engineer to defend the point with his bare hands, you coward."

---

"Wh-?" Hard Hat? He hadn't left... well, okay, maybe he had, but it wasn't like that. Hard Hat had been fine, and the Sniper needed help. The Scout had saved his life. Rallying, the runner tried to interject. "But I-"

Good ol' Captain America wasn't listening (as per usual). He ran right over the Scout's protest without even pausing for breath. What wasn't usual was that he wasn't yelling. The Soldier never not yelled. The Scout had never, ever seen him like this, even when (or, possibly, especially) when they were fighting.

It was slowly starting to occur to the Scout that the Captain was really, seriously, actually pissed. And not just his usual "Full of rage, because other emotions are for sissies" anger. Like, angry for a reason.

"What's the matter, maggot, the BLUs too scary for you? Or maybe you think you're too good to defend a point. If you can't attack then you defend, you sorry excuse for a soldier. That's how it works."

Why did everyone think he was slacking?! "Hey," the Scout tried, vehemently, "I-"

"Don't make excuses," the Soldier hissed. "You left a man behind. Nothing excuses that!"

"But-"

"You're a disgrace. It would be a waste of ammo to shoot you-"

"Hey!"

"-you cowardly, traitorous little wuss. I should-"

The Doc cleared his throat.

---

The Medic tried to stop the Soldier's words from ringing in his ears, but all he could hear was "Abandoned. Your. Team." Over and over. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to get a hold of himself. Stop vhining, he scolded, silently. He vasn't talking to you.

Which meant nothing, really. Because if the man was this incensed about what the Scout had done, the Medic didn't want to imagine what he'd think of a trai- ...of a BLU defecting to the RED team.

Oh Gott, vhat am I-

No. No. This was the right thing to do. Or, at least, if it wasn't, then there wasn't a "right thing" to do. Just whatever wasn't worse than the alternative. And the alternative was worse, he knew. Much, much worse. Because, while it would certainly have been easy enough to go back to the BLUs, it would mean...

He wouldn't be able to do it. Try to kill the Scout? The Heavy? Or even the damn Spy? It was utterly ridiculous, but, he'd rather give the Sniper a clear shot of his forehead, than be forced to kill his...

His friends.

Verdammte Scheiße. What was he doing, making friends in this hell hole? He knew better than that. I must be crazy. Zhat is zhe only explanation.

The Medic dragged his attention back to the crisis at hand. Just in time to notice that the Spy had finally reappeared. The other man was loitering in the nearby doorway, watching him. Scrambling to smooth the guilt off of his face, he shot the Spy a glare that warned, You didn't see zhat.

The Spy retorted with an entirely too innocent expression that didn't look at home on his face. See what?

Composure regained, the Medic stifled a snort and edged over so he could actually see around the Heavy's shoulder. The Scout was pinned between the bemused giant and the furious lunatic, and trying to protest, but the Soldier was persisting in his accusations with all the gentle finesse and diplomacy of a full nelson being performed by a Heavy Weapon's Guy.

Zhis is not a good idea. He cleared his throat, and interjected, sharply, "He vas helping zhe Sniper."