The title of this chapter also comes from 'Live and Let Die,' of course.

WARNING for: blood, graphically described injury/death, delirium, medical unpleasantness

Two minutes left in today's final round. You're on the fourth point, Gyrojet rifle braced on Kevlar. Fingers curl tight, slick with sweat, on the handles of your weapons. If your team can hold, the day will belong to RED, stolen intel or no. Well—you spare a glance over your shoulder—if you can hold the point. None of your team is in sight; Pyro, Scout, and Demo, you know, are currently being processed at respawn. You haven't seen Medic since the previous point was captured, Spy is never around anyway, Soldier and Heavy got caught in a skirmish, the last you had seen…

Sniper's voice at your ear: "You've got three BLUs comin' up center. Soldier, Scout, an' the pyro."

A crack echoes through the hot, still air.

"Two. Soldier's down."

"Thanks! Any of our own in the area?"

"Engie here—bringin' a sentry yer way."

"Heavy an' the doc are busy holdin' the west side."

"Thank you—how long, Engie?"

" 'Bout another minute."

You squint through the harsh sunlight at the gap between buildings ahead, take your aim. The moment one of those BLUs shows so much as a shoulder, you're prepared to pull the trigger.

Why are you on this point alone? If you lose…

A flash of blue. You fire.

"Have'ta do better than that!"

You squint down your sights at the weaving figure, shotgun cradled between his arms. "Watch me," you mutter, and squeeze the trigger. Your lips curl in satisfaction as your bullet draws a bloody line along his shoulder, his face contorting in a grimace.

[Thirty seconds!]

He pumps his shotgun, and the pyro moves in a flanking maneuver at ten o'clock.

"Got that sentry, Engie?"

" 'Bout fifteen seconds, partner."

"Pyro's coming up left—" you call "—I've got the scout." You fire again, and the bullet sails over his head.

"No problem."

The little bastard is almost upon you. Well, let him come—the little prick will get more than he bargained for. You holster the rifle and draw your Lancaster, ducking behind the ballistic shield.

A bang. The clatter of buckshot. A steady creak and clank behind you.

The scout is three strides away. Two. One—

You bring the shield's edge up under his chin with a snap.

[The control point is being contested! Additional time.]

Crack. Vision spins. He brings the butt of his scattergun up for another strike, but meets only Kevlar as you drop back a step. Grasp your Lancaster—fire. The scout drops with a cry to his knees, clutching the hole in his thigh, shotgun clattering to the ground. You raise your pistol again—

"Fall back now!"

[Five.]

You grit your teeth and dive back to where Engineer waits, finger on the go-switch.

[Four.]

Click.

[Three.]

The sentry whirs to life. In a spray of blood and bullets, both the BLU scout and pyro are little more than shredded piles of so much cloth and bloody matter.

[One. Victory!]

A giddy laugh bubbles up from your belly, and the engineer gives a hearty slap to your back. "Done good an' right!"

"Oui." A waver in the desert air, and Spy stands at your shoulder, lighting a cigarette. "As well as can be expected, under the circumstances."

"Were you there the whole time?"

He smiles. "And you did not need my aid."

"But Engie—"

"Can't expect you to hold all on yer own. I just gave a last-minute push." Engineer nods and pushes his goggles over his forehead with a wink, and you can't help the grin that captures your features.

The spy takes a long drag of the sweet-smelling smoke. "We will see what comes, non?"

Another laugh escapes your lips. "Just like that?"

He shrugs slim shoulders beneath his suit-jacket and blows a curl of smoke to the blinding, azure sky. "There is potential." With that, Spy turns and begins the walk back to base, melting into the heat-waves and leaving nothing but the trace of heady tobacco behind him.

With a twinge of discomfort deep in the joint, you feel the engineer's heavy hand on your shoulder. "Maybe you should get to the doc—that scout knocked ya a good'un."

"Oh…" There is a dull ache behind your eye, but the thrill is still running too strongly in your veins to let you feel the full force of what was likely some major swelling and a minor concussion as blood trickles along your scalp. "Yeah. Right now?"

He nods, and starts back toward the base after Spy, stepping off the metallic point—now showing red—onto the cracked, desert soil. You follow, tucking your pistol into its holster, and folding your shield down to size. "Medic gets right over there when anybody's got major damage what won't wait until tomorrow. I think most day's you've been pretty fresh outta respawn, haven't ya?"

Your brow furrows, and you ignore the twinge along your hairline. "Yeah—usually I just head back to my room, and everybody hits the shower."

"Except the doc, when there's a need." He wipes some sweat on his scarlet sleeve.

"So I should—what—just head to the med-bay as soon as we get back?"

A brow arches, and Engie casts you an amused, sidelong glance. "The infirmary?"

You bite your tongue. "Yeah." Damn it all! Can't watch your mouth for one damned minute?

He must have caught something in your expression, because he says no more on the subject—only reaches into a pocket to produce a gingham handkerchief, and offer it in an open palm. "It's a bit dusty, but it'll keep that blood from gettin' in yer eyes."

You take it and shake some crumbling flecks of that orange dirt from the fabric. "Thanks." Tenderly, you press it to where you know things are stickiest, blood all muddled up with your hair. It stings. Your pulse has slowed, and by now, there's a little throb in your skull with each heartbeat. Hopefully the doctor has some Tylenol.

Nearly everyone has already returned to base, replacing their weapons and shrugging out of heavy coats and cumbersome belts and sweat-soaked vests in the locker room as you and Engineer arrive.

"Hey, Spesh!" Scout bounds over just as you lift the handkerchief from your head to check and see just how much blood you're losing up there. A quick glance reveals that the fabric isn't soaked, but you are a little concerned as the throbbing becomes more acute the longer you linger without treatment. "Heard you an' Engie took care 'a busin—ah, crap." He gestures to the bloodied gingham and then to your head. "What now?"

You shrug. "Pistol-whipped with a scattergun."

"Don'tcha have a shield for that?"

You press the handkerchief gingerly back to your head. "I was busy not getting shot by said scattergun. Do you see any bullet-holes?"

"No, but you've got a great big knot on yah noggin."

"Stuff it." But it's a cheerful sort of brush-off, even as your head complains more loudly than before when Scout responds with a laugh. "Where's Medic?" You don't see the white tail of his coat anywhere—and a couple of other faces seem to be missing as well.

"He's patchin' Heavy up. You should head over with Snipes—I think he's got a stab wound or somethin'—hey! Hey, Snipes!"

The lanky bushman straightens from clicking closed the clasps on his rifle's case. "Wot?" He slides the whole thing into his locker; along his right forearm is a tightly wound bandage, a faint bloodstain already showing through the linen.

"You've gotta go see the doc, right? Spesh, here got knocked in the head; you should go together! Team bonding and stuff."

Oh good Lord. "Scout, I know where it is—"

" 'S all right." Sniper shrugs. "I've gotta go anyhow; come or don't."

Pointedly ignoring Scout's self-important grin, you hurry after the marksman, and fall into step beside him in the hall. Your throbbing head appreciates the relative quiet. Only the click or squeak of your boots follows the two of you through the tiled halls, but after several moments, you're squinting uncomfortably under the fluorescents. Damn head injuries—damn them all.

And the sniper doesn't seem like he'll be the one to begin a conversation. You rub your temple, shake your head against the ache between your eyes. "So what happened to you?"

He shrugs. "Scuffle with the spy there at the end. Got a good slice on my arm—" He raises the bandaged area for a brief look. "—but I finished 'im. Took care of the wound m'self."

From what you can tell, it looks like he did a pretty good job dressing it, too. "Do you do that often?"

He lifts a shoulder again. "Sometimes."

You nod; wince when there's an extra twinge in your head, and then proceed to nod much more slowly and slightly. A man of few words, evidently. He takes a seat in the hall nearest the infirmary's door, and you leave a chair's space between you both. The sniper, from what you know, appears to be a man that likes his space and his quiet. You can respect that.

You peel the handkerchief from your head again, catching your lip between your teeth. Stings, aches—not the worst thing of the day, but shit. It's getting sticky already, and that means it's clotting, but the throbbing in your skull only seems to get worse. You close your eyes against the white fluorescents.

There's no discernable sound from the infirmary, so you settle into the uncomfortable plastic chair and wait, borrowed handkerchief still clutched on your lap.

SLAM.

Ah, shit, shit, shit. You press a hand hard to your forehead. Needn't have settled in, apparently. You peek through your fingers to see Heavy striding out of the double-doors.

"Thank you, doktor!"

"Ja, bitte." Medic appears beneath the door-frame, blood still staining his elbow-length gloves, gleaming in ruby drops and rivulets against the cheery, scarlet rubber. "Who's next?"

Sniper waves a hand between you and the door. "Go'head."

"But you—"

He shrugs. "Mine'll keep."

You hesitate, already halfway to your feet. Technically he was here first. Not to mention stabbed through the arm. "Are you s—"

"Jesus Christus!"

Yours and Sniper's gazes rest slowly on Medic, a tall, rigid force of disapproval, glaring down the bridge of his nose, over his spectacles. "One of you needs to step zhrough zhis door immediately."

"Sorry," you mumble instead, and keep your eyes on the cracked, grey flooring as it transforms into white, marble-imitation at the threshold of the infirmary. You follow Medic's crisp coat, yet stained with the orange dust of the battlefield, as it flutters over the tiles.

"Haff a seat on zhe table." You frown. Every word is decipherable, but… his words are usually crisp, clear. Now, his accent is nearly impenetrable; you could cut through it with a knife, if you had one. This… even on the battlefield, your team's medic has never seemed this rattled—or irritated. You swallow your nerves, but they still flutter at the back of your throat as you obey and take your seat on the table, still warm from Heavy's bulk.

You raise your head as Medic strides away and starts the faucet at the deep sink. "Vhat is it?" He washes his hands, gloves and all.

"Pistol-whipped. I—uh—probably have a concussion." Your nerves aren't helping the matter, either, adding a sharp edge to each throbbing wave of pain. You take a slow breath of the chilly, sterile air. The bitter smell of antiseptic turns your stomach.

"Tch." He shakes his hands over the basin. "We shall see." The doctor turns sharply on his heel to face you, eyes flashing, cold, under the harsh light.

Only the steady thump behind your breast proves your heart is exactly where it should be.

You swallow the bile that rises in your throat and draw another deep breath, clutching both hands around Engie's bloody handkerchief.

"Hold still."

That certainly doesn't help either as your limbs reflexively seize.

"Spezialist, please!"

"Sorry!" You squeeze your eyes shut. "I'm sorry, Medic—I—" Something, something, must find something else… "Is there anything bothering you?" You exhale sharply through your nose, ignore that there's an arsenal of needles and scalpels only feet away. Focus, questions… "You seem a little—"

He barks a laugh. "Tense, do I?"

Your brow furrows. Your breath comes a little easier now that you can't see the blazing ice, the cracked spectacles… "Yeah. And we won today, so I sort of thought—" Rubbery fingers come into contact with raw skin and you gasp and bite your tongue.

"We won, but it vas not a victory," Medic hisses, and you hear the click of his boots retreat to a nearby corner, followed by the creaky hinge of a cabinet. "Der schweinhund!" The cabinet slams shut with a deafening crack. You squeeze your eyes shut against the white flash of pain—oh fuck, oh hell… "Zhere is no victory vhen your research has been stolen. Und how, hm? Wie?" A click nearby. "Hold still. Stitches first." The darkness behind your eyes is warm; it helps, even as the doctor's harsh syllables rake across the day's memories like fingers through your intestinal ribbons.

Fingers clasp the back of your skull and your eyes snap open to the dust and the blood and the sun.

"Fräulein!"

An almost audible crack, like stepping on a dry twig in the silence of an autumn evening.

The medic's cracked spectacles glint and gleam, your blood in flecks across his face—not again. "No." You lash out; you won't be taken over like this again—not again, no; you know what's to come and you won't be caught off-guard. Not again.

"Bitte—hold still…!"

Not again. No, you won't; not again, that twisted heart beating under the golden desert sun, glinting, copper ruby red cerulean rubber and cracked glass and sand and gleaming teeth; no, not again—

White coat stained with the blood and the dirt and you can seize the lapels this time; there's no wicked saw here, not now, not again, no—

"Oi! Specialist—sheila—sheila, listen to me!"

Hands clasping your shoulders. Leather, fingerless gloves.

Still here, still here, he must still be here—not again; you'll be ready, you are ready; not again, no—

"Sheila, look at me. You're at the base. In the infirmary."

Amber aviators pushed onto a wide-brimmed hat. Eyes—eyes like a cat. One hazel, one green.

"That's it—calm down, now. Come on."

A glint of silver. Not again—you won't be put down again, heavy-limbed and gasping, not again, pricking, pulling flesh—

"PUT THE FOCKIN' NEEDLE AWAY, DOC!"

No. It won't happen again. You'll end him, or you'll end yourself.

"DOC, JUST GET HEAVY, DAMN YOU!"

Fists crack against metal; the more you strike, the less you feel. Hands hanging useless, intestines and veins like ribbons in the breeze, pass through slick fingers, not again, not again, not again—

"Bloody hell."

Heart thumping, steady, steady, steady—no—not again—

"Tikihy!"

Giant hands capture your fists. You won't be restrained. You won't. Not again.

"You hurt yourself. Stop now."

Your hands are free.

"Shh. Tell me—tell me what are you seeing."

You could run. You could…

Your breaths are ragged, and your heart races, safe inside your chest. "Heavy?"

"Yes. Tell Heavy. What do you see?"

You swallow. The sun… it won't… not… "It's bright." Your head throbs, sharp.

"Da. Lots of lights. What else?"

Lights. Heavy… still wears his bandolier, but not his vest? "No Kevlar."

He nods, slowly. "Was very hot. And else?"

"You're very big."

He laughs, softly. "Da. Now, what are you feeling? Better?"

You catch your lip between your teeth. "My—my fingers are tingling." You draw a deep, stuttering breath. "And my face."

Heavy nods, slowly. "Breathe; will be all right. In. And then out."

You follow his instruction, flexing your fingers with a wince.

"I fetch bottle of water from fridge for you—I will not leave room. Is ok?"

You nod. Your mouth is a bit dry. "Thank you."

Now that the mountain of a man has moved, making his way toward a little refrigerator on the opposite end of the room… you see a great deal more:

The gurney upon which your first surgery had taken place is up-ended, sterile sheets and paper winding across the tiles. A tray of medical tools lays scattered across the floor, thermometers and mirrors, scissors and stethoscope, things you cannot name. You're sitting now on one of the curtained-off cots saved for extended stays, the thin mattress marginally better than the papered examination table. Heavy is the only person in the room aside from you.

You groan, bury your tingling face in tingling hands. "Please don't tell anyone about this."

"I will not; no worry." You glance up with a start to find Heavy offering you a bottle. For a man so large, he is unexpectedly quiet. "Drink."

You take the water gratefully, and the man takes a seat beside you.

"You still need bump on head fixed," he says. "First, I must know what has happened. But not until you are ready to say."

You take a long, cool drink from the bottle, let the water wash away the figment of dust from your throat. "I—should be able to—" You bite your tongue, shrug. "I'm alive. I can work through it."

Heavy nods. "Da. You can. But no need to work alone—you are on team now. Can help."

Your heart aches a little.

You wish your mother were here.

"The—during the second round, I—disappeared for a bit."

"Thought you were busy. Said you got in fight…"

You nod, draw from the bottle again. Cold. Wet. Far from the desert's glaring gaze… "With the BLU medic. It—"

You exhale sharply through your nose, flex your fingers. Heavy rests a large hand on your shoulder. "Is not to happen again. Will not. You are safe here."

Your stomach turns, stills. You breathe. "There was a scuffle, and—do you know they stole medical records yesterday? That's what was in the case. Mine hadn't been added yet, so…"

Heavy grunts, a deep rumble in his chest. You look up to find his gaze steely, distant. "Need say no more. Doktor will want to speak to you—our doktor."

You resist the urge to rub the pins and needles out of your cheeks. "I'm sorry."

"Why sorry? Not for sorry. Experience was real. Respawn does not fix bad memory."

Your shoulders sag. "Yeah."

"Are you ready? Will wait to fetch doktor if not."

You nod, slowly, draw a deep breath, finish your water. "I'm ready." The room catches your eye again—a disaster. Bloody well embarrassing. "Shouldn't I tidy a couple things up a little before—"

Heavy shakes his head. "Is good offer, but no. Doktor will want to put things back himself."

Your teeth catch the inside of your cheek. "Not even the table?"

He rumbles a chuckle at that. "Fine. Just table. I will leave to get Medic—you will be ok?"

You nod, set the empty bottle aside, slide off the cot. "Yes. I'll be ok now."

Stormy, grey-blue eyes sweep over you once, ascertaining, before he departs through swinging doors. You stride over to the upset gurney and bend to right it, ignoring the tingling protest of your hands, and push it to a standing position… approximately where it had been, under the medi-gun's mounted harness.

The doors swing open, and Heavy leads your team's medic back into the infirmary, his expression as implacable as stone. Medic, however struggles, mouth twitching, gloved hands fluttering at his sides. Red gloves. Red class patch on his shoulder. Red tie around his neck, loose and crooked—probably your doing, you note with embarrassment.

"Fr—" He clears his throat, stopping to stand before you at arm's length, Heavy lingering behind like some hulking shadow. "Specialist. He called you 'fräulein,' didn't he?"

You nod, gritting your teeth tight.

"You are feeling better?"

You nod. "Yes."

"You know who I am?"

"Yes, Medic." You look at your feet, still protected by leather and steel. "I'm sorry. That wasn't—"

"Bitte. I should have known better. I vas too distracted to notice." The click of his heels returns to the same cabinet as before, and you raise your eyes to meet Heavy's gaze; the man has not moved. He cocks his head, and you give what you hope is a reassuring nod. You do feel… calmer, now.

"Tell me—" Medic continues. "—how much did he see?"

"Doktor—"

"It vas your heart, wasn't it?"

Your fingers curl at your sides, hands empty. You realize you have no idea where the handkerchief has gotten to—handkerchief. That's a safe thought.

You almost can't see the bloody copper, the beating, burgundy lump of flesh each time you blink. "Yes."

Something shatters, shards of glass tinkling across the tiles.

"Wichser. Hurensohn! Ich werde du mit meinen bloßen Händen töten! Ich werde seinen Adern von seiner Haut zerreißen um die Wände zu malen mit seinem Blut! Ich—"

You don't turn your head—even as restored as you feel now, you can hear the driving rage behind each syllable, though you have no idea what the words mean, and to catch that anger again… if that's what it takes to trigger whatever this issue of yours is, you're in no hurry to repeat it. But—

You twist and twine your fingers together. If the doctors were identical down to their voices, surely this would disturb you as well?

But the guttural, hissing rhythm of his rage as his tongue curls around syllables unfamiliar to your ear seems to catch itself up in the rhythm of your heart, the throbbing of your head, and your thoughts are nowhere near any matter beside the infirmary here, now…

"Doktor, please!"

There's another crash as Medic falls silent.

He returns to your side. "On zhe gurney, please," he says, quietly. You obey, casting another glance at Heavy. The Russian is still, a great sentinel in the middle of the half-wrecked infirmary. "I am going to clean your wound, check for a concussion, and add stitches before I finish the job with zhe medi-gun."

You nod, slowly. "Thank you."

Medic tips some alcohol onto a swatch of gauze. His spectacles catch the light, but they are whole, sliding down the bridge of his nose. Your jaw clenches.

"He is a coward," the doctor says, softly, deliberately. Here are the sounds uttered with conscious deliberation. You close your eyes as nimble hands press and clean the raw skin—it stings. "And he will pay for stealing from me." You can feel Medic's warm breath on your forehead against the cold cleanse of the alcohol. "I did not tell you, but zhat heart is a prototype. I plan on changing over the old technology for the others as soon as my observations are complete." His hands leave your skin. "Open your eyes, bitte." You do. Medic's brow furrows as he flashes a pen-light through your gaze. "Ja. Concussion. Throbbing pain, yes?"

"Yeah."

"The medi-gun will fix that." Through the spots dancing before your vision, you see him turn to the now-upright tray where he has set new tools. Now, he chooses a thick ointment, spreads it with a cotton-ball and brings it to your head. "This will dull the pain so you don't flinch when I begin zhe stitches." He fetches up a sterile needle and thread. "Six, I think," the doctor mutters absently. His eyes crinkle handsomely at the edges, even as subdued wrath gleams in their icy depths.

Note: My thanks to orchiids, over on AO3, who helped especially with the German in this chapter.

I went back-and-forth with myself on whether I'd provide a translation, since Spesh has no idea what was said, nor will she. But, for your convenience:

Transl. "Wanker. Whore-son! I will kill you with my bare hands! I'll tear his veins from his skin to paint the walls with his blood! I-"

And, to the randomreader who left a lovely review and expressed interest in doing fanart OH MY GODNESS, OF COURSE I DON'T MIND (BUT IF YOU DO I WOULD VERY MUCH LOVE TO SEE IT!). And, in related news, I've started a tumblr under the url purple-compromise if anyone is interested in some of the information I've gathered in reference to weapons and such mentioned in this fic, or TF2 goodness in general, feel free to give me a shout!