NOTE: Thank you all for your patience! I'm afraid I got a new job at the beginning of May, and had to get used to the new schedule and workload to figure out where I could fit writing in... and then I got a concussion at said job that had me out of work for a month, unable to even read. But! I have returned, good as new!

Special thanks to kilgamesh once again, and to Sov, who has returned to beta!

So, without further ado, my deepest thanks again, and on with the chapter.

Warning in this chapter for: drugs, medical unpleasantness

You only get up the courage to ask after you're on the table, thoughts tumbling slowly: "They told me you used the über on yourself today, after…" but the statement loses its momentum, and you give up on concluding it. You immediately regret bringing it up. The doctor had not been angry on the field after respawn, but that doesn't mean he is not irritated with you for that spectacular blunder-backstabbed the bloody instant before über. The shame hangs on your shoulders like the itchy hospital gown on your skin.

" Ja ," he says.

You squeeze your eyes shut against the fluorescent lights. Stupid . You want to keep him talking so you don't have to think, but this-s tupid .

But the painkillers are already swirling around your system and you can't stop your mouth now. "I didn't know you could do that."

Surprise this time. "No?"

You feel Archimedes stirring at your shoulder.

"Well, I suppose it stands to reason. Zhat is a recent development-before, the energy required what you might call a conduit to make a circuit back to me. A few minor adjustments with Engineer's aid lets me use it alone, but it is a waste unless I'm in a… tight position." You can hear the click of tools on the nearby tray.

"Was it a tight position?" As much as you'd like to cram these words back into your mouth, you're certainly not stopping now.

You can feel his hesitation-or maybe that's just the warm turn of drugs under your skin. "No."

No?

"Now no more talking," he says, and you can't decipher the tone, but now you're really certain you've fucked up.

Archimedes resettles again, rustling his feathers on the skin of your shoulder, nestled against your neck.

CRACK .

He's broken through your breastbone. You wish there was some way to skip that step. You also wonder if, perhaps, he broke it a little harder than necessary today.

"Zhe schweinehund backstabbed you," he says shortly. "It vas my fault."

Your brow furrows and you open your eyes against your better judgment. There are flecks of blood spread over Medic's cheeks, and all his focus is below, where you refuse to look. There's a crease between his brows, mouth set in a hard line. You can't speak now to ask why he thinks the fault is his.

"I vas… distracted. By zhe time I saw him, I could do nothing."

There is a sensation of pressure, tugging somewhere on your left ( in your left, actually). The doctor's jaw tenses with effort, and you squeeze your eyes shut again.

"Before you'd touched the ground, I hit zhe uber, but-too late for you. Zhe spy could not cloak, so I killed him." A light chuckle creeps into his voice, a touch of dissonant delight. "I rent him into three pieces."

An involuntary shiver crosses your skin.

"Zhe rest were easy, until die uber faded; it does not last as long on only me-not to mention how much the effect is prolonged vith your heart to catch zhe current." You can hear him rummaging through his pile of medical instruments, clinking on the metal tray. "I think it was zhe pyro that finished me."

You can do little more than wait to see if he deigns to continue. You can't make any apologies, no exclamations, no questions. There is only the wet sound of blood and tissue and soft breath.

"But!" he says, too sharp, brighter than the cold, white fluorescents. "We took zhe day right from under the enemy, so it's of no consequence!"

If your head weren't swimming so fast, you might be able to follow that thread of too-bright tone and find out what Medic actually means, but every time you grasp it, it slips away, nothing but a beam of light in a corporeal grip.

Archimedes sounds a short, whirring coo.

"I agree! Zhe heart is working beautifully-but no, you can't taste it; zhis one is running an electrical current… and I don't think the Specialist will be so forgiving as Heavy, hm?"

You hope it's a joke, and try not to squirm under this not-doctor's fingers.

Not even a damn doctor what the fuck .

Something Heavy had said prickles the back of your mind: Do not agree to things if you are not comfortable. A bit late now, isn't it? And not just an hour too late-nearly two weeks too late. You signed the papers, submitted to the surgery, and now your heart is forever a ticking time-bomb of tangled wires and copper.

"Well, Specialist, it appears your heart is holding better zhan anticipated, so we can close you up for today and get you off to dinner." You open your eyes so you can see his glittering gaze, the amused turn of his lips as he prepares to try and wheedle another surgery out of you. "Unless, of course, there's something else-"

"Why don't you have a license?"

As much as the idea of a morphine-free surgery repulses you, you'll be quite glad when you can keep from blurting stupid questions in the infirmary.

The man in question blinks once, owlishly, behind his spectacles, before chuckling, low in his throat. The sound sends a cold shiver over your skin, but his voice is warm, cheerful: "It's quite zhe story. Perhaps while I tell it, we can continue-maybe take a look at your liver!"

Your head is full of clouds, and all you can reason out is that you want to know, and this is the way to learn, so-"Fine."

Medic's responding look of glee is such that even through misty thoughts you add: "But just looking!"

The doctor presses a hand to his chest-and the affronted, hurt look might be believable if said hand weren't bloodying his white coat in the process. "As though I would do anything else without asking!"

"I think you'd ask afterward ."

He shrugs. "I didn't say whether it vas forgiveness or permission I was asking."

And if that doesn't cover every interaction you'd ever had with a doctor, well, slap a helmet on your head and call you Soldier.

Rather than answer, Medic directs the hanging medi-gun at your flesh, and you can't help but relax into the prickling heat of the crimson beam before realizing (as your breastbone cracks back into place) that this means he wants to make a second incision to check your liver. Bastard.

"You really want to know how I lost my medical license?" he asks, and a wry grin colors the doctor's voice.

"Yes." You wouldn't have asked otherwise, now would you?

Nonetheless, your stomach turns.

"You really, really want to hear it?"

Your teeth creak under the pressure of your jaw. " Yes ."

Medic leans close over the table, spectacles creeping down the bridge of his nose. He adjusts them, gaze piercing. He reeks of blood and antiseptic and you fight the urge to squeeze your eyes shut. The doctor stops scant inches from your nose. There's menthol on his breath that does nothing to drown out the metallic tang of his profession.

"A man came to my office." You try not to notice your own unnerved reflection in his glasses. "An office I had here in America, near zhe east coast. He complained of back problems-down to zhe bone, he said." The medic's voice is low, so low only you would have heard, had anyone else been present. "Well, I could fix zhat, of course. Vith a bit of surgery, I said. So! I put him under." Quiet, like a well-kept secret. "Und you know what I did? I made the incisions. Each and every one so precise! Zhis was before my medi-gun, of course, so I had to make do with blood transfusion to keep him alive. Pah! If only I knew then…" He begins to move away, but before relief can settle in your chest, he moves closer, breath at your ear. "No matter. By the time I vas finished, I had his entire skeleton in my possession. Zhe entire thing! And you know vhat else?" Medic lifts his head, blue eyes glittering, exuberant, demanding your attention. "When I left, he was still alive!"

With a cackle, brusquely he pushes himself from the table, your gurney wheeling out of the beam-but still he laughs, tittering, high-pitched burbles that drop your stomach, chill your skin, snap your foggy mind forward.

"He was not," is all you can insist, squeezing your eyes shut against the fluorescents, against the doctor hugging his bloody chest with maniacal glee.

"Hoo! Hoohoohoohoohoooooo… oh… oh-ho, yes he vas! A triumph, Specialist, indeed eheeeeeheeeheehee-"

"Medic, that's impossible!"

"Ah-ha...ah… ooohoo…" As his laughter settles into burbling hiccoughs, he grabs the edge of your table, drawing the gurney back to his side-and you with it.

You hold tight to your snarl of indignation. He's having you on. He must be.

"You don't believe me?"

"Should I?"

He chuckles again, quietly this time. "Does it matter if it's true? You were expecting something equally horrible, ja? "

You were.

His mouth twists in a smile, as if sharing some private joke all to himself. "Then vhat does it matter? Now, I believe you promised me a surgery…"

Bastard.