NOTE: Here we are once again, friends, and, as always, thank you so much for your patience and loyalty! Many thanks once again, too, to Plenial on AO3 for their fantastic editing work.

All eyes sweep down the table, from you to one man in particular; Heavy sits frozen with the fork in his mouth, brows arched.

Honestly, you should have guessed he would be the only one. He's a whole different competitor with all that bulk, but with the right approach, you could-

"Whoa, whoa, hang on, Spesh-you know how ta box? With gloves and a ring and the whole bit?"

A surge of pride rises in your chest. "Bare-knuckle," you correct.

Scout's jaw goes slack. "Uh-isn't that kinda, y'know, illegal?"

"Isn't killing people for money?" A smile lifts the corner of your mouth.

Sniper chuckles. "Just a mite."

Heavy sets his fork aside, leans across the table. "You wish to fight me? No gloves?" It's difficult to tell whether it's disbelief or caution or the quiet thrill of challenge that colors his words.

Your heart races already at the promise of a fight: the rush as the world melts away around you, seconds to calculate the next move the scattered rhythm of flesh on flesh, jarring bones- "Yes."

His brow furrows, and you still can't read the expression.

"If you can handle it," you add, a touch of goading.

Heavy's face lights up immediately and his booming laugh carries across the table. "Okay, okay, boxing match with little Specialist," he returns; a jab of his own.

A disgruntled huff passes your lips, but you can't smother your grin. "I'm not little."

He chuckles. "True. For most people, you are big. But for Heavy-" He shrugs his massive shoulders. "-everyone is babies."

You can't help a giggle.

"Aaaaand that's why my money's on the big guy. No offense, Spesh." Scout rocks back in his chair.

That sends a wave of determination straight to your head. "Oh, none taken." You pop a bite of latke into your mouth and catch Medic blatantly studying you over his spectacles. As though he's calculating the odds already. You wipe your mouth on your napkin. "It's nothing on me when you lose it."

That sends another round of laughter along the table-including yours. Scout, however, furrows his brow.

"You're a big talker now, but Heavy ain't gonna be a walk in the park, ya know." He folds his arms over his chest, wrinkling his red tee. "I'm not sayin' I don't think you'll get some hits in, but without your gear, just fists-" He shrugs. "The bigger guy's got an edge is all I'm sayin'."

Spy swirls his wine glass. "Then put some real money where your mouth is, as they say." He pushes back his empty plate and takes a cigarette from its case. "Ten dollars on the specialist."

Scout's mouth drops open a little, and so does yours-but you recover first and manage to cover the stupid look with a sip of water.

"That's-all right fine, old man-ten dollars on Heavy. Matched."

A sly smile curls Spy's lips around his unlit cigarette. He lifts it between his fingers. "Done."

"Well, while we're gettin' in on the money, I'll put a fiver on Heavy," Sniper says wit the hint of a grin.

Engineer hums thoughtfully. "Guess we'll have to make it a pot-five on Spesh and ten on the big guy."

Your brows arch almost to your hairline. "Playing both sides of the fence?"

His grin is only the smallest bit sheepish. "I don't have doctorate in mathematics fer nothin'."

"Not in engineering?" You're rather surprised.

A wry chuckle. "I have that one, too."

Before you can try to puzzle that out, Soldier declares, "A BOX OF ROCKETS ON HEAVY."

Scout frowns. "Uh… Solly, RED supplies our ammo. An' you're the only one who uses those."

"THEN A BOX OF SHELLS."

"But-ugh, never mind." He rocks back in his chair again, dog-tags jingling.

"Five on Heavy," says Demo. "No offense, Lass. Yer two different classes." He gives you a cyclopic wink. "Anyone else, and the money'd be on you."

You cover the fact that you really are flattered with a chuckle. "Oh, I see how it is. I do good work on the field, but when it comes to the ring, bigger is suddenly better, no question!"

"No," says Heavy, eyes glittering. "Bigger is always better."

"I'll have you know I'm a heavyweight in my own right! Besides…" You elbow Scout's ribs and his chair returns to all fours with a crack. "There aren't any classes at all in an illegal sport, right?"

"Yeah," he replies, "but Heavy's gonna punch you inta next week-trust me, I know." He touches his jaw with a wince that brings at least three questions to your mind.

To your surprise, Heavy's grimace almost matches Scout's. "Should not wake sleeping men from nightmares."

Phantom images of your own demons suddenly fill every unoccupied crack and crevice, sweep up your spine with such a chill that you wonder how you managed to forget for even an hour. Perhaps this was a bad idea, maybe-

"So! That's one for Spesh," Scout indicates Spy, as though nothing had been said. You're galled. You're grateful. "One for Heavy," here, he indicates himself. "One for each because Engie can't make a decision-"

"I come out of this a winner either way, boy." He cocks an eyebrow, a calm little grin settling on his face. "Can't say the same about you."

"Yeah, but I make out better when I win, wise guy. Demo 'n Sniper have money on Heavy, and… that leaves you." He jerks a thumb in Medic's direction. "You've been pretty quiet, Doc. Whatcha thinkin'?"

A quirk of the lips tells you that his silence has hardly been that of passive disinterest. "My two greatest achievements in single combat-vhat do you suppose I'm thinking?"

Scout suddenly grimaces. "Somethin' I don't wanna know about, prob'ly."

"Hm." The doctor's sharp eyes rest on you. "Suffice it to say-twenty dollars on the Specialist."

Your thoughts stutter; you aren't sure you heard that right.

"Oh my god," Scout says.

You quite agree.

But your heart is hammering, and not in an entirely unpleasant manner. Twenty dollars! Medic meets your eyes with a shadow of his manic grin, no doubt knowing that your mind is absolutely reeling. He could buy a simple revolver for the return on that bet. A brand-new radio. Probably armfuls of lab equipment. But far more than that-somehow he's absolutely sure that you'll win him the money.

"You seem pretty confident there, Doc," Sniper muses.

You're finally able to wrench your gaze away from Medic's, to acknowledge your teammate's thinly-veiled inquiry, and it occurs to you that, truly, you should be distinctly worried, not thrilling and preening at the assured confidence you've been presented.

Demoman grins unabashedly over his bottle, not shaken in the least. "Sounds like a biased bet to me."

Oh, fuck, you're going to lose. Medic has been blinded by his own pride in your damnable heart, but it's not your heart that's going to be fighting, is it? An artificial heart isn't going to give you an extra five inches and another fifty pounds and fists the size of bricks, no. You're not fooled in the least. You see it with sudden, blinding clarity: you're going to get pummelled phenomenally.

Phenomenally pummelled for fun, but phenomenally pummelled nonetheless.

"No offense to Heavy, of course," the doctor says, but his eyes are on yours again, as though you're the only one who needs to hear his case, crystalline and sharp through pristine spectacles. "Zhe Specialist is simply faster, with greater stamina. Heavy is strong, yes. Zhe stronger of zhe two, certainly. But Specialist-she is vicious."

That word shouldn't roll off anyone's tongue the way it does his, a soft, curling lilt, pleasure and glee wrapped up together.

Besides, it certainly isn't a word you would use to describe yourself, not in the ring, not even at your nastiest on the field-that's not who you think yourself to be, is it? hissing in a voice like smoke and blood. Just like that, you can't breathe again, and fingers curl into fists. You can't panic now. You can't. You can't. You have to focus-the pain in your palms as nails catch skin isn't enough-

You're still facing Medic. The doctor. He's cooked the meal you can still taste on your tongue, savory and sweet. His tie-scarlet silk-red, safe, catching white fluorescents, it's the right color. The right color. White sleeves are still rolled up to his elbows, impeccably clean. There's a fleck of sauce staining the seam at his shoulder, as yet unnoticed. Sweat gleams under his tight collar. The knot he's used on his tie is a crisply done four-in-hand. It's the one for military dress. You remember. A double twist 'round, tucked between, pulled snug, savvy, never too tight. And it's red. You find his eyes again and air rushes back into your lungs, a quick gasp as you remember where you are.

Things are fine.

Medic is looking at you and you feel like he knows, but you can't find it in yourself to be embarrassed, not when there doesn't appear to be an ounce of pity behind those spectacles-only recognition.

You're back, and thank God for that.

Conversation trickles back in, like you've only been gone for a handful of seconds at most.

"-nah, he's just got money ta burn, an' somethin' ta prove-or, he's got somethin' cooked up we don't know about, but I'm not layin' any more money on it," Scout is saying.

Oh, right. Twenty dollars? Who the fuck would put twenty dollars on a recreational match arranged over dinner? You've been around him long enough to know that Medic is not a stupid man. Reckless, yes, proud, yes, but not stupid.

So why would he up the ante so steeply? You wonder if he knows something you don't.

"A… rather high bet, isn't it?" you manage at last, and keep your eyes on his face, searching for the smallest misgiving, the slightest clue about this madness.

Folly, of course, as he gives only a careless shrug and the same amused smile as before. "I can afford it."

Knowing your own salary, you have no doubt-but it's the principle of the thing.

"Let the man do what he will with his money," says Spy, a swirl of burgundy in his glass and the faintest turn of amusement on his lips. "Once Heavy names the time, since you've made the challenge, we shall see who comes out the better for all our bets."

"All right." You drain the last of the water from your bottle.

Down the table, Heavy seems to be chewing methodically, thoughtfully. Then, after a moment: "Eight o'clock is good for you?"

A little swell of excitement returns to your chest. "Done."

It wouldn't hurt, you think, to head outside early and warm yourself since it's been so long; the last time you got into a match just for the fun of it had been during boot camp with one Seaman Recruit Alison "Hammer-fisted son-of-a-bitch" McKinnley. The skills you'd picked up during school were transformed into self-defense habits, the feel of real, organized matches half-forgotten. And then, that raven-haired problem recognized one of your counters in hand-to-hand training. The rest was two bloody noses, four reprimands, and a half-dozen stolen moments of illicit peace. You change into a couple layers with a bit more give, slip on your sneakers. After that, of course, was the OTH.* You wonder if getting caught with McKinnley would have been more or less embarrassing a discharge.

The halls are empty but you don't mind, as long as your team is not at the ring already-you're quite looking forward to being alone for a little while.

Outside, the air is already winding down into a cottony warmth without the blaze of the sun. You push the door of the outbuilding, inhale the scent of steel and plywood and the rubbery sort of smell that accompanies gymnasiums.

"You are early."

For a moment, you can't find him-but Heavy is not an easy man to overlook. He lays on a mat just beyond the ring, supporting himself on broad arms.

"So are you," is the only thing you can think to say.

He smiles, sits up, folds his legs like a butterfly and straightens his back. "Preparing."

"What a coincidence." Your expressions softens, too, and you pace around the ring to the mat. You step up on its edge with the ball of your foot, press down toward the floor with your heel to stretch your Achilles.

Heavy stands, stretches his arms above his head, out in front, then to either side.

You try not to think about how fucking huge his shoulders are. You fail, and mentally prepare for an inevitable broken nose. You switch feet.

"Where did you learn to box?" you ask.

A crease appears between his brows. For a moment you think he won't reply-the pause is just long enough for you to consider apologizing-you recall Medic's words about Heavy's nightmares. "Russia." The corner of his mouth quirks. "And you?"

You catch on, and relax. "America."

Amusement crinkles his eyes, and he drops into a series of squats. You take the opportunity to step onto the mat and stretch out on your stomach for some slow abdominal twists.

The silence that ensues is companionable, broken only by gentle puffs of breath and the creak of a joint or two that aren't quite ready to exert themselves. You focus your mind down to the pull of muscles beneath your skin as they flex and relax. To your breath in and out, flowing like silk down into your belly, then up again into the air. The energy starts in your chest. It tingles along your arms, buzzes down to your feet. The adrenaline, the thrill, the promise of a fight.

Your head snaps up as the door creaks, but you can't see over the raised platform of the ring. Patiently, you finish your set as boot-heels click on the cement floor. You know who it is without looking, by now-US military-issue boots have a flexible sole, and while patent-leather might click if the wearer so chose, only one person on base makes this distinct tread.

"I've brought the medi-gun," Medic says with a grin, rounding the corner.

"I'm sure that's not necessary." You sit up, glance at Heavy to try to gauge his opinion on the matter, but he only shrugs. "I've fought plenty of matches with only a bag of ice and an aspirin waiting for me."

"I imagine such scuffles weren't against anyone of Heavy's caliber," he replies dryly. "Would you enjoy wandering around tomorrow with a concussion or internal bleeding until respawn?"

"We do not have to hurt," says Heavy. "So there is no need to hurt. We have medi-gun: we use it."

You still can't help but feel your machismo has been undercut, but arguing with upwards of 350 pounds of muscle and logic before you fight said three-hundred pounds of muscle seems unwise. "That makes sense," you concede.

"Of course it does." Medic takes the pack from his back and sets it in the corner by some folding chairs.

He has put his uniform back on, you realize, watching while coattails swish around leather-encased calves. The realization brings a brief feeling like disappointment.

You try to ignore the sound of his restless footsteps and continue your routine. Step into a lunge, count out the seconds. Heaving Heavy in here with you is one thing-he has his own business. But Medic is here to wait. He's extraneous. It unsettles the atmosphere.

You straighten up. Switch legs. Lunge again.

There's a question rising in your throat. You try to distract yourself with rhythmic breathing, but-well, it's not your fault he's here.

"Do you really think I'm going to win?"

"Why would I bet in favor of someone I believe will lose?"

You can come up with at least three reasons, but since they all stem from sentiment on the part of the person making the bet, you must admit they don't seem plausible. Before you can reply, you hear Heavy speak from somewhere over your shoulder:

"Would be foolish," he says, but his deep tones are colored with amusement. "But people do many foolish things for many reasons."

Medic snorts. "Sometimes people who can't see zhe reason assume it foolish-even when the thing is flawlessly rationalized."

"Some people think too much," Heavy replies, "and some talk too much." You turn just in time to see him wink at you over Medic's shoulder. "Both are still foolish."

You don't hide your grin, thinking Medic is rather a bit of both.

"Pah-" Medic says. "If anyone thinks too much and has gotten foolish, Heavy-"

The door creaks again, and this time: "Mrmrmrph?"

"Yes?" At this point, you're fairly certain you recognize your name. But one can never be sure.

"Mr mrrd!" Pyro comes, suit squeaking, around the corner.

"They told you what's on, I take it?"

Pyro makes the 'yes' sign with their fist and nod. "A-N-D," they spell, and present both hands, palms up before flipping them palms-down. Then, they spell, "B-E-T." Repeat the motion. You repeat it back-open hands, palms-up and then down-to an enthusiastic nod of approval.

"And what did you think of the bet?" you ask. It doesn't matter, really, you suppose. But you want to know.

Pyro opens a hand, displays five fingers, and points at Heavy.

You can't help the sinking feeling in your chest, but then, Pyro holds up a hand-"wait."

They display five fingers again, and point at you. You smile just as Heavy chuckles. "You bet five dollars on both of us?"

"Mrhr!" Pyro displays the 'okay' symbol and it feels like a bright grin.

Medic clicks his tongue with amusement. "What a diplomat."

Pyro shrugs, and the door creaks again. You decide not to attempt any further stretches if the room is going to continue filling up like this.

Demo and Engineer come into view, each with a cooler in hand. "Brought some drinks!" the former declares.

You're certain no one will have a drink finished before the fight is over, but that means there'll be one for you, win or lose.

The others are talking, starting to move some of the folding chairs into positions suitable for watching the fight. You take a deep breath and close your eyes. The drone of voices, the shrill shriek of chairs unfolded, the crack of a bottle being opened. Inhale, focus. The door creaks again. Scout starts chattering immediately. You hear the murmur of Sniper's voice, too.

Open your eyes. Exhale.

Soldier is on the heels of Sniper and that accounts for everyone. Or-you count again. Seven. You and Heavy make nine-

"Are you ready?" Spy asks, just out of reach of your elbow, which you're pretending didn't jerk itself backward when you registered his voice.

"Yes." You relax your arms. Shake our your suddenly tense shoulders as much as possible. "Yes, I am."

He produces a silver case from his coat, draws a cigarette from it with a nod-"Good"-and places it between his lips. He lights it behind a gloved hand and takes a long drag.

The smoke is sharp, so spicy that you're not sure whether it's pleasant or if you'd like to request that he move outdoors.

"I am eager to see how you choose to approach him."

Absently, you rub your chin. "You… do know it'll be over in five minutes or less?"

Spy chuckles through another cloud of smoke. "Yes. You suppose they are unaware?" He nods toward Demo, Sniper, Soldier, and Scout, all caracking into the cooler, chatting and leaning on creaking chairs.

You nod, arch an exaggerated brow. "Yeah."

"If they wanted a full showing, they could have volunteered for warm-up fights."

The image of Scout running around in circles until his opponent lost their temper flits across your mind, leaving a trail of amusement. "Maybe next time."

He looks almost surprised. "Already arranging another?" He puffs on the cigarette. "You'd like the opportunity to break everyone's noses, I suppose."

There's a full grin on your face now. "Maybe."

"I'll have to be the first to disappoint you; I find I'm quite satisfied with mine unbroken."

"That might be, but perhaps you'd like the opportunity to break mine instead?"

Spy chuckles. "Not yet. For the moment, I find your presence tolerable and your skills acceptable." He releases a thin stream of smoke from his lips. "Good luck, Specialist."

You don't bother hiding how unabashedly pleased you are at such a compliment. "Thank you." Not enough. "I-"

But he waves a careless hand and slinks off to where your teammates have taken their seats. You roll your shoulders. Spy doesn't join them, instead leaning against a support beam that offers not only a good view of the ring, but of the room at large. Habit, you suppose.

You tug your shirt brusquely over your head. This leaves you in a white tank that will allow for maximum flexibility; you're going to need all the flexibility you can get. You toss your t-shirt over a nearby set of free-weights, and pace a circle, swinging your arms, pumping them across your chest. You're ready. You can do this. You're ready. You're ready, you're ready, you're ready, you're-

"Dayum, Spesh!"

You pick your head up.

"If I'd known how many guns you were packin' under there I mighta put some money on ya."

You can feel the flush hit your cheeks and fervently wish you could will it away, or at least lose the self-conscious grin. "Your loss, Scout."

He shifts, chair squeaking, so he sits with one foot flat on the seat, the other on the floor, resting an elbow on his kee, swinging his beer between two fingers. "You still gotta knock Heavy out, though. But remind me not to piss ya off, anyway"

That's enough to distract you from being scrutinized. "You know we often go to blood or forfeit, right?"

"Uh, yeah, that's cool an' all, but I don't think you're gonna have trouble knockin' each other to the floor."

"Blood is enough for me," says Heavy, stripping off his shirt, too.

If you had a reply, it's promptly overridden by the iron bulk of his shoulders, the flex of his arms, and the sound paunch of his stomach. He turns slightly to make some remark to Medic, and his back is a bess of white scars that were certainly not sustained on any modern battlefield. The man is an absolute juggernaut, with fists like hammers and the stature of a giant.

And you're going to fight him in unarmed combat.

What the hell are you doing?

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. First blood, that's it. First blood. Forget that he's greater than anyone you've ever faced. You're not afraid of pain. Not pain. Not here.

Remember, this is recreation.

You open your eyes to see Medic with that ever-curious expression on his face. "Ready?"

"Yeah-yes." You straighten your back, try to relax your shoulders. "I'm ready."

"Yes." He peers intently through his spectacles. "I believe you are."

Medic nods toward where Heavy climbs onto the platform. You follow, one foot braced on the edge, pulling yourself the rest of the way with one hand on the ropes, and slide through.

Inside, Heavy offers you one of those massive hands. You accept, shake, give him a firm nod that he returns. His grey eyes are as soft as ever, and bright with excitement.

Yes. The thrill returns to your blood, singing. Nobody dying. Two friends beating the hell out of each other because, sometimes, that's all you can do. Safe as houses.

A grin cracks across your face and Heavy claps you on the shoulder. "Fight well."

"And good luck," you offer.

"Take your corners." Medic springs up to the edge of the ring and perches there, leaning on the ropes, but does not enter. "Blood, forfeit, or loss of consciousness wins the bout, are we agreed?"

"Yes."

"Agreed."

You face Heavy, ropes at your back. A furious heartbeat hammers in your ears, slams inside your chest. Blood races. Take a deep breath.

"Ready?" You and Heavy step forward until you're but two paces apart. Medic's eyes are alight-as bright as though he has stepped into the ring to fight this match himself. Perhaps, in his mind, he has. You and Heavy are his crowning achievements after all.

Perhaps that's the secret: he wins no matter who is victorious. You're not sure why, exactly, that eases some of the tension crowding your mind. And not a moment too soon-

"Begin."

Your mind is delightfully blank as your hands mirror Heavy's, raised to the chin, elbows tight. But where Heavy's hands are fisted into great hammers, yours remain open, relaxed, ready. One breath, two-neither of you move.

Heavy's fist flashes out in a hook and your arm catches him halfway; next breath, your hand fists and slides along his arm-he dodges left, but your knuckles catch the edge of his jaw in a hammer-strike. Inhale; you're recovering your arm from the strike and for half a moment, you've left yourself open on that side. Another hook rockets toward your cheek, and you fold your torso, step back, desperately, bring up your hand-

But the hook has transitioned neatly into a hammer-strike.

The world is ringing like an antique telephone, high and shrill.

Searching-searching-searching, ground, torso, Medic leaning heavily over the ropes, ground-fist-

Your arm blocks the blow without conscious command, but the strike rattles severely along your bones. Capture the pain and suck a deep breath. The world is right again, but the ringing persists, muffles a voice.

Another hook, but you're ready-you shove the opposite arm forward with just enough force to stop his momentum and as his other fist flashes out, you whip your arm back across, fully extended, snapping your hips to cut the back of your hand over his eyes and nose, and, following, your right hand presses forward, jabbing the heel just under his ribs.

It isn't until you're already reeling that you realize you've left yourself open for an axe strike just below your ear.

The ringing doesn't stop.

But this time it doesn't keep you from seeing a final hook angled for your temple. Thoughts race. Your arms can't move fast enough. So you step into the blow, bow your head so the thickest part of your skull carries the force.

Over the ringing in your ears, you can hear Heavy's furious cry even as you feel his fingers fracture against your forehead.

His arm had not reached full force, but you still find yourself reeling, stumbling back and fighting to get your hands back into defensive position. Inhale. Heavy has withdrawn his hand fallen back-an opportunity.

Exhale, step forward, hand open for a heel strike just under the chin-

But he raises his fractured fist.

You have just enough time to be surprised, but it's too late to change direction; you're committed. Heavy's arm glides along yours. The last thing you see is the pull of muscle under skin, the crease of an elbow, and a rather distorted view of overhead fluorescents.

**OTH stands for Other Than Honorable, referring to military discharge

NOTE:

The More You Know: $20 is a good marker for Too Much Money to spend on certain things in 1969. It would be a lot like me dropping $50-80 on something nowadays (approximate of course because I'm comparing prices of amenities and estimating that way). A $10 bet (that Spy places) is already a bit excessive for an ordinary person in 1969, like throwing $25-40 at something. More reasonable would be $1 to $5, which would be more like a $5 - $15 bet.

So…. $20 is a lot when gas is $0.32 per gallon, a gallon of milk is $1.10, and minimum wage is $1.60/hr.

The Even More You Know: Without gloves in the equation, boxers must be much more precise and controlled in their movements because nothing is protecting the bones of the hand from impact. This is why many of the strikes employed by Spesh and Heavy in this scene use the fleshy part of the hand (in a "hammer" motion or open-handed in an "axe" motion) or its heel, rather than the knuckles we see frequently employed on television and in the movies.

Furthermore, by going gloveless, it's much less likely that combatants will receive multiple concussions without stopping the fight. Padding may keep the skin from breaking or bruising, but it does not keep your brain from rattling about with the impact of a punch at full-force. Attacks made with a glove are harder because a boxer need not worry about fracturing his own fingers, and thus, the risk of concussion to an opponent goes up.

Speaking of fractured fingers and hands, Spesh's technique of stepping into Heavy's fist before he reaches maximum velocity is a real technique. By stepping into a blow, you can absorb the attack at reduced force, while deciding what the opponent will hit; in this case, a much harder bone than Heavy wanted to strike in the first place, resulting in fractures.

The final move is carried by Heavy's wrist and forearm (avoiding the use of his broken fingers), catching Spesh along her ear and the back of her head. The force, combined with an opponent already being off-balance, can bring them to the floor.