Note: My thanks again to the Discord crew for taking a look at this chapter for me! Should further revisions be done after my editor takes a look, I'll update accordingly, as always.

WARNING for: blood, graphic violence, needles

The bare, grey concrete of respawn swims into view yet again, and as soon as you have control of your tongue, you begin swearing a blue litany.

[Failure.]

The swears become twice as colorful. Half of them are in German.

Wait…

You turn back toward the capsule, stomach twisting in painful nausea, just in time to see Medic stumble slightly on his first step, wobble dangerously the second. Your hand shoots out to grasp his elbow, and arm braced over yours, he rights himself. Frowning, still hissing an unintelligible stream of curses, his eyes follow your sleeve, up your shoulder, to your face.

He yanks his arm back, hisses something else, looks away, shoves right past to stand at the door to the locker room.

You can feel the crease between your brows as you watch him go, the stab of offense that lingers when your hand falls back to your side. Yes, the match has been a complete embarrassment. Yes, that last kill was humiliating—baited out of cover by the spy just before uber, finished by the BLU medic of all fucking bastards in a trick with…

It pierces your side, just above the belt, and searing pain sets in, liquid fire flooding muscle and blood. He yanks it free, dark gunmetal, a needle ten inches long; sunlight glints through the glass vial mounted atop the monstrous thing, half-empty of poisonous liquid, electric blue. Fold in on yourself, screaming, gasping against pain, arms tucked up over your abdomen but it does no good—

You don't notice the wicked knife beneath the needle until the moment it flashes out of view, and the blood draining from your throat leaves you mercifully cold.

Fuck, you hope you never see it again. You hope you never learn its name. With a shallow breath, you clench your fists to assuage their trembling. Focus on how your nails dig into your palms. Notice that Medic has left the room entirely. Feel the stab of rejection again.

Part of you thinks you should let it go. You're both irritated. The entire day has been one failure after another. You ought to let him walk it off, let yourself take a breather and have a shower.

"Medic!"

So much for that.

Your feet take you after him, where he has shrugged out of the medigun's harness, and stands clattering about in his locker with the same restrained fury that spat curses only moments ago.

"Medic."

He doesn't even look up, and somehow that's worse. You grit your teeth, a hot streak of irritation burning your chest. Today wasn't your fault. He died at least half again as many times as you.

And the itch is back, crawling across your skin, burrowing into muscles, marching like ants under flesh.

"Medic, don't ignore me."

The metal door slams shut, and it's a credit to the anger heating your blood that you don't flinch. "We will speak later."

Casual dismissal. Like a junior, a student, a child.

"If you have a problem," your syllables are clear, controlled, clipped, "I would prefer we have it out now."

"The only problem I have," he growls, turning to the bench to fuss with the medigun's harness, "is a frankly embarrassing performance and a growing lack of acceptable data."

You try to relax. Yes, it's been absolute shit. "It's been a bad day, but—"

"Bad?" Medic's gaze snaps away from the leather strap, fixes icily on you. "Bad? We've been humiliated."

You swallow tightly, try again. "Tomorrow—"

Slowly, he draws himself up. "You have been absolutely humiliated, or didn't you notice?"

In your mind, it clicks. Jaw tightens, teeth grinding. "Oh, and that's embarrassing for you, is it?" His lip curls, and something roils, poisonous, in your stomach. "Your magnum opus not up to snuff?"

His mouth opens; nothing comes out. You feel a perverse little stab of pleasure.

Eyes cut through spectacles. "I'm more concerned that I chose the wrong vessel."

It stings. Vessel. A reminder that you're worth no more than what your mind and body can do—and once they are no longer able, you're completely disposable. You hadn't even noticed until this moment that you had forgotten.

Unfit for duty.

You hadn't noticed that you'd begun to believe you might be something a bit more than a convenient receptacle for his work.

"A spy! A spy!" he hisses, glowering, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Once, perhaps twice, I can see a mistake, a distraction, but fifteen deaths? You should be unstoppable! Only an explosion should be any match for you, a heavy, perhaps even my counterpart, but a spy?"

As effective as a slap to the face, made all the worse because he's right. But you're drawn to full height, shoulders tense, jaw clenched, and your skin won't stop crawling, itching—

"You forget he had to go through you to get to me." Your fingers curl into fists. "You said you'd watch my back."

The briefest instant of surprise lights his features—and satisfaction mingles with anger, frustration, embarrassment running hot in your blood—before he draws himself to mirror you, teeth bared in a tight snarl. "As if it's easy. How many times are you going to forget where you are and let them slaughter you?"

Ice water. The heat of rage snuffed out instantly and replaced with cold, cold stone. The way his shoulders fall just a fraction makes you think he must realize what he's said, but he speaks not a word more. Your heart sits heavy, frozen in your chest.

You're going to make him regret it.

Calm and still and even: "We can settle this in the ring."

Lips purse. A deep breath through his nose. "Specialist—"

"We'll settle this like reasonable men," slow, steady, perfectly formed syllables, "without taking cheap shots."

"Yo, your ass is grass, man!"

That startles you enough to take note of your surroundings for the first time in ten minutes. Beside you, with a front-row view, Scout leans on his bat, a wildly smug expression on his face that tells you he's been here the whole time. Behind him, Heavy stands hovering between the first row of lockers and the exit, stoic expression saying he's been here long enough. And there, at his locker, sits Engineer, unobtrusive as ever, studiously pretending he has heard nothing at all, quietly packing away pistol and shotgun.

The low trill of a giggle snaps your attention back to Medic, mouth twisted halfway between grin and grimace. "Now or later?"

Now, your mind hisses. Right now so you can satisfy the cold streak of wrath which tells you that you should have broken his nose immediately.

Your rationality, however, suggests later. "Two hours." The cold rage should warm into something more forgiving.

"One," Medic counters, a slow smile twisting his features. "I wouldn't want you to change your mind."

Anger tightens your throat as surely as you'd like your hands to wrap around his. "You're going to wish I had."

He maintains your gaze, never flinching from the fury, answering it with as much unwavering heat as he'd shown moments ago—until you turn neatly on your heel and stride toward your quarters in perfect time.

Halfway down the hall, Scout's voice is just loud enough for you to hear: "So, uh… I've got five dollars on Spesh. Just sayin'."

One hour is too long, and not long enough. Your uniform coat, the ballistic shield, your knife, and the Gyrojet—belt and all—land haphazardly on the bed. The realization that the Lancaster-Charles is still in your locker and needs to be retrieved galls you all the more, but you can't go back. Not yet.

Fifty-five minutes to go.

You pace a neat line across the weathered floorboards of your room. Seconds stretch into eternity.

After just twenty minutes, the bitter chill that had seeped into your bones fans again into flame, and you need to move. So, you return to the now-empty locker room, and holster the howdah on your thigh, where it belongs.

Thirty minutes to go.

Might as well head to the training room now and warm up as you did before your bout with Heavy. And if Medic is already there, well… he's welcome to fight you now, if he's that gung-ho.

But the gymnasium is empty when you arrive, the click of the doors echoing hollowly over concrete and wood. You strip your shirt off without care and toss it over a folding chair, leaving you in the sleeveless, white undershirt. Last, you unbuckle the howdah's holster and set it safely on a wall-mounted shelf nearby, alongside a set of small weights.

Twenty-five minutes to go.

You begin your stretches. Hamstrings first, foot braced on the edge of the practice mat. Lie down and execute a set of abdominal twists. Drag a chair over for assisted chest and shoulder stretches, hands behind you, braced on the seat as you squat. Feel the muscles contract before relaxing, blood rushing beneath your skin. Arms across your chest, forward and back, stretching deltoids and triceps. Touch your toes, then bend a little further, palms on the floor. Straighten. Sit. One leg over the other, pull it to your chest. Do the same to its opposite.

Twenty minutes to go.

Relax your posture, pull your legs into a butterfly position. Exhale slowly, deeply. The door creaks open. You close your eyes, lips pursed, teeth clenched. Inhale, sharply.

Boots on the floor, but no click of the heel. Open your eyes.

"Heavy." You're rather surprised.

He approaches, slowly. "Specialist."

There's a leaden weight to his tone; you frown. "I hope you're not going to try to talk me out of it." Inhale, slow, measured. Continue your exercise.

"No." He shakes his head, stops at a respectful distance, and perches on the edge of the ring. "But you should know, before: Doktor does not box."

Exhale. Brow furrows. "Then… why would he accept?"

"He will challenge you to… mm…" Heavy pauses, grimly, eyes narrowed at the ground as he tries to find the right words. "Fighting... like on the street."

Inhale. Street fighting? That seems… unusual, but you really don't give a damn. He can come at you with any underhanded trick he likes. He's going to lose. "That's fine." Exhale.

"Should also know…" His grey eyes search the floor like he can read exactly what to say there. "Medic says things, sometimes, but... not always how he means." A dark crease appears between his brows, stopping a sharp retort before it leaves your lips. "But he should not have said that."

"No..." Your heart softens in a rush of gratitude, and pain takes this opportunity to make itself known above rage. "He shouldn't." You unfold your legs, draw them up toward your chest, rest elbows on knees. "Thank you."

Heavy smiles, softly. "Teach him good lesson."

That sparks a grin. "I will." Blood hums under your skin, ready, waiting.

Eight minutes.

You roll to your feet as the door creaks again. Demoman and Scout file through, followed closely by Engineer, hands empty. No refreshments this time; the tone is different, air lingering heavily.

You shut your eyes against it, rolling your neck. Step into a set of simple lunges.

Next come Soldier and Pyro, and you wonder if everyone knows by now exactly what happened. With Scout bearing witness, it seems likely that he's already retold the story with significant embellishment a half dozen times already.

Shake out your shoulders, bounce on the balls of your feet.

Five minutes.

Look around to find most of your teammates seated in folding chairs, including Sniper. They converse in low tones, and you don't bother to actively listen. You don't particularly want to know what they have to say. No need to break your concentration.

Close your eyes, guide your mind into narrow focus. Become present in every part of your body, feet to fingertips, breath in lungs, coiled tension in muscle, and the faintest stir of air on skin.

The door again.

Two minutes.

Medic, at last, having foregone coat and vest, medigun slung over his shoulders. And then, Spy, lips pursed around a half-finished cigarette. He catches your eye, gives a nod, deep creases apparent around his eyes. It makes you wonder, but you don't have time to devote to questions.

The doctor sets the apparatus on the floor beside Heavy, still leaning against the ring, as much a silent sentinel as ever. Medic greets him. Heavy folds his massive arms, fixing the doctor with a deadened, dark stare you've never seen before.

Even focused elsewhere, it crawls along your skin, raising the hair on your arms.

Medic, however, seems as unflappable as ever.

Gritting your teeth, you shuffle past and leap onto the platform, slip between the ropes. Take a deep breath, shake out your hands.

"Oh, Specialist? A word first, bitte."

You turn, jaw tight. He's smiling amicably up from the floor, fingers undoing the crimson knot of his necktie.

"I am not a boxer, I'm afraid. I was a wrestler, back in school, you see… And playing by the rules you set with Heavy would put me at a disadvantage." He tosses the tie to one side, carelessly onto the chair that's holding your shirt, and sets upon his buttons. "I would suggest looser restraints… What do Americans call it?" He shrugs out of the crisp, collared shirt. "No holds are illegal?" Folded loosely in half, it makes its way to the chair as well.

You watch as he removes his spectacles, polishes them on the soft cotton of his undershirt. "No holds barred," you say.

"That's it!" Medic gestures with the glasses. Lifts them up to inspect the lenses. "No holds barred." When they pass inspection, he replaces them on the bridge of his nose. "To loss of consciousness or submission, then?"

Ha. You're well aware he means forfeit, and that it's a perfectly normal term for wrestling, but if the doctor thinks you're going to submit in any fashion, he's sorely mistaken. "Agreed."

He brightens, a grin teasing his mouth, and it just makes your stomach churn, fists itching to connect with that smug jaw. "I might also suggest removing your boots beforehand. They're not exactly conducive to zhis style… in fact, they might be considered weapons."

You frown, but acquiesce: he is correct. So, you slip between the ropes, perch on the side of the ring, and set to removing your boots and socks, tossing them carefully away; one stays upright on the mat below, the other tips to its side. Close enough. You cuff your trousers just above the calf to keep them from interfering, risking a glance at Medic to find he's had the same idea.

Bent in half over his lap, fingers methodically rolling the seams into neat cuffs, you can see the naked apex of his shoulders, the broad musculature usually hidden beneath his uniform. His strikes will be ruthless. There's wiry strength evident in his legs, too, as he finishes one cuff and rolls the other along the defined curve his calf. Medic is fast, this you already know. But now, you'll have to contend with him trying to get you to the floor, where he'll have the advantage, the ability to utilize that lower body strength to its fullest. You'll just have to knock him out quickly, before he has the opportunity.

Follow the line of his arm as he unfolds, gets to his feet—

Realize with a start that he's looking right at you, catching your gaze before you can avert it. Set your jaw and raise your head. He wants to evaluate you in return? Let him.

But Medic just smiles that wan, amicable little grin, and strips off his undershirt.

His scars aren't like Heavy's at all. They are neat, tidy things, raised cuts of varying length and thickness, some curving almost in semi-circles, white along his ribs; the wounds they represent had been cleaned and treated with care. Only one stands wide and gnarled and ragged—a bullet taken just above the hip. Beyond the scars, it's apparent that while he's begun to grow soft around the edges with age, battle has kept him strong. There's no mistaking how solid he is at the core, muscle layered beneath fat, built from practical training, not vain weightlifting.

Medic has neither incredible size nor bulk, but he'll be every bit as formidable an opponent as Heavy. You never doubted it, having watched on the battlefield, but it's quite different to be able to see it evidenced in his body.

A body nimbly leaping onto the platform and easing into the ring, where you should be.

You set your shoulders and reenter, scowling as you realize he's still wearing that damnably arrogant smirk. It's far overdue for a date with your fist.

Heavy follows, shifting over the ropes to stand in the center of the ring. "You are ready?"

Nod, staring Medic down as he does the same, rolling his shoulders, meeting your glower with infuriating ease. "Ready."

"Okay. No holds barred. To submission or blackout." Heavy looks at you, and then at the doctor. Raises an arm.

A deep, slow breath. Bring your hands up into defensive position, relaxed, open. Your opponent mirrors the gesture. Open hands. More likely to grapple. You'll have to strike quickly.

Heavy's fist drops. "Go!"

Your body moves, liquid and easy, to close the distance, mind beautifully blank as the command rings through the air. One thing only drives your blood: cold rage kept carefully at your center. One thought powers the strike, like lightning, against Medic's jaw: I will win.

In motion, you can't stop. With his forearm, he blocks the second fist you throw, but you open your hand, redirect the motion in an open blow to his shoulder, setting him off-balance, leaving him open for an axe strike with the other, cracking against his trachea. Medic wheezes, but it isn't enough to break him, not yet, as fingers wrap, vice-like, nails digging into the soft flesh at the inside of your arm, collapsing the elbow in an involuntary jerk.

Pain cracks along your cheek, stars swimming in the air, dancing across your vision, but you don't need to see more than his silhouette to drive the heel of your hand under his chin. His head snaps back and satisfaction roils in your chest even as his fingers tighten, tear at the skin of your arm in an attempt to regain balance. Twist your hand around his forearm to break his hold, blink your vision clear just in time to dodge backward, bare feet light and lithe upon the vinyl floor, and his fist misses your nose by centimeters. Step back in, twisting your torso to put a driving force behind your hand—catch his wrist, snap your hips back to pull him close, skull connecting with your waiting fist.

The skin across your knuckles burns, and you know it has split in several places, but a thin, crimson stream of blood trickling down Medic's forehead, catching on wire-rimmed lenses, assuages the pain. There's a pleasant buzz at the base of your skull. You can finish him now, any way you would like—his wrist pulled fast against your ribs, your fingers tucked tight beneath his jaw, palm flat on his throat, pulse jumping beneath your skin. Blood running, sluggishly, down his face, flushed with exertion and bruises already darkening. But he smiles, and you snarl, and shove him away with every burning fiber of fury still rushing in your veins.

He goes straight back, onto the floor, tries to roll with the impact, lands on elbows and knees, chuckling.

I chose the wrong vessel. Jaw creaks, mouth contorting, teeth bared. "Get up," you hiss.

The chuckles grow into full-on laughter. Laughter. Not notes of hysteria. Peals of genuine delight.

Hands lift to defensive position, your muscles burning, itching, demanding more. How many times are you going to forget where you are and let them slaughter you? "Get up!"

Medic pushes himself to his knees, skin glistening with sweat. Slowly, smiling, he wipes the blood from his cheek on the back of his hand. He peers up through his spectacles, stained on one side with little, crimson droplets. The bonesaw grin does not fade. "You're going to regret letting me."

You have been absolutely humiliated, or didn't you notice? "Get. Up."

He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, braces a palm against the floor, shifts his foot beneath him for the leverage to stand. "I'd much prefer—" When you realize, it's a second too late, and you're moving too slowly. "—you come down."

Back hits the floor and the air leaves your lungs, hands clawing at arms wrapped tightly around your waist. Gasp, draw tight half-breaths, trying to recover, struggling to get your legs free of Medic's weight, hands desperately looking for a way to break his hold. Breathe, breathe, try to breathe, think.

Twist your hips hard, free one of your legs and brace it against his back. Draw a breath, deeper, abandon your attempts at dislodging his arms, grab a fistful of his hair and roll, using your freed leg for leverage. Positions swapped, your leg pinned beneath his back, his arms still clutched, unyielding, around your waist—but one more twist of your hips, foot braced on the floor, loosens his grip enough for you to sit up and deliver a hammer strike that breaks his nose spectacularly beneath your fist. He coughs, splutters, but before you can attack again, gravity shifts.

One moment, you're perched on Medic's chest, the next, you're flat on your back again, raising your arms against a blow to the face that never comes. In a flash, he insinuates his arm beneath yours, sweeping it back around your head to cradle your neck in his elbow, your arms trapped against his chest. You kick, lashing out blindly, but they're caught, pinned, tangled with his. You can't gain any traction, can't move, can't get your arms to obey, can't roll—

The arm locked behind your head tightens by degrees, hardly any pain at first, but then, suddenly, every nerve is on fire, tendons burning, tearing, the sharp fear that your head might just be wrenched from your shoulders stifling your lungs—

"I can kill you like this, you know," he says, breath hot on your ear. You can't see anything but darkness, bright white spots dancing through your vision, face buried against his shoulder. "Submission is preferable, of course. Or I could increase the pain beyond zhe threshold of your tolerance so you lose consciousness. I could even smother you, to the same effect." His breath is shallow, shuddering. "I know zhis is painful. Excruciating." The way his voice wraps around the syllables makes it sound like bliss. "You don't have to continue suffering."

It burns, and there are tears springing to your eyes, but you can't admit defeat. Not now. The pain consumes every thought but this—you cannot. You must think, you must find another way, but there's no room, no room beside the pain. You want it to stop. You want it to stop. You need it to stop.

Your vision grows darker. He smells of sweat and antiseptic and—

No holds barred. There's only one unsecured weapon left.

You sink your teeth deep into the juncture of neck and shoulder, driving down until you taste blood.

"Fick!"

His hold loosens enough to clear your vision, to allow a single opportunity. You drive your skull against his broken nose, slackening his grip, and you free your arms. The air reeks of copper, its taste filling your throat; red, red, there's red everywhere, filling your head, your mouth, your eyes—and you brace your arm against his bloody neck, shove him up and off and onto the floor, struggling all the way. You draw a deep, shuddering breath, and, as he gasps against the arm pinning his throat to the ground, you bring your fist down one last time.

Note: That took a turn or two, hm?

For anyone interested, that wrestling hold is shown here, from :56 seconds to 1:05: youtube / watch?v=Y_B7Wd4LF28