Last part of the therapy arc! Hopefully the mercs learned something.
:::
Miss Whitman smiled as she made her way up the steps in RED's Teufort base, recalling the success of the sock puppets. It had been a surprisingly helpful activitiy, and the therapist had high hopes for the rest of the day. She decided to break the session for an hour of lunch and the mercenaries had dispersed before she could discuss the results of the exercise. This left the dark-haired woman to call a taxi up and attend to her own hunger, scouting the surrounding area for a quick bite.
After her delicious BLT with a side of fries and coffee at a nearby diner, the content Mann employee arrived back at base, heading toward the third floor. Unexpectedly, the team was already assembled, and although there seemed to be some sort of argument going on, they were all seated and no one was bleeding.
"Hope you enjoyed the break," Miss Whitman strolled in, smile brightening as she glanced around the room and the previous talking settled down.
"I had a burger, and a bottle of pop!" Soldier announced, grin revealing pieces of meat between his teeth. "Oh, and a small salad."
"You ate one slice of lettuce," commented Spy with a raised eyebrow. Soldier shot the Frenchman a scowl.
"That's the type of salad real men eat."
"You mean constipated men," Medic responded dryly, earning a few grumbles of disgust. The American patriot a few chairs down from him looked horribly offended, reeling back as if Medic had physically slapped him.
"That was only once! Twice!"
"Can we not talk about this after we ate, mates?" Sniper put in as Miss Whitman took her seat next to him. She seemed to have completely ignored their conversation, or at least didn't seem bothered by Soldier's gastrointestinal issues.
"Glad you all had fun," the slender woman commented with a smile. "This is the last exercise we're going to do, but it's going to be the most difficult." Scout snorted, tilting his chair back.
"What, we gonna make balloon animals now?" he joked, earning a giggle from Pyro who sat next to him. Miss Whitman shook her head, pulling out small squares of paper and pencils from her excessively large purse of mystery.
"Nope, it's going to be much worse than that," she explained, passing the paper down to the Sniper, and the pencils to Spy who sat stiffly in the seat next to her. "Everyone take a pencil and eight pieces of paper, and pass it down." Patiently, she waited as the men sorted through the supplies, a few mumbles here and there, but a rather quick process.
"Do we gotta draw somethin' now? Our greatest fear? Or worst memory? What we think we will look like in twenty years?" Demoman questioned, voice growing higher with each possibility as he received his squares and pencil last. Miss Whitman laughed lightly, once again shaking her head.
"Nothing like that. You're all going to write one sentence on each paper. About each other."
"About each other?" repeated Engineer, eyebrows furrowed as he looked down at the papers and pencil in his hands. "Like...what we know about each other?"
"A compliment." Miss Whitman smiled widely, holding up her right index finger. "Each of you has to anonymously write one compliment for each person on this team."
"Compliment?" Spy's eyes narrowed, the word rolling off his tongue like a too-sweet smoothie.
"Only compliment? Nice words, or motivation, yes?" Heavy asked next. Miss Whitman nodded, earning a scowl from Scout.
"That's impossible. I refuse," he declared only for Miss Whitman to hold up her manila folder, where she apparently kept everyone's files. Taking this as a warning for later punishment, Scout bowed his head and glared at the papers in his lap. "For everyone?"
"For everyone."
With that, the nine mercenaries reluctantly began to brainstorm, and a process that should have taken fifteen minutes nearly took an hour. By then, Miss Whitman found herself walking around the circle collecting the paper pieces in a small clear baggie. She came to Spy last, who elegantly placed his papers in with a frown, handing her the pencil as well.
"Now," started Miss Whitman, as the trained killers all glanced around uncomfortably. "I'll read them. Since we don't have time for all of them, I'll do one for each person. You'll get the rest after the session." Humming in anticipation, she dug into the bag, surprised that no one offered up any resistance.
"This one is for...Mr. Medic!" The German perked up, shoulders tense.
"'Medic...you're surprisingly spry for a man who is as old as time itself,'" Miss Whitman read aloud. Scout broke into loud laughter as Medic's ears reddened.
"Vat! I am not zat old!" the German defended, glaring at his teammates to pick out who would write such an awful comment. Most of the men tried to hide their laughs, unlike Scout, joined by Soldier, who were completely unashamed as they guffawed.
"Settle down, guys," Miss Whitman commented, still smiling. "I'm sure the person who wrote this meant well, Mr. Medic. It's not important who wrote it, but the message they are trying to send."
"That yer reaaaaal old," broke in Demoman, grinning ear to ear as Medic crossed his arms with a grumble.
"Aaaanyway." Miss Whitman dragged attention back to herself. "Let's move on, shall we?" Once again, she dug into the bag, everyone now a bit more attentive to hear the next potentially hilarious "compliment".
"'Pyro,'" started the therapist, "'sometimes I do not understand you very well. But I like when you cook.' D'aaaaaaaw." Miss Whitman looked over to Pyro. "How sweet!"
"Hmph. Seems like someone's kissin' a bit of arse," mumbled Sniper, to which Spy rolled his eyes.
"That is generally what compliments are," the masked-man commented, glancing over at Pyro who had his hands clasped and pressed to his cheek in a show of appreciation.
"Mmnk mphoo mphrr mmtot mpht!" the asbestos-wearing mercenary thanked. Once again, Mkiss Whitman returned to searching the bag for a compliment about another team member.
"'Engineer, your garage may smell like old farts, but most of the stuff in there looks cool.'" Like Medic's compliment, this one earned muffled laughter and snorts.
"Huh," mumbled Soldier, scratching at his chin. "So that's what that smell is..." Engineer blushed in shame, snarling a bit.
"There's no smell," he defended, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "And even if there is, it sure ain't farts. That's completely ridiculous!"
"It's totally old farts," Scout half-whispered to Heavy, who used his large hand to cover his chuckle.
"This one's for Mr. Heavy! 'You are very useful for carrying us to our rooms when we fall asleep on the couch during movie night.'"
The heavy weapons expert gave a small smile at the sincere, yet oddly worded compliment. "It is no problem. Heavy likes to help."
"That explains soooooo much," Scout said to himself, recalling all the times he ended up in his bed with no recollection of even entering his room.
"Next up, Mr. Scout!" Miss Whitman continued. The youngest mercenary perked up upon hearing his name, moving to sit on the edge of his seat.
"Oh boy! This betta' be good."
"'If we ever get jumped by BLU in the middle of the night, we can count on you to leave us for dead and go get help,'" Miss Whitman read. Scout's expectant smile turned into a scowl, and he sat back in his seat with his arms crossed. Around him, the rest of the team laughed, though some, like Pyro, attempted to be discreet, a gloved hand over the mouthpiece of his mask.
"It's supposed to be a compliment. Which one of ya' assholes wrote that?"
"I think it is very fitting," Medic remarked, lips quirked up as he felt a sense of revenge for Scout's earlier laugh at his compliment.
"Look at it this way, Mr. Scout," Miss Whitman started, ignoring the chortling around her, "this isn't saying that you're necessarily a coward...but reliable! You know what I mean?"
"No," bit out Scout looking like someone pissed in his cereal.
"It is not our fault Scout is blinded by his own lack of self-esteem May we move on?" interrupted Spy, a smirk playing on his cigarette-less lips.
"You take that back, Frenchy," threatened Scout, fixing his teammate with a harsh look.
"What I think Spy means," interjected Miss Whitman, attempting to stop the impending argument, "is that whoever wrote this may not have been totally comfortable telling you that they find you reliable. So they had to find the best way to say it, without outright saying it."
"That's not what I meant," Spy commented dryly as Scout's scowl lessened.
"Hm...well, damn right I'm reliable! No need to state the obvious..."
"Going on," hummed Miss Whitman, relieved that the group hadn't broken out into an enormous yelling match. "'Demoman, your enthusiasm is contagious, though I sometimes wonder if that's just the Scrumpy you share with us.'"
"Aaaaaawwww!" Demo cheered, holding his empty bottle to his chest. "It's both, lads!"
"Yeah, it might be more of the Scrumpy," Sniper slowly added in as the Scotsman's grin seemed to take up half his face. This earned him a shushing sound from Engineer next to him, as if to say let the alcoholic enjoy the moment.
"Mr. Sniper, this one's for you! 'I commemorate you on having not fathered any children at your age, seeing as the world doesn't need anymore camping hippies.'"
"I vonder who wrote zat," commented Medic, rolling his eyes as Sniper's left eyebrow twitched.
"Yeah, I wonder..." the Australian mumbled, shooting a very noticeable glare in Soldier's direction. The ex-military man just smiled obliviously.
"It's a real mystery," the patriot said, his voice carrying more than its usual tone of ignorance. "But it's probably the best compliment you're ever going to get, Sheila."
"I'm sure whoever wrote it means well," Miss Whitman said, trying to keep the mood up. "We got two more of you to go, so let's move along. Mr. Spy, looks like this one is addressed to you. 'You're a snake, which are sneaky, underhanded, and manipulative, but at least they keep out rats.'"
"How original." Spy rolled his blue eyes. "I'm assuming all of you wrote something similarly offensive?"
"Now hold on a second there," the therapist said, glancing down at the small square paper. "At first, like most of these compliments, this seems pretty negative. But I think it's actually quite positive! The same traits that may make people see snakes as bad, also make them very helpful."
"Hear that, snake? We're just complimentin' ya all the time," Sniper said, grinning as Spy raised an eyebrow as if you ask "really?".
"Me next!" Soldier yelled suddenly, pumping up a fist. "I have waited patiently, but now I want to know what my compliment is!"
"Okay, okay. This one...here, this one has your name on it Mr. Soldier. 'Your faith in your country is endearing if not ridiculous and close-minded.'"
"Endearing?" Soldier's fist lowered as his usual scowl took over. "A patriot's feelings for his country are not endearing. They are brave! Admirable! Downright heroic!"
"I do not think he heard anything after endearing," Heavy commented, sharing a look with Engineer who just shook his head.
"And that's the end of your therapy session!" Miss Whitman called out, clapping lightly. She continued for a few seconds, waiting for the rest of the team to join in, but everyone just stared at her. Unperturbed, the lady continued her clapping with a straight face. Finishing up, she casually searched her large purse for her manila folder again.
"I'll be submitting my final analysis to Helen within the week. She should reach out to you guys afterwards-"
"Uh, question?" Scout raised his hand from across the circle, forcing the woman to stop talking. "Does that mean we can leave now?" Miss Whitman blinked, sending him a small smile.
"Well, technically yes," she said, glancing down at the plastic bag she still had. "But I need to give you all the rest of your compliments. And we need to have a closing discussion, and-" She was interrupted by the sounds of squeaking chairs, and manly grumbles and complaints as the mercenaries started to file out of the room.
"Guys?" the woman called, watching Scout nearly skip out the door in excitement, the rest of team following after. Spy was last, lighting a cigarette just before he exited the room. Whitman sighed, bowing her head and shaking it as she heard the nine men loudly stomp their way down the stairs. The smile did not leave her face. Even if the team didn't show it, she had a feeling her therapy helped a lot, and hopefully their next match would prove so.
Miss Whitman's smile turned to a small grimace as she opened up the manila folder, flipping to the mercenaries' files. Hopefully. Or Helen would be very angry, and that did not bode well for Miss Whitman's continued employment at Mann Co.
:::
Please review! I look forward to constructive criticism on how to make this fic even better!