Medic was the 'lady' of the base for three more days before Heavy took pity on him. It broke Heavy's giant heart to witness the intelligent and dignified doctor locking himself in a toilet cubicle to avoid the incessant laughter of the men. Heavy decided that he would not allow this to happen again.
The next day, for the first time in living memory, Heavy did not participate in a fight.
In the heat of battle, with everyone shooting and swearing around him, Heavy simply stood in place scratching his nose. Sacha was cold and idle by his side. He silently asked for his weapon's forgiveness and promised that in the next match he would kill twice as many coward babies.
It wasn't long before Medic figured out what he was doing and begged him to reconsider. Heavy didn't deserve such a terrible fate.
Heavy simply shrugged and looked at the sky. "Is nice day. Too nice for fighting. Doktor should go ahead. Will catch up later."
Medic's eyes glistened with emotion and he whispered, "You are too good to me." Before he could burst out in tears, Medic turned and ran towards the battle, bonesaw in hand and coat tails flapping behind him.
Heavy sighed as he watched his Doktor go. He didn't like missing out on a fight but there would always be others.
Naturally, the REDs lost that particular fight. Soldier screamed at Heavy until his face turned purple. What kind of useless COMMUNIST forfeits a match and DISGRACES his team? He let the BLU's just walk past him without even so much as a threatening gesture. In one instance Heavy actually gave the BLU Scout directions on the quickest route to the Intel room. In Soldier's words, if all the dishonorable men from all the armies of dishonor formed their own army of dishonorable men, Heavy would be the most dishonorable man of that army.
Heavy took this verbal abuse with solemnity. He didn't interrupt Soldier's tirade to make any protest, and when it was over he retired to his room without a word. Whatever Soldier had prepared for him couldn't be worse than state of misery that Medic was being subjected to. Heavy hoped that his sacrifice would open the floor to negotiation regarding Medic's role on the team.
But for now there were some practical hurdles that he had to face.
After some considerable struggle squirming into the tight fitted outfit, Heavy very nearly conceded defeat. There were certain kinds of clothing that just weren't designed for a man of his stature.
He poked his head out his bedroom door and was relieved to see Medic fretfully pacing the hallway.
"Doktor," he whispered. "I am needing help."
Medic looked up, startled. He rushed over nearly tripping over his feet. "Oh Heavy. You dummkopf! You did not need to do this for me."
Heavy shrugged. "Is not problem if it is for you. But… if Doctor could help with shoes. Is hard to do alone."
Medic stared back at Heavy, horror frozen in his features.
Heavy tapped a large finger gently on Medic's forehead, concerned by this sudden change in behaviour. "Is this alright? Did I say a bad thing?"
Medic blinked several times before he shook his head roughly, snapping out of his trance. "Nein. Forgive me, I vas remembering a bad dream. May I ask… vhat is your particular concern with ze shoes?"
"The leetle ribbons. There are so many of them. I am getting confused on how to tie them."
Medic looked ready to faint with relief. "Vell, that is something I think can handle. Let me in bitte."
Heavy gave the hallway a quick survey, making sure there were no uninvited eyes watching. When he felt assured, he opened the door its full width to allow the doctor in his room. He turned his gaze away, knowing that Medic's reaction was not going to be a positive one.
Medic stared at Heavy, momentarily stunned. He knew that ladies clothing was never going to flatter Heavy, but he had not prepared himself for the sight that was now assaulting his eyes. "Oh, mein Heavy," he breathed. "Vhat haff they done to you?"
"Is not so bad," murmured Heavy, his large hands brushing his ruffled tutu nervously.
In a bizarre homage to Russia's dance culture, he was now wearing a prima ballerina dress. The white leotard was stretched to its limit as it strained to encompass Heavy's sizable girth. If the dress was taken out of the context of the mercenary wearing it, it was actually quite beautiful. Shiny pearl beads were sewn in intricate patterns, swirling up Heavy's torso, shimmering when he moved. He had delicate silk stockings pulled up his squat legs. Cream feathers were stitched into the folds of the tutu, and the whole outfit was capped off with a glittering tiara with sprouting swan feathers that sat absurdly atop Heavy's bald head. It was everything that Heavy wasn't.
"You cannot go out there wearing zhat. You vill be a laughing stock!"
Heavy looked down at his getup, assessing it thoughtfully. "I have solution. If tiny man laughs, I crush them. Is simple."
"Oh Heavy," Medic sighed. "If only it vere zhat easy. If you cut Scout's head off, I'm sure he vould learn sign language just to continue taunting you. Zhere is a strange power zhat comes with idiocy."
Heavy sat on his bed, springs groaning with the weight. "It takes more than leetle lady dress to hurt Heavy Weapons Guy."
"Ja, vell. I hope you can remind yourself zhat when you are out zhere amongst those imbeciles. Let's get your shoes on before Soldier arrives vith his obnoxious yelling."
Heavy was quiet while Medic help tug his satin ballet slippers on, enjoying the contact more than he could admit. The doctor appeared strangely reassured by the fact that the slippers were made from a soft, malleable material. Lacing up the long ribbon up Heavy's stout calves was a minor challenge, but Medic's dexterous hands made short work of it.
Finally Heavy's outfit was complete. He twiddled his feet, unused to wearing such snug footwear. When his eyes withdrew from watching Medic, his gaze travelled up and over his body. His bulbous paunch that overhung the fine weave of the tutu did nothing to compliment it. The white stockings were so stretched they were almost transparent. Heavy realized that that all the imperfections of his body that he had contentedly ignored for so many years were suddenly put in sharp focus. Nothing could be hidden in this dress.
"Are you alright?" The concerned Medic asked, still awkwardly squatted at Heavy's feet.
It was a very rare occasion when Heavy let his true vulnerability shine through. His fiddled with the bed sheets as he avoided Medic's eye contact. A shadow of sadness crossed his face.
"Doktor…" He said quietly.
"Yes, Heavy."
"This dress… is it making me look fat?"
Medic had not been expecting this question. He almost laughed out loud with the absurdity of it. He wisely stifled the urge. Heavy looking down on him with doe eyes was more than he had prepared for. Sometimes it was easy to forget that even bloodthirsty mercenaries with multi-barrel heavy machine guns had feelings too.
He stood up and gripped Heavy's face with both hands, making sure he was looking deep into the Russian's eyes. "Heavy. You are not fat. You are four times ze man zhan anyone here on zhis base. No one else vould have ze courage to do what you have done for a friend. Now go out zhere and show zhem vhat you are made of!"
"Da!" Medic's little speech reignited the fire in Heavy. Perhaps it was his attire that had opened up this well of emotion in Heavy, or maybe it was simple Medic's kind words, but something inside him compelled the large man to throw caution to the wind that night. He pulled the stunned doctor into a bruising kiss, feeling his tutu crumple between their bodies.
The randomness of this action meant that Medic didn't put up much resistance. They stayed like that for a full minute, sharing every breath. When Heavy finally pulled away, Medic was completely and utterly bewildered.
Heavy held his head up, fully returned to his jovial self. He fixed his tutu and headed out the door, bellowing as he moved. "Look out world, I am coming for you! Do ho ho!"
Medic remained in the room with his glasses askew on his nose, gaping in shock.
It was a testament to Heavy's influence that even when dressed as a dainty ballerina he did not earn open public ridicule. There were jokes of course, but they were far less confrontational than the kind Medic had experienced.
Heavy's ten-pound fists were also working in his favor. Scout's teeth could vouch for that.
It couldn't be denied though, that Heavy did look ridiculous. Perhaps it wasn't his costume, but more his movement when he walked. Heavy did not float like a feather so much as roll like a boulder. His ballet slippers, designed for pointe dancing and pirouetting instead scraped across the ground with as much care as a man who wore tissue boxes on his feet.
Spy was the first to step in with suggestions.
"Non, non, non! You cannot treat such finery so carelessly. Ballet is a respected art. It is 'urting my soul to watch you."
"And leetle Spy thinks he knows better?" Heavy approached the wiry man, not looking so open to suggestion.
"All I am saying is zhat ballet requires delicate technique. You must be respectful of ze tradition." Spy realized he was going to have to do some hasty backpedalling. The sound of Heavy's cracking knuckles made his blood hurt.
Fortunately, it was Sniper of all people who rescued him from this dire situation.
"I used to do ballet." He said, not even looking up from the paper he was reading.
"Que?" Spy's head nearly spun 180 degrees.
Heavy also tilted his head up, surprised at this revelation.
Engineer, who was trying to unobtrusively eavesdrop on this conversation couldn't help but let out a snort over his blueprints.
Sniper put his paper down to peer over his aviators. "Oh, so you think that's funny do you?"
"Ah didn't say nothin'." Engineer fiddled with his slide rule and pretended to do some technical drawing.
"I'll have you know that's it's a fine sport. Mind you, I was just a tyke when I did it."
Spy ducked under Heavy's arm to approach the Australian, who was beginning to regret ever saying anything. "Forgive me Sniper, it is just… you do not seem ze type for it."
"And why is that? Cause I'm a professional killer? That don't mean I'm uncultured. I tell you what, I'm getting bloody sick of these stereotypes, strewth!"
The gears in Spy's head were already turning. He slithered over to Sniper and rested a hand delicately on his shoulder. "If this is so, zhen perhaps you could show our dear Heavy a few basic steps, non? If would be a shame if such a beautiful dress did not see its potential."
"Oh no. That ain't happening. Not a chance." Sniper slumped down on the couch, almost pulling the paper over his head.
Engineer looked back up from his work, unable to contain himself. "Well I'll be darned if ah wasn't curious. The best I've ever done is a barn dance."
Heavy approached the group, trying to follow the conversation. "Leetle Sniper will dance for me?"
Sniper threw his paper down and sat up. "For the last bleedin' time, I said no! Like I said, it was a long time ago. It'll be a cold day in Kakadu before you see me gettin' me tights back on."
Spy threw his hands up in a resignation. "C'est la vie. It is only to be expected. You are now an old man after all. We can 'ardly expect you to be capable of the physical demands that ballet requires. You cannot sit still all day pissing in jars and expect to retain your physical ability."
Five minutes later Sniper was up and showing Heavy the five ballet positions.
"Listen mate, ye've gotta push your feet out more."
"Am trying! Is not so easy to do."
Heavy was sweating in concentration. His attempt at turning his feet out into the first position was proving harder than expected. For all the strength he could claim his name to, Heavy only had a fraction of the flexibility.
"Stop bending your legs like that. And straighten your back! You look like you're straining on the dunny."
Spy and Engineer watched in fascination. Spy, who was a connoisseur of classical ballet, was muffling his mirth with chain smoking. Engineer couldn't help but be impressed with Sniper's knowledge on the subject. It certainly was a brutal pastime.
"We haven't even gotten to fifth position yet. Blimey!" Sniper threw his hat down on the ground in frustration. All the memories of his childhood were rushing back to him. The torment of perfecting the plié. The exhilaration of his first jeté. He looked back at Heavy who was utterly forlorn in his failure. For a moment Sniper was overcome with homesickness. Some sympathy welled in his heart and he decided to take pity on the big man. "Ah, keep your chin up mate. Takes years to get it right."
Heavy looked down at the ground. "Is sad day to be giant man."
Sniper breathed in, remembering his glory days. "Solo ballet is fine, but the best part is when you're dancing with a partner. Nothin' like liftin' a pretty Sheila over your head."
Heavy immediately perked at this. "Lifting. This I can do!"
He grabbed Sniper by the waist, and before he even realized what was happening, Sniper was dangling straight over Heavy's head. "Bloody hell! The lady ain't supposed to lift the bloke!"
Spy breathed out a plume of smoke. "Pah. Sloppy technique."
It was exactly at this inopportune time that Scout made his reappearance, clutching an icepack to his jaw. He stopped for a moment and looked at the scene in front of him.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Warn me the next time you wanna practice your erotic dancing, twinkle toes."
After that Heavy was more than happy to give Scout his own personal demonstration of the 'Nutcracker'.