A/N:

Special shout out to my most recent comments on this fic on both my ao3 and fanfic version! Not lying when I say you guys gave me the boost, I needed to finish this chapter!

I appreciate every comment and kudos on this work, so I hope you all enjoying reading this very late chapter!

Chapter 8: Sniper's Updates With Medic

For all the knowledge and skills that he has, sometimes Sniper forgets things. It can be little things like where he placed his socks or bigger things like where he last rested his gear. His mind was constantly thinking of so many things at once, that it's inevitable for him to forget things along the way. It was basic human nature to forget.

But on this particular day, Snipes had a prickling feeling that he was forgetting something big. It followed him around, almost mocking in how hard his mind struggled to figure it out. Whatever it was, it was doing circles around him and Sniper for the life of him couldn't place it. His calendar had nothing of importance marked on it and of his teammates certainly hadn't mentioned anything.

He knew they were no birthdays coming up, that was at least something he was sure on. Scout had a habit of bringing up whoever's birthday was nearest to mock them on their old age. It was a long-standing tradition that the youngest had, much to the fond annoyance of everyone else.

There were no mocking declarations at this week, which meant no birthdays that Sniper was forgetting.

So, what was it?

He had half a mind to blame his recent self with Heavy and Demoman, recalling the long night they had prior that was filled with stories and terrible singing. It could be possible that one of them mentioned something and his brain had just fixated on it even while sober. But if that were the case, then he should have at least had something to work with like a vague word or possibly a story, but he had nothing.

Sniper was clutching at straws, and it was starting to really get to him; he hated not knowing things. His whole persona revolved around being aware, being knowledgeable and being prepared for whatever the world may throw at him or his teammates.

He could count on a number of times where his sharp mind was able to read the opposing team and prevent them from gunning down Scout or getting in the way of their Heavy. It was his job.

If he failed then his team failed and he'd have failed his job, the ultimate crime.

The sharpshooter couldn't be running around and forgetting things like this, it was embarrassing. He was embarrassing himself and he could feel the cold, cruel world laughing at him. His only saving grace was that his koala family wasn't here to see him in his moment of weakness. He had relocated them back to his sniper nest once it became clear that his memory was not going to function like he wanted it to.

It was too irritating to deal with, this constant gap in his mind that refused to reveal itself and causing more harm than good.

Sniper was never the best at handling his temper at even the best of times and this was no different. His nails were certainly suffering, bitten down to the line with the surrounding skin being picked off as he struggled to reign in his bad mood.

He still thought about his scuffle with Scout, no matter how much the younger bloke kept waving it off. Even thinking about it just made the sharpshooter's skin begin to crawl, another itch that forever bothered him as the days went by. He was but a ticking timebomb ready to go off and he feared for whoever would be brave enough to confront him about it.

His souring mood was certainly noted by the rest of his teammates who all watched him from the sidelines. Engie had simply patted him on the shoulder, saying nothing but everything all at once from that simple gesture. Both Scout and Pyro stayed clear of him after the latest match but made their presence known in his periphery. The pair had figured out the perfect distance in not being too far to be registered as avoidance and close enough that Sniper could go to them if he wanted. It was all perfect.

The only thing ruining it was his own mind, as per usual.

And it was only getting worse.

"Fuck!"

Sniper slammed his hand harshly against the nearest metal locker, feeling the aftereffects of regeneration swirl around his body in annoyance. It was his fifth time getting caught by the enemy team and his patience was gradually running thin. Every spot he hid in, or crouched near was quickly riddled with bullets that would soon match the rest of his body. It was downright embarrassing to be caught out so many times while the rest of his team pushed forward. They would finish the match without him and Sniper would have to live with the embarrassment of underperforming. It had to be his worst game so far.

He glanced down at his now stinging hand, feeling his frustration bubble up once more before ultimately giving in to his anger.

With another loud shout, Sniper raised his fist and punched the metal locker in front of him once more.

A loud 'pop' was the only warning he got before excruciating pain shot up his wrist in an instant.

"Fuck, Fuck!" Sniper snarled.

He gripped his injured left hand with his right and quickly made his way out the locker room. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of his teammates making their way towards him, most likely to decompress and taunt each other about the match. Both Scout and Pyro had a running bet over who had the most kills while the older veterans would give unhelpful tips about how to improve for the next battle. Sniper, however, was in no mood to socialise and more importantly was in no mood to run into the Medic.

He absolutely despised that man.

The German doctor was too curious for his own good, always poking and prodding in places that Sniper would rather not have him be in. He's seen the horrors with his own eyes, shivering in disgust at what the Medic claimed were 'fake human organs' in his fridge or the constantly bloodied pigeons that often littered the base. Their eyes were as soulless as the doctor's and that was enough for the sharpshooter to stay clear. In fact, it was personally Sniper's mission in life to never be in the same room as the crazed Medic; he was doing quite well.

And he refused to let a simple dislocated wrist get in his way.

It wouldn't be the first time he's had to pop his own bones back in and it won't be the last. Sniper was all too used to caring for his own injuries, even before he began hiding away from Medic.

He used to spend days hiding behind school buildings, checking himself over for any visible bruising before a teacher could spot him. They like the Medic were too nosy, always asking the wrong questions as if to piss him off purposefully. The adults in his life never understood him or bothered to look beyond the reputation that the small town had forced onto him. He was the troublemaker, always doing things for attention and scrapping with kids that were always the innocent party. There was simply no winning, so Sniper learned to deal with the punches both literally and figuratively.

No one ever had any hopes for him and neither did he.

With a quiet sigh Sniper found himself in front of his van, body on autopilot as he leaned used his uninjured hand to gently open the door. His eyes adjusted to the dimly lit inside and began to look around for any leftover scraps to create a sling. The memories were already flooding through his mind, guiding him on what to do while he gathered what he needed. His eyes automatically locked onto his discarded belt hanging off his cramped kitchen table. The stinging of his wrist was gradually getting worse, and it was with great reluctance that he shoved the hard leather into his mouth, biting down as hard as he could.

In, out, in, out.

He always hated this part.

Sniper slumped to the ground, sitting cross-legged as he leaned back on the kitchen bench to brace himself. He lifted up his injured wrist, forcing himself to stay conscious as he slowly and painfully guided the bone back into its proper place.

In, out, in, out.

His tortuous screams were muffled by the leather, brute forcing his eyes to not roll back from the pain of simply even touching his injury. His head slammed viciously against the cabinets behind him; an old method he used to do to distract himself. He could feel his leg start to shake uncontrollably, needing to let off its energy as the pain began to worsen with every movement.

In, out, in, out.

He had to keep going, he had to, he had to, he had to.

In, out, in, out.

Another guttural scream ripped out of him before finally, the bone was pushed back properly. He slumped against the cabinets, closing his eyes temporarily as his mind struggled to stay conscious.

In, out, in, out.

He repeated the mantra to ground himself and to breathe through the numbing pain of resetting his wrist. It used to be much easier when he was younger with bones that were a lot sturdier and more resilient against pain. He almost wished he was Scout's age just so patching himself up could be easier. That kid could bounce back from anything, always nonstop running regardless of how quickly he was killed or brought back. Nothing phased the little bugger; it was his best and worst quality.

Almost idly the sharpshooter continued to chew on the belt in his mouth as he flexed his now fixed hand. His thoughts naturally went to his teammates, mapping out what each one of them doing. He could see the sun setting from inside his van, taking note of the darkening shadows and lack of clouds that usually littered the sky. No doubt, Engie might be slightly concerned as he hadn't adhered to his schedule of debriefing with the man. However, glancing back down at his wrist, Sniper could feel his growing reluctance of leaving his van just yet. It would be clear to all that he was injured and most importantly, Medic would be called.

He did not want that. Anything but that.

The others might have their rumours of Sniper being the scariest member, but truly it was the Medic. There was just something about his lack of actual medical ethics and open experiments that left the sharpshooter with fear in his soul. The very man scared him and there was little anyone could do to change that.

No matter how much Heavy tried to prove otherwise.

It was clearer with every passing day that the Russian was trying his absolute hardest to get him to be near the Medic. Their conversations would titter into its usual silence and with the subtlety of a brick to the face, Heavy would ask about his strong dislike towards their healer.

"He would do no harm towards you."

"He is my friend."

"I trust him."

But Sniper didn't and that was the difference between them.

He didn't trust any medical professional and that had nothing to do with his upbringing. It just became common sense; they were all like every other adult in his life that claimed to be looking out for him. He remembered their stares, their pity and their ever-condescending conversations about his supposed concerning injuries. Nothing ever went beyond the simple, 'Is everything okay at home?'

And he would say yes because everything was okay.

He'd get locked outside but that was okay because he could still hunt for lizards to eat later on. He'd get cut by mum's nails whenever she grabbed him too hard, but it was okay because the bruising never lasted too long. He'd get dropped off at stranger's houses because his parents didn't want him but that was okay because he could always walk back home anyway. Just one of the many benefits of living in a small town and it's not like anyone actually took him in so it was okay because that was his every day, that was his life. And everything was okay.

Everything was okay in the way that everything now was okay.

Sitting on the kitchen floor with a belt in his mouth and a fixed wrist that was starting to swell. It was all okay because he could time travel anywhere in his past and still be in the same situation he was in now.

It was all okay.

There were no tears being shed or haunting regret that followed him because he's been dealing with this forever, and he's definitely not upset that he's dealing with it now. Nothing concerning was happening or had happened and he just needs to pick himself up off the floor, because it was all okay. He was only ever okay and that was okay.

Okay, okay, okay.

What a silly word.

Neither good nor bad but just enough.

And wasn't that the motto to his entire life?

He was never not okay, never remembering a day where he truly enjoyed living yet still hanging on to the belief that his okay would change to something better. That maybe one day a different answer would escape his lips when people asked how he was doing. That maybe one day, 'okay' would change to 'better'.

But that was not this day, and it would never be that day.

Today would be an okay day like every other day.

It was a sobering thought like a reminder that nothing truly changed despite the friends that he may now have or the shift in schedule that he once lived by almost obsessively. He could never truly escape the fears that lingered from a time long before, regardless of the thousands of miles and ocean that separated him from his home. Maybe that's what he had forgotten, the reason why he didn't do that stuff. Why he didn't make friends, why he distanced himself, why he was the way that he was. Maybe this 'okayness' was what he had forgotten, and this was fate's way of reminding him.

Suddenly, two gentle knocks interrupted Sniper's spiralling mind.

"Sniper?"

Speaking of fate, it seemed that Heavy of all people was making his appearance.

He could make out the large man's silhouette from just behind the safety of his van's window. As he watched Heavy lift his hand up to knock once more, he made a split-second decision.

"Coming, hang on!"

Sniper lifted himself off the ground, sucking in any noises of pain as used his one good arm to leverage himself. His breathing quickened with every moment, agonisingly and painstakingly pushing his body towards the door. It felt like an eternity had passed as his hand finally made contact with the silver doorknob, swinging it open and nearly whacking Heavy in the process.

"What do you want!?" He snapped harshly.

"It's nightfall, we watch the stars?"

And shit, Snipes hadn't realised how truly late it had gotten.

"Sorry mate not today, I'm not feeling it." He made to shut the door but stumbled as his teammate suddenly moved in front him, bringing them chest to chest.

"You are hurt." Heavy's words were sharp, almost concerned but Sniper wasn't in the mood, and he knew exactly what the weaponist would say next.

"I'm not going to the fucking medic!"

"Sniper-"

"I'm not fucking going!"

His ears were ringing, pounding in his head while his hand continued to throb painfully. There was no way in hell that Snipes was even going to entertain the idea of seeing that lunatic, he wasn't fucking stupid. He knew what they were like, speaking in false promises and twisted words before sending him to his death, to his parents. Filling their heads with dangerous ideas that they could somehow fix his 'muteness', his brokenness. They were all sick in the head.

And Sniper refused to be hurt by those gloved hands.

He would never make that mistake again.

"Heavy it isn't fucking happening so back off or I'll do something we'll both regret."

Because he didn't care if Heavy was his teammate, newly found friend or fucking family member, he would put a bullet through a man if he so much as touched him. His fingers were itching to pull a trigger of some kind, already moving his hand towards the small pistol he always kept in his cargo pants. It felt like his team needed a reminder of why he was so feared in the first place; of why his select rage was a thing of legends. And as he watched Heavy gulp slowly, he knew that the Russian was remembering it just as he had.

The stories upon stories the teammates would share after battle, Sniper heard them all but most importantly he heard what they all said about him. How wary they were of his uncanny aim, his unnatural silence even out of battle and the lingering smell death that seemed to follow him after every good win. Because was a killer like the rest of them, but even more so.

His instincts were honed for the wild, for the things that gave chase and fought back; he was an animal, perhaps even a monster. It never bothered him when the others would gossip, but he thought that after all that, Heavy would at least learn to be weary of his targeted rage.

He did feel some slight regret, but this was involving the Medic, and his opinion of the man was very well documented by mainly Scout himself.

"Okay," Heavy answered slowly, taking a step away from the van with his hands slightly raised, "Do not want to upset. I am worried over your injuries; Medic could fix better."

He gestured to the obvious swelling in Sniper's wrist, seemingly fixated on it before looking back up at the sharpshooter.

"Could also get worse."

Snipes snarled back, almost provoking the other to defend his 'friend' but it seemed that Heavy knew what he was doing.

"I don't want to fight with you, we are friends, yes?"

A tense pause.

"We can be friends, so long as you stop bringing up Medic."

"I will try."

"Then yeah, we're friends."

Heavy's shoulders slumped with obvious relief, and it was only then did the Sniper allow his body to go on autopilot. He followed his usual routine of grabbing out his cooler with one hand before sitting in his lawn chairs with the other mercenary. The two stared at the stars together, idle and light chitchat passing by as the constellations swirled above them. He couldn't tell you their exact stories shared but it happened and all too soon he was waving off Heavy to get some shut eye.

However, his rage still simmered, boiling underneath his skin despite the calm end to the night. He was still pissed that Heavy had the gall to even mention let alone tell him to see the Medic. It was all bullshit.

He glanced down at his wrist, warily eyeing the discoloration around the joint as well swelling that had yet to come down. Even moving his hand slight sent jolts of pain running up his arm as he flinched instinctively. Coming to a quick decision and with a half thought out plan, Sniper grabbed a discarded shirt to turn into a self-made slung to alleviate the pain of his injury. It would have to do for now and he only needed it for the night anyway, so he wasn't too concerned on its effectiveness.

With a quick breath in and out, Snipes found himself on the dirt track that headed out towards the base trees. It was a small forest that he believed the administrator had planted to make it appear like they weren't completely surrounded by plains of sand. There even were small creatures that were ticked by the fauna, quickly becoming Sniper's food whenever he forgot that he was in fact allowed in the kitchen. It was something Engie had to keep reminding him about, but the lesson never stuck for too long. Hopefully Heavy's lesson will go much better.

The sharpshooter moved through the thick shrubbery with ease, having already memorised every inch of the plant life. He quickly found his target high in one of the treetop branches, nibbling on a leftover sandwich that Scout must've chucked out. It was providing the perfect distraction for him as he neared the tree while taking aim with his old bow and arrow. He lifted the weapon to the air, adjusting the arrow with his good hand before using his mouth to pull the string back.

It was an old trick he had taught himself back in his youthful days when his injuries had gotten too intense.

In, out, in, out.

He let go of the arrow, hearing it whistle through the air as it neared its target.

The squirrel had barely lifted its head before falling to ground with a gentle thud. It's blood slowly leaked out of its body, wetting the grass and staining it red. But Sniper wasn't done, no, his rage was still simmering, still itching beneath his skin. His eyes locked onto his next target, a decent sized mockingbird that had yet to be alerted of his presence.

In, out, in, out.

The arrow went flying through the wind once more, nailing the poor sucker straight through its chest and as predicted fell to the roots of the tree. Its blood intermingled with that of the squirrel's, creating a masterpiece that only temporarily calmed the sharpshooter. He swiftly made his over to his collection, picking up the corpses and stuffing them into his vest pockets out of habit. Uncaring for the blood that stained his skin or the stains that it would leave his only focus was collecting his rewards. This would be a good start, but still not enough.

Sniper spent the better half of his night hunting down a combination of small creatures, patiently waiting them to poke out their heads before sinking an arrow into them. By the time he was out, he had around ten tributes to decorate Heavy's door, and that was exactly where he was heading. His footsteps were silent against the gravel path with his training guiding him on where the softest part of the track was. He couldn't risk getting caught by any of the other team members, especially not by his target.

In, out, in, out.

He slowly entered the base, mindful of the lights still being left on and the lowered volume of the TV that suggested someone might still be up. The show appeared to be a documentary, showing off birds and their habitats, nothing that clued him in on who exactly would such a thing. Nonetheless, he pressed on with his back against the wall as he trailed down the familiar hallway towards Heavy's room. He could feel the blood start to dry and began to move quicker across the tiled floors, already grabbing one of the small bodies to burrow its blood for the next phase.

Now with his red coated fingers, Sniper slowly began to write out his message on the wooden door. Though it was less of a word message and more imagery as he drew out a large frame of Heavy, making sure his head had a target surrounding it. His fingers started to twitch sporadically with every passing movement, almost lost in the beauty of his work. Snipes fumbled around with his quiver, pulling out the bloodied arrows he had used on the wildlife and pinned them to the door. It was cathartic digging the metal tips into the now chipped cracks in the wood, making sure to also pin the animals along with it.

So, lost in his own creation he hadn't heard the soft sounds of footsteps getting closer nor the TV being turned off. His attention was sorely on the piece in front of him, transfixed by his own work but also the memories that it brought back with him. For how could he forget doing this towards his teachers, stuffing rats and lizard's guts in their fancy purses. Or how he'd scare his classmates by leaving dead possums on their chairs, watching and waiting for them to discover the carcass. It was the one good thing he had going for him; however, it did mean his beat-ups grew quite severe over the coming years. But in those little moments, Sniper could finally breathe, could finally let out the anger that had festered from deep inside.

He was never allowed to scream so he made things bleed. It was all he had.

In, out, in, out.

Finally, his masterpiece was complete, Sniper grinned proudly at his display. It had expanded from the door with blood dripping down to the ground, filling up the cracks in the tiles. Even the animal bodies were hung on bits of the wall, really painting a picture of the midnight hunt he had gone on. But most importantly, he felt it got his message across.

To not push him.

"Herr Sniper, I was unaware you were an artist!"

For fucksake.

Sniper sucked in a breath with his posture immediately tensing as he slowly turned to the one fucking person that just had to be here. His eyes locked onto the Medic's both watching the other warily. The doctor raised his hands slowly before taking a slight step back, an almost perfect replication of Heavy just a few hours ago. His eyes locked in on the fact the doctor was surprisingly not wearing any medical gloves, and it loosened something in him.

"Did not mean to startle." He answered hastily, clearly aware of Sniper's attitude towards him. It made the other relax only slightly, subconsciously tucking his bloodied hands into his equally bloodied pockets. An awkward silence lingered between them with Medic not knowing what to say and Sniper's outright refusal to speak at all.

The doctor suddenly gestured towards Heavy's now desecrated door, "I am assuming that my friend, Heavy deserved it?"

Sniper nodded, glancing back at his work with pride.

Medic chuckled as he moved to look closer, hands now resting behind his back as he admired the patterns of the blood.

"I know you don't like me, Herr Sniper." The Medic began, voice still cheery and light, but soft enough to not waken the others. "But I am worried for you, no matter how you may feel about me."

There was a pause.

"Both Scout and Spy, I have made solutions for in my check-ups. But you, my friend, I have nothing on you and that is quite worrying."

Sniper watched from the corner of his eye as the doctor pulled out a yellow folder from somewhere inside his lab coat. It looked untouched, void of any marks or stains that one would associate with a patient's file. The only thing that even looked slightly personal was the clearly labelled 'Sniper' printed across the folder.

"There is nothing in here."

And Sniper knew exactly why.

"Please, my friend, explain to me?"

Maybe it was the gentle tone or lack of gloves, but there was something so fundamentally different to Medic's approach compared to his usual doctors. It took him an even embarrassingly long time to even notice that the doctor's close were more casual and that only his coat gave reference to his job on the team. Heavy had to have told him about their fight, but why would he then change his appearance because of that?

He hadn't mentioned anything about his rational distrust of medical professionals, and it was clear that Medic could see his internal struggle. A single eyebrow rose on the doctor's face.

"I mentioned the solutions, ja? Scout." He gestured to his outfit.

Medic changed what he wore to suit what Scout needed from him. His doctors didn't do that, they only scolded him about getting injured and refused to treat him if he turned up too many times.

'Wasting resources' they said.

Snipe's eyes flickered over to the manilla folder, there really were no papers in it and he had half a thought as to why. Like nails on a chalkboard, Sniper forced out the words.

"Doctors never bothered."

"What."

Sniper shrugged, shrinking into himself at the sudden change in Medic's voice, starkly reminding him of how Engie reacted when he talked about his parents. It was strange, foreign even to remember that they were people on his team that wanted him to know that he was cared for. Because for such a long time, there was no one, not even his own town cared about his wellbeing.

They just didn't care, and they never did, so why would they start now?

Why would any doctor bother to write notes on a kid with a reputation as horrible as his.

He was a scrappy boy that got into fights and refused to talk because clearly, he didn't get enough attention at home. He lacked good discipline, dragging down his family's name and ruining the town's reputation. There was nothing to diagnose or take notes on, he was simply an unruly kid.

It didn't matter that he had to reset his bones in the middle of the night, biting on whatever was closest so as to not wake his parents. It didn't matter that he often threw up food after realising his stomach couldn't handle solid things anymore. It didn't matter that he'd spend days picking out glass from his feet because he was never given any proper shoes. None of it mattered because at the end of the day, no one was going to look out for him, so he had to look out for himself. He had to learn these things, or he'd waste away before the sun even began to rise.

The only true time he regretted not having any doctor's opinion was when he found out he was allergic to strawberries.

"You are allergic to strawberries!?" Medic whispered harshly, grabbing a hold of Sniper's arms as he shook the tall man in panic.

Now, it was instinct he swears it – he'd never really hurt his teammates despite Heavy's door saying otherwise. But the doctor had caught him off guard and for only the briefest of seconds the Medic looked like those 'professionals' from his hometown.

In, out, in, out.

His body moved on its own, slamming the doctor into the nearby wall as he jammed his concealed pocketknife against the man's throat.

In, out, in, out.

The walls were white, everything was white, but Sniper was red, red, red. He was red and he was burning, and he was bright, and he was aching and everything was closing in and he couldn't breathe anymore.

In, out, in, out.

"Herr Sniper, I am not a threat, I can promise you that."

Liar. You were a liar like the rest of them.

"I am friends with Heavy, ja? Do you trust Heavy?"

Heavy, Heavy, Heavy.

Heavy made him mad. Hurting you would hurt Heavy; he wanted to hurt.

"No, you don't. You don't want to hurt."

His fingers twitched at the statement.

No, he didn't want to hurt.

Sniper pulled away slowly from his position, loosening his hold on Medic as he pressed himself against the opposite wall.

In, out, in, out.

The knife didn't feel right in his hand anymore, he could barely remember why he pulled it out in the first place. He looked down at his hands, covered in dried blood and animal fur that spread to the rest of his clothes; he never liked this part after a hunt, the regret. Even Heavy's door looked less beautiful, though he was still proud of it.

His attention turned towards the team's doctor who had since copied Sniper's pose and looked relaxed despite the situation. "It's not my first time being threatened."

Sniper hummed, fiddling around with his knife to distract himself from his own thoughts. He felt more jumbled today, almost out of control and it scared him. His rage had finally been tamed but his paranoia had jumpstarted from nowhere, forcing him back into old habits that had once laid dormant.

In, out, in, out.

Medic wasn't a threat that much was clear, he was still standing near him and had ample opportunity to sick Heavy on him if he so desired. Instead, the man simply remained where he was, watching and waiting for something even Sniper wasn't sure of.

"What do you want?" He finally asked, voice scratchy and uneven.

"Only to help you, mein friend."

A folder was put between them with Medic holding it out like an open invitation, a peace offering.

"I don't like appointments."

He didn't know why he said that, why it was so important for the other to know but he had to say something. The words just tumbled out of him, overflowing with unnecessary information that rattled around in his brain and needed to be released.

In, out, in, out.

He didn't like the Medic's gloves or the stethoscope that was wrapped around his neck. He didn't like being alone with a doctor or being trapped in the examination room. He didn't like having notes being taken on him or hearing whatever observation the doctor had on him. He just didn't like doctors. He didn't like them at all.

"Then I won't be your doctor, I will be your friend! And no appointments, instead updates!" Medic whisper cheered, waving the folder temptingly with a big grin on his face.

In, out, in, out.

Sniper took the folder.

In, out, in, out.

He turned away from the doctor, saying nothing and leaving nothing behind. He might go back into panic.

In, out, in, out.

"I will stop by early in the morning to 'update' your wrist!"

Fuck, he hoped Medic hadn't noticed.

By the time Sniper finally got back to his van, the sun had just begun to rise, and the rest of the wilderness was waking with it. He laid back down on his bed, opening up the folder to see a typical patient form waiting for him to fill out. His fingers twitched and he grabbed a nearby pen, already knowing the answers to some of it. He could already feel Medic's inquisitive gaze on him once the doctor 'updated' him and it was with great reluctance that Sniper realised he would have to update his own schedule as well.

Wake up.

Updates with Medic.

Blast Scout's music for his workout.

Relax with the kid.

Clean van.

Steal food before the others arrive.

Check in with Engie.

Drink with Tavish.

Back into van.

Help Pyro with their colouring book.

Clean and check over his weapons.

Stargaze with Heavy.

Nap.

And repeat.