Zwei Liebhaber

A self-indulgence.

Medic/Heavy/Reader

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He badgered you relentlessly.  In his own way. Medic is not as brash and obvious as Scout, but you wonder if he’s learned a liquid slyness from Spy over the years; a startling seduction that evinces more velvet than steel.

At least you were alone when the first overture came. You can only guess at what the expression on your face must have been while you attempted to determine what the Doctor was getting at. The choice of words and interwoven threads of meaning clashed so starkly with what you had expected that comprehension eluded you. He was subtle, but once your brain snapped back into gear you realised what he was trying to communicate. You suppose you must have gaped from the way his smile widened into something predacious. He told you to think about it, and left you in the kitchen pouring juice on your trousers instead of in your glass, his boots clicking their retreat like a fingernail tapping the polished surface of a table. Waiting. Patient.

The fact that you never outright said “no” not only fuelled his persistence but also revealed to yourself that whilst it had never occurred to you, it didn’t mean that you weren’t interested once the idea was broached.

“But Heavy…” you’d stammered the second time he asked, his arm barricading you on one side when it had looked like you were going to bolt. The bone-white fabric of his coat was splashed with blood and you don’t know whether it was the metallic tang or the forceful brightness of it that induced the wildness in the size of his pupils. You knew the last thing you wanted was to stand between the giant Russian and his Medic, and you had no idea what game the Doctor was playing in propositioning you.

Your hesitation just made him chuckle. “He knows.” One hand rested against the wall next to your head, and he had caged you completely. You saw his nostrils flare as he leaned in, and you froze. “Zwei Liebhaber,” he sighed in your ear. “It is better. We can show you.” The heat from his breath slid down your neck. And then he was gone. You stayed glued to the wall, shaking in fear. Not of what he had said, but of how badly you had wanted it.

protowilson:

‘Bait’

OK this is for ruumiinlaulaja who waited ages.  Hope it’s OK.

EDIT: Realised I got the class colours wrong, so fixed it.  This is what happens when I don’t check the details on my request list :<

It wasn’t that he was sitting back on the job.  Spy never did that, despite what the others said from time to time.  They never had any trouble making the accusation to his face either!  In his line of work, waiting was a necessary evil.  One couldn’t just charge on in there without having first carefully assessed the circumstances, real and projected.  He was happy to leave the bullish guns-firing-and-bellowing to Soldier.  Respawn was an unpleasant enough experience without leaping recklessly towards its reacquaintance.

But Spy didn’t like a mystery.  It felt like he was failing in his role.  It was a given that he needed to know everything that was going on around him.  Every detail, large or small, had to be committed to memory because who knew how useful it could prove to be later down the track?  Such an approach had saved his hide too many times for it to be coincidence.

The first time he’d seen it, he hadn’t given it much attention… just a quick bookmarking of it into his memory.  The second time… well, he’d actually paused in his silent approach behind a RED Scout who was crouching behind a low wall reloading his Force-A-Nature.  Not a long enough pause to miss sliding his Kunai between the boy’s ribs, though, but what he’d seen had bothered the Frenchman for the rest of the day.  The third time was the true red flag.  There was definitely something peculiar going on.

A Pleasure Delayed

Seven hours have passed since the end of the mission. A stalemate. Not unheard of, but certainly not frequent. It’s an occurrence that often leaves many of them uncertain of how to feel. Mission outcomes are irrelevant to Medic. He does his job, and his performance in that job is the only thing that matters to him. Whether they win or lose the mission…

He shrugs slightly to himself in the golden light thrown by the desk lamp, inking precise, angular lines on the page in front of him: the day’s report. Such records have never been requested of him, but he uses them as a way to log his actions, to chronicle the treatments he imparts, to study the procedures he invents. Every piece of information he feels relevant is catalogued here. Months and months of it, written in fastidious columns, partnered with finicky diagrams on pages with no creases or smudges or errors. Medic does not make mistakes.

The silver tip of his pen marks a perfect, black circle and the page is placed carefully to one side to dry before it can join its brothers. Briefly, the polished lacquer of the pen’s lid steals his fingerprints, but the folded linen of a pristine, white handkerchief corrects the theft, and the pen is laid carefully above the blotter, parallel to the edge. Precise. Medic unhooks his round, wire-frame spectacles from behind his ears, folds them carefully, and sets them down with a faint click on the polished wood, above the fountain pen. Exact. Shifting his chair back smoothly, the doctor rests his forehead on the desk, forearms running along his thighs so that his hands hang just over his knees. He sighs.