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Every night.
Medic sighed as he removed his small round spectacles to give them a wipe over before looking at the documents in front of him.
Every single night.
"Just once I'd like to skip the paperwork." He grumbled aloud at the familiar heavy footsteps of his partner on the tiled floor of the medical bay's office; the 'office' being a desk in the corner of said bay surrounded by towers of files.
"Little Scout has many files." Heavy stated obviously, patting a large pile of paperwork.
"Each file is a different Scout, Herr Heavy."
The room became deathly silent, as quiet as the newest addition to the row of corpses lining the bay on tables. Medic couldn't recall a time when he'd seen his partner in 'crime' so silent and pensive. Although it was true he'd never stuck around for the paperwork before.
"Doktor has lots of papers to write all the time." The Russian pointed out scratching his bald dome with a sigh. "This is another Scout file?"
Medic simply nodded without looking at his co-worker.
"Ja, that bag over there." Heavy looked at said bag, his brow creasing with pain at the thought of the newest team-mate killed on the battlefield. Medic sensed this unease.
"If you put on those gloves, you can see him."
Heavy thought about this for a moment before choosing the largest pair of latex gloves available, even though these barely gained him enough coverage, and unzipping the top of the body-bag. He took a step back, his eyebrows furrowed in sadness.
"How old was little Scout, Doktor?" he asked awkwardly. Medic, whose back was turned to Heavy creased up his expression and removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
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"Hey doc!" called a chipper voice, layered with a Bostonian accent.
"Scout." mumbled the Medic in reply "You are the new one ja?"
"Yeah!" the Scout had ginger hair and freckles, the BLU uniform contrasted with this greatly.
"Gut luck. You will need it."
MISSION BEGINS IN 30 SECONDS
The Announcer's harsh tones sounded over the PA.
"It's my 21st birthday today!" said the runner with a grin. "Let's go bust some heads!"
"Wai-!" Medic began to call after him but it was too late, he was gone.
Battle was no place for a doctor. But without him the team would be a few members short by the end. He had just rounded a corner, helping a Soldier with rocket jump wounds and ready to deploy a charge on his Heavy companion. He loved this part of the battle, somewhere his science could be put to use, and the glee it provided his team-mate with only served to make it better. The sight in front of him would replay many times before he could convince himself there was nothing more he could have done. The Scout boy failed to dodge a Sniper's bullet. The RED Sniper was a notoriously good shot, with a thing for taking care of Scouts. It hit him in the chest, just below the heart. Medic's soldier companion provided him with some cover as he ran to the boy's side.
"Haha…" the boy began. "guess it's time to retire the runner huh doc…?" with a wheeze he tried to laugh again.
"Hold still dummkopf!" growled the German. "Don't talk now ja, just sit quiet." He retrieved a pair of forceps from the bag and hovered over the entry wound the bullet had created before the Scout's hand held his arm firmly in place.
"Don't doc…" he gasped, trickles of blood playing down his chin. "I know I'm done…" he took a shuddering breath. "Let the bullet kill me… I don't wanna… bleed to death…"
The Medic's expression remained emotionless as he retrieved a vial from his field kit. "Then let me help you sleep." He replied. The Scout simply smiled at him.
"Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag. Happy birthday kid."
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Heavy put a hand on his partner's shoulder.
"Doktor?"
Medic was brought back from his thoughts and looked up at the giant Russian.
"There was nothing I could do." he told him, like he needed to justify himself.
"We know Doktor. We know. It is not your fault. Little Sniper is pesky rat." assured Heavy patting Medic on the back.
"It is... Tiresome, herr Heavy." grumbled the older man. In reality he was barely even fourty, but stress had started turning his hair grey, and was snaking its tendrills into his posture and face, etching grooves and worry lines where there were none before.
"What is tiresome, Doktor?" The Russian asked both puzzled and concerned. "You are very good at job. I am still here."
Medic attempted to smile at his old friend, but the expression was tinged with bitterness.
"Yes, herr Heavy. You are still here."
But for how long? How long until I cannot protect you either? I am a believer in God - yet I am a man of science. I do not think that I will go to hell when I die, though if there were one that is where I would belong. All of the things I have done, and it is fine because those men on my tables wear red. I am like a Bull trained to heal. When I see red, it does not matter. But this Scout is wearing blue, and it is my fault he is here. He should not be here. Peel back the uniform and he is just another shade of grey in the spectrum I cannot see. The only things that matter are blue and red. But cut open someone blue, and they bleed red just the same. After all, what does it come to but this? I am not a God, I am a doctor. I could not even save this Scout, and yet I have the right to take life away from another, and use them as I wish, because they are not one of us. But I will become a God, I will show God himself that he is not all-powerful.
'Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown.'