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There's only one clock in the entire medbay. It's above the rusting white double doors and it counts seconds unevenly. The face reads a quarter over eleven, but how much is it behind? Medic would more likely pull out his own teeth than let any maintenance worker in his temple. And if time felt shaky and moldable somewhere, it was at the doctor's office.
Heavy can feel the waves of time materialize and waft through his body. Post-operation he always figured the "time" he sensed was just a blend of the Medigun's mist and the ancient air conditioner coughing and whirring just above him. Under the scalpel it's better to cling onto something less tangible than one's body, still weak to pain despite the healing mist's opiate effect.
As Heavy lay on the repurposed dentist's chair zoinked out, the Medic sits aside him and procrastinates the procedure he should've started a while ago. Heavy has recieved a nasty bullet to his midriff, enough to cause blinding pain but not enough to kill him and make him respawn anew. Medic's concern stems from the bullet's proximity to Heavy's stomach — had the bullet grazed a tear into it, Heavy's stomach acid would spread and corrode his other organs.
Medic can't, however, bring himself to begin the operation. A living creature tantalized by agony was a fascinating sight. Even a bioenginerically tweeked Goliath's nerves were weakened by the right mix of neurotransmitters, mauling the man's tissue in their grasp.
"Das macht nichts", Medic mutters to himself, adjusting his glasses that are slipping off his sweat-blotched face. He could remove another hundred rounds of bullets from Misha's abdominal cavity during their contract at Mann Co. — this was nothing to get worked up about!
With renewed professional determination Medic grasps the scalpel between his rubber-gloved fingers and presses the blade against the underside of Heavy's last rib bone.
First the cool metal slits through Misha's epidermis, digs into the dermis — here Misha lets out a groan of discomfort — before jamming stuck just a few centimeters into his fat tissue. Medic sighs shakily and swallows, eyes glued to his work as his free hand reaches for his Wheaty. The retractor's hands spread the incision apart and reveal glistening beads of fat — to Medic they resemble plump ticks eating from the same artery in a neat line.
For a moment Medic considers twisting one fat bead off, positioning it between his teeth and biting. He can nearly hear the blood rushing past his ears to his crotch. He really should ignore it. He has all the time in the world to quench his little perversions later on.
Finally Medic commits and digs the scalpel deeper. The blade lodges against metal — the projectile! — and Heavy cries, his head-sized fists clench and his knuckles turn snow white.
At the sweet complain Medic bites the inside of his lip. He can't just dig his bloodied palm to stroke himself in the middle of an operation! He settles for throwing his knee over Heavy's thigh, steadying his free hand and grinding himself on Heavy's quadriceps femoris.
In the midst of the little sin he allows himself he leans closer: the bullet isn't that deep after all, its tip looks snug against Heavy's transversalis fascia as though it belonged there. A wave of disappointment washes over Medic — disappointment in Heavy's pedestrian injury and his own, twisted curiosity.
"What takes so long, Doktor," Heavy pries with a comically weak note in his voice.
"Sorry!" Medic hushes him before he gets to say anything else. "Let me just–..."
Medic grasps the bullet's projectile with his bare fingers. His own lewdness disgusts — and turns him on — further; the thought of retractors or tweezers doesn't even cross his mind.
His fingers are surrounded with Heavy's red, slick and glistening wound. Holding his breath, Medic curls his fingers around the bullet. In response the wound spews out a playful gush of blood.
Medic lowers his gaze as his shoulders tense. His legs clasp Heavy's thigh, desperate for even a speck of friction. His zipper digs into his crotch and for a moment — simultaneously tugging out the bullet — he manages hold of it. The junction where the burn of both agony and pleasure meet is his to claim. Medic lives to chase that junction. In faulty respawns, in the blade of a Spy's kunai against his neck, and now in him conjoined to Heavy through a gaping wound, Heavy's thigh stabbing his dick.
Medic wants to share that junction with Heavy and no one else. Heavy's a well-read man who would surely understand the beauty of it.
Medic's fingers are still grasping the bullet, holding it just outside the open wound. It takes him a while of listening to Heavy's slow, hypovolemic breath to decide he's ground his dick against the other man's thigh for long enough. He wipes his hands on his trousers and takes his glasses off before hopping off the chair and turning the Medigun's volume up.
"Well done zhere," he places a hand on Heavy's arm, glancing yearningly at the renewing flesh growing over the wound. "No aftercare required. It was barely even touching your abdominal vall," he chuckles weakly.
The healing mist has sufficiently patched the patient up by now. Despite it, a moment that feels like years passes before Heavy's gaze sharpens and his expression becomes alert again. He sits up and Medic flinches back — like doctor Frankenstein frightened by what he's created, or perhaps just in some sort of shame.
Heavy's serene blue eyes fix shortly at Medic's blood-stained fingers and the wet patch at the front of the doctor's trousers. He rolls his eyes and scoffs out a laugh.
"На здоровье, Doktor," he grins, pats the dumbfounded doctor's shoulder, stands up and makes his way out of the medbay.
Medic sits on the operating chair with his hands limp in his lap. He stares at the bullet; it's still bloody and pleasantly warm.