Chapter Text
The New Mexico desert was pitch black around them, its horizon little more than a border where the navy blue of the evening sky rose up around, thick with stars.
The campfire’s light was a small island in a sea of absolute black. It staved off the cool of the night, but not enough for the Engineer to want to wriggle out of his work garments for the day. Instead, his idle fingers strummed and plucked the guitar in his lap, humming absently, goggles turned down to gaze at some place on the ground between himself and the fire.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Heavy’s towering form emerging in the glow, thick boots plodded to seat himself by the fire. He eased to sit slowly, with a stifled groan. The other mercenary had similarly removed his kit – the belt of ammunition absent from his shoulders, along with his other tools – but was still in his work clothes.
Heavy’s short sleeves and completely bare arms made the hair raise on Dell’s own out of sympathy, even knowing the chill of the night meant little to the Russian.
Mikhail stared into the flames, dancing on his stormy eyes and highlighting the creases of the slight, thoughtful scowl etched on his brow.
“Engineer is… friends with Doctor, yes?” he rumbled out.
“I’d reckon so.”
Heavy grunted in acknowledgement.
The Texan fidgeted with the strings on his guitar a moment longer before he really looked up to face the other mercenary, who was still focused on the fire – in no rush. “...Why d’ya ask?”
“Think… is good Doctor has friends. He tells me, many people treat him like crazy man.”
The Engineer couldn’t help a snicker and a broad smile. “Y’ gotta be a little crazy in this line ‘a work.”
Heavy couldn’t help returning it, softening. “This is true, we are crazy men.”
“Jus’ don’t let Snipes hear ya say that.” the two of them chuckled, Dell feeling a swell of homely familiarity.
It was easy to be intimidated by the heavy weapons specialist, not strictly unwarranted either, but they were part of the same team in the end.
“Was just thinking…” Heavy continued. “If something happens and am not here anymore, you will look out for him, da?” his rumbling voice was touched with a quiet sincerity, his expression relaxed, but somber. “Doctor is not weak and stupid, but sometimes is… too clever. Cannot help himself, needs gentle hand to guide him back to Earth. Make sense?”
“I getcha – Lord knows I ain’t his keeper but I’ll look out for the fella as best I can.”
“Be friend, not keeper. Is good.” Mikhail agreed. “I am just worried… do not want Doctor to be alone, where no one is understanding him. Do not like to think what would happen if everyone treated him like crazy man again.”
“I wouldn’t want that either, partner.” Dell frowned. “You’re right, most folks ain’t gonna understand, but it don’t take 11 PHDs to know the Doc is brilliant in his own way.”
The morning light pouring down from the infirmary’s high windows bathed the room, chasing the claustrophobic shadows out and giving the military base an organic feeling. It was quiet here, chaotic in its own way but the least he could say was the Medic’s strain of chaos was much more purposeful than that of the other mercenaries.
The Spy sat with well practiced patience, which the team doctor was thankful for. Not that he was at ease being checked over – his body was tense, stock still, the hands in his lap too rigid to fidget – but he recognized this as a necessary evil and knew that fussing would only prolong his misery.
He kept as still as he could while the Medic rolled up the back of his mask, gloved hands gently tipping his head forwards – by now the doctor knew better than to ask him to remove the balaclava entirely, despite that making his job much easier.
The Spy breathed shallow, restrained breaths as the doctor inspected the site where he had been wounded the day prior, no longer darkened and matted with blood, but still notable for the jagged white line of scar tissue in its place.
“You haven’t been feeling dizzy at all?” the Medic asked clinically.
“No.”
“Have you had any feelings of weakness, nausea or unusual lethargy?”
“Nothing of the sort.”
Ludwig gave a short, affirmative hum, satisfied. He replaced the Spy’s mask, walking around to face him while his patient instinctively touched the back of his head where the injury had been, adjusting the balaclava to his liking.
“From the looks of it, you should be just fine.” the Medic confirmed. “Of course, as always, if you start having any concerns you should come to me immediately.”
“Very well.” the Spy straightened his back again, waiting to be dismissed.
However, the Medic lingered, standing over the other and studying him with a piercing glare.
“...Is that all, Doctor?” his patient prompted.
Wordlessly, he took a seat in front of the Spy, expression unfalteringly serious. “Could I ask you something personal?”
This was already setting off alarm bells in the Spy’s head, the doctor had leveled all kinds of questions at him without warning – he supposed it came with the territory, but a man like the Spy was not comfortable disclosing much information at the best of times, and often the doctor’s enthusiasm seemed to bleed far beyond what he would consider a professional interest, to his dismay. Even so, he didn't quite expect what came next.
“I notice that you and Misha are close.” It was a neutral statement, but a weighted one.
In turn, the Spy weighed his next words carefully.
“‘Close’ is… not the word I would use.” he hesitated. “Mikhail has, at times, consulted me regarding translating small words or phrases, yes. He has allowed me to read some passages of his work from time to time, too. So I suppose we are friendly.”
This was true, the Frenchman couldn’t say that his Russian was the best, the Heavy’s was far more eloquent than he could dream of, but he could offer suggestions when trying to bring small pieces into English.
He was sure, even with his learned ability to read those around him, that whatever shared companionship he had with the man paled in comparison to the connection the Heavy shared with the Medic – they were practically joined at the hip. Even when compared to some of their other team mates.
It was natural, really. The Spy never expected he would become particularly close with anyone on their team - in a way, that suited him better.
The Medic nodded. “He’s never shown me any of his writing.”
The Spy blinked. “Oh.”
“This is just how he is." the doctor remarked, untroubled. "I do appreciate you keeping him company, he needs someone to show him that he is more than just a weapon sometimes.”
“Quite, it is no trouble at all.”
“I hate to think what would happen if he had nobody to trust… if he shut himself off again.” the Medic’s focus drifted away from the Spy’s face, his posture seeming to wilt with wistfulness. “My Misha is a lonely soul, he becomes so preoccupied with protecting others he denies himself joy.”
“… I understand, Doctor.”
The Spy knew he was similar in that regard, that it was better for him to stay alone, closed off. Maybe that’s why he and the heavy weapon’s expert had drawn to each other to begin with, there was an unspoken understanding of each other’s self imposed solitude.
“I will look out for him.”
“Danke, Herr Spy.”