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phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 7 years

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@ursy153 & @imberbimber, can I prevail on you two to read this chapter 3 and tell me your thoughts. I was editing it, and put more in, then edited that... and it’s 3am again. Also tumblr stole the italics, again.

-> “No Quick-Fix for the Common Cold” Unedited Ch3

Chapter 3: Getting Uber Your Differences

The world burns as if Pyro had turned their flamethrower on it, until it’s almost unbearable; then, without any warning whatsoever, turns icier than Spy’s heart.

Someone’s talking at him, he thinks, but he can’t be quite certain. Sounds like they’re asking… something he can’t seem to make out; the words, the sounds… they don’t make any kinda sense?

Failing to understand who or what is being spoken just heightens the sense that something is so very, incredibly wrong… like he was broken, or the world was. And just when he thinks he’s maybe grasped onto a familiar syllable or tone, the voices start again with new phrases that sound alien in origin.

He doesn’t know what they want…

What do they want?

He can’t tell these mystery beings he doesn’t understand what they’re trying to communicate, however. All chance to do so ceased what had to have been eons ago; his throat felt as if all of Dustbowl was trapped in there. Searing heat and burning sand that had never known rain, rubbing everything red-raw, eroding his voice all but completely.

Everything is… everything is nothing more than impressions and ideas. Shades of hot and cold that flush through his body, head to toe; wracking his overtired frame with shudders that make his joints ache. It feels... like the two teams are facing off against one another, and his body is the battleground; the clashing roams all over, different areas experience pain seemingly without any warning or pattern, before the war moves to a new capture point.

Sure, maybe that’s a weird-as-fuck analogy, but it’s all he has.

The only certainty in Scout’s mind is that he is at RED base right now… probably. He clings to the familiarity of that scenario… it’s all he can do to stay in the moment.

Red, Blue, battle, team, win, lose, war… game. The words mean everything and nothing.

There is no equilibrium, up and down are utterly subjective for the moment, but he doesn’t want to open his eyes and find out which is which. It seems so superfluous, so… unhelpful, to be aware of. All he knows is that his body shivers, aching and numb in odd little bursts that seemed designed to undermine his tenuous grip on reality.

But he could not sleep. It eluded him, any and all rest that might bring a moment’s peace… held so far out of reach that he could cry, if that were still an option.

And then, something changes.

At first, it feels imagined, like the phantom fingers that had held fast his throat earlier in the evening. The ones that dredged up one of his single worst memories, and saw the runner strike the Doctor, even though the man had only tried to help.

He hadn’t meant it… Medic… so angry…

He didn’t mean to hurt the doctor…

Before he could concentrate on the thought, the memory... it happened again. Someone… touched him. And he felt his heartbeat accelerate in panic, as fingers brushed against shoulder, cheek, wrist, and finally, throat. He jerks back at the last tentative touch, not wanting to have to think about That Time again.

They said something, but it didn’t feel like it was for him; perhaps the other voices were sharing amongst themselves. That sounded like a thing they would do, right? He is aware of something clamping firmly about his shoulder, a solid something to focus on, even as it causes overstressed senses to go on alert.

Why couldn’t he open his eyes and see who, or what, it was?

Why was that so hard all of a sudden?

The pressure decreases, as if they thought he wanted them away… as if they intended to leave; and he flails out, with an odd almost-word of a cry. He wanted them to stay, he didn’t want to be alone in this. Alone in the dark and unable to communicate.

Someone shouts in alarm, as he realises he’s struck something. Had he done it again? He hadn’t meant to… you know, strike them; Scout just wanted them to stay, and couldn’t think of how else to tell these soft-voiced beings that. Especially as the cry from a moment ago refuses to make a repeat performance; his throat has closed for good or ill. Hah, probably because he was, ill that is. It was an oddly amusing thought. Still, no matter how much Scout feels like he wants to scream and beg them to remain here; there is nothing emanating from his ravaged throat. And worst of all, the hand is gone… his one anchor had abandoned him.

It feels like an eternity before something else happens, and he Bostonian is aware of every passing second in the void. In a way you might never put properly into words; like the first time you experience respawn, and you find there can be no true description of the sensation in anything as crude as words, it simply is.

Every sense is overstimulated, trying to work out where the voices went, even if his eyes refused to open and ears failed to translate the words they had spoken. A muffled whine of alarm escapes as hands return, touching first the pulse of his wrist and then brushes at the one in his throat; the memory rises like a tidal wave and threatens to consume him.

As in many of the recent nightmares he’d had since the team’s reintegration; the ones so vivid that they wrenched him from sleep in a cold sweat, screaming for help, and spurring him on to seek out even the most rudimentary form of comfort. Funnily enough, Scout always seemed to end up in the Infirmary perched on a cot, or sitting in the soft armchair in Medic’s room; shaking and muttering gibberish as the memory faded slowly. The German physician always just sighed, wrapped the runner in a blanket, and provided him with a myriad of reassurances in a soothing tone. Sometimes the intervention was nothing more than the calming repetition of ‘all is vell und you are safe, hase’, along with a cup of some of the best hot cocoa the Scout had ever had; but it worked miracles. He never remembered falling asleep again after a nightmare, only what happened afterwards; when he’d wake up in his own bed the next morning, the rest of the team none the wiser of the previous night’s incidents. Perhaps it did not show, but Scout had always been grateful for that.

The memory, so recent, etched so deeply on his mind, made him shudder once more. He would quite literally pay just about anything to erase it completely… to remove the sick flashes of little things that seemed to make it all the more realistic. The taste of dusty air heavy in his mouth, the groan of a wooden floor... that suddenly wasn’t, and the strong certainty of a rope looped about his neck, holding fast when his beloved Miss Pauling grew distracted in her attempts to save his life.

“Nnngg...ooooh… nnnnnoooo…” he manages, using what little energy he had left to exert enough control over his aching arms, in order to shove the intruding person away. “Nnnnooo… pl-...ss…”

“Crikey!” comes the startled response, and the runner cannot make hide nor hair of what it was supposed to mean. Only that the figure is close by still, hovering and uncertain what to do. Scout cannot really give them any suggestions, as he did not know himself. Nor could he think of himself as a singular being, at the moment… he was just a group of loosely connected aches and pains, extremes wrapped in confusion and left to suffer.

There’s someone else there too, he thinks; their voice is different but… he thinks he knows it. He can’t understand the words, exactly, but the tone is low and soothing; full of familiar sounds that might be phrases of comfort and explanation. It feels like they’re trying to tell him something, but it just doesn’t… translate.

But… most importantly, it feels safe. He wraps the cadence about his mind, almost like a physical thing, to block out The Memory… and it seems to work.

He tries to focus on them, he does. It’s a lot harder than he initially thought it would be, but they are patient. Up is down, the sun is cold, and his throat burns even as he struggles to make some verbal acknowledgement that he can sorta hear them. Can understand they are helping… but his mouth and brain are not on speaking terms.

And then someone is dabbing something cold on his lips… it’s cool and wonderful on the chapped flesh, with small dribbles of liquid seeping through. Not a lot, not enough to truly quench the burning in his throat, but even this taste of rain on the parched desert of his dry mouth is a blessing. It is appreciated, and he wants to say so… but all that comes out is a slurred, ‘Thah...kssss’.

“No problem kiddo,” sighs the voice, taking away the cool-wet thing, much to Scout’s distress. He knew that voice, he knew… knew who it belonged… to… why couldn’t… he think… of the… name?

“Kid, ya’in there?” they queried again, gently touching his shoulder. Then more vigorously, “C’mon Son, open those baby blues… we need ya ta stay with us.”

The hands that began to shake him were broad, and the voice familiar; but he couldn’t place them. His aching body protested the treatment, but the dribble of water seemed to be just what he had needed to finally feel the call of sleep. They were growing more frantic, and he… he really did want to respond, but… it was just so much easier to let himself drift off into the welcoming void of dreamless rest.

So he did.

~)0(~

Relentless banging jerked Medic back to something approaching consciousness. He shuffled upright, mind foggy and body aching from where he had fallen asleep over his desk… in what was possibly the worst possible position for someone his age. Ach, so much paperwork!

Donning his most scathing expression, Medic wrenches the Infirmary door open. “It is four in zhe verdammt morning, vhy zhe hell are you here?” he shouts, glaring daggers at the unexpected form of Sniper. The sharpshooter seemed oddly flustered, and had a welt on his neck that looked suspiciously like he’d taken a blow there, possibly due to a delirious teammate.

Medic immediately knew why he was there, but let Sniper explain the situation anyway.

“It’s Scout, mate. Looks like he’s gotten worse in the last little bit and Truckie said he’s real worried about the ankle-biter. He can’t seem to open his eyes or stay with us for more than a minute or two at a time… most of that is this weird strangled screaming, or trying to give you a good old shot to the chops.” Sniper grinned a little at that. “Oh, yeah, and Engie said the kid’s a lot hotter that anyone has a right to be… said he could feel the heat through his Gunslinger. Which I thought was impossible, but you never know with Truckie.”

“One moment,” Medic says, striding across the room for his bag; which had been dumped unceremoniously on the floor when the doctor had stormed in hours ago. “Yes, I seem to have everything I need, lead zhe vay, Herr Sniper.”

“You sure it’s just a cold, mate? Just seems to me like he’s gotten pretty bad real fast.” Sniper asked in his unobtrusive way. They’d never been overly close before… the whole Classics nonsense… and Medic dragging the man back from the dead had not improved relations overmuch. Still, he was less than totally indifferent towards the German, so there was that.

“Yes, vhatever zhis is, it has acted far more rapidly zhan anticipated.” Medic conceded, musing aloud. “But zhen, ve are not normal men… it vould not surprise me if the rapid acceleration of vhatever he has contracted vas in some vay linked to zhe fact his blood is most likely more than half BONK! at zhis point.”

Sniper huffed out an almost-laugh in response, more an acknowledgement, if anything. Medic was delighted, even if he hadn’t really been joking all that much; he was quite concerned with the youngest member’s continuous utilisation of that radioactive drink. It would be no great shock to anyone if it was altering the Scouts on a biomolecular level.

Reaching the room changed everything, however. The almost-companionable dynamic Medic had been sharing with Sniper was immediately crushed underneath the sudden realisation that pretty much the entirety of RED team was crammed inside the medium-sized Scout Class quarters. Those who did not quite fit, or had retreated to avoid being an accidental casualty, littered the hallway outside. The whole scenario sent Medic’s heart hammering wildly within the confines of his chest.

Many of the mercenaries present still harboured perfectly logical grudges against him, considering the whole situation with the Classics had been resolved not even three months prior; and even those who deigned to look past it, in the name of group cohesion, were still somewhat cagey about interacting with the good doctor. Holiday periods and feasts excluded, obviously, as both Thanksgiving and Smissmas had been delightful events where hatchets had been buried so that all may enjoy the celebrations.

The only problem… was that many of the mercenaries had recalled where, exactly, they’d buried them. Medic could see it in their faces as he entered, the brief flicker of mistrust that spoke volumes; he was not now, nor may never be, forgiven his transgressions. A fair call, from an objective perspective on the situation… but it still hurt Medic deeply to be alone in a room full of people he once considered family.

Individually he could bear their sullen stares and simmering ire, accept their curses and comments regarding his temporary defection as part of the road to reconciliation. There was time to hear them out, let them vent and talk them through it; but in a group, such as this, he held no chance.

A cold, clammy sweat broke out over the doctor’s entire body; though outwardly he managed to maintain some degree of his usual calm and collected persona. Though perhaps not as well as he had first anticipated; for Sniper, who always seemed to just know when someone was distressed, out a companionable hand to Medic’s back and steered the other through the crowd.

The others parted, silent as tombstones, but unlikely to stonewall this ‘home visit’ as it were, with the stoic sharp shooter standing guard. Of all those gathered, it could be said that Sniper had the greatest claim to mistrusting Medic; but if he chose to vouch for him, then no one on RED would contest it.

Slightly reassured, Medic found it possible to focus on the patient before him, and his hovering Texan guardian.

Engineer had taken a real shine to Pyro and Scout when they’d all originally arrived, liked to think of himself as some degree of father figure towards the pair; so when one of them went down for one reason or another, he was always there to throw down a dispenser to heal what ailed them, offer words of encouragement to keep going, or help them get a revenge kill. Engie tended to be a versatile paternal figure with more patience than most; he was perfect for the role he’d adopted.

In anycase, it was no great surprise to anyone that the builder had placed himself by the bedside of the team’s youngest member; monitoring Scout’s every breath and twitch like some sort of living medical monitor. Although, Medic himself had had a… well, a hand, in helping Engineer affix his Gunslinger; a [piece of technology for which the specifications were both impressive and ambiguous. There was a very real chance that the metallic hand lightly holding a concerningly limp, bandaged wrist, was taking an accurate reading of the runner’s resting pulse and oxygen saturations.

The silence was beginning to press, as Medic tried to perform a visual assessment of Scout; mentally comparing current observations with those he had taken earlier in the night. Indeed, the lack of proper response to stimuli was of concern, and the majority of symptoms appeared to have increased in severity over the previous hours. It seemed to be acting rapidly, though for all his medical knowledge, Medic could not think of what this could be outside of a rather virulent strain of a cold or flu. Those sorts of everyday infections tended to breed like wildfire in cities, after all; every person who contracted it mutating the disease to a degree before passing it on. Children, of course, were the most frequent carriers of the pathogens; therefore Medic was feeling quite confident in the prognosis, given the information the runner had imparted before their rather unfortunate encounter ended.

“Vhen did you first notice he vas in zhis state?” he enquired aloud, moving closer slowly, so as not to raise anyone’s hackles. “Or, I should ask, vas he conscious or coherent vhen you first saw to him… how long ago did zhis unresponsiveness start?”

“Ah… ah reckon it was about ten or eleven when ah came ta look in on him again after ya checked the boy over,” Engie answered, goggles fixed on Medic’s every movement. “He seemed a bit shaky, real tired and the like, but he was talkin’ a little. Said his throat was bad, but didn’t wanna be touched, and ah can respect that.”

Medic nods, both in affirmation and as a polite means of requesting that Engineer continue speaking. There’s a pause.

“He did say he wanted me ta tell ya he was right sorry about hittin’ ya, made me promise ta say it if ya came back and he’d finally gone ta sleep. Thought about comin’ ta getcha then, so he could at least hear me say it, might help him settle down and all, but ah couldn’t leave him. Didn’t wanna be left alone, see?” Engineer tossed a meaningful glare over his shoulder. “And ain’t none’a ya gonna hold that against him when he’s better, ya hear?”

After everything the team had been through, it was doubtful anyone would be callous enough to mock a teammate for finding comfort in the presence of another living being when they were unwell. Though many had a feeling it might be more aimed at the Spy, who had a tendency to prod each mercenary’s weak points when he felt rankled, or was just exceptionally bored and ready to start drama to relieve the doldrum of it all.

“Alrighty then, now that’s settled.” Engie turns back to face the Doctor. “About an hour back aways, me’n’Stretch thought he’d dropped off ta sleep finally. We were gonna switch out, so he wasn’t alone but ah could get some shuteye… when Scout starts shaking worse, mumbling and the like, and we realise he ain’t asleep… just can’t open his eyes. Tried to talk ta him, calm the little fella down, but then he clocked Sniper one… and went real still.”

Medic was nodding, half-listening to Engineer and focusing on the rabbit-face heartbeat under his stethoscope; the crackle was still there, but perhaps not as severe as earlier. Satisfied, he takes the runner’s hand, and pinches him. There was a full second where he thought the Texan was going to lay him out for the movement… but it passed, as the doctor tutted worriedly. There had been a slight flinch, but it was very weak.

“What’s the prognosis, doc?” prods the inventor, after Medic seems disinclined to elaborate on the purpose of his tutting.

For his part, Medic starts somewhat, as if he’d forgotten there were other people present. “Oh, yes. Vell, apart from zhe fact he did not respond properly to zhe external stimulus of pain… it is also apparent zhat he is somewhat dehydrated, given the lack of elasticity in his skin. Und, it vould most likely not be far off zhe mark to suggest he may not have eaten in approximately zhe same amount of time, given his sore zhroat. Neither of vhich vill be helping him.”

“You might be right there, mate. Truckie and I got a little bit of fluid in the ankle-biter earlier with the old cottonball method, but it didn’t sound like he was able to do anything even close to swallowing with a throat that scorched.” Sniper adds in his no-nonsense manner, quietly watching the physician who had brought him back to life not a few months back, lift one of Scout’s eyelids.

“Mmm, at least zhere seems to be some dilation occurring in zhe pupils…” Medic mutters to himself, snapping the penlight off as he straightens. “Indeed, Herr Sniper. I zhink it vould be best if he is moved to zhe infirmary so I can start some intravenous fluid und do further tests to see vhat else can be done to hasten zhe virus’ egress from our resident Scout. I vould caution you to perhaps consider laundering your attire and showering, to prevent any spread of infection; und, could someone tell… Her… zhat Scout vill not be able to attend any match in zhe foreseeable future, should Blu be returned in zhe next veek or so?”

“Of course, docteur.” Spy answered, materialising far closer to the bed than anyone would have assumed him to be. For once, the man does not take out a cigarette to smoke, with his ominous statement; clearly having heard and understood Medic’s warnings pertaining to potential contagion.

“Danke, Herr Spy.” he nods in acknowledgement, and turns to the problem of transporting Scout. Of course, he could carry him, but then he would have to leave the boy alone in order to retrieve his medical bag, and-...

“Doktor, I vould be happy to carry small Scout to infirmary for you.” Heavy offers, resolving the problem, and acting as if this wasn’t the first time they had exchanged more than a fleeting verbal exchange since being back at RED base. The Russian mountain of a man moved over to the small bed, slipping his hands under the ashen runner and lifting him with all the care one would take with a baby, or a puppy.

To be so large, to have such power and yet be so kind, so gentle and caring… it was one of the many reasons that Medic had loved the man. Well, before everything happened. Heavy’s curtness held more weight than that of the other members of their team, for the ‘good doktor’s betrayal had struck on many personal levels. Medic understood, and he bore the weight of such a burden silently.

“You have my thanks, Mi-... Herr Heavy, danke. Let me grab my zhings und I vill precede you to open zhe infirmary door…” Medic pauses as he clasps the bag shut, turning to address the rest of the room. “Und everyone else? I vill let you know in zhe morning vhat is happening vith zhe junge, or sooner should something change drastically, zhough I do not feel zhat is a distinct possibility in zhis case. Rest assured, from vhat he told me, it is most likely just an unintended Smissmas present from one of his nieces; for vhich rest und some fluids are zhe answer.”

There was grumbling, but not even Soldier had anything to say regarding the matter, so Medic decided now was the best time to take his leave of the room. Heavy followed behind at an even pace, cradling the runner carefully, as he had no doubt done for ill sisters in the past.

Neither man said anything; the only sound filling the corridor was the soft, wheezy rasp of Scout’s breathing.

And when it stuttered slightly, both men unobtrusively picked up their pace; urgent footfalls echoing throughout the seemingly never-ending corridors of the base complex.

~)0(~

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Tell me your thoughts, people... most has been re-edited, but thee’s about a quarter I can’t get to or i will fall asleep in the shower, as it’s 3am. Ch4 is well under way but I was double-checking this chapter for continuity, and... got distracted. Also 1 & 2 are on AO3, if you want to read them with italics and bodl in place... >.>

#tf2 fanfic in progress #tf2jam #ursy153 #imberbimber

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