Chapter One - Denial
Medic stared down at the pale corpse that lay on his table, his dark brown eyes scanning the bare, pale skin of the young man who had been so lively just the day before. He tried not to look above the boy's shoulders; despite the countless times that the man of medicine had seen wounds like this, and worse, it always unnerved him to look at the faces of dead children. Even if Scout wasn't really a child…he behaved like one. He had that youthful charm and grace about him that one could admire, if they looked past his loudmouthed and obnoxious habits.
It didn't help that the teen had a large and gruesome gunshot wound on the left side of his head. Medic had had to clean the seeping hole before the (rather unnecessary, in his opinion, but it was standard procedure) autopsy. It had broke the German's heart to see the Scout so still, cold, and pale, in sharp contrast to his usual fast-paced and excitable self. He had been fond of the young man, despite his sometimes-harsh treatment of him, and it was painful to see him spread out naked and cold on the metal autopsy table.
One of Medic's gloved hands hovered over the polished metal tray at his side, before carefully plucking a scalpel from the small array of equipment that sat there quietly, waiting to be used. He pressed the small metal blade to the Scout's left shoulder, hand shaking. He shut his eyes, adjusted his glasses, and drew a breath to calm himself, nose wrinkling slightly at the scent of death and chemicals that lingered in the room. No matter how long he was around it, he could never get used to the smell. After a moment, Medic pressed the blade into the creamy skin of his former comrade, cutting a y-shaped incision from both shoulders to just under the young man's navel. There was little blood, and medic had expected that; corpses didn't bleed.
But even if he had expected it, that didn't lessen the sudden crushing weight that descended in the doctor's chest; this made it so much more real and painful. The boy was dead. Dead, gone, and not coming back, not ever. Medic placed the scalpel back on the tray and retreated to a corner of the room, cradling his head in his trembling hands, mussing his hair up more than he would normally have liked, but he didn't pay that any attention. He stood there in a deafening silence for a few minutes, head in his gloved hands and leaning back into the white wall behind him.
He finally looked up at the cold body on the table a few feet away. His glasses were askew, and he reached up to adjust them yet again, and then fixed his hair. This was very unprofessional. He had done countless autopsies before for a variety of reasons, and this one made him behave like this? He should be ashamed. His teachers would be ashamed. His comrades would be ashamed. This was a war, and here he was weeping over the corpse of the Scout… He drew a sharp breath. He could do this. He stepped toward the table again, picked up the scalpel, and pressed it back to the wound.
Medic shut his eyes and put it down again. This was ridiculous. Why was it so hard for him to just do his job? He opened his eyes and stared down at Scout's face this time. At least he seemed calm about this, his handsome features pale and stiff, but calm. Medic felt his face twitch into a smile, remembering how rare it had been to see the boy's face so still and serene in life. He extended a hand and cupped the right side of the boy's face gently, brushing a few strands of stray hair off his forehead and back into the short dark red-brown mat with his other hand. He did his best to avoid looking at the wound.
"You never stop making trouble for me, ja?" he crooned to the corpse, smiling weakly.
Medic caressed Scout's cold face gently, the red rubber gloves over his hands standing out strongly like blood against Scout's pale skin and the cold metal table. He stood there, quietly stroking the cold flesh, for more time than he could count. He knew he had to do this, but it somehow hurt to think about it, and so he stood as still as a statue, staring down at the boy on his table.
---
"Hey, doc? Whatcha up to? Reading somethin'? Cool, cool. What's it about?
Medic looked up from his medical text, a frown playing on his face. His sharp gaze was met with the bright blue eyes of the youngest member of their little military division, and the boy bounced excitedly in place, leaning on the Medic's table. The two stared at each other for a few seconds, before the boy spoke again.
"Don't feel like talking? That's okay. Lemmie see." Scout tried again, peering down at the open book in Medic's lap.
He blinked down at the tiny print and black-and-white photographs in silence for a few moments, his brow furrowed as if concentrating, before throwing his hands in the air and letting out an exasperated sound. The boy was rather comical when annoyed or frustrated with something he didn't understand (which was often), and Medic couldn't help but chuckle at the boy's behaviour. When he caught wind of the older man's laughter, Scout wheeled around on his heels and glared daggers at him, face scrunched up in annoyance. He didn't say anything, but made a sound that made Medic think of a cross between cat when you poked it in the face and a grunt.
"I am sorry for laughing, Scout, but you are…most amusing. You vill have to forgive me." Medic said, trying very hard to keep the composure he was so well-known for around the base.
Scout's face immediately relaxed and he cocked a jaunty grin, lightly punching the doctor in the shoulder with a bandaged hand. Medic wondered briefly why the boy always wore those arm wrappings, but pushed it out of his mind after marking that detail unimportant. Scout's change of mood was a bit sudden, but he was prone to such mood swings and quirks, and Medic paid it little mind.
"Aw, It's okay doc. Youse just having a bit of fun, huh? Yeah, I understand. Well, I better get goin', Hardhat was sayin' earlier that he wanted me to run some errands. He said he'd gimmie some of his booze if I did good. Fuckin' sweet, huh? Later!" Scout announced at a mile a minute before rocketing out of the infirmary as fast as he could.
Medic chuckled to himself again. The boy had to do everything as fast as he could, it was a wonder that he managed to have that much energy. The doctor smiled fondly and reached a gloved hand to a small picture frame that sat behind a stack of medical reports on the desk. The picture in the frame was a bit faded with age, but Medic knew what it depicted very well; a young man with his left arm hooked around the neck of an older man, both standing in front of a brand-new clinic in Stuttgart, Germany. The pair was smiling widely, though the older man was a bit more subdued than the young teen.
Medic smiled. He remembered when this picture was taken. It had been a good day, one of the best he'd had with his son after the death of his wife. He placed the frame back behind the stack of papers and returned to his book. Scout reminded the man of science of his son…perhaps that was why he could put up with the boy's behavior? He pushed the thought out of his mind.
Little more than a day later, Scout's bloodied body had been carried into the infirmary by Engineer with a bullet in his skull, courtesy of the Builder's League United's Sniper.
---
Medic picked up the scalpel again, trying to still his shaking hands. He managed to regain his composure after a few minutes of carefully controlled breathing, and pressed the small blade down, finishing the cuts. He then hooked his gloved fingers under the edges of the cuts, gently peeling back the skin. He fought back tears as he worked, going as quickly as his professional mind would allow so he could escape this little corner of hell. After the skin was peeled away, he pinned it down and picked up a small saw, placing the scalpel down on the tray. He held the saw in his hand gripping it tight, and swallowed hard. He brought the saw down to cut away the cartilage connecting the ribs to breastbone, biting his lower lip.
He could do this. He could…
Medic finally emerged from the autopsy room, shedding his blood-stained coat and gloves as he walked, not caring where they landed. He looked weary and tired, his shoulders hunched and large rings around his eyes. He wandered around the infirmary in silence for a minute, and then glanced back at the locked steel door to the room he had fled before heading up the concrete stairs to the rest of the base.
The halls were pretty quiet at this time of night, the overhead lights mostly dimmed, making the windowless hallways dark and haunted-looking. Medic stared at the floor the entire way to the small mess hall, his boots tapping loudly on the linoleum tiles. He didn't know how he was going to face the rest of the team after his little…incident, though if he kept his usual mask up well enough, none of them would know how distressed he was really feeling. Medic smiled. He was very good at keeping his façade up, the cold, stiff mask that made most of the team fear him.
He looked up when he came to the double doors of the mess hall, and gently placed his palm on one of them, drawing a deep breath. After a few moments, he pushed the doors open and strode in, head held high and mouth pulled into a frown. A few of the other men in the room turned to look at him, but they quickly glanced down at the table again. Medic picked out a chair near the doors, depositing himself into it with a sigh. The room was quiet except of the soft clanking of utensils against the table and plates, and the soft tap-tap of Spy flicking his butterfly knife open and shut.
The silence was heavy in the room, none of the men looking at each other or talking, and it made Medic very nervous. They knew. He knew that they knew, and he could practically smell the pity that was coming off them in waves. He gritted his teeth and ran a hand through his graying hair before adjusting his glasses again. The room was still mostly quiet, and the tapping of Spy's knife was starting to get on his nerves. He glanced up at the Frenchman, sitting there looking so smug in the balaclava he never took off, flicking that meticulously cleaned knife. Bastard.
Spy noticed the fiery glare that Medic was giving him right away and flashed a smile, opening the knife again in a graceful motion with another flick. His smile grew wider when he noticed the muscles in the German's neck tense, his eyes narrow, and his fist clench in his hair. So Engineer was right…Scout's untimely demise had done something to the man. He cleared his throat and broke the choking silence.
"Is something wrong, mon ami?" He purred, thick French accent making him sound much smugger than he had intended.
Medic growled and got to his feet, not bothering to push the chair out properly and sending it clattering to the floor. The loud sound made a few people jump, and a few softer clatters marked their forks being dropped. Spy smiled calmly as ever, his brown eyes locked on the doctor. So easy to provoke…
Medic opened his mouth as if he was going to say something; his nose scrunched up in annoyance, but seemed to think better of it and shook his head, turned on his heel, and stomped out of the room. Another awkward silence settled on the room as the door swung lazily, all but Spy seeming nervous and confused about what had just happened. Spy continued to lazily flick his knife open and shut, a contented smile on his face.
"So there is something wrong, then…? Je suis intrigué." He purred to himself.
---
"Doc…?" Engineer said softly, adjusting his hardhat after gently placing the limp corpse on the medical exam table in the infirmary.
"Yes Engineer…?" came the weak reply, Medic glancing over at the Texan.
"Are ya okay?" He tried again, moving to place a hand on the doctor's shoulder.
The other man moved away from the touch, removing his hand from his face and shaking his head. He kept glancing over at Scout's body frowning, his head shaking back and forth longer than was necessary. He was muttering under his breath, too softly for Engineer to make out what he was saying, and his eyes were wide, almost panicked. He swallowed hard and smiled weakly.
"Ja. Ja…I am fine, my friend. You should get back to…to your machines. The day's fighting is not yet over, and you never know who will try and destroy them!" The German said, the lilt of his voice a tad higher than normal.
Engineer frowned, but adjusted his goggles on his face and left the room, glancing over his shoulder at the doctor before shutting the door gently behind him. Medic stood stock-still for a few moments, eyes slowly wandering over to the blood-stained body on his table. He crept closer, slowly, ever so slowly, and placed his hands on the edge of the cool surface, leaning over to look Scout in the face. This couldn't be… No, it could not be true, Scout was too full of life, of spunk and fire and energy, and he was too alive to be sprawled out on the autopsy table like this!
Medic slammed the sides of his fists against the table and squeezed his eyes shut. He stood there shaking for a few moments, and then opened his eyes again. This could not be his Scout, the boy who was always flitting in and out of the infirmary with that wide infectious grin on his face, the boy that would boast and tell jokes about that day's fighting like it was nothing more than a baseball game to him.
This lifeless corpse could never be Scout.
---
Medic sat on the small, lumpy, but well-kept bed in his bunk, staring at his hands. He didn't leave them bare very often, so it was…a bit odd, even to him, to see the pale skin that lay beneath the ever-present red gloves. He turned his hands palm-down and examined the tops, noting with a frown that his fingers were trembling. That wasn't good for someone in his profession. He had let Spy get to him, and now he was quite stressed and oddly angry. With a sigh, he buried his face in his hands and just sat there.
A few thoughts and memories kept replaying themselves in his mind; the days before Scout's death, his anger at himself, his team, and mostly at Spy. He wasn't quite sure why he was angry at Spy, but he knew that something about the man's cocky tone and smirk had just made him loose it. He removed his face from his hands. He never lost his temper around his colleagues; he made a very careful point to not do precisely that. Spy, that smarmy bastard, had made him lose his temper… He bit his lower lip. He needed to relax, but how…?
When the door to the room opened slowly, but with a loud creak that pulled him out of his thoughts, Medic nearly fell off his bunk, but managed to keep (most of) his composure. He looked up to shoot a weak glare at the one who dare intrude on him, but his face softened when he noticed that it was just Heavy, who was carrying a tray in one massive hand. The large Russian looked worried, and carefully made his way to medic's bed, placing the tray in his lap. It was rather endearing to see how sweet and gentle the impossibly large man could be when off the battlefield, and Medic couldn't help but smile slightly.
"Doctor left before he could eat." Heavy said, his deep voice laced with worry. "Is something wrong?"
Medic sighed and leaned into the large man, a rare display of affection. He shut his eyes and just sat there for a few moments, before speaking.
"Ja, mein Heavy. But you do not need to vorry about it," he muttered.
Heavy wrapped a thick arm around the doctor's shoulders, frowning but not pressing the issue. He was around Medic often enough to pick out when the man was in need of quiet comfort, and this was most definitely one of those times.
"You will be okay, doctor."
"I hope so," Medic whispered.
