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some-pers0n · 11 months

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A Curious Case of Curing the Cold

Fandom: TF2

Characters: Heavy, Medic (Engie's also here but he has like three lines)

CW: General sickness and illness (common flu), neglecting self needs, general manic Medic behaviour

Summary: Medic wakes up one morning with a cough. He does not like this. Not one bit. He's the Medic, he doesn't get sick. He'll do anything to get rid of it, despite what Heavy says.

Word Count: 4.0k

A/N: After like. two months of working on this on and off, here ya go. Medic manic episode sickfic oneshot. Here ya go.

It all began with a short, insignificant cough. He had been sat down in his lab, hunched over his work table with a steaming cup of coffee next to him. He'd woken up a couple of minutes ago and was slowly preparing for the day when suddenly he felt a little irritation in his throat. Build-up of some kind. So, he coughed. Expelling the gunk from his system and out into the air. Nothing more, nothing less.

To be honest? Medic would've chalked it up to it being from the doves roughhousing and kicking up dust. Perhaps it was a sign that he should clean up the infirmary. Or maybe it was whatever crud that was lodged in his lungs now being disturbed.

That's what he thought until he went to sip his coffee. The sweet aroma wafted around him, but when he tried taking a moment to sniff it, he snorted. He hadn't noticed that his nose was stuffed up. One nostril was blocked entirely, with the other one barely even being able to let the air through.

It was a downward spiral from there. Like tripping on the second step and crashing all the way down. Every feeling that could possibly be a symptom he was now hyper-aware of. An ache behind his eyes. A slight headache and feeling light-headed. He felt weaker than usual. His muscles were sore and the mere idea of going out to work made him dizzy.

He grabbed onto the table, nearly dropping his mug in shock. He held his head in his hands. It was warmer than usual, feeling some slight relief when pressed against his cold hand. "No," he cursed. "No, no, no... Hurensohn!" He smacked the table. "What do you mean?! How could this happen?"

Immediately upon his small outburst, he entered a coughing fit. Too much strain. He hacked and wheezed, spewing out god knows what from his body. He held his chest, trying to regain his composure. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face, trying to comprehend it.

Sick? How could he be sick? That isn't what's supposed to happen. He's the Medic! He is the one who tends to others; mostly by chucking whatever medication is close enough to what they need or using a borderline magical machine to heal them of their paper cuts and bullet wounds. He doesn't get sick. Being ill? That's for some lowly, weak-willed person. He's stronger than that. Better than that.

You know what? No. It's fine. Like he said, he had a machine that can heal the wounds of anybody. If it can fix up a man's entirely missing arm, bringing him back to health as though nothing had happened, surely it will heal whatever affliction he was cursed with.

He stumbled out into the lab. His precious medi-gun was hung up on the stand from a recent operation. He flicked on the switch, relief and hope rushing through him upon hearing the gentle whirling as it came to life. Medic twisted it around, pointing it directly at himself. The brilliant red beam connected with him. The power and energy of the healing ray shot through his system.

Yet, nothing. In fact, he sneezed only a moment after some painful silence.

Medic's expression faltered. "...wie bitte? Why aren't you working!?" he snapped. "Years you have worked for me, performing miracles and defying God's will, yet now you refuse to treat me?!" He grabbed it by the nozzle, shaking it as if that would somehow make it work.

Nothing. He did not feel better. If anything, the stress made him feel worse.

He pushed it away. "Fine. Be like that." He paced around his lab. Well, at least he made a new discovery. The medi-gun could bring a man back from the verge of death, reforming and reshaping the body back to its original state, sealing cuts and restructuring the muscle tissue and bone of arms that were chopped off or flew off in an explosion...but it could not kill a virus? Whatever infection or aliment that was festering within him?

Perhaps it could reform and heal wounds, patching them back up without issue, but it couldn't kill any sort of infection. It could fill in empty space, but cannot possibly destroy what may be harming the body at a cellular level.

Ough... Medic held his head again. Thinking and theorizing was tiring him out. Mixing that with the rampant pacing resulted in him being sapped of his energy.

Of all of the mercs, why was he the one to be sick? Well, perhaps some other ones had caught the bug, but him? He's too good for whatever this is. Ever since he was young, he hated being sick. Helpless and at the mercy of others. Might as well have been classified as some form of psychological torture to be bound to a bed all day. At least at that age, his parents were kind enough to get him textbooks and novels to read.

Now? He has a job! He has mercenary work during the day and possible experiments to conduct in the quiet hours of the night. He couldn't be bothered by books and research papers.

He can't be sick. This could not be happening. He needed to fix this. Now.

----

It was a long, long day for Heavy. Work was tireless and tedious with one member of the team missing. The Medic, no less. They lost their control over the Turbine district and had to come home with a resounding failure and a cut from their pay. He didn't let him affect it that much. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don't. Such is being a mercenary and working in this profession.

However, he couldn't help but notice the other teammates were feeling down. Not only by the loss, but were no doubt coming down with something. Scout had been complaining about his nose constantly being plugged and had been sneezing nonstop since the moment he got up. Spy had been coughing and hacking more than usual. Engineer was griping about having a headache. Even Heavy was feeling a bit more tired and weak.

So, what does he do? What normal men do when they see their fellow friends sick. Grab the bear shoulder he had gotten from a recent hunting trip out of the freezer and start making solyanka. Thick and hearty soup that warms the soul when it's unwell.

Cooking was an outlet of Heavy. He learned how to help around the kitchen when he was young, chopping and peeling vegetables and searing meat along with his mother. Many hands were needed to give everyone a meal to eat. Once they escaped the gulag, he often found himself being the main breadwinner. Going out, retrieving enough bear meat to last them several months, before then making whatever it was they felt. Kotlety, shashlik, sometimes just heating up the meat over a fire and eating it off the bone.

He'd been working on the broth all night. The base smelt of rich meat, mushrooms, and cabbage brine. He was now pouring out a bowl for himself when he heard another voice.

"Hey, mind if I get some too? Don't think you're hogging the whole thing to yourself now." Heavy turned to see Engie standing in the doorway, arms folded and leaning against the frame.

"Heavy made soup for everyone," he said.

"I know, just lightly teasin'." Engie's expression soured. "I tried getting the doc to come out, but no dice. Thought telling him that you're making something would bring him out. Not a chance though. Deep in whatever it is he's doin'. Said that he doesn't want to see anybody until 'it's perfect', whatever that means. Ah well. His loss."

"You think he is sick as well?"

He looked back at him. "I mean, I dunno why else he'd be like this. Nothing really set him off. Come to think of it, haven't really seen him sick...ever." He chuckled. "He'll come out eventually though. Maybe. I mean, I've been like that. So focused on something you just don't wanna leave it for even a second. But, eventually, you finish it and then, uh-oh, a couple day's worth of exhaustion knocks you right out." He let out a nice, hearty laugh. "Ahh...never too great. Always worth it though in the end. Making somethin' beautiful."

Heavy blinked. "I see..." he muttered. He poured the rich soup into another bowl, placed in a spoon, and handed it to him. "Here."

Engie grabbed it, taking a whiff. "Whoo-ie, that's one mean stew you've got there. Thank you, big guy." He grinned. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be taking this back to my lil' workshop. I'll tell the other boys you're done with the stew. I think they've been looking forward to it."

Heavy cracked a smile. "Many thanks." He grabbed another bowl. "Heavy will give it to doctor."

"You're gonna try and talk him into eating?" Engie snickered. "Alright. Best of luck with ya there, big guy." Engie tipped his head and then walked out of sight, leaving Heavy to himself. He looked back at the bowl, let out a long sigh, and then picked it up before going out into the base itself.

It wasn't uncommon for Medic to lock himself in his lab for hours. Heavy had seen him stay in there for hours, days, once or twice over a week. Staying in there to do god knows what. Whenever he'd crawl back out, he'd go on a long rant to whoever was closest and explain his newest medical achievement. Rambling and raving about how he "once again surpassed the bounds of which humans were meant to accomplish". Usually, it involved some random person he plucked off the streets of Teufort being subjected to an impromptu lobotomy or being injected with some solution meant to have the body simulate rigor mortis, with Medic coming out having learned something apparently.

Heavy found it endearing. He knew enough about anatomy and physiology to get the basic idea, but the actual accomplishment wasn't nearly as captivating as how Medic explained it. Overtired, bags under his red eyes, breath reeking of coffee, clothes stained with blood and gore. Despite it all, he'd rave about his grand victory in medical science with such enthusiasm and manic thrill. Waving his arms around and so incredibly happy to be sharing this moment with somebody else.

When Heavy came here for mercenary work, the last thing he'd thought was that it would be anywhere near entertaining like this. Making nice memories with the fellow men he worked with. One of them was coming out to the kitchen for a late-night snack, only to see Medic raiding the cabinets and causing a mess. Heavy called out to him, only for Medic to turn around, staring him down like a rabid animal spotting the closest thing to prey.

They then spent the next couple of hours sitting at the table, with Medic going on and on about how he's been experimenting with the rabies virus. He found that Soldier's little raccoon friends carried it and went wild trying to isolate it and test it on random things, including himself. He managed to survive through his own makeshift vaccine full of the virus, dirt, loose change, a bird feather, and who knows what else, but that's not terribly important.

Medic was an interesting case. A man so passionate about science and eager to do anything for his cause. Not simply that, but watching him on the battlefield. So engrossed in the violence and mayhem. Joining in the fun of mocking the other team in slaughtering them like weak cowards, while also losing what little patience he had for his own team. It was infectious to see him express these emotions.

He cared about him. Odd to say that about a man who kills people for a living and makes it exceptionally clear that he enjoys completely disregarding any sort of medical code, but it's true. On some level, he wanted to see his doctor well.

He paused in front of the doors to the medical infirmary. The sign above read "Closed", yet Heavy could hear Medic inside. Faint whispers and the soft sounds of clinking glass. Through the doors, he couldn't make out the words, but he still figured it was enough of a sign that Medic was awake and possibly able to have dinner.

Heavy knocked. "Hello?" he began, "I've brought bowl of solyanka. Fresh and warm. Would you like some?"

No response. Not even a slight pause in Medic's murmurs that at least gave Heavy the idea that he was listening. He tried pulling on the door handle. It let out a distinct clunk as it refused to open. Locked.

Heavy knocked. "Medic? Would you like bowl of stew?"

Nothing but the same old clattering of glass and soft mumbling.

Maybe Engineer was right. Perhaps there was no way he could exactly get to him. It was worth a shot anyway. He'll simply eat the stew himself. Heavy had just turned around to walk away when...he heard something.

Stillness. So quiet that one could hear a pin drop. Then, the sound of light, if a bit deafened, manic giggling. It bubbled and boiled over into full-on laughter. Heavy stood there, holding the bowl, not quite sure what to make of it. He seemed...happy? Then again, with Medic, laughter could either mean he's just completed something delightfully twisted or is on the brink of tearing somebody's jugular out. Hopefully, it's the former.

Eventually Heavy heard footsteps rapidly approaching him. The jingling of the door before it clicked open. Standing before him was Medic.

He was a wreck. There wasn't exactly a better way to put it than that. His hair was unkempt, curly and messy. His glasses rested upon his rosy red nose. His eyes were sunken and he smelt faintly of sweat and blood. He was wearing a white dress shirt stained with blood along with pyjama bottoms, little diagrams of anatomically correct organs dotted on them.

He looked at Heavy. A crooked smile was etched into his face. His eyes were wide, locking onto him like he had finally found a target. That familiar manic look.

"Heavy!" Medic cooed. "Oh, it's so nice to see you." His voice was hoarse and scratchy.

"Da, yes. Is nice." Heavy glanced back into the lab. "What has doctor been doing?"

"Excellent question!" Without so much as a warning, Medic grabbed him by the hand, practically dragging him inside. He nearly dropped the bowl in the process. Before he knew it, he was inside the lab, still stuck with the solyanka.

To say it was a disaster would be an understatement. It was as though a tornado had ravaged through, throwing all of the supplies up and across the room. It was in utter disarray. Papers strewn across the desks and operating table. Several coffee mugs resting on various pieces of equipment, the contents inside now tepid. The dim lighting heightened the feeling of unease that flowed through Heavy.

What caught his eye however was a rolling chalkboard. On it were incomprehensible and mad scribbles. Numbers and formulas that were cut off halfway through. Doodles of viruses and bacteria cells. Scrawl of words that fluctuated between German and English.

"I've been busy, mein Freund." Medic appeared beside Heavy. He walked in front of the chalkboard, giggling to himself. "I assume you can gleam the basic idea, no?"

He looked at what was virtually just archaic symbols. "Uh..."

"So you would understand that what I'm trying to accomplish here is some sort of cure for this blasted affliction I've been cursed with."

He squinted a bit. Medic's handwriting was never that great to begin with. Manic episodes only exasperated that issue. For what was completely legible to Medic was little more than a random assortment of lines.

Before he could respond, Medic continued. "It's quite a simple process, really. I wrote down all of my symptoms. Headache, fatigue, sore thro–" Suddenly, he entered a coughing fit. He held his chest as he coughed into the crook of his elbow. "And, of course, the coughing. All common flu symptoms, no?"

"Yes?–"

"Perfekt! However, you'd be mistaken there. I have reason to believe that, no, this is not a normal cold."

"...is not?"

"Of course! You feel it too, don't you?" he asked. "The pathogen floating through your veins. You've encountered many diseases like it, but ah, no, that's where you're wrong." Medic turned back to the chalkboard, putting extra weight on his spin for dramatic effect. "I have reason to believe that this is not any simple cold, but rather the result of a bioweapon. BLU is trying to kill us."

Heavy blinked. "What."

Medic glanced back. "You seem surprised."

"Do you have proof of this theory?" Heavy placed down the bowl of solyanka onto a table. "Anything?"

He blinked. "Is it not enough to be suspicious of the fact that I get sick all of a sudden?"

"It is not just you, either. Whole team is sick."

"Ah, well, that further confirms it. BLU is trying to sabotage us. I wouldn't expect anything less than this. Perhaps their Medic had created something of this ilk..." He grumbled, the faint shadow of a smile forming on his face. "When I've recovered, oh-hoh, they won't know what hit them. Like they always say, all's fair in war, and 'war crimes' simply do nothing but halt progress and kill innocent men in slightly less gruesome ways."

Despite having a doctorate in Russian literature, Heavy had never heard that phrase before. Perhaps it was of German origin, with them being prone to some odd sayings, yet somehow he doubted it.

Medic adjusted his glasses. "Regardless, I refuse to be sick."

"I can see."

"Which is why I've dedicated several hours to isolating a sample of this virus in order to study it and create a cure of sorts."

"...you what."

"One moment." He pushed past Heavy and approached the mini-fridge next to the operating table. He rummaged around for a moment before saying, "ah, here we are!" He stood up, proudly presenting a jar.

Inside was something otherworldly. He almost thought it was some sort of alien creature before realizing it was a virus. Trapped in the jar was a cell the size of a football. It had the texture of styrofoam and sloshed around with every minor movement. It had nubs sprouting in all directions.

"Behold, yet another medical achievement!" Medic giggled, pressing the jar up to his face. "By virtue of my own genius design– and lightly borrowing some equipment from Herr Engineer's workshop whilst you were on the battlefield– I've created a method in which to stimulate incredible amounts of growth within a cell. Within hours, it has gone from a fraction of a micrometre to, well, this!" He laughed as he shook it around. His eyes were transfixed on the virus. A wide, crooked smile was etched into his face.

Heavy stared at it. "And why was growing cell...necessary?"

"Excellent question, mein Freund!" He placed the jar down on an operating table, fidgeting around and trying to get supplies. "Now, while it may seem like the average influenza virus at first glance, I assure you that it is anything but ordinary. Like I said, deadly bioweapon most likely used by BLU to kill us."

"Which you do not have proof of."

"Komm schon," he scoffed, "would you believe that this could be some natural disease that just happened upon us?"

"Is not just the flu?" Heavy asked. "Little man said a few days ago he had gone to Teufort. Perhaps he had gotten sick then–"

"While I suppose Scout could have been patient zero, having spread it through the base at a rapid pace with his nonstop chattering, I still have doubts."

"Of course you do."

"Until suggests otherwise, it is a bioweapon. Thus, I shall unravel its insides and attempt to deconstruct its genetic material via surgery."

"Medic is doing what now?" Heavy bluntly said.

"I am doing surgery on the–"

"I heard that part. Why are you–"

"Because I have to!" he snapped. "Figuring out how it functions at a genetic level and I could perhaps create a new virus of sorts that's specially equipped to fend it off is the fastest way for me to be rid of it! Do you think I want to be like this!? I-" He went into another coughing fit, hacking and wheezing for air. "I cannot be sick," he grimly said.

Heavy sighed. He looked at Medic for a while. He wanted to help, but was unsure of how. He could stand there for emotional support (or perhaps as a vessel for him to ramble to), but that wasn't doing anything. He was simply indulging in this self-destructive behaviour.

He glanced at the table. The bowl of solyanka rested on it, pillars of steam twisting around in the air. "When you are done, you will eat stew. Is good for heart and soul." He gestured to the bowl.

"Unsure about that, but, yes, I suppose when I'm finished with this operation I will eat. Haven't had a proper meal all day; unless you were to count the sixteen or so cups of coffee as 'food'."

"No."

"Tja. It's fine." Medic rolled up his sleeves, not bothering to put on gloves. "Now, finally, I can work! Hours of preparation all for this moment." He unscrewed the lid of the jar. It hissed as the pressure released. "I'm fairly certain it'll do the trick." He gave a small smile, gesturing Heavy over. "Come, come! Watch. Not too closely, but near enough to see. Breathing too hard might make it explode."

He complied, walking over to stand near him. He watched as Medic lifted up the lid and haphazardly dumped the contents of it out onto a tray. Hazy grey water splashed onto the floor. By the end, the cell sat in a small puddle of its juices. Heavy noticed however it lost some structure. It was flattening a fair bit.

"That's to be expected. Cells are not exactly the densest thing in the world," Medic said. "But, nothing to worry about, I'm sure." He grabbed a scalpel. "Now, all I need to do is make a small incision and–"

It was an odd sound. The moment that Medic had poked at it, it released a small, whisper of a hiss. Air being released into the surroundings. With it, it began to deflate. Like a sad, old balloon, it shrunk and shrivelled up. Within seconds, it was flattened. Small bits and pieces of cytoplasm and whatever other contents inside spilled out into the water. Yet, even that began to dissolve. The bits and pieces broke up. Within seconds, they were gone. All that they were left with was the corpse of a cell.

Medic was still. He had not moved an inch since the process began. His eyes were wide, unblinking. His chest was still. Slowly, he moved. His hands shook. His mouth quivered as he let out short, feeble breaths.

He dropped the scalpel. "Ich bin erschöpft," he said in a tired, strained voice. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face. "It has been a long, long day, Heavy... Hours of work, gone in seconds." He weakly laughed. "I need to sit down."

Heavy was a bit surprised to see that Medic wasn't busy flipping over a table or curled up on the floor and crying with laughter. To see him crash? It was unpredicted, but understandable.

He placed a hand on Medic's shoulder, giving him a small pat. "Will doctor eat now?"

"...ja. I'll do it." He exhaled as he looked up at Heavy. That glint his eyes held just moments ago was absent. He'd come back down. All it took was for his experiment to fail to regulate him.

He pulled two chairs and sat down, Medic following soon. He grabbed the solyanka and took a sip of the broth. "Oh. Ooh!" He took another spoonful. "Why didn't you tell me this was so good?"

"I–"

"Never mind that. It's perfekt! Danke schöen." His face lifted into a warm, content grin.

"Like Heavy said, solyanka helps with the heart and soul." He cracked a small smile. He was simply happy to see his doctor happy and healthy.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #heavymedic #tf2 fanfiction #sickfic #SP-writing #I'm going to bed now honk shoo honk mimimimi

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