Chapter Text
The innocence that had once been burned out of him with a hot iron in his childhood became the perfect facade for the team. Before his comrades, Fritz always appeared as a polite, goody-two-shoes: an impeccably clean, buttoned-up doctor and a loyal friend. Of course, mere meekness wouldn’t have been enough among a gang of hardened cutthroats—in this war, respect was earned through action. And Fritz made himself indispensable to them. He performed his duties flawlessly: dragging their asses out of the frying pan and snatching them from death’s grip at the most critical moments. The mercenaries willingly took this image of an ideal savior at face value. Thanks to this combination of a mild demeanor and surgical reliability, he blended into the crew with ease, made friends, and, for the first time since his harsh youth in Berlin, learned what real human connection felt like.
But now, all of that was left behind, buried under the snowdrifts. It wasn't the first time a brutal blizzard had sabotaged their mission, sweeping away spent shell casings and washing the heat of gunpowder from the earth. Icy slush stung his eyes, limbs grew numb, and the deafening shriek of the wind beat against his ears. The horizon dissolved into a blanket of white. Snow crunched underfoot, and the very chaos of war seemed to freeze over from the bitter cold, forcing even the hardened cutthroats to abandon their pointless battle. In weather like this, the only option left was to lower their weapons, lose sight of the enemy, and lead the survivors to warmth. They were all in the same boat now: if anything went wrong, the storm could easily knock out the respawn system, and then their end would be ridiculously absurd.
Fritz was left entirely alone. No one was coming to lead him to shelter—not that he was unaccustomed to loneliness; he had always fended for himself. Suddenly, through the veil of snow, the contours of a dilapidated wooden building emerged, topped by a bulky, fog-shrouded sign that read "RED." The mere thought of hiding out on enemy territory bordered on suicidal, but his fingers were already frozen stiff, and there wasn't a soul around. "After all," he thought, "if someone is in there, I can always... negotiate."
Fortunately, it was empty inside. In the middle of the cramped little room, a meager potbelly stove huddled forlornly, next to which a generous armful of firewood was found. Fortune had clearly decided to gift him a little warmth. Fritz had barely managed to thaw out when a distinct crunch echoed from outside, cutting through the howling wind. The door creaked wide open, letting in a blast of biting frost and a cloud of snow. A tall figure loomed on the threshold, wearing a white coat and bright red gloves. Another drifter, seeking salvation from the elements.
It was the enemy team’s Medic—just as frozen and caught off guard by the storm. Except, Fritz didn't need to play innocent in front of the REDs. In an instant, his bonesaw materialized in his fingers, menacingly catching the reflection of the flames from the starved potbelly stove.
"Oh... It’s occupied," the man exhaled wearily.
His face was deathly pale, nearly blending in with the melting snow on his shoulders. He was shivering violently, his entire body trembling, while water dripped onto the wooden floor from his heavy, soaked coat with a soft, rhythmic patter. The RED Medic stared at the tongues of flame dancing inside the potbelly stove as if looking at the greatest treasure of his life, barely even noticing the weapon aimed at him.
Fritz was in no hurry to lower his saw. For a second, he bored his eyes into the enemy, weighing the risks, but a fight here and now would be the height of madness. Decision made, he used his free hand to gesture for his colleague to take a spot by the fire. The RED Medic didn't wait to be asked twice: obediently, nearly collapsing to his knees from weakness, he moved almost flush against the glowing metal, his eyes closed blissfully against the heat hitting his face.
On the battlefield, they wouldn't have hesitated to slit each other's throats. But here, cut off from the world by a solid wall of blizzard, they could afford the luxury of simply being colleagues.
Fritz knew perfectly well what kind of merciless cold could be encountered in these parts, which was why he never went out on a mission without his trusty thermos. Fishing it out of his medical bag, he unscrewed the cap, and the rich aroma of warming tea filled the cramped room. Fritz extended the hot cup toward the enemy, who was frozen to the bone—without malice, wearing a soft, almost gentle smile.
"Danke," the RED Medic murmured quietly, a trace of warmth returning to his voice, as he wrapped his fingers tighter around the steaming mug.
The fire in the potbelly stove crackled cozily, devouring the firewood. Their flimsy sanctuary shook from the onslaught of the elements: the wooden walls groaned plaintively, while outside, the piercing wind raged with a strained, agonizing whistle.
Fritz slipped his hand into his coat pocket and fished out a small package—galettes carefully wrapped in thick, dark blue paper. You never could guess what little things field medics carried with them besides surgical tools.
"Care for some?" the BLU Medic asked softly, breaking the treat in half.
"You are too kind..." the RED Medic replied, his voice raspy from the cold. He accepted the modest offering, his fingers brushing against Fritz’s for a fleeting second, before his eyes slowly drifted down, taking in the BLU Medic's form. "And what brings you out here, colleague…?"
"The same as you, I imagine," Fritz offered a faint smile and took a bite of his portion, his eyes locked on his uninvited guest.
It was almost surreal to see each other like this. On the battlefield, they transformed into bloodthirsty monsters, ruthlessly carving a path to victory through the remnants of shattered bodies. But now, in the middle of nowhere, they could finally speak like civilized human beings.
"I think, if not for this cursed war, we might have made good friends," the RED Medic said quietly. His face had grown noticeably pink from the heat of the potbelly stove, and his body had finally stopped shivering so violently.
Fritz looked around, listening to the unceasing howl of the storm outside the walls, and then offered a soft, almost angelic smile. "I believe there is absolutely nothing stopping us from getting to know each other a little better right now."
The man thoughtfully pursed his damp lips, flushed pink from the hot tea, and used his pinky to adjust the cracked glasses on the bridge of his nose.
"Fritz," the BLU Medic said, extending his hand first in a welcoming gesture. The fire from the stove danced intricately across the lenses of his glasses, catching his face in the darkness—the face of that very same loyal, perfect friend he pretended to be for his team. The RED Medic hesitated for a second before reaching out in return. His palm was firm and dry. He gave a short nod, sealing their silent pact, but he never did offer his name.
When the blizzard finally subsided, they parted ways as if nothing had ever happened between them. As if that brief hour, the first time they could just be ordinary people and have a normal conversation, had never existed.
Upon his return to the base, no one even asked Fritz where he had been. The mercenaries were far too exhausted by the endless bad weather; grumbling sullenly, they crawled straight to their rooms, eager for the warmth of their beds.
On his way to the infirmary, Fritz ran into Sniper. He was sitting alone in a far corner of the massive, dark hangar where he had parked his camper van for the winter, quietly smoking. The enormous space was ungodly cold—the cigarette smoke mixed rapidly with the breath exhaling from his mouth, and the chill sent goosebumps down Medic's arms once again. Fritz was willing to bet that inside that ramshackle tin van, it wasn't a single bit warmer.
"Aren't you cold in your van?" Fritz asked softly, prudently keeping his distance. "You know the base is warm, and there's always a spare room ready for you. But you turned it down because of this old jalopy."
"I'm fine," the Australian cut him off firmly, without so much as turning his head in Fritz's direction.
Fritz didn't press the matter with someone who clearly had no desire to talk. The BLU Medic quietly slipped into his infirmary and locked himself inside for the rest of the day.
They had all turned back into enemies, divided by the color of their uniforms. But both of them understood perfectly well: tomorrow, the battle would resume with a vengeance, the weather in these parts was unpredictable, and there was no guarantee that the next blizzard wouldn't force them to start all over again.
There was no need to even place bets—the brutal snowfall slammed into their ears the very moment they stepped across the threshold. The snow flew into open mouths, burning throats with icy pain. Fog and gale-force winds descended upon the battlefield once more, completely throwing off snipers' aim. Everything was far worse than yesterday: the storm had completely knocked out power to both bases. The mercenaries, having lost sight of their opponents, lowered their weapons again and hastily sought shelter from this freezing hell.
Only this time, Fritz wasn't alone. Out of the whiteout, Scout suddenly burst, furiously swinging his bat in every direction.
"Stay close, Doc!" the kid yelled, trying his absolute best to scream over the howling wind. "You’re like a blind kitten out in this storm! Not only can’t you see a damn thing, you got zero sense of direction, too!"
The kid definitely knew how to work a person's nerves. But the moment the familiar outline of the wooden building entered Fritz’s field of vision, he immediately seized the initiative and pointed a finger forward: "In here!"
"That's RED territory, you idiot!" Scout immediately spat back. His light jacket, absolutely not built for this kind of freezing weather, had given up instantly—the kid was already shaking like a leaf. And yet, trying to search for their own base in this impenetrable fog was far more dangerous than taking shelter in a familiar, albeit hostile, building.
The moment they slammed the door shut behind them, a sudden calm washed over the interior: the furious shriek of the blizzard grew muffled, and the wind no longer hurled icy slush into their faces. Due to the sharp temperature drop, the lenses of Fritz’s glasses instantly fogged over, completely blinding him for a few seconds.
But even without his glasses, he knew exactly where to go. In the center of the cramped room, they were greeted by the exact same potbelly stove, saving them yet again. Fritz automatically set to work lighting it, confidently arranging the firewood. Meanwhile, Scout was already sniffing loudly, trying to wipe his running nose with his sleeve, his eyes darting all over their flimsy but currently very welcome sanctuary.
Before Scout could even relax, the door creaked wide open once more. In a single motion, the kid whipped up his scattergun, aiming dead at the figure looming on the threshold.
It was the face Fritz had secretly expected to see. Today, the RED Medic looked much better than he had yesterday, but his posture made it clear: the desire to warm up by the crackling fire of the potbelly stove was still stronger than any animosity.
"Get back, Doc, stay behind me!" Scout barked, dropping into a combat stance and tightening his grip on his loaded weapon.
"No, Scout, lower your scattergun!" Fritz reacted instantly. His voice rang out with an uncharacteristic authority, his index finger pointing demandingly at the boy.
"He’s a RED bastard, Doc!" Scout protested, refusing to back down. He continued to glare at the uninvited guest, while the RED Medic silently shifted his heavy gaze from Fritz to the high-strung kid.
"We do not fight during a storm," Fritz cut him off, keeping his voice as calm as humanly possible. "He is not going to attack; he simply came to warm up."
The BLU Medic offered his enemy a soft, almost tender smile, causing Scout to roll his eyes in sheer annoyance.
"And besides, why on earth should I have to hide?" Fritz asked, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as his gaze drifted protectively back to his freezing colleague.
The RED Medic truly had no intention of attacking, and Fritz believed it now more than ever. The man merely took off his glasses with deliberate slowness to wipe the fogged lenses, and asked in a low, throaty voice, gesturing toward the potbelly stove:
"May I?"
"Of course!" Fritz nearly blurted out.
He firmly gripped the scowling Scout's shoulders, holding him in place. With every heavy step the enemy took toward the roaring fire, the kid reluctantly lowered his scattergun, inch by inch. All the while, he kept glancing back at Fritz, amazed by his completely calm, utterly unbothered expression. The BLU Medic was acting as if they were welcoming an old friend to a dinner party.
"Hey, Doc... What, are you guys like, friends or somethin'?" Scout finally muttered, hopelessly lowering his weapon and shifting a disgruntled look from one German to the other.
Fritz let out a breath of relief, his eyes tracing the back of the RED doctor, who was already blissfully holding out his palms right over the flames.
"We are all in the same boat, Scout," the BLU Medic gently guided the boy. "And right now, we can help each other."
"Help?! Doc, that bastard threatened to knock all my teeth out just last week!" the kid squeezed out in a furious, hissing whisper, his eyes narrowing contemptuously at the enemy German.
The RED Medic merely gave a faint shrug at the accusation, not even turning his head.
"He is not going to knock your teeth out. Not right now," Fritz sighed wearily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "He is just sitting here and warming up. Calm down."
Scout let out an irritated sigh, holstered his scattergun, and sat down closer to the stove, boring a lethal glare into the RED German. The older man, however, nonchalantly settled himself right between his two enemies.
The firewood was burning down fast, and their supplies were running low. This forced Fritz to offer his guests a soft smile and step away into the depths of the shack in search of fresh logs. Before leaving, he set his thermos of freshly brewed tea on the floor, a silent invitation for them both to warm up.
Fritz vanished, leaving behind only the groan of the floorboards. A temporary hush fell over the room, broken only by the wind whistling through the cracks and Scout’s ragged breathing.
You go to sleep, and this monster's gonna carve your liver out, the kid thought panickily. He tapped his fingers nervously against his hot mug, eyeing the RED Medic as if he were a wild beast that just happened to be temporarily full. Desperate to break the escalating tension, Scout blurted out the first thing that popped into his head:
"Our Demo says you guys eat babies for breakfast."
The RED Medic slowly shifted his gaze from the fire to the loud-mouthed kid.
"No. That sounds more like something your Soldier would do," he replied indifferently.
Scout just scoffed and began nervously tapping his foot against the wooden floor, glancing into the darkness of the hallway every few seconds, waiting for his doctor to return.
"Hey, look... don't go tryin' to worm your way into his good graces," he suddenly muttered.
The RED Medic, who was currently trying to gently rub out a nasty tingling sensation in his fingers, froze. He slowly lifted his head.
"What?"
"Well, y'know..." Scout stammered, gesturing wildly with his free hand. "Our Doc... he's just way too nice. Naive. Y'know, a bit... easy."
The German raised an eyebrow. The silence stretched. As a man with a medical degree and a certain amount of life experience, he knew exactly what kind of subtext that phrase usually carried.
Scout froze. Seeing the expression on his enemy’s face—a mix of genuine bewilderment and a dawning, biting sarcasm—the kid finally realized what exactly had just slipped out of his mouth.
"Shit!" Scout jerked away, nearly dropping his mug. "No, shut up! Dammit..."
He slammed his palm against his face, feeling his ears begin to burn brighter than the team color on his companion’s lab coat.
"I meant… like, he's just like that with everyone!" Scout frantically began to justify himself, dropping into a panicked semi-whisper. "He trusts just anyone! He’s like… like an open book, y'know? And don't you dare try to take advantage of that!"
The German continued to stare at him in silence. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, barely perceptible.
"‘Easy,’ is he?" he asked dryly. "I wasn't aware the BLU team had such… specific issues with discipline."
"Shut up! Just shut up!" Scout practically tried to shrink into himself, casting a terrified glance toward the corner where Fritz had disappeared. "I hope to God he didn't hear that. If Doc finds out I said something like that about him… he’ll wring my ears off! Or somethin' even worse!"
Out of the dimness of the hallway, the figure in the blue coat finally emerged, carefully cradling an armful of dry firewood against his chest. Fritz’s trademark gentle, friendly smile played upon his face once more as he softly took in his quiet guests. For his hyperactive nature, Scout was acting remarkably subdued, while the RED doctor, on the contrary, offered a faint, knowing smile in return, taking a slow sip from his mug.
"Didn't kill each other while I was gone, did you?" Fritz asked jokingly, dropping to his knees and tossing the fresh logs into the dying belly of the potbelly stove.
Behind the BLU doctor's back, Scout instantly pulled a panicked face, staring at the enemy medic with pleading, terrified eyes. The kid was literally mouthing a silent prayer: Don't you dare say a word!
The RED Medic merely narrowed his eyes slily, continuing to savor his hot tea. He was clearly relishing his absolute power over the boy’s secret.
They spent the rest of the blizzard in silence. With a unspoken goodbye, the enemies departed for their respective bases. By the following Monday, winter had generously dusted the landscape with snow, but the gale-force winds were gone—a bright, dazzling sun shone over the battlefield. Missions resumed in full swing, unleashing the rabid dogs of war from their warm bases once more, ready to tear each other to pieces for the sake of victory.
On this day, the BLU team utterly crushed their opponents, stripping them of fire support and any tactical advantages. But just as they pinned the enemy down to their spawn, a pesky RED Scout came flying out from around a corner.
"Hey, BLU!" the RED Scout yelled, tearing past the enemy sentries at breakneck speed. "Hey, Doc! A little bird told me you're a bit of an easy guy! What, you find the time to spread 'em while your team ain't lookin'?!"
On the battlefield, you could hear plenty of sophisticated insults traded between the heated mercenaries. But filth like this—especially directed at their flawless, untouchable Fritz—sounded bizarre and completely uncalled for.
The BLU Heavy actually stopped spinning up his minigun barrels at the pathetic upstart for a moment, looking at his Medic in sheer bewilderment. Fritz himself, who was patching up a wounded Demoman at that exact second, tripped over thin air from the sheer shock of it. The doctor’s face instantly flushed the color of a ripe tomato, contrasting dangerously with the blue collar of his lab coat.
Hearing this, the BLU Scout wished the ground would just swallow him whole. It finally clicked: the RED Medic had blabbed that stupidity to his entire pack of hyenas, and this fast little freak had immediately latched onto a prime opportunity to mock them.
The kid’s defense mechanism had always been verbal chaos, but trying to justify himself right now was his fatal mistake. Catching sight of his doctor's contorted, crimson face, the BLU Scout babbled frantically:
"Doc… I-I said some things back there… by accident, swear to God! And now that freak is… shit!"
At first, Fritz didn’t understand why his scatterbrain of a runner was babbling so desperately, but a second later, the pieces of the puzzle clicked together. Scout was an irredeemable idiot and a loudmouth who had absolutely zero control over his own tongue.
And, as is so often the case in war, the absurdity proved contagious. When it finally dawned on the BLUs that this wasn't some coordinated psychological attack by the enemy, but rather an epic screw-up by their own scout, the dam broke.
Fritz had spent so long, so desperately building up this image. The persona of a decent, loyal doctor and a total goddamn goody-two-shoes in front of this entire bloodthirsty gang. His last, dying hope was that his idiot teammates would rally around their conscientious physician and fiercely shut down the ridiculous nonsense spewing from the enemy spawn.
But before Fritz could even gather his thoughts, Demoman he had just finished healing spun around toward him with a sharp, drunken grin and tossed it right in his face:
"Pop the Über, Doc! Or should I buy ya dinner first? Since you're so... easy!"
He desperately wanted to tell Demoman to go to hell, but Fritz forced himself to maintain his trademark polite, long-suffering facade. Now was not the time for a confrontation—the mission was on the line. Firmly pressing his lips together, Medic activated his fully charged Medi Gun on Heavy, pushing him into the fray against the emboldened enemies, who had already completely recovered after the awkward pause.
However, their fractured morale took its toll; the REDs effortlessly swept them out of the way. Fritz was forced to make a hasty retreat. Quietly cursing under his breath, he huddled beneath the protection of a Dispenser. Engineer sitting nearby looked particularly radiant today—Dell was smiling as if he had just heard the best joke of his life.
"Boy, that kid's somethin' else... Sayin' a thing like that right on the front lines," Engineer drawled with a chuckle, lazily tapping his wrench against a roaring Sentry Gun.
In this short amount of time, Fritz had already heard more than enough vulgar teasing. He and Engineer had always been excellent colleagues, sharing the status of the team’s intellectuals, and it stung the doctor to his core that this mature, rational man had also bought into such utter nonsense.
"Good God, Dell, don't tell me you actually believe that?!" Fritz tried to shout over the deafening roar of the Sentry, looking at his comrade imploringly.
"Hell, no one believes it, Fritz," Engineer lazily adjusted his hardhat and turned his smugly grinning face toward him. "It's just... well, y'know, with that saintly disposition of yours, it just sounds awfully funny.."
Sniper approached the Dispenser, his empty magazines clinking. And even this perpetually brooding, anti-social loner somehow managed to smirk smugly every single time Fritz ran over to patch up his battered hide.
The battlefield had completely deteriorated into some surreal circus. The BLUs were howling with laughter at their own doctor, the REDs were shouting taunts and vulgar jokes from their spawn, and the miserable BLU Scout looked ready to shoot himself out of pure shame for what he had done. When the kid tried to approach him yet again, frantically trying to apologize after another jab from the team, Fritz finally snapped. For the first time since they had met, he cut him off with deliberate, icy harshness: "Shut up, Scout. Just close your mouth." The boy froze right in his tracks, completely stunned by the tone of his usually gentle doctor.
At some point, Fritz, crimson with a mix of rage and embarrassment, simply threw his hands up in the air. He realized there was no washing away this shameful title of being an "easy guy"—not today, and not anytime this month. His team of clowns had gotten their circus, and all the doctor could do now was grit his teeth and tighten his grip on the handle of his Medi Gun. After all, he still held their lives in his hands—and now, he could personally decide which of these jokers would have their dosage of painkillers cut short.
In the very thick of the fray, right outside the intelligence room, Fritz came face-to-face with the RED Medic. Bullets whizzed all around them, Demoman's grenades detonated in bursts, and the concrete floor shook beneath their feet, but both doctors froze in front of each other, as if the rest of the world had simply ceased to exist.
"‘Easy,’ is it?" Fritz hissed through his teeth, slowly adjusting his glasses, the lenses reflecting the chaotic dance of distant explosions. "Thank you, colleague. Thanks to you, my team is currently discussing my 'disposition' far more often than intel capture tactics."
The RED Medic wasn’t the least bit rattled. He merely tightened his grip on the handle of his own Medi Gun and replied in a surprisingly soft, polite voice:
"You have my apologies, Fritz. My intoxicated mind after a brutal shift simply couldn't keep such a linguistic masterpiece to myself at the dinner table. My comrades proved to be far too... receptive to other people's secrets."
And to think, Fritz had genuinely shared his warmth with this man! He had sheltered him from the storm, poured him his goddamn tea, and offered him biscuits! But back then, the RED Medic had only been granting him a single, patronizing favor—condescending not to attack.
In the end, the BLU team suffered a crushing defeat, failing to reach the intelligence first. Their morale was entirely obliterated. Fritz was forced to tuck tail and flee the battlefield in shame, bombarded until the final curtain by tons of vulgar, sleazy comments from the RED savages, whose filthy tongues had defiled his sacred, flawless reputation in a single instant.
As the BLUs sullenly trudged back to their spawn, Fritz ground his teeth so hard they clicked, making a silent vow to himself. The next time the RED Medic found himself in the crosshairs of his Syringe Gun, or freezing to death in the middle of nowhere, Fritz would think a hundred times before ever extending a helping hand.
Fritz had signed his contract with a full understanding of what awaited him: the harsh daily grind of mercenary life, the bloody chaos of war, and, above all, his goal of earning recognition. And at first, everything was falling into place perfectly. To his own team, the doctor quickly became a warm-hearted soul ready to patch up any wound, while he threw himself at his enemies like a rabid, merciless butcher. Piece by piece, he had earned his flawless reputation, the very one that had now been so ridiculously defiled. In a single instant, serious, dangerous men had transformed into pimply schoolboys who had just overheard a dirty rumor from a pack of arrogant enemy hyenas.
For Fritz, it turned into a living nightmare. He had always taken pride in his fastidiousness and absolute professionalism—there was never a stray smudge on his snow-white lab coat, and his surgical instruments always lay in flawless, strictly calibrated order. But now, his status as a serious surgeon had been shattered to pieces by a single, idiotic phrase.
Every single trip to the mess hall for lunch became a calculated ordeal. The moment the doors slid open, the hum of voices would drop for a split second, inevitably replaced by muffled snickers and hushed whispers.
"Hey, witch doctor!" Soldier blustered, brashly stabbing his fork—with a sausage skewered on the end—toward Fritz, who had frozen on the threshold. "I heard you got 'easy behavior'! Listen up, son: in the American Army, the only thing that's easy is an airstrike! If you think you're gonna flit around our base like a lightheaded ballerina from enemy France, I will personally strap a cast-iron cannonball to each of your ankles! There is no room for frivolous decadence on the front lines! Dismissed, private!"
Scout, the catalyst for this entire massive catastrophe, nearly choked on his food at those words. He was doing everything in his power to avoid Fritz's gaze entirely, retreating to the furthest corner of the mess hall and practically burying his face in his bowl of soggy cereal. But the rest of the team was having a field day, happily riding the wave of relentless mockery.
Fritz, clenching his jaw so hard his teeth clicked, walked up to the serving line. His hands, usually flawlessly steady during the most complex surgeries, were noticeably trembling as he picked up the heavy tray.
"Hey, Doc," the BLU Demoman drawled, leaning back lazily in his chair and winking with his single eye as he raised his glass. "Hear tell you're not just a talented fella, but an... approachable one, too. Why don't ya stop by later tonight for a bottle of cider? Purely to uphold that easy reputation of yours."
Fritz was furious. No, he was in an absolute, ringing rage, but his innate restraint and a sudden wave of intense self-consciousness kept him from simply screaming at these boors. He could feel a burning flush creeping up his face, his neck, and even to the tips of his ears.
"Are you winking at him right now, or did you just blink halfway?!" Soldier barked loudly at Demoman, looking at him with a brewing laugh.
"Damn it all, Jane, I have one eye! If I close it, it's called 'blinking'! But right now, I was most definitely winking at our lovely Doctor!" Demoman chuckled, gracefully saluting the crimson German with his glass.
A collective, thunderous roar of masculine laughter tore through the mess hall. The mercenaries slammed their palms against the tables, Heavy boomed from the depths of his barrel-chested lungs, and even Engineer over by the serving line buried his face in his hand, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
"This is... this is utterly preposterous," Fritz muttered under his breath, barely audible.
He hurried toward the mess hall exit, staring down at his plate of sausages as if trying to make them vanish by sheer force of will. He had work to do. These overgrown children would quiet down the moment they found themselves in need of medical attention.
This was the moment of his greatest despair. Before all this, Fritz had genuinely lamented that their Sniper—this sullen Australian, perpetually locked away in his camper van that reeked of urine and cheap coffee—was completely unsocialized. The doctor had even issued a firm medical verdict stating: "Team morale suffers from the excessive isolation of individual combat units."
Fritz had wanted so badly for Sniper to finally speak up and integrate into the group. Well… Sniper spoke. And now Fritz cursed the day nature had ever taught this savage how to use his vocal cords.
The Australian walked into the infirmary later that evening, sullenly clutching his blood-soaked shoulder. He was uncharacteristically quiet, and Fritz, busy preparing the medical supplies, even felt a fleeting sense of relief: Thank God, at least this professional won’t sink to making stupid jokes about my reputation.
"Sit down," Fritz said softly, wheeling over the instrument tray. "We will clean the wound and apply the stitches quickly."
The doctor worked methodically and with care. He cut away the thick fabric of the jacket, treated the jagged bullet wound with antiseptic, and began laying down neat, sterile stitches. Sniper merely scowled, staring motionlessly at the wall, when he suddenly reached up with his filthy, calloused fingers to rub an itchy eyelid.
This gesture irritated Fritz like never before. It could only mean one thing: in a couple of days, the hunter would catch an infection, his eyes would turn bloodshot, but he would never in his life bring himself to ask Medic for eye drops—he would just continue to sullenly hide the inflammation behind his aviators.
"Keep your filthy hands away from your eyes," Fritz commanded firmly, intentionally giving the thread a sharp tug.
The needle painfully bit into his flesh. Sniper visibly pressed his lips together, exhaling sharply through his teeth, and reluctantly pulled his hand away from his face. He despised these clinical, overly cautious orders from the conscientious doctor, which so clearly violated his personal boundaries.
"Y'know, Doc..." he suddenly began in his low, gravelly, smoke-rasped voice.
Fritz froze with the needle in his hands. His heart skipped a beat. Was he finally about to hear some sincere, sparse masculine gratitude? Or perhaps Sniper was finally ready to discuss tactics for tomorrow's battle?
The Australian slowly turned his head toward Medic. He slid his sunglasses slightly down the bridge of his nose, and a frighteningly wicked glint flashed in his squinted, bloodshot eyes.
"Since the whole base is whisperin' about how... accommodating and 'easy' you are," Sniper paused, lazily licking his dry lips. "Why don't ya swing by my van after lights out? I'll show ya why they call me the best long-distance shooter around. Promise ya won't need an Über-charge to make your legs shake... I got a much bigger barrel, and I hit the bullseye without even usin' a scope."
Fritz froze. The needle held in his steel forceps gave a faint, barely perceptible tremor. In an instant, the air in the infirmary grew thick and sticky with this sheer, unrefined vulgarity. Medic’s left eye began to genuinely twitch. Slowly, with an unnatural neatness, he set his instruments back down on the metal tray. The tweezers clinked against the dish in the dead silence that followed. Fritz took a deep breath through his nose, using every ounce of his remaining strength to keep from snapping into an ultrasonic shriek.
"Herr Sniper..." Fritz’s voice was so icy that the instruments in the tray practically seemed to coat over with frost. "Your shoulder will heal in three days. But if you open your mouth to utter anything like that ever again..." Medic took a step forward, a pure, manic arrogance flashing in his eyes behind his glasses. "...The next time, I will refuse to waste modern medicine on you. I will treat you to the glorious medical practices of moonshine and rainworm compresses. I believe such veterinary medicine will suit your level of development perfectly. And if that doesn't help, I will ensure that battery acid accidentally finds its way into your next rapid-regeneration solution."
The Australian merely grunted, not the least bit intimidated, and leisurely pulled his jacket back on right over the fresh stitches.
"Come off it, Doc. You were the one whinin' about wantin' me to be 'sociable.' So now I'm... socializin'. In my own style."
He brashly patted Medic on his good shoulder and strolled out of the infirmary, softly whistling some stupid little tune.
Fritz stood frozen right in the middle of the sterile, ringing emptiness of the room. Mechanically, he gripped the handle of his scalpel with such force that his knuckles turned white, the metal nearly bending under the strain.
"Gott im Himmel..." he whispered, barely audible, into the void of the clinic. "Put him back in his van. Lock him in. Pour concrete over the doors. I don't want any more socialization. Never again."
He decided to stay up a bit longer, attempting to fill out his reports before going to bed. Thoughts of what had happened constantly distracted him from his work. A faint hope flickered that there would be no more late-night visitors, but when Spy stepped out of the shadows, Medic flinched, dropping his pen.
"Herr Spy... I didn't hear you come in," Fritz muttered, trying to force his face into a semblance of a professional mask.
The man in the blue balaclava did not answer. He slowly approached the desk, looking down at Fritz. His gaze wasn’t merely stern—it was filled with distaste, as if he were looking at a defective tool that was no longer fit for service.
"I heard what happened in the mess hall," the Frenchman’s voice was quiet, cutting through the air like a razor. "I heard what the RED Scout was shouting on the battlefield. This entire... circus."
"It's just a foolish joke!" Fritz gestured desperately. "You know what Scouts are like, they spout utter nonsense..."
"No, Fritz," the man leaned lower, resting his palms on the desktop. The potent scent of expensive tobacco hit Medic's nose. "It is not nonsense. It is a disgrace. You are an officer of the BLU team. You are the keeper of our biological secrets. And now, the enemy is laughing at you. They view you as weak. They view you as... compliant."
Fritz shrank back in his chair. He had expected a reprimand, but Spy’s icy contempt cut far deeper.
"Do you know what the most repulsive part is?" The Frenchman narrowed his eyes, a flash of genuine fury gleaming within them. "In that little 'blizzard' of yours... you weren't just keeping warm. You allowed the RED butcher to get inside your head. You gave him a reason to laugh at us."
He paused, and the next sentence flew from his lips with venomous bluntness:
"Did you spread your legs for him, Fritz? Right there in that shed? What a disgrace. Our victory rests upon professionalism, yet you have turned our honor into a cheap brothel. This is not a mere lapse in judgment. This is treason."
For Fritz, who had always strived to be perfect, who had genuinely pitied the RED Medic and simply wanted a shred of warmth amid the frozen chaos, these words were the final straw.
His face turned instantly pale, then flushed with splotches of red. His lips trembled. He felt a lump rising in his throat, and his eyes began to sting with unbidden tears. His own teammate—a man he had dragged back from the brink of death countless times—had just accused him of the most heinous thing imaginable.
"How... how can you..." Fritz’s voice broke into a raspy whisper. "I just... I didn't want us to freeze to death..."
"Save your excuses for the Administrator, if she even deigns to listen to you," the Frenchman said, straightening up and adjusting his tie with distaste. "To me, you are nothing but a breach in our security. And if I ever hear you exchanging pleasantries with the enemy again... I will personally ensure that your Respawn is permanently disabled."
Spy turned and dissolved into thin air, leaving behind nothing but a lingering trail of bitter tobacco smoke.
Fritz was left sitting in a deafening, dead silence. A solitary tear rolled down his cheek and fell onto the pristine report form, leaving a spreading damp splotch on the thick paper. The entire world he had so meticulously built piece by piece upon kindness, fastidiousness, and professionalism had collapsed. It had crumbled to dust. Now, he wasn't just an object of vulgar ridicule for a pack of idiot mercenaries. Now, he was a potential traitor in the eyes of those he had genuinely considered his only family.
"Verfluchte Schweine..." Fritz cursed into the void in a choked whisper trembling with tears, and the sound felt foreign to his own ears. "Dreckskerle... Filthy, ungrateful bastards…"
He slammed his fist against the desk with all his might, causing the inkwell to rattle. Tears of resentment and a burning, venomous helplessness choked him. The German buried his face in his trembling hands, and the first deep, muffled sob echoed through the empty, cold infirmary.