Chapter Text
Spy woke up on his side with adrenaline and pain rushing to his brain like heroin. He gasped raggedly in the dark, eyes darting across the vaguely familiar ceiling. A small window sat above him, adorned by hideously old fashioned curtains. Faint red light showed all the dust and streaks across the pane. Dawn? Dusk? He craned his neck to get a better look at where he was, only to inhale the unpleasant smell of sweaty bed sheets. A bed. He was lying on a bed. The only clean thing in view was a translucent bag of fluid taped to the edge of the cupboard overhead. It hung there like a raindrop and broke the light into a prism.
A make-shift IV?
Everything smelled dusty and stale. Everything was dusty and stale. He spotted a coffee mug still a quarter full with a white film on its surface. It clicked, then. He was in Sniper’s horrid little van.
How humiliating.
“Merde,” he moaned, voice raspy from screaming, and choked when a red tide of agony tore across his palette. Memories of the event rose unbidden. The RED spy’s crafty smile when he started pulling teeth. How it widened when he reached for a light bulb….
And there he was in the RED sniper’s van; living proof the bastard had been right. It was unbearable. Spy swallowed around the blood in his mouth and slowly sat up. The pain nearly made him blackout. He breathed sharply through his nose, determined not to throw up or faint, and risked a glance at his stomach. His jacket and vest had been stripped away, leaving only an unbuttoned white shirt for modesty. Bandages hugged his midsection, mottled by small crimson blots. The RED spy had started skinning him alive while making him watch. Now he lay in a van brimming with filth. He couldn’t decide which particular part of that experience was more unpleasant.
The room began to veer in a dizzying fashion. Spy went limp on the mattress and watched white sparks flicker across the roof, and his eyes shut against his will. He regained consciousness with hands cupping his face.
“Ah!” He blindly elbowed the face hovering over him, only to be rewarded with fingers digging into his shredded cheek.
“Fucking spies. I knew I should’ve let you die.”
The fingers left his face. Spy trembled in agony. Sniper stood scowling above him, coffee in one hand and newspaper tucked under his arm. That barbaric piece of shit. Spy grabbed the window ledge to sit up and the pain rendered him temporarily mute. The constant gush of blood in his mouth was beginning to make him queasy.
Sniper took a seat opposite the make-shift bed. “Don’t even pretend I didn’t warn you, mate. You took a gamble and you lost. Happens to us all.” He flipped open the paper and tried to appear casual. “I won’t help you kill my mates. Got no feelings in this thing, Spy. Nothing for you to grab a hold of.” He inclined his head so his eyes were visible over his sunglasses. “You should know better.”
Spy’s answer was to spit on him.
“Ohh, now you’ve done it,” Sniper growled, set down his coffee, and flung his newspaper away. He ripped Spy out of bed and held him close as he opened the backdoor. “I could’ve left you in there,” he snarled quietly, “you remember that, you little prick.”
Spy staggered when Sniper abruptly turned away, and was sent toppling into the dirt by a kick in the ass. The van door closed with a squeal and a clunk, and he was left to lie there like a whipped cur. If he hadn’t felt on the brink of fainting, he would’ve gone back inside and continued arguing. But involuntary tears pricked at the corner of his eyes and knew he didn’t have the strength to do so. No use facing Sniper when it was impossible to win. Besides, he required more sophisticated care than a savage in the back of a van could provide.
He stood up slowly with the desert blurring around him. A coyote howled in the distance, answered by several more. It felt like he had chewed on knives, which wasn’t far from the truth, but the pain kept him awake. Kept him moving. He glanced skyward to see the moon overhead. It was as thin and curved as a fingernail, and threw enough light across the desert to navigate by. Half-way to BLU base, he had to stop and button up his shirt. His fingers were unsteady and his breath swirled like smoke. He needed a cigarette.
When Spy reached the BLU fortress, it was in a state of lock down. He leaned against the door and groaned. It was all so undignified. Resigned to his fate, he sighed and pounded his fist against the door three times. No answer. He swallowed against a rising tide of nausea and knocked again. Silence. Absolute, infuriating silence.
Oh, mon Dieu. He doubled over and threw up on the ground. It hurt unlike anything in his entire life.
And, of course, of course, that was when the door opened. Astonished silence flooded the air and Spy closed his eyes, mortified.
“Spah?”
He raised his hand for silence and scrubbed the tears and spit from his face. It was horrible. With a steeling breath, he straightened and turned around, and walked past Engineer with as much dignity as the situation allowed. The door clanged shut behind him and he managed to walk eleven steps before leaning against the wall.
“Aw hell, here.” Engineer took Spy’s arm and hefted it over his shoulder. “You look like you got hit by a bus.”
Spy didn’t deign to respond.
The rest of the BLU team were spread out and preoccupied with their evening routines, which Spy was infinitely thankful for. They managed to reach Medic’s room without incident, but the door was closed and the lights were off. Soft, muffled music wafted from inside.
“God dammit,” Engineer muttered. At Spy’s puzzled look, he winced. “Don’t you know? Medic and Heavy are,” he jerked his head towards the door, “y’know…together. Right now.”
Spy groaned and covered his eyes with his hand. He swallowed another mouthful of blood and felt his stomach writhe in defiance. A garbage can sat in the nearby corner and he hurled himself at it before the next wave hit. His timing was impeccable (as always.) He gripped the edges of the garbage can and vomited what was left of his stomach contents into it. A wave of weakness swept through him, limbs resonating with a sense of disembodiment. Why hadn’t he just had the sense to shoot himself and be done with it?
Engineer hovered beside him. “My Gawd in Heaven.” He lifted his hardhat and scratched his scalp. “Guess there’s only one thing to do after all.” He regarded the plain door to Medic’s quarters with undisguised trepidation. “Hell,” he grumbled and knocked loudly, “you owe me, boy.”
“DOCTOR IS BUSY!”
“Sorry to disturb yo—err, him, but it’s important.”
A long, frigid silence flooded the hallway. Spy propped himself upright against the garbage can and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, which came away with a sticky red smear. He inhaled noisily through his noise and tried to keep his jaw unlocked so none of his teeth touched, but his gums continued to throb in tune with his stomach. He rested his forehead on the rim and heaved a strung-out sigh. Was there no end to the night’s theatrics?
The door opened with a sharp clang. Engineer half-turned with an apologetic smile. “Howdy, Heav—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” He spun away, but it was too late. He had received a full view of Heavy sporting nothing but a furious scowl and an unsatisfied erection. Spy dry-heaved into the garbage can in a fit of nausea completely unrelated to torture.
“Vell?” Heavy asked in his low, forbidding Russian burr. Medic’s voice could be heard in the background, lowered in irritation. “Vat is it?”
“Heavy! Get dressed.” Medic shoved him aside, his forehead slicked and expression cold and no nonsense. Engineer hastily pointed to Spy, who was desperately trying to drag himself out of sight. “Ja, I had a feeling I would be seeing him.” He crossed his arms. “Scheisse. Fine, bring him in here. I vill exam him.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” Engineer turned Spy around and dragged him back. “I will never forget that sight in all my living days. You damn well get in there!” Heavy appeared (sporting pants) in time to heft Spy up like a ragdoll and carried him into the examination room. “Don’t be hard on him, eh Doc?”
“Ja,” Medic replied flatly and shut the door without another word.
Being lifted so carelessly stretched the skinless patch on Spy’s stomach. The pain was so intense it robbed him of his voice. “Little man is hurt,” Heavy observed, somewhat surprised. “Good thing for you.” He set Spy on the examination table and retreated into the background.
“Enough.” Medic adjusted the light overhead and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He moved to hover over Spy’s head. “Open your mouth.” He brought the light close, then straightened, one eyebrow arched. “Broken glass,” he murmured, “und you are missing teeth.” He tilted his head. “Ze first and second bicuspids are gone…und so are both of your second molars on ze right side.”
“He needs dentist, not doctor,” Heavy grumbled.
“Nein, Heavy,” Medic replied absently, “zis is serious.” He met Spy’s stare and smiled unpleasantly. “I take it you had an encounter with your RED counterpart?”
Spy merely blinked.
“Ah, it must hurt to speak.” Medic’s eyes gleamed. “I am afraid all of it will have to be pulled out before I can use ze medigun.” He turned to Heavy. “Meine Liebe, can you come here? I need you to hold some things.”
“Of course, Doctor.”
Spy copped on a moment too late. He struggled fruitlessly as Heavy put him in restraints and Medic fetched a tray of instruments. Nowhere did he see any anaesthetic; local, general, or otherwise.
“Don’t vorry.” Heavy patted his head as he would a dog about to be neutered. “Doctor knows what he is doing.”