Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Morning crept in quietly, the sun barely pushing above the horizon, but Mick Mundy, known among his mercenary comrades as Sniper, lay completely motionless in the back of his van. The space—his refuge, yet prison—was still and suffocating, transformed over time into something resembling a home. The blankets, once his sanctuary, now lay in a tangled heap at the bottom of the cot, a chaotic reflection of the turmoil inside his mind. Sweat clung to his skin like a second layer, the oppressive heatwave sweeping over Teufort only adding fuel to the fire of his already frayed nerves.

His eyes flicked toward the thin slivers of sunlight creeping through the cracks in the van’s windows. The steady, calm rays of morning light pierced the stifling air, but rather than comfort, they only magnified the suffocating heat. Mick scowled, irritated by the heat and the insistent presence of the sun. He’d have preferred the darkness, a little longer respite from the harsh reality of the world outside.

But he couldn’t escape it. It was always here. Another day to survive.

He dragged a trembling hand across his face, the stickiness of his skin serving as a constant reminder of his unrest. Slowly, as if every movement required more energy than he had left, Mick slid off the cot, the nausea hitting him like a heavy wave. His stomach churned as he stumbled toward the small, makeshift kitchen corner. The mug of lukewarm water he found offered little comfort, only worsening the queasiness. Cursing softly, he rifled through the tiny fridge, his fingers trembling as he grabbed a fresh bottle of water.

"Damn it," Mick muttered under his breath, wiping the damp strands of hair from his forehead. The nausea hadn’t let up, and neither had the heat.

Getting dressed felt like an eternity. Every movement felt slow, deliberate, like it took everything in him just to put on his clothes. He splashed water over his face in a futile attempt to cool down, the sensation fleeting as it mixed with the sticky sweat already coating his skin. His fingers moved mechanically as he pulled on his dark shirt, the one he reserved for when he needed to hide in plain sight—when the job demanded anonymity.

With a resigned sigh, he tugged on his sunglasses, shielding his eyes from the harsh light, and slung his sniper rifle over his back. The weight of the weapon was familiar, but it offered little comfort anymore. It was more a reminder of what he was—a killer, a soldier, a tool. The grumble of his stomach echoed in the quiet as he trudged toward the mess hall, the dull exhaustion that had settled over him making every step feel like an uphill climb.

Inside the mess hall, the usual chatter filled the air—loud voices, stories being swapped, complaints, laughter. Scout and Engineer were in the middle of some crude joke that had probably been told a thousand times before. Mick didn’t even bother to listen. He never did.

Instead, he grabbed a piece of jerky, chewing through the tough, tasteless meat as his mind drifted. He didn’t care where it had come from, who’d hunted it, or what animal it had been. Right now, it was just enough to quiet his stomach, even if only for a moment. He tossed the empty package into the trash without looking at anyone, keeping his head down, his mind focused on the routine. 

That’s when he felt it—eyes on him. A cold shiver ran down his spine, prickling at the back of his neck. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. It was Ludwig. The Medic.

His stomach twisted further, the nausea increasing as the medic’s familiar, unsettling presence drew near. Mick didn’t have to turn around. He could feel Ludwig’s eyes burning into him, the unsettling smile stretching across his face—a grin that was anything but friendly, like the baring of teeth before a predator pounced.

“Morning, Herr Sniper,” Ludwig’s voice slid through the air like silk, too smooth, almost too perfect. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing, studying Mick with unnerving intensity. “How is your day so far? No problems?” The medic’s gaze locked onto his, and Mick could feel his skin prickle under the weight of it.

Mick fought to steady his breathing, forcing his voice to remain neutral. “It’s fine, Doc,” he said, the words bitter on his tongue. He wasn’t fine—not by a long shot—but he wasn’t about to admit that. “Just not feeling the greatest, that’s all.”

Ludwig’s eyes gleamed, narrowing further as he studied him, dissecting every little shift in Mick’s posture. “Ah... well, perhaps a check-up is in order, yes?”

Mick’s heart skipped a beat at the suggestion. The thought of returning to the medical bay, of being poked and prodded, made his stomach turn violently. He opened his mouth to protest, but the words died on his lips. Instead, he said, “I… guess so. Not sure I really need it though…”

“Nonsense,” Ludwig interrupted, voice sharp and dismissive. “I can tell you’re not doing well, my friend. Just a simple check-up. Nothing more.” The medic’s smile grew wider, and Mick could feel the weight of it, the promise in those eyes—Ludwig wasn’t going to let this go.

Mick’s stomach sank, the weight of the inevitable settling in. He knew that look. It was the same one Ludwig wore when he’d cornered Mick before, when Mick had been forced to undergo those twisted tests. The ones that left him feeling like a specimen in a lab.

“Alright,” Mick relented, voice tight, jaw clenched. He didn’t have the strength to argue today, didn’t have the energy to fight back. The idea of getting it over with, of enduring whatever new horror the medic had in store, was somehow easier than resisting.

“Excellent!” Ludwig’s voice rang out, cheerful in an almost sickening way. “We shall get to my office within the next two hours, yes? I expect you will be punctual, Mr. Mundy.” The slight tilt of his head wasn’t casual—it was a warning. If Mick wasn’t there on time, there would be consequences.

Mick nodded in silence as Ludwig turned and walked away, his posture straight, his grin still plastered across his face. The medic’s presence lingered, an oppressive shadow over Mick as he made his way toward the medical center. Each step felt like a slog, his boots dragging as his thoughts spiraled into darker places. He didn’t know what would happen next, didn’t know what new form of torment Ludwig had planned for him. And right now, part of him didn’t care. He was too exhausted, too worn down to resist.

The hallways of the medical center felt endless. His heart hammered in his chest, the cold metal racks and sterile scent of the place suffocating him. As he stepped inside the medical bay, he felt it—the unmistakable chill in the air, like stepping into a morgue. His hand went instinctively to his hair, tugging off his hat, then his vest, and hanging them on the coat rack. 

And then, there it was—the eyes. That cold, unblinking gaze. Mick didn’t even need to turn to face the doctor to feel Ludwig’s presence creep over him, suffocating and unyielding.

“Ah, Mister Mundy. I was hoping you’d be on time,” Ludwig’s voice oozed with dark satisfaction, like venom seeping into his veins. The medic stood at ease, but every inch of him radiated control, dominance, and a disturbing calm.

“Come in, come in,” Ludwig said, gesturing toward the examination table. It wasn’t an invitation. It was an order. And Mick obeyed, his legs moving on their own.

The room was as cold and sterile as always, the sharp instruments scattered on the counters a reminder of what was to come. Mick’s stomach churned. He hated this place, hated the way it made him feel like a lab rat.

Routine tests followed—blood pressure, reflexes, heartbeat—but Mick could feel it when the examination veered into darker territory. Ludwig’s cold, calculating gaze lingered on Mick’s chest, his eyes tracing the jagged lines of the scars—the twisted reminders of what the medic had done to him. 

“Now,” Ludwig murmured, his voice almost purring. “I’d appreciate it if you would remove your shirt so I may examine how your scars are healing.” The words were sharp, cutting through the air like a knife.

Mick’s hands trembled as he undid his shirt, his chest tight with dread. The scars—the Y-shaped wound, the marks left behind from Ludwig’s experiments—were on full display. The medic’s eyes traced every imperfection, every line, like he was admiring some grotesque masterpiece.

“Gift,” Ludwig said with a smile, his voice dropping to a darker tone. “A new medicine I’ve created. It will help you... soothe the ravenous mind and promote healing.” His grin widened, sickly and predatory. “I think you’ll benefit greatly from it.”

Mick’s stomach lurched, his body breaking out in cold sweat. He knew what was coming. He was no longer just a soldier—he was a guinea pig. A subject for Ludwig’s twisted experiments.

And deep down, Mick knew that this time, it would be worse.

Chapter Text

It had been five weeks since Mick started taking the medication prescribed by Dr. Ludwig. At first, the changes were subtle. He hadn’t woken up one day feeling entirely different, but gradually, the constant anxiety that had gnawed at him for years began to ease. The ever-present weight of fight or flight receded, leaving a faint sense of calm in its place. His scars, once slow to heal, began to close more quickly, a small, silent victory. For a while, it felt like a relief—a much-needed break from the relentless tension.

But, as the days stretched on, Mick began to notice something unsettling. The calmness, the relief, slowly morphed into something else—a strange kind of numbness. At first, it was welcome. He wasn’t feeling the crushing anxiety, but he also wasn’t feeling much of anything at all. It was as if he were watching the world from a distance, separated from it. Not sad, but not happy either. Just... disconnected. 

It wasn’t long before the side effects began to creep in, and that’s when Mick started to worry.

The fog in his mind became a constant companion. His thoughts—once sharp, if not overly quick—now drifted aimlessly. He would sit there, staring at nothing, his mind a blank slate. Tasks that once required his focus now slipped through his fingers, as if his brain was a sieve. And it wasn’t that his mind was racing, no—it was the opposite. More often than not, he simply couldn’t think. He would forget things, forget what he was doing, forget where he was. The world felt distant, like he was floating, weightless, untethered.

Sleep, too, had become unpredictable. Despite setting alarms, despite his best efforts, the moment his head hit the pillow, he was out. It didn’t matter how loud the chaos around him grew; not even Soldier’s shouting or Demoman’s drunken rants could rouse him. He would sleep deeply, hours slipping by without him even realizing it, only to wake up disoriented and frustrated by his body’s betrayal.

And now, here he was, back in the medical bay. The fog in his head was thicker than ever, and Ludwig’s voice, smooth and insistent, cut through it like a knife. Mick’s eyelids felt heavy, as though they were made of lead, and he struggled to focus on the medic’s words. Something about increasing the dosage... his body had become sluggish. The Gift wasn’t as effective as it had been. It needed to be stronger.

Mick didn’t respond. He didn’t have the energy for it. He was so tired—tired of the fog, tired of not knowing what was happening to him. If a higher dose could bring him out of this haze, then maybe it would be worth it. He nodded, agreeing to whatever Ludwig said.

The new dosage was administered, and almost immediately, Mick felt a change. The room around him seemed to distort, as though the air itself was warping. His body grew heavier, more sluggish. He could feel himself sinking into the chair, like a weight pulling him down, and the world blurred at the edges. For a moment, everything softened, and Mick’s eyelids fluttered as he tried to hold himself upright. But the force of the relaxation was overwhelming—suffocating, almost—as if his very self was being pulled away from him.

He wanted to speak, wanted to tell Ludwig that something wasn’t right, but the words wouldn’t come. His mouth moved, but no sound escaped. The world rippled around him, and Ludwig’s calm voice washed over him like a wave.

“Easy, Mr. Mundy... just let it pass.”

The pounding in Mick’s skull was unbearable, yet Ludwig’s voice remained soothing, detached. There was no concern in it—only a calm, controlled presence. It was as though Mick’s distress was nothing more than a passing inconvenience to the medic, something to be endured.

For a moment, Mick obeyed, letting the wave of grogginess sweep over him. It felt like he was floating in and out of consciousness, the fog beginning to lift just a little. His body still felt foreign, but at least it wasn’t fighting him quite as much. The lingering ache in his head remained, but there was a strange clarity beneath it. The numbness that had blanketed him for weeks seemed to thin, and for the first time in days, he felt something more than dullness.

Ludwig stepped closer, his fingers curling around Mick’s jaw, holding him steady. The touch wasn’t gentle—it was firm, deliberate. Mick’s gaze shifted toward the medic’s hand, the pressure of it subtle but unmistakable. Ludwig’s eyes bored into his with an intensity that made Mick’s skin crawl, but the medic’s face remained impassive, almost clinical.

“How do you feel, Mr. Mundy?” Ludwig asked, his voice cutting through the haze like a scalpel.

Mick blinked, trying to shake off the fog that still clung to him. “I... I feel awake.”

The words felt strange, foreign, but they were true. His thoughts—once scattered—were beginning to sharpen, to pull together. The sluggishness, the numbness, the detachment... they were fading, replaced by something clearer, more present. It wasn’t full clarity, not yet, but it was a start.

“I... feel much better, doc. Thank you,” Mick said, the gratitude forced, still muffled by the lingering fog.

Ludwig’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he nodded, satisfied. Mick carefully stood up, his legs unsteady beneath him. He stretched, groaning slightly, his back cracking as he raised his arms above his head.

“Carefully, Mr. Mundy,” Ludwig cautioned, his voice cold but firm. “The medicine resides in your spinal fluid. Cracking your back too harshly could result in an extra dosage. Keep that in mind.”

Mick blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “Yeah, alright,” he muttered, distracted, too foggy to question why the medic sounded so serious.

Ludwig moved past him with a fluid step, his presence still sharp in the air. Mick noticed that the medic’s gaze remained steady, unreadable, his movements precise. When Ludwig stopped directly in front of him, the air seemed to shift—subtle, but commanding. He reached out again, gripping Mick’s jaw, this time with a touch that bordered on possessive.

“You will return to the medical bay nightly,” Ludwig said, his voice steady, almost too calm. “I want to continue your treatment under my watchful eye.” His thumb brushed over Mick’s jaw, almost absentmindedly, as if he were considering something else entirely. Mick flinched slightly at the touch, but Ludwig didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did.

“I also expect you to be clean-shaven by your next visit. The scruff is... unsightly,” Ludwig added, his tone soft but firm. He squeezed Mick’s jaw with just enough pressure to make the command clear.

Mick frowned, his brow furrowing. He didn’t like being told what to do, especially by someone like Ludwig. But the thought of slipping back into the fog—the exhaustion, the mindlessness—made him hesitate. If shaving was what it took to keep feeling somewhat better, then he would do it. Reluctantly.

“Yeah, alright,” Mick muttered, nodding without much conviction. He pulled away from the medic’s grip and headed toward the door, the weight of the conversation pressing on his shoulders. 

As he left the medical bay and made his way back to his van, Mick couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Something about Ludwig’s eyes, his touch, the way he commanded—there was something more here, something deeper than just medication. It wasn’t just about the Gift anymore.

Mick couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he had a feeling that this wasn’t over. And he wasn’t sure if he was ready for whatever was coming next.

Chapter Text

The days stretched on endlessly, each one blending seamlessly into the next as Ludwig found himself observing Mick more closely than ever before. His gaze was unwavering, locked onto the sniper in a way that felt almost obsessive, his focus sharpening with each passing day. The rest of the mercenaries were little more than a distant blur to the medic now; his attention was entirely consumed by Mick. It had always been Mick, hadn't it? Even when he'd tried to focus on other things, the sniper had always been the one who held his interest, the one who drew his gaze. And now, as the team prepared for yet another round of fighting, Ludwig couldn't tear his eyes away from Mick, watching with a strange mix of fascination and something darker lurking beneath.

The tension between them had shifted in the last few weeks, particularly with the new rounds of treatment and testing Mick had been subjected to. It was becoming clear that the regimen was beginning to break down the barriers Mick had so carefully built around himself. There was a vulnerability creeping through, a softening that Ludwig found… intriguing, though he would never admit that aloud. Mick, who had once been so firmly in control of himself, was starting to show cracks. Ludwig was well aware that this wasn't a healthy process, but to him, it felt almost… inevitable. Mick was slipping, and Ludwig was the one holding the thread that tethered him to the edge of sanity.

Mick had tried calling his mother earlier that day, but it hadn't gone as he'd hoped. His father’s voice had cut through the line like a knife, shouting accusations and insults that only deepened the hollowness Mick had been feeling. The day had only gone downhill from there, his frustration mounting as the hours wore on. The dosage of his medication no longer seemed to be enough; in fact, it felt entirely wrong now. The little capsules that were supposed to keep him stable, to keep him from spiraling into madness, were starting to feel like nothing more than a temporary fix. He found himself taking more and more of them, chasing the false sense of relief that they offered. At least that's what he told himself. He needed them. He had to. Otherwise, he'd lose it completely.

"Hallo... Herr Sniper," Ludwig purred, his voice smooth and deliberate as he broke the silence, his tone dripping with an almost predatory warmth. He stood before Mick, who had been lost in his own thoughts, trying to fix his boots with a distracted focus. Ludwig loomed over him, a towering figure with a presence that seemed to demand attention. "You seem upset, Mr. Mundy," he continued, his gloved hand reaching out, cupping Mick’s jaw in that familiar possessive way. "What troubles you?" His voice was soft, almost affectionate, but there was something unsettling in the way his eyes locked onto Mick's. 

Mick, who had always been so wary of physical touch, found himself leaning into the medic's touch before he even realized it. The strange shift in his body was disorienting; he didn’t understand it, but he couldn't stop it. Ludwig’s hand, so gentle yet so commanding, was suddenly something he craved, something he needed. He couldn’t explain it. He just felt hollow, like the medic was the only thing keeping him grounded. The sniper’s expression shifted into something softer, more vulnerable, as he allowed himself to lean into Ludwig's touch. His voice came out quiet, weak.

"Just... not feeling good right now, doc..." Mick murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "How long until we can up my dose?" He didn’t even realize the words were slipping out, the desperation in his voice almost tangible. His eyes fluttered closed as his body sagged further into the medic’s touch, the medication having already dulled his senses. He didn’t even notice that he’d nuzzled into Ludwig’s hand, the touch so soothing in a way that felt both comforting and wrong.

Ludwig, however, noticed. And it pleased him in ways he couldn't quite mask. He hadn’t anticipated Mick's desire for more medication to escalate this quickly, but it had. Mick was starting to show his true colors, and Ludwig was right there to catch him, to guide him down that dangerous path. The addictive pull of the drugs, the way they made Mick dependent on them—Ludwig reveled in the control he was gaining over the sniper.

"I’m afraid I cannot up your dose until your body fully adjusts to this one… I do not want to kill you," Ludwig said softly, his thumb brushing against the smoothness of Mick’s jaw. He could feel the warmth of Mick’s skin, the tension in his muscles, the rapid, shallow breaths. The medic’s voice dropped, becoming almost a whisper as he commanded, "Eyes." The sharpness of his words made Mick’s eyes snap open, the intensity in Ludwig’s gaze drawing Mick’s attention like a moth to a flame. 

Ludwig’s chest swelled with a sick, twisted satisfaction as Mick’s eyes locked onto his, a faint flutter of fear mixing with something deeper in the sniper’s gaze. "I have brought you back from the dead already once before," Ludwig continued, the words slipping from his lips like a promise. "I’d prefer not to have to do that again." He chuckled softly, though his eyes never wavered from Mick's. His touch softened as he saw the discomfort flicker across Mick’s face. He smiled, though it was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Would you like to sit this mission out?" 

The words were almost testing, probing for a reaction. He wanted to see how Mick would respond, to gauge just how much control he had over the man now. 

Mick’s response came swiftly, his voice tight with a mixture of confusion and defensiveness. "And leave you vulnerable? I’m your guardian angel… you know that." His brows furrowed in concern, as though the thought of Ludwig wanting him to sit out the mission was more of an offense than anything else. Ludwig's refusal to allow Mick to fight, to be there on the frontlines with him—it hurt, and Mick didn’t understand why. Why wouldn’t Ludwig want him around? Wasn't he supposed to be the medic’s partner? His protector? 

"I didn’t mean to offend," Ludwig soothed, rubbing Mick’s jaw lightly. His voice was gentle, almost apologetic, but the flicker of something darker passed through his eyes. "Just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t push yourself too hard, Herr Sniper." The words were soft, but the look in Ludwig’s eyes told a different story. He watched Mick closely, his hand falling away from the sniper’s jaw, and Mick felt a hollow ache in his chest at the loss of the medic's touch.

But in the end, Mick relented, and he found himself in his sniper’s nest once more. His eyes, sharp and trained, locked onto the enemy team as he scanned the field. His focus was unwavering, his hand steady as he took the shot—dead center, a perfect kill. But as he tracked his target’s fall, a strange chill crawled up his spine. He could feel it, the presence of the opposing team’s spy, the faintest slip of the cloak as it started to unravel. 

Something in Mick snapped. It was as though a riptide had dragged him under, and he couldn’t fight it. He snarled, his body moving without thought, as though the very air around him had become thick with the need to destroy. His hands shot out, grabbing the spy by the throat, slamming the man to the ground with brutal force. He disarmed him in an instant, his boot pressing hard against the spy’s wrist. 

There was no thought. Just action. Mick was consumed, lost to the frenzy. The rifle pressed to the spy’s chin. The shot rang out. The man’s body went limp, a red mist splattering across the walls, Mick’s clothes, his face. 

The moment passed, and a sickened feeling rose in Mick’s throat. He turned and vomited into the can in the far corner of the room. He felt disgusted with himself, repulsed by the primal violence he had just unleashed. He had standards, he knew he did. He was supposed to be a professional, but now… now he felt like something else entirely. 

The blare of the alarm signaling the end of the mission sent Mick stumbling toward the medical bay, his body shaking with adrenaline and guilt. His legs felt weak, and his head spun as he barely made it inside. Ludwig was already there, calmly cleaning up the respawn machine, but as he turned to face Mick, a flash of pity crossed his face. 

Mick’s face was a wreck, tears and snot streaking down his cheeks as he collapsed to his knees. His body trembled uncontrollably, the sobs wracking through him like waves crashing against jagged rocks. 

"Lu...d…wg..." he choked out, his voice thick with emotion as he crumpled in on himself.

Ludwig was there in an instant, his hands gentle as they cradled Mick’s face, guiding him into his arms with the kind of tenderness that belied the cruelty in his eyes. "Shh... I’ve got you, Mick," Ludwig cooed softly, his voice warm and soothing, though the dark thrill simmered beneath the surface. He pulled Mick close, cradling him like fragile cargo. "I knew you weren’t ready for this. Your medication makes you unstable… you’re alright." 

But Mick, lost in his own misery, couldn’t see the twisted satisfaction gleaming in Ludwig’s gaze. He couldn’t see how perfectly everything was falling into place. How, with each crack that appeared in Mick’s armor, Ludwig was slowly taking control. Everything was working exactly as he had planned. Exactly as he wanted. 

Perfectly.