Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The base was quiet, smelling faintly of gunpowder, burnt grease, and the perpetual, stale ozone of high-definition failure. It was the period between skirmishes, a fragile truce enforced by boredom and mandatory medical leave.

Spy sat in his immaculate quarters, sharpening a pencil that was already needle-tipped, a task of obsessive, necessary fastidiousness. His gloves—white, pressed, and pristine despite the endless cycle of blood and oil they endured—moved with the precision of a Swiss clockmaker. He was attempting to quell the low, grinding tension that was his constant companion, a tension exacerbated, as it often was, by the presence of the Australian.

Sniper, however, was not currently lurking. He was, Spy knew with grim satisfaction, in the infirmary, paying the brutal, humiliating cost of months of neglected dental hygiene.

Spy valued cleanliness above almost all things—it was the bedrock of his psychological armor. True espionage, he often mused, was simply the applied science of sanitation: keeping secrets tidy, intentions inscrutable, and the body free of any unnecessary taint. Sniper, conversely, was a monument to necessary messiness, a man whose very existence was predicated on dirt, sun-exposure, and the willful rejection of soap.

The sound of heavy, work boots halting outside his door broke his concentration. Spy did not look up. He didn't need to. The Australian’s presence was a seismic event, felt rather than seen.

A rough knock followed, sounding less like a query and more like a challenge to the structural integrity of the doorframe.

“Entrez,” Spy sighed, his voice silk dipped in arsenic.

Sniper shambled in, looking profoundly uncomfortable and vaguely dazed. His weathered face was drawn, and he pressed the side of his cheek lightly with a handkerchief that was suspiciously brown along the edges.

“Bonjour, Spy,” Sniper mumbled, his jaw stiff.

“Sniper. I trust the experience was as traumatic as the attendant self-inflicted carelessness required it to be.”

Sniper took this as a form of concern. He usually did. Spy’s cruelest barbs always translated in the Australian’s brutal, honest mind as simple, if misguided, affection. It was a failure of translation that had defined their relationship for years—a tedious, frustrating, and occasionally, agonizingly attractive failure.

Sniper closed the door with a surprising gentleness, then leaned against the wall, surveying the room. Spy’s quarters were a study in neutrals and expensive imported leather. Sniper, dressed in his roughspun duster and familiar hat, looked like a large, intrusive bushfire trapped in a museum wing.

“Yeah, well, the bloody thing had to go,” Sniper said, finally pushing off the wall. He approached Spy’s desk, placing his elbow carefully on the mahogany surface, trying not to bleed onto the paperwork. “The Doc called it… ‘terminal decay.’ Reckoned it was poisoning my system.”

“Indeed. A rotten core corrupting the whole,” Spy murmured, dropping the sharpened pencil and selecting a fresh sheet of stationery. “A biological metaphor for your entire life philosophy, n’est-ce pas?”

Sniper merely smiled—a painful grimace that didn't reach his eyes. “Nah. Just a tooth.”

He fumbled in the pocket of his duster, pulling out a small square of what looked suspiciously like torn bandage material, tightly knotted. Spy watched this clumsy operation with the clinical horror of someone observing a potentially explosive device being mishandled.

“I only had the one choice, see,” Sniper continued, his voice softer now, almost earnest. “They wanted to bin it. But I thought… no. It’s important.”

Spy frowned, his internal alarms sounding. Important? What could possibly be important about surgical waste?

Sniper carefully unwrapped the cloth parcel. He held it out on his thick palm, presenting it with the gravity usually reserved for a treaty or a stolen intelligence dossier.

Nestled there, darkly stained and alarmingly large, was a human molar. It was not white; it was the color of mud and old coffee, and where the grinding surface should have been, there was an unmistakable crater, black and porous—the terminal decay itself.

“There,” Sniper announced, his eyes fixed on Spy's perfectly masked expression, searching for confirmation of his grand gesture. “My seventh upper right.”

Spy stared. The molar was the size of a small, grotesque pebble. It was a tangible, repulsive representation of everything Spy instinctively recoiled from: vulnerability, physical ruin, and the decay of the material world.

“You… you present this to me,” Spy managed, the words catching in his throat like shards of glass. “This… biological detritus.”

“It’s a piece of me,” Sniper insisted, his chest swelling with the sincerity of a man offering his deepest secret. “The Doc said the nerve was right open. Been hurtin’ for months. But it’s done now. Flawed, sure. Rotten inside, maybe. But honest.”

He pushed his rough hand forward, offering the tooth across the polished surface of the desk.

In Sniper’s mind, this was the pinnacle of romantic vulnerability. He was a man of action, of silent watches and brutal focus. He had no poetry, no fine silks, and certainly no clean linen. His deepest feeling, therefore, had to be communicated through the most immediate, brutal authenticity he possessed.

He didn't offer Spy a perfect, shining gift. He offered him a rotten cavity—a metaphor for his own difficult, unpolished heart. I am flawed, I suffer, and here is the proof of my pain, offered only to you. If Spy, the elegant, fastidious phantom, could accept this ugly, hurting piece of the real him, then everything was possible. It was the ultimate confession.

In Spy’s mind, however, the sequence of events was: extraction, contamination, presentation, insult.

This was not a romantic gesture. It was an affront to his entire worldview. It was an act of sanitary terrorism.

It violated several sacred tenets simultaneously:

Hygiene: It was decayed tissue, recently removed from the interior of a brute, likely still harboring microscopic microbial horrors.
Aesthetics: It was vile. The stench, faint but traceable, of old blood and infection was an immediate invasion.
Intent: It implied a shared intimacy that Spy had spent years attempting to codify into pure, sterile hatred. Sniper was attempting to build a bond from literal refuse.

“You believe,” Spy articulated slowly, his voice dropping an octave, “that this… this offal… is an appropriate token for a gentleman?”

“It’s precious,” Sniper countered, frowning slightly at the resistance. “It cost me, mate. Real pain.”

“Everything you do costs someone pain, usually me, simply by proximity,” Spy snapped, reaching for the silver letter opener on his desk—a nervous tic disguised as a preparatory defense measure.

“I thought you deserved something… personal,” Sniper muttered, hurt beginning to cloud the sincerity in his eyes.

Spy stared at the mottled molar. He saw Sniper’s earnestness, shining through the filth like perverse, ugly lamp light. The Australian truly believed this was a declaration of affection. That realization was, somehow, even more horrifying than the tooth itself. It spoke to a profound, fundamental disconnect that lay at the heart of their agonizing chemistry.

He was being offered brutal, unvarnished truth, and he found he could not immediately dismiss it, because to dismiss it would be to dismiss the heart that, however clumsily, offered it.

“You expect me to keep this?” Spy asked, forcing himself to remain seated, fighting the urge to leap onto the desk and escape through the ventilation shaft.

“Well, yeah,” Sniper said, the look of confusion deepening. “It’s yours now.”

Spy closed his eyes, counted to ten in three different dead languages, and then opened them again. He could not, ethically or socially, throw the offering of an intimate rival into the trash immediately. It would be a declaration of emotional war, and Spy was currently too exhausted for open conflict.

He had to accept the atrocity.

With the carefulness of a munitions expert defusing a sticky bomb, Spy extended his left hand, the one clad in the pristine white glove, and pinched the corner of the blood-stained bandage material, avoiding contact with the actual tooth.

“Very well,” Spy conceded, his voice a tight wire. “It shall be relocated. Momentarily.”

Relief washed over Sniper’s face. “Good on ya, mate. Thought you’d chuck it.”

“I assure you, the impulse is overwhelming,” Spy said, holding the small parcel at arm’s length. “But I shall not be a barbarian. Now, if you would kindly remove your presence—I feel the sudden and pressing need to inventory my entire supply of surgical disinfectant.”

Sniper grinned, a genuine, if slightly lopsided, smile this time. “Right. I’ll let you get to it. Feel better already, knowing you got it.”

He turned and left, leaving behind only the lingering scent of dry dust, eucalyptus, and a faint, sickly-sweet whisper of dental decay.

The Inventory of Affliction

Spy did not move for a full minute after the door closed. He simply held the biological offering, suspended in sterile white cloth above his desk.

This is disgusting. This is romantic. This is fundamentally untenable.

His entire elegant facade was under attack by a single, dirty piece of bone. The maturity of his years—the forty-plus seasons he had spent cultivating an image of lethal control—felt utterly insufficient against the raw, animal authenticity of the Sniper.

Spy rose, carefully carrying the parcel across the room. He could not put it with his belongings. He could not discard it. The problem was existential: where does one responsibly house a gift that represents both profound attraction and profound violation?

He found a solution in the back of his smallest, most obscure desk drawer—a very old, velvet-lined box designed for cuff links. It was unused; Spy preferred to simply wear his cuff links.

He tentatively placed the molar, still wrapped in its rough cloth shroud, inside the velvet box. He closed the lid, sealing the decay away, but the mental image of the dark crater remained blazing behind his eyes.

He spent the next hour in the chemical pursuit of purity: scrubbing the area where Sniper had leaned, changing his gloves, and almost scrubbing the skin off his own hands. The task was necessary, but it did nothing to cleanse the deeper contamination.

He kept thinking of the context: I am flawed, I suffer, and here is the proof.

Spy was intimately acquainted with flaws. His entire life was built upon them: poor choices, regretful parenthood, and the endless theatrical mask that was his persona. But his flaws were always elegant, wrapped in expensive fabric, maintained with expensive alcohol. They were managed.

Sniper’s flaw was honest, painful ruin.

Later that evening, long after the lights of the base were dimmed, Spy found himself back at the cufflink box. He told himself it was to ensure the tooth had not somehow infected the velvet.

He opened the box. The molar sat alone, ugly and silent.

A strange, dark curiosity overcame him. Against every fiber of his being, against his training and his sense of self, Spy carefully reached into the box, not with his immaculate gloves, but with the tip of a stainless steel dissection probe he usually reserved for technical repairs. He nudged the tooth out of the cloth.

It was heavier than expected, denser. The black, porous decay was visible even under the low lamp light.

He considered the tooth, turning it over slightly with the probe. Terminal decay.

Why did the brute’s honesty affect him so deeply? Because Spy knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that he would never offer the same. Spy’s gifts were always beautiful, functional, and deeply superficial. If he were to give Sniper a piece of himself, it would be a monogrammed handkerchief or perhaps a perfectly calibrated knife—something perfect, controlled, and utterly free of personal, squalid damage.

Sniper had offered the opposite of control: a painful, necessary surrender.

Spy carefully reached for an alcohol swab—the kind meant for sterilizing needles. He held the swab slightly above the molar.

Do not.

Do not clean his biological waste.

But the ugliness was an insult to the vessel that contained it. If he had to keep it, it should at least be sanitary.

With a deep sigh that was half self-loathing and half weary acceptance, Spy gently touched the alcohol swab to the root of the tooth, meticulously wiping away a minuscule amount of dried blood and the fine crust of decay dust. He did not scrub, merely polished the surface until the rest of the bone appeared a marginally less offensive shade of brown.

He was making it presentable. He was managing the uncontrollable.

He placed the now slightly cleaned molar back in the center of the velvet box, watching it settle.

“Fool,” he whispered to the molar, though he meant the word for the man who gave it, and perhaps, for himself.

The unbearable weight of sincerity.

The next morning, the tension between them was palpable, coiled and thick like spent wire.

Sniper saw Spy in the cafeteria. Spy was nursing a black coffee, dressed in a fresh suit, immaculate, untouchable.

Sniper approached the table, moving hesitantly. “Morning, Spy.”

“Morning, Sniper. Did the removal of the affliction provide the requisite clarity of mind?”

“Yeah, feels better,” Sniper affirmed. He looked slightly hopeful. “Did you… find a spot for it?”

Spy took a slow sip of coffee, allowing the pause to stretch until it hummed. “The molar is secure. Stored in a manner commensurate with its… singular significance.”

Sniper brightened instantly. “Good. Glad it’s safe.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s a bit of a lucky charm, that tooth, you know. Took a lot of hits.”

Spy nearly choked on his coffee. A lucky charm.

“It is a monument to the failure of basic oral hygiene, Sniper,” Spy stated flatly. “Do not attempt to elevate it to the level of mythos.”

“But you kept it,” Sniper insisted, his voice low, private, and filled with the maddening, rough-hewn romance that only he seemed capable of wielding. “You got the ugly piece of me, the part that hurt the most, and you kept it safe. That means something, doesn’t it?”

Spy looked at him, truly looked at the sun-creased face, the earnest eyes, the slight, painful swelling still visible in his cheek. He realized, with a sudden, suffocating clarity, the scope of the misunderstanding: Sniper was viewing the simple act of not discarding the refuse as profound acceptance.

And the horror was that, deep down, despite the revulsion, it was acceptance. He hadn't thrown it away. He had cleaned it and tucked it into velvet.

“It means,” Spy said, leaning forward to match the level of intimacy, “that I am still attempting to process the social protocol applicable to receiving a gift of biological decay from a man who consistently threatens my sanity and professionalism.”

“But you’re thinking about it,” Sniper countered, his simple logic cutting through Spy’s practiced defenses. “You’re thinking about me.”

He smiled then, a small, victorious smirk, the kind that promised trouble and months of relentless, misunderstood pursuit.

Spy let out a long, silent sigh. He hated that smile. He hated that Sniper’s brutal, honest ugliness had somehow managed to breach the elegant citadel of his emotional defenses. He hated the molar, nestled now in his cufflink box. And yet, the sheer, unbearable weight of Sniper's sincerity in offering his decay as a testament of affection had done what years of fighting and rivalry never could: it had created a bond, hideous and permanent.

“I am thinking,” Spy confessed, the soft admission tasting like ash on his tongue, “that I require immediate and extensive therapy to reconcile the fact that I now possess your dental waste. And that this situation, somehow, instead of being a declaration of war, feels suspiciously like the prelude to a dreadful, inevitable intimacy.”

Sniper simply reached out and briefly squeezed Spy’s shoulder, a rough gesture of shared secret.

“See? I knew you’d get it.”

He walked away, satisfied. Spy watched him go, then slowly raised his hand to his pristine shoulder, feeling the phantom pressure of the rough leather.

He had a rotting molar in his room. It was now slightly sanitized. And for the first time in years, Spy felt a genuine, terrified flicker of anticipation regarding the future. If that was the opening gambit, he wondered, with a mixture of dread and morbid fascination, what terrible, magnificent biological horror would the Australian offer next? He knew, with sinking certainty, that he would be waiting to receive it.

Chapter Text

The predawn hours in the RED team’s barracks were usually a time of sacred, if often violated, tranquility. For the Spy, it was a precious window of silence, a brief reprieve from the cacophony of explosives and guttural American boasts that defined her waking existence. It was also, she had recently discovered, a prime opportunity for her two monstrous boyfriends to unconsciously conspire against her personal space, her dignity, and quite possibly, her very respiration.

She awoke not with a start, nor a gentle stirring, but with the distinct, unsettling sensation of being a crêpe caught between two particularly enormous, well-fed, and aggressively somnolent paninis. Her first conscious thought, a crisp, perfectly articulated “Merde,” was entirely swallowed by the sheer physical compression.

Her eyes, accustomed to the subtle nuances of shadow and light, registered only a claustrophobic canvas of rough-spun fabric and what felt suspiciously like a heavily muscled human arm. A Herculean arm, at that. Her left side was welded against a wall of warmth and… density. Her right, equally imprisoned. Even her legs, usually so artfully poised, were tangled in a Gordian knot of limbs that felt less like an embrace and more like a tactical capture.

“This,” she thought, her internal monologue remarkably calm despite the circumstances, “is utterly preposterous.”

A low, resonant rumble vibrated through the mattress, through her very bones. Soldier. It wasn’t a snore, not precisely. It was more akin to the distant, muffled detonation of a small, well-packed landmine. His breathing was a symphony of congested patriotism, a slow, rhythmic churn that occasionally escalated into a full-blown explosive wheeze. She could just make out the back of his massive head, nestled against her shoulder, his hair (what little there was) bristling like an ancient, defiant scrub brush. He had somehow managed to wrap one arm completely over her midsection, anchoring her firmly against the mattress, while his other arm was tucked underneath her head, serving as a rather unyielding, yet surprisingly warm, pillow. His legs, thick as tree trunks, were draped over hers, pinning them with the casual indifference of a landslide.

On her left, the pressure was different. Less like being pinned by a collapsed building, more like being gently, yet irrevocably, absorbed by a well-oiled machine. Engineer. His breathing was a softer, steadier thrum, a gentle hum that spoke of complex gears turning and calculations being made even in slumber. His arm was a warm, heavy band across her chest, securing her firmly within his embrace, his hand resting somewhere near her collarbone. His knee was tucked behind hers, effectively eliminating any hope of a graceful sidle-escape. He was facing her, his head tucked into the curve of her neck, a soft exhale tickling her ear.

The combined weight was, frankly, astonishing. It was as if two moderately sized rhinos had decided her slender form was the ideal divot in which to nestle. Her lungs, accustomed to the expansive luxury of a full breath, felt slightly compressed, making her usual elegant respiratory process a more… puckered affair.

Her mind, a finely tuned instrument of espionage and cunning, immediately began assessing the situation. Escape routes: None visible, or even conceivable, without either waking the titans or dislocating several of her own joints. Probable outcomes of waking them: Soldier would likely spring into action with a thunderous "MAGGOT, UP AND AT 'EM!", potentially elbowing her in the process. Engineer would stir with a gentle, confused grunt, perhaps offering a sleepy, comforting pat that would only further cement her immobility. Neither option seemed particularly appealing for a woman who valued a delicate, silent start to her day.

With a sigh – a rather shallow one, given the circumstances – she decided to postpone her grand escape. She was, after all, a master of patience. And surveillance. This was, in a way, a highly intimate form of surveillance.

Now, to the scent. Ah, yes, the notorious "musk." For the Spy, a creature of expensive cologne, fine tobacco, and meticulously laundered silk, the combined olfactory assault of her two partners was usually… an acquired taste. Soldier, bless his belligerent heart, smelled perpetually of gunpowder, stale MREs (specifically the chili-mac variety), old leather, and a faint, almost nostalgic, whiff of wet dog that she suspected was less about actual canines and more about his unique brand of rugged, outdoor living. Engineer, by contrast, carried a more industrial bouquet: grease, oil, hot metal, sawdust, and the comforting, earthy tang of freshly brewed coffee. Separately, they were distinct, perhaps even tolerable in small doses. Together, however, they were a force of nature.

Right now, she was immersed in the full, unadulterated glory of their combined effluvium. Her face was pressed against Soldier’s thick, cotton-blend thermal shirt, which seemed to have absorbed a decade’s worth of explosions and strategic napping. The gunpowder was strong, almost acrid, mixed with something vaguely metallic and the undeniable pungency of… Soldier. A primal, uncompromising man-smell that declared: "I am here, I am large, and I have recently set things on fire for America."

From her left, Engineer's shirt offered a different profile. Here, the scent was deeper, warmer, less abrasive. The metallic tang of his workshop was present, yes, but softened by the sweet, dark aroma of strong coffee and a subtle, almost woody note that she associated with his pipe tobacco. It was the smell of ingenuity, of steady hands and a quiet, contemplative mind.

The overwhelming nature of it all should have been entirely repugnant. Her refined sensibilities, her delicate nasal passages, should have recoiled. She should have been gagging, mentally cataloging the various air fresheners she would need to deploy post-escape. Instead…

Instead, a strange phenomenon began to occur.

The sheer warmth of them, the heavy, comforting blanket of their bodies, began to seep into her. It wasn’t just physical heat; it was the warmth of familiarity, of security. These were her men. These two ludicrous, magnificent, utterly oblivious behemoths were the ones she chose to share her life, and occasionally, her bed, with.

The musk, initially perceived as an assault, began to transform. The acrid edge of Soldier’s gunpowder softened, becoming something smoky and protective. The industrial oils of Engineer’s scent melded, taking on a surprisingly clean, earthy quality. It wasn’t just "man-smell"; it was their smell. A signature scent of shared adventures, late-night talks, and the unspoken language of their unique trio.

She inhaled deeply, a small, tentative breath, and found… an odd sense of contentment. The musk wasn’t just present; it was enveloping. It was the scent of home, of belonging, of two formidable presences that, despite their inherent clumsiness and lack of spatial awareness, were undeniably hers.

A tiny, almost imperceptible shift in Soldier’s sleep-grip pulled her a fraction of an inch tighter against him. His arm, a veritable boa constrictor of patriotism, tightened reflexively. She felt the slight pressure of his jaw against her scalp, the faint rumble of his ongoing snoring vibrating through her skull. It was ridiculous. It was absurd. And yet… there was a profound sense of safety. Who would dare approach her, let alone attack her, while she was so comprehensively guarded by these two human fortresses?

Engineer, sensing the slight shift, murmured something indistinguishable, a soft, sleepy sound like a bear dreaming of honey. His arm across her chest tightened ever so gently, pulling her further into his side. She could feel the steady beat of his heart through his chest, a comforting, rhythmic pulse against her own. His breath, warm and soft, ghosted against her neck.

She was not merely sandwiched; she was cocooned. Intentionally, perhaps, in their subconscious efforts to hold onto her, to keep her close, even in their deepest sleep. The thought, previously an annoyance, now sparked a flicker of… tenderness. These brutes, these blunt instruments of war and engineering, were in their own way, quite affectionate. Her heart, an organ usually guarded with the fervor of a Fort Knox vault, softened at the edges.

The internal monologue continued, but its tone had shifted.

“This is still undignified,” she mused, but with less conviction. “My personal space is non-existent. My ability to perform basic physiological functions is compromised.” A faint smile, unseen in the dim light, touched her lips. “And yet… the warmth is undeniably pleasant. The security, however accidental, is rather… reassuring.”

She closed her eyes, no longer fighting the oppressive comfort. She allowed herself to sink deeper into the embrace, a willing participant in her own immobilization. The smell, the musk, the theirness of it all, was no longer something to be tolerated, but something to be… appreciated. It was the scent of lives lived loudly, of dangers faced and overcome, of hands that built and destroyed, and now, in the quiet sanctum of their bed, held her with a surprising, almost clumsy, gentleness.

Hours crawled by, marked only by the shifting quality of light filtering through the grime-streaked window and the subtle changes in the rhythmic symphony of masculine slumber. Spy, who usually sprang from bed with the precision of a coiled spring, found herself lingering. She was too warm, too comfortable, too… held. The rough fabric against her cheek, the unyielding weight on her limbs, the pervasive, enveloping scent – it had all coalesced into an unexpectedly soothing experience.

Suddenly, a sound, louder than Soldier’s usual snore, ripped through the air. “RISE AND SHINE, MAGGOTS! THE SUN AWAITS ITS DAILY BOW TO AMERICAN EXCELLENCE!” Soldier, with characteristic lack of subtlety, had awoken.

His arm, which had been pinning her, flung outwards with the force of a trebuchet, narrowly missing her nose. He practically launched himself upwards, sitting bolt upright with a grunt, his massive frame shaking the entire bed. He stretched, a series of cracks and pops emanating from his joints, completely oblivious to her predicament.

Engineer, startled by the sudden eruption, stirred with a gentle groan. His eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep, and he blinked at her. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep, and then his gaze drifted to the now-vacant space where Soldier had been. He paused, looking around as if something was missing. “Where’d… oh. He’s up.”

As Soldier began bellowing about breakfast and the importance of flag etiquette, Engineer finally noticed the Spy. Or rather, noticed that she was still firmly nestled beside him, looking rather… serene, all things considered.

“Well, good mornin’ to you too, ma’petite espionne,” he said, a slow, gentle smile spreading across his face. His hand, which had been resting on her chest, gave a soft, affectionate squeeze. “Looks like we had ourselves a little cuddle puddle, huh?”

Spy, now finally freed from the bulk of Soldier’s imposing form, stretched, her muscles protesting slightly from the prolonged compression. She ran a hand through her disheveled hair, a rare moment of tousled informality. She looked at Engineer, then at the retreating back of Soldier as he stomped out of the room, shouting something about "commie cereal."

She breathed deeply, the lingering scent of gunpowder and oil, of coffee and old leather, still clinging to her. “Indeed, Engie,” she said, her voice a low purr, a hint of amusement playing in her eyes. “A veritable human compost heap of affection.”

Then, to Engineer’s surprise, she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, a silent acknowledgment of the unexpected comfort she had found. He smelled, up close, exactly as he should. Of steel and wisdom and a surprisingly tender heart.

“And to my eternal chagrin,” she added, a subtle smile ghosting her lips, “I daresay… I did not entirely hate it.”

Engineer chuckled, pulling her closer for a soft, sleepy embrace, completely unaware of the internal battle his elegant partner had just fought and, surprisingly, lost to the undeniable charms of overwhelming, musky, masculine warmth. The day, it seemed, had begun. And perhaps, just perhaps, Spy would allow herself to be a little less… crisp for its duration.

Chapter Text

The air in Dell Conagher’s workshop was a comfortable fug of familiar smells: hot metal, ozone, the faint, sweet tang of motor oil, and the ever-present dust of the New Mexico desert. It was a symphony of creation and maintenance, the scent of a life spent building things that last—and things that explode. Tonight, however, a new note was attempting to join the orchestra, a discordant treble of saccharine-sweet music and high-pitched, feminine voices that seemed to physically push against the workshop’s grimy, masculine atmosphere.

Dell sat on a worn leather armchair, a relic salvaged from the Administrator’s own junk pile, its springs groaning a weary protest. Beside him, perched on a stack of ammunition crates padded with a thick wool blanket, was Pyro. Their bulky, asbestos-lined suit made a soft crinkling sound with every minute shift of their body, a sound Dell had long ago come to associate with contentment.

On a makeshift screen—a laptop balanced precariously on a stack of schematics for a teleporter that never quite worked right—six brightly colored ponies galloped across a field of impossibly green grass.

“Mmmph hudda mph,” Pyro mumbled, their voice a distorted, bassy rumble filtered through the gas mask’s speaker. They pointed a gloved finger at the screen, a gesture of pure, unadulterated delight.

Dell, who had spent the better part of a decade learning the intricate language of muffled speech and enthusiastic gesticulation, nodded slowly. “Yeah, I see ‘em, darlin’. The purple one’s readin’ a book. Real shocker, that.”

He took a slow sip of his beer. The bottle was cool and slick with condensation against his prosthetic hand, the familiar bitterness of the cheap lager a grounding force in the face of the animated equine utopia invading his sanctum. This had been Pyro’s request, a plea delivered an hour earlier with all the solemnity of a national security briefing. They had presented him with a DVD case, its cover art a Lisa Frank-esque explosion of rainbows and sparkles, and had looked up at him with a hopeful tilt of their masked head.

How could he have said no? Love made a man do strange things. It made him build teleporters that sent a man’s bread to God-knows-where, it made him forgive a teammate for accidentally igniting his favorite toolbox, and, apparently, it made him sit down on a Tuesday night to watch a children’s cartoon about the magic of friendship.

His initial skepticism had been a fortress. He was a man of science, of tangible results and measurable forces. The physics on display were, frankly, insulting. A pegasus pony had just created a miniature tornado to clear away some clouds. Dell’s mind immediately started calculating the required wing-beat frequency and atmospheric pressure differentials, and came up with nothing but a headache.

Pyro, however, was utterly captivated. Through the thick, polarized lenses of their mask, the world of Equestria was likely even more vibrant, a welcome alternative to the blood-and-sand reality of their day-to-day existence. Dell had long suspected that inside that mask, Pyro’s world was a far gentler, more colorful place. He’d seen them tend to a patch of stubborn desert wildflowers behind the barracks with the same focused intensity they applied to a flamethrower. He’d watched them cradle a fallen bird in their gloved hands, humming a soft, muffled tune until it stirred. This show… this was the inside of their head, broadcast for all to see.

He tried to engage, for their sake. “So, which one’s your favorite?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the screen with his bottle.

Pyro vibrated with excitement. “Mmph hrm hrmmmph!” They bounced slightly on the ammo crates. “Hmmphie MPH!”

“The pink one, huh?” Dell squinted. A pony with a mane like cotton candy was currently bouncing around the screen like a super ball, talking a mile a minute. “Figures. Y’all got the same kinda… chaotic energy.”

A happy, muffled laugh was his reward. Pyro leaned over, resting their masked head against his shoulder. The weight was familiar, comforting. The rubber and metal of their suit was cool against the thin cotton of his work shirt. He instinctively wrapped his arm around their broad shoulders, his scarred, human hand resting on the smooth, worn fabric of their suit. They fit together like this, two strange, broken pieces that somehow made a whole.

He turned his attention back to the screen, determined to give it a fair shake. The story, as far as he could tell, revolved around the bookish purple pony being sent to a small town to learn about friendship. It was simple, earnest, and utterly devoid of the cynicism that had been Dell’s constant companion since he’d first signed his contract. There were no spies, no backstabs, no critical hits out of nowhere. The greatest crisis they’d faced so far was the prospect of a late-running party.

He found his analytical mind latching onto the details. The animation was smooth, the voice acting professional. The background art had a pleasant, storybook quality. It was a well-constructed piece of media. He could appreciate the craftsmanship, if not the content.

Another muffled sound from Pyro drew his attention. “Mmmphlejack!”

He looked at the screen. An orange pony in a cowboy hat was expertly bucking apples from a tree. She spoke with a comforting, down-to-earth drawl that reminded him of his cousins back in Bee Cave. She was hardworking, honest to a fault, and deeply loyal to her family and their farm.

“Her, huh?” Dell found himself smiling faintly. “Applejack. Yeah. I can see that. She’s a worker. Gets the job done. Good, solid… pony.”

The words felt absurd on his tongue, but Pyro squeezed his shoulder in agreement. They understood. They always understood.

The episode progressed. A shadowy, malevolent force, a “Nightmare Moon,” threatened to bring about eternal night. For the first time, a flicker of genuine peril entered the story. Dell felt himself lean forward, his beer forgotten on the crate beside him. The six ponies, previously squabbling and disconnected, had to band together. The pragmatic farm pony, the flighty pegasus, the dramatic fashionista, the painfully shy animal lover, the hyperactive party pony, and the nerdy intellectual. They were a mess. A dysfunctional, six-person squad not unlike his own.

When the ponies faced their final challenge, using their newfound “Elements of Harmony,” something shifted in Dell’s perception. It wasn’t just about rainbows and sparkles anymore. The elements they represented—Honesty, Kindness, Laughter, Generosity, and Loyalty, all ignited by the spark of Magic—were… well, they were virtues. Simple, uncomplicated virtues that were in tragically short supply around here.

He thought of his team. Of the Heavy’s unwavering, simple loyalty. Of the Medic’s generous, if terrifying, application of his healing arts. Of the Scout’s irritating but infectious laughter after a successful run. They were all broken, violent people, but even among them, these little sparks existed.

The final blast of rainbow-colored energy that vanquished the villain was an absolute assault on the senses. It was loud, bright, and scientifically preposterous. But as the light faded and the little town of Ponyville was saved, Dell felt a strange sort of satisfaction. It was clean. The good guys won, the bad guy learned a lesson, and everything was wrapped up in a neat twenty-two-minute package. No collateral damage, no respawn timers, no lingering scent of burnt flesh.

Pyro was practically vibrating, clapping their gloved hands together in a series of soft, muffled thuds. “Mmmph! Huddah huddah MPH!”

“Yeah,” Dell said, his voice softer than he intended. “They did it. Good for them.”

He looked down at the masked face resting on his shoulder. He couldn’t see their expression, of course. He never could. But he could feel the radiating warmth of their happiness, a palpable aura that had nothing to do with their incendiary profession. He saw the world they chose to see, a world reflected in the vibrant colors of the cartoon. A world where misunderstandings could be solved with a song, where kindness was a superpower, and where friendship, honest-to-God friendship, was the most powerful magic of all.

It was a beautiful, impossible world. And for the person he loved more than anything, it was a necessary sanctuary. His workshop, with its cold steel and humming machines, was his. This world, this Equestria, was theirs.

The episode’s credits rolled, accompanied by a jaunty, cheerful tune. Pyro didn’t move. They just stayed there, nestled against his side, their rhythmic, filtered breathing a steady presence in the sudden quiet.

“Y’know,” Dell said, clearing his throat and shifting slightly to get more comfortable. “That orange one, Applejack. Reminds me of my grandpappy. Always said, ‘An honest day’s work is worth more than a wagon of silver.’ ‘Course, he was a mule skinner, so he was biased.”

Pyro let out a series of soft, happy rumbles, a sound Dell had come to interpret as a contented chuckle. They lifted their head and looked from the now-dark laptop screen to his face. Even through the mask, he could feel the weight of their gaze, the unspoken question.

He already knew what it was. His initial plan for the evening had involved calibrating the firing mechanism on his level-two sentry and maybe enjoying the rest of his six-pack in peace. But plans, like blueprints, were subject to revision.

He reached for the DVD case, picking it up with his metal hand. The holographic foil on the cover caught the dim light of his desk lamp, scattering miniature rainbows across his workbench. “Main menu,” it said, a gateway back to that gentler world.

“Alright, alright,” he sighed, though there was no real complaint in his tone. He reached over and clicked the mousepad on the laptop. “One more. But if that little pink one starts singin’ about cupcakes again, I’m puttin’ on some Johnny Cash to cleanse the palate. Deal?”

“Mmmph-HMM!” came the enthusiastic, muffled agreement.

Pyro settled back against him, their entire posture radiating a pure, simple joy that Dell felt seep into his own weary bones. He hit ‘play’ on the next episode. The bright, cheerful theme song filled the workshop once more, a defiant splash of color in a world of gray and brown.

Dell leaned his head back against the worn leather of the armchair, his gaze soft. He wasn’t just watching a cartoon anymore. He was spending time with his partner, in their world, on their terms. He was learning their language, not just the muffled words, but the language of what brought them peace. And in the quiet, dusty heart of a mercenary base in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the tools of war, Dell Conagher found that this, right here, was the most powerful and magical kind of friendship there was. He tightened his arm around Pyro, pulled them a little closer, and for the first time that night, he genuinely smiled at the antics of the little pastel ponies on the screen. It wasn’t his world, not by a long shot. But for Pyro’s sake, he was more than happy to be a guest.

Chapter Text

The silence of the open road was a familiar comfort to Mick Mundy. For decades, it had been the prelude to a job, the quiet hum of an engine carrying him toward a vantage point somewhere in the badlands of New Mexico or the industrial grit of some forgotten European town. The silence was his ally, a partner in the lethal patience his profession demanded.

Today, the silence was different. It was an old friend, but it was tinged with a new, unfamiliar anxiety. He glanced in the rearview mirror, his gaze falling not on a case of carefully maintained equipment, but on the small, dark-eyed face of his daughter, Kirra.

She was ten years old, with hair as black as a raven’s wing and a spirit as shy as a desert wallaby. She sat perfectly still, her hands clasped in her lap, watching the unfamiliar green landscape of Massachusetts blur past the window. She was a child of red earth and endless, sun-baked horizons. This world of dense trees and cramped, colourful houses was as alien to her as the moon.

“Almost there, possum,” Mick said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that was at odds with the gentleness of his tone.

Kirra just nodded, her eyes wide. She trusted him implicitly, had done so from the moment he’d found her, a lost little thing with more grit than a child her age had any right to possess. Adopting her had been the single most terrifying and rewarding act of his life, a shot he couldn’t afford to miss. It had redefined his retirement, turning it from a quiet fade into a vibrant, terrifying, and deeply meaningful new beginning.

This visit was part of that beginning. It was time, he’d decided, for his new life to meet his old one. Or at least, the loudest, most incomprehensible part of it.

Jeremy. The Scout.

The thought alone was enough to make a muscle in Mick’s jaw twitch. He and the kid had found a strange sort of professional respect in the field, a sniper’s patient oversight complemented by the scout’s manic, in-your-face distraction. But friendship? That had been a slower, stranger development, forged over celebratory beers and shared stints in the infirmary. Years after the contracts dried up and they’d all scattered, Jeremy’s hyperactive Christmas cards and garbled, high-speed phone calls were one of the few tethers Mick maintained to that violent, absurd chapter of his life.

When Mick had called to tell him about Kirra, Jeremy’s response had been an incomprehensible shriek of delight, followed by an immediate, non-negotiable demand.

“You gotta bring her to Boston! The kids’ll go nuts! It’ll be wicked awesome, I swear on my mom’s life! Which, y’know, ain’t somethin’ I do lightly!”

And so here they were, turning onto a street in South Boston lined with triple-decker houses packed together like teeth. The GPS announced their arrival in a placid, robotic tone that was instantly drowned out by a cacophony from the house in question. It sounded like a riot in a sporting goods store.

Mick parked the sensible, dust-coloured ute—a vehicle that looked profoundly out of place on the narrow city street—and took a deep breath. He’d faced down entire teams of mercenaries, dodged rockets, and survived clashes with pyromaniacs in asbestos suits. Yet, standing on this sidewalk, a palpable wave of domestic chaos washing over him from the open front door, he felt a tremor of pure, unadulterated dread.

“Right then,” he murmured, more to himself than to Kirra. He got out and opened her door. She slid out, immediately pressing herself against his leg like a sapling in a strong wind. He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Just like we talked about. They’re… loud. But they’re good folk.”

He hoped he wasn’t lying.

The front door, already ajar, was thrown open with a bang that made Kirra jump. There, silhouetted against the dim interior, was Jeremy. He hadn’t changed much. He was still wiry, still vibrated with a manic energy that seemed to defy the laws of physics, but his face had the faint etchings of sleepless nights and his hair was a little less defiant. He was wearing a faded baseball jersey and a grin that threatened to split his face in two.

“Mundy! You old bushwacker! You actually made it!” Jeremy bounded down the two porch steps and enveloped Mick in a hug that was less an embrace and more of a high-impact collision. Mick, stiff as a board, patted his back awkwardly.

“G’day, Jeremy,” he managed, extracting himself.

Jeremy’s gaze immediately dropped to the small girl hiding behind Mick’s legs. His entire demeanor softened, the manic energy dialling down from a category five hurricane to a brisk, enthusiastic breeze.

“And this must be her! Holy crap!” he knelt down, bringing himself to her eye level. “Hey there. I’m Jeremy. It is awesome, and I mean wicked awesome, to finally meetcha. Your dad here, he never shuts up about ya on the phone.”

Kirra shrank further behind Mick, her dark eyes peering out at this fast-talking man.

Mick cleared his throat. “This is Kirra. She’s a bit shy.”

“Shy? No problem! We can fix that!” Jeremy declared, popping back up. “C’mon in, c’mon in! Don’t mind the mess, the uh… the cleaning crew is on strike. Yeah, that’s it. A strike.”

He ushered them inside. The interior of the house was an explosion of life. Toys littered the floor like colourful landmines. The walls were a gallery of crayon drawings, school photos, and at least three different baseball posters, all featuring the same local team. The air smelled of sugar cereal, old socks, and something vaguely like burnt cheese. From deeper within the house, the sound of a video game battle and a high-pitched argument raged on.

“KIDS! GET IN HERE! COMPANY’S HERE!” Jeremy bellowed, his voice easily cutting through the din.

There was a thunder of footsteps, and then they appeared, a chaotic squadron of children who were unmistakably Jeremy’s progeny.

The oldest, a boy of about twelve with the same wiry frame as his father, skidded into the room. “Dad, Tanya’s cheatin’ again, she keeps screen-lookin’!”

“Am not, you chowdahead!” A girl a year or so younger, with sharp eyes and a defiant stance, appeared right behind him.

Then came a boy of about eight, with a wild mop of curly hair and a noticeable gap in his front teeth, who was trying to climb onto the oldest boy’s back. “Tommy, gimme a turn! You been on for an hour!”

Finally, a little girl, no older than six, with bright pigtails and a smudge of chocolate on her cheek, toddled in, clutching a worn-out baseball.

Jeremy beamed, gesturing to the assembly with the pride of a king presenting his court. “Mick, Kirra, meet the team. This is Tommy, that’s Tanya, the little demolition man is Tavish, and this here is my littlest slugger, Riley.”

The name ‘Tavish’ snagged in Mick’s mind. He shot Jeremy a look. Jeremy just winked. “It’s a family name,” he said, a blatant lie that Mick understood immediately. He wondered what the Demoman would think of that. Probably laugh his head off.

The four children fell silent, their collective, curious gaze landing on the newcomers. Four pairs of bright, inquisitive eyes fixed on Kirra, who seemed to be trying to merge with her father’s jeans.

“Whoa,” Tommy said, his assessment blunt. “She’s quiet.”

“Tommy, manners!” Jeremy hissed, before turning back with a smile. “He’s a work in progress. Uh, say hi, kids.”

A chorus of mumbled “hi’s” and “hey’s” followed. Riley, the youngest, took a hesitant step forward, holding out her scuffed baseball. Kirra just stared at it.

The afternoon was a masterclass in controlled chaos. Mick found himself seated on a lumpy couch, a can of some aggressively sweet soda pop in his hand, trying to follow three different conversations at once. Tommy was explaining the intricate lore of his video game, Tanya was interrogating Mick about Australia (“Do you, like, ride kangaroos to the store?”), and Tavish was attempting to use the couch cushions to build a fort around him.

Mick, a man who could sit motionless in a tree for twelve hours tracking a single target, felt his senses completely and utterly overloaded. This was a different kind of battlefield, one with no clear objectives and far too many variables. He found himself responding in monosyllabic grunts, his eyes constantly scanning for Kirra.

She hadn’t moved from his side. She sat stiffly, a glass of juice untouched on the coffee table before her, her gaze fixed on the floor. Jeremy’s kids, to their credit, seemed to understand she was a no-go zone. They chattered and wrestled and argued around her, a whirlwind of energy that gave her a wide berth.

Jeremy, bless his hyperactive heart, was trying. “So, Mick, remember that time in Dustbowl when you shot the hat off that big Russian guy? These guys love that story!” he’d say, launching into a heavily embellished anecdote that painted them both as action heroes of mythic proportions.

Mick would just nod along, feeling the chasm between that life and this one growing wider with every word. That man, the one who made impossible shots from a dusty perch, felt like a character from a book he’d once read. The man sitting here now was just a father, worried that his quiet daughter was being terrified by a house full of tiny, fast-talking Americans.

The turning point came, as it often does, not from the adults, but from the children.

“Hey,” a small voice said.

Mick looked down. Riley was standing before Kirra, her head cocked to the side. She was once again holding out the worn baseball. Kirra didn’t look up.

Riley wasn’t deterred. She sat down on the floor, cross-legged, right in front of Kirra’s feet. She didn’t say anything else, just started rolling the baseball back and forth between her palms. The worn leather made a soft, rhythmic whisper against her skin.

For a full minute, that was the only sound in their small orbit. Then, slowly, hesitantly, Kirra’s eyes lifted from the floor and settled on the ball.

Riley offered it again. “Wanna… go outside?” she asked.

Kirra looked at Mick. He gave her a small, encouraging nod. She looked back at Riley, then gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod of her own.

A triumphant grin spread across Riley’s face. “Dad! We’re goin’ outside!”

The backyard was a small patch of worn grass, hemmed in by a wooden fence covered in scuff marks from errant balls. Jeremy immediately sprang into action. “Alright, you heard her! Let’s get a game on! Tommy, get the good bat! Tanya, you’re on first! Tavish, outfield! Don’t eat the dandelions this time!”

The change in Jeremy was remarkable. Out here, with a bat in his hand and bases to run, he was no longer a chaotic force of nature; he was a conductor, and this was his orchestra. He moved with a fluid grace, tossing the ball, coaching his kids with a mix of Boston slang and genuine paternal affection.

Mick stood on the small wooden porch, watching. Kirra stood beside him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket.

“C’mon, Kirra, you’re with me and Riley! We’re a team!” Jeremy called. “We’re gonna crush these bums!”

Tommy, who was taking a practice swing, yelled back, “You wish, old man!”

Riley took Kirra’s hand. The contact was brief, but Kirra didn’t pull away. She let the smaller girl lead her onto the grass.

They started small. Jeremy pitched a soft, underhand toss to Riley, who swung the bat with more enthusiasm than skill and missed by a mile. Everyone cheered anyway. Then it was Kirra’s turn.

She stood at the makeshift home plate, holding the bat awkwardly, as if it were a strange and dangerous snake. She looked terrified, her shoulders hunched up to her ears. Mick felt a pang of protectiveness, a fierce urge to go scoop her up and take her back to the quiet safety of their ute.

“Okay, okay, easy does it,” Jeremy said, his voice softer than Mick had ever heard it. “Just keep your eye on the ball. That’s all. Nothin’ to it.”

He tossed the ball. It was a gentle arc, slow and perfect. Kirra flinched, swinging late, the bat cutting through empty air.

“No problem! That was a warm-up! A practice!” Jeremy encouraged.

He tossed another. This time, Kirra’s eyes followed it. She swung, and there was a soft thunk. The ball dribbled a few feet in front of her.

The yard erupted.

“Go! Run! Run to first!” Tommy and Tanya screamed in unison.

Kirra looked lost. Riley grabbed her hand again. “This way!” she squealed, and pulled her toward the flattened piece of cardboard that served as first base.

A slow smile spread across Mick’s face. He watched as his daughter, his quiet, reserved, frightened daughter, stood on a makeshift base in a Boston backyard, surrounded by a chorus of cheering, chaotic children.

The game continued for the better part of an hour. Kirra never got a real hit, but she ran when she was told, and after her second time on base, a tiny, fleeting smile touched her lips. It was more precious to Mick than any-first place medal or bonus check he had ever received.

Later, as the sun began to dip and the sky turned a bruised purple, the kids collapsed in a heap on the grass, exhausted and grass-stained. Mick found himself on the back porch steps, a cold beer in his hand, sitting next to Jeremy. The frantic energy had finally subsided, leaving a comfortable quiet in its wake.

“They’re good kids, Jeremy,” Mick said, the words feeling inadequate.

Jeremy took a long pull from his own bottle. “Yeah, well. They’re a handful. A whole lotta handfuls.” He sighed, a rare moment of weariness showing on his face. “Sometimes I got no idea what I’m doin’. Four of ‘em, Mick. Four different moms. It’s… a lot of history, y’know?”

Mick nodded, understanding perfectly. They were both men with a lot of history, most of it written in blood, sweat, and gunpowder. “We all do,” he said. “But this…” He gestured with his bottle toward the yard, where Kirra was now sitting with Riley, examining a ladybug on a blade of grass. “This is the good stuff.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy said, his voice thick with emotion. “Yeah, it is.” He looked at Mick, a genuine, unguarded warmth in his eyes. “She’s a great kid, man. You done good. Real good.”

“She’s the one who’s done good for me,” Mick confessed. “Gave me somethin’ to… aim for.”

They sat in silence for a while, two old soldiers watching their children in the twilight. The past was always there, a shadow that stretched long behind them, but for the first time in a long time, the light in front of them seemed brighter.

When it was time to leave, the goodbyes were as loud and chaotic as the arrival. Tommy tried to give Kirra his spare controller. Tanya gave her a drawing of a kangaroo with a baseball bat. Tavish just ran around her in circles until Jeremy scooped him up.

Riley gave her a hug. It was quick and fierce. Kirra, to Mick’s utter astonishment, hugged her back.

As they walked to the ute, Kirra didn’t press herself against his leg. She walked beside him.

The drive back to the hotel was quiet, but it was a different kind of silence than the one on the way in. It wasn’t tense with anxiety; it was soft, filled with the comfortable weight of a day well spent.

After a few miles, Kirra spoke, her voice small but clear in the dim cab.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, possum?”

“Jeremy talks funny.”

Mick chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Yeah. He does.”

“And his kids are very loud.”

“That they are.”

She was quiet for another moment. Mick glanced at her. She was looking out the window, but he could see the faint outline of a smile on her face in the reflection.

“I liked Riley,” she said. “And the ball game.”

Mick’s heart swelled, a feeling more powerful than the recoil of his rifle. He reached over and squeezed her shoulder gently. “I’m glad, Kirra. Me too.”

The job had taught him about distance, about trajectories, about the long, patient wait for the perfect moment. Fatherhood was teaching him about closeness, about unpredictable ricochets, about the chaotic, beautiful, and utterly perfect impact of a quiet girl and a loud family, colliding on a summer afternoon in a small Boston backyard. It was the best shot he’d ever been a part of.

Chapter Text

The cold was a physical entity. It was not merely an absence of heat, but an active, malicious presence that seeped through the insulated metal walls of the BLU base, that crept along the floors and coiled around the ankles of anyone foolish enough to stand still for too long. Outside, the world had been erased by a white maelstrom. Snow didn't fall; it was hurled horizontally by a wind that shrieked with the fury of a thousand scorned valkyries. It was, even for a place perpetually locked in winter’s grip, an exceptionally cold day.

Inside his quarters, the man known only as Spy was losing a war of attrition against the elements. He sat at his small, elegant desk, a fine silk robe drawn tightly around his thin frame, but it was a hopelessly inadequate defense. The chill had invaded his very bones, a deep, gnawing ache that made his joints feel brittle and his thoughts sluggish. His long, clever fingers, usually so nimble and precise, were stiff and clumsy. He had tried everything. He had layered his suits, a sartorial sin of the highest order. He had consumed cup after cup of tepid coffee from the communal machine. He had even, in a moment of sheer desperation, attempted to coax more heat from the rattling vent in his wall with a series of percussive strikes, an act of brutish frustration that shamed him to his core.

Nothing worked. The cold was winning.

He knew, with a certainty that was both logical and infuriating, that he required proper winter gear. Not the fashionable, tailored overcoats he kept for urban assignments, but a thick, utilitarian armour against the frost. And that led to the second, more galling problem. He reviewed the roster of his teammates in his mind, a mental catalogue of unsuitable options. The Heavy’s garments would be gargantuan, tents of wool and down. The Demoman’s would reek of sulphur and stale Scrumpy. The Engineer’s would be irrevocably stained with grease and smelling of hot metal. The Scout’s would be several sizes too small and likely covered in some ghastly, neon-coloured logo. The Medic… a possibility, perhaps, but the man’s lanky frame was a poor match for Spy’s broader shoulders.

That left one man. The one man whose physique, a product of relentless, often pointless, physical exertion, was a close enough match to his own. The one man whose simple, military-grade equipment would undoubtedly include the kind of thermal protection he so desperately needed.

The Soldier.

Spy closed his eyes, a flicker of genuine despair crossing his features. The thought was mortifying. To ask that bellowing, simple-minded patriot for a favour was bad enough. To ask to borrow his clothing… it was an indignity of almost unimaginable proportions. Soldier’s clothes would be devoid of any style, any semblance of tailoring. They would be coarse, functional, and would undoubtedly carry the man’s scent—a potent combination of sweat, soap, and unshakeable, maddening self-assurance.

He shivered, a violent, full-body tremor that rattled his teeth. Pride was a fine thing, a necessary component of his professional and personal identity. Hypothermia, however, was a permanent condition.

And yet… underneath the layers of revulsion and wounded pride, a small, treacherous thought flickered. It was a thought he had been rigorously suppressing for months, a quiet observation that had grown into a grudging fondness. There was a certain… appeal… to the idea. The image of being swaddled in something belonging to the Soldier, something large and warm and undeniably protective, stirred a feeling deep within him that was confusingly pleasant. It was romantic, in a crude, almost primal way. It was the sort of thing that would happen in a cheap novel, and the very thought that he, a man of sophistication and taste, found it appealing was almost as chilling as the air in the room.

Another shiver, more severe this time, made the decision for him. Dignity could be reclaimed. Frostbitten extremities could not.

He rose, his movements stiff, and wrapped his robe tighter. The short journey down the echoing metal corridor to Soldier’s quarters felt like a polar expedition. The wind howled against the exterior walls, and the floor plates were like slabs of ice beneath his thin slippers. Each step was a small, resonant clang in the near-silent hallway, a drumbeat marking his slow march toward humiliation.

Soldier’s door was exactly as one would expect: unadorned, functional steel, save for a small, slightly crooked American flag decal peeling at the corners. Spy stood before it for a long moment, gathering his composure, arranging his face into a mask of cool neutrality. He was not a supplicant. He was an operative securing a necessary asset. He raised a hand and knocked, three sharp, precise raps.

The response from within was a muffled, "STATE YOUR NAME AND PURPOSE, MAGGOT!"

Spy sighed, the sound a small, white puff in the frigid air. "It is Spy. I require a moment of your time."

There was a sound of clattering, a heavy thud, and then the loud snap of the door’s lock being disengaged. The door swung open to reveal the Soldier, dressed in nothing but his standard-issue trousers and a thin, olive-drab undershirt, his ever-present helmet firmly on his head. He was in the middle of polishing his collection of medals, each one laid out on a neatly folded towel on his cot. His room was sparse, obsessively tidy, and, Spy noted with a pang of envy, noticeably warmer than the rest of the base. A small, unauthorized space heater glowed cherry-red in the corner.

"Spy!" Soldier boomed, his voice echoing in the small space. He stood at attention, a polishing cloth still in one hand. "What is the meaning of this unauthorized visit? Are we under attack? Have the Reds tunneled under the latrines again? I told them that was a structural weakness!"

"No, you imbecile," Spy said, the insult automatic, though it lacked its usual venom. His focus was on the radiant heat emanating from the room. "The situation is… meteorological."

Soldier stared at him, his expression hidden by the shadow of his helmet. "You are speaking French again. Use American, son!"

Spy took a deep, steadying breath. "I am cold, Soldier. The base's heating system is, as usual, pathetically inadequate. My own quarters are untenable."

For a moment, Soldier just looked at him. The boisterous energy seemed to drain away, replaced by a focused intensity, the look of a commander assessing a problem in the field. He took in Spy’s silk robe, the slight tremor in his hands, the faint blue tint to his lips.

"You are out of uniform, soldier," he said, his tone shifting from accusation to diagnosis. "Your tactical gear is insufficient for current environmental conditions. This is a dereliction of duty! A man cannot fight for freedom if his assets are frozen!"

Before Spy could formulate a suitably scathing reply, Soldier had turned on his heel and marched over to a large footlocker at the base of his cot. He threw it open with a loud crash. "This is an unacceptable breach of protocol! We will rectify it immediately!"

He began rummaging through the contents, pulling out neatly folded items of clothing with brisk, efficient movements. "My winter combat gear from the Aleutian campaign will suffice! The wind there can strip a man's skin off like a banana peel! I learned a thing or two."

Spy watched, a strange sense of detachment settling over him. He had expected ridicule, or at least a confused, patriotic lecture. He had not expected this immediate, unquestioning leap into problem-solving mode. It was… disarming.

Soldier turned back, his arms laden with clothing. "Here," he commanded. "Remove that… that fancy bath towel."

He thrust a thick, scratchy-looking wool sweater at Spy. It was a dark, service-issue green, impeccably clean but clearly well-worn. Spy hesitated, his fingers brushing against the coarse fabric. The thought of it directly against his skin was appalling.

"Well? Get to it!" Soldier barked, though there was no malice in it. It was the impatience of a man trying to complete a mission.

With a final, silent surrender of his pride, Spy untied his robe and let it fall to the floor. The cold of the room immediately bit at his exposed skin, and he shivered again. Soldier, for his part, didn't so much as blink. He simply held the sweater out, waiting.

Reluctantly, Spy pulled it over his head. The wool was as scratchy as he had imagined, but it was also incredibly, profoundly warm. The retained body heat from its owner seemed to cling to the fibers, a faint but distinct presence. And there was the scent. It wasn't sweat, as he had feared. It was the clean, sharp smell of military-grade laundry soap, the faint tang of gun oil, and something else, something uniquely Soldier—an earthy, wholesome scent, like freshly turned soil and autumn air. It was not unpleasant. It was… grounding.

"Good," Soldier grunted, nodding in approval. "Proper insulation is the foundation of any winter operation. Now for the outer shell."

He produced a heavy, fleece-lined coat. It was formidable, a fortress of canvas and wool, with a thick fur-lined hood. It was the single most unaesthetic garment Spy had ever seen. He wanted to protest, to insist that his own cashmere overcoat would suffice with the sweater, but he knew it was a lie. His coat was for striding through a lightly chilled Parisian evening, not surviving an arctic vortex in New Mexico.

He slipped his arms into the coat. It was heavy, settling onto his shoulders with a comforting weight. The fit was surprisingly good; a little loose in the waist, but perfect across the chest and shoulders. He felt… armored. Protected. He flexed his fingers, which were already beginning to regain their feeling.

Soldier walked a slow circle around him, inspecting the fit like a drill sergeant examining a new recruit's uniform. "Acceptable," he finally declared. "Your extremities are still vulnerable. One moment."

He returned to the footlocker and produced a pair of thick wool socks and a dark green watch cap. Spy stared at them. This was going too far. A hat? He never wore hats. They ruined the line of his silhouette.

"The head is where a man loses eighty percent of his tactical body heat!" Soldier announced, as if quoting from a manual. "To leave it uncovered is treason against your own body! Put it on!"

Spy sighed, took the cap, and pulled it down over his carefully coiffed hair. The soft wool covered his ears, instantly muting the howl of the wind outside and cocooning him in warmth. He looked ridiculous. He felt like a longshoreman. He also felt warmer than he had in two days.

He stood there, clad in the Soldier’s armour, feeling the deep, penetrating warmth spread through his body. The shivering had stopped. The ache in his bones was beginning to recede. He was so focused on this novel sensation of comfort that he almost didn't register what Soldier did next.

The larger man reached out and, with a surprising gentleness, adjusted the collar of the coat, turning it up to better protect Spy’s neck. His rough, calloused fingers brushed against Spy's skin for a fraction of a second. The contact was brief, impersonal, and yet it sent a jolt through Spy’s entire system, a spark of heat that had nothing to do with the wool and fleece.

"There," Soldier said, stepping back, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked… satisfied. Proud, even, as if he had just successfully fortified a critical position. "You will no longer be a liability to the team due to poor climate preparedness."

Spy didn't know what to say. "Thank you," he managed, the words feeling stiff and inadequate in his mouth.

"Do not thank me!" Soldier snapped. "Thank the United States Army Quartermaster Corps for providing the finest cold-weather gear on the planet! Now. Sit." He pointed a commanding finger at a simple wooden chair beside his cot.

"I should return to my—"

"You will sit!" Soldier interrupted. "Your core temperature is still compromised. Rapid re-acclimation requires caloric intake and a stable, heated environment. It's in the manual."

Spy, finding himself strangely unable to argue, sat. He felt enormous in the bulky coat, his usual sleek elegance completely subsumed. He watched as Soldier turned to a hot plate next to the space heater, on which a small, battered kettle was steaming. The man moved with an odd, clumsy grace, fetching two thick ceramic mugs from his footlocker. He dropped a packet of something into each one and poured the boiling water over it.

He handed one of the mugs to Spy. It was hot, and the warmth seeped gratefully into his palms. He looked into the mug. A brownish powder was dissolving into a murky liquid.

"What is this?" he asked, his nose wrinkling slightly.

"Emergency field-ration hot chocolate," Soldier announced with pride. "Tastes like freedom and victory. Drink up. It will put hair on your chest. Or… more hair, I guess."

Spy took a tentative sip. It was aggressively, sickeningly sweet, with a strange chemical aftertaste. It was, without question, the worst hot chocolate he had ever tasted. He took another, larger sip. The raw heat and sugar were a welcome shock to his system.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the continued howling of the wind and the hum of the space heater. It wasn't an awkward silence. It was strangely companionable. Soldier polished another medal, his movements rhythmic and focused. Spy nursed his dreadful, wonderful hot chocolate, feeling the last of the chill being driven from his body.

He looked around the room. The medals, the neatly folded uniforms, the weapons broken down and cleaned on a separate table—it was a space of discipline and order. There was nothing personal, no photos, no books, just the tools of his trade and the symbols of his devotion to a country that had long since forgotten him. And yet, there was an undeniable sincerity to it all. Soldier wasn't playing a role; this was who he was, to the marrow of his bones.

And this sincere, uncomplicated man had just, without a moment’s hesitation, clothed him and given him shelter from the cold. There was no mockery, no demand for repayment, just a simple, direct fulfillment of a perceived need. It was a form of care so straightforward that Spy’s own complex, cynical mind had difficulty processing it.

He looked at the man himself. Soldier was humming now, a tuneless, martial-sounding melody, as he buffed a small bronze star to a high shine. In the warm glow of the heater, the harsh lines of his face seemed to soften. He was a brute, a fool, an instrument of war. He was also, Spy was forced to admit, a profoundly decent man in his own, peculiar way.

The romantic notion, the one he’d dismissed as a cheap fantasy, returned. Here he was, wrapped in the man’s coat, drinking his rations, sheltered by his heat. The heavy fabric felt less like an imposition now and more like an embrace. The scent of soap and wool was no longer alien; it was comforting, a silent testament to the man sitting across from him. This was not a grand, poetic gesture. It was better. It was real.

"Thank you, Soldier," Spy said again, his voice softer this time, stripped of its usual irony. "Truly."

Soldier stopped humming and looked up. He seemed slightly taken aback by the sincerity in Spy’s tone.

"It is my duty to ensure all personnel are mission-ready," he said, puffing out his chest a little. "A frozen spy is a useless spy. Do not let it happen again."

Spy allowed a small, genuine smile to touch his lips. He finished his hot chocolate, the cloying sweetness now tasting almost pleasant. He stood up, the coat rustling around him.

"I will take my leave. I believe my quarters will be tolerable now."

"Keep the gear," Soldier said, turning back to his medals. "Until the storm breaks. It is a loan. For the good of the team."

"I will," Spy promised.

He walked to the door, feeling a strange reluctance to leave the small pocket of warmth and security. He paused with his hand on the latch and looked back. Soldier hadn't moved, seemingly lost in his task once more.

Spy stepped out into the frigid hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. The cold was still there, a waiting predator, but it could no longer touch him. He was insulated, not just by the layers of wool and canvas, but by something else, something less tangible.

He pulled the collar of the greatcoat up higher, burying his nose and mouth in the fabric. He inhaled deeply, drawing in that simple, clean scent. It was the scent of safety. The scent of an unexpected kindness. He walked back toward his own cold, empty room, but he felt, for the first time all day, entirely and completely warm. And as he walked, he realized that the crude, romantic notion wasn't so cheap after all. It was, in fact, priceless.

Chapter Text

The metallic tang of spent gunpowder still lingered in the air, a familiar perfume in the RED team’s subterranean base. Dell Conagher, the Engineer, was in his element, a gentle hum of arcane machinery his constant companion. He whistled a tuneless melody, wrench in hand, as he fine-tuned the gears of his beloved Sentry, its single eye-lens glinting in the low light. His world was one of elegant solutions, of precise calculations, of things that worked.

The serenity was shattered, as it often was, by a resonant, booming voice. “ENGINEER! A WORD!”

M. Jane Doe, the Soldier, stomped into the workshop, a crumpled piece of paper clutched in his oversized fist. His posture was rigid, his expression a mixture of patriotic fury and utter bewilderment. He looked at the paper as if it had personally insulted his lineage.

“Somethin’ wrong, Solly?” Dell asked, turning slowly, a soft, encouraging smile on his face. He’d learned long ago that a calm demeanor was the best defense against Soldier’s particular brand of chaos.

“THIS!” Soldier roared, thrusting the paper forward. “THIS TREASONOUS SCRIBBLE! Miss Pauling has sent another ‘memo’! She expects me to… to understand it! But it’s all… wobbly marks and squiggles! It mocks me, Engineer! It mocks the very principles of American literacy!”

Dell took the paper gently. It was a standard mission brief, detailing a tactical adjustment for tomorrow’s payload push. He glanced at Soldier, whose brow was furrowed in genuine distress. It wasn't the usual performative anger; there was a raw vulnerability beneath the bluster. Soldier wasn't just annoyed; he was genuinely frustrated by his inability to comprehend something so fundamental.

“Well, now, Solly,” Dell began, his voice a soothing, low drawl. “It ain’t mockin’ you. It’s just… words. Words tellin’ us what to do.”

“But they refuse to tell me!” Soldier threw his hands up in exasperation. “I have tried commanding them, threatening them, even bribing them with my best field rations! They remain defiant! Clearly, they are Communist spies disguised as innocent letters!”

Dell chuckled softly, a warm sound in the cool workshop. He saw past the absurdity, past the bluster. He saw a man who felt isolated by a simple skill most took for granted. A man who, despite his loud pronouncements of self-sufficiency, yearned for something he couldn't grasp.

“Solly,” Dell said, stepping a little closer, his gaze steady and kind. “How about… I teach you?”

Soldier froze, his eyes, usually wide with indignation, narrowed in suspicion. “Teach me what, Texan? How to properly launch a rocket into a Medic’s skull? I am already a master!”

“No, Solly. How to read,” Dell clarified, his voice gentle. “It ain’t hard if you got the right teacher. And it’d stop those ‘treasonous scribbles’ from causin’ you so much trouble.”

Soldier’s face contorted through several expressions: shock, embarrassment, indignation, and finally, a flicker of something Dell recognized as tentative hope. “Read? But… that is an activity for… for librarians! And… and spies seeking to decode enemy missives! A true American soldier relies on his gut, his rifle, and his unshakeable patriotism!”

“A true American soldier also needs to understand his orders, right?” Dell’s logic was irrefutable. “Think of it as a new weapon, Solly. Intelligence. You learn to read, you won’t ever be caught off guard by a memo again. It’s a tactical advantage.”

The phrase "tactical advantage" struck a chord. Soldier’s eyes widened, a strategic gleam replacing the embarrassment. “A… tactical advantage? To conquer the written word?”

“Exactly,” Dell affirmed, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Consider it a covert operation. Our own little secret, if you’re worried about the other fellas teasin’ ya.”

Soldier puffed out his chest, the concept slowly taking root. “A covert operation! To master the hieroglyphs of the enemy… wait, no, our side! Yes! This is a most patriotic endeavor! Engineer, you are a genius! I accept your mission! But no one must know! It would compromise the element of surprise!”

Dell simply nodded, his smile softening into something tender. “Understood, Solly.” He motioned to a stool near his workbench. “We can start after dinner, when things quiet down. Just you and me.”

And so, their secret lessons began.

The workshop, typically a symphony of metallic clangs and electric hums, became a sanctuary of hushed patience and booming frustration. Dell, usually buried in blueprints, now had his work bench cleared for a crude, salvaged chalkboard and a pile of children’s primers he’d somehow procured.

Their first few sessions were… challenging. Soldier, accustomed to reacting with immediate, visceral force, found the methodical process of phonics excruciating.

“‘A’ is for… APPLE!” Dell would patiently instruct, pointing to the illustration.

“APPLE!” Soldier would bellow, as if commanding the fruit itself, his voice echoing in the confined space.

“And ‘B’ is for… BALL.”

“FIGHT ME, BALL!”

Dell would sigh, run a hand through his hair, and adjust his goggles. "Now, Solly, try to sound it out. 'Ah-p-luh'."

Soldier’s attempts were often a cacophony of mispronunciations and patriotic interjections. He’d look at the word "cat" and declare it "Communist rodent." "Dog" became "Loyal American canine." Dell quickly realized that abstract concepts were lost on Soldier; he needed practical, concrete examples, preferably related to warfare or American exceptionalism.

He swapped out the primers for a simplified version of the team’s combat manual, then tried with the large, block letters on propaganda posters. “See, Solly, ‘A-M-E-R-I-C-A’,” Dell would trace the letters with his finger.

“AMERICA!” Soldier would roar, eyes blazing with understanding, but only for the subject matter, not the individual letters.

Dell never lost his patience, though it was tested. He had seen Soldier at his most irrational, heard his most outlandish pronouncements, yet beneath the bluster, he always sensed a deep well of loyalty and a surprising earnestness. Teaching him revealed new facets to this man. He saw the genuine look of defeat when Soldier couldn't grasp a simple concept, the flush of embarrassment that would creep up his neck before he'd cover it with a shouted threat to the alphabet.

“It’s like building a Sentry, Solly,” Dell explained one evening, using an analogy he hoped would click. “You gotta start with the nuts and bolts – the letters – before you can get to the full, operational battle station – the words.”

Soldier’s eyes lit up. “Ah! So, the letters are the individual bullets, and the words are the fully loaded magazine?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Dell agreed, a small smile playing on his lips. It was a breakthrough of sorts. He started drawing words, connecting them to simple diagrams: a stick figure with a helmet for "Soldier," a crude rocket for "Bomb."

Slowly, painstakingly, a rhythm developed. After their evening meals, Soldier would appear at the workshop, sometimes with a mumbled excuse about needing a wrench or "inspecting the Engineer's tactical readiness." Dell would clear the workbench, take out his chalkboard, and they would begin.

Dell found himself looking forward to these sessions. Soldier's peculiar logic, his sudden bursts of insight, even his exasperating stubbornness, were becoming… endearing. He found Soldier’s raw, untamed patriotism, usually so overwhelming, almost sweet in its earnestness. He’d catch glimpses of the man beneath the uniform, a man who, despite his fervent belief in self-reliance, allowed himself to be vulnerable in Dell’s presence.

And Soldier, for his part, found an unexpected anchor in Dell. The quiet hum of the workshop, the soft cadence of Dell’s Texan drawl, the unwavering patience in his eyes – it all created a space of safety. He learned to trust the gentle hand that guided his own across the chalkboard, the quiet encouragement that never mocked his struggles. He saw Dell, not just as the team’s resident genius, but as someone who genuinely cared. He started to notice the way the workshop lights caught the gold flecks in Dell’s eyes, the faint scent of oil and metal that clung to him, the way his smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.

One evening, Dell placed a simple sentence before Soldier, written in large, clear letters: “The rocket flew high.”

Soldier squinted. “Th-the…” He paused, struggling with the next word. “R-o-k… rocket?”

Dell nodded, beaming. “That’s it, Solly! You got it!”

“The rocket… flew…” Soldier concentrated, his brow furrowed in intense effort. “High!” he declared, triumphantly.

A wide, genuine smile broke across Dell’s face. “You read it, Solly! You read a whole sentence!”

Soldier’s chest swelled, a proud, almost childlike grin spreading across his face. “I… I did, didn’t I? The rocket flew high! It was a good rocket! A patriotic rocket!”

In that moment of shared triumph, their eyes met. Dell saw the innocent joy in Soldier's face, the raw satisfaction of conquering a personal hurdle. Soldier saw the quiet pride in Dell’s gaze, a warmth that shone brighter than any welding torch. A silence stretched between them, comfortable and charged, until Dell gently reached out and clasped Soldier’s shoulder. The touch lingered, a spark of something more profound passing between them.

Weeks bled into months. Soldier’s reading was still far from perfect, but he was no longer utterly illiterate. He could decipher basic warnings, follow simple instructions, and even read the headlines of the tattered newspapers Dell brought in. The children’s primers had been replaced by a dog-eared history book Dell found, full of tales of American heroes.

Their sessions had evolved beyond mere instruction. They were now a comfortable ritual, a cherished interlude in the chaotic rhythm of their lives. Soldier would read aloud, stumbling over words, but always persevering. Dell would listen, correcting gently, but mostly just enjoying the sound of Soldier’s booming voice grappling with the written word.

Dell had started bringing in coffee, brewing it fresh in a small pot in his workshop, the rich aroma mixing with the metallic tang. He’d watch Soldier, sometimes catching him staring intently at a word, his tongue poking out in concentration, and a tenderness would swell in Dell’s chest. He admired Soldier’s tenacity, his fierce, unyielding spirit, now channeled into something so quiet and personal.

One particularly grueling day, after a payload push that had left them both bruised and tired, Soldier arrived in the workshop looking unusually subdued. Dell offered him a mug of coffee. Soldier took it, his gloved fingers brushing Dell’s, a jolt of warmth passing between them that had nothing to do with the hot beverage.

“I… I read something today, Dell,” Soldier said, his voice surprisingly soft, almost hesitant.

Dell looked up from his work, his gaze questioning. “Yeah? What was it, Solly?”

Soldier’s eyes darted away, a blush creeping up his neck. “A… a sign. In the communal shower. It said… ‘Warning: Wet Floor. Slippery when wet.’ I understood it. Before… I would have just charged in. Probably would have slipped. And that… that would have been unpatriotic.”

Dell chuckled, a soft, fond sound. “Well, I reckon that’s a good thing, then, Solly. Saved ya a nasty bump.”

Soldier turned back, his gaze meeting Dell’s, unusually direct. “It is more than that, Dell. You… you have given me… a new way to understand the world. And… and to avoid… unnecessary injury to my person. Which is important for a soldier.”

Dell just smiled, a warmth spreading through him. “I’m glad I could help, Solly.”

“You have helped more than you know,” Soldier continued, his voice still low, almost a rumble. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. It was a torn scrap from an old magazine, a faded advertisement for a local diner. He unfolded it carefully, then hesitated.

“What is it, Solly?” Dell asked, sensing a shift in the air, a different kind of tension.

Soldier took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, then began to read, slowly, carefully, his voice thick with emotion. “‘You… are… my… f-a-v-o-r-i-t-e… favorite… person.’” He stumbled over the last word, then straightened. “‘And… I… l-o-v-e… love… you.’”

The words hung in the air, simple, stark, and utterly profound. Dell’s breath hitched. He stared at Soldier, whose face was now flushed a deep crimson, his eyes wide and vulnerable, searching Dell’s for a reaction. The advertisement had simply read, "You are our favorite customer, and we love serving you!" Soldier had clearly picked out the words that held meaning for him, rearranged them in his mind, and delivered them with a sincerity that pierced through Dell’s usual composure.

A wave of emotion washed over Dell – surprise, tenderness, an overwhelming sense of affection. He saw the tremble in Soldier’s gloved hands, the raw courage it had taken for him to articulate something so deeply personal, even if pieced together from a diner ad.

Dell slowly, deliberately, put down his wrench. He stepped around the workbench, closing the small distance between them. He reached out, gently taking the paper from Soldier’s trembling hand, setting it aside. Then, his own hands rose, cupping Soldier’s rough, scarred cheeks.

“Solly,” Dell whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze locked with Soldier’s. “You… you truly mean that?”

Soldier nodded, his eyes shining. “Yes, Dell. I… I do. You are… my… my best… Texan.”

Dell’s heart swelled. He leaned in, slowly, giving Soldier every chance to pull away. But Soldier didn’t. Instead, he leaned in too, his eyes closing, a soft, expectant sigh escaping his lips. Dell’s lips met Soldier’s, tentative at first, then deepening into a soft, tender kiss.

It wasn't a fierce, passionate kiss, but a quiet acknowledgment, a gentle confirmation of the deep, slow-burning affection that had grown between them in the quiet confines of the workshop, amidst the lessons and the laughter and the shared vulnerabilities. It tasted of coffee and gunpowder and something fundamentally, wonderfully human. Soldier’s hands, usually so prone to violence, came up hesitantly, resting on Dell’s waist, holding him close.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Dell rested his forehead against Soldier’s. “You know, Solly,” he murmured, a smile gracing his lips. “You just read me the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

Months later, the workshop still bore the faint scent of oil, but now also of the worn pages of books. Soldier was by no means a scholar, but he could navigate the written world with a functional confidence. He still mispronounced words, still occasionally yelled at particularly challenging paragraphs, but he no longer felt lost.

One afternoon, Dell found Soldier sitting quietly in a corner of the common room, a book open on his lap. It was a well-thumbed copy of 'The Art of War,' which Dell had given him, hoping it might appeal to his tactical mind. Soldier was tracing a finger along the lines, his lips moving silently.

Dell watched him for a moment, a fond smile on his face. He loved these quiet moments, the domesticity they had carved out of their chaotic lives. He loved the way Soldier would sometimes stop reading, look up, and catch his eye, offering a small, private smile that was just for him.

Soldier looked up then, meeting Dell’s gaze. He cleared his throat, a theatrical gesture, and held the book up. “Dell,” he boomed, though with a softer edge than usual. “Listen to this! It is a most profound truth!”

Dell settled into the chair beside him, leaning back, ready to listen.

Soldier began to read, slowly but clearly, his finger marking each word. “‘A man… must protect… what he loves… the most. That is… his duty.’” He paused, then looked directly at Dell, his eyes shining with an unwavering intensity. “And… my… Texan.”

Dell chuckled softly, a warm, resonant sound that filled the small space. He reached out, gently taking Soldier’s hand in his, intertwining their fingers. “Well, now, Solly,” he said, his voice laced with tenderness. “I reckon that’s a duty I can get behind.”

Soldier squeezed his hand, a rare smile, free of bluster and artifice, gracing his lips. He might have learned to read, but what he had taught Dell, in the quiet evenings and shared vulnerabilities, was a lesson in love, profound and unexpected, that Dell would cherish for the rest of his days. Their story, like a good book, had only just begun.

Chapter Text

The evening light in the Badlands was the color of stale mustard and rust, bleeding slowly over the corrugated metal roofs of Teufort. It was an unusual hour for quiet, but the day’s capture-the-flag skirmish had been short—a brutal, efficient affair that had ended with the opposing team retreating in a blaze of respawn lightning.

Dr. Ludwig, Medic, found himself in the makeshift triage bay, meticulously cleaning the residue of exotic fluids from his gloves. The atmosphere was thick with the faint, metallic scent of blood and overly aggressive disinfectant. Heavy, meanwhile, was sitting on an overturned ammo crate nearby, applying a truly industrial-sized strip of adhesive bandage to a flesh wound on his forearm. He was humming a low, tuneless Russian melody, his expression one of profound, post-combat tranquility.

The quiet was a rare luxury, and it was in this domestic lull, this shared moment of mutual professional existence, that Medic felt the familiar warmth settle in his chest. It was a warmth that had started years ago as professional respect—the doctor needing the muscle, the muscle needing the healing—and had evolved into something far more intricate, something that only required the simple, steady presence of the other man to be complete.

“You are very sticky, Sasha,” Medic observed, not looking up from his surgical trays. He referred to the residual oil and gun lubricant on Heavy’s skin, not the healing blood.

Heavy grunted, the sound a low vibration in the small room. “Is good oil. Protects the great big guns.”

“It also attracts the dust and the insects, my dear, and you know how I hate cleaning grit out of your sutures.” Medic finally looked up, offering a small, corrective smile.

Heavy sighed dramatically, recognizing the familiar, caring critique. “I will shower. After I check on the supplies. We are low on the good bread.”

“The artisanal sourdough, yes. Don’t dawdle, though. I am contemplating a new synthesis for the next batch of ÜberCharge, and it requires a suitable, stationary test subject.”

Heavy merely nodded, accustomed to this threat, which was less of a threat and more of a deeply affectionate request for attendance. He hauled himself up, the movement of his vast muscles a testament to contained power, and lumbered toward the storage shed situated behind the main compound.

It was during this routine check, amidst the junk piles and discarded sentry parts, that the anomaly occurred.

The air was still, broken only by the chirping of crickets and the distant, whining groan of Engineer’s latest, highly experimental generator. Heavy was counting crates—a tedious task he somehow found meditative—when a tiny, pathetic noise sliced through the silence.

It was a soft thump followed by a weak, almost choked squeak.

Heavy paused, his enormous hand hovering above a crate marked 'EXPLOSIVES: USE WITH CAUTION (Seriously, Soldier)'. He looked down.

Nestled precariously under a rusting antenna array, where the shadows pooled thickly, was a small, feathered bundle.

Heavy moved slowly, lowering his gargantuan frame with the care of a bear approaching a fragile honey pot. The creature was small, almost unnervingly so, barely six inches high, but it was wide. Very, very wide. It was an American Robin, apparently, but one that seemed to defy the natural laws of ornithology. Its feathering was a deep, glossy brown, its breast a brilliant, round orange, stretched taut over what could only be described as a significant layer of subcutaneous fat.

It was anthropomorphic, standing upright on thick, stubby legs, and it was clearly injured, or at least, terrified. Its tiny, black eyes, currently wide with fear, were startlingly intelligent, and in their depths they held a certain desperate loyalty, a trapped, powerful spirit.

Heavy knelt. The ground groaned under his weight.

“Tch, malen’kiy.” (Little one.)

The bird-thing shook, its wide body trembling. It emitted another weak sound, a pathetic attempt at a territorial cry that sounded suspiciously like a whisper of the word “Pootis.”

Heavy leaned closer, examining the tiny, feathered legs. One seemed bent at an awkward angle. He reached out a single, massive finger, moving with a surprising, practiced gentleness.

The bird did not flee. Instead, it tilted its head, looked directly into Heavy’s eyes, and then, with a surprising burst of instinctual trust, attempted to peck at the finger. It was a weak, ineffective gesture, but it resonated. It was a small, defenseless thing trying desperately to assert power.

In that moment, a profound, undeniable feeling blossomed in Heavy’s chest, overriding the usual combat-hardened stoicism. This was not just a creature; this was a tiny reflection of himself—fat, fierce, and demanding respect despite its size.

Heavy carefully scooped the bird up, cradling it in his massive, calloused palm. It was surprisingly warm and heavy, a small, densely packed orb of life.

He stood up, ignoring the faint pain in his knees. The sourdough could wait. The supplies could wait.

“Mütterchen,” he murmured to the bird, a term of endearment reserved only for the most important things in his life. “You need the Doktor.”

He strode back toward the Medbay, his mission now singular and absolute.

Medic was meticulously calibrating the pressure valves on his Medi Gun, a task requiring the focus of a Swiss watchmaker and the patience of a saint. He didn’t look up when the door slammed open, but he did sigh dramatically.

“Heavy, I told you, I am in the middle of a—Ach, du lieber Himmel! What in the actual hell have you brought me now?”

Heavy was standing in the doorway, his usual imposing stance undermined by the sight of him gently holding the half-foot tall, extraordinarily round bird.

“He is hurt, Doktor. He is… mozhno predpolozhit’… our son.”

Medic dropped his calibration wrench. It clattered against the stainless steel tray.

He stared. He took in the sight: the imposing Russian, the concerned furrow of his brow, and the undeniably robust robin perched tenderly on his forearm. The bird, for its part, was now blinking slowly, its immense girth making it look less like an injured wild animal and more like a plush toy that had been slightly overstuffed.

Medic’s initial, professional assessment took over, cutting through the absurdity. “A fracture, it looks like. Tibiotarsus. And mild shock. And… ja, mein Gott, the visceral fat ratio is alarming. This bird is practically a tiny, feathered barrel.”

He moved forward, slipping instantly into doctor mode, the emotional part of his brain temporarily suspended. He gently lifted the bird from Heavy’s palm, his gloved fingers surprisingly deft. The bird shivered, but seemed to find comfort in the gentle, careful handling.

“He needs splinting, antibiotics, and frankly, a diet. Though looking at him, I suspect the diet will be the most difficult prescription to enforce.”

Heavy watched, his eyes tracking every minute movement of Medic's hands. “No diet. He is a strong bird. Strong boys must eat.”

“Heavy, this bird is morbidly obese for his species! He looks like a tiny, feathered version of—”

Medic stopped, realizing the implication. The bird was, indeed, strikingly similar to a diminutive, feathered Heavy. The same aggressive roundness, the same tiny, intelligent, deeply serious eyes, the same air of needing to be constantly fed.

The professional detachment cracked. A slow, indulgent smile spread across Medic’s face.

“Well. Schatz. One cannot argue with genetics, can one? Even if the genetics are… cross-species and statistically improbable.”

He finished stabilizing the tiny leg with a delicate splint of matchsticks and adhesive tape. The bird let out a quiet chirp of protest, which again sounded exactly like the Russian word for ‘eat’ spoken very quickly.

“See?” Heavy rumbled, stepping closer. “He speaks our language, Doktor. He understands the need for sustenance.”

“He understands gluttony, Heavy, which is a key part of our dynamic here, I admit,” Medic said, laying the bird on a soft, sterile cloth pad.

And then, the conversation shifted, moving from medical necessity to domestic certainty.

“So, Medic,” Heavy said, his voice dropping to a low, serious register. “He is ours. Yes? We take care of him now.”

Medic paused, looking at the formidable man before him. He saw the fierce commitment in Heavy’s eyes, the deep, paternal instinct that had erupted instantaneously. He thought of the endless nights, the tedious feeding, the inevitable messes—the sheer, glorious chaos of caring for something small and dependent.

And he knew, with perfect clarity, that this was the commitment he had been waiting for, the anchor that would solidify the easy, comfortable romance they had built on the precipice of constant death. It wasn't about rings or ceremonies; it was about shared, demanding domestic responsibility.

“Ja, I suppose we do,” Medic conceded, his heart suddenly light. He reached out and gently squeezed Heavy’s hand, his fingers resting on the rough, hot skin of the giant’s wrist. “He is our small, fat, perfectly engineered bird-child. We shall call him Pootis. Lil’ Pootis.”

Heavy beamed. It was a rare, full expression of joy that transformed his face, making him look less like an instrument of mass destruction and more like a very large, very happy father.

“Lil’ Pootis,” Heavy repeated, nodding sagely. “It is perfect in its simplicity. Now, what does the small child need? Tiny Sandvich? Small steak?”

Medic laughed, a rich, genuine sound. “Let us start with highly concentrated, liquid nutrients, Heavy. And perhaps a small, enclosed space for him to rest and recover. He cannot simply wander around the base—Scout would try to use him as target practice.”

The first few hours of parenthood were a blur of frantic improvisation, conducted entirely within the confines of Medic’s lab. It was a space usually dedicated to questionable experiments and occasional, emergency limb reattachments, but it quickly became the nursery.

Heavy, demonstrating an unexpected talent for rapid construction, repurposed a large, emptied ammunition box into a sturdy, well-ventilated enclosure. He padded the bottom with shredded medical gauze and a piece of his own, surprisingly soft undershirt.

Medic, meanwhile, was obsessed with Pootis’s dietary schedule.

“He is a growing boy, Heavy, but we must be precise!” Medic held up a tiny pipette filled with a proprietary blend of ground mealworms, protein powder, and, bafflingly, a dash of synthetic blood plasma.

Heavy watched the small, fat robin consume the slurry with surprising speed and gusto. Pootis finished the meal and immediately looked up at his parents, his eyes conveying a clear message: More.

“He is hungry, Doktor. See? A fighter.”

“He is a miniature black hole, Heavy. But I concede, his metabolic rate is phenomenal. I need to run a full panel on his digestion. If he truly is anthropomorphic, his caloric needs will be… excessive.”

The conversation about Pootis’s needs quickly spiraled into a lengthy, detailed discussion about their shared future responsibilities. This was the true nature of their romance—not grand gestures, but the methodical, collaborative planning of mutual existence.

“He will need schooling,” Medic realized, tapping his chin with the end of his thermometer. “We cannot have a child who only speaks in monosyllabic demands for food. I shall teach him German. It is the language of scientific rigor.”

Heavy scoffed, gently adjusting the gauze bedding under the tiny bird. “Nonsense, Doktor. He needs Russian. Russian is the language of strength and good sense. He needs to know how to count ammunition and express deep, abiding love for his Papa.”

“He needs to understand the complex ethical landscape of reanimating corpses, Heavy, which is best digested in German!”

Lil’ Pootis, overheated by the debate surrounding his education, let out a loud, robust Chirp! that echoed slightly off the metal walls.

“We will compromise,” Medic declared, sensing the nascent domestic argument heating up. “German during the day, Russian for bedtime stories. And English only when he is talking to the Scout—he needs a baseline defense mechanism.”

Heavy nodded, mollified. “Good. Heavy is pleased. We are good parents, Doktor.”

“We are adapting, Heavy. That is the first sign of successful parenthood.” Medic leaned against the crate, sighing happily. The stress of the day had evaporated, replaced by the acute, warming burden of responsibility. He looked at Heavy, standing guard over the tiny box, his massive silhouette casting a protective shadow.

This shared endeavor, this immediate, unthinking adoption of a tiny, fat bird, affirmed everything Medic felt for the man. Heavy was utterly devoid of pretense or complication. If a creature needed protection, it was protected. If a person needed love, they were loved.

He walked over and wrapped his arms around Heavy’s thick waist, resting his head against the solid expanse of his back. The action was familiar, comforting, a silent acknowledgment of their bond.

Heavy stiffened momentarily—not in rejection, but surprise—before relaxing completely, his body accepting the smaller man’s weight. He rested his own chin gently on Medic’s head.

“He is sleeping, Ludwig,” Heavy whispered, using Medic’s first name, a rarity reserved for moments of profound intimacy.

“I know, Ivan,” Medic replied, feeling the low, steady rumble of Heavy’s chest. “And we have so much to plan. The proper nutritional charts, the necessary vaccinations, the inevitable confrontation with the Administrator regarding the expenses.”

“We will fight them all, together,” Heavy promised, looking down at the small, round bird who had instantly become the epicenter of their world. “No one takes our son.”

The moon rose higher, casting long shadows. In the heart of the chaotic mercenary compound, a tiny family slept, committed to a future that involved fighting, healing, and an awful lot of specialized bird chow.

The recovery of Lil’ Pootis was swift and spectacular. Under Medic’s intensive care, the fractured little leg healed in three days—a medical miracle that Medic attributed to his pioneering use of slightly radioactive bone cement, and Heavy attributed entirely to the bird’s inherent Russian strength.

But with physical health came the inevitable demands of a growing, anthropomorphically heavy bird. Lil’ Pootis, now completely mobile, was a creature of singular focus: food.

The cost of feeding Pootis escalated rapidly. He quickly tired of Medic’s precise, measured nutritional slurries. He wanted solid food. He wanted the good food.

He wanted the Sandvich.

This presented a monumental philosophical and domestic crisis. Heavy’s sandwiches were sacred. Each multi-layered, perfectly crafted meal was built for sustenance and morale, a private ritual that kept him sane in a world of constant destruction. To offer a portion of the Sandvich was a gesture of deep, abiding respect, usually reserved only for Medic, and only after a particularly harrowing battle.

Now, a half-foot tall, demanding robin stood on the kitchen counter, flapping its small, useless wings and chirping loudly at the mere sight of the deli meat.

Heavy was attempting to eat lunch. He was holding the Sandvich, a magnificent structure of rye, salami, cheese, and lettuce, securely in his hand. Pootis was standing directly on Heavy’s plate, staring up with a fierce, unwavering intensity.

“No, little son,” Heavy rumbled gently. “Papa needs the fuel. You have your premium seed mix with extra protein.”

Pootis let out a series of demanding, high-pitched CHIRP CHIRP CHIRPS that translated roughly to: ‘I see the food. I require the food. Give it to me now.’

Heavy’s resolve wavered. His paternal instincts fought his fundamental need for caloric stability.

Medic entered the kitchen, observing the staredown with an air of clinical amusement, sipping his black coffee.

“You see, Ivan,” Medic noted, leaning against the doorframe. “He has inherited the capacity for aggressive negotiation from both of us. He is relentless.”

“He is hungry, Ludwig! I cannot deny my starving child!” Heavy protested, though the bird had consumed nearly half his body weight in protein pellets just an hour prior.

“You’re conditioning him poorly. You need to teach him boundaries.”

“Boundaries are for the weak, Doktor. Food is for the strong.” Heavy finally cracked. With a deep sigh of acceptance, he tore off a small, precise corner of the Sandvich, complete with a sliver of cheese and a tiny strip of cured meat.

Pootis attacked the piece of food with the ferocity of a starved wolf, gobbling it down in two rapid pecks. He chewed furiously, savoring the rich flavor. Once finished, he looked up at Heavy again, no less demanding.

“More, please,” Heavy interpreted, his voice soft with pride. “He likes Papa’s cooking.”

“Yes, he also likes the taste of extremely high sodium content, which will likely raise his tiny bird blood pressure,” Medic countered, though he was smiling secretly. The sight of Heavy surrendering his precious food to the tiny bird was heartwarming, a testament to his burgeoning tenderness.

The Sandvich Dilemma continued daily, forcing Heavy into a habit he never thought possible: provisioning for two. His grocery list, formerly dominated by cheap vodka and industrial-sized packs of ammunition, now included specialty organic produce and high-grade nuts, purchased at great expense via clandestine contacts.

It was during one such clandestine supply run that the depth of Heavy’s paternal protectiveness was truly tested.

He was waiting by the drop-off point, a secluded loading dock, when the Scout, bored and hyperactive, stumbled upon him.

“Hey, big guy! Whatcha doin’? Waitin’ for your secret lady friend?” Scout smirked, leaning against the wall.

Heavy merely scowled, clutching the plain brown box containing Pootis’s premium duck liver pâté (Medic insisted on high-quality ingredients).

“Is not for you, Scout. Is private business.”

“Private business? Looks like you got a box o’ bird seed, big boy. You got a pet now? What, a pigeon? Gonna train it to carry your tiny love notes?” Scout reached out playfully.

Heavy moved with startling speed. He didn't hit Scout, but he moved his body, a wall of pure muscle, directly between Scout and the box. His voice dropped to the dangerous, quiet rumble that signaled true threat.

“You touch the supplies for Pootis, I will crush you like tiny bug. You understand, Scout? This is the food for my son.”

Scout froze, genuinely terrified. Heavy rarely used that tone outside of combat, and the intensity in his eyes was lethal. Scout backed up ten feet instantly.

“Whoa, okay, chill! Your… your son? Wait, the fat little robin in the Doctor’s lab? That’s your kid? Man, that is messed up, even for you guys.”

Heavy didn't respond with words, only a heavy, possessive glare. Pootis was family. And family was defended absolutely.

When Heavy returned, recounting the exchange to Medic, the Doctor frowned slightly.

“You threatened the Scout over the pâté, Heavy? That is wonderfully primal of you. But we need to manage the narrative. People will talk.”

“Let them talk, Ludwig. They judge the appearance, they do not understand the connection. He is ours, and they must respect it.”

Medic nodded, walking over to Heavy and resting his head on Heavy’s broad shoulder. “Yes. They must. And I love you for it, my angry bear. Now, come, Pootis has just discovered the joy of tearing up medical textbooks, and I need help redirecting his intellectual curiosity.”

Parenthood, even for mercenaries, meant sleep deprivation. Lil’ Pootis, despite his size, had the nocturnal habits of a barn owl and the vocal volume of a jet engine.

He chirped. He squawked. He demanded attention, and occasionally, tiny midnight snacks.

Heavy and Medic’s shared quarters—a sparse, large room they had carved out near the Medbay—quickly became a permanent triage center. Pootis’s custom ammo-crate bassinet was placed squarely between their two cots.

It was three in the morning. Heavy was asleep, sprawled across his cot, an immovable mountain of Russian brawn. Medic was awake, slumped in a chair, attempting to read a volume on Prussian ethics by the light of a dim, cracked desk lamp.

Pootis woke.

“Poot! Poot! Pootis!” the small bird announced fiercely, flapping his wings against the sides of the crate.

Medic rubbed his eyes. “Shush, kleiner Vogel. Papa is working.”

Pootis ignored him. He chirped louder, a complex series of sounds that translated, Medic was certain, to ‘The room is too dark and I require a cuddle.’

Medic reluctantly stood. He was exhausted. He had been running simulations on Pootis’s metabolic efficiency all night. He reached into the crate, carefully picking up the warm, round bird.

Pootis settled instantly against Medic’s collarbone, a tiny, comforting weight. He emitted a soft, contented noise.

“You are manipulating me, mein Sohn,” Medic muttered lovingly, walking slowly around the room, rocking the bird gently. “You understand my weakness for your tiny, fat face.”

As he walked, he noticed Heavy stirring. Heavy rolled onto his side, his vast arms reaching instinctively for the space next to him. When his hand found only air, his eyes snapped open.

“Ludwig?” Heavy whispered, his voice thick with sleep.

“Just Pootis, Ivan. He needed reassurance.”

Heavy sat up instantly, fully alert. “Give him to Papa. Papa is the better pillow.”

Medic transferred the bird. Heavy held Pootis against his massive chest, the contrast between the huge man and the tiny creature intensely sweet. Heavy began to hum the same low Russian melody he used in the Medbay—a soft, comforting drone.

Pootis, nestled securely against the heat and the sound, was asleep within minutes.

Heavy looked at Medic across the darkness. “You need sleep, Ludwig. You look like the cadaver before the embalming.”

“And you look like a very large, incredibly handsome nightlight, Ivan. I worry about his developmental schedule. He is growing so fast, and I fear he is focusing too much on aggressive consumption and not enough on cognitive expansion.”

Heavy sighed, a huge, rattling sound. “He is a boy, Ludwig. Boys are simple. They need food, sleep, and the knowledge that Papa and Daddy will crush anyone who touches them. He is fine.”

“But the world is complex, Ivan! We are trying to raise a well-adjusted, if slightly corpulent, anthropomorphic robin in a mercenary war zone!”

Heavy shifted closer, extending one large hand across the cot to touch Medic’s cheek, his thumb gently smoothing away a line of worry.

“We are together, Ludwig. That is his safety. That is our strength. We will teach him what we know. You, the science and the complicated thoughts. Me, the survival and the crushing power. He will be the best bird.”

This simple declaration—the absolute certainty of their shared strength—was more potent than any romantic poetry. Medic leaned into the touch, closing his eyes briefly.

“Yes, Ivan. You are right. Our strength is his home.”

Heavy kept the bird safe against his chest, humming until Medic finally fell into a fitful, exhausted sleep. The shared ritual of the sleepless night, of guarding the small creature and comforting each other, became the new, defining rhythm of their relationship. They were no longer just colleagues or lovers; they were co-parents, cemented by the soft weight of a fat bird.

The rest of the team discovered Lil’ Pootis not with a grand announcement, but with the subtle, insidious evidence of his existence: tiny, oddly aggressive-looking bird droppings in unlikely places, and the distinct scent of high-grade duck liver pâté emanating from Heavy’s personal cooler.

The formal introduction, however, was inevitable. Medic insisted on it.

“He is family, Heavy. He needs to meet his uncles. We must present a united front of parental stability, even if three of them are clinically insane and the fourth specializes in murder through invisibility,” Medic declared, dressing Pootis in a tiny, custom-made, miniature harness and leash (for security, not for walking).

Heavy scowled. “I do not trust Pyro near him. Pyro sees only fire.”

“Pyro will see only a cute, soft creature worthy of affection. I have studied Pyro’s psychological profile. He is highly susceptible to small, round things.”

The gathering was held in the recreation room, a space usually dedicated to high-stakes poker and low-grade psychological warfare.

Pootis, standing proudly at Heavy’s feet, looked less like a pet and more like a very small, feathered warlord surveying his domain.

The mercenaries’ reactions were varied and instantaneous.

Spy: Cloaked discreetly in a corner, Spy de-cloaked only long enough to observe. He adjusted his mask. “Mon Dieu. That is… an aggressively rotund creature. A testament to your domestic capabilities, Doctor. I assume you engineered him?”

“Only slightly,” Medic replied, beaming. “It was mostly natural selection accelerated by extreme caloric intake and Heavy’s nurturing.”

Sniper: Sniper, leaning against the wall, merely pointed his kukri at the bird. “Good size for a target. Got a bit of a wobble to him.”

Heavy let out a low growl. “You aim at my son, Sniper, you will be aiming at the bottom of the map.”

Demoman: Demoman, already slightly intoxicated, squinted. “Is that an orange? Wait, no. Is it a small, perpetually hungry Scotsman? Hello, tiny wee bairn!” Demoman extended a clumsy, welcoming hand.

Pootis, mistaking the large, dark shape for a threat, puffed up his feathers, looking twice his size, and let out a surprisingly deep, echoing battle cry. “POOTIS! POOTIS!”

Demoman recoiled, rubbing his ear. “Jesus H. Christ, he’s loud! And hostile! Where did the wee beastie learn to roar like that?”

“He is learning Russian affirmations of strength,” Heavy stated proudly.

Engineer: Engie, the pragmatic Texan, knelt down, his eyes scanning Pootis’s architecture. “Well, lookie here. That’s some efficient biological engineering. Say, Doc, I could probably rig up some little magnetic boots for him. He’d be a perfect companion for a Sentry nest.”

“Absolutely not!” Medic snapped, pulling Pootis closer. “He is not a piece of military hardware, Dell! He is a highly sensitive, developing mind!”

Scout: Scout, still nervous after the pâté threat, kept a wide berth. “Look, I ain’t tryna be rude, but that thing is gonna be fat enough to roll soon. What do you guys even do with it?”

“We nurture him,” Heavy explained simply, stroking Pootis's back. “We teach him right from wrong. We prepare him for the world.”

Pyro: Finally, Pyro wandered in, mask slightly tilted. Pyro looked at Pootis. Pootis looked at Pyro.

The small bird, usually aggressive toward strangers, simply tilted his head. Pyro, with a soft, muffled sound of delight, knelt down. Pyro reached into their uniform and, after a moment of rummaging, pulled out a small, perfectly toasted marshmallow—a rare, gentle offering.

Pootis, captivated by the sugar, immediately waddled forward and accepted the offering with a polite little peck.

Heavy and Medic exchanged a look of pure parental relief and pride.

“See, Ivan? He responds to unconditional love and sugar,” Medic whispered.

“He responds to Pyro. This is useful data,” Heavy corrected.

The viewing ended with a reluctant acceptance from the team. Lil’ Pootis was weird, loud, and constantly hungry, but he was their weird, loud, hungry thing. He was the most civilian element in a compound dedicated to war, and his existence somehow acted as a strange, grounding force.

Later that night, as Medic filled out Pootis’s detailed medical chart (charting his weight, which was spiraling alarmingly), Heavy was assembling a tiny, customized Kevlar jacket for the bird.

“He needs protection, Ludwig,” Heavy insisted. “The blue team will not respect the fact he is a non-combatant juvenile. They will shoot at him just to annoy me.”

“Heavy, he is a bird. He can fly away.”

“He is a bird that prefers to walk, Medic. Look at him. He is built for ground support. And frankly, with his current mass, lift-off is mathematically problematic.”

Medic watched the affectionate care with which Heavy stitched the tiny garment. Heavy’s hands, capable of wielding a minigun and breaking concrete, worked with the meticulous delicacy of a lacemaker. This contrast—the brutal violence of his profession against the profound tenderness of his domestic life—was what Medic loved most about him.

“You are a wonderful father, Ivan,” Medic said softly, walking up behind him and resting his hands on Heavy’s massive shoulders, fingers kneading the tense muscles.

Heavy paused his stitching. “You are the clever parent, Ludwig. You keep his mind sharp. I just keep him safe and full of protein.”

“We are a unit, Ivan. A perfect, terrifying unit.” Medic leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the side of Heavy’s neck, just beneath the stubble.

Heavy leaned back into the touch, the tiny Kevlar jacket momentarily abandoned. “Yes, Ludwig. We are the family.”

As Pootis grew from a fragile patient into a robust toddler-bird, discipline became essential. The problem was that Pootis, having been loved unconditionally since his discovery, had developed an immensely spoiled temperament.

He threw tantrums if his sandvich corner wasn't toasted just right. He refused to nap unless he was positioned directly on top of Medic’s head, using the doctor’s helmet as a fuzzy, uncomfortable pillow. And he had developed a habit of stealing small, shiny objects, hoarding them in his nest—including Medic’s favorite scalpel and, once, Spy’s car keys.

The most challenging behavior, however, was his refusal to respect the boundaries of Medic’s lab.

“Pootis! Stop pecking at the centrifuge!” Medic yelled one afternoon, running toward the machine.

Pootis, who had somehow managed to get on top of the counter, was happily tapping his beak against a small vial containing a highly unstable compound.

Medic scooped him up, holding him firmly. “Nein! This is forbidden! This is dangerous! This could turn you inside out! No! Bad bird!”

Pootis merely chirped defiantly, a tiny, challenging sound.

Heavy entered the room, having heard the commotion. “What is the problem, Doktor?”

“The problem, Heavy, is that he has no concept of consequences! We must enforce boundaries! We must teach him about Schadenfreude!”

Heavy took the bird, holding him securely. He looked Pootis directly in the eyes, his own calm and unwavering.

“Son,” Heavy said, his voice deep and serious. “When Papa says no to the shiny things, you listen. Why? Because the shiny things are the things that hurt. And when you are hurt, Papa is sad.”

Pootis looked at Heavy, the defiance momentarily giving way to confusion. His tiny eyes blinked rapidly, processing the emotional core of the statement.

“Pootis?” the bird whispered, his vocal inflection now echoing Heavy’s own concerned tone.

Heavy nodded. “Yes, Pootis. Do not break the Daddy’s tools. Daddy needs his tools to keep Papa healthy. And Papa needs to be healthy to give you the Sandvich.”

This simple, pragmatic appeal—tying safety and obedience directly to the availability of high-quality food and the well-being of his primary provider—worked instantly.

Pootis deflated slightly. He let out a low, mournful noise that sounded like a promise of compliance.

Medic stared. “That is brilliant, Ivan. Pure psychological genius. You tapped directly into his primary motivational circuitry.”

“Is only common sense, Ludwig. He does not understand ‘Prussian ethics.’ He understands ‘food security.’”

Discipline with Pootis became a delicate dance between Heavy’s simple, emotionally grounded demands and Medic’s complex, often over-thought reward system. Medic tried to implement a sticker chart for good behavior; Heavy simply gave Pootis extra sunflower seeds when he saw him being quietly cooperative. Heavy’s method always proved more effective.

The process of co-parenting constantly highlighted the beautiful synergy between them. Heavy was the anchor, the grounded force of unconditional love and brutal honesty. Medic was the flight, the intellectual curiosity, the one who saw the potential for greatness in his son, even if that potential involved advanced chemical engineering.

Their romance deepened not in spite of the stress, but because of it. Every nightly debrief about Pootis's latest antics—whether he tried to sneak into Spy’s jacket or attempted to devour a stray grenade—became a point of connection, a shared history being built.

One evening, Heavy was meticulously cleaning his minigun, Sasha, while Medic was charting Pootis’s height on the wall (he was inching toward seven inches now).

“I am proud of us, Ludwig,” Heavy suddenly stated, without looking up from his work.

“Oh?” Medic asked, resting his pen on the chart. “Why now?”

“Because we work. We are different, you and me. You are the chaos, the beautiful madness. I am the wall. But Pootis finds his center in our difference. We are giving him balance.”

Medic walked over and watched Heavy work. The smell of gun oil and steel was comforting.

“Heavy,” Medic said, his voice low. “Before Pootis, I thought my life was fulfilling. I had my science, I had my work, I had you. But Pootis… he has given us a purpose that is larger than the next kill count. He is an investment in the future.”

Heavy looked up, his green eyes earnest. “You are the future, Ludwig. Pootis is just the proof that we build things that last.”

He reached out and stroked Medic's cheek again, the familiarity of the gesture conveying volumes of unspoken affection. It was in these quiet moments, surrounded by the absurdity of their life, that the true depth of their commitment resonated.

The question of Pootis’s education was an ongoing, low-grade battle.

Medic was convinced Pootis needed intellectual rigor. He spent hours trying to teach the bird the complex rules of chess, only to watch Pootis consume the bishop piece.

Heavy favored practical skills. He taught Pootis how to identify the subtle vibrations of an incoming cluster of rockets and trained him to recognize the sound of an enemy Engineer building a nest—skills Pootis learned instantly, his survival instincts keenly honed.

One afternoon, Medic gathered Heavy and Pootis for a formal lesson in Comparative Anatomy. Medic had prepared a large chalk drawing of an invasive species of large beetle.

“Now, Pootis,” Medic lectured, holding a pointer. “Note the carapace structure. It is designed for maximum defense, yes? But we can exploit the ventral seam with a precisely directed strike. Do you see?”

Pootis stared blankly at the drawing. He then took a large bite out of the end of the wooden pointer.

“He is not grasping taxonomy, Heavy! He is simply eating the evidence!” Medic stressed, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

Heavy, who had been observing from a chair where he was polishing a belt-fed ammunition chain, stepped in.

“Ludwig, you make the learning too complicated. He learns through the stomach, yes? We teach him what is important.”

Heavy picked up a wooden dummy target. He affixed a small, crudely drawn beetle caricature to it.

“Pootis,” Heavy commanded. “Enemy. What do we do to the enemy?”

Pootis, recognizing the aggressive context, immediately puffed up, let out a loud “POOTIS!”, and launched himself at the wooden target, pecking furiously at the drawing.

“Excellent form! Good crushing power! But wait!” Heavy pulled the target away. “A diversion. What if enemy brings the… the tiny weapon?”

Heavy mimed firing a small, imaginary gun.

Pootis, without hesitation, used his small, round bulk to waddle directly behind Heavy’s leg, using his Papa as a shield.

“See, Ludwig? Excellent tactical awareness! He knows when to retreat and utilize cover, which is always the large, strong parent.”

Medic watched the display with a mix of frustration and grudging respect. “He learns only what is immediately necessary for survival and immediate gratification. He is going to grow up to be a tiny warlord.”

“He is my son. This is good,” Heavy stated simply.

Despite their differences in teaching method, their commitment to Pootis’s well-being was absolute. They spent their evenings reviewing Pootis’s daily activities.

“He attempted to assist the Spy in a smoke screen by setting off a flare, which was highly inappropriate, but showed initiative,” Medic reported one night, while Heavy massaged his aching shoulders.

“He helped me carry a box of ammo almost ten feet! Excellent strength training,” Heavy countered.

It was Medic’s turn to find comfort in Heavy’s presence. He leaned back against Heavy’s supportive warmth.

“Ivan, sometimes I worry. We live such a strange life. We are surrounded by death. Pootis knows nothing else. Are we raising him to be functional, or just… a very well-fed killing machine?”

Heavy paused his massage, his hands resting heavily on Medic’s clavicles.

“We teach him love first, Ludwig. We teach him that Papa and Daddy are his. That is the safety. The killing is just the job. We show him that even in the job, there is loyalty, there is precision, there is… domashniy uyut.” (Home comfort.)

“Home comfort. Yes.” Medic smiled. In the heart of the constant war, they had built a small, warm nest, centered around the love for their fat, loud little robin.

The existence of Lil’ Pootis couldn't remain secret forever, especially not from the omniscient and financially ruthless Operator of the war: The Administrator.

One afternoon, the comms unit buzzed with a rare, personal message directed only to the Heavy and the Medic. The Administrator’s voice, a dry, elegant rasp, filled the room.

“Gentlemen. I have been informed that you have acquired an unauthorized biological entity within my compound. An entity that, I am told, is excessively large for its species and consumes an inordinate amount of resources designated for my mercenaries.”

Heavy immediately tensed, hovering protectively over Pootis, who was busy trying to pull a feather out of Medic’s shoulder pad.

“He is our child, Administrator. He is not consuming resources; he is investing in his future growth,” Medic argued smoothly, adjusting his spectacles.

“I do not fund family structures, Doctor. I fund war. Furthermore, the reports on this creature’s metabolic rate are fascinating. His anthropomorphic qualities make him potentially valuable for… ancillary research.”

Medic’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Research was his domain. No one used the word ‘research’ in relation to his family.

“He is a juvenile, Administrator. He is not a lab subject,” Medic stated flatly.

Heavy took over, his voice a low, terrifying growl that almost blew out the speaker. “You try to touch my son, Administrator, and all the mercenaries will cease to function. The supply lines will stop. The killing will end. Do you understand? You take Pootis, you lose Heavy. You lose Heavy, you lose everything.”

There was a long silence on the other end, the Administrator clearly weighing the economic value of a highly effective killing machine against a potentially interesting (but costly) biological specimen.

“Heavy. Do you truly value this… robin… over your contract?”

“He is my life, Administrator. More than life. He is the Sandvich of my soul.”

The Administrator sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. “Very well. He is authorized. However, you will personally bear the cost of his excessive dietary requirements. And he must not interfere with combat operations.”

The comms unit clicked off.

Heavy looked at Medic, his face a mixture of relief and righteous fury. “She wanted to study him! Like the animals! Like the specimens!”

Medic walked toward Heavy, his own temper simmering beneath his cool exterior. “She underestimated us, Ivan. She thought his existence was merely a distraction. She did not realize he is the foundation of our stability. She did not realize that in threatening him, she threatened the thing that keeps us both operational.”

They stood side-by-side, watching Pootis waddle across the floor, now completely oblivious to the existential threat he had just survived. The confrontation had not scared them; it had solidified their unity.

“We pay his food costs, then,” Heavy said, his voice determined. “We will steal more if we must. He will eat like a king.”

“Of course. We will simply list his meals under ‘Experimental High-Energy Ammunition,’” Medic mused, already concocting a plan for expense fraud.

The romance of Heavy and Medic wasn't just about affection; it was a deeply practical partnership built on shared goals, emotional loyalty, and a united, aggressive defense of their small, unusual family.

Pootis, having mastered the art of selective obedience and advanced foraging, began spending time outside the immediate confines of the Medbay. He considered himself a free agent, a field operative capable of self-sufficiency. This, inevitably, led to a dangerous miscalculation.

The blue team had launched a surprise attack on the main control point. The fighting was fierce, a brutal melee of rockets, fire, and screaming.

Heavy was on the front line, Sasha roaring, providing the unmovable defensive position the team required. Medic was nearby, leap-frogging between wounded teammates, keeping them alive with bursts of ÜberCharge.

Suddenly, a high-pitched, desperate “POOTIS!” cut through the din of battle.

Heavy’s blood ran cold. He recognized the sound not as an aggressive affirmation, but as true distress.

He swung his massive head, eyes scanning the chaos.

Pootis, having followed his Papa into battle, was attempting to retrieve a piece of half-eaten kibble near the main payload cart. He had stumbled directly into the path of an enemy Demoman’s charging explosive.

In a split second, the Demoman saw the small, round target—a clear, easy shot intended to merely annoy the Red Heavy.

The grenade was thrown.

Time seemed to slow for Heavy. The world narrowed to the sight of the small, fat bird, frozen in panic, and the lethal, dark sphere spinning toward him.

Heavy roared—a sound that was pure, visceral terror and fury.

He dropped Sasha—an act almost unthinkable—and lunged forward, not toward the enemy, but toward his son.

Just as the grenade detonated with a muffled WHUMP against the metal cart, Heavy covered Pootis entirely with his own vast body.

Medic saw the whole thing. He saw Heavy abandon his weapon, abandon his post, abandon his own safety for the small life of the bird. A wave of ice water hit Medic's heart, followed instantly by a searing, protective rage.

He didn't need to check on Heavy. Heavy was physically durable. But the threat to the foundation of their life—to their child—was unacceptable.

Medic reacted instantly. He targeted the offending Demoman and blasted him with a sudden, full ÜberCharge, not to heal, but to drive the Demoman back in confused terror. He then rushed toward the spot where Heavy lay still, covering the charred ground.

“Ivan! Pootis!” Medic shouted, kneeling beside the huge man.

Heavy slowly, laboriously, sat up. Smoke curled off his uniform where the blast had hit. He was singed but largely intact, protected by his sheer density and Heavy’s own iron-like will.

He lifted his hand.

Lil’ Pootis, covered in dust and slightly shaken, but completely unharmed, peered out from under Heavy’s armpit.

“Pootis!” the bird chirped weakly, then, realizing his survival, more fiercely: “POOTIS!”

Heavy held his son close, his immense chest heaving with exertion and pent-up emotion. “My boy. You are safe.”

Medic, trembling with adrenaline, reached out and grabbed Heavy’s face, turning it toward him for a frantic medical assessment.

“Are you hurt? Do I need to initiate resuscitation protocols? Ivan, tell me!”

“I am fine, Ludwig. Just… just angry.” Heavy looked at the enemy Demoman, who was now retreating in confusion. “They tried to kill my son. They tried to take our future.”

Medic did not speak; he merely pulled Heavy and Pootis into a tight, urgent embrace. The danger, the near loss, had ripped open the calm façade of their domestic routine and exposed the raw, beating heart of their love.

Back in the Medbay, the atmosphere was solemn. Heavy was seated on a gurney, undergoing a battery of tests. Pootis was confined to his box, sullenly refusing his premium seed mix, demanding a slice of the post-battle celebratory steak.

Medic was conducting an exhaustive ultrasound on Heavy’s ribs, his expression grim.

“You have hairline fractures on three costals, Ivan. And generalized explosive trauma, mostly superficial, thank God. But you were reckless! You dropped Sasha! You put yourself in the blast path for a tiny, fat bird!”

Heavy looked at Medic, his eyes serious and unwavering. “He is not ‘a tiny, fat bird,’ Ludwig. He is our son. I would do it again, one thousand times. You understand this, yes?”

Medic paused, dropping the ultrasound wand. He knew the answer, of course. He would have done the same thing. The logical, pragmatic, emotionally detached Medic had been annihilated by the emergence of the protective, loving father.

“I understand,” Medic whispered, pulling off his gloves. “I would have incinerated the entire Blue team if I thought it would protect him.”

He sat down next to Heavy, resting his head against Heavy’s shoulder. The smell of smoke and Heavy’s familiar cologne was deeply comforting.

“When I saw the grenade, Ivan…” Medic’s voice caught, thick with unprocessed fear. “I thought I had lost you both. It was a clarity of fear I have never experienced. Worse than any time your heart stopped under my scalpel. Because losing you is one thing, but losing our shared life… losing the center we built…”

Heavy wrapped an arm tightly around Medic, pulling him close. “We are not lost, Ludwig. We are here. We are always here. The war tries to take things from us. It tries to take sanity, and good food, and life. But it cannot take our choice. We choose to be parents. We choose to be family.”

He leaned down and kissed Medic deeply and slowly, a kiss that held the weight of the near-death experience, the overwhelming relief, and the deep, abiding stability of their commitment. It was a promise, made silently amidst the medical equipment and antiseptic air, that they were bound absolutely.

That evening, they held their child. Heavy sat in his chair, Pootis nestled in the crook of his neck. Medic sat opposite, reading a medical journal. The scene was one of profound domestic normalcy, utterly incongruous with their surroundings.

“We need to teach him about cover, Ludwig,” Heavy concluded thoughtfully. “He must respect the blast radius.”

“And we must teach him that retrieving discarded kibble is not the most prudent battlefield strategy,” Medic agreed.

The incident redefined their romantic bond. It proved that their love was not a fragile, temporary arrangement based on their mutual need for survival, but a robust, unyielding framework capable of surviving explosive trauma. Their family was real, quantifiable, and defended by lethal force.

Years passed in the strange, accelerated time of the mercenary world. Wars never truly ended; they simply shifted targets and personnel. Heavy and Medic remained a constant. And so did Lil’ Pootis.

Pootis was no longer the tiny, half-foot creature. He was, by now, fully grown—a truly spectacular specimen of anthropomorphic American Robin. He stood a towering seven and a half inches tall and had achieved a body mass that defied physics. He was a perfect, compact sphere of aggressive feathers and demanding eyes.

He retained the personality traits of his surrogate father. He was protective, spoke in loud, simple Russian affirmations, and had an insatiable appetite for refined carbohydrates. He had also learned to distinguish between different types of enemy fire and could, when necessary, deliver a surprisingly powerful, gut-punching peck to an unwary enemy Spy.

He was, in short, a success.

Medic, now slightly older, with a few more worry lines etched into his face, watched Pootis waddle across the compound one morning, confidently following Heavy to the armory.

“Look at him, Ivan,” Medic said, his voice soft with pride. “He is a magnificent bird. Robust. Intelligent. And slightly terrifying.”

Heavy watched his son proudly. “He is perfect, Ludwig. He learned the important things. He knows love, and he knows how to crush things.”

But with Pootis’s growth came inevitable, new concerns—the concerns of any aging parent.

“He is ready for independence, Ivan,” Medic noted one evening, sorting through a truly mountainous pile of Pootis’s laundry (mostly heavily-stained bird sweaters). “He is strong. He knows the compound. Perhaps we should allow him to try a supervised flight test?”

Heavy turned from his work, his expression troubled. “No, Ludwig. He is happy here. He does not need to fly.”

“But he is a bird, Ivan! It is his instinct! We are stifling his natural potential! Besides, his structural mass is becoming a genuine issue for his terrestrial mobility. Flight would be an excellent form of cardiovascular exercise.”

The subject of Pootis’s flight was their most frequent and persistent argument. Heavy saw flying as a risk, a separation. If Pootis flew, he might fly away. Heavy needed him physically present, a guaranteed weight in the nest.

“He is safer on the ground, Ludwig. We are the ground. He stays here.”

“You are projecting, Ivan,” Medic countered gently, sitting next to him on the cot. “You are afraid of him leaving the nest. But we have taught him well. We have given him this life. He needs to experience the fullness of his own strength.”

Heavy remained silent for a long time, meticulously cleaning the sights on Sasha.

“If he leaves, Ludwig,” Heavy finally said, his voice quiet, “he might forget us. He might find other birds. Birds who do not appreciate the necessity of the Sandvich.”

Medic reached out and took Heavy’s huge, calloused hand, holding it reassuringly. “Ivan, look at him. He is a miniature version of you. He is fiercely loyal. We are not just his caretakers; we are his world. He will never forget the people who taught him how to be strong.”

“Promise me, Ludwig. You will stay with me. Always.” Heavy looked into Medic’s eyes, the question not about Pootis, but about them.

“I promise, Ivan. We are bound. By science, by war, by love, and by the sheer, glorious effort of keeping that small, fat creature alive.”

Heavy finally nodded, relenting slightly. “Fine. We will discuss the flight testing. But we will attach a very long, very strong, titanium tether. Just for observation.”

The final realization of their commitment came on a rare, shared day off. The fighting had ceased for a contractual maintenance period, and the compound was eerily quiet.

Heavy and Medic were sitting together outside the Medbay, watching the sun rise over the jagged, dusty hills. Pootis was nearby, supervising a small group of ants attempting to carry off a discarded crust of rye bread.

Medic leaned his head on Heavy’s shoulder, sipping his coffee.

“You know, Ivan,” Medic mused, gazing at the horizon. “When I first came to this war, it was merely an experiment. A chance to perfect my craft, to push the boundaries of life and death.”

“And now?”

“Now… it is home. And you, and Pootis, you are the reason. You forced me to acknowledge that there is something more valuable than any scientific discovery: the simple, messy, beautiful complexity of a committed life.”

Heavy reached up, taking Medic’s hand and bringing it to his lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to the back of the gloves.

“We are the sanctuary, Ludwig. Everyone else here, they are broken or mad. But we are whole. Because we choose to build. We build the future, even if the future is a tiny, fat bird that requires a separate food expense account.”

The romance between them was not the passionate, dramatic flair of the Spy or the fleeting, intense bursts of Scout. It was a romance of practical, dedicated coexistence. It was the careful planning of surgeries, the shared labor of raising a bizarre child, the quiet understanding that they would always, without question, defend each other and their shared commitment.

That day, they made a final, quiet decision. They renovated their shared quarters. They didn't need more room, but they needed permanence. They reinforced the walls, installed a massive, custom-built shelving unit for Medic’s more dangerous chemicals, and commissioned Engineer to build a dedicated, climate-controlled sleeping area for Pootis—one that could withstand mild shelling.

They were building a fortress for their family.

As Heavy hammered the final nail into Pootis’s upgraded, sturdy nest box, Medic came over, holding a small, heavy piece of polished amber.

“I found this, Ivan,” Medic said, offering it to him. “In the ruins of the last map. It is old. Solid. Beautiful.”

Heavy took the amber, turning it over in his large palm. “It is strong.”

“It is a symbol, Ivan. It is the time we have already spent. And the time we will spend. Solidified, permanent.”

Heavy looked at the amber, then at Medic, then at the sturdy wooden box they had just built side-by-side.

“We do not need the small stone, Ludwig,” Heavy rumbled, setting the amber on a nearby shelf. He pulled Medic close, embracing him fiercely. “We have Pootis. We have the life we built. And we have the promise, that we will always crush anyone who threatens our nest.”

Medic leaned into the hug, inhaling the familiar, powerful scent of his partner.

“Yes,” Medic sighed contentedly. “And that, my dear Ivan, is the most perfect form of eternal commitment that two mercenaries could possibly make.”

Lil’ Pootis, having successfully supervised the demise of the rye bread crust, waddled over, chirping loudly. He demanded attention, food, and the immediate deployment of a bedtime story about the strategic advantages of heavily-armored vehicles.

Heavy and Medic looked down at their son, their faces filled with the quiet, powerful joy of mature, established love. They had found their family in the midst of war, and they would defend it forever. The sandvich was waiting. The science was waiting. The long, strange, wonderful life together was just beginning.