A Little Red Realignment (TF2)

- Right Foot, Left Foot -

- "Was is los...? -

A wave of ecstasy fell over Johann. He groaned in displeasure, careful to stay quiet during the early morning hours. Aside from the soft clatter of tools and trays as he worked, he heard little from the rest of the base other than the gentle footfalls down the hall. He froze, holding his breath - though he didn't need to breathe to begin with - and waited for the footfalls to pass.

Until they didn't.

There was a gentle knock at the door, "Doktor, can I come in?"

"Er," the medic slowly removed a hand from his open chest cavity, shuddering as his hands brushed softly against his internal organs, "one moment, bitte, Herr Heavy." How embarrassing, being caught in the middle of a procedure like this. Not to mention, his acting wasn't exactly top tier; perhaps his voice was too breathless because a sigh followed, "Is everything all right in there?"

"Hm? Ja, ja, of course. Just doing a little clean-up." The door opened and a shocked pair of eyes fell on him. The large Russian rushed to his side, "Doktor, what are you doing?" The Doctor flushed, staring him the eyes, "A little surgery. Nothing too big."

As if on cue, a yelp of terror from the entrance of the room interrupted them, "Holy crap! What the hell?" Scout stared in shock.

"Shush, you will wake the others. Go back to bed, Scout." Scout continued to stare in horror, "Ew, you guys. Seriously. Can't you do this crap at like... not 4 in the morning?"

"I was just finishing up, actually."

"Not my point, man. Fuck this, I'm going back to bed. Keep it down, would you?" And as quick as he had entered, Scout left.

"He didn't even close the door," Ludwig criticized.

"Doktor-"

"Now that I think about it, you didn't close the door, first. Do that next time, please."

"Medic," the larger man reached a hand out to grab his attention.

"Yes?" The Medic turned his head sharply, as if greatly insulted. His hair, moist from sweat, was pushed back and a loose curl hung low over his forehead. He had leveled his breathing for the most part, but in the silence of the infirmary his gentle panting could be heard beside the noise of doves moving about. The doctor almost valued other's views of him above all else, so it was enchanting seeing him so disheveled. He seldom let himself go, especially since the quick-fix was born.

Maybe it was the medicinal fumes, gently flowing from the mouth of the gun to the doctor's awaiting nostrils, but something about the doctor seemed so utterly inebriated - It could've also been the lack of sleep in all fairness. "You're bleeding," he stared down into the cavity that was the doctor's chest. The doctor followed his gaze, "Oh! Yes, that does appear to be correct."

He turned the dial of the quick-fix - a "prototype," as the doctor dubbed it, of something greater yet to come - clockwise and returned to his work, craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle the better view of his work. The Heavy had never seen such horrors before nor been under the knife himself until recent, so witnessing something so serious and strange seemed almost too intimate for his tastes. He was not a skilled poet by any means, but something about the exposed heart staring back at him was so utterly romantic, if not utterly horrendous.

"You can leave," the smaller man spoke, making an incision at an angle the taller couldn't quite see, "if you're only here to fuss over my practice, you're wasting both of our mornings."

The doctor suddenly bit back a gasp, withdrawing his hand momentarily and blinking hard to fight back a cry. Misha, the resident Heavy Weapons Guy, took a step back, "Goodbye, doktor."