Author: Tokyo Sunset PM
Nobody likes being sick. Nobody likes being tourmented in such a manner by tiny non-cellular organisms. And nobody, repeat, nobody likes having Scout as a nurse. The fluffiest fluff that I've ever fluffed. Rated T because of Bostonians.Rated: Fiction T - English - Humor/Friendship - Spy - Words: 5,624 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 13 - Follows: 3 - Published: 11-25-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8735830
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: A chapter I wrote for 9 Days of Christmas depressed me, so I wrote this to be happy again. Aaaaand, that's pretty much it.
Disclaimer. I own nothing. Actually, I do own Lorraine. And I'm surprisingly attached to her.
There seems to be slight discoloration of the lips, but that is probably due to dehydration… I better take my tongue depressor to check his throat…
"Open up and say 'aaah'," said the Medic, lifting up a small wooden stick. The patient huffed.
"I am not doing zuch a thing, docteur."
The Medic shook his head at the Spy, who was lying in bed and sniffing quite a bit.
"Don't worry, Herr Spy, I will make it quick."
"You do not 'ave to make it anything. I am not sic-" the Frenchman's statement was interrupted by loud coughing. He clenched his gloved hand into a fist and brought it close to his mouth. The doctor leaned back after hearing the foul noise coming from his colleague's throat. The Medic couldn't help but to smile.
"Not sick, you say?" he joked. The Spy crossed his arms stubbornly, burying himself deeper into the thick blanket covering him.
"Alright, docteur. I may 'ave a slight cough, but eet eesn't a reason to keep me from battling with the BLUs today."
"Herr Spy," the doctor said loudly after dropping the tongue depressor hopelessly on his lap; "It vas your brilliant idea to fight at Coldfront in your suit. Everyone else dressed up appropriately. But you claimed zat class vent beyond warmth. And now look at yourself!" he gestured at him.
The Spy frowned upon the German. He himself hadn't been used to being sick. He hated the mere idea of skipping a battle because of a mere cold. It was a simple viral infection; it shouldn't have affected him like this. For all he cared, he was willing and able to go back to Coldfront and fight all day long. However, the doctor insisted on him resting for the next couple of days.
"All that talk of weather conditions affecting the immune system are greatly exaggerated," the Spy said through his teeth, shivering.
"Says ze man who formed a mountain of tissues by his side."
"I am not sick!" the Spy yelled. His voice immediately broke and he continued to cough loudly. The itch at the back of his throat had the worst possible timing. The doctor shook his head and stood up from the foot of Spy's cluttered bed. The Frenchman's room was surprisingly cluttered. The doctor carefully made his way towards the door, trying not to bump into anything.
"Three days. No exceptions." Medic looked at his watch. His eyes widened in shock.
"I must go now, ze battle begins in five minutes."
"Can you not you heal me with your Medi-gun, docteur?" the Spy asked, almost pleading.
"For ze last time, nein! Ze Medi-gun heals only flesh wounds. Organic cellular matter. Zat is vhy it connects tissue together and heals you if you get injured. A virus doesn't have a cellular form. A virus is neither living, nor dead. In ze best case scenario, ze Medi-gun vould do nothing. In ze worst case, ze Medi-gun vould overheal it." The Medic tipped his head to the left, as if he had just explained something to a small child.
"Do you understand now?"
"Oui." The Spy blew his nose into a tissue before discarding it to the floor, annoyed. He heard quick footsteps from outside of the room.
At that point, the Scout walked in, skipping in his squeaky sneakers.
"Ey, frenchie! 'Ow's it goin'? You look like crap!"
The Spy ignored the young man, stumbling around his room. He picked at some cotton appearing on his suit, which he refused to take off even when the Medic advised him to dress more comfortably.
"Whoooooa! Dis room's messy! Don't you evah clean up! Look at all this crap… Aw, sweet, French porn!"
The Spy picked up a magazine from the floor and examined it. The Spy huffed loudly.
"Eet eesn't pornography, you infantile Bostonian! Eet's a photography journal, now put it down!" he sniffed angrily. The Scout shrugged, not averting his eyes from the lovely ladies inside it.
"Yeah, whatever. You're still a freakin' perv. But duuude, your room is messy! I mean, look at all this crap! I thought Snipes' van was messy, but daaaaamn!"
The Spy cursed under his breath and looked at something in the Bostonian's arms. It was a medi-pack.
Was he going to…
Oh, God, no…
"Vhile I'm out on the field," the Medic snapped his fingers in order to get the Scout's attention; "Ze Scout vill be here to check on you."
The Scout jumped to the Medic.
"Dat's right, knucklehead! You're gonna hafta do whatever I say!"
"Now, remember, Scout," the Medic turned to the Bostonian; "You are banned from fighting today because of your little Pyro incident. So I vant you to behave, und-."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I gawt it already. I'll make myself useful. Jeez, have some faith in me, would ya?" the Scout replied, gesturing the Medic to leave. This was good enough for the doctor, who was anxious to leave for battle.
The Spy opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, the Medic rushed out of the door.
"Don't forget to check his temperature!" he yelled to the Scout as he ran down the echoing hallway.
"Attendre, docteur!" Spy reached out his arm and called out into the hallway, to no avail. The doctor was already out of earshot. The Scout was standing in the corner of the room, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He tapped lightly on the red medipack in his hands.
"So," the Bostonian stated; "Since I'm hiyah to take care of you, you can call me Doctah Scout!" he said with a smile. The Spy sniffed once.
"What exactly did the docteur say you should do?" the Spy asked before reaching deep inside his tissue box. He hated this cold. He absolutely hated it.
"Well, ya'know… check yah temperature, make sure you don't die and shit, I dunno." He shrugged. Truth be told, he didn't listen to half the things Medic had told him to do.
"I mean, I hafta do something. I can't believe I'm grounded! It sucks balls! I mean, how was I s'pposed ta know dat Pyro is a hydrophobic? All I did was splash da guy. Da next thing I know, Medic's yellin' at me and shit, and that Announcer hag grounds me! Grounds me, can ya believe dat shit! I mean, I ain't a kid no more! Dey can't just-!"
"Just to be perfectly clear," the Spy interrupted the babbling Scout; "You are here to check on me?"
The Spy glared at the Scout from behind his heavy eyelids;
"Wouldn't zat make you more of a Nurse Scout?"
"Wat?" Scout jumped up angrily, almost dropping the medipack.
"You ahre a nurse, Scout," the Spy snickered while blowing his nose.
"AM NOT! I AM NOT A NURSE! NURSES ARE THOSE PRETTY LADIES IN THOSE MOVIES DAD WOULD WATCH WHEN HE THOUGHT MA WAS ASLEEP! I AIN'T A NURSE!"
"Whatever you say, mon ami. Now, how about you get me a glass of water…nurse?" he sneered. The Scout's right eye began to twitch. His angry expression soon became a devilish grin. He put the madipack down on a cupboard and walked out of the door.
"Whatever you say, Spoi."
That…can't be good.
As the Bostonian left his not-so-humble abode, the Spy saw this as a perfect opportunity to sneak out of bed. He picked up his invisibility watch from under his pillow and slipped it on his left wrist. He lifted one of his feet from the cushy mattress…
And immediately plopped back into his bed.
This terrible cold has taken out more than he would admit. He could barely feel his extremities any more, and his head was pounding. Now even more, as he was able to hear the faint cries of his teammates and the bangs of various bombs from outside the sound-proof base. The battle had already begun. He wanted to fight with them, but was unable to move at all. The Medic might have been right.
But he would never admit it.
"I'm baaaaack!" shouted the Scout, who just ran into the room, carrying a glass of water and a couple of spices. He still had that look on his face.
"Here ya go, ya backstabbing jerk!" he presented the weary Frenchman with the glass.
The Spy took the glass with his shaky hand. He prayed not to spill anything on his suit. He brought the liquid close to his dry lips and promptly spat it out.
"Doux Satan en enfer! What on Earth is in this abomination?!" he shrieked, looking into the transparent liquid.
"It's jus' tap watah, Spoi," the Scout said, fidgeting around with a slight grin.
"And maaaybe I put in some salt and baking soda."
The Spy slapped his own forehead after putting down the glass on his mahogany cupboard.
"Why on Earth would you…?"
"I thought it would be funny." The Scout shrugged. He then took away the empty tissue boy sitting next to the French patient.
"Eet was hysterical. Now go. You have done enough." The Spy waved his hand to dismiss him and propped his masked head on the sweat-drenched pillow. He really, really, hated this cold. He couldn't even relax properly, having his nose run like a faucet. The Scout noticed this and handed him a new box of tissues.
"Thank you, nurse," the Spy mocked. He took out a single tissue from the box with such haste that he didn't notice the Scout's fiendish grin, or the small red specks of powder on the white papery surface.
"You know, how you manage to blow your nose through that ski mask is weird. What do you even do, lift it? I mean, wouldn't it be easiah jus' to take it off? I mean, sheesh! For a smaht guy you think you are, you can't get the simplest things." The Scout noted after his teammate dropped the tissue and began rubbing his upper lip hastily.
"Like how you couldn't get that I put chilli powdah in the tissue box."
"You…did WHAT?!" the Spy yelled, covering his red nose back with his balaclava. He was still rubbing his upper lip, which now looked chafed and about to fall off.
"You sick psychopath!"
"Hey. Next time, don't cawl me nurse, bitch."
The Spy looked around his room worriedly. This Bostonian taking care of him was even more of a sadist than the Medic…or the Pyro…or himself…
Huh. Everyone on this team is an insane sadist.
Either way, whatever that ring represented was vile indeed. The Scout appeared above the half-frightened Spy, holding a thermometer.
"Okay, brah, it's nine o'clock." The Scout looked at his wristwatch, which was going off occasionally, while shaking the mercury inside the glass vial.
"Time to take your temperature."
The Spy looked at the tip of the thermometer, his eyes half open. He looked back at the Bostonian.
"What did you do to it?"
The Scout shrugged, looking at the tip of the vial and pulling the corner of his mouth downwards in a confused manner.
"I don't believe you."
"Come on, I'm not completely evil! The Doc said that-."
"I do not care what the docteour said. You are not sticking that thing in my mouth!" he crossed his arms once again. The Scout's mouth twitched upwards and he began laughing.
"Do-ho-ho-hon't worry, Spoi," he sighed after his short laugh, propping his right hand on his hip and narrowing his eyes.
"This ain't goin' anywhere near your mouth."
It was unclear at what speed the Spy had cloaked himself and ran out of his bed, leaving his sheets floating about in mid-air before they were discarded near the door. The Scout blinked once before running after him, thermometer in hand.
"Spoi! Come on! I'm jus' messin with ya! Come on, man, don't be like that! If the Doc comes back and you ain't here, I'm dead!"
The boy swerved, curved and ran through the base, hoping that he would run into the invisible Spy. He checked every inch of the base before finally running outside. He noticed that it was extremely cold. He let out a puff of air. His breath formed a white track of steam, whooshing upwards. He heard the yells of his teammates, calling out to him.
"Scout!" Heavy shouted at the Bostonian. He was severely injured, and seemed quite desperate.
"Come help! Grab weapon and be credit to tem!"
"But…the Announcer…the Pyro…"
"Scout!" yelled the Soldier; "Get your lazy maggot ass here this instant! We have a battle to win!"
"…'kay," Scout chirped, forming a scattergun out of what could be defined as thin air in the palm of his hand.
After that response, the Scout happily ran over to his teammates, forgetting about his punishment set by the Announcer. He completely forgot about the sick mercenary he was supposed to check on. And that sick mercenary managed to find his shelter inside a small cabin near the end of the battlefield. His invisibility watch timed out, and he re-appeared once again, breathing heavily.
As soon as the adrenaline rush left his nerves, the Frenchman plummeted to the cold, wooden floorboards. He clutched his arms protectively and shivered. It was extremely cold outside. He leaned against the wooden wall, sniffing. It was strange to him, somehow. The screams coming from his panicked teammates echoed through the field, while various bombs went off and rockets flew through the air. The Spy wanted to get out and fight but couldn't, due to his severe exhaustion. After feeling around his pockets, he noticed that he wasn't carrying a weapon. He brought his legs close to his body, trying to hide himself from any unwanted visitors, either BLU or RED. This state he was in seemed familiar, somehow. He remembered experiencing a feeling quite like this. It was quite a long time ago, but he remembered.
He remembered Marseilles.
And then the fever kicked in.
The Sniper was running through Coldfront, trying to get away from a rampant Demoman focused only on blowing him to bits. The Scot followed the Sniper through the thick, crunching snow, firing grenades whenever the Sniper managed to find himself a half-decent camping spot. The Australian was breathing heavily as he entered a small, seemingly empty cabin. He hid behind the wall and pressed himself against it.
Everything was silent. The Australian hoped that the BLU Demoman had given up on him and decided to drunkenly chase after someone else. This was good news for him, and bad news for any other member of his team. After he had become confident that the sound of his breathing wouldn't give away his position, he let out a sigh of relief. The BLU's wouldn't be coming all the way out here. The Sniper looked around the cabin, trying to see if he could get a good view of the battlefield from one of the windows.
Sadly, this particular cabin was too well hidden. He mumbled under his breath and began looking for something else that could be useful to him. This was also a long shot, because the only thing he could see in the cabin was darkness.
Wood, wood, snow, more wood, an empty medipack, a cracked window, the Spook coughing in the corner, even more wood…
Wot the bloody hell…?
That medipack isn't completely empty!
After sampling some pills from the first-aid kit the marksman looked at the Frenchman. It was an oddly shaky Spy, sitting on the floor. Tufts of his messy jet-black hair were peaking through his balaclava, his eyes were watery and glassy, and he appeared to be…
"Spook? Wot-?" the Sniper interrupted himself, realizing that he mustn't make too much noise at this point. He looked around the cabin and lowered the tone of his voice.
"Wot are you doin' ere? Oi thought you were sick."
The Spy examined his gloved hands. The mere effort put into raising them up at eye level was extremely tiring. He sighed and looked over to the confused marksman. He coughed once and gave out a slight smile.
"Hey," he said in a strange squeaky voice.
"How long 'ave you been 'ere, Lorraine?"
The Spy looked up to the ceiling, not looking at anything in particular.
"The bombing started five minutes ago. I was getting worried. If you died, who would give me my English lessons, huh, Lorraine?"
The man is absolutely bonkers.
"Are you insane? You can't be here loike that! The Doc will go ballistic!" The Sniper said, stretching his arms out to emphasize the situation at hand.
The Frenchman flattened his arms back on the cold wall he was leaning on. He licked his dry lips.
"They are shooting a lot. It's weird. You told me Marseilles is going to be different, Lorraine. You promised! You- you promised it would be safe!" he tried to stand up, but soon plopped back on the ground. The marksman shook his head.
"And now yer hallucinatin'. Well, Oi ain't helpin' ye get up, Spook."
The Frenchman didn't move from his position. He let out a sound, resembling a squeak. His cheek was resting on the floorboards.
"It isn't a proper Christmas, isn't it? We don't have a tree or anything. I can't believe you carried me halfway through France just that we couldn't have a proper Christmas." His voice was becoming quieter, and soon became an incoherent mumble. The Australian had to get closer to him and check his pulse, just in case. He sighed upon doing so.
"Oi knew that Doc's idea wos mad. Getting the Scout to take care of you…" he said with a hint of mockery in his voice.
"You know that the lil' jackrabbit is runnin' 'round the field now? Probably forgotten all about ya."
The Spy didn't respond to these observations, and continued to mumble a bit faster. The Australian looked at his teammate, lyying with on the cold floor in a rather desperate state. He contemplated an idea he had, briefly. He grunted, knowing that he would later regret this decision.
"…but then again, father really liked the coat he left us, so…" the Spy babbled, long after the Sniper hoisted him up over his shoulder. He huffed as he heard the sounds of the RED Soldier's screaming and the painful cries of two Bostonians, both RED and BLU. The base was relatively close, but in battle, every second counted.
"Listen, Spook," he said to the Spy as he walked out on the snow; "Oi need you to behave. It's jus' a few minutes, and then we'll get you in the base. Alroight?"
"And quit callin' me Lorraine!"
As he was hastily brought back to the base, the Spy ignored the bombs bursting around them. He ignored the muffled curses of his Australian teammate, mostly because he didn't even realize that he was there. All he could see now were the purple lush lavender bushes, stretching across the Provence as far as the eye could see. The sun was shining warmly on his face, and the dried-up grass crunched underneath his sister's hand-me-down boots. There was no snow in his fantasy, only the vast, deserted plains of his childhood. He could hear his sister's soft, oddly unrecognizable voice, occasionally asking him how he was doing.
"J'ai mal aux pieds," he said to her. She looked at him slightly crossly.
"Say that in English, Pré-Far," she commanded; "After the war is over, we are going to America with mother. You cannot speak French there."
Her brother really shouldn't have complained to her. She was the one carrying her younger brother after he had become too tired to walk.
"I…feet…" he began.
"No, no, no, Pré-Far. Possessive."
"My… feet hurt."
"That is why I am carrying you, Pré-Far." She sighed. "You should really stop confusing your nominatives and possessives. You're almost nine, now. That mistake might have been tollerable a year ago, but now..."
Her younger brother did not understand any of that. He leaned his head against her shoulder and enjoyed the steady rhythm of her pace. She moved slowly, holding her brother in one hand and a suitcase in the other.
"You can let down," he said, kicking his feet towards the dusty ground. She commented something about the wording of the phrase but decided to go easy on him for now. He looked up at her, noticing the silent exhaustion in her deep blue eyes. He noticed that they still had a long journey ahead of them.
"Combien de temps jusqu'à ce que nous atteignons Marseilles?" he asked.
"Deux heures," she replied with a sigh of irritation. Her brother groaned, rolling his eyes. He looked up at the clear blue skies. A few birds flew across them. No airplanes. This comforted him.
His sister noticed her brother walking with his head up and staring at the azure sky. She smiled softly, and gingerly lowered herself down to him. She placed her smooth hand on his shoulder.
"Ne vous inquiétez pas," she said to him, stroking off some of his jet-black hair off his face. She cleared her throat before saying the next sentence, in her best possible accent.
"Marseilles is safe."
"Jesus Croist, mate! You alroight?!"
They were basically four feet away from the Spy's bed. Just four feet more until he could toss him in his room, dust off his hands, and return to battle. He could not get rid of the babbling Frenchman quick enough. In his hurry, carrying the almost comatose Spy, he managed to hit the Frenchman's head on the doorframe. His masked head jolted before falling towards the floor, lifelessly.
"Croist, mate!" Sniper muttered. "You still alive, Spook?"
The sick Frenchman groaned while barely lifting his head up. His icy-blue eyes failed to focus on anything, and were shifting from left to right at a rapid speed.
"Escargot crouton putain meerd, "the Spy replied, his head still waving to and fro. His eyes narrowed significantly, he looked up to the Australian, clumsily carrying him like a small child.
"Why, Victor, I 'ad no idea you cared," he snickered, betting his eyelashes. Sniper groaned.
The second bump to the head was slightly intentional, and it caused the Spy to return to his quiet, passed out state. Though Sniper was eager to see what would happen if he bumped the Spy on the head once more, he settled with tossing him over his shoulder and entering the cluttered room.
"Croikey, mate! You're heavier than you look."
The marksman dropped the Spook on the mattress, and the Frenchman landed safely, albeit a bit inelegantly. The Sniper sighed and turned around, anxious to get back on the battlefield. He eyeballed the few photography journals lying on the floor. He never really understood those. A man wanting to photograph a pretty naked lady was understandable. A man wanting to photograph a pretty naked lady holding two rotting skulls in her hands was spine-chilling. He bit the inside of his cheek and took one slow step out of the room.
The marksman sighed.
"Oi am not Lorie, mate. Stop callin' me that!"
The Sniper gingerly turned to the Spy, who managed to take off both of his shoes. He was holding them in his right hand and coughing loudly.
"Ze boots, Lorraine. Take zhem. I do not require zhem anymore."
The Sniper raised his eyebrow at the sight; the Spy was reaching two expensive-looking Italian black leather shoes. They were not boots in any way, but Mundy did not want to point that out. The Spy shook the shoes at him, couching in his pillow.
"You're ze one with ze frostbite, Lorraine. I weel not catch a cold if you wear zhem. Zey were originally yours…"
"Listen, mate, Oi am really not-."
"Take zhe boots. I do not require zhem as much as you think I do."
The Sniper carefully sat next to the sick Spy, and grabbed the heels of the shoes with his thumb, index and middle finger. He stretched his arm out, looking at the shoes skeptically. Normally, the Spy would get cross if one of the other mercenaries were to even come close to his belongings. And now he was giving away his stuff?
At that point, the Spy crawled closer to the Sniper and placed his head on his lap. The Sniper was too terrified to budge.
"Tu es la meilleure soeur au monde entier, Lorraine. Je t'aime," he murmured into the marksman's abdomen. Understanding the last words, the Sniper hastily moved away from the Spy, who immediately plopped back on the mattress. He said something before falling asleep.
"Your hair is brown. I remember eet now."
Before the Sniper could even walk out of the room, the Spy's breath pattern had become slow and steady. The marksman's mouth stretched to the side, forming a smile of mixed sympathy and pity. He tiptoed out of the room, which was stupid on his behalf because the pained screams of both the REDs and the BLUs could be heard from the outside quite clearly. After closing the door behind him, the Sniper looked at the shoes the Spy had given him. He will probably want them back, once the fever wears off.
The Sniper remembered the story the Spy had told him about Lorraine earlier that year. He told him about the boots, about her sacrifice, even how he couldn't remember her appearance any more. At that point, the Sniper couldn't help but to smile at an issue as simple as the Frenchman remembering his sister's hair color. He nodded at the shoes, before a strange force made him drop them to the floor.
He moved his mucus-stained hands away from his face.
"104," the Medic stated while shaking the thermometer he plucked out of the Spy's mouth.
"I hope you're happy, Herr Spy. Not only did you manage to catch flu, but you haff also infected two of your teammates!"
He gestured to the Sniper and Scout, laying in the white hospital beds in the medical bay. None of them seemed pleased to be there.
"We cannot fight vith three mercenaries sick! I am in enough trouble as is for letting ze Scout on the battlefield!"
"It was a good cawl!" the Scout replied from his hospital bed while blowing his nose. "You guys sucked without me! You guys sucked, legit!"
"Someone kill me," the Sniper said, looking at the ceiling.
"Und, now I haff to go get yelled at by ze Administrator. I hope you're happy. Personally Sniper, I blame you!" he said, gesturing to the shivering Australian.
"Wot?! Why me?"
"Something about you doesn't rub me ze right vay."
"Does Heavy rub you the right way, doc?" the Scout asked, cackling loudly. The Medic clicked his pen and began filling a note attached to his clipboard.
"Nein, tat aber seine Schwester," he responded calmly before clicking the tip of the pen back in its case. He propped his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.
"Let this be a lesson about leaffing ze base vithout your jacket, Scout."
The Bostonian lifted up his middle finger to the doctor as he was walking out of the medical bay. As the door shut, his head lowered down to the pillow with a huff. The other two of his teammates were lying on their hospital beds in silent awkwardness.
"So…" Sniper started, pulling the covers over his chest.
"Do not speak, bushman," the Spy turned to the side, trying to end the conversation before it even began.
"Now, come on, Spook. The least you could do is apologize fer settin' the whole bloody team back because you can't act like a good patient!"
The Spy snorted, which resulted in a vigorous disgusting cough.
"Or, ya know…" the Sniper continued; "You could…thank me fer savin' yer bleedin' arse."
The Spy looked up at the bushman, quite agitated.
"Thank you?" he spat out the word with revulsion; "Thank you for what, exactly? I recall you dragging me through the cold, sick and unarmed, banging my 'ead against the door, twice, and zhen stealing from me! Eet was ze most eediotic thing you have ever done! You carried me on your back! I COULD 'AVE GOTTEN SHOT!"
His eyes widened, and he soon turned back on his side, avoiding eye-contact with the Australian.
"Not to mention, only God knows what your sick mind could 'ave come up with…when I was unconscious…"
"Don't flatter ya'self." The Sniper ticked his head to the side, realizing that he could not possibly get an apology or gratitude from the Frenchman. He raised his eyebrow.
"And wot do you mean, 'stealing from you'?"
"You took my expensive Italian shoes, bushman!" the Frenchman snapped, lifting his arm up to emphasize the seriousness of the situation.
"I 'ave found zhem in ze 'all. Zey 'ad your disgusting greasy fingerprints on the heels…I cannot even look at them anymore."
"Took them? You gave them to me!"
"I did no such thing, you lying bastard!"
Sniper's anger slowly started to melt away as he realized that the Spy could not recall anything he did in his feverish state. He laid back on his bed and shook his head.
"You don't remember a thing you said yesterday, do you?"
More awkward silence.
"I do suppose," Spy finally said; "that something worse might 'ave 'appened to me if you did not intervene."
"'S nothing, Spook." The marksman smiled, knowing that the Spy's admission was the closest thing he would ever get to expressing gratitude.
"Oi jus' did wot anyone with a grain of logic would've done. Oi mean, you see a friend in the cold, alone, and you just-."
"Friends? Ha!" the Spy tossed his head back, mockingly. "We are hardly friends, Mundy."
"Laugh all you wont, but Oi'm the closest thing you'll ever have to a friend."
The Spy wanted to protest at that, but he didn't. Deep inside, he knew that Mundy had a point. Once again, he pulled the thin, white covers over his masked head.
"The Team Fortress Organization doesn't condone friendship."
"Maybe. But keep in moind, even Hamlet had Horatio…" The Australian looked up from his intertwined fingers, and noticed that the Spy was looking at him in surprise. The marksman smiled.
"Wot? Surprised that Oi know my Shakespeare?"
"Frankly, I'm surprised zat you know who Shakespeare ees. The Bard of Avon simply doesn't seem to be exactly up your alley."
"It's… a long story," Sniper shrugged.
"You will have to tell me zat story…in due time." The Spy looked up at the ceiling, analyzing what has just been said. He remembered the tale of the prince of Denmark. In the end, Horatio was the only one left to tell the tale of Hamlet's life.
"Even Hamlet had Horatio, huh?" he asked the Australian. He nodded to the Spy.
"I…I cannot find a flaw in your logic, bushman."
"That's because it ain't got a flaw, Spook."
"WILL YOU TWO FAGS SHUT THE FUCK UP, I'M TRYIN-A SLEEP!" the Scout protested, lifting his head up from his surprisingly comfortable pillow.
"Mmmmph-mmmph-mmmph!" the Pyro said in a cheery tone as he entered the infirmary. The Scout jolted in fear as the Pyro put down his clipboard and pulled out a syringe.
"Hmmpho, Schmmpt. Rhmmdy frhhm hmmr hmmshmmnathmmn?"
"Examination? What examination?" the Scout panicked as the Pyro squeezed some greenish liquid out of the syringe.
"Oh, so you're checking up on us? Listen, Py, I'm sorry about the watah…no hahd feelin's, right…? Py? Py, whatcha doin' with dat…Py? Py, whatcha doin' with those needles?"
The Spy and the Sniper looked at the sadistic Pyro checking up on the frightened Scout. They tried not to get too amused, but occasionally, a small chuckle would escape them.
"This ain't funny, fags! HELP ME! DOC? HEAVY? ANYONE!? OW, THAT HURT! HOLY CRAP DAT HURTS! I REGRET EVERYTHING! I REGRET EVERYTHING I'VE EVAH DONE! YOU'RE THE WORST NURSE EVAH, PY! OOOOOOW!"
"I changed my mind," said the Spy, propping himself on the pillow with his elbow to have a better view;
"I love this cold."
"Well, technically, now you have the flu."
"Shut up, bushman."