#vorfreudc

   Efficient, surgically precise, and professional, Wilhelm is an excellent doctor though BLU has grown to foolish attempt at licking their own wounds. All drawn to him eventually when REDs kindness of the finishing shot remains saved in gun barrel. Silent prayers bared between grit teeth while they spit bravado to save face. Ask and they receive. The Doctor provides miracles in the waste.

  Needle point sinks into one end of the wounds jagged edge. No need for anesthetic. Sniper will bear it just fine. They’ll go through worse. Cecil speaks and bespectacled gaze remains fixed on his work making no indication that he heard the Sniper at all. In and out the needle goes tugging weeping flesh taught before he finally speaks. “No.”

  “You’re worse.” He says flatly no change in his usual monotone. “Much... much worse.”

People generally avoided their Medic. He was not unaware of the stillness that seemed to permeate around the man, a lack of any unnecessary action he could respect. But there was something else there too, unsettling in the silence. 

You could forget sometimes that certain men killed for a living. Outside of battle some of his colleagues would loosen; drink beer, watch telly, gather a certain amount of good cheer to talk about something inconsequential. It was of Cecil’s opinion that Medic was someone that never loosened. At least, not within his observation; and Cecil observed more than most people noticed.

No matter how stupid his teammates could be sometimes, they felt the wrongness too. The silence paired with the absolute horror the Medic wreaked on struggling RED survivors was unsettling. This often lead to non-fatal wounds being hidden for a time as an act of avoidance.

But Cecil had stopped tolerating decisions based on emotions since he put his father in the ground. He was injured. The Medic was a professional. That was all.

The bite of the needle is agonizing on top of the wound, but tolerable. Fingers of his uninjured arm gripping an armrest reflexively, he meets the object of the doctor’s cool gaze with his own.

“Sounds right.”

Her breath is a laugh, near silent as Medic's voice in the dark. The Brutal shifts very subtly on his mattress, the heat of his palms on her hips keeping her in line for now.

The Brutal thinks, for a moment to give him a stupid answer. Cheeky. Have him call her mistress or her own alias. The thought passes quickly enough, she's not competing for theatrics. Just control.

"Shannon."

The revenant presses her palm, her fingernails, more firmly against the Medic's chest. "I kept something of her alive. Why?"

Shannon sets her free hand atop one of his, one on her hip. Warning or encouragement is unclear, but her legs tense with their sole need to balance her form. She smiles at the physician in the low light, knowing her can see her by now.

@vorfreudc || hewie pls

@refiinedrogue @vorfreudc

For someone who moved with casual grace Wilhelm was fast. By the time she’d spoken the words and stood to leave his hands closed around her wrist wrenching the arm so it pinned against her backache other resting on her shoulder. The whole thing had taken less than a breath.    “Do not lie to me.” he instructs. “Sit.”

His grip wasn’t crushing; if anything his hold was casual, with just the expected amount of authoritative touch. Usual methodology proved inefficient in the Badlands, the stubborn turned impossibly so with the illusion of immortality. The weak, festering in their frailty like a plague were satisfied as simpering prey insistent on hiding ever scrapes. He was no fool; the limps in gaits and wrists tenderly tucked to chests were seen immediately with a sharp eye.

If the files were correct it was nearly time for Satellite to make her rotation and fly towards RED. He could have very left her in state as the other Medic’s worry. Whether Maria found herself on BLU or RED couldn’t concern the Doctor less. It was his a promise he made as Doctor to aid the injured. To weak and feeble alike. Even to those with such a weak appreciation towards life. Wilhelm’s hand presses down more firmly against her shoulder solidifying the command. Sit. The Doctor had no intention of asking again. He withdrew his hand, one finger at time, from Satellite’s arm, then, the wrist.

Wilhelm’s eyes hang on Satellite’s, his patience waning as he waits for an explanation.

Her wrist hurts. Throbbing in time like a pulse, it feels too warm. Like it isn’t a part of her anymore. She does her best to ignore it, since there are no bones sticking out and it isn’t bent in a bad way she reasons it could wait until the switch. It really is completely bearable, as long as it’s kept still. She nearly screams when he grabs her. A strangled whine escapes instead, arguably more embarrassing in it’s smallness as she pulls in a reflexive reaction to escape. The grip holds. It takes her a second to realize nothing horrible was happening, that he hadn’t grabbed the injured wrist and was just holding. Everything is fine.

The rubber is just a touch colder than she expects, and she remembers them. Pressing on her shoulder, so near to where it once gripped her lapels and threw her away. She swallows and does as she’s told.

A laugh, a soft bark from her chest. Her gaze is dark and dancing, bemused so much that she doesn’t even roll her head away from the doctor’s touch. She doesn’t like it, his fingers dancing so close to her throat. But there’s something in him in that gesture, the threat of a man daring to tame a beast. 

It’s cute.

“Confident. Nice.” Shannon purrs, fingers sliding up the fabric of his shirtfront and over his collarbone. Medic, is, well. 

Saying he’s a piece of shit is probably unfair. But it’s not inaccurate. Manipulative. Self-serving. Dangerous. It’s the air of authority he carries in his gaze, the posture in his shoulders, the tension in his fingers even now, that is electric. It makes him...well.

It’s why the Brutal didn’t flat kill him earlier. He’s more interesting than all that. 

the war wages, ceaselessly, on despite the heat,  and Ludwig has long forgotten to ruminate over what has become of his gift to Herr Rosenfeld — one dispatched in the subtlest of manners so that the BLU medic might never find how he came to receive it in the first place. Oh, well, he might suspect; for rats do not tend to go tearing one another to pieces with such fervent violence within a night. Not without assistance from an outside source ... and  one that Ludwig was only too pleased to provide. But, whoever Wilhelm chooses to believe is the culprit, the fact remains that he will have no proof for his accusations.

Ludwig finds a morbid sort of pleasure in imagining how Wilhelm might  ( if he does )  come across the carcass of the singular marked rat amongst the dead, the red tab wrapped securely around its leg all too difficult to miss even in the pool of crimson it’s surely sown beneath the tiling of BLU’s laboratories now. The cruel glee at his own cleverness has come and gone, however, and days have passed since he sent off his work to the BLU base to be deposited beneath the enemy medic’s floors. He will surely know Wilhelm’s reaction the next time they meet. And so, project at last finished with, it’s put out of Medic’s mind as he returns with ease to the preparations at hand for their next encounter with BLU.

It’s during the last of few moments he finds alone during battle that he catches shuffling footsteps behind him. He turns, eyes narrowed and saw in hand, to face the unexpected company. Too light to be a mercenary of any intimidating weight, and too clumsy to belong to BLU’s singular and pitiful provision of espionage. The battle is coming to a close; Ludwig’s team had surged on ahead, their victory ensured with most of BLU dead or certainly out of commission, and Medic left to tend to a straggling RED torn to shreds by a trap of smartly-placed bombs. But even all his healing technology and expertise could not save the scout, and Medic was more than content to set aside Medigun, packing up his things as he watched the tightness of tortured limbs going at last lax, the minute changes in the dilation of dark pupils. There he remained, watching with some amusement, as Respawn collected the body, and until now.

Bonesaw lowers in the slightest when Medic catches sight of who it is that’s come to greet him. But Medic barely has a moment to greet the BLU, let alone prod answers out of him about what he knows must have been a delightful scene, before Wilhelm doubles over and vomits ... red and black, blood and God knows what else. Medic’s gaze flits from the dark red stains of the BLU medic’s coat back to hazy eyes; he watches, his own growing wide with increasing alarm, as the other medic stumbles closer and closer still.

“ What the hell are you doing? ”  is hissed as the BLU doctor lurches towards him, and Medic finds himself stepping back and away from the outstretched hands reaching for him. His next step backwards, however, finds a dead end as his back hits a dirt-stained brick wall with a resounding thud that sounds oddly like finality. He would move to shake off the forceful hand that comes to rest on his shoulder, but morbidly fascinated eyes are fixed upon Wilhelm’s, and on the clawing gashes left behind in the flesh of his cheeks, on the tremor in Wilhelm’s jaw.

He has never seen the other man so terribly undone before, and the state of the medic amuses so greatly that he forgets to wonder what might have induced such a frantic and self-destructive state. It’s only when fingers slide around his temples to press against the back of his head that Ludwig thinks there is something odd about the scene. Then teeth sink into his throat, and Ludwig flinches, thrashing wildly as Wilhelm holds fast to him and teeth tear into flesh. He lets out something like a strangled shriek — it goes unheard, however, caught in his throat and between the unrelenting clamp of the BLU medic’s jaw.