Work Text:
"Hello, Fat Demoman!"
Fat Demoman. It was a phrase Soldier'd never thought he'd say, simply because it wasn't a phrase he'd ever had need to say. Demoman was many things. A drunk, a loudmouth, violent, dramatic, prone to mood swings, but one thing he'd always been was fit.
He was a man of dark skin pocked and scored with scars, stretched comfortably over gently rolling hills of muscle and sinew. He was tall, long legged with slim calves and smooth thighs, his muscular bottom never quite flattered by the jumpsuit that was his uniform. Demoman was always trim, never paunchy or pudgy. At least, not until now.
Soldier had thought the rounder look to his teammate cute, like the boisterous Scot had taken on shades of a big, beer-smelling teddy bear in a stained t-shirt and dressing gown. The furry mutton chops that warmed his jawline certainly added to the fluffy illusion. Even shoved back into his uniform, his posture once again straight, clean and about as sober as he ever got, the bomber's physique wasn't quite a slim as it used to be, however the difference was minimized in his change of presentation.
The car ride had proven interesting, difficult, even. Crammed in the back of Miss Pauling's car with Pyro, it was hard to stay still with Demoman, his long-lost friend, so close, sitting just in front of him, warm and soft. So very warm, wonderfully so, hot and near-blistering in the intensity of his own-- wait, no, Pyro had set fire to the seat again. But Demoman was certainly hot, he'd give it that. Kept from his own thoughts by warring with the firebug, Soldier had almost welcomed the severing of his own hand, if only to keep him from scooting forward in his seat and wrapping his arms around the one in front of him, around Demoman's soft midsection and giving a squeeze.
How could he suddenly be so damnably attractive with those fuller cheeks, a softer chin, and a thicker middle? How could a small change like some extra pounds take a handsome man to the subject of niggling thoughts that wouldn't leave the more lurid, visceral parts of the American's brain? He wondered what he looked like without a shirt on. His pecs, once hard, might be softer now, edges rounded, the lines between muscles now gentle curves. His belly, once trim and flat, with muscles that moved visibly beneath it when he breathed or stretched, now sticking out a little, soft and squishy, his belly button deeper, the hair there a little sparser-seeming. He couldn't help but imagine petting that tummy, running his hand over it, resting his face atop it and nosing into the soft fat that now lay there, his hand trailing slowly southward along that trail of dark hair.
The trip to the vet was a welcome stop. Along with getting his hand back and curbing the blood loss, a puppy in the car made a great distraction from his own dirty thoughts. The last thing he needed was to get himself worked up and Pyro look over and notice and get upset or something, or worse, investigate the bulge in his uniform trousers, looking for hidden gifts or a candy bar.
It was when they had to don disguises, to dress as civilians, that he came crumbling down. Miss Pauling had afforded them extra time to prepare, simply because she knew getting Soldier to dress as a civilian was a logistical nightmare. And of course it should have been! He was no civilian, so to dress as one was such a scathing lie, it was scandalizing! He'd been nervous about the idea, disliking shedding his helmet and fatigues for anything but sleep or shower, but when Demoman had unzipped his uniform, he lost his ability to protest for the time being.
Red coveralls parted, revealing the long-sleeved white cotton shirt that served as the only barrier between the bomber and the desert air. Soldier began to sweat, though the heat didn't factor in much. Jumpsuit pushed down to his hips, Demoman tugged his shirt off, setting it atop a discarded milk crate in the alley where they hid. He was glorious. His belly and love handles, accentuated by the elastic of his boxers, welcomed Soldier's eyes, and he was just as he'd imagined him: smooth curves where hard lines had been, sparser hair, thicker silhouette. The American wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around the Scot, to let his hands run over him and feel the give of his flesh beneath his hands, no hard muscle but comfortable pudge, soft to the touch and so warm and comfortable. He wanted to kiss him, tell him he was beautiful, fall to his knees and nuzzle into his belly, smooshing his face in and snuggling against him.
Shedding the remains of his jumpsuit, Demoman tugged his trousers on, followed by an undershirt. By God, did those pants hug his bottom in ways boxers alone couldn't properly outline.
He cast a glance to his immobile companion, staring with glazed eyes in his direction, in what he assumed was just the middle-distance. This whole dressing like a civilian thing was probably hard for Soldier to process, being so far from the identity to which he clung so tightly. "Lad? Ey, Soldier, ye there?" he asked, sliding his arm into his new shirt.
Soldier started, coming to attention before sinking back into what semblance of reality he inhabited. Looking down at his hands, he realized he was still holding his own disguise and the duffel they'd brought for their uniforms. Clearing his throat, he quickly turned his gaze to Demoman's eye. "Before I do this, well, I was just... thinking."
"Oh boy."
Soldier sighed through his nose, the hard line of his jaw growing a little softer, a little less clenched than usual. Fantasies could wait. There was work to be done, and a disguise to don. He was going to be dressing as a civilian. Not a soldier, not an enlisted man, not a mercenary, but a regular, slacks and shirt civilian. He wasn't one, though. He wasn't, and Demoman knew it, right? He almost looked scared.
"Here is the situation as I see it..."