Chapter Text
1965
“Herr Demoman. You need to get up.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Demoman.” Medic scolded, crouching down to grab Demo’s shoulder roughly. Demoman jumped at the sudden contact, arm sweeping in an uncoordinated attempt to shake him away.
“Fuckin’… get off me, you bastard,” Demo drawled, weakly pushing against Medic’s bicep. The bottles and cans strewn around him shifted and scattered as he moved, Medic’s already thin frown curling further in displeasure at the sounds.
“Demoman, you are being a fool,” Medic hissed. “Nein, a child. We are all upset, like you are, but you do not see other members on the team wasting away on the floor like this. You still have a job to do, and you must do it.”
“Oh, shut up,” Demo moaned, “What I do with my own time is none of your damned business.”
“A bold claim,” Medic said, unamused. “But I assure you, it shall very well be my business when your idiotic behavior gets another teammate killed.”
At this, Demoman reared back, finally meeting Medic’s gaze head-on. The two glared at each other, Medic’s tight expression daring Demo to retort.
Demo had no argument for Medic, or maybe he was just too drunk to think of one. Whatever the reason, Demo’s silence made something in Medic’s expression falter, finally dropping his vice grip on Demo’s shoulder.
“Demoman,” Medic said, trying to school his tone into something less accusatory, “I know you have been… profoundly affected, by the Soldier’s death. We all have. But as your teammate and your… doctor, I cannot allow you to continue acting like this.”
Demoman blinked, some form of clarity returning to him as he quickly avoided the Medic’s eyes. “I need another drink.”
“The last thing you need is another drink, Demo.” Medic spat. “I’d have already poured out every bottle of liquor I could find on this base if I wasn’t so sure the withdrawal would kill you within the week.”
“Don’t you bloody dare,” Demo said, though his words were too slurred to have any bite to them. Medic only clicked his tongue in response.
“Heavy has a mission in a couple of days that requires additional firepower,” Medic said. “If you can sober up enough in time, your skills make you the perfect candidate for the job.”
Demo groaned at that, squeezing his eye shut. “You bastard. I almost… listened to you, there. Should ken you always have those ol’… sinister… motives, of yours."
“It is not sinister to ask you to do your job, Demoman.” Medic’s tone has lost any lenient edge it might have had. “You are a mercenary and you are expected to act like it. While you drink yourself to death on the floor, your teammates are forced to do your job for you, and I assure you they are not as good at it. Your negligence endangers the whole team.”
“Fat load you care, if the team’s in danger…” Demo accused. “It all… it excites you, doesn’t it. We’re all just— just— potential cadavers for you… your freak hobby.”
“You—!” Medic righted himself at that, kicking bottles away as he stood to his full height, staring Demo down with a steely glare. “I should have known trying to reason with you would be pointless. Lay there, then, for all I care, but know I am very serious when I say that if you continue this behavior, you. Will. Die.”
Demo could only huff, a sound almost like a laugh, but devoid of any mirth. “I’d sure be doing us all a favor.”
Medic cast him one last disgusted glance before turning sharply on his heel and leaving the room.