Chapter Text
Retreat was sometimes the best option in battle. Not the most honourable choice, but rarely the most foolish. To fall back and take a moment to assess your condition, your options: though you risked losing ground in the process, it would be a certainty if you barreled into an impossible situation just to be taken out of the picture. Twenty seconds in the respawn machine were twenty seconds you were not blocking the enemy's advance. Twenty seconds where your teammates could fall like dominoes behind you.
With that in mind, thoughtful positioning was the lynchpin that made Heavy effective - alongside his intuition, teamwork, and his massive, beautiful gun. At least, these were the truths he reminded himself of as he positioned himself in the garage at Mossrock.
The room was empty, save for him and Medic. A small square passing point, with automatic metal shutters but no windows. Just a concrete floor and wooden walls, as if the jungle flora outside did not exist. A far cry from the cacophony on the other side of the panelling. No, this room was quiet. No one would find them here. It was off the current path; BLU gained nothing from rerouting this way when they had still to claim the first point. Even so, he stood with his back to the wall, placing himself between the forward door and his injured teammate in the corner. Heavy did not need this retreat. But he knew the best option was never to abandon his Medic in the field.
He had been booking it back to the front lines when he bumped into Medic. He and Soldier hounded by the enemy team as BLU finally got their foothold in the building adjoined to the point. Medic lost Soldier in the struggle to retreat, as well as a fair amount of blood, but before his life could be next Heavy ambushed the BLUs tailing him and sent them crashing into the river rapids below. A narrow escape for the doctor - one that could still prove deadly if he did nothing about his wounds.
BLU was pushing point A. Heavy could do nothing from here. Pushing into BLU's territory alone was not an option, but Medic could not help him until he regained his composure. It wouldn't take long: a few deep breaths to centre the mind; a minute or so for his latent regeneration to patch his burns back over. The garage was meant to be stocked with health packs but, from the empty corner they were greeted with, someone must have nabbed the last. No matter. Heavy came prepared. Doctor would feel better after sandvich.
So. Heavy stood, eyes on the garage door, his ears alert to both Medic's laboured breathing between bites and the whoosh of any invisible intruders. No one was coming, but he would not hear the end of it if he lacked vigilance. (On his less patient days, Medic wasn't the type to let a teammate's fatal mistake pass by without a nagging comment. Or ten. In those moments, Heavy sometimes wondered if the only thing he loved more than butchery was the sound of his own voice. But he kept that observation to himself.)
It did not help his concentration that the air at Mossrock was hot. Humid. Blood spray lingered in the air for a beat longer than it did in dry Dustbowl. It cloyed at your skin, refusing to clot. Mingling with your sweat. A reminder of all you had done. It was captivating, in that way. The mugginess he may have loathed, but Heavy revelled in the phenomenon it caused.
And in his grip: who did he have to thank for turning his enemies into clouds of crimson? His beloved Sasha. She gleamed in the late afternoon sun here in a way he had never seen back in the Badlands - too much dust gathered on her metalwork, no matter how often he polished her - and even in the heat of battle, the sight had him in a vice. Her barrel spinning, roaring, as her thousands of rounds magicked the BLUs away in a spritz of fine red mist. The experience, the recoil and sound of it all, did not fail to make him giddy.
His hand was on her barrel now. Waiting for the enemy, he should rev up in preparation to blast them away as soon as the door opened, but Sasha was not demure. Ambush was better suited to the quieter Svetlana; Sasha would give away their position immediately. Betray the purpose of a stealthy retreat. Her time would come, he assured her with a rub. Just as it had come before, and never failed to do again. He would not deny her more glory. She was the most formidable weapon on this battlefield (except for perhaps the doctor's healing gun - but didn't that exist to enable Sasha further?) and everyone, especially the opponent, was keenly aware. There was no way to ignore her when she commanded the attention. Heavy could not be more proud to call her his own.
The adoration in his mind spilled out into a smile on his cheeks. He could no longer resist: his other hand scooped up the white drum of the minigun, boosting Sasha into a cradle. BLUs be damned, he would stop to cherish her. Her paintwork; her construction; her overwhelming presence.
He pulled his face close. "Kiss me."
A spluttering cough. "What?"
Heavy paused. To his left Medic choked on a mouthful of bread, staring at Heavy with a wide, incredulous gaze. Heavy could not discern the issue. Did he have problems with Sasha? He had never made them known before.
Conversely, Medic himself seemed to... reevaluate his outburst. His eyes flitted between Heavy and his weapon. Then back again. As Heavy waited on an explanation (he didn't owe one of his own; his actions were blatant enough), the doctor cleared his throat, massaging his neck as he confirmed he could breathe freely again; with the little "hoo!" he opted for when he had air to clear, literal or not.
Nonetheless, Medic's eyes lingered on him still, Heavy left to contemplate the look in them. Was it just the color returning to his skin, or was the doctor blushing?
Medic was tightly wound; Heavy's sudden comment easily could have caught him off guard. It was rather silent here, with only the two of them. Just him, and him. Alone. And the content of Heavy's words... well, Heavy puckering up to his gun should have been enough of a context clue for why he said it. Though Medic wasn't exactly looking in his direction while he ate. And Heavy was rather imposing: he had effectively boxed Medic into the corner. It would be hard for Medic to escape if Heavy wished to keep him there. All of those details together... they painted a picture rather more striking than the truth.
So, when Heavy spoke those words to his gun, Medic thought he meant them for...
No! Imagine! What would Medic even begin to do, to think, if Heavy came onto him? In the midst of a day's match, no less? Oh, the doctor flattered himself with the presumption. The absurdity of it all ripped a laugh out of Heavy, hearty and shocked in equal measure.
At the very least, it seemed to tickle Medic as much as it did him. At first his expression contorted from its initial disbelief to a sheepish horror at himself, of what he had dared to imply. Yet the face was as uncharacteristic of him as it was brief, and soon enough they both were cackling. Like they had just tuned into prime-time television and witnessed the funniest skit in the world.
The affair was slightly less funny when the BLU Soldier overheard their laughter and sent a rocket to paint them against the garage's far wall. But only just.