Work Text:
Wolfgang,
I've finally tracked you down, it seems. You're terrible at going unnoticed. How uncanny, however, that I find myself figuratively at your doorstep by pure chance. On the fifth of March, I'll be at a small cafe in Teufort called Tom's Lunch. It's a nice little place, though they could stand to stay open after three in the afternoon. Never enough time to sit and eat comfortably. Meet me there. Lunch is on me.
Love,
Elisabeth
The letter was concise and to the point, just like its author. Medic smiled as he tapped the folded note in his left pocket, then returned his hands to the wheel. His minivan, battered and ill-kept, sped down the lightly-patrolled roads of the Badlands, the soft tink and tak of loose gravel and asphalt kicking up against the undercarriage as it roared along.
Elisabeth. It had been a long time since he'd thought of that name. Of that woman. A creature of grace and beauty, of intelligence and wit, of laughter and joy. She warmed his heart, someone he'd cared about deeply practically since they'd met, and ever after, even when she was not in his thoughts or sight. She was his right hand, joined at his hip, and the source of more than a few of his laugh lines. She was his salvation, his ferry spiriting him away from certain doom, his cloak and concealment, his alibi. She was his co-conspirator, his muse, his best friend.
She was his wife.
Static overtook the radio as he drove, making him turn down the ear-wrenching sound, only to drive him to thoughts of their days in school. He was young and spry, a new medical student eager to learn, to get his hands messy, to experiment. His fascination with anatomy and biology had been a long-standing interest, so medical school was merely a foregone conclusion. One he'd had to work hard to afford and be accepted to, but an inevitability nonetheless.
He'd met her at a small luncheon near the campus, a pretty young thing with her long hair tied back, spun gold in twin braids that crossed together into a larger braid at the back, hanging down between her shoulder blades. Bright blue eyes seemed to shine of their own accord, electric in their near-luminosity, set in a round, pale face with rosy cheeks and a winning smile. She was the poster girl for the Reich. Smart, beautiful, and Aryan. Of course, she certainly never saw it that way.
“Please, this pretty little head contains more seditious thoughts than any prison, I assure you,” she had told him once when he'd pointed it out to her. They'd been studying over coffee and sandwiches, their usual thing. He had tried to quiet her, nervous about who might hear. She would have none of it. “Wolfgang if you shush me one more time you'll have to learn very quickly how to treat a fork to the eye.” She had a bit of a temper.
Elisabeth was in school for nursing, and lucky to be able to attend college at all. Most schools had closed their doors to young women, encouraging them to stay in the home. A bull-headed woman with a family of no small wealth, however, she'd been able to muscle her way into university, just as she'd muscled her way into Medic's life.
“Hey, handsome, is this seat taken?”
He looked up to see that bright face beaming down at him, her dark blue dress perfectly pressed with crisp, clean lines, a stark contrast to his likely-disheveled appearance, a man of late nights and coffee addiction and an overwhelming need to outperform his peers. He adjusted his spectacles in surprise and gestured to the seat, shakily. “N-no, not at all. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Cardiology.”
“W-what?”
“Your texts,” she gestured to the three books spread across his table, one bearing the brown ring of an accidental coffee stain, his mug set down absent-mindedly in the wrong place. “You're studying cardiology.”
“Yes, my mid-term is next week and I don't feel prepared, is there something I can do for you?”
“Professor Snyder?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I was wearing the same look when I began his course. I'm in his evening classes.”
“My condolences,” the man laughed, the awkwardness melting away. He sat up, leaning back against his seat.
“I could say the same to you!” her laughter joined him, musical and infectious. Like the singing of birds, she brightened the room with her giggles.
“So, almost-classmate, do you have a name?” Medic took a sip of his coffee.
“Elisabeth Metzger. And you?”
“Ah, Wolfgang. Wolfgang Fleischer.”
“Well then, pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fleicher. What a coincidence that a pair of butchers might be studying medicine.”
“Aha, how true! Are you in nursing?”
“They won't let me into surgery.”
“I'm surprised you haven't just talked your way in.”
“It's surprising how often that doesn't work.”
“It's also surprising they let me in. You know, you never told me what you wanted.”
“I need a study partner for this mid-term. Noticed your books, figure a handsome gentleman like yourself wouldn't be able to resist my charms and would have no choice but to accept.”
Medic scoffed at the idea, quickly fading into a laugh. She was wrong, of course. He found her charming, certainly, but not in the way she was attempting. She was shopping in the wrong market, there. “Your modesty is amongst the most prevalent of your bountiful qualities, Miss Metzger.”
“Elisa.”
“Elisa it is.”
A chance encounter, a sudden flirtation and manipulation, and suddenly they found themselves bantering and joking, a friendship that blossomed and deepened further than either of them had ever experienced or imagined. They were comfortable around each other like siblings, but flirtatious as any close friends were. They went everywhere together, tried to take as many as the same classes as possible, and ended up running in the same circles. People often joked about their “secret romance”, something they'd joke about and laugh off, then go about flirting to keep guesses and rumors afloat. It was a delicate dance, one they'd maintained well, as much out of amusement as necessity.
“He's a cute one,” Elisa mumbled, tilting her head toward the bar and a handsome man in too-tight trousers and a waistcoat leaning against it, chatting with the bartender as he was served. “It's like he's trying to have that backside noticed. Mission accomplished.”
“He's not bad,” Wolfgang nodded noncommittally, taking a sip of his beer. A haze of smoke and chatter floated about his head in the small college pub, their comfortable table in the back corner a haven amid a sea of collegiate coming and going. “Kind of thin.”
“Thin? He's got the same build as you! He's fit! And those arms!”
“Too thin. And just because he has the same build as me doesn't make him as handsome as I am.” Another sip, for punctuation.
“True, best not to drag him down to your level.”
“You wound me.”
“You like fat men.”
“I like big men. Tall, thick, muscular, hairy. I don't mind fat, but it's not a requirement. A chubby man is very nice to cuddle. You should try it sometime, rather than the skeletons you seek out.”
“I like a man I can take in a fight,” Elisa laughed.
“Then why ever did you start flirting with me back when?”
“I think my point stands.”
A glare and a bitten lip were all she received from the tall man across the table.
“So, I think we should get married.”
The cacophony of snorts, snuffles, and agonized grunts that emerged from Medic in quick succession had a few people nearby turning their heads to see the dark-haired med student trying to extricate the beer that had ended up in his sinuses. “What?” was all he was able to croak once the agony had cleared and he'd wiped his face on a napkin, tears still pricking at his eyes.
“You don't have to make a scene about it, Wolfie,” she teased, taking a drag from her cigarette.
“Don't make a scene? You just proposed to me!”
“You make it sound so formal. It's an idea.”
“An idea?”
“Of course. Think about it.” She leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “Everyone already thinks we're dating, that we're a couple anyway, yes? So why not get it over with and get married. Something small, but big enough where people know about it. Make a show of it all. Then return to business as usual. You chase your big hairy man-bears you like so much, and I keep all of the eligible bachelors of this university at bay so I can get some damned work done around here. German men are incorrigible. I need to get out of this country.”
“I'm a German man.”
“My point stands.”
Wolfgang shook his head and leaned in even closer, their noses practically brushing. Elisa could smell the beer on his breath, and the sudden fear that crept up his spine. “Seriously, though, you realize what you're suggesting here. You're really saying you want to get into a sham marriage with me? For convenience?”
“Wolfie, we've both seen what they do to the homosexuals. They're arrested, sent to institutions, or just disappear in the night. You've been lucky so far, but what happens if you chase the wrong hale handsome man and end up with a pink patch on your sleeve and herded onto some train?”
“I don't think--
“Or if someone found out your mother's maiden name?”
“You,” Wolfgang sputtered, eyes going wide. Terror welled up in his gut, a sweat breaking at his brow. How could Elisa be saying this? “What do you know?”
“You're lucky I took you home last weekend after we were drinking. You're dangerous when you get too drunk, Wolfie. You told me things I don't think you'd ever told anyone, or wanted to.”
“You mean?”
Elisa didn't let the words leave her lips with her voice behind it. Pressing her hands to his head, cupped around his ear, she spoke to him in a whisper propelled only by her breath. “Cohen.”
He shook his head, his elbows dropping to the table, his face in his hands. He couldn't handle this. He wouldn't. Nobody could know. Nobody. His grandparents were long gone, he had no aunts or uncles. His parents died when he was in high school, the flu took them both and miraculously had spared him. He had no siblings. No one was left to lay claim to the man, and his only records were as Mr. Wolfgang Josef Fleischer. He was German by name, by birth, by education and upbringing. Elisa was worried about a pink triangle, when it could be joined by a yellow one, a star of shame to mark him as he was borne away never to be seen again.
“Elisa.”
“Wolfie, I've been thinking about this since that night. Look at me. I'm as Aryan as they get, a beautiful woman of perfect German breeding, a shining example of a proper Germany. No way I'd ever marry a filthy Jew, right? Or a homosexual. A girl like me would marry a tall, handsome, German doctor and when his practice was set up, our home bought, I'd bear strong, handsome German children.” She leaned close again, wrapping an arm around her haggard friend. “It will give us a chance to finish school with less suspicion, and then we can flee this land. I hear Switzerland is lovely any time of year. Their German is terrible, but we can manage. If I can understand your awful Stuttgart accent, I can handle Swiss German.”
Wolfgang leaned into the hug, trying to gain hold of himself. He couldn't break down, he couldn't freak out. He was in public. If he made a scene, it would be all over. Which is probably why she asked like this. He would be forced to be rational out of survival instinct. He couldn't let his emotions overflow and reject the idea out of indignance or discomfort, and would have to see the reason in it. And he did. It made sense. For both of them.
“Okay. We'll have to make this authentic. This has to be real. I need to get you a ring, and we're going to need to make arrangements, oh God, we are going to be poor. We're university students, Elisa.”
“Tradition dictates the bride's family pays the majority of the wedding costs. Or have you forgotten my pedigree? We'll be fine. You just go pick up some crap ring this week, I'll call my mother screaming about how my boyfriend Wolfgang proposed to me, and he's going to be a doctor, and it'll all happen.”
“We're going to have to kiss.”
“Sacrifices.”
“In front of people. In front of your family.”
“You act like that would be the worst thing ever. It's a kiss, Wolfie.”
“I suppose I'll just close my eyes and imagine you're a big, hairy man. Shouldn't be too difficult with your moustache.”
The slap he received knocked his spectacles askew, and the derisive laughter that followed only made him laugh along.
Their wedding had been a beautiful affair, and a year later, Wolfgang had graduated a full, licensed surgeon. Almost immediately, the Reich came knocking, and the proud doctor was separated from his beautiful young wife by the call of the Wehrmacht, conscripted to serve as a field surgeon.
He'd served a year, patching together the bloody shreds of men on the field and finding himself quite adept at it. When he'd returned, his nerves hardened, his instincts sharpened, his body conditioned far more than it had ever been, he knew the civilian life was not for him. But the military life chafed him just as much. He would not be told what to do, and he would not fight for a country that wanted him dead for existing.
With the assistance of a few old friends from university, the Fleischers fled Germany, holing up in the Switzerland they dreamed of. It was there they laid low until the end of the war. When the horrors of exactly what the Reich had done were brought to light, they held each other, silent, for what felt like an eternity. They were free.
Medic sighed as he turned into the town, a light rain beginning to roll in over the desert community of Teufort. His turn signal clicked loudly in the silent car, the radio having long since been switched out to accommodate the flood of memories that had taken up all of the space in the doctor's head. He had trouble believing he'd lost touch with Elisa. Her singing laugh and her sardonic words, her bright eyes and her unflappable casualness. She was exactly the person he needed to be around, to pull him out of any remainder of a shell he had left, to make him smile when his life was hard-driven work in the aftermath of tragedy. She was his shield arm, his aegis against what could have been, and his best friend.
Following the war, they lived together for a time, until they both managed to figure out what to do with themselves. Wolfgang decided he wanted to seek out a life of movement. He wanted to see the world, to see what was outside the grey world he'd been raised in. He wanted to fight, to heal, to meet new and interesting people, and maybe kill them.
Elisa knew he'd been changed by what he'd seen. He was still the handsome, charismatic goof she'd tried to chat up all those years ago, but he now bore an edge. The war, the violence and brutality, had honed a part of him that had once been soft and blunt. She still adored him, but she knew he had to make his way.
Her own way was a different one. Elisa too wanted to travel. She wanted to make her own way, not having to cling to the sleeve of a father or a husband. While she knew she still had limits, she knew how to handle those who would impose them on her. She'd heard interesting things about America since her egress from Germany.
They parted ways amicably, with hugs and tears and far too much of a to-do than was proper for either of them. They didn't care. This was an ending worth crying over. Letters were written for years, but eventually dwindled, and died. And then there was nothing but memories.
Until Elisa had shown up practically on his doorstep. Medic slammed the door of his van shut and tested it to see if the latch had stuck. A rare first-try success. He tucked his keys into the pocket of his slacks and adjusted his waistcoat and tie, checking his hair in the mirror. He should've shaved. He would've, but had been a bit distracted before he'd left.
He hoped the collar of his shirt hid the hickey on the right side of his neck.
Striding through the door of the cafe with all of the stern precision he normally reserved for reprimanding coworkers or taunting opponents, he looked around the room with half-lidded eyes, trying to appear as nonplussed as possible.
When his eyes met a pair of blonde braids that twisted into a larger braid at the middle, a dark-blue dress with crisp, clean lines, his demeanor melted immediately into a broad smile. Crossing the cafe, his joyful, “Elisa!” roused the object of his affection from the newspaper in front of her, turning to see, her face lighting up.
She lept from her seat, fluid motion unbound by propriety, wrapping her arms around the tall doctor, her laughter still as musical as ever. “Wolfie!” she cried, burying her face in the chest of her friend, squeezing him so tight he feared for the structural integrity of his ribcage. “I'm so glad you came!” Her English was perfect, the barest hint of an accent a light patina on its edges.
“I vould not miss it for zhe vorld!” Medic replied, his accent seeming oafishly thick against her own. He did not give her the chance to see the sheepish realization on his face as he spoke. He quickly switched to German. “How have you been?”
“How have I been? How haven't I been? Here, sit! I've ordered coffee for the both of us. You still take it the same way, right?” she asked, her German still as gentle and melodious as it had ever been.
“Heavy on cream, heavy on sugar, yes. Some habits one cannot shake.”
“I suppose so. So! You are looking well! The years have been kind to you, my Wolfie. Just a bit of grey at the temples, still fit. You were always graceful, even in aging I suppose.”
“I could say the same for you,” Medic replied with a smile. “Still as lovely as ever. Still chasing the men off with a cudgel?”
“As lovely as ever. Want to know a secret? This?” she circled a finger in the air around her head to indicate her hair, “All dyed. I went white at thirty-five. Can you believe it?”
“You? I'm surprised. I can see the snowy white look working for you, though.”
“Ah, I have plenty of time to look distinguished when I'm old enough to act that way. Besides, my boyfriend doesn't know. I plan to keep it that way.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“Yes! He's how I found you, actually.”
“I was wondering.”
“Well, I met this handsome fellow here in town, made a big deal about being a mercenary working nearby. Said he was on furlough, and was fighting in The Great Gravel Wars or some such nonsense. He chatted me up, one thing led to another, and we've been dating for a few months now.”
“Oh really? What does he look like? What's his job title?”
“Oh he's a tall, lean black man with only one eye. Unusual, of course, but he's quite handsome, really. Works in demolitions.”
“The Demoman? But I thought he was-- Wait, what company does he work for?”
“I think it's Builder's League United. Handsome blue uniform.”
“Oh. I see. Here I thought you knew one of my coworkers.”
“Aha, no such luck! In fact, I found out about you because he started asking me about German. What certain words and phrases meant. Mean, terrible things. And some not-so-mean things. Childish stuff, really, and commands. I asked him where he heard these things, and he said that his team's medic yelled the commands and things, but the opposing doctor had some rather mean things to say. He described that mean, grumpy RED Medic, and suddenly I've got a pretty good mental image of what my Wolfie probably looks like in seventeen years' time. I found out how to get in touch, made some calls, and wrote a letter to the Medic employed by Reliable Excavation and Demolition.”
“Mean and grumpy?”
“Not my words.”
“Of course.”
Elisa grinned impishly. “Amazing to think you've been right here under my nose! I'm so happy to see you.” She took his hand in hers and gave it a warm squeeze. Her eyes widened and she furrowed her brow, taking her hand away and looking at his. “Your ring,” she noted, fingering at the engraved gold band he wore, “that's not your wedding ring.”
Medic laughed a bit, “This is another sort of wedding ring, I suppose. It's a promise, from my lover. Since we can't marry, of course.”
“A promise from your lover? You've settled down?”
“As much as a contract mercenary can, that is.”
“And who is the lucky man?”
“One of my coworkers. I can't tell you his name, there's a non-disclosure clause on our contracts. We're not allowed to call each other by name or reveal each other's names to anyone while under contract.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I do. It's a handsome name, for a handsome man. He's Russian. A big mountain of a fellow, muscle, fat and hair. Just what I like. You know, he can lift a three hundred kilogram minigun and run with it? It's amazing.” His enthusiasm was infectious, and Elisa couldn't help but smile.
“Do you have a photo?”
“I am not supposed to, but,” he dug for his wallet and flipped it open, pulling out a small photo tucked away inside. He held it out to Elisa to see. “We took this on our anniversary. Well, we had our friend Pyro take it, which is why we took it sitting down. Pyro is rather short, particularly compared to us.”
The photo showed the pair dressed to the nines, sitting at a table with candles lit, a half-eaten meal in front of them. The big, balding, shaven-headed man beside him had his arm around Medic, holding him close, smiling wide. They both looked overjoyed to be in each other's company, and their hands touched between them on the table, curled together around the stem of a wine glass.
Medic cleared his throat, a bit embarrassed. “Pyro insisted we have a photo to commemorate the occasion. He places a lot of value on happiness as a concept, so--”
“I think it's precious, Wolfie. Your lover is quite handsome, and those hands of his are enormous!”
“Every part of him is enormous,” Medic snickered, tucking the photo away. “Except his bottom. That's surprisingly small.”
It was Elisa's turn to snicker. “So what do you call each other, if not by name?”
“Oh, we just use our titles. Each of us has a class role to fill. I am the team's Medic. So that's what they call me. I'm often called Doktor or Doc, as well. He mostly calls me Doktor. He is our team's Heavy Weapons Specialist, or Heavy Weapons Guy as he's prone to call himself. We all just call him Heavy.”
“Doesn't that sound a little insulting?”
“To be honest, the word doesn't have much meaning beyond being his name to most of us these days. Certainly I don't hear the word Doktor the same way anymore. At least, not after hearing the way he says it when--” Medic stopped himself before launching into a lurid description, clearing his throat again. “Ah, you get the idea, right?”
“I think I do,” Elisa waggled her eyebrows, making him blush. “So, you will have to let me meet your Heavy then, sometime. I need to know who this man who has swept my husband off his feet is, and grant my approval.”
“I can see it now. Explaining to Heavy why I was heading out alone today was already a long, strange conversation. Asking him to meet my wife so she can consent to our continued romantic entanglement, certainly, that will be the simplest thing in the world.”
“You make it sound like I am a cuckold.”
“No moreso than I am, it seems.”
When the laughter died down, their coffee arrived. Thanking the server in English, they returned to their conversation.
“So other than killing men for money and falling in love with a giant Russian, what have you been up to since I last saw you?”
“Oh, the stories I have, I could keep you here for hours, Elisa. I don't even know where I should begin.”
“I've cleared my schedule for the day. I remember your last letter mentioning something vague about a catering truck and the Prime Minister. How about you start there?”
“I had to go underground after that one, all of the warrants. It's when I fell out of writing, and I'm sorry for that. The story though, it's a good one. I started keeping doves because of it, actually.” He took a sip of his light, sweet coffee, smiling at the taste. “So, here's how it all began...”