Fluffy Red Oktoberfest for you all! 100% spoiler free from today’s new comic release.
“What is this?”
The box, wrapped in plain brown paper and a twine bow, sat squarely in the middle of a rather important requisition request justification that had taken him the better half of the evening to make any headway through. Medic looked up at Heavy, who stood in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest and with an expectant look in his eye.
“That much is evident.” Medic poked the side of the box with his pencil, listening for any tell tale clues, ticking clocks, hissing vipers, spring loaded gas devices, and the like. A quick glance up at Heavy didn’t help either. The giant was simply watching with an amused look across his face as Medic approached even this simple thing with the same mix of methodical care and callous disregard as he approached his surgeries.
A present. But for what? Medic racked his brain. Smissmass long since past, and neither of them ever discussed birthdays with each other. It had simply never come up. Spy could have been persuaded to part with the information, since he had no doubt already discovered it, but they were nowhere near that date either. There had been no arguments that either would need to apologize for, and even if they had, this wasn’t Heavy’s preferred method of apology. And in any rate, he was usually not the one doing the apologizing either.
There were no upcoming missions that would require additional prep. There were no upcoming unpleasant assignments that Heavy would want to avoid. The look on Heavy’s face was not the one he wore when telling him that he would be traveling back to Russia.
Medic was utterly baffled.
“I give up,” he finally replied, “Why?”
A sly smile crept onto Heavy’s face. “Does Heavy need reason?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Then open, dorogoy.”
Medit set his pencil down and pulled the package back into his lap,. His fingers played at the bow on top, the rough twine hissing over the paper as he pulled it away and let his drop to the floor with the paper following shortly after. Inside the paper was a box. A proper box of sturdy stock that was emblazoned with a stamp that he didn’t recognize but that was undoubtedly Russian. He felt Heavy’s eyes on him as he pulled off the lid to find red tissue paper beneath. As he pulled it back, his fingers brushed across something soft, furry, and absolutely lacking in a heartbeat.
Heavy nodded. “Is ushanka. Special for Doktor.”
He pulled it out and turned it in his hands. An ushanka it was, indeed. Dark brown, and almost identical to the one he’d admired on Heavy many times before, but on its front was a gold cross, his own class symbol, that made it his own. He let his fingers run through the furred lining, feeling its warmth and softness, and knowing that it would be more than a match for their inevitable reassignment to Coldfort.
“What kind of fur is this?”
“Bear. Killed with Heavy’s own hands.”
He almost choked up at that. It was hard to find a good man who would kill a bear for you with his own hands and that kind of enthusiasm. Without waiting another moment, he pulled it on and dropped the flaps to let the fur tickle his ears. It fit perfectly. How, he had no idea. He almost never wore hats, and the ones that he did keep around were of the helmet variety. But the ushanka fit like a glove. Of course it did. It was from Heavy, who knew him better than anyone.
“Danke, Misha. It is wonderful.”
The Medi-gun could have been powered for days off of the wattage that came from Heavy’s smile.
“But if you do not mind me pressing,” Medic got up from his desk and made his way around to Heavy and laying his hands on those impossibly broad shoulders, “what is the occasion? If I have missed something important…”
“Nyet.” Heavy shook his head as he pulled Medic close. “Is because we go together, Doktor.”
Medic shook his head as Heavy chuckled a little at his own little joke. Matching hats for men who were a match. It was silly and juvenile, the sort of thing infatuated teenagers would do.
He loved it.
The room was warm, and his head was already getting hot, but he wouldn’t take it off. Not just yet. Not while Heavy was smiling so brightly down at him. Instead, he leaned up just enough to plant a light kiss to the tip of the big man’s nose.
Yamori’s “What’s 1000-7″ thing has always rubbed me very wrong in a very weird, unexplainable way that I couldn’t place until today when I was reminded that “count backward from 100 by 7s” or “What’s 100-7, what’s that minus 7″ are super common questions on cognitive intake evaluations in psychiatric/medical institutional settings.
To people who have been fortunate enough in their life not to have experienced this first hand, when you are taken to a new medical/psychiatric setting that has a reason to suspect you/any of their usual patient base might not be lucid or might have dementia or some cognitive issues, the intake person will ask a series of super robotic questions that they assume every “normal” person should be able to answer with ease.
Here’s the post that reminded me. [x] Note that Yamori’s torture technique is literally number 5 on that list.
They will generally be taking notes on any hesitations and mistakes and have a tendency to ascribe these to insanity/deficits rather than nerves or you being terrible at arithmetics.
So, in case you needed another way to connect Tokage/the CCG/Cochlea to systemic institutional violence.
I’m going to nope the fuck away from reality for a little now. b y e.
Finding, at the end of the day at the dissecting table, that there was more he wished to examine, he put a lung under his hat and walked out past the guard at the door, all going well as he proceeded through the streets until he felt blood trickling down his face.
Henry Bowditch, medical student c.1834, doing terrible things with human organs. From The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris by David McCullough, which any les mis fan who wants to get an american perspective on what life in Paris was like in the early ‘30s should definitely read ASAP. The section about the med students is wild.
The marketing team swore that they wanted what was best for the company, the models, and all of mankind, but Jensen thought they were even more two-faced than their medically-enhanced-features were letting on. It was one thing to keep beating a dead horse (”Lumbersexual is all the rage and it’s going to continue to be for the next several years at least.”), but doing a photoshoot in a real forest was pushing it, even for them. Of course, they had their excuses. They said it was for authenticity. Jensen knew it was because they were under fire for the last summer photoshoot flopping.
But he wasn’t hired to make the decisions; his job was to dress in what they told him to dress in and to let them take pictures of him however they saw fit. So if they wanted to do a week-long excursion into the forest, it wasn’t his place to protest.
Of course, the forest was going to prove to be more than any of them could really handle. There was weather that changed, animals that roamed, and people, yes, real life people, living there. A photoshoot was only guaranteed to garner them a lot of attention and, more than likely, not positive. Well, that would be true until they would meet the Padaleckis, a family whose log cabin the location scouts just had to have in the photoshoot.
Two worlds collide in ways neither could have dreamed, specifically in the forms of Jensen and Jared, two people who are more alike than their circumstances would lead anyone to believe.