Chapter Text
Sniper checked the lab on autopilot, hardly thinking about what he was doing. The wound was trivial—a scratch from a stray piece of shrapnel, nothing that would have earned a second thought under normal circumstances. But they were all pushed to the limit; the mission had dragged on, the blizzard had worn them down to the bone, and the trek back had taken twice as long as it should have.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder, not even bothering to knock.
It was unlocked.
That immediately put him on edge.
The lights were on in the lab—warm, yellow, and flickering slightly from the aging lamp over the desk. For a second, Sniper thought the Medic was just working. Then he saw the sofa against the far wall.
The Doctor was sprawled across it, looking like a man who had collapsed there against his will and simply couldn't get back up. One arm hung down toward the floor, the other was pressed to his chest. His face was pale, tense even in sleep. It wasn't a peaceful rest; it was jagged and feverish—the kind where the body tries to recover while the mind keeps fighting something invisible.
A cigarette was burning down between his fingers.
Sniper froze.
"Crap," he cursed under his breath.
The cigarette was down to its last few millimeters. The ash was a second away from crumbling onto the sleeve of the lab coat. Falling asleep while smoking was dangerous—and not just because of the fire hazard. Medic could easily burn himself and not even wake up.
Sniper stepped inside, moving quieter than usual. The room smelled of antiseptic, tobacco, and the lingering chill of the blizzard. A cup of long-cold tea sat on the desk next to an open journal, some bandages, and neatly laid-out instruments. It looked as if the Doctor had intended to lie down for only a minute before accidentally falling into a sleep that had spiraled out of control.
Sniper stopped by the sofa and looked closer.
Medic’s breathing was heavy and uneven. His forehead was damp, a thin bead of sweat glistening at his temple. It was unpleasant to see him like this—not weak, exactly, but exhausted to the point where even his usual sharp edge had vanished, leaving only a body that refused to remain upright any longer.
Carefully, Sniper reached out and took the cigarette from his hand with two fingers.
Medic gave a faint twitch but didn't wake.
"You're something else, Doc," Sniper muttered.
He crushed the stub out in a nearby ashtray and only then noticed an open pack of bandages on the floor by the sofa. So, Medic had been working before he went under. Maybe he’d been checking on someone. Maybe he was just trying to stay busy so he wouldn't crash. That sounded like him.
Sniper was about to turn and go grab the bandages himself when Medic suddenly mumbled something incoherent and frowned deeper.
Sniper paused. He stepped closer.
"Hey, Doc."
Zero reaction.
"Doctor."
Medic only gripped the fabric of his coat a little tighter.
Sniper sighed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. Coming back for help when the man was in this state felt wrong, but he didn't really want to wake him either. On the other hand, if he didn't, he’d be wandering the base for the next twelve hours with a minor but annoying injury.
He leaned down. "I need a hand," he said, louder this time.
Medic’s eyes slowly fluttered open.
At first, his gaze was vacant and glazed, showing no recognition of where he was. Then, he focused. On Sniper. On the sofa. On the cigarette that was no longer there. On his own hand.
Only then did a spark of irritation flicker in his eyes.
"You..." his voice was cracked and hoarse from sleep. "Bursting in here like it’s your own bloody shack."
Sniper gave a small, lopsided smirk. "Door was open."
Medic closed his eyes for a second as if deeply offended by the fact. "And?"
"And I figured you shouldn't be sleeping with a lit smoke."
Medic opened one eye, looking at him with an expression that would likely remain on his face even after death—provided he died of pure indignation.
"So, you have caught me in a rare moment of vulnerability."
"Yeah. Not very romantic, is it? Shame."
Medic sat up slowly, immediately rubbing his temple. The movement was sharp and irritable but unsteady; it was clear his body hadn't fully woken up yet.
"What is it?"
Sniper held out his arm, showing the shallow but long scratch on his forearm.
"Shrapnel. It’s nothing, but it won't stop bleeding."
Medic looked at the wound, then at him, then back at the wound.
"Nothing," he repeated dryly. "You wouldn't be here if it were nothing."
"I would. Just later."
"And you would be stupider for it."
"Thanks."
Medic stood up slowly, swaying slightly, and immediately grabbed the edge of the desk for support. Sniper noticed, but kept his mouth shut. He wasn't going to make a scene out of it. Not now.
The Doctor grabbed antiseptic, gauze, and scissors from the shelf—though he set the scissors aside almost instantly, as if remembering at the last second that a blade in his hand right now wasn't necessarily safe. Instead, he cleaned the wound in silence. Sniper didn't flinch, even though the antiseptic stung.
"You look worse than I do," Sniper said.
"That is because you entered my laboratory at an inopportune time."
"So it's my fault?"
"At least partially."
Medic spoke flatly, but without the biting sharpness that usually made his words sting. He was just tired. Bone-weary.
While he bandaged the scratch, Sniper took the chance to study his face. Dark shadows under his eyes, dry lips, hair a mess from sleep, lab coat hanging crooked. And yet—despite the exhaustion—that dangerous hollowness Sniper had seen once before was gone. Yes, he could fall asleep with a cigarette. Yes, he could collapse mid-work. But it was a sign that he was finally allowing himself to be spent, rather than just fading away.
"You were sleeping here?" Sniper asked.
Medic tied off the bandage, snipped the excess, and only then answered:
"Obviously."
"Not in your bed?"
"Obviously not."
"Why?"
Medic looked at him over the rims of his glasses.
"Because the sofa was closer."
Sniper snorted. "Makes sense."
"Don't you start pretending this is unusual."
"For you?" Sniper’s mouth twitched into a grin. "Nah."
Medic said nothing to that. He just put the tools away, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and sat heavily back down on the edge of the sofa, as if standing had suddenly become unbearably tedious.
Sniper prepared to leave but lingered at the door.
"Doc."
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
Medic didn't even look up at first. "For what?"
"For not dying in your sleep."
The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Then Medic looked at him with an expression that was almost tired annoyance.
"You must be disappointed."
"A little."
Medic let out a short, nearly silent huff—his version of a laugh.
Sniper nodded toward the sofa. "Get to bed. For real this time."
"Later."
"Wasn't a request."
"Then especially later."
Sniper shook his head, that lazy, familiar smirk returning. "Stubborn old bastard."
"Go to hell."
"Already on my way."
He stepped out, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could return without a sound if help was needed again. Behind him, in the warmth of the lab, Medic sat motionless for a few seconds. He reached for the pack lying on the sofa, looked at it with zero interest, and set it aside. He didn't light one.
Not now.
Then he slowly leaned back, closed his eyes, and just as he was drifting back into sleep, he muttered to himself:
"Bloody terrible timing for a house call."
It was, perhaps, the closest thing to "thank you" Sniper had ever heard from him.