I haven't updated this in forever due to laziness, but i read through it again and realised that it's supposed to be for fun, and I forgot how much I loved the overall vibe of this story, so I decided to continue it. Next chapter will be with Soldier and Demoman, as they need to resolve some drink related conflicts. Heavy's there to help, of course.

In the meantime, enjoy some Medic being confused and Beverly being all happy happy snorty snorty. And Heavy's face hurting. A lot.

Medic was always the first up. He cooked the breakfast, washed the dishes, organized the new batch of files before making it down to the battlefield. It had become instinctual for him now as he automatically shuffled toward his boots at the other end of the bedroom, being careful not to wake Heavy. Unfortunately, the sleeping Russian bear slowly stirred out of hibernation.

"What is Doctor doing?" He asked with a loud, comical yawn. Medic rolled his eyes at his sleepy companion, before answering.

"I always wake up early, Herr Heavy, it is a habit of mine." He droned over the explanation as though saying it to an annoying child. Heavy remained lying in bed, but turned with a dangerous creak to his side to look at the German. He looked in every bit tired, the grey bags under his eyes becoming that much more visible, his dark greying hair all ruffled from getting thrown out of bed by the Russian a couple of times. With a quick sniff and a shake of his head to clear himself of sleep, Medic sidled over to the window and grabbed both curtains. The curtains themselves seemed to hesitate before being pulled open, a beautiful golden light illuminating everything in the formally dark room, and partially blinding Heavy.

Then large man pulled the sheets over his head in protest to the light like a very irritated vampire, and the German man chuckled.

"You are so childish sometimes, Heavy. Sometimes I wonder if the IQ test you took really was correct." He added sarcastically, and Heavy grumbled to himself in his native tongue.

"I am big man, not child. Now, close curtains so I can sleep." He whined, but Medic stamped his foot on the floor in denial.

"Nein, meine freunde, you are coming with me to help cook breakfast. 'The early bird catches the worm', and me being up so early has allowed me to help myself to the most hearty breakfast a man to have." He teased, and Heavy contemplated actually joining him. Begrudgingly, he got up and went to the shipped chest of drawers to retrieve his clothes. Thank Christ he remembered to keep his boxers on that night, or else he might as well have thrown his dignity in a dustbin. Medic got his boots on swiftly and with a few joyous claps trotted out of the door and toward the kitchen.

Medic felt overtly happy this morning for some reason. Perhaps he had taken too much morphine last week and was suffering from severe brain damage? Nein. Perhaps he died and was actually in a peculiar heaven? He pinched himself. Nein. Perhaps it was the feeling of having someone accompany him to make breakfast after all these years of preparing it alone? He only had to laugh that one off as he chanted a tune in German before opening the door to the kitchen only to stop dead in his tracks.

Beverly was standing over the hob, a small radio plugged into a socket and broadcasting some American station as bacon sizzled merrily in a frying pan. The large table that accommodated the entirety of the RED team had been wiped clean of blood and coffee stains alike and was now covered in a red silk tablecloth, complete with matching plates and glasses. The cutlery was the only thing that didn't scream red at this point.

The woman turned in response to the creak of the door opening only to quickly snap her head around and focus of cracking some eggs. Medic looked very taken aback, and thought about leaving, but decided to march over and clear his name.

"Beverly, I can assure you that yesterday was a complete misunderstanding. You see, I was thrown into your private quarters by Heavy, who has every intention for me to end up like that. I'm sorry if I scared you." He tried explaining, rubbing thew back of his neck, feet tensed in case he need to run away from the woman with the frying pan. Beverly contemplated his answer before giggling, turning her head to meet the German doctor's eyes, a sincere and guilty look taking over his features.

"Oh, you big old sop!" She covered her mouth, snorting with laughter at this point. Medic looked very bewildered at her reaction to all this.

"What? You expect me to whack you over the head with this frying pan, huh? I can tell a good man from a bad one, and you sir seem to be good enough to not mean what you did last night!" She said, punching him playfully in the chest. Medic felt a wave of relief wash over him as he chuckled along with Beverly, who went quiet, putting her hand to her chin in thought, lips quivering with laughter.

"Wait, so you said that Russkie fella threw you in here?" She asked.

"Well, ja, of course. In fact, he'll be coming through in a moment." Was the reply, and no sooner had he said it both eyebrows simultaneously turned upwards slyly.

What Heavy learnt that morning was that a frying pan to the face hurt. Especially when thrown by a woman.