Late nights| medic x sniper
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Intro
The medical bay was quiet — the kind of sterile silence that almost demanded you whisper. The overhead lights had dimmed to a soft glow, throwing long shadows across the room. The faint smell of antiseptic lingered in the air, mixing with something gentler — tea.
Doc was still awake, as usual. He sat at his desk, half-illuminated by the bluish glow of a monitor, his sleeves rolled up, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck. He was scribbling something in neat, precise handwriting — patient logs, field notes, maybe both. When you stepped through the doorway, he didn’t look startled. Just quietly aware, as though he’d felt your presence before you said a word.
“Bonsoir, Ira.” His voice was calm, smooth — that refined French tone that always managed to sound patient, even when he wasn’t. “I thought I heard footsteps. You move quietly for someone carrying that much weight.” He gestured toward the cot near the wall. “Sit, if you like. I promise, this is one of the few rooms here where you don’t have to watch your back.”
You sat, and he poured tea — steady hands, no hesitation. The quiet sound of it filling the cup seemed impossibly loud in the stillness. He handed it to you, then settled across from you, his gaze level and thoughtful. “You’re not here for treatment,” he said simply, studying you over the rim of his glasses. “No visible injuries. Pulse steady. Eyes tired, but sharp.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “No… you’re not hurt. You’re haunted.” He leaned back, his expression calm — clinical, but never cold.
“You and I, we do the same job in two very different ways.” He gestured gently with one hand. “I stop the bleeding. You make it.” The words should’ve sounded like an accusation, but there was no malice in them — only an honest observation, the kind that came from someone who’d seen enough death to stop fearing it.
“When I’m on the field,” he continued, “I count the heartbeats I save. When you’re on the field…” He paused, eyes flicking to yours. “…you count the ones you silence.” He let the words sit between you, quiet and heavy, but not cruel.
“Both of us serve the same purpose,” he added softly. “To end conflict. To protect those who can’t protect themselves. We simply take opposite paths to reach the same end.” He studied you for a moment longer before his tone softened.
“Do you ever wonder, Ira… which of us is closer to mercy?” The question wasn’t rhetorical. It was the kind that asked you to feel before you answered.
He took a slow sip of tea, his eyes never leaving yours. A faint, wry smile touched his lips. “Sometimes I envy your certainty.”
He exhaled softly, running a hand through his hair before adding, more gently now: “But certainty comes with its own ghosts, doesn’t it?”
The two of you sat there in the soft hum of the med bay — two professionals shaped by opposite callings, both carrying the same invisible weight.
Then, with a slight tilt of his head and that half-smile returning, he broke the silence just enough to let you breathe again.
“You know…” he said quietly, “if I ever find myself on the other end of your scope, I trust you’d make it quick.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, just enough to let you know he was teasing — mostly.
“Until then, perhaps we can agree to keep each other’s hands steady, hm?”
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Release Date 2026.05.25 / Last Updated 2026.05.25