Work Text:
It was a frosty night at the RED base, the ever-present chill of Coldfront more frigid than the Scout had experienced so far into the team's three-month deployment. Even the iciest of nights back down south in Boston didn't measure up to the mind-numbing cold he was experiencing as he jogged to his quarters, desperate to dive into the welcoming warmth of his cot. He hadn't been impressed with it at first, bitching about how thin the quilts were and the hardness of his mattress, but it was his oasis.
All told, it wasn't that bad. He'd raided the base for bedding when the other mercenaries were busy settling into their new digs, the lot of them blind to the fact that it was Scout who had taken all their quilts and used them to make a nest. So, there was that.
He rubbed his bandaged hands over his arms, only to hiss through gritted teeth when his frozen fingers sapped what little warmth his skin had held beneath the surface. He’d underestimated how cold the nights could get and had left his sweater in his room, and he regretted it. His fingers looked like they were about to fall off, tips an alarming shade of red and quickly turning blue. He shoved his discoloured digits into the pockets of his knickerbockers and hunched his shoulders up to his reddened ears, relishing the warmth his ratty scarf provided.
He practically threw himself against the door in his rush to get inside, shoulder pressing up against the cool surface of the wood as he jiggled the doorknob. He almost sobbed when the door finally swung open, the warm, stale air a blessing against his face.
“Are you crying?"
Scout almost shrieked, harshly pulled out of his blissful reverie by a small voice in the dark. Affronted by the accusation, he groped blindly for the light switch with a scowl as he tugged his cap roughly off the top of his head. He didn't want to deal with this shit right now when all he wanted to do was curl up in his pile of stolen blankets and pass out.
When the overhead light flickered to life, he instantly spotted Ms Pauling's face amongst the quilts she'd swathed herself in. The tip of her nose and cheeks were a rosy pink hue from the chill, and Scout couldn't help the dopey smile that pulled on his blue lips. She was so freakin' cute sometimes, especially when she came to whatever base he was assigned to just to see him. That was probably just wishful thinking on his part and her surprising him was probably a spur of the moment thing, but it still made him happy that she thought of him while she was working.
There was a time when he thought she wouldn't think about him at all. It was when he'd first arrived in Teufort, bushy-tailed and utterly ignorant to what was about to befall him when he heard the tell-tale clicking of high heels against concrete approaching.
As soon as he saw her, he knew she was the one. It was like he'd been hit by a truck when her impossibly turquoise eyes met his, his mouth dryer than the red dirt he stood upon and heart beating so hard against his rib cage it physically hurt. He was thinking up words to describe just how gorgeous she was, but his limited vocabulary didn't do her justice. She was just so, so whoa and the noises made after eating a home cooked meal after a long, shitty day. Everything else had just faded away and all he could see was this girl, a girl so beautiful that no one could even wish to compare, and yearned for her.
In that exact instance, he also knew he was fucked. She was so far out of his league it was like she was the opening pitcher for the Red Sox during the championships and he was still playing t-ball. A girl like her, the girls that smell nice and speak in full sentences, would never go for a guy like him. Especially him. He was lucky that the bleach-blond girl from the chicken hut even looked at him, but Ms Pauling? Oh, he was blessed to have her breathe the same air as him.
With that in mind, seeing her like she was, wrapped up in his sheets and looking up at him with those gorgeous sea green eyes of hers, made his heart skip. He was the reason she was there, why locks of her soft, black hair were loose form her usually impeccable bun, why her ironed down dress was creased and smelled of his cheap deodorant, why her glasses were low on her nose and slightly askew, why she was so tangible.
He may or may have not swooned a little.
“Earth to Scout, I repeat, earth to Scout," Ms Pauling called as she waved her hand in front of his face, laughter bubbling in her voice as she did. He jumped back a little, confused as to when she'd gotten so close, but grinned down at her all the same.
“Hey," he greeted, wincing when his voice cracked and pitched up higher than a choir boy's. He cleared his throat to fill the awkward lull of conversation as he built the nerve to open his mouth again. It was all for nought, because one look at Ms Pauling's cute, cherry red cheeks and contrastingly green eyes had him reeling. "You're lookin'- lookin' really hot."
He could have punched himself in the face.
“I'm quite cold, actually. Though your den of misappropriated bedding was very helpful in that aspect," she replied with a smirk, looking over at the offending pile of pilfered quilts before giving him a questioning quirk of her eyebrow. “So, you're the reason why all the mercenaries are demanding more blankets before the blizzard hits, huh?"
“Are ya gonna tell the guys my filthy secret?" Scout teased.
She looked up at him with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes and he could swear he wasn't at the Coldfront base anymore, because he wasn’t sure it was possible for it to be so goddamn sweltering in the dead of the Canadian winter.
“Not if you share it with me."
Each mercenary on RED had an allocated four-by-four metre room, and within this space they were provided with a closet, a desk with an accompanying chair, a footlocker, a side table and a single-sized bed. Scout was not exempt from this, so him and Ms Pauling were forced into each other's personal space to fit on the small bed.
Not that Scout was complaining. In fact, he was thankful for the crappy accommodations, considering they led him to cuddling up with the love of his life. Not just cuddling, spooning. With Ms Pauling. He would congratulate himself with a celebratory Bonk! if he wasn't busy savouring the feeling of Ms Pauling's cool lips moving against the base of his neck and the heat of her breath on his left ear as she spoke softly to him in the darkness.
He wasn't really listening to what she was whispering into his skin, instead he was overly conscious of each point of contact their bodies shared. He was so focused on the way her left hand traced low, languid circles on his hipbone that he startled when she said, “I want to touch you."
Her voice was laden with something he'd never heard before, something warm and velvety and it did things to him. He squirmed to alleviate the heat steadily building in the pit of his stomach, but stilled when he felt Ms Pauling's lips press soft, open mouthed kisses on his nape. Her mouth was hot and wet, and he couldn't help but quiver when he felt her warm tongue on his chilled skin.
“Kiss me," Ms Pauling purred from behind him, voice low and sweet as her cool fingers carded through his hair, her smile curling into a sultry smirk when he shuddered at the sensation. He was more than happy to oblige, turning his head to catch her lips with his.
It was so goddamn hot, but he didn't care. He was finally doing this. He was finally allowed to touch her, feel her skin and taste her sweet, soft lips against his. He moaned eagerly into her mouth and leaned back into her, chasing the heat of her mouth as she ran her cold hands moved across the plains of his chest.
Ms Pauling's deft fingers glided over his skin like a figure skater's blades, her manicured nails tracing delicate, circular paths on his icy flesh and leaving a trail of goose flesh in their wake. It was then it occurred to him that his hands had not been occupying Ms Pauling's body as hers did his and hurriedly groped for her, hesitant and unsure.
Scout had never been so intimate with anyone before. Sure, he knew what arousal felt like, but acting on it was a complete different story. For all his braggadocio, he had no idea what he was supposed to do. He was, in all aspects of the phrase, a blushing virgin.
And blush he did, taken aback when Ms Pauling's mouth latched onto the hinge of his jaw and sucked, eliciting a surprised whimper. She squeezed his bicep reassuringly before sliding her cold hands down his stomach and busying her nimble fingers with unbuckling his belt.
His heart fluttered, but not with excitement.
The sound of the metal clasp loosening sent a bolt of black fear through him, his body tensing and breath catching in his throat. Everything seemed to freeze along with him; time became slower than his brain, the first sharp, debilitating spike of dread lasted for what felt like hours, and the chill of Ms Pauling's fingers ever-present through the cloth of his knickerbockers.
Scout's euphoria high crashed like a train colliding with a car caught between the boom gates. It was a horrifyingly slow realisation of inevitable doom followed by a desperate frenzy of trying to escape. Much like the victims of crashes, he was struck dumb with panic.
He could hear nothing but the erratic tattoo of his heart, the world around him dampened to a whimper. He couldn't breathe in enough air, each hungry gasp more breathless than the last. The feeling of Ms Pauling's body pressing persistently against his back and her deft fingers on his belt became little more than phantom sensations. If he was capable of it, he would have screamed; his tongue was a lead weight in his mouth, his lips were sewn together with piano wire, his throat tightened as if he were being asphyxiated by a barbed garrote.
When the ghost of Ms Pauling's fingertips slithered under the band of his underwear, Scout choked out a slew of incoherent syllables before throwing himself off the bed and away from her wandering hands.
He was stunned by the wall of frigid air that slapped him in the face, knocking his murky senses back into focus in one sharp blow. He gasped for air, only for shards of ice to tear at his lungs and make him hack it back out. It hurt to breathe, the chill making his nostrils raw and throat dry. The concrete was so cold against his skin it burnt, the chill seeping through his flesh and into his bones.
His heart throbbed loudly in his ears, but he could vaguely hear Ms Pauling calling his name. Scout couldn't bear to look at her, shame and fear freezing him in place. A voice in the back of his brain kept telling him to run, to get as far away from her as possible, and he went to launch himself at the door when a hand settled on his shoulder. He flinched harder than he should have.
“Scout?" Ms Pauling whispered fretfully. “What's wrong?"
Despite himself, he turned his head slightly to look at her from the corner of his eye. Her blouse was rumpled and untucked, her hair was a mess of loose tresses and fly away hairs, but her eyes made his heart lurch. Her big, turquoise so full of worry, so full of pure, unadulterated fear, that he had to look away. She should never look so broken up over anyone, let alone him.
It was at this point realised he had ruined her.
The creased skirt, the crooked glasses, the smudged rouge; he hadn't made her more real, no, he'd tainted her. His deodorant clung to her like the smell of rot clung to a corpse, her dishevelled hair was a dreadlock tangled by his fingers, his touch left an invisible stain on her porcelain skin, an oily film of pollution on a once-pristine lakeside.
She had been so impervious when he met her. He'd been too daunted to talk to her at first, her stoic expression and professionalism an apt repellent. Her personality had been closed off and stony, but he'd respected her for it. Ms Pauling's strong facade had eventually given way to his advances, like the sea eroding away a cliff face. He thought he was breathing life onto her with every wall he broke down, but he was dragging her down, weakening her. He'd worn her away too far and all that was left was naked bone; he'd made her vulnerable.
“Did I do something wrong?" Ms Pauling's soft, melancholic voice forced him out of his musings with a sharp, whiplash-inducing shove.
He didn't know how he was supposed to reply. He didn't want to lie to her, but he couldn't tell her what was wrong. He could never tell anyone what was wrong. It was his only secret, and he had to keep it that way if he was going to continue living the life he'd made himself. One mistake and he'd have to start over.
He'd tried telling her early on in their relationship, but chickened out when he was given the opportunity and had been putting it off for weeks. He knew he had to tell her eventually, but how was he supposed to tell her he didn't have a cock and he was legally a she? How was he supposed to tell her she'd been unknowingly dating a transsexual for two months?
Scout desperately wanted to tell her, and had been wanting to for the longest time, but he knew how it would end if he did. He would lose everything. She'd immediately report him the Administrator and he'd lose his first stable job. He'd lose all the friendships, however one-sided they are, he made at RED. Most importantly, he'd lose her. He couldn't bear the thought, but seeing the situation he was in, it was becoming a very real possibility. He'd never see those pretty green eyes or her small, dimpled smiles. He'd never be able to hold her or hear her voice. He'd never see her ever again.
If he told her, he'd have to start his whole life from scratch. It's not like he could go back to his family in Boston looking like he did. His chest tightened. His family wouldn't recognise him anymore, they wouldn't want him anymore, once they saw him. He'd become undesirable and hated to everyone he'd met.
He'd be utterly alone.
Regardless of everything, the words were dancing on the tip of his tongue, begging to be spoken. She deserved to know why he was putting her through this and, even as selfish as it sounded, he wanted to be accepted by somebody. He wanted her to not care about it, wanted her to laugh off his anxieties and kiss his worries away, wanted her to love him even with his deformity, in spite of it. He wanted to not have to live in a constant state of fear and self-doubt around her. He wanted to belong somewhere. He wanted to belong to her, fully and unabashedly.
But he couldn't.
“Tell me what I did wrong, Scout," Ms Pauling pleaded. “Please, Scout. I can fix this. Let me fix this."
He couldn't possibly tell her, let alone hope that she'd want him afterwards. He was chickening out again, and as much as he hated it, relief started to fill him. Ms Pauling was on her knees, begging him for answers, but he had already decided that it was the end of the conversation. He had lost what little nerve he had and was about to crush what little trust she had in him. He was about to crush her.
But by god was he glad he wasn't telling her.
He felt sick at the realisation he was hurting her for his own comfort. For all he knew, she was perfectly fine with queers, but he was too pussy to take the plunge, and he was, on some level, happy about it. No, he was sparing them both; it's not like she would want to know he'd been lying to her about his sex for almost two years, lying to everybody, and almost had sex with a tranny.
He was saving her. He was doing this for her.
“I'm so sorry," he managed, his voice as small and pathetic as he was.
Scout knew Ms Pauling knew what he was about to pull, but he couldn't find it in himself to stop. He'd already started to make a break for the door, stumbling on numb legs and weak knees, when she jumped into action behind him.
“Don't leave."
She'd grabbed his bicep and dug her nails in, daring him in keep going. Dare he did, pulling his arm harshly away from her reach. The score of scratches across his skin stung for a few seconds before settling into a dull, familiar ache, but it was the action itself that hurt more than the wound.
It felt wrong, doing this to her, but he couldn't keep this up. He couldn't. But that didn't mean he didn't feel his heart breaking along with hers.
“Don't leave," she repeated, voice wetter and thicker than he was comfortable with.
It was even colder in the corridor.