Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world is clear, then white and orange, then he hears blood-curdling screaming.

Tumbling to the ground, skin being riddled with gravel, is nothing new to the young man. Scout had taken his fair share of falls in his lifetime, and at the very least he’s managed to turn this particular fall into something of a roll. But the pain in his skull is new. Even when his body was riddled with shrapnel or blown to bloody pieces, it never felt like this. No, never like this. This was every death he’d ever felt, all put together. This was a pain unlike anything in the world. This was the sort of pain that he thought should be able to knock him unconscious, but it didn’t. It just raged on.

He realized after about thirty seconds, detachedly, that the screaming was his own.

He thought he could hear something else, too. Other voices. People calling his name. He didn’t think he could move. Had he been blown into a thousand pieces and just gotten trapped in his head somehow? Had he somehow, after so many times, simply failed to die?

He wanted to die, now. But it wasn’t happening. Instead, he felt something pulling at his mind through all the screaming. Someone was certainly calling his name. It almost sounded like Spy. Or was that Medic? Or perhaps both? He didn’t know.

His dying felt different this time. He wasn’t being siphoned into a new version of himself. He was leaving this time. He needed to go. He was late.

Was he being picked up off the ground? He couldn’t feel the sand and gravel beneath his cheek anymore.

He needed to hurry home—his older brothers were all waiting for him, he knew. Ma always worried when he came home late from school. He never stopped being the baby of the family, and it only made her fret even more at the end of the day. He wished she wouldn’t worry so much, but he didn’t blame her, not after all the trouble his brothers put her through.

He heard more screaming. He wished it would go away. “Whot the bloody hell ‘appened to ‘im!?” yelled a voice. Something was yelled back.

He never missed dinner—even coming in late was unacceptable. He couldn’t do that to Ma. Not after all the times his older brothers came home battered and bloody, or didn’t come home at all. He hated to see her upset or scared, even for a second. He had to go home.

He was slapped. He blinked his eyes open to look for who did it, but he couldn’t see… anything. He didn’t know why this was happening. Didn’t they know he was going to be late?

“Jeremy,” his eldest brother chided, walking beside him as he was carried by someone he couldn’t quite see, ruffling his hair. His hat was gone. Ma was gonna be mad about that. “You’re gonna be late soon. Quit playin’ around already and come on.” He didn’t know why his heart ached. Maybe because Jack, the eldest brother of eight, had been dead for six years. But he was here now, so Scout felt he might as well forgive him, just this once.

Someone else was calling to him. He could hardly hear it over the ringing in his ears, over the pain.

He wanted to go home. Why wouldn’t they let him go home already?

He’d woken up to the sound of arguing.

It was… Medic, and Heavy. The two were yelling at… was that Spy? And the Frenchman was yelling back. And why weren’t his eyes opening?

“Then what do you propose we do!?” Spy snapped. “If the Medigun does not work, what then!?”

“I do not know!” Medic shouted right back. “It is obvious that the usual methods are off the table, and at this point I do not know if he would come back with them fixed if he died! Any surgery would pose its own risks!”

“So he is just like this now, is that it!?” Spy shouted, and there was the sound of something clattering from elsewhere, closer to the Medic.

“Do not shout at Doktor!” Heavy roared, and Scout winced at the volume, sucking air through his teeth as he realized how bad his head hurt. Suddenly, all the sound seemed to be pulled from the room, movement stilling, voices falling silent. Scout slowly sat up with wobbling arms.

“Ah. Herr Scout.” Medic’s voice was level now. “How do you feel?”

“Well, uh…” Scout coughed, his voice hoarse, raw. He’d been screaming, he was pretty sure. He thought he could remember that. He tried again. “Uh. My head hurts a lot, an’ I feel like I swallowed a campfire, an’ my face is weirdly numb, and my eyes ain’t openin’ up for some reason. So. Maybe like a six outta ten,” he answered.

A beat of silence, stillness within the room. The softest sound of shifting “Er… you do have your eyes open, mein friend,” Medic said, and Scout blinked. Then he blinked again.

“Uh. Then why is everythin’… not? Like, there? At all?” he asked despite his protesting vocal chords.

“Yes. So…” Medic was silent for a few seconds.

“You have lost your eyesight,” Spy said after that long moment.

Scout paused. “Huh? Whaddaya mean?” he asked, unable to process the words.

“Your eyes have been very badly damaged, my friend,” Medic said, voice even. “The enemy team’s Pyro got a very, very lucky shot on you, and burned them quite badly. Und for whatever reason, my Quick-Fix is not… well, fixing them. My current hypothesis is that the Quick-Fix and my medical fluid can only replicate existing cell types, not create new ones—it seems to be the primary explanation, at least as of now.”

“So… what does that mean? When do I get them back?” Scout asked, panic mounting in his chest. “Like, a few hours? A day?”

“Well… I don’t know.” The Medic’s voice was full of bitterness. “I would try und operate on them, but that might just make the problem worse. Our best course of action is to simply wait and see if they will heal on their own.”

“And… and if they don’t? What then?” Scout asked.

“Then leetle Scout may not be able to see,” Heavy rumbled, and Scout felt his heart plummet through the bottom of his feet.

“But… but… no. No, nonono, I—I gotta see, how else am I supposed ‘ta fight, or—or run? Or do… frickin’ anythin’?!”

“I know,” Medic said, and his voice was sad. “I… I will try and figure out a solution. Until then, someone will need to… take care of you. Help you out while your eyesight hopefully comes back. Make sure you can eat and move around. Is there anyone particular you would want to assist you? I will not have time, as I will be busy working to find the solution. I suppose that Spy is already here.”

“Hell no, I’d rather die,” Scout said flatly without hesitation. Spy grumbled a bit at that.

“Then perhaps Heavy? I know I would like his help with mein research, and generally he is around the lab regardless, but if you would like…”

“No to that too. Sorry big guy, but you just don’t always know ya own strength and I wanna keep my bones intact,” Scout said apologetically, reaching out a hand in the direction that he thought he could hear Heavy occupying. He found the giant’s upper arm and gave it a pat.

“Is okay, leetle Scout,” Heavy said, unoffended.

“Well, then I suppose you could choose Pyro or Soldier?”

“Pyro is a maniac and Soldier is a separate kind of maniac. No thank you,” Scout replied, wincing at the very idea.

“Perhaps Herr Demoman?” Medic tried.

“Nah. Guy would probably give me alcohol poisoning.”

“Well… that leaves Engineer or Sniper.”

Scout thought about it for a second. “Well, Engie is always busy, so I guess Snipes. He’s responsible, at least. And I think he can cook. He can cook, right? He mentioned that once. And he’s quiet, which should help with this massive freakin’ headache. Think that’ll go away soon too, Doc?”

“It might. We will have to wait and see,” Medic replied. “Herr Spy, if you could… aaaaaaand he’s gone. Just… ugh. I-I’m going to assume he went to fetch Sniper. Until he gets here, if you would not mind answering a few questions to find the extent of the damage, Scout."

“Sure thing.”

It turns out that Spy did go to get Sniper. Scout was just finishing up answering the last few questions when he heard the door open.

“Ah, Sniper! Hello!” Medic called cheerfully. “Danke, Spy.”

“G’day. So how is 'e?” Sniper asked, almost too quietly for Scout to hear as he approached.

“Alive, mostly,” Scout answered, turning and raising a hand to wave towards where he was pretty sure Sniper was.

“Dear god, I didn’t believe Soldier when ‘e said you got ya face shredded, but ‘e wasn’t lyin’.”

“My face is shredded?” Scout asked, feeling panicked. “Aw man, how bad is it!?”

“You are quite scratched up, mein friend. Look as if you lost a fight with a very angry cat. But only superficial wounds—they will go away within a few days. Probably.”

Scout deflated. “Dang it. Frickin’ perfect. Don’t even have my good looks to fall back on now,” he sulked.

“Either way… Spy didn’t tell me whot ya wanted.”

“Oh. Well, my eyes are all messed up, and the Doc here says it’ll take a few days for me to get my sight back, so I need someone to help me get places and do stuff for a while. Figured you was the least busy and/or crazy guy to go to. So, uh, yeah.”

A few beats of silence passed. “Scout, I did not say it would take a few days,” Medic said softly. “I said that it could. But… it may not come back at all if we—”

“Yeah, a few days, I heard ya the first time Doc!” Scout said loudly, and he heard a sigh. “So until that happens, I need like. A seeing-eye dude.” Another silence. Scout felt his grin falling flatter. “Snipes?” Another long silence, then he was turning his head this way and that. “You—still in ‘ere?”

“Aye,” came the man’s voice from just to one side, and a hand landed on his shoulder. “Still ‘ere. Just thinkin’ is all. So… if ‘e doesn’t get ‘is eyes back. Whot then?”

Medic laughed nervously. “Then? Whatever happens after that isn’t up to me, mein friend.”

Scout felt himself going pale. “It’s gonna come back though, so why are we even talkin’ about this? I’ll be fine,” he insisted.

“…Ja, Scout. You will be fine,” Medic said after a beat, no energy behind the words.

“So… where’ll the little bugger be staying?” Sniper asked.

“Oh, my room isn’t gonna work,” Scout said instantly. “It’s a mess, I’ll like, definitely end up trippin’ over stuff.”

“Well… I suppose that my camper ‘as space, if you wouldn’t mind it bein’ a bit of a walk. Would help me keep an eye on you, at least,” Sniper said finally.

“Okay, sure. Don’t matter to me,” Scout said, shrugging. He moved to hop off the operating table and instantly had to reach back for it to keep his balance. “Woah—! Holy shit, okay, this is gonna take getting’ used to,” he laughed nervously. “Hey, what time is it?”

“Oh. Er, dinner’s just up. You slept through it,” Sniper replied awkwardly.

“I doubt he is hungry,” Medic cut in. “Side effect of the pain medication he has been under. He will be needing plenty of bedrest, and fainting will be a risk for the next forty-eight hours or so.”

“Yeah, I figured. Man, I do feel pretty tired, is the thing,” Scout said, the nervous laughter bubbling forth again. “Like, real tired.”

“Well… I suppose we’ll get you to sleep, then,” Sniper said slowly.

“Cool. Uh, see ya later, Doc. Thanks,” Scout said, waving towards him.

“A bit to the left, mein friend. But yes, gute nacht,” Medic replied with mild amusement. “Avoid much exercise for the next forty-eight hours, try and keep emotional strain to a minimum or you may faint again, and if anything gets worse come back here as quickly as possible.” Scout felt a hand on his shoulder again, and let himself be steered from the room, only interrupted by a mild stumble at the threshold.

“Sorry!” Sniper said quickly, catching him by the biceps before he could eat concrete.

“It’s cool,” Scout said quickly. “Uh, maybe it’d be better if I…” He reached blindly and found the Sniper’s arm, then moved to grip at his sleeve. “There. Lead the way. And uh, try and warn me if you see any stairs.”

“Right,” Sniper said, and then they were walking.

Scout was… confused. Suddenly he felt himself going silent, trying to pick up on everything around him by listening, mentally tracking his progress through the base by their turns. It was eerily quiet by his standards, but he didn’t want to miss anything, so he had to just… listen. It was starting to freak him out a little. His go-to was talking—every new or weird situation could be pushed to the back of his mind if he distracted himself with running his mouth. But he couldn’t do that here.

“You awright?” Sniper finally asked after so many halls and turns.

“Huh?” Scout said, snapping out of his thoughts. “Oh. Uh, maybe. I mean. Yeah, yeah I’m cool. Just tryna figure this out an’ all.”

“Right.” Sniper was silent again, and Scout assumed the conversation was over. Then suddenly he spoke again. “You sure seem like you’re takin’ the whole thing rather well.”

“Oh, I’m totally not,” Scout laughed, and it was shaky, and he felt Sniper faltering slightly. But all the panic and emotions were bound to come spilling out eventually, and he couldn’t stop the flood now. “I don’t know what to do. If I can’t see, my life is over, ain’t it? All I’m good at like, professionally, is bein’ fast. An’ if I can’t see where I’m goin’, there’s no point, is there? An’ I’ll lose this job, and I dunno what I’ll even have to say to Ma, she… she’d definitely cry, and then I’d start cryin’ too and it’d be a whole big mess, an’, an’ I dunno what I’m supposed to do, I just…” He reached his free hand towards his own neck to clutch at his dog tags. He stopped dead in his tracks, and Sniper had to brake hard to avoid pulling the smaller man over.

“…Mate?” the Australian asked slowly, apparently noting the growing horror on the younger man’s face.

“Oh no. Oh no, oh god oh no oh god no no no NO—“ And Scout was patting his pockets, feeling under his collar, clutching at his own hair—“My tags, where are they?! Were they in the lab!?” he demanded.

“I—I didn’t see ‘em, mate,” Sniper answered, stammering. “Didn’t see ‘em when you were gettin’ carried out, neither.”

“Oh god, they’re somewhere out on the field, oh god this is bad, this is so bad—“ Scout felt the tears welling up too now, furious tears that stung his eyes, and no, he couldn’t cry, not in front of Sniper, but he’d went and lost his dog tags right after he lost his eyes and he didn’t think it could’ve gotten worse but somehow it did, and—

“Mate, breathe. Breathe.” Sniper had him by the shoulders now, and Scout tried to snap himself back to reality. “We’ll find ‘em as soon as we can, awright? But you need to calm down.”

“I can’t lose those, Snipes, you don’t get it, I—I need those back now, I, I…” he found himself caught on that last syllable, breath catching with it, and everything felt like it was spinning, and Sniper was all that held him up now. “Oh god, oh god oh god oh god…”

And for the second time that day, he wasn’t in his own head anymore. Everything was far away and muffled. He was being half-walked, half-carried. He thought he might be crying, and he winced at the thought. He was a grown-ass man, he didn’t cry. But he was.

Then he was lying down on something soft, under something soft and warm. A blanket? Maybe. And he let himself fall asleep, because what else was he supposed to do?

And somewhere in the very back of his mind, he registered that someone was murmuring to him all the while. He didn’t know what that someone was saying, but it was bringing him back down to earth. He was grateful.

The same dream. It wasn’t Jack this time, it was Henry, second-eldest. Scout was stood out in the street, and there was nobody else around. He could hear the sound of traffic, but not in his vicinity. There wasn’t much of anything nearby, really.

Then a hand on his shoulder, and he was turning, looking up. His brother’s hair looked like fire, and it was curly and untamable, even by Ma, so much so that apparently they made him shave it off before he was shipped out to fight. But Scout never got to see it, not even for a funeral, because technically he didn’t die, he just… disappeared. He couldn’t imagine Henry without his orange curls.

“Lil’ J, you gotta come back home eventually, y’know,” Henry said, voice quiet. He was always like that, gentler than the other boys despite being so big and distinct, broad shoulders and ginger hair.

“I know, but…” Scout said, and he tried to remember what exactly he was waiting for. It felt like something important. He just couldn’t think of it. “Why didn’t you, then?” he challenged, and felt bad instantly for the words. His brother couldn’t help it. And he was back for now, so…

“I did though, Lil’ J. Came back when it was my turn,” Henry said, gesturing down the road. “An’ you know it’s gonna be your turn soon.”

“That ain’t fair,” Scout said, brows furrowing. “I’ve got a while, don’t I?”

“You had a while, slugger. You’ve been usin’ borrowed time.” Henry ruffled his hair, and his smile was sad. “Sooner or later, someone’s gonna come collect.”

He pushed his brother’s arm off him without much real force. “Well, not now. Not just yet,” Scout said firmly. He might not be able to remember what he was waiting for, but it had to be important.

Henry shrugged, jangling faintly as he moved. “Alright,” he said. And Scout woke up.

Chapter Text

He woke up somewhere unfamiliar, unable to see, not knowing what time it was. For that reason, he was, understandably, a bit freaked out. The previous events flooded back all at once, and he was sitting up, twisting his head around, trying to get any sense of the space he was in.

“Yo, uh… yo Snipes, you in here?” he said hesitantly, and he heard the sound of motion just to his right, a bit below him.

“Yeah, just over here, mate.” Did he sound tired? Scout wasn’t sure. “We’re in my place. Y’slept through the whole night.”

“What time is it?” he asked, reaching an arm out and feeling the edge of the mattress, kicking off blankets.

“It’s about ten in the AM.”

“Huh? Why ain’t you off fightin’?” Scout asked, brow furrowing.

“We’re in a cease-fire. Gonna be free of fightin’ for at least the next five days. Got called an hour after the mission ended yesterday.”

Scout winced. “Administrator lady found out?”

“Dunno ‘ow she wouldn’t‘ve. Half the team leavin’ the fight midway through like that in some great parade or summat.”

“Yeah, what was up with that?” Scout asked, stretching his arms, wincing as his joints popped. “I uh, I couldn’t tell what was goin’ on. There was fire, an’ I fell down, an’ I think someone carried me, right? What happened?”

“I heard the screamin’, went down and caught a look while you lot were leavin’. S’pose that Spy saw ya get hit an’ killed the Pyro, then went to get Medic when ya weren’t gettin’ up or respawnin’. Heavy carried ya outta the match for the Doc when ye weren’t wakin’ up an’ Spy went along to cover or summat. Tried to help out where I could—got their Demo on his way over.”

“Huh. We probably got creamed, right?” Scout said, moving on to stretching out his legs. He was more sore than he’d expected.

“Oh, yeah. Hardly even a proper match. We lost bad.”

“Figures.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to hop to his feet. “So when—?”

“Wait!” Sniper cried, but Scout had already moved to get up, and then he was falling—

His knee collided hard with the ground two meters below and made him yelp in pain, but the rest of him didn’t follow, instead caught hastily just before contact. His shoulders were a bit squished, and there was a brief moment where it felt like they were both gonna fall over from the momentum, but it was better than getting himself knocked out for the third time in two days.

“There’s a ladder down, ya bugger,” Sniper said from somewhere above him, voice a growl, clutching tightly, and Scout had frozen up. “Whot’re ya tryin’ ta do, gimme a heart attack? Bloody ‘ell.”

“S-sorry,” Scout stammered, heart going a mile a minute in his chest, threatening to bust through his ribcage. “Didn’t know you had a bunk bed. Good catch, though. I, I gotta. I gotta keep you on your toes, huh?”

He was hauled to his feet, and he shook out his leg, wincing. “It’s not a bunk-bed, it’s just elevated. I slept on the chair.” He heard Sniper moving around, and he suddenly took Scout by the arm, putting something in his hand. Fabric, familiar. “Found ye hat for ya,” Sniper said. “I wos plannin’ on goin’ back to look for ye dog tags again today. It’ll be easier to see with the sun up.”

Panic struck him in the chest suddenly when he remembered their absence. A hand went to his own collar, feeling it strangely bare. “Right. Thanks, Snipes. I’d do it, but…” He gestured vaguely up towards his own face, pulling on his cap, brim lower than usual. He wondered how his eyes must look. He was too scared to ask.

“S’all right.” There was a pause. “Whot’s the deal with ‘em, anyways? Got you in a right tizzy when ye figured out you’d lost ‘em.”

“Oh. Uh.” He fidgeted with his hat a bit. “Jus’ somethin’ I had a real long time. It’s real important to me, an’ it’d be… well, I can’t get ‘em replaced is the thing.”

There was a long pause as he waited for Sniper to reply. He didn’t. Silence reigned for all of twenty seconds before Scout broke.

“So, I’m hungry, can we like…? Y’know. Get food or somethin’?”

“Mm? Oh. Yeah, sure.” And Scout nodded, reaching out in the direction he heard Sniper from, hand meeting first what felt like his back, then managing to find his arm. Sniper stiffened at the contact. “The hell ya think y’doin’, mate?” Sniper asked sharply, and Scout flinched back at the tone as if burned, moving away as quickly as he could.

“Uh. I just. Don’t wanna trip on anythin’, Snipes,” Scout said sheepishly. “Geez.”

There’s a moment’s quiet. “Piss. Sorry, just…” A sigh. “God, this is gunna take some gett’n use’ta, isn’t it? Aw, hell.”

Scout just shrugged. Sniper shifted.

“Awright, just… ‘ere. Take the back of m’vest, try an’ walk where I do. Y’lucky I keep th’place clean, otherwise you’d trip left an’ right.”

Scout just had to believe him there. And again when they exited the van and Sniper muttered to himself about how bright it was. And when they got to the base itself and Sniper handed him a glass of something, and when he brushed off Scout’s question of whether he’s tired, and when he said it’s about eleven and that everyone else finished eating about ten minutes prior. He can’t tell for himself. He can’t do much of anything.

He hates it. It’s been less than a day, and he hates it. He feels scared and helpless and alone and useless and he just wants to be able to function again.

He’s intimidated into silence by Sniper’s… well, Sniper. Everything feels too close and too far away, and he doesn’t know how to move correctly all of a sudden, and after the second time he almost knocks over his glass trying to find it on the table he just keeps it at his fingertips.

“Y’bein’ quiet,” Sniper mumbled from across the table.

“Yeah, well,” Scout started to say, but then he thinks he hears something off to his left and he stops, head turning. There’s a beat of pause.

“Mate. There’s nothin’ there,” Sniper said slowly.

“Oh. Uh. You sure?” Scout asked. “Sorry. A little jumpy over here.”

“Like a jackrabbit, yeah, I noticed,” Sniper muttered, and Scout felt his face heating up. He scowled at the offhanded remark, bristling.

“Hey, you try gettin’ your eyes taken out, see how great you feel!” he snapped.

He heard Sniper shifting uncomfortably in the moments following. “…Y’right. ‘M sorry,” he said, and Scout forced himself to relax.

“It’s cool,” Scout said back, and he took another drink from his cup. Hell, even that’s ruined, because he can’t see how full it is, and every time he takes a drink he has to tip slowly or end up with soda up his nostrils. He drinks and resists the urge to turn his head to look over at the side of the room Sniper has already said is empty.

“So… can ya see light and dark, at least?” Sniper asked.

“Huh?”

“Can ya tell the difference between when you’re somewhere dim and somewhere bright, I mean.”

“Uh. I dunno,” Scout admitted, head falling.

“Well, it was nearly pitch dark in the camper, then bright sun when we left it,” Sniper said.

“Oh. Then I don’t think so, no.”

“Hmm.” Another lull, and the Scout itched to fill the hole in the conversation, only now he thought he heard something from behind him. He took another drink. Sniper spoke again. “Any kind of… I dunno. Place you wanna go next?”

“Well, not much I can get up to,” Scout mused. “Usually I’d go out and run or go bug someone or somethin’, but can’t do much of that now.”

“Not a fan of just lazin’ about?” Sniper asked.

“Nah. Nothin’ fun about nothin’, that’s what I always say,” Scout said, and he tipped his glass to either side, listening to the sound of the single piece of ice hitting the sides of it.

“Interestin’ take.”

“I’ve got a lot of those.”

“Huh. Good’ta see that at least a bit o’the ol’ Scout is still swingin’ somewhere in there,” Sniper said with a huff.

“Whaddaya mean by that?” Scout asked, turning his head up slightly, trying to do his best to approximate looking him in the face.

“Ey, no need to be so touchy, I just figured you’d keep bein’ all mopey and sour for at least the next few days. I mean, ‘stead of the sulkin’ that you been up to. An’ a’course the peace an’ quiet ain’t half so bad, just feels odd considerin’ it’s. Y’know. You.”

“Hey! I take offense to that!” Scout said, glaring towards the man, then promptly glugging down the last bit of his soda and starting to chew on the ice cube.

Sniper chuckled. “Aye, there’s some fire. Honestly, would’a started ta think you were a Spy in disguise if ya kept that attitude up, would’a had t’ask Pyro to Spytest ya.”

“Hey, y’know what, funny you should mention Spy,” Scout said conversationally around his mouthful of melting water.

“An’ why’s that?” Sniper asked.

“Just thought it was a pretty funny coincidence that you would bring the guy up, is all,” Scout said, shrugging, turning his empty glass over in his hands. “Hey, is this one of those nice new glasses we got, or the old ones?”

“Uh… the old?” Sniper answered, sounding more confused with each passing second.

“Cool. But yeah, funny coincidence. Turns out that when you can’t see, you end up listening to stuff a lot harder, an’—“ He heard a sound off towards his right where he knew the door was, and he threw the glass towards the noise with a shouted “Oh no you don’t!” He grinned when he heard it connect with someone, accompanied by a yelp and some colorful French vocabulary.

“Ow, that hurt you little—!”

“Spy?! The hell’d you get here!?” Sniper startled.

“Yeah, I could hear you, asshole, look who’s sneaky now!” Scout snickered, and he could tell Spy was fuming. “So the fuck you want, Frenchie?”

“I was simply checking in, ensuring that you two are getting along,” Spy answered stiffly.

“An’ why wouldn’t we be?” Scout asked, hoping that he was looking as annoyed as he felt. He hated not being able to see expressions. That was ninety percent of interaction.

“Well, for starters, you are an extrovert, and the bushman is most certainly not,” Spy said dryly, and Scout had to admit that he had a point. Not out loud, obviously. “Secondly, you are an annoying chatterbox, thirdly he looks ready to hit you in the face—“

“Oh puh-lease, he always looks like that,” Scout snipped back.

“’Ey, don’t drag me inta this, ya mongrel,” Sniper said from one side.

“—Fourth, you were gripping onto his jacket like a lost puppy earlier—“

“Yeah, guess I’ll just frickin’ trip over everything, sure Spy—“

“And finally, he has his goddamn knife on him,” Spy snapped, finally getting to the point. “That is a little bit concerning for most people, and I thought you should be made aware.”

There were a few beats of silence. “Well, duh, Spy,” Scout finally said.

“…I beg your pardon?”

“I said “Well duh”—I knew that, idiot,” Scout said, scoffing.

“You did.” Spy’s voice was flat.

“Yeah—do ya need your ears checked or somethin’? Yes, he has his knife. I knew that. You ain’t tellin’ me anything new. So, if that’s all, could ya step off maybe, let me eat in peace?” Scout said, waving him off.

There was an annoyed sigh and a bit of French grumbling (some familiar cursing mixed in) as the man left the room, continuing as he went down the hall, and finally it faded into silence. The two still sitting at the table didn’t move or speak.

“Yo Snipes, where are ya?”

“Right ‘ere.”

Scout punched him on the arm. The man yelped. “Ow! The bloody hell’re ya playin’ at, you maniac?!” he complained.

“You brought your frickin’ knife!?” Scout hissed, trying to keep his voice low. “What the hell, man?! Do you carry that stupid thing with you everywhere?!”

“No!” Sniper replied, voice falling similarly. “But I ain’t ever needed t’watch someone else’s back s’well as mine before, ‘ave I?”

“We’re not gonna get ambushed in the frickin’ kitchen, dude, maybe cool it!?” Scout said, and he heard an annoyed huff from the other side of the table. “Look, I—I get it, an’ I appreciate the sentiment, but seriously, you don’t need to carry a frickin’ knife around, weirdo.”

“Awright, awright,” Sniper surrendered, and a beat of silence fell between them. Scout scraped his fork across his plate, leg bouncing idly.

“Oh shit,” Scout said, suddenly, sitting up.

“Wot?”

“I just realized I can totally still work a radio, probably,” Scout said. “Or my record player. Dude. Okay, we’re headed back to my room and I’m grabbing my music and you’re gonna have to deal with me blastin’ nothin’ but Tom Jones’s “It’s Not Unusual” until I get my eyes back.”

“Since when do you listen to music?” Sniper asked. “Wouldn’ figure you could hear it over yourself talkin’ all the time.”

“Uh, of course I listen to music,” Scout replied, deciding to ignore the second part. “I’m an alive human on this planet, ain’t I? Music is great.”

“Well, I s’pose as long as you don’t shriek along t’the lyrics, I won’t mind,” Sniper muttered, and Scout smiled. “If you’re done, may s’well go get ya things.”

“Alright! Let’s go, wombat!” And Sniper picked up their plates and they made their way out of the room, Scout holding the back of his vest, both of them surprised at how quickly they were finding a rhythm with each other. 

“It’s probably really messy, so, this is gonna take a little while, just bear with me.”

“Define “messy”.”

“Annoying to walk around on. Just… this’ll take a hot minute.”

Scout entered his room, picking his way through slowly and carefully, finally reaching his record player and kneeling, sifting through a box. He found his records and picked them out, putting them carefully atop the record player and picking the whole thing up. He heard shuffling in the hallway. “Oh, uh, feel free to come in by the way,” he called.

He heard the click of a lightswitch behind him, and Sniper moving into the room. “…Huh. If I’m bein’ honest, I expected more of a mess,” he said after a second. “Didn’t think I’d see carpet, let alone a made bed.”

“Oh, no way,” Scout said, half laughing, moving to put the pile of things on a table, moving to another part of the room where he was pretty sure he’d left his other records. “I grew up in a tiny apartment with eight other people, dude, I learned to keep my stuff clean. Or at least like, neat. Eight folks in a three-fiddy square foot apartment keeping neat is just good enough to live in. Kinda wrecked this place a while back with all these boxes, though.”

“I can see that. You need a… a shelf, or summat. What’s in all these?”

“Take a look, pal.”

He found his other records and started picking his way back to his starting point, and he heard Sniper rifling through stacks of papers. “…Notebooks?” Sniper asked slowly.

“Yeah! One of my brothers apparently ended up kidnapping like half of ‘em when he moved out, and Ma found the others after the move, and when I went back home to visit, Ma had ‘em in these boxes, so I brought ‘em back with me—they got all kinds of shitty old drawings of mine on ‘em! I got better eventually, but… yeah. That’s what I did durin’ classes all the time.” He put his records down on the others, and paused, his movement ceasing all at once. He heard Sniper stop shuffling around the stack, and he quickly schooled his expression into something more neutral. “I guess I can’t really… draw right now, either.”

Sniper didn’t reply. Scout tried to shake it off, moving to his closet and feeling through everything he had in there, trying to pick out some of his shirts and pants. “Didn’t know you draw,” Sniper finally ended up saying.

“Yeah. It’s a hobby.” He got a stack of stuff and fished around for his duffel bag. “Uh, I’m just gonna pack some other stuff too, so I don’t gotta come back in here every other day to get a change of clothes an’ stuff. That cool?”

“Sure, mate. I don’t mind.” No mention of the fact that Scout was planning for the long-term. No acknowledgement towards his assuming that he’d be there for a long time. There was the sound of more shuffling. “…You said you grew up in an apartment with eight people? God, that sounds like a nightmare.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t that bad. Me an’ my brothers an’ Ma, all in one place. I’m the youngest.” He started stuffing things into the duffel bag, his fingers skimming over them, double-checking what was before him. “Uh. What color’s this?”

“Red n’white.”

“Like, a jersey?”

“Yeah?”

“Cool.” He pushed it into the bag along with several bundles of socks. “Uh, but there’s a bunch of notebooks in one’a them boxes, then the baseball cards, an’ I think I brought back this big tub of like, all my old track stuff too. An’ my Ma wanted me to have some of one of my bro’s stuff, too, but I couldn’t bring everything back, y’know?”

“Right.”

Scout zipped the bag and put it on one shoulder, moving back to his record player. But when he put his hand down where it was supposed to be, it was gone. “…Uh, where’d the—?” He was cut off by the feeling of his duffel bag being lifted from his shoulder. “Hey, hold on!”

“Whot?” Sniper asked, voice level. “You know I’m not lettin’ ya carry stuff when you can’t see. S’no manners to that.”

“I’m blind, not crippled, Snipes,” Scout said, crossing his arms and glaring. “I can handle carrying my own frickin’ stuff.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“An’ how do you plan to hold onta me with no hands?”

“I can hear where you are just fine.”

“Can you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then you’ll be right surprised to know ‘m a little bit to the right of where you’re currently glarin’, love.”

Scout felt his face heating up, moreso when Sniper started to snicker at him. “Shuttup! At least let me carry my bag, then!”

“Nope, too late,” Sniper chimed, and Scout’s hand was placed on Sniper’s back, and Sniper leaned slightly to one side (he sounded like he was picking something up—the record player, probably), and then they were leaving.

Chapter Text

“It’s not unusual, to go out at any time!”

As per Sniper’s request, Scout didn’t sing along to the lyrics, instead whistling and snapping his fingers in rhythm. He heard Sniper busying about the camper as the record spun beside him on its player, the sound coming through surprisingly clearly despite the obvious age on the thing.

“But when I see you out and about it's such a crime!”

“This bloke needs to calm down,” Sniper commented. “Sounds like he’s keepin’ th’poor girl hostage.”

Scout laughed at that. “Nah, he just likes ‘er a lot or somethin’. She doesn’t even know he likes her. That’s… pretty much the whole point.”

“Why doesn’t he just say somethin’, then, if it pisses ‘im off so much?”

“Same reason you never talk to nobody, probably,” Scout replied brightly.

There was a short pause filled only with the music from the record-player. Scout felt his grin falling away. He wasn’t sure if that had been funny or not. Was Sniper mad at him now? Would he kick Scout out into the desert again? Which way was the base from here?

“You’re a right bugger, ya know that, right?” Sniper finally asked, but there was a lightheartedness to the reply, and Scout felt the fear seeping out all at once. “God. “Nevah talk to nobody”—y’wanker.”

“I do not sound like that,” Scout protested, and Sniper just snorted.

“Anyway, ‘m headed out for a bit,” Sniper said, and there was the sound of keys jangling. “You want me to lock the door behind me?”

“Wait, you’re leavin’? Like, leavin’ leavin’. Goin’ somewhere.” There was that fear again.

“Yeah. I got some business to take care of.” A pause. “I’ll only be gone an hour max, mate, no need to look like a kicked puppy, geez.”

Scout quickly tried to school his expression. “I didn’t!”

“Ya looked like I just knocked yer grandma’s lights out over Smissmas dinner.”

“I did not!”

“Ya did.”

“Didn’t!”

“Did.”

Scout crossed his arms, slouching back in his chair. “Well, what if somethin’ happens? What’ll I do then?”

“Die, probably,” Sniper said nonchalantly, only to backpedal, presumably noting the way all the blood drained from Scout’s face. “Nothin’ bad’s about t’happen, mate, no worries. If it makes ya feel better, I can set ya back in the base where the others’re around.”

“Ugh, no. They’d start tryin’ pranks an’ shit the second I showed up.”

“You could always just nap until I get back. Rest s’more.”

“I just woke up like two hours ago.”

“Well, this’s been the longest you’ve been awake since the accident,” Sniper reasoned, and Scout considered this.

“…Okay. Yeah, okay, fine. I think I’ll do that. Uh, but question—you don’t have like, anything sharp or fragile just layin’ around, do ya? Like, so I don’t hurt myself on somethin’.”

“Naw, I put away anythin’ made of glass an’ everythin’ else is in boxes an’ drawers.”

“Okay, cool. Good to know.”

The sound of keys being put into a pocket, door opening. “I’ll be back later, I’m lockin’ the door. You can get outside, but if you leave, it’ll lock behind you,” Sniper said, and Scout waved, lying back in the chair. The door closed, the sound of keys in the lock, and then silence but for the record player, waiting to be flipped over. Scout just moved the needle and turned it off, sitting in silence for a second, or a few seconds, or maybe a minute.

“Well,” Scout said aloud to himself, “Time to explore.”

He spent about twenty minutes just memorizing how big the inside of the camper was, feeling out the walls and where furniture was. He found the bathroom after about ten minutes, and got the nerve to climb the ladder onto the bunk after another ten. Or… it might’ve been ten minutes. He had no idea in actuality. He couldn’t tell the passage of time. He considered getting a clock with a second hand just so he could listen to the ticking of it, but decided that would just be a waste of time anyways. He started to do little laps and circles around the tight inside of the place, memorizing how many steps this way or that way, then starting to commit it to muscle memory. It was easier than he thought it would be, but it was still a bit time-consuming. At least it was enough for him to be able to move freely, which is all he really wanted at that point.

Doing these miniature laps started to make his legs protest with soreness, and he began considering what he’d do to keep in shape. He couldn’t exactly go out on runs anymore. That was a staple in his entire daily routine.

He ignored the thought and returned to counting steps.

He was proud of himself for how well he had it down, walking with his hands loose at his sides instead of in front of him to catch himself, half-jogging when confidence and boredom set in. He ended up back in the chair again, cap over his eyes and looking for all the world like he was asleep, when Sniper did finally return with the jangling of keys from outside.

“M’sorry, mate, lost track’a—“ Sniper cut himself off, and his next movements were quiet, putting his keys back away, shutting the door behind himself. A moment’s hesitation, then a finger tapping him on the shoulder. “Mate. Scout. Mate.”

Scout tilted his head and the hand withdrew. He let out an exaggerated yawn. “Oh. Heya, Snipes. Mind turnin’ the light on? I can’t see a thing,” he asked, smirking.

“Very funny,” Sniper deadpanned, but Scout could hear the near-laugh in his voice. “M’sorry, I lost track of time a bit—it’s already almost five, the team’ll be getting’ grub soon.”

“Oh. Huh.” Scout suddenly had an idea, and he smiled, moving to stand, pulling on his cap a bit. “Guess I’ll go get my shoes, huh?”

And he walked over to where his shoes had been discarded, leaning on the table’s edge as he pulled them on and managed to do the laces. A beat of silence.

“How the hell did you do that?”

“Aww man, might take a nap, Snipes,” Scout said, grinning openly, and he moved over to the ladder, climbing up and letting his feet swing on the edge of the mattress.

“Y’gonna bump your head, get down from—“

“I should really wash my hands before I eat, huh?” Scout said loudly, climbing back down quickly and walking to the bathroom. He pulled his hat off, tossing it onto where he knew the table was, and he heard Sniper whispering something, confusion nearly palpable. “And my face too probably, actually, I—OW!”

His foot had hit something—not something heavy, but any contact at all was enough to make him panic and over-correct just slightly to the side—causing him to walk, headfirst, directly into the doorframe to the bathroom. He ended up sitting on the ground, hand clutching at his forehead, hissing at the pain, eyes clenched shut.

“Bloody bogan,” Sniper said, sounding tired, and he moved past Scout, who heard the water run for a few moments. “Move y’hand, that won’t help.”

Scout did, wincing, and a wet towel showed up, draping itself over most of his face. Scout took it in his hand and balled it, then held it to what was probably going to be a bump come the next day. “Thanks,” he muttered, sure that his face was bright red.

“Mind tellin’ me how the hell you did all that?” Sniper asked, and he was sitting on the floor too now.

“I started tryin’ to figure out how to walk around in here. Figure out like, the general floor plan, just so I can get around by myself a little bit.”

“An’ you just had to show off, did ya?” There was more amusement in Sniper’s tone now.

“Well, if I hadn’t tripped on that… whatever that was, it would’ve worked!” Scout protested.

“That was m’rifle. I just took it in with me now,” Sniper explained. “I wanted t’do some maintenance when I’ve got the time.”

“Well, way’ta throw off my game,” Scout said, trying to cross his arms and failing as the towel started to slip off his face and he had to catch it quickly.

“…What would’ve worked?”

“Huh?” Scout asked, confused.

“You said “It would’ve worked” a second ago. What would’ve worked?” Sniper repeated.

“I dunno. Showing off? Not looking like a dummy? Proving I can still do stuff?”

“Well, maybe next time,” Sniper said, and Scout just hummed, eyes still closed as he pressed the cold cloth to his forehead. “Do ya still wanna eat with the rest of the blokes?”

“Yeah, sure,” Scout replied. “Uh… which way’s the base from here?”

Scout could hear the yelled chatter and banter of the mess hall from far away. From his place holding Sniper’s sleeve he could feel the taller man tense up when there was a sudden roar of laughter, and he wondered not for the first time how Sniper could not like being around people. Feeding off of social energy, either getting attention or listening to someone who was enthusiastic about something, arguments and bickering still a form of entertainment—other people were a major source of energy for Scout, and he just couldn’t fathom what would have to happen to make him suddenly dislike being around people—borderline fear it like Sniper apparently did.

Then they stepped into the mess hall and every voice suddenly fell silent, and he understood.

“Shite,” Demo finally quietly, breaking the silence. Sniper took a tentative step forward and Scout started walking again. He heard the sound of a chair scraping on the floor and Sniper’s hands on his shoulders guided him to sit in the chair, similar to how it had worked earlier when they went to go eat.

Then Sniper was off and Scout could feel the presence of so many people around him, but none moved to speak again. The silence pressed in and Scout could feel it nearly restricting his breathing, clenching his chest like a vise. This was horrible. He hated this. He hated this.

“Fuckin’ what!?” Scout snapped, and there was a palpable recoil from the table.

“Mate,” Sniper warned from the kitchen. Scout crossed his arms and sat back in his chair.

“Leetle Scout is looking better,” Heavy finally said from somewhere to his right, and some of the tension lifted.

Scout tilted his head up slightly. “Oh, yeah. Hey, I didn’t actually say thanks yet for gettin’ me off the field. That was cool a’ya, I appreciate it.”

“Is no problem. Scout is small, not much heavier than Sasha,” Heavy said dismissively.

“Hey!” Scout said, trying to glare.

“Where’ve ye been, lad?” Demo cut in before the situation could escalate. He sounded like he might be sitting right next to Scout, on the left. “I haven’t seen ye since I caught’a glimpse of yer parade leavin’ the battle!”

“Oh, I’ve been hangin’ with Snipes,” Scout said. “He’s been helpin’ me out with all sorts of stuff.”

“There,” Sniper murmured from just behind Scout, and he felt the man leaning over him, putting something on the table with a dull thunk. There was the sound of a spoon clattering. “It’s soup, mind ya don’t spill it.”

“Thanks,” Scout said, picking up the spoon and pulling the bowl towards him as Sniper sat to his other side. “See? He’s helpful as heck.”

“I can see that,” Engie chuckled from another part of the table, surprising Scout, who hadn’t realized he was present.

“Oh. Hey, Hardhat. Y’know what, okay—roll call, who’s all here?”

There was a short lap around the table starting with Demo, and it turned out that everyone except Soldier and Medic were present. Medic was apparently still working—Heavy said this with a touch of bitterness, which had Scout wondering—and Soldier was just AWOL.

“So how is leetle Scout feeling?” Heavy finally asked, a note of solemnness in his voice. “Must not be easy thing to happen.”

“Well, yeah,” Scout said, trying to keep his voice as level as possible. “It ain’t a walk in the park or nothin’, but hey, I’m survivin’ somehow.”

“Barely,” Sniper muttered from beside him, so quiet that Scout wasn’t sure anyone else had heard him, and earned an elbow to the upper arm.

“Mostly I’m just wonderin’ what the loudspeaker lady’s gonna do. We can’t stay in a ceasefire forever, right?” Scout said. “An’ if I don’t get better soon, what’ll happen then? Will we just have to wait it out or somethin’?”

“Me an’ Demo were just talkin’ about the same thing earlier,” Engie said quietly. “We can’t exactly do much in the way of cappin’ points without a Scout, can we?”

Scout felt a swell of pride at that, sitting up straight with his head held higher. “Well, duh. Obviously. I’m the best at cappin’ points!”

“Arguable,” Spy muttered.

“Uh, excuse me, who holds the point cap record on our team?”

Pyro did something to reply to that. Scout was quickly beginning to realize that Pyro was even less comprehensible when he couldn’t see their body language. But it sounded agreeable for the most part.

“Uh. Right,” Scout said hesitantly. “Well, I’m not—“

He was interrupted by the sound of the doors busting open, probably breaking some part of them by the sound of wood cracking. “I HAVE EXCELLENT NEWS!” came the telltale yelling of their resident militant nutcase.

“Soldier! Where’ve ya been?” Demo asked. “An’ the hell’ve ya got there?”

“I have been out searching for something, and I have found it!” he said triumphantly. “Pyro, here is your fire axe back! I no longer need it!”

Scout was really starting to wish he could see, because this sounded like a real shitshow and he would’ve loved to see it.

“Mmph mnn!” Pyro chimed happily, and Scout heard a few chairs scraping backward as some of the mercs presumably backed away from the masked… person.

“Now! To business! Cadet, I have a gift for you!” Soldier barked, and it took a moment for Scout to realize that Soldier was addressing him.

“Huh? Me?” he asked for clarification, getting up from his seat hesitantly. “A gift?”

“Indeed, cadet, a gift! Here!”

The thing about interacting with Soldier is that you constantly need to be ready to dodge any wayward gestures or playful (read as: painful) hitting of the arm, chest, gut, face, ears, or head. Scout was the only one who could generally dodge Soldier, meaning Soldier usually hit a bit harder than he did the others.

But Scout could not dodge this time in particular, and so was clubbed directly over the head with some wooden implement.

His ears were ringing and he was on the ground. A jolt of fear went through him as all of a sudden he felt like he was back on the battlefield again. There was definitely yelling.

To his surprise, he could hear Sniper’s voice over most of the others, yelling some… really nasty stuff at Soldier, who wasn’t being particularly nice in return. He was pulled to his feet, which was definitely disorienting, and he heard concerned mumbling from Pyro on his left and Engie fretting to his right. Spy was yelling too somewhere, near where the other two were fighting.

“Y’alright, boy?” Engie’s voice hummed, suddenly coming through to Scout’s ears clearly.

Scout was so disoriented that he almost moved a hand to press the talk button on his mic out of reflex, but halfway through he caught himself and just shifted to holding the side of his head. It was wet. Probably with blood. “Uhhh,” he said eloquently, trying to remember how to make his mouth move to produce words.

He felt cold water over his head suddenly and he sputtered, wiping it from his face quickly.

“Pyro, ya gotta warn the boy before ya do that,” Engie chided, starting to wipe away the water and blood with a cloth, and Pyro just hummed happily.

“Uh. Why’s there yelling?” Scout asked hurriedly.

“Scout!” It was Spy, standing in front of him. “Could you call off your seeing-eye dog before he scalps the helmet-headed idiot?”

It took Scout another second to process the statement. “Snipes!” he finally yelled over the noise. He heard the fight stop. “Don’t kill ‘im, pal, c’mon.”

“He almost knocked y’bloody goddamn head off,” Sniper said angrily.

“Well, yeah, but Medic’s gonna murder the guy anyways when he finds out,” Scout shrugged, tilting his head to help Engie get behind his ears, making a face.

Soldier laughed at that. “Ha! What, are you gonna rat me out, cadet?”

“Nah, Heavy already left to get ‘im,” Scout replied.

There was a beat of silence before he heard the sounds of a struggle.

“Oh no ya don’t ya bloomin’ nutcase!” Sniper growled. “Demo, got an arm?”

“Nah, ‘m stayin’ outta this, lad.”

“Fine. Engie?”

Engie went to go help hold Soldier still, and Pyro was just giggling to one side, bumping shoulders with Scout as they did. Scout could sense someone stepping into place where Engie was, continuing where he left off with the cloth.

“And how did you know that our Heavy left?” Spy asked suspiciously.

“If he was here, he coulda stopped the fight or somethin’, right? An’ he probably wants Medic outta his lab anyways, and I didn’t hear ‘im, so… one plus one plus one is three.”

“Hmm.” Spy paused for a second. “A good point… how is it that you have become more perceptive without your eyesight?”

Scout shrugged. “If I don’t pay attention I get clobbered over the head with somethin’, apparently. And that ain’t any fun.”

“WHERE IS HE!?”

All motion ceased when the doctor’s voice echoed from down the hallway. The sound of boots clicking sharply on tiled floor rang through the room. Scout could practically hear Soldier sweating.

The doors swung open.

“Er. Hello, doc,” Soldier said stiffly.

Boots continued to click.

“How’s it going?”

Boots stopped clicking.

“Anything new?”

The sound of two slaps cracked through the air in quick succession, followed by an inhale and some very colorful cursing.

“Do not hit a blinded man over the head with a cane,” Medic said coldly. Scout tried to hold in his laughter, and he was sure his face was turning red with the effort. “Speaking of which, I believe that this was intended to be a gift of some sort, Herr Scout, albeit a misguided one, ja?”

Scout reached in front of him and felt the wooden thing from earlier enter his hand. He grasped it carefully, feeling it over. It was crooked and a bit splintered in some places, but it did indeed feel like a very shoddy but handmade cane.

“If you would stand still, bitte,” Medic said next, and Scout felt the slight sting of a needle in his arm followed by the singular sensation of healing on the wound on his head, the skin pulling back together easily. “There. And Herr Soldier?”

“Yessir,” Soldier groaned.

“Hit our Junge again and I will not heal you in battle until further notice. Gut day.”

The doctor left the room again, and the door closed behind him. Heavy chuckled quietly.

“Yer doctor is scary as hell, lad,” Demo said in a stage whisper.

“Yes. Very scary Doktor,” Heavy agreed, and he left the room as well.

Scout heard Soldier shuffling out of the room and muttering, and Engie and Pyro sweeping away plates from the table as Engie started a “conversation” with the firebug. Scout managed to find his seat again, and he held onto his soup protectively, trying to finish the lukewarm meal as quickly as he could.

He heard someone sit in the chair on one side of him. “Aye, laddie. I had a present for ye s’well, but ah promise ya tha’ I won’t hit ye over the head with it. I’d prefer not t’get twice-slapped by our Doctor today, aye?”

The American felt something relatively small and fragile press into his palm. Metal and… glass, spindly bits…

“Glasses?” Scout asked, frowning.

“Sunglasses,” Demo corrected. “Me mum has a pair like ‘em, she’s got her eyes out s’well. Guess it’s spose’ta protect whot’s left’a them. At the very least, keeps folks from starin’ too much at th’place they should be. Like me eyepatch.” Demo paused, and Scout heard him scratching at his stubbly chin. “Although yer eyes still look intact, jus’ unfocused a bit.”

“Wait, you… so you like, got me these?” Scout asked, frowning. “An’—you’re sure you want me to keep ‘em?”

“Aye, lad. All yours,” Demo said with an amicable pat to his shoulder.

“Oh. Um… thanks, Demo. This is really cool’a ya,” Scout said, turning them over in his hands. He poked the brim of his cap up and slid the shades on carefully. “How’s it look?” he asked, swallowing back nervousness.

“Y’look like a greaser,” the Scot snorted. “But not half bad.”

Scout felt out the shape of them. “What do these look like, anyways?”

“Aviators, smaller than Sniper’s though.”

Scout nodded, opening his mouth to say something but hesitating at the last moment. Demo hadn’t gotten up to move yet, but Scout couldn’t be sure he was paying attention. Nevertheless, he tried to speak again. “It’s. It’s weird,” he said.

“What is?” Demo asked.

“I lost my eyesight an’ all of a sudden everyone is bein’ nice to me,” he said, trying for a casual, lighthearted tone but instead settling somewhere around confused.

Demo didn’t say anything for a moment. “Well. When a real bad thin’ happens t’ya comrades, it makes ya think, don’t it? Realize what’s important.” He heard Demoman standing, leaning in and lowering his voice to a whisper. “Though if y’ask me, Sniper’s always been nice t’ya. Jus’ the way he is.”

“Yeah?” Scout asked, the words lighting a spark of something good in his chest.

“Aye.” Another pat to the shoulder and he was walking away, calling a goodbye to Engie and Pyro as he left.

Scout felt someone sitting down next to him. “It’s me,” Sniper murmured. “Y’nearly done?”

“Yeah. Didja see these shades? Cyclops got ‘em for me,” he said cheerfully.

“Look good,” Sniper said appraisingly.

“I hope so,” Scout said, turning back to his soup and taking another spoonful. He made a face at how cold it had gotten. “Bleh. Yo, Mumbles!” he called towards the kitchen. He heard an answering noise from Pyro. “Couldja heat this back up for me?”

He heard a cheerful noise and Pyro’s heavy boots on the ground walking closer as Sniper pulled his bowl a bit away. The telltale click of a flamethrower and the bowl was placed in front of him again.

“Thanks!” he said, and he heard Pyro humming happily as they left. The next bite of soup nearly burned his tongue, but he didn’t complain.

“Why’re ya hangin’ on to that cane?” Sniper asked with a note of distain.

Scout shifted the cane where it was leaning against his leg. “I dunno. It’s a gift, ain’t it?”

“He hit you over the head wiv it.”

“Yeah, well.” Scout turned it around a few times. His next words were spoken sheepishly. “This an’ the sunglasses are the… the first gifts you guys’ve ever really given me.”

There was silence around the table, the only noise coming from the kitchen where Engie talked fairly quietly over the sound of clacking dishes and silverware.

“Really?” Sniper asked, voice his usual half-growl half-mumble, but somehow softer than usual.

“…Yeah.”

“Whot about—about birthdays, or—or holidays or the like?”

“The guys don’t really give out gifts for stuff—they do ya a favor or cook or somethin’, but not like, a whole gift. Gifts are for…” Scout stopped for a few long moments. He almost intended to leave the sentence unfinished, but Sniper didn’t speak, waiting for him to finish the thought. Almost a full minute passed before Scout finally forced the end of the thought out of his mouth. “…Gifts are for friends.”

“…Mate. A’course you’re our friend,” Sniper said softly.

“Nah. They don’t like me much,” Scout said, turning the cane over and over in his hands. He wasn’t even sad, because he wasn’t realizing this just now. “An’ I know that. They got friends between themselves, but none’a them like me much. They put up with my shenanigans because I’m fast and good at my job, nothin’ else. They put up with me an’ that’s about it, y’know? An’ I got no right to be mad about it, it just kinda sucks.”

Sniper was quiet. Scout realized he was probably being a dick by venting to Sniper—he was never a people person, he wouldn’t know how to react to any of this.

“It’s gettin’ late,” Scout said, and he picked up the bowl, gulping down the rest of his soup quickly.

“Don’t choke, now,” Sniper fretted, and Scout waved off his concern, nearly slamming the bowl back down when he was done.

“Alright,” he said, back to cheerful, standing up. “Let’s go, wombat!”

Sniper took the bowl and spoon over to the kitchen and returned to Scout within a few moments. When Scout took hold of his sleeve, he paused.

“…Ya don’t wanna use y’new cane?” Sniper asked.

“Nah. You’re more reliable,” Scout said easily, and Sniper paused for a few seconds before he started walking. Scout frowned to himself. Did he just make this weird? He probably just made it weird. Way to go, Scout. You ruined everything. Now you gotta go find someone else to help you get around and do stuff, idiot.

“Thanks,” Sniper said finally, the word mumbled, and that worry was gone in a flash.

Scout was woken from another dream—home, fresh from track practice after school, talking to Ma and helping her with the dishes while his brothers goofed around somewhere else—by the sound of the door opening and closing.

“Snipes?” Scout murmured, voice scratchy from sleep. “Why’re ya wakin’ me up, man?”

There was a soft scuffle as Sniper stopped abruptly in his tracks. “Oh. Uh… I was… just out for a smoke s’all,” Sniper murmured slowly. “No worries. Go back to sleep.”

Scout paused, then nodded, rolling back over and closing his eyes. It looked exactly the same as when they were open.

It wasn’t until the next morning that Scout realized he hadn’t had a clue what time that had been.

Chapter Text

“What’s this thing?”

He heard Sniper’s newspaper shift as he looked over at the case Scout had a hand on, sat under a few other boxes, but not wooden like the others.

“Oh. That’s…” Sniper paused, and his voice was quiet, almost embarrassed when he spoke next. “That’s m’tenor sax. Er, saxophone, that is. The… the woodwind instrument.”

“Hold up,” Scout said, tone deadly serious. “You play an instrument.”

“…Might’ve done.”

“And you didn’t tell me this.”

“…Er. Might’ve done.”

“I’m gonna friggin’ kill you.” Scout managed to pull the case loose and turn it over in his hands. “You play an instrument! Holy shit! You—why? Why can you do this?”

“Picked it up back in school, practiced a bit in my free time. It’s been a while since I’ve played it,” Sniper said, sounding embarrassed. “Just… figured I’d keep it ‘round. May as well.”

“Dude, you need to play somethin’ right now.”

“I—I don’t remember how!” Sniper said weakly. “I bet I couldn’t play a damn thing!”

“Too late, you’re playin’!” Scout said, shoving the instrument case towards him.

He heard Sniper sigh after a second, and the sound of latches and metal pieces being moved around and put together. After a very thick silence Sniper played a note, and the next few minutes were spent with Scout sitting cross-legged and listening with interest as Sniper tried to put the old instrument in tune. Finally he played a scale with the ease only practice gives you, and he played a few more, obviously falling back into old habits without much of a problem.

“Any requests?” he finally asked. “I don’t remember much.”

“You probably never learned any Tom Jones,” Scout said, and Sniper laughed at that.

“No, not really. But… hold on, I do remember one song I bet, I’m sure I played it enough over the years…” Sniper said, and he took a breath, and, slowly at first, started playing a tune. It was fairly cheerful, almost boppy, and easygoing. He tripped up once or twice, but after a bit Scout perked up, the notes sounding familiar to him. He opened his mouth and began singing along quietly, voice hardly audible over the instrument.

“Old man trouble, I don’t mind him,” he sang, bopping his head along with the music. “You won’t find him… ‘round my door,”

Sniper started playing a bit quieter, and Scout got a bit bolder, raising his voice to sing.

“I’ve got starlight… I’ve got sweet dreams. I’ve got my man—who could ask for anything more?” He sang the following scatted line while shooting finger guns at the Australian, and Sniper slipped up in his playing, interrupted by his own giggling, which quickly infected Scout as well. “That’s ‘I Got Rhythm’, by uh… Ella Fitzpatrick, right?”

“Fitzgerald,” Sniper corrected, and Scout snapped his fingers. “How’d you know that one?”

“My Ma had like, four albums, an’ that was the only single that she had. Until my brothers started gettin’ enough money to get music too, which was when I was… nine? Yeah. Until then, this was one of the only things we ever listened to.”

“Huh.” He heard Sniper fiddling with the keys on the saxophone. “I just remember hearin’ it when I was younger, thinkin’ it sounded nice, teachin’ myself t’play it. Weren’t hard. But… since when d’you sing? Whot’s that about?”

Scout felt his face flush. “Uh. I was…” He ducked his head down, fidgeted with his hands, with his shirt’s collar, with his cap. “…I was in the church choir as a kid.” A beat of pause, then laughter. Scout felt like his face was on fire, and he glared daggers. “What’s so funny?” he challenged.

“Y-you—hahahahaha—so, so you, of all people, you were bloody churched growin’ up?” Sniper managed to wheeze.

Scout puffed out his chest. “Damn right! Irish Catholic! What’s it to ya?” he replied, voice a bit raised.

“Oh god, hahaha, ‘m—m’sorry, mate, just—I just imagined you in the stupid, the white robe lookin’ thing, standin’ in front’a everyone singin’ ‘bout Jesus, prolly the shortest person there—“

“I was not! An’ I wasn’t the shortest in the school choir, neither!” Scout protested.

“No, no—I ain’t makin’ fun, love, jus’ imagined that you prolly looked like a real piece’a work is all. God. The Scout got churched. That’s funny, it really is.”

Scout sniffed, crossing his arms, looking away as his blush refused to fade. “What the hell ever,” he said stiffly.

“Aww, c’mon, don’t be like that,” Sniper goaded. “How’s this—I’ll play another song an’ you can play choirboy again for a bit, aye?” Scout didn’t reply, sitting with his arms crossed. “Oi, I swear I ain’t havin’ a go at ya, y’got a lovely voice, I jus’ thought it was funny. M’sorry for laughin’.”

Scout considered the apology for a few seconds before deflating, uncrossing his arms. “Yeah, okay. Play it again. But try an’ get the chorus right this time.”

“There’s that fire I know an’ love,” Sniper said happily, and he started to play, and Scout started to sing, and all the other mercenaries far away in the base were none the wiser about the musical talents of their teammates.

“I’m gonna frickin’ lose it.”

“Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!”

“Then cool it.”

“I’m gonna slap you. At least it’s somethin’ to do.”

“Y’won’t, neither.”

“Try me.”

Scout was about to start bouncing off the walls. He felt fairly recovered physically, and he was back to top shape in terms of energy levels. Unfortunately, he had no way to get rid of that energy. Usually he would either go out for a run or do target practice in the makeshift batting cage in the training room, but neither of those were an option now. So he was going to lose it.

“Well, what can ya do without eyes?” Sniper asked, and Scout heard him putting down the gun he was maintenancing.

“Uh… can’t really lift weights, because that sucks,” Scout said, ticking off on his fingers. “Can’t go jogging, can’t do target practice, pull-ups or push-ups are boring…”

“Jog in place?” Sniper suggested.

“No, that sucks too,” Scout said, making a face. They were both quiet for a second before Scout heard Sniper snap his fingers.

“Oi, idea,” Sniper said, and Scout heard him moving to rummage around in one of the storage bins that Scout had long confused for a counter before Sniper had taken pity and corrected him. He felt Sniper take him by the arm. “Let’s go outside.”

Scout felt the transition into sunlight as Sniper walked him through the door and a few yards away from the van. Sniper took one hand and put the end of a rope in it, then did the same with the other. “The hell’s this?” Scout asked curiously.

“Jump rope!” Sniper said, sounding proud of himself. “Don’t need your eyes—it’s all about keepin’ a rhythm. It’ll keep ya quick on yer feet an’ if y’get bored y’got options to keep it interesting.”

Scout considered this, then hesitantly moved to hop the rope a few times. “Huh.” He picked up a rhythm, and felt himself starting to grin, and it only widened the longer he tried it. “Holy shit, you’re a genius, Snipes—ow.” He cut himself off as the rope hit him in the shin lightly.

“S’no problem,” Sniper said, sounding proud of himself.

“No, forreal—thanks!” Scout went to hit him lightly on the arm, but his fist instead connected with Sniper’s chest. Scout paused, sensing something a bit off. He reached a hand and found Sniper’s shoulder, eyebrows furrowing before he felt a flush on his face. “Wait, you don’t have a shirt on?” he asked, voice going a bit squeaky.

“Yeah?” Sniper replied, sounding confused by the question. “I just woke up like you did. M’still in me pyjamas, mate.”

“Oh.” Scout retracted his hand and paused for a second before finding the end of the rope again. “Uh. Just didn’t realize. In my head you were like—in your uniform.”

“You’re not,” Sniper pointed out.

Scout reached a hand to his own chest, where he’d put on one of his old baseball jerseys after a very complicated attempt at a shower in the tiny camper’s bathroom. “Well, I’ve got my hat on, don’t I?” he replied. “Wait, don’t you?”

“Awright, that I have. You—you want a play-by-play of me wardrobe now?” Sniper asked, voice dripping sarcasm. “I’ve got me hat, pyjama pants, and a pair’a sandals on. Any more questions?”

“Whatever,” Scout said, rolling his eyes. “Just go back to cleanin’ your gun, wombat.”

“Fine,” Sniper huffed, going to his van as Scout started a rhythm again. “Oi, if y’need me, shout.”

“Will do,” Scout replied. “But I won’t need you. I’m literally jumpin’ rope in place. I think I can handle this.”

Sniper huffed at that, turning and entering his van as Scout started to jump rope again.

Scout spent the better part of the day out jumping rope, breaking briefly when Soldier came to deliver a sort of lunch (probably to try and get Medic to stop being mad at him), and later when he asked Sniper to grab them some kind of dinner. He apparently woke Sniper up from a nap the second time, and Scout inhaled the food he’d been given as quickly as possible before returning to the workout, where he’d started trying to do things like turns or crossing his arms. He’d nearly perfected the double-jump when he’d broke for lunch.

“Aren’t ya tired, mate?” Sniper asked, sounding amazed.

“Nah,” Scout replied, his breath quick but still even. “I don’t get tired, I usually get outta breath way before then. I probably need this endurance training, actually. Y’know, cardio an’ shit. Make my lungs stronger or somethin’.”

“Right.” He heard Sniper standing again. “M’gonna head inside. Yell if y’need me.”

“Will do,” Scout replied. “But I—“

“Won’t need me, I get it,” Sniper said with a touch of amusement. “Y’said it a million times. You don’t know though, d’ya, could be attacked by a bird or summat.”

“If a bird tries to kill me, you’ll be the first to know,” Scout said dryly, and Sniper did laugh at that one as he entered his camper. Scout grinned to himself for a bit after that.

He continued to jump until his arms got tired, then until his wrists got tired, then until he finally felt any kind of fatigue in his legs. That’s when he stopped, putting down the rope and moving to do his post-workout stretching that he knew was the most important part. His muscles already ached, but it’d be way worse in the morning if he didn’t stretch afterwards. Scout could be called a lot of things, but at least he knew good workout habits.

He paused while stretching his arms as he felt the wind picking up just a bit. He hummed slightly to himself and continued down to stretching out his waist and legs. He realized, listening to the sounds of nature around him, that it was probably dark out. The sound of the light outside the camper buzzing quietly confirmed it.

He froze entirely when he felt a drop of water hit his forearm, then one on his head, and within a minute rain was practically pouring down on him.

A few minutes passed before Scout heard rushed movement suddenly start up within the camper, windows slamming shut, the door clattering against the wall of the camper as it was shoved open roughly. “Scout!” Sniper shouted, only to audibly freeze in his tracks.

Scout stood with his hat and new sunglasses off, face tilted towards the sky, eyes closed, unmoving. He was already long drenched with water, but he didn’t care. Neither moved for a few moments.

“…Y’know one thing I miss from back home?” Scout said, voice hardly audible over the downpour, quiet, level. “…I miss it raining all the time.”

Sniper didn’t speak. Scout heard him walking over to stand next to him.

“Back home, it’d rain… a lot, every two weeks or so at least. Sometimes for days in a row. When I was really little, my brothers would dig out rain boots and umbrellas and us younger guys would go jump in puddles an’ stuff, even though Ma was always mad because we’d all need a bath after.” He grinned. “One of ‘em—Jack—he would always say, “But Ma, we just had a shower!” an’ she would get all mad at ‘im for sassin’ her.” It was quiet for a second. “They kept takin’ me way after everyone else had grown outta playin’ in puddles, but I didn’t say nothin’. I think they never wanted me to grow up. I was always the baby of the family, an’ I still am. Then I came here, an’ you guys all treat me like the baby too. Callin’ me “kid” or “lad” or “leetle Scout” or whatevah.”

Sniper inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. “You glad about that?” he finally asked.

“Dunno. But… you guys ain’t my brothers.” Scout pulled his sopping wet hat on, turning his head towards Sniper, blinking his eyes open for a moment. “An’ that ain’t a bad thing, that’s not what I mean. You’re just… somethin’ else. Not better or worse, just… different, y’know?”

“Right…” Sniper said after a second. “…Right.”

“You didn’t have siblings, didja?” Scout asked, and Sniper hummed in affirmative. Scout looked back up at the sky. “Well, let me tell you, it ain’t a walk in the park. They’re always pickin’ on you an’ ditchin’ you to go do other stuff an’ makin’ you do things if they don’t wanna do them an’ tryna pull fast ones on ya, they’re just real jerks. An’ everyone’s always comparin’ you to ‘em, you’re always introduced as someone else’s sibling, never yourself.” Scout paused. “But… I’m glad I had ‘em. Havin’ seven older brothers? That was seven guys to walk me home after school and come cheer me on at track meets and baseball games. Seven people who I could always count on if anyone else picked on me, seven guys who I could turn to if I needed help with schoolwork… hell, it didn’t even matter that I didn’t have a dad, y’know? They were more than some walkout could’a ever been. An’… an’ I love em.”

Silence reigned for a long, long time. It could’ve been just a few moments, or a few minutes, or much longer. It was silent for long enough that Scout thought Sniper might’ve left while he was talking. But all of a sudden, Scout felt a presence inches from his shoulder, and the rain stopped, pattering on cloth overhead. An umbrella. “Y’gonna catch cold out here in the dark an’ rain, mate,” Sniper murmured, and Scout nodded, letting his head drop, face tilting towards the ground. He wasn’t entirely sure what his expression was. Sniper took him by the arm and led him back inside the camper.

Scout pulled on different clothes, and climbed up onto the mattress without much problem, pulling a blanket over himself to try and stop the shivering that he hadn’t noticed beginning. Neither of them spoke. It was clear that Sniper didn’t really know what to say, just quietly (as Sniper did most things) doing his nightly routine. Scout murmured a goodnight to Sniper and dozed off within a few minutes. He dreamed of spring rain in a city.

He woke up to the sound of the door opening, and he heard the rain still coming down on the roof of the camper. Soggy footsteps, a sound Scout attributed to Sniper dropping his wet hat on a table. A faint jangling sound, and Sniper taking a rung or two on the ladder.

He didn’t move a muscle as he heard that faint jangling again near his face, something placed on the mattress inches from his nose, and he heard Sniper descending the ladder again, sighing faintly to himself as he moved about, changing into pajamas. Scout heard him settling onto the chair and soon enough the noise of him breathing evenly. The rain petered out overhead, the light sound finally dying completely and leaving the camper oddly silent, and only then did Scout move his hand forward to feel what had been placed next to him.

Metal. Cold metal, worn ball chain with two thin plate-like things dangling from it. Scout inhaled sharply, running his thumb over them and feeling out the letters inscribed there, scrabbling his fingers over the surface.

“O’CONNELL, JACK P”. New line. “32130734 T42 43 AB”. New line. “C”. He picked at the notch towards the bottom of the small metal plate, staring out at nothing.

He remembered the look on his Ma’s face when she was given these the first time, right at the end of the war, right before his brother was supposed to come home anyways, because the war was anything but clean. He remembered Henry taking them, wearing them every day, even after the worst of the mourning was over, even when some of their brothers teased him for it. He remembered seeing Henry clutching at them as the big truck holding him and the other draftees drove away down the street after uneasy goodbyes to each of them.

He remembered the look on Ma’s face again when she was handed them for the second time, this time for a war that even Henry didn’t support. The runner remembered her shoving them into his hands as she stormed away from the officer who’d been halfway through explaining that it was one of the only things they’d found of his, outside of a few letters and a picture of a girl none of them had been aware Henry was seeing in the first place. He remembered how confused they’d all been, because she was really a nice girl (“For a Protestant,” he had muttered, and that earned a watery smile from Ma, the first smile in some time).

He remembered the way his brother Tony had eyed them hanging around his neck the day he left to fight somewhere in New Mexico, murmuring a sentence that Scout hadn’t been able to shake from his head the whole ride over, the sentence that still reverberated around Scout’s skull whenever he got too scared or was in a lot of pain.

“Don’t be the third O’Connell boy to die and leave us those dog tags,” he’d said once he was sure Ma wasn’t listening. Scout didn’t know if he’d technically broken those instructions now, but as far as he could tell, he hadn’t sent them back the dog tags.

He pulled them over his head and tucked them under his shirt, feeling the cold metal heat against his chest. He went to sleep and dreamed of war.

Chapter Text

“Yo Snipes.”

“Whot?”

“I sure hope what they say about blind people isn’t true. Y’know, that they ain’t as attractive.”

“…Who in the world says that?”

“Dunno. Apparently blind folks just don’t look so good.”

There was a silence for a few moments before Sniper gave a world-weary sigh at the dumb joke. Scout was grinning.

“Hey Snipes.”

“Whot.”

“I uh, I figured I’d go and uh, take a run today. Thing is, I just can’t see that ever happening.”

“Bugger off,” Sniper said flatly.

“Hey,” Scout started again.

“No,” Sniper replied.

“Snipes,” Scout started again.

“Whot?” Sniper replied.

“Whaddaya call it when I think’a something to do?” Sniper didn’t respond outside of another sigh. “No eye-dea.”

“These are awful.”

“I don’t see anythin’ wrong with ‘em,” Scout said cheerfully, waggling his eyebrows. Sniper groaned at the joke.

“God, ‘s bloody morbid’s what it is,” Sniper said. “Not… not funny.”

“You’re totally smilin’.”

“Am not.”

“Are too! I can hear it in your voice! You’re smilin’!”

“An’ you’re delusional,” Sniper huffed. There was a short pause. “Guess we’ll have to agree to disagree, since, y’know.”

Scout waited for him to finish the thought. He didn’t. “…Since what?” he finally asked.

“Y’know. We can’t see eye to eye.”

Scout gaped at him openly. “Was—was that a blind joke and a short joke?” he asked, awed.

“Yeah. Guess I’m just better at lookin’ for these.”

“Holy shit.”

“You sound surprised. S’pose you didn’t see this comin’. An oversight on your part. This is a bad look for you, mate.”

“I… I think I just got owned.”

“Damn right,” Sniper replied, returning to cleaning his kukri.

Most of the rest of the team was gone for the day on a trip into town, so Scout was okay with Sniper just dropping him off in the rec room for a little while that day. There was a baseball game going on anyways, so he didn’t really need much besides the radio to keep him occupied.

It was the fourth inning when he thought he heard something in the kitchen.

He sat up from his place lying upside-down on the couch. “Spy?” he asked, because only one person ever walked that quietly. “Uncloak, dumbass, I can’t see you anyways.”

“Why do you assume I am cloaked?” Spy asked, annoyed.

“Because you’re sneakin’ around like a friggin’… snake or somethin’.”

“Not everything I do has malicious intent!” Spy said, giving a long-suffering sigh. “I am just in the kitchen! The kitchen that we all use! It is my kitchen too! I am not sneaking anywhere!”

“Yeah, whatevah.” Scout flopped back into place as the game resumed, going quiet again.

He tuned out the sound of Spy doing stuff in the kitchen until he smelled something baking. He assumed it was Spy’s turn to cook dinner for the team. Sometime around the seventh inning he felt someone standing near the couch and he sat back up again.

“What?” he asked.

“Which team is winning?” Spy asked.

Scout was silent for a second. “The hell d’you care?” he asked suspiciously.

“I have to wait twenty minutes before I can go any further with this recipe. I am bored. Who is winning?”

Scout continued frowning, but eased back into his new position with his back to the couch, doing a halfhearted handstand. “Cubs. The Mets are getting their asses kicked, but they’re tryin’ their best anyways.”

Spy just hummed. Scout was quiet for a second.

“Do you actually even know anything about baseball?”

“You hit a ball with a stick. It is not that difficult to understand.”

“Woah, hold on—it’s way more complicated than that!”

“I doubt it.”

“Yeah, okay wise guy, then how many innings are there in a game?”

A short silence. “…Nine.”

“And what’s a foul ball?”

“When the ball goes too far to the left or right.”

“And if the foul ball is caught before it hits the ground, is that still a strike?”

Another pause. “…Fine, I am not an expert on the subject! What do you want from me?”

“Maybe give the American Pastime a bit more respect is all I’m sayin’,” Scout said, shrugging, which in turn almost unbalanced him. He managed to catch himself anyways.

“Not on my priority list,” Spy said, walking back away towards the kitchen.

“Dick,” Scout huffed, and tried to ignore all the blood rushing to his head.

The eighth inning was well under way when he heard someone else entering the room. Sniper stopped by the couch and sighed, putting on a bit of melodrama as he walked over to Scout. He took Scout by the legs and pulled him back up the couch. Scout’s face was long since red and he was very, very dizzy.

“Thanks, Snipes,” Scout said cheerfully.

“Why were you upside down?” Sniper asked flatly.

Scout thought for a second before he grinned. “I was imitating you,” he replied.

“…Whot?”

“You’re from the Down Under.”

Sniper batted at his dangling foot and Scout just giggled. “Awright, wise guy, I was just on me way t’ask if y’wanted to eat with the other few blokes today.”

“Eh,” Scout shrugged.

“…Could ya be a bit more helpful?”

“Eh,” Scout shrugged again.

“One’a these days y’bloody mouth is gonna get ya biffed, y’know.”

“Eh,” Scout shrugged once more.

He heard Spy giving an overdramatic sigh from the kitchen. “Could the two of you not do this right in front of me?” he called, sounding annoyed.

“Yeah? An’ what’s the “this” that you’re referrin’ to?” Scout asked, raising his head slightly.

“Please tell me that you are joking.”

“Mind yer own damn well business, Spook,” Sniper said, surprisingly serious all of a sudden.

“You are very quickly making it my business, Bushman,” Spy replied, also aggressively.

Scout could practically feel Sniper seething over the next few tense moments of silence between the two, and he sat up, reaching out to try and find an arm. Sniper helped him out after a second, taking his hand carefully. “Hey, can we go to the camper?” Scout asked, tense. “I wanna jump rope.”

Sniper just hummed in agreement, helping pull him to his feet and letting Scout all but rush them out the door.

They made it a good bit down the hall before Sniper spoke. “Why the hasty retreat?” he murmured, sounding concerned. “Didn’t ya wanna finish listenin’ to the game?”

Scout huffed. “They’re down like twenty points and it’s the friggin’ Mets, Snipes, I think we all know how that’s gonna pan out,” he said. “Mostly I didn’t wanna have to deal with a fistfight or nothin’.”

“Why’s that?” Sniper asked, surprised. “Thought you hate that snake s’much as I do.”

“He’s a dick, yeah, but. I dunno. In my head it like, played out—I guess I just saw you gettin’ in a fight or somethin’ an’, an’ not being able to help if something real bad happened, y’know? This all sucks. If somethin’ went real bad all the sudden, I just… I couldn’t do nothin’. And it freaks me out a lil’ bit.”

“Hmm.” Sniper raised a hand to where Scout’s was resting on his arm, giving it a light pat. “I s’pose I’ll stay outta trouble, then.”

“You better,” Scout replied, turning his chin up, and he couldn’t be sure, but he had the feeling that Sniper was smiling.

Scout spent a good part of the next day learning to navigate the base by himself under the watchful eyes of some of the other mercs. He’d decided to let Sniper sleep, now that he knew the reason why the Australian was tired so often, simply sneaking out the door and managing to find the door of the base when he trusted his feet.

He was lucky enough to run into Engie near the door, who he explained his plan to, and after that the different mercs traded watch, guiding Scout with simple instructions and telling him where he was when he asked. He could sort of tell what Pyro was saying by the tone of their mumbles, and Soldier was a bit grating on his ears, and Spy was just kind of an asshole who very quickly found someone to replace him, but for the most part it was cool.

At one point Demo asked if he could go do something, and Scout nodded, telling him he could handle getting around or finding someone on his own, especially having just found the rec room and, by extension, the kitchen. Scout waved goodbye, and using his shoddy makeshift cane he managed to find the door, entering the common area without trouble.

“Alright, let’s go,” Scout murmured to himself, rubbing his hands together. “One sandwich, blind Scout style. I got this.”

He found the fridge, and managed to pick out ingredients surprisingly easily. He wasn’t sure exactly what kind of cheese he’d picked out, but he figured it’d be fine. It took a few tries to get the thing put together evenly and to clean things up, but the sandwich tasted fine and Scout was crazy proud of himself for doing so well. He ate it with pride and put the plate by the sink, and it was only after he’d done that that he realized he didn’t know how long it’d been.

He moved out the door of the kitchen, then into the hallway, and he didn’t hear anyone around him. He shrugged off his nerves and walked down the hall towards where he knew the exit should be.

He took a turn, then another, and another, and when he turned left at one corner his cane clacked against a wall sharply after only a few steps, making Scout stop. He didn’t expect there to be a wall there. There wasn’t supposed to be a wall there.

“Uh. That’s fine,” Scout said slowly, turning left again and trying to find the wall so he could back up. “This is—woah!”

His foot hit empty air and he got lucky in that he managed to grab the banister to this set of stairs he didn’t think he was at. Which staircase was he at, then? There were a good few of them.

“Uh. This is fine,” he said to himself, continuing down the stairs with hesitation. “This is all cool. I’ll, I’ll just—I’ll just find someone and, and be on my way. Cool. It’s fine.

Except he took more turns, and he still didn’t run into anyone. He walked more halls and still didn’t find anyone. He reached what he thought was one of the double doors to get outside, only for his cane to hit something metal a few feet out—a shelf in a storage closet.

Scout sat himself down, panic mounting in his chest. “This is fine. This is fine,” he told himself repeatedly, making a mantra of it. “I can just… I’ll just wait here. An’ someone’ll notice I’m gone and they’ll find me. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”

So he sat with his back against a box and waited, trying not to cry. Because yes, this was pretty scary, and yes there was the chance that they would just give up looking for him if they tried to look for him in the first place, and yes he was freaked out and alone and lost, and yes he felt incredibly stupid with every passing second, but he was a grown man and grown men do not cry. Scout repeated this to himself and pretended that his cheeks weren’t damp.

He only realized he’d fallen asleep when he woke up to the sound of yelling.

“SCOUT!” he heard, muffled by distance and the door. “SCOUT, WHERE ARE YA?”

He was still too groggy from sleep to process much outside of the owner of the voice. “Snipes?” he murmured, half-awake.

“SCOUT! COME ON, YA BUGGER! SCOUT!” There was a definite note of panic in Sniper’s voice, somewhat hoarse from what Scout assumed was continuous yelling, a bit closer now. How long had Sniper been looking for him?

“Snipes?” Scout tried to call, but his throat was dry and rough from sleep. He gulped and tried again, wobbling to his feet. “SNIPES? YO, SNIPES! IN HERE!”

He heard the footsteps from outside stop for a second before there was the sound of the door being pushed open roughly, slamming into the shelves on one side. “Scout!” The runner was pulled into an embrace, strong arms wrapping around his torso and threatening to crush him. Scout returned it with little hesitation, relief settling on him like a heavy blanket. “Why the hell wouldja scare me like that, ya lunatic?” Sniper rasped, voice shaky, holding tightly. “Never do that again. Nearly givin’ me heart failure, scarin’ me half t’death, jus’ sittin’ in a dark closet somewhere because’a ya goddamn pride…”

“Sorry,” Scout murmured, his own voice shaking slightly.

Sniper let him go, holding him at arm’s length, probably giving him an up-and-down. “At least ya look awright enough. Didja get hurt or anythin’?”

“No, just sore from fallin’ asleep on the ground.” Scout stretched slightly, tilting his head back and forth to loosen up his neck. “It’ll be fine, though. No need to go talk to the Medic or nothin’.”

“You fell asleep?” There was a touch of horror in Sniper’s voice. “How long did you wait in ‘ere?”

“Dunno,” Scout admitted. “Demo went off sometime before lunch, an’ I made myself somethin’ to eat—all by myself too, it was impressive, lemme tell you—then when I tried to leave the base again, I got lost, guess I took a wrong turn somewhere. I wandered around for a little while an’ ended up in here with no idea where “here” is. So I figured I’d just sit and wait instead’a fallin’ down some stairs somewhere, right? That almost happened, fallin’ down the stairs.”

“Didja have’ta wait in a bloody broom closet?” Sniper asked, exasperated. He paused, and Scout was cuffed over the ear, not hard enough to actually hurt. “Why’d ya scare me like that, ya hooligan?! God, that was a nightmare.”

“Sorry,” Scout repeated. He shifted on his feet, head held low. “Uh. I’m kinda hungry. Is dinner soon?”

“It just ended. I woke up t’my alarm, figurin’ I’d walk us over, an’ you were just—just up an’ gone, nowhere to be found! I figured, “Awright, fair enough, prolly just got picked up to go t’dinner by Soldier or summat, no worries,”, so I walked over s’well. I showed up as everyone was leavin’, and wow, surprise surprise, nobody knew where you’d run off to. They thought you’d gone back to m’van, an’ I was too busy havin’ a bloody heart attack t’correct ‘em.”

“Sorry,” Scout said again, feeling shame welling up in his chest.

Sniper sighed. “Awright, awright, enough’a that kicked puppy look. ‘M just mad because I’m worried’s all. Y’handled it right well enough. Let’s just… go get you somethin’ to eat then to bed. You’ve had enough adventure for one day, aye?”

“Yeah.” Scout reached out and took Sniper by the sleeve. “Lead the way.”

And if as they walked Scout moved to hold onto Sniper’s still-shaky hand, neither of them said anything about it.

Chapter Text

“Uhhh… Shades. Sun-Sunglasses. Sunny. Sunny McSunglasses. Uh. Shady—no, that’s dumb.”

“Mate, the hell’re you on about?”

Scout was just lying on the ground of the camper (despite Sniper protesting that it was gross down there), and there was a Jimi Hendrix album spinning away quietly to one side.

“Shuttup,” he said. “I’m thinkin’.”

“Don’t strain y’self.”

“Uhhhhhhh hat. Hat guy. Cowboy hat… man. Boy. The—it’s not a cowboy hat. What’s the name, for your hat?”

“…Bloody Mary-Anne, whot are you on about, askin’ the name of me hat?”

“No, there’s names for different styles of hats!” Scout insisted. “I got a baseball cap, Engie’s got a hardhat, an’ you’ve got uh… what’s it called?”

“Oh, a slouch hat, y’mean?”

“Yeah, that! Slouch hat guy. Or—or just Slouch.” Scout paused. “No, that sounds mean. That sounds like it’s supposed to be an insult. Scratch that one.”

“D’ya need t’go see Medic or summat? Are y’havin’ a bloomin’ seizure?” Sniper asked, increasingly confused.

“Nope. Uhhh… Not Shades, not Slouch. Vest? No, uh… Tall. Tall guy.”

“Whot are you on about?”

“I’m tryna figure some kinda nickname other than “Snipes” to give you,” Scout finally said, a bit impatient.

“Whot? Why?” Sniper asked.

“It just—‘cuz pretty much everyone else has like, a separate nickname that I gave ‘em, right?” Scout said. “Pyro is Mumbles, Engie is Hardhat, Medic is Doc, Demo is Cyclops—y’know, stuff like that. But c’mon, “Snipes”? Unoriginal. I can do better. I just gotta think about it.”

“…Were you really gonna try an’ call me Shades?” Sniper asked with a mix of amusement and offense.

“Shuttup. Not all the ideas make it to the final cut, Stretch,” Scout said sarcastically. “Wait, Stretch! That’s an idea! Not a real original one, but hey, it’s a start!”

“I got called that growin’ up all the time, no thank you,” Sniper said, and Scout heard him returning to doing maintenance on his gun.

“Kangaroo. Koala. Crocodile. Wombat.”

“Those are just animals from Australia.”

“Fine. Uhhh… Tall. Stretch. Beanstalk. Scarecrow.”

“Now y’just bein’ rude.”

“Well, you try thinkin’a nicknames, why don’tcha?” Scout said snappishly.

“Whot, a’you, y’mean?” Sniper asked.

“Yeah. If it’s so easy, why don’t ya think’a one for me, then?”

Sniper paused for a few seconds. “Awright—Jackrabbit, Slugger, Shortstack, Twinkle-toes, Roo, Mongrel, Half-pint, Chatterbox—should I continue?”

There was a pause. “Have you been thinkin’a those for a while?” Scout asked suspiciously.

“Maybe,” Sniper replied, returning again to his maintenance.

“Well, I just started thinkin’ now, so, unfair,” Scout sulked. “What the hell ever… Tall… Guy. Right out of a taffy puller. Taffy—that, doesn’t make sense, no…”

He heard Sniper huff out a laugh and he grinned.

“Uhh... Legs. Legs! That’d work!” Scout said, sitting up.

“…Legs.”

“Yeah, ‘cus you’re tall! Y’got legs!” Scout said proudly.

“Because. “I got legs”.” Sniper repeated the phrase slowly. There was a beat of silence.

“…Yeah that’s dumb.”

“Yeah.”

“Y’know I coulda just done it for ya,” Sniper reminded from just behind him, hovering near his shoulder, leaving hardly enough room for Scout’s elbows to move as he fiddled with one of his uniform shirts.

“And I keep tellin’ ya I can do it myself, yeah, I was payin’ attention to the conversation too,” Scout replied haughtily.

“Okay, right. I get it. You’re a grown man, y’can do things y’self. But there’s no shame in gettin’ help wiv stuff at first, awright?”

“It’s laundry, Snipes,” Scout said dryily, searching through pockets for anything he’d accidentally left in there.

“Yeah, but—“

Scout turned. “Snipes. Sit,” he commanded, pointing towards the counter.

Sniper sat down quickly at the bite in Scout’s tone. “Geez. No need to get mean,” he muttered as Scout returned to his task. “M’just tryna help, ‘ere.”

He rolled his eyes, dumping the basket into the machine. “I can handle it.”

“You—Scout, god’s sake, are ya gonna try an’ separate the colors out?” Sniper fretted.

Scout turned to face him, expression flat. He was unfazed. “Snipes? I’ve been wearin’ most’a this stuff for at least eight years now. The colors won’t bleed, they’re already faded to hell. I’ve been washin’ stuff like this since I got here. It’s fine.”

“I mean… if y’sure,” Sniper said slowly. There was a pause as Scout poured detergent by muscle memory, going to fiddle with the dial. “Well, why’d ya ask me to come along, then, if ya don’t want help?”

“You complainin’ about it?” Scout asked, moving to mess with the last (most annoying and finicky) dial on the machine, guesstimating how much of a wash the clothes would need.

“No, I’m just confused,” Sniper replied. “Didja need help gettin’ here?”

“Nah, I coulda handled it,” Scout replied, hitting the start button and listening to the machine whirring to life. “I get bored is all.”

“That’d be the first time anyone considered me fun,” Sniper said.

“Well maybe I just like havin’ you around.”

It was quiet in the room for a few seconds before Scout realized that was probably a weird thing to say. How clingy could he get? He’d only been hanging out with Sniper for like, not even a whole week maybe, and here he was dragging him around just because he didn’t like being alone?

“Aww. Mate,” Sniper finally said quietly, sounding genuinely touched by the sentiment, and Scout’s face flushed.

“Shuttup,” he replied, turning and leaning his hip on the humming machine. “Anyways, whatcha wanna do until I gotta throw this in the dryer? We’ve got like, an hour.”

He heard the sound of Sniper scratching at his stubble. “Well. Could go listen to music other than the same three albums y’keep playin’. Could finally go visit the Doc again, see if he’s dug anythin’ up. He’s been buggin’ me t’drag you back in, check you over an’ all. He’s been havin’ me go over every few days for progress updates on ‘is research, an’ he’s gotten naggy.”

“I mean, now’s as good a time as ever,” Scout shrugged, standing again. “Hand.”

Sniper took his hand and started leading the way towards where Scout was pretty sure the infirmary was. Scout hadn’t been back there again since he left the day he found out about his eyes, so the path was unfamiliar. Sniper’s grip on his hand was firm but mindful not to squeeze too tight as they went down the uncharted hallway.

They stopped and Sniper knocked with his free hand on the door, pushing his way in. “Doc?” Sniper called.

“Ja, ja, guten morgen, Herr Sniper,” Medic replied from somewhere nearby. For once, Scout didn’t hear him tinkering with metal implements and flesh. Instead he heard a book snapping shut, stacks of papers being moved. “Let me move some things, as I presume that you’re finally bringing back your Junge for the checkup I’ve been asking for all week?”

“Er. Yeah,” Sniper said awkwardly. “Sorry. Kept forgetting.”

“Yes, I’m sure that is why you have not brought him back in here,” Medic said cryptically, tone dull and almost sarcastic, and Scout felt Sniper stiffen at his side. Scout squeezed his hand and Sniper gradually untensed.

“What’s that mean?” Scout asked, frowning.

“Among other things, he also has a slight fear of hospitals,” Medic said calmly.

“Huh? Woah, me too,” Scout said, turning his head toward Sniper. He felt Sniper straighten up slightly. “I mean, I did when I got here—I’m way better about it now since, y’know. We’re all in here so often. You not over it yet or somethin’?”

“Not particularly,” Sniper replied, voice quiet enough that Scout couldn’t be sure Medic heard him.

“Either way, I think he is simply being overprotective again,” Medic sighed, coming over and placing a hand on Scout’s shoulder, steering him briskly through the room. It took Sniper a second to let go of Scout’s hand, but he did, instead following a good few paces behind the pair. “It seems to be a bit of a pattern, if Herr Soldier’s black eye is any indication.”

“You gave ‘im a black eye?!” Scout asked, glancing back at Sniper.

“…Yeah,” he finally said sheepishly.

“Snipes? That’s frickin’ funny. Please someone take a picture.”

Medic just snorted. “Yes, his guard dog shtick shows no signs of stopping, nor does his needless worrying and his habit of bristling up at the slightest sign of danger when he considers himself to be taking care of you. To repeat myself, he is overprotective.”

“Yeah, he does that,” Scout shrugged. There was a beat of silence.

“I see,” Medic finally hummed. “And does it bother you?”

“Huh? No, no way,” Scout replied with a laugh as he was moved to a gurney, sitting down on it without need for instruction. He knew the drill by now, well used to the process with having gone in after battle so often for healing. “I kinda like havin’ someone worryin’ about me all the time, it’s pretty sweet. Not like, cool sweet, but nice sweet I mean. That make sense? I think it does. Just, whatever, you know what I’m sayin’. It’s nice havin’ a friend to watch my back, y’know?”

“Yes. A friend,” Medic said in the same cryptic tone from before.

“Doc, could ya not?” Sniper said stiffly, standing a good few paces away from them both.

“Fine, fine. But it has to happen eventually, Herr Sniper,” Medic replied calmly.

“What’re you two talkin’ about now?” Scout asked, turning his head between the two.

“Nothing,” they both said at the same time, Sniper hurriedly, Medic with a long-suffering sigh.

Medic took his vitals over the span of about thirty seconds and Scout heard him shifting through some papers. “Next, I will simply ask you the same questions as last time. After that, I’ll inspect your eyes, then tell you what I know. Klingt gut?”

“Fire away,” Scout said, swinging his feet.

For the most part, Scout thought that his answers were pretty much the same, but by the end Medic said that there was an improvement, which Scout just had to believe. He checked Scout’s eyes next, and said with mild surprise that some of the internal scarring had started clearing up, which was excellent news (even if Scout didn’t understand it).

“This means that your eyes are indeed healing on their own,” Medic said with a touch of surprise. “I did not expect such drastic improvement. I assumed that I would need to find a way to heal them once I nailed down the reason why my medical fluid was insufficient, but it looks as though they may heal even before then.”

“Forreal, Doc?” Scout asked, beaming.

“Ja! Ideally we can expedite the process, however, so I will tell you my current ideas anyway, if that is okay with you.”

“Yeah, for sure, hit me,” Scout said.

Medic explained that he had two ideas—first, the medical fluid for some reason might not work on certain soft tissues like the eyes or brain due to the precision of their build. Usually if the mercs sustained an injury to the eyes or brain, it was in the form of bullets, and they would die instead of being able to ask for healing. In this case, Scout was just unlucky enough that he had his eyes open and the damage wasn’t severe enough to kill him, but if he died he would come back fixed, no problem.

The second idea, which Medic admitted was just really a possible extension of the first, was that the medical fluid could only cause existing cells to replicate, and that if there was no more of a specific cell left then the Medigun would be unable to fix anything.

But there was a problem. The Respawn system was something Medic and Engineer were asked to talk about as little as possible, but he said that in general, it would try and recreate as close a replica of the latest version of whoever died as possible. Wounds healed, hearts beating, but really close to how they would’ve looked before they died. He explained that this was supposed to try and countermeasure one side-effect of Respawn—it significantly slowed the aging process.

Respawn was a sophisticated piece of technology, Medic said, but there was the possibility that it wouldn’t know to reset Scout’s eyes to how they were before if they had healed enough on their own. It was a possibility, and he was hesitant to just put Scout under and kill him if it meant pushing the healing back to how it’d been that first day and resetting his excellent progress.

Scout processed this, and thanked the doctor for working so hard to fix him, and said that whatever the doctor decided was a good idea, Scout would most likely agree with. Then he reached out to Sniper—the Australian had been sitting quietly the whole time, but Scout knew he was still there—and they left.

“Y’feelin’ okay?” Sniper asked as they walked down the hallway.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Scout was quiet for a minute. “Laundry?”

“…Aww, bugger. I’d forgotten entirely,” Sniper admitted.

“What’d I tell ya? I’m a grown man, I can be responsible when I gotta be,” Scout said cheekily, and Sniper guided them back to the laundry room.

“Yeah, yeah. Wanker.” Sniper stood aside and let Scout dump things from the washer into the dryer, and managed to save a sock from the back of the washing machine before Scout had a chance to hit start on the dryer. “Wanna jus’ go get us some grub, then? It’s about lunch.”

“Okay. I ain’t makin’ it, though,” Scout said as they left the room. “You gotta cook. You actually know how.”

“I regret tellin’ you that,” Sniper grumbled. “You use it every chance y’get.”

“Yep,” Scout replied, arm in arm with the Australian as they walked down the hall.

“Snipes, where are ya?”

He heard a slight shift to one side of where he’d just finished stretching post-workout. “Dunno if I wanna say,” Sniper said slowly. “Seems like you only ever ask that when you’re about t’slug me.”

“Nah, that’s not it, where are ya?” Scout reached out a hand, and Sniper’s forearm appeared under it. “Okay, sweet. Hold still.”

“Whot—?” Sniper started, but then Scout was standing behind him, then he was vaulted up onto his back with his legs hooked around Sniper’s waist and arms draped over his shoulders. “You… mate, whot’re ya doin’?”

“Giddyup,” Scout said, patting him on one shoulder.

A beat of pause. “M’not a bloody pony.”

“Then mush,” Scout replied with a grin. “C’mon, I’m hungry.”

There was a long pause before Sniper reluctantly started walking. “Only because you’ll whinge otherwise,” he muttered, and Scout beamed.

“Hell yeah!” he said smugly. “You’re the best!”

“Shuttup,” Sniper said.

Scout adjusted his torso and noticed that there was no good way to avoid having the brim of Sniper’s trademark hat threatening to poke him in the eye or something. He considered his options for a second, before calmly taking the slouch hat and switching it with his own. Sniper paused for a half moment.

“…Whot—“

“Why’s ya head so much bigger than mine?” Scout asked, flicking the brim up when it threatened to fall down.

Sniper seemed at a loss for words, just walking for a few seconds in silence. “Well, y’… y’got a small head, don’tcha? So, mine ain’t much bigger than normal. Just a bit, maybe.”

“I ain’t little!” Scout protested, bristling.

Sniper reached back and pulled the hat down over Scout’s face, making him squawk. “Never said you were little, love, don’t need t’get so defensive,” Sniper said, sounding a bit smug.

“Hey. Rude.” Scout went to poke Sniper’s cheek but got the side of his nose.

“Why’re you so squirrely today?” Sniper asked, wincing at the poke.

“Dunno. Gettin’ bored,” Scout said. “I need a hobby. Usually I’d draw or somethin’. I could maybe try an’ get better at backflips, nearly broke my friggin’ wrist earlier.”

“You can do backflips?” Sniper asked, interest piqued.

“…No,” Scout said slowly, like a liar.

“You can!”

“No, shuttup, don’t tell nobody, I’ll never hear the end of it!” Scout said quickly, clutching Sniper’s shoulders. “I told some kids on the track team once and then it was all “Oh, could you do a backflip for us?” all the freakin’ time an’ I’m sick of it.”

“I won’t tell, I swear,” Sniper assured, and Scout leaned himself forward, chin resting on Sniper’s shoulder.

“You better not,” he muttered, and Sniper just hummed. He felt the temperature shift, and the sound of boots in the dusty sand became boots on a concrete floor.

“You were in track?” Sniper asked suddenly.

“Yeah. Won a buncha stuff for the school.”

“Bet y’mum was real proud,” Sniper said, pausing to hike Scout further up his back as he threatened to slide down. “Hold on tighter, y’bloody div.”

“The fuck is a div?” Scout asked, snickering.

“You,” Sniper answered, and Scout felt him pause at the door, hesitating for only a moment at the doorway, indicating that there were people inside.

“Hey guys!” Scout called, and he heard a distinctly drunken scoff.

“Git a fuckin’ room!” Demo called back as Sniper walked into the kitchen. Scout flipped him off, and Sniper shook slightly with silent laughter.

“Cadet!” Soldier barked. “Have your legs been broken or otherwise mangled? That will simply not do!”

“Nah, just kinda tired, my legs are as strong as ever!” Scout replied, and Sniper deposited him on the counter as if this was all completely normal.

“Y’want coffee? I’m makin’ some,” Sniper murmured just loudly enough for Scout to hear.

“I hate bean juice, Shades, you know this,” Scout replied, tapping his heels against the cabinets.

“On the nicknames again, are we?” Sniper asked, and Scout just nodded with a grin. “Right, well. We’ll see how that turns out.”

“You sayin’ I can’t get you a good nickname, Stretch?”

“I’m sayin’ you ain’t found one this far, kid.”

“I’m gonna get you a nickname,” Scout insisted, tapping out a rhythm. “An’ it’s gonna be awesome.”

“Sure, mate. Sure.”

“I dunno, I just feel… weird about it,” Scout said, crossing his arms and sitting back in the lawn chair, shades on. “Like, it was your bed first.”

“You’re the one without any eyes,” Sniper replied, probably crossing his arms similarly if his tone was anything to go by. “You get the mattress. That’s that.”

“I have a room, though! I could totally go back there and sleep in my own bed, now that I know the base a little better, an’ my room is real close to everyone else’s, I would be able to get other folks to come help if I needed it!”

“Last time you relied on the other blokes, ya ended up passed out in a supply closet,” Sniper said, tone sharp. “I’m not lettin’ you get buggered over because y’don’t feel polite.”

“My Ma didn’t raise the type’a guy who waltzes into some guy’s camper van and takes over his whole setup,” Scout said stubbornly. “That’s rude and I feel weird about it.”

“Too bloody bad,” Sniper said.

“Well I got news for you, pal,” Scout said, glaring. “I’ll sleep out here if I have to. You’re takin’ your bed back, one way or another.”

“An’ I’ll sleep in the bloody chair until ya stop bein’ stubborn,” Sniper replied.

“Then nobody sleeps in the actual bed, then!”

“Fine.”

“Fine!”

Scout stormed off towards the base and sulked in the common room for about an hour, his sour mood causing the other mercs to give him a wide berth. That night he did indeed sleep outside on the lawn chair, and when he woke up he had a blanket draped over him, keeping him safe from the desert’s night chill. Sniper insisted that he knew nothing about the blanket, had never seen the blanket in his life in fact, what blanket, even under Scout’s deadliest glare.

Their boycott of the mattress lasted at least two days, some of their other shenanigans overlapping with the event. Scout got tired of his sore back and neck right away, but he tried to hold out as best he could in the circumstances. He finally decided that it wasn’t worth it on the way back to the camper from lunch (having been guided over by Pyro), and he intended to just swallow his pride and take a nap on the mattress. It wasn’t like he was giving up—he could still spend the nights outside, he’d just… take a bit of a rest on the mattress during the day. Nothing wrong with that.

He entered the camper and was already at the top of the ladder when he heard even breathing from the elevated place, but he was tired and sore enough that he just shoved Sniper over and lay down on his own half of the mattress. It was a tight fit, but he could care less.

Sniper woke up at the shove, and cursed quietly. “Shit. Didn’t mean t’fall asleep up here,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, sure,” Scout muttered. “I’m tired of outside. It’s cold out there. I’m takin’ a nap.”

“Well, too bloody bad,” Sniper replied. “Turns out I like it up here. M’not movin’.”

“An’ neither am I, so there,” Scout replied haughtily, tugging to get some of the blanket.

“You’ll give it up and leave—unlike you, I don’t care about sleepin’ close quarters wiv folks. I’m over it,” Sniper said.

“And who said I care, wombat?” Scout shot back, turning to lay on his side facing away from Sniper. “Just shut up an’ let me sleep.”

“I could say the same t’you,” Sniper muttered, and Scout elbowed him, and he fairly quickly fell asleep in the bed that was becoming so familiar.

Chapter Text

“I dunno, I kinda like “Beanstalk”. There’s like, layers to it.”

Scout had taken a seat on the arm of the cushioned chair, and was running a fingernail over the ridges of one of his records idly. Sniper was looking at a magazine or something, from the sound of pages flipping.

“How so?” Sniper asked idly.

“I mean. You’re tall,” Scout said. “An’ you like coffee. Coffee comes from coffee beans.”

“Is that the one you’ll stick with, then?”

“Dunno. Wanna keep my options open.” Scout tilted his head back towards the ceiling. “Y’know, I could always just do that thing you do. Make up words.”

“When do I do that?” Sniper asked, perplexed.

“All the freakin’ time! You called me a mongrel earlier. What the hell is a mongrel?”

“First off, not how it’s pronounced, dear lord. Just ‘cuz you Americans don’t use the same words, that don’t mean the words are made up.”

“Yeah, sure. What other ones do ya have, then?”

“What’s the sudden interest?” Sniper asked, pulling the brim of Scout’s hat down over his face.

“It ain’t sudden!” Scout protested, pushing his cap back up. “Just tell me some!”

“Nah, you’re geared up to have a laugh at ‘em,”

“Well, whatever.” Scout pouted, slumping back. He heard Sniper turning a page. “What’re ya reading?”

“Magazine,” Snipes said simply. “Not a new one, just ‘ow I pass time.”

“Well tell me what’s happenin’,” Scout said.

“…Whot d’ya mean?”

“Narrate it. I’m bored.”

“You’re always bored,” Sniper murmured. “Well… it’s an advertisement.”

“You say “advertisement” weird,” Scout said.

“Well, you—listen, if y’gonna have a go at me like this then I’ll just stop readin’.”

“If I’m what now?” Scout asked, sitting up slightly.

“Y’bloody—now are ya bein’ sarcastic or are ya really askin’ whot it means?” Sniper asked sternly. “If it’s the former I’m gonna dump you in the common room.”

“I’m really askin’,” Scout replied, putting his hands up and pouting again. “Sheesh, Snipes.”

“Well. “Havin’ a go” is like… gearin’ up to fight, I s’pose,” Sniper said.

“Oh. Okay. That is definitely not what I thought you meant and I was real confused,” Scout said.

“…Y’know whot? M’not even gonna ask.”

“Yeah. Don’t. Just tell me about the magazine,” Scout said, sitting back again.

“It’s an—an ad,” Sniper said pointedly, and Scout grinned. “It’s a lady who’s real enthusiastic about her new washin’ machine.”

“Is she hot?” Scout asked without a trace of humor.

“I… I dunno? I guess?” Sniper said, sounding confused by the question. “An’ the next page is an ad for cigarettes. Not the kind I’ve got, some other one.”

“What kind?”

“Philip Morris?”

“Oh, that’s the kind Spy smokes.”

Sniper shifted and Scout was fairly sure Sniper was staring at him. “An’ how the hell d’ya know that?” Sniper asked, incredulous.

“Uh, I saw him takin’ ‘em outta the box to put in his fancy case thing like two months back?” Scout said. “Duh?”

“An’ you bloody well just… remembered that?” Sniper asked suspiciously.

“Well… yeah. I remember all sorts of stuff, c’mon. I know you smoke Camels, too.”

“That was just a guess! You’ve never seen me smoke!” Sniper said, accusation in his tone.

“I have, way back before I was talkin’ to ya. An’ even if I didn’t, I just know the smell, it’s the kind my brother Tony used to smoke before Ma made him quit,” Scout said with a shrug.

Sniper was quiet for a second. “Why d’ya pay attention to that sort of thing?” he finally asked.

“Dunno. Sometimes little details are important. Just tell me about the ad, we haven’t even gone through two pages yet!” Scout said, bumping his shoulder with his own.

“…Right.” He heard and felt Sniper shift. “Well, it’s th’box an’ this older bloke, somewhere upwards of fifty maybe.”

“Cool. Next!”

He heard Sniper huff out a slight laugh, turning the page. “Furniture ad, a lady again.”

“She hot?”

“…Well, first off it seems like she’s married, considerin’ there’s a kid playin’ by the couch.”

“Hey, single moms exist, y’know,” Scout said.

“Shuttup,” Sniper replied, elbowing him. “Next page is a liquor ad, some bloke in his twenties sittin’ in a bar like he owns the place.”

“He hot?”

“…Sure, Scout.”

“Nice.”

“Hey, he might be married, don’t get y’hopes up just yet,” Sniper said dryly.

“C’mon, man, lemme have this! How many hot, eligible dudes do you think I interact with on a daily basis?”

“…Fuckin’ eight, Scout!”

“I said HOT an’ ELIGIBLE, Snipes!”

There was a solid few seconds of dead silence. “…Jesus. Rude.” Sniper sounded horrified.

“I—I’m not sayin’ that none of you are hot, but at least three of ‘em are old enough to be my dad, two of ‘em wear masks, an’ one is friggin’ crazy. That narrows it down.”

“You think Engie is hot?!”

“That’s—that’s not the point of this conversation, first off, an’ second off, how did you pick up on me calling Engie hot before you picked up on me calling you hot!?”

Sniper was quiet for a few seconds. “…Aw shit, you did though,” Sniper finally said quietly.

“Y’know, I-I’m done with the magazine thing, this went off the rails. Also, tell Engie I said he was hot and I’ll have to end you. Later.”

And Scout got up and left the camper, sure that his face was on fire.

Scout was sat in the common room, listening to the music on the radio instead of his record player for once. Engineer and Soldier were both also in the room, playing Go Fish at the table with surprising restraint. Usually Soldier would have broken the table long before Engineer could get more than one set of four, but they were both being fairly quiet. Off in the kitchen, Heavy was making himself something to eat, and Pyro was apparently “helping”, although Scout didn’t quite understand what the verbal air quotes were supposed to mean since it didn’t seem like anything was on fire yet. Demo was apparently content to watch the card game and get himself drunk.

He heard footsteps entering the room and the two went quiet for a second. “Hello, Sniper!” Soldier said.

“Hey,” Sniper replied, moving to sit on the couch. Scout was lounged so his legs took up most of the space, so he had to sit a bit farther away. “Whot’s the song?”

“No clue,” Scout said.

“Er… the band, then?” Sniper asked next.

“Not sure, some British band,” Scout replied. “I can’t ever remember the name.”

“Right,” Sniper said, and he fell quiet for a second. “Any… good?”

“Dunno,” Scout said, tapping the toes of his shoes together idly. “You got ears too, what do you think?”

Another beat of silence. “Whot’s the sudden chill for, mate?” Sniper asked, a bit confused.

“You tell me,” Scout said, sitting up and glaring.

He heard the card game pausing. “Lad, what’s gotten inta ye?” Demo asked, just as baffled as Sniper.

“Really! Dunno whot I’ve gone an’ done,” Sniper said, a bit upset.

“Cut the shit, Spy,” Scout said, and there was a beat of pause before the room broke into laughter around him over the sound of French swearing as he shut off his disguise.

”And how in the hell did you know it was not him?” Spy demanded.

“Uh, because you friggin’ suck at bein’ Snipes?” Scout replied easily, sitting back again, arms crossed behind his head. “Dude, I could tell pretty much from the second you walked in here.”

“What in the hell gave ‘im away, boy?” Engie asked from the table, sounding amazed.

“First off, he never just waltzes into a room with this many people, not that loudly,” Scout started, ticking off on his fingers, face still tilted towards the ceiling. “Second, he wouldn’t sit way over there, he’d just shove my legs over. Third, he knows what song this is! He loves the Who, knew about ‘em when they were still called the Detours.”

Scout heard laughter coming from near the door, and he sat up when he realized who it was. “Whot’d I tell ya, Spook? Lad saw right through ya, an’ still ‘e hasn’t got any eyes! Awright, blokes, pay up. Me an’ the firebug won fair an’ square.”

Scout furrowed his eyebrows as he heard the other mercenaries walking over and grumbling as they handed Sniper what sounded like money. “Hey, what the hell?” Scout asked, bristling.

“I bet the bushman that you could not tell the difference between me and him when I am disguised,” Spy said bitterly. “He disagreed, and the others wanted in.”

“I thought it would take a good while ‘fore you figured it out,” Engie admitted. “Sniper said you’d see through what Spy didn’t know, Pyro agreed. Those were the terms on that one. The big guy figured it’d take until you actually made contact with him somehow. Soldier thought you wouldn’t know until Spy stabbed you, even though he wasn’t plannin’ on it, an’ Demo didn’t know about any’a this.”

“Eh, I’d stay outta the bet anyways,” Demo said nonchalantly.

“An’ what’d you bet?” Scout asked, turning to Sniper.

“Didn’t doubt ya for a second,” Sniper said smugly. “An’ y’know, ‘ere’s a deal, you get a bit over half’a my share. That was a good show on your part.”

“Yo Heavy, is he actually handing me over half?” Scout asked suspiciously, holding onto the bills.

“It looks like he hands you half, yes,” Heavy replied after a second of inspecting both of their hands.

“Aw, don’t ya trust me?” Sniper asked, audibly pouting. Scout rolled his eyes.

“You just made a bet with Spy to trick me, so no,” he replied, crossing his arms, and an “Oohhhh” went through the room, Pyro giggling excitedly from somewhere nearby.

“Awright, awright. Sorry I tricked ya, mate. Won’t do it again,” Sniper said, and Pyro “aww”d.

“Whatever, Legs,” Scout replied, finally letting a grin onto his face.

“Oh, we’re doin’ that nickname now then, are we?” Sniper asked.

“Yeah, you’ve earned it,” Scout said cheekily.

“That’s fair. Turn the radio up, I like this song,” Sniper said, shoving Scout’s legs over and taking a seat.

“Sure thing,” Scout said, and the world kept turning.

Scout was a master of jump-rope.

He’d learned every trick he’d ever seen someone do, from triples down to backflips, and he found that he was a natural at it. He already had the agility, after all. At one point he’d called Sniper out to show off to him, and he’d been thoroughly impressed by it, but now Scout had reached the end of that skill tree and was getting a bit bored.

So he had an idea.

“Hey Snipes, can ya toss me the rope?” he asked casually, holding a hand out to the guy who’d just stood up out of his chair.

“Sure.” His hand was taken and held to Sniper’s, and he took one end of the rope calmly. Sniper didn’t move. “Uh, mate.” Scout calmly twirled the rope around Sniper’s wrist, who tried to pull back. “Whot’re ya—“

Then Scout took his end of the rope and started running, and Sniper, arm wrapped in the other end, had no choice but to start running as well if he wanted his arm to stay attached to his shoulder.

“Keep up, wombat!” Scout yelled, dashing out towards the open desert near the base, and Sniper, yelping and cursing and stumbling, tried his best not to fall behind.

Suddenly Sniper pulled on the rope and Scout veered to the left. “Y’can’t see where you’re goin, you maniac!” the Australian managed to gasp.

“That’s what the rope’s for!” Scout said happily, continuing to run. “If I’m gonna run into something, just pull left or right! C’mon, let’s go, let’s go! Keep up!”

He only dragged Sniper along for about five minutes, and not even as fast as Scout would’ve liked to run, but Sniper didn’t have the cardio training required to go that fast and he didn’t want to, y’know. Kill the man. Instead Scout ended up taking him on wide laps around the base. Finally he let Sniper pull him slowly to a stop, and he heard the Australian drop down onto the sand, breathing like an asthmatic as he lay face up on the ground.

“I… bloody… hate you,” he managed to gasp.

“Nah, you don’t,” Scout said cheekily, not even winded as he sat down as well, and Sniper hit him on the leg weakly, still dying. “You gotta stay in shape, too. You’re practically as slow as Heavy.”

“Am not,” Sniper protested.

“Eh. You’re all slow compared to me,” Scout shrugged with a grin. Over the next few minutes Sniper gradually regained his breath. “How many laps did we get?”

“Dunno,” Sniper admitted. “I was too busy makin’ sure your loony ass didn’t run inta somethin’. You’re a bloody lunatic.”

“You’re the one who agreed to watch me,” Scout shrugged. “You can quit whenever ya want.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sniper growled, and Scout laughed. “Once you’ve got your eyes back, promise ya won’t make me run so fast next time?”

Scout didn’t say anything for a long moment. “You… wanna still hang around with me after I’m better?” he asked, confused.

“Don’t… you?” Sniper asked slowly, sitting up.

“I mean, duh, you’re the freakin’ best. I just dragged you out an’ made you do laps because I was bored, I just figured… y’know. You’d be tired of me, if you aren’t already.”

“Mate,” Sniper said, and he took Scout’s hand. “If I was tired’a ya, off the bat I’d have killed you t’scare you off an’ make ya leave me alone. I like bein’ around ya. That’s why I’m doin’ this.”

“…From the get-go you already liked me?” Scout asked, even more surprised.

“Well, you ain’t given me any reason not to by then, so… yeah,” Sniper said, and by the shift of his arm Scout could tell that he’d shrugged.

Scout considered this, then stood up, and Sniper let him pretend to pull him to his feet. “You understand that by sayin’ that you’re gonna be stuck with me, right?” Scout asked warily.

“I’ll manage somehow,” Sniper said sarcastically, and Scout flicked the back of his hand. “C’mon, I want water after all that mess.”

“Okay.”

“This is okay?” Scout asked, voice quiet.

“Yeah, I don’t mind it,” Sniper replied, although his tone was a bit off. Scout may’ve just been imagining it.

This, Scout knew, was definitely weird of him. But after spending so long without his sight, he was starting to forget what some people looked like, and he’d told Sniper just after they’d both woken up for the day (and when he asked he was definitely not red-faced no matter what Sniper would tell you, the man is a filthy liar) that he wanted to re-memorize his face. Sniper hadn’t asked him why, which Scout was extremely grateful for, because he wouldn’t have known what to say. He wasn’t quite sure of the reason, either.

Which led them to sitting on the mattress, cross-legged, parallel to each other, with Scout—and he was trying not to feel weird about it but it was definitely weird—holding Sniper’s face in his hands and feeling out his features.

Sniper wasn’t talking, which shouldn’t have been nerve-wracking because Sniper was habitually silent, and didn’t really start conversation most of the time, but for some reason it was making Scout a little hesitant, a bit uneasy. But to be fair, what could really be said here, anyways, as Scout ran his thumb along the contour of Sniper’s cheek, eyes shut and brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to piece together a whole picture, feeling the slight motion of Sniper’s facial muscles and pulse still at work beneath his hands.

His fingers traced the outline of his nose, and he was careful as he felt over Sniper’s eyes, closed but still fragile, Scout knew. Then his eyebrows, once and twice, his ears and sideburns, his cheek and jaw again, his chin, lightly covered in stubble. Sniper had just cleaned it up the night before and still smelled like aftershave, but it was back again now. It didn’t grow as fast as Demo’s stubble, he’d once explained, but still quick enough. Scout tried to be thorough, moving slowly from one place to the next, every slight change earning some extra time. Sniper had a longer face than many people, but a fairly handsome one, the runner figured. Scout wondered if he’d appreciate a drawing of himself. He kind of wanted to sit down and make one once he got his eyes back.

“Whot’re ya thinkin’ about, love?” Sniper asked curiously, voice quiet and low and gravelly and Scout felt goosebumps on his forearms despite it being fairly stuffy in the small camper. He paused.

“When’d you start calling me that?” Scout deflected, his own voice quiet as well.

Sniper simply hummed in question, as Scout’s fingers were on the curve of his chin now. Scout’s mouth was dry.

 “Love. You started callin’ me that at some point.”

There was a pause. “D’ya want me t’stop?” Sniper asked slowly, and the tips of Scout’s fingers brushed his bottom lip as he spoke, and Scout’s next inhale was shaky.

Everything suddenly felt almost too close, too much, and even without his sight Scout felt some mild sensory overload kicking in and threatening to overwhelm him. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he considered the question. Really, truly considered it. He knew that however he answered this question, it would change some things. Did he want anything to change? He really, really didn’t.

So, “No,” he finally said, “I don’t.” And he could feel Sniper’s breath as the man exhaled a breath Scout hadn’t noticed he was holding. Scout moved again, just resting a hand on the curve of Sniper’s cheek and the other dropping into his own lap. When had they both been leaned forward like this? It felt like they were a lot closer than when they started.

“Awright,” Sniper said, voice still at that whispering level, sounding a little breathless.

Scout was sure his face was red, and he dropped his other hand as well, trying to ignore the surge of disappointment in his stomach as he did so, the little voice in his head saying “no go back”. He swallowed back a tremor in his voice. “Uh. I-I kinda wanna go back to sleep,” he finally said. “That okay?”

“Um. Me too.” And Scout moved to lay down, and so did Sniper. “G’night. Or—it’s, um, it’s morning, so, good sleep I s’pose? If that’s somethin’ folks say.”

“Snipes? Quit while you’re ahead,” Scout murmured, and he heard Sniper give a nervous sort of chuckle.

“Awright.”

Scout drifted off to sleep, feeling someone taking his hand as he finally went under. He felt… he felt safe. And something else he couldn’t name, but mostly, he felt safe.

Chapter Text

He was sat outside enjoying the sun when he heard gravelly sand crunching under approaching boots. Not Sniper, because Sniper was inside.

“Hey,” Scout said, waving to whoever was approaching.

“Hmm-nmm!” came a returned voice, and Scout deflated.

“Oh. Pyro,” he said, sighing slightly, having been hoping for conversation. “Uh, Snipes is sleepin’ I think.”

A series of happy murmurs that usually, Scout would tune out in favor of just looking at body language. But he suddenly felt a small spark of recognition, and he sat up, frowning.

“Hold on, just—say that again but slower,” Scout said.

Pyro obliged and Scout’s eyes widened minutely.

“You ain’t here to see Snipes?” he repeated, and Pyro gasped, clapping their hands happily and babbling something in return. “Woah woah woah, slow down. I can’t understand you when you talk too fast, Mumbles, breathe for a second and repeat that.”

So Scout and Pyro, over the course of the next half hour, sat down and managed to have something like a conversation, despite the firebug needing to repeat themselves every other sentence. They asked questions about his eyesight and were fairly distraught when he broke the news that the enemy Pyro had been the one to do it to him.

“Scout! Who are ya yammerin’ to?” Sniper called from within the camper.

“Pyro! Yeah, Mumbles showed up! We’re hangin’ out!” Scout replied.

“Whot?” Sniper called back. “Awright, just—gimmee a second!” There was the sound of movement, and the camper door creaking open, clattering closed.

“Hi, Snipes!” he said cheerfully.

“I was wonderin’ whot all the chatter was about. You two out here gossipin’ like old birds?” Sniper asked, pushing Scout’s legs over to sit on the same lawn chair as him.

Pyro laughed at that and asked a question that had Scout bristling.

“Huh?” Sniper asked. “Whot’d he say?”

“Nothin’!” Scout squeaked. Pyro just repeated the phrase.

“Don’t sound like nuthin’,” Sniper said suspiciously. “In fact, sounded like my name was in there somewhere.”

“No it wasn’t!” Scout said. “In fact, Pyro was just saying it was time to leave, isn’t that right Mumbles?” Scout said pointedly.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll just ask the firebug later,” Sniper said, and Scout realized he was trapped in a corner. Pyro giggled. “Or I’ll get Engie’ta translate if I really gotta.”

“You don’t even know where Hardhat is, an’ I’m tellin’ the truth, it ain’t important!” Scout insisted.

“Actually, he’s walkin’ over right now,” Sniper said with mild amusement, and Scout’s head whipped around to the sound of more boots on gravel. “So if you’re sure there ain’t anythin’ worth sayin’…”

Scout puffed his chest up. “I’m sure!” he said with a glare towards Sniper, dead committed now. He heard Pyro giggling madly to one side, and Sniper snickering quietly. “Shuttup! Both’a ya!”

“Now, what’s all the hubbub about, son? You look right ready to blow a gasket,” Engie called, approaching. “Howdy, Sniper.”

“G’day, Truckie,” Sniper said, not unkindly. “So I was wonderin’, Scout’s been learnin’ t’speak Pyro, an’ refuses to translate a sentence for me. Keeps sayin’ it’s “nuthin’ important”, but he’s actin’ shady.”

“I don’t sound like that,” Scout protested quietly, but nobody seemed to be listening to him.

“So I was wonderin’ if you’d do me a favor an’ tell me whot was said?” Sniper finished, sounding very smug. Scout could practically see him smirking. Asshole.

“Alright. What’d you say to get the boy all fired up, Pyro?” Engie asked.

Pyro repeated the phrase and there were a few beats of silence. Scout’s face was about three degrees away from bursting into flame.

“Well, that’s really not much,” Engie said coolly, and there was a faint jangle as Scout assumed he shrugged. “Ain’t anythin’ worth makin’ a fuss about, that’s for sure.”

“…Awright, I get it,” Sniper said, sighing. “Teamin’ up on the ol’ Sniper. I see ‘ow it is.” Boots on gravel, moving back towards the camper. “Well, I guess I’ll see you lot later,” he called, and Pyro called back a goodbye, and then the door was creaking open, clattering closed.

A beat of silence.

“If you don’t mind me askin’, what conversation would you an’ the firebug be havin’ that Pyro’d ask you “So you and Sniper really are dating then, does that mean you two have kissed”, and should I be at all concerned?” Engie asked.

Scout buried his face in his hands. Pyro continued to giggle.

“Son, there ain’t nothin’ to be so flustered about—“ Engie started.

“We ain’t havin’ this conversation!” Scout cut in, voice muffled by his palms. “This talk isn’t happening, Hardhat, not in a million years!”

“Alright, fine, but just know that even if—“

“Nope!”

“—I’m just sayin’ we’d still support—“

“Not in a million bajillion!”

“Okay, okay, no need to shout, boy, I can hear,” Engie laughed, and Scout just groaned into his hands. He heard Engie walking to stand by Pyro. “What’d I tell you about askin’ outright, firebug? I told ya that dog don’t hunt, an’ look what happened. Nearly made ‘im faint. Did you really think that’d work?”

Pyro just made a happy little sound and Engie chuckled.

“Well, regardless. We should head back. Demo was lookin’ for ya. We’ll see you, Scoot,” Engie said, two pairs of boots walking away.

“Later, Hardhat. Bye, Mumbles,” Scout replied, a bit miserable.

“And bye, Sniper!” Engie called, a bit louder.

“Bye! Also, to answer your question, no, we haven’t!” Sniper called from approximately where the window on the camper was. The open window. On the camper. The one that he hadn’t heard Sniper shut when he went back inside.

Scout almost screamed.

“Snipes, I’m hungry.”

“Then go get somethin’ to eat.”

“I don’t wanna walk all the way to the base.”

“Then starve.”

Scout made a long, drawn-out whining noise, dangling his torso off of the bed, gone noodle-like with his abject, complete misery.

“If you fall I won’t catch you,” Sniper said, sounding unimpressed.

Scout made the noise again, but louder and for a longer period of time, now dangling everything above his waist over the abyss. His hat abandoned him to instead hit the ground down below.

“Y’gonna fall off an’ hit y’head an’ die, an’ I’m gonna laugh at you, and then Medic’s gonna kill you, an’ I’m gonna laugh at you, an’ then Medic’s gonna kill me, an’ then I’ll kill you. Is this really how you wanna spend your Tuesday?”

Scout paused, considering the question for a few long moments. Then he took a deep inhale and made the whining noise a third time, continuing to sink, now pretty much only held up by core strength and his toes hooked under the windowsill.

“Bloody—whot d’ya want me t’do?” Sniper asked loudly over the noise. “I’m not carryin’ you all the way to the base jus’ because you won’t wait an hour for lunch!”

Scout at that point was hanging upside down from the edge of the bed from the knees. His sunglasses fell off.

“I’m not pickin’ those up,” Sniper said. “Stop bein’ a bloody—a bloody bat, an’ go get y’self something to munch on y’goddamn lemon.”

Scout paused, swinging slightly from side to side idly, a slow back and forth. “Who the fuck calls people a lemon?” he finally said.

“Well, it’s a real word, aren’t it?” Sniper asked. “Could’a called you a host of other names.”

“Like what?” Scout asked.

“Well you’re bein’ a real derro right about now, firsts off,” Sniper said. “Or a dag. A yobbo. A larrikin.”

“Oh my god,” Scout said quietly. “That’s not real English.”

“An’ that’s not a real shirt.”

Scout clutched protectively at his Sox jersey. “Hey!”

“Anyways, don’t use those so much ‘less I’m yellin’ at the other Sniper. Insults don’t pack much punch when you don’t understand them,” Sniper said. “But I’ve gotta be careful. Apparently you blokes in the States are right near allergic to a word we use all the time down in Oz. Synonymous with “mate” where I’m from, starts with a “c” and rhymes with “runt”. Said it in front of Truckie my first week an’ he went like a tomato, nearly passed out.”

It took Scout a few seconds to process what the word could possibly be before he blanched. “Wh-what the fuck!?” he managed to gasp, moving to grip at the ledge he was dangling from.

“Yep, there it is. See, we use it like… a friendly thing. Had to train myself outta sayin’ it. A right fuckin’ mess that was. But it’s nice goin’ home though, makes me feel younger for some reason.”

“You aren’t that old,” Scout said, rolling his eyes.

“Practically a foot in the grave, mate,” Sniper sighed.

“You’re like, thirty-somethin’.”

“Gotta write up m’will an’ testament.”

“You can’t die here.”

“Hope the kids’ll bring around their anklebiters sometime, me an’ the wife would like to meet ‘em.”

“You don’t have a wife.”

“Kids these days don’t know what it was like, back in the war.”

“You weren’t in the army, and you’re also from Australia.”

“Any day could be my last. The fog’s rollin’ in…”

Scout rolled his eyes, but the subtle motion of his head made all the blood that had rushed there rebel against him, and he felt himself slipping.

“Woah!” Mid-fall, a pair of fairly strong arms caught him around the waist, stopping him from hitting the floor. Scout froze up, eyes wide with fear. “Christ, mate. Be careful.”

Scout blinked, then grinned, letting himself laugh a little.

“What’s funny?” Sniper asked.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t catch me,” Scout reminded.

There was a beat of silence.

Thunk. “Ow,” the freshly dropped Scout said.

He sat up from his new spot on the floor, criss-crossing his legs as Sniper walked back to the chair he was in with a bit of grumbling.

“You have a kitchen in here though, right?” Scout asked. “You’ve gotta have something.”

“I don’t use the cabinets to store food in,” Sniper replied. “I don’t keep much’a the stuff in here. Gotta have some incentive t’go to th’base, otherwise I’d never be in there.”

“You don’t keep much…?” Scout asked, leaning forward and grinning.

There was a pause before Sniper sighed. “Awright, fine, I keep a bit’a candy, but—“

“CANDY!?” Scout practically shouted, already on his feet. “OH MY GOD WHERE!?”

“But not,” Sniper cut in, voice only rising a bit above his normal pitch, “Any candy that I think you’d like, and good god my ears.”

“Sorry, but—dude, I haven’t had candy in ages!” Scout said, practically bouncing off the walls. “Usually I keep some in case I run outta Bonk! because in a pinch when I’ve got adrenaline a sugar rush can work just as well as straight up caffine, but also because candy is the best, dude come on I promise I won’t eat all of it I just want a little c’mon—“

“Slow it down, there,” Sniper said, laughing, putting hands on his shoulders to stop him from bouncing in place. “Awright, fine. I’ll give you some candy. But don’t say I never warned you, right?”

The moment the hands were gone, Scout was back to bouncing in place, grin threatening to split his face as Sniper started digging through the highest cabinets. “Oh man oh man oh man oh man—“ he whispered in a quiet litany.

“Awright, hands out,” Sniper said, the sound of something rustling in a bag. “But I still think you’ll hate it, mate, you—“

“Impossible!” Scout said, hands out before him. “All candy is good candy!”

“Fine,” Sniper said, and something dropped into Scout’s hand and he popped it into his mouth.

Chocolate!!! Like, a ball of chocolate sort of thing! He bit down and—

…

“What the fuck?” Scout asked, voice controlled.

“Chocolate-covered coffee beans. M’parents sent ‘em from home.”

“This is not candy,” Scout said. He finished eating the morsel, because he wasn’t a complete savage, but he made a face.

“It says “candy” right on the label, mate,” Sniper said.

“Okay, whatever. Agree to disagree because you’re wrong,” Scout said. “But do you have anything else?”

“I mean, I’ve got just chocolate—“

“Hand it over.”

A beat of pause before he sighed, and something else ended up in his hand. He popped that in his mouth as well.

He visibly flinched. “Dude! Why! What is this!”

“Jus’ regular dark chocolate, I don’t see the—“ Scout made a big dramatic show of gagging. “Oh, quit the whinging.”

“You’re tryin’ to kill me!”

“You’re eatin’ it without askin’ what it is!”

Scout scowled. “Snipes, I grew up in a house with half a dozen dudes and two meals a day. I eat first, ask questions later.”

“How are you alive?” Sniper asked quietly, half to himself.

Scout ignored it. “Do you have anything else to poison me with, or should I pack up my disappointment nice and neat in my betrayal bag and hit the road?”

“I—this last one ain’t even sweet, it—“ Sniper started, but he cut himself off when he was Scout’s hands already out. “You’re… so you’re still not askin’ whot it is?”

“Nope.”

“After all that?”

“Nope.”

“...Alright.”

Scout barely let the candy hit his palm before he ate it.

His face reflexively scrunched up.

Sniper sighed. “See? I told you you’d—“ Then he stopped when Scout grinned, ear-to-ear, absolutely beaming.

“I love sour gummy worms!” he exclaimed, and Sniper breathed a sigh of relief. “Dude, do you have more?!”

“Yeah. You can have the rest’a the bag,” Sniper said, handing it over to Scout. “You’ll get more of a kick outta them than I will.”

“You’re the best!” Scout cheered, holding the bag close to his chest and shoving a fistful into his mouth. He tried to say something else, but it came out all muffled, so he finished chewing and tried again. “I owe you one, Shades!”

“You already owed me one,” Sniper said.

“Well, I owe you a better one!” Scout replied. “I’ll get somethin’ awesome, just you wait! Like… like, uh…” He trailed off, thinking. “…Y’know what, you just think of the thing you want and I’ll handle it.”

“Anything?” Sniper asked, sounding mildly interested.

“I mean, anything possible,” he elaborated. “I can’t get you a dragon.”

“Why would I want a dragon?”

“Why wouldn’t you want a dragon?”

Sniper paused. “…Y’know what, fair ‘nuff. Asked an’ answered.”

“Get back to me on it,” Scout said, climbing back up to the bunk.

“That’s a lot of power to give one man,” Sniper said warningly.

“Yeah, well, I trust you enough to lead me around while I’m blind—letting you have one request is no big deal, yeah?”

Sniper hummed thoughtfully at that. “I’ll get back to you once you’ve got your eyes back, aye?” Sniper said. “Not much you could do for me right now anyways.”

Scout shrugged at that, going to town on the gummy worms, the two fading into a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of cellophane.

Scout could tell that something was wrong.

He and Sniper would usually share the mattress now that they established that it didn’t bother either of them, and for the most part their nightly routine was now Sniper turning in and Scout hopping up once he was done with his own process. By the time Scout went to bed Sniper was usually well asleep, and he was a heavy enough sleeper that Scout wouldn’t wake him up.

But this time when Scout climbed up and flopped down, pulling on the blankets and starting to doze, he could tell by Sniper’s breathing that the man wasn’t asleep. Not even close. And he’d grown so used to the sound of his slow, even breath as he dozed off that knowing the other man was awake kept him awake as well. So they both laid there, unmoving, for a good while.

Scout broke the silence, because he knew Sniper couldn’t. He turned his head, took Sniper’s hand and squeezed it. “What’s up?” he asked. Sniper didn’t reply for a second, mulling over the words, his own head turning to look at Scout.

“What happened to your brother?” he asked quietly, and Scout felt his blood go cold.

He turned his head towards the ceiling. He could feel Sniper fidget slightly, the man probably nervous that he’d crossed some line on accident.

“When I was younger, maybe four, he signed up to be a pilot in the second World War,” Scout began. It had been years since he told the story, but it was still clear to him in his mind. “He survived until the very end of it. He was almost put in the crews that would do Dresden, but he refused to go. He got in trouble for that, and so they kept him a lil’ longer. He had to stay another couple’a years, an’ he was one’a the guys who transported troops out of Europe and back home. He came back home for a little bit right after the war got called, before they dragged ‘im back out to keep workin’. He was… he was a good guy. Just as good as I remembered ‘im.”

Scout raised his free hand to his dog tags. Sniper waited patiently for him to continue. Scout’s voice was rough when he spoke again.

“There was an accident. Plane went down somewhere over Holland. He’d been in a crash or two before, an’ he was good at flyin’. But… not that time. That time he didn’t make it. Everyone else survived, but the cockpit went up in flames. They got dog tags an’ not much else. That’s the first pass these things made comin’ home.”

“First?” Sniper asked quietly.

Scout nodded, swallowed back the lump in his throat. “…Anyway. That happened. My second-eldest brother Henry took the tags, wore ‘em. Couple years passed. Summer, after my sophomore year’a high school, Henry got drafted to go to Vietnam. It was 1957. Technically they’ll say he volunteered, but… no. He didn’t wanna go, we didn’t want ‘im to go. Year an’ a half after he went there, one day his squad woke up an’ he was… gone. Just gone. Left his bag behind, disappeared in the middle of a jungle that they’d have to burn later. I don’t think I believe that story, but… they sent us these tags again. Not Henry’s, because they said he wore those ones instead’a these. Apparently he took these ones off an’ kept ‘em in his bag instead’a keepin’ them around his neck. He never took ‘em off back home. Never. I don’t believe ‘em, Henry didn’t disappear, but he’s gone either way, so it don’t really matter how, does it?” The edges of the dog tags were digging into Scout’s palm as he gripped at them now, bordering on painful. “An’ now here I am. In a war zone. With these tags.”

“An’ your mum let ya go?” Sniper asked, sounding confused.

“Yeah. I kinda lied to her. Just a lil’ bit. Said I wouldn’t be in real danger. My brother Tony knew better, he told me…” Scout swallowed back the lump in his throat again. “Pulled me aside, told me, “Don’t be the third O’Connell boy to die an’ leave Ma those dog tags” before I left. An’ I promised. I promised him I’d be safe.” Scout was quiet for a second. “I know we can’t die here, with the Respawn an’ stuff, but… do you ever get scared?”

Sniper considered the question. “What of? Which part?” he finally asked.

“That one day you’re gonna get shot an’ not come back?”

Sniper was quiet for a few seconds. “Sometimes.” Scout waited for him to elaborate. “I mean, sometimes I worry, yeah. Takes a mo’ longer to Respawn, or I get right vaporized, an’ I wonder if I pushed my luck a bit too far. An’ sometimes I get nightmares that I don’t die right, or Respawn gets it wrong an’ I come back to life half dead again.”

Scout nodded. “Yeah… those ain’t any fun.” He was quiet for a second. “Before I left, my Ma said to me, she says—“ Scout suddenly cut himself off, mouth clamping shut, eyes wide.

Sniper turned to look at him again, confused. “…Y’awright?” he mumbled, sounding concerned, giving a light squeeze to his hand.

Scout didn’t answer, just looking up at the ceiling, suddenly wondering very hard about whether he should just bite the bullet here.

“…My Ma goes, “Jeremy”,” Scout murmured, and he felt Sniper tense slightly. “An’ she grabs me by the shoulders, hugs me like moms do when they’re real worried, an’ she goes, “You better call me an’ write whenever you can, else I’ll track you down an’ knock some sense inta ya”, even though she’s half a head shorter than me. Said, “Don’t you go lookin’ for trouble or tryna be no hero, you’re already trouble, and you’re already a hero to me, alright?”. Some real mushy thing. So, I call when I get the chance now.”

Sniper was still a bit tense at his side, because you don’t say your name. Nobody does. The person who walks out of the battlefield is not the same person you were raised as. The person who goes home on holidays is not the person who lives in the base. Jeremy doesn’t live in Teufort, Jeremy is a young man from Boston who played baseball and ran cross-country when he was in high school. Scout is the man who runs onto the battlefield, the guy who bashes people’s skulls in with a metal bat while whooping and cheering.

But where did Scout end and Jeremy begin? Was it Scout or was it Jeremy lying next to Sniper right then?

He wasn’t sure.

“I call home too.”

Scout turned his head towards Sniper at that. Sniper’s voice was quiet.

“Me dad don’t much like it. Th’work I do, I mean,” he said. “Thinks I’m just… just some crazed gunman, ‘e don’t see a difference ‘tween killin’ for fun, an’ killin’ for sport, an’ killin’ professionally.” Scout felt his grip tighten. “I’m a professional. I’m good at what I do because of skill. I’m efficient. M’not a crazed gunman. M’not.”

“Yeah, we already got Soldier on our team, that slot’s filled,” Scout murmured, and he heard Sniper exhale in a sort of laugh.

“Right.” A few seconds of pause. “A lunatic couldn’t do what I do. I don’t bugger around with fear tactics, I don’t… don’t tank hits, or light blokes on fire. I just take the shot.”

“…But that don’t matter to ‘em, huh? Your folks?” Scout asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Nah. Well… me mum at least don’t yammer on about it near as much, she’ll avoid talkin’ about it when she can, an’ I don’t bring it up. Makes goin’ home for holiday leave stressful, s’all.”

Scout opened his mouth to say something but instantly stopped himself, just closing his mouth again. He heard Sniper turn his head to look at him.

“Whot’s the look?” Sniper asked, laced with suspicion. “Whot were y’gonna say?”

Scout inhaled, exhaled, steeling himself, inhaled again. “You should come visit Boston with me next time there’s a holiday break,” he said all in a rush, words a little jumbled together.

“…I’m, er… I’m not any good with crowds,” Sniper said hesitantly. “Or… or people. An’ Boston’s a city, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t hafta deal with anyone if you didn’t wanna,” Scout said quickly. “An’—an’ I think my Ma would like ya, at least.”

“Now, you’ve changed it from “visit y’hometown” to “meet y’parents”, mate,” Sniper said slowly.

Scout’s face felt like it was on fire, but it might’ve just been their shared body heat. That was probably it, right? Yeah. “Well, I dunno. It’d be kind of a dick move to come see my city an’ not at least say hi to my family there, right?” Scout murmured, trying to justify himself. “Don’t make it weird.”

He heard that little almost-laugh again. “M’just teasin’, love, no need to get fighty,” Sniper said, and Scout mentally smoothed himself down, trying to shut up the part of his brain that was still yelling at him.

“Well, if not that, you gotta take me to Australia. I wanna see it,” Scout said stubbornly.

“I s’pose takin’ you on a road trip wouldn’t be that much more difficult than takin’ care’a you while you’re blind,” Sniper murmured, shrugging lightly. “Awright.”

Scout blinked, surprised that Sniper actually agreed. “…You’re gonna regret sayin’ that,” he said after a second.

“Nah,” Sniper replied evenly.

“I—I’m gonna get real annoyin’ at some point an’ you’re gonna start hatin’ me,” Scout insisted, “An’ you’re gonna wish you didn’t promise that.”

Scout felt something like betrayal welling up in his chest as he felt Sniper letting go of his hand, only to feel his heart start racing as Sniper slung that arm around Scout’s shoulder. “Never,” Sniper replied, voice just a murmur, breath hot against his face, and Scout felt something else entirely welling up in his chest.

“Um. O-Okay. If you’re sure.” He lay stock-still for a second before he shifted slightly, moving so his head rested in the dip of Sniper’s shoulder, and he was surprised with how comfortable this all was. He almost didn’t think he could go to sleep, but he drifted off soon enough anyways. If he could describe how he felt at that moment in one word…

Protected. He felt protected.

The hand that hadn’t been holding Sniper’s released his dog tags.

Chapter Text

The table was surprisingly quiet at dinner. There was little chatter, and while Sniper was fairly relaxed at his side, Scout was on edge.

Finally he put down his utensils. “Okay, what the hell’s goin’ on?” Scout asked sharply, and movement stilled at most of the table.

He heard and felt Sniper turning to look at him, probably with concern. He heard someone sigh, and it was Engie who spoke.

“We’re supposed to go out and start fightin’ again day after tomorrow,” he said quietly, and Sniper stiffened at his side in the same moment Scout felt his blood grow cold. “All of us.”

“Are y’havin’ a bloody laugh?” Sniper asked sharply, tone dangerous.

“Now there’s no need to give me that look, Sniper, I’m just tellin’ y’all what was on the message we received from the Administrator,” Engie said calmly.

“So she’s not firin’ me, she’s just… makin’ me go fight?” Scout asked, frowning.

“Nein,” Medic spoke from the far side of the table, and Scout turned his head towards him with mild surprise. He hadn’t known that Medic was here. He’d been silent the entire time they’d been eating. “I do not think that is what this is about.”

It was quiet around the table. “You should tell story to them, Doktor,” Heavy said gently from beside Medic. The German didn’t speak for a few seconds.

“You are not the first mercenaries I have worked with for RED,” he finally said. Scout frowned, but no noises of surprise followed the statement. Apparently the others had already heard this before. He couldn’t tell if Sniper knew, too. “I joined shortly before the previous teams were… “disbanded”, if we use the terms I’m sure were in the paperwork. All members of the team were fairly sickly and plagued by nightmares about the fighting, as I know several others around this table are today. I submitted a form,” Medic said, only for his voice to suddenly grow tight, and he stopped. A few seconds passed.

“Can finish story for Doktor if he wants,” Heavy said carefully, but Medic carried on.

“I submitted a form saying that none of them were fit to fight, and during the next battle, over half of them died, and when they died, they were not sent to Respawn,” he finished dully. “All who lived resigned as soon as the end of the battle was called, and most committed suicide in the year afterwards.”

“Jesus,” Sniper whispered to one side of Scout.

“So you’re tellin’ me,” Scout said slowly, “That if I go out and die in battle, I won’t wake back up again, Doc? Is that right?”

“The way I see it, she is giving you two options,” Spy said. “You can either go to battle, and have the risk of dying permanently—very likely, as you cannot defend yourself—or resign now if you do not think you could survive out there. If you try and avoid battle, she will terminate your employment regardless of your condition.” Scout heard the telltale sound of a lighter being clicked. “It seems you are backed into a corner, mon ami.”

“Those ain’t the only two options,” Scout replied calmly, frowning.

There was silence for a few seconds. “Excusez?” Spy asked.

“Doc, remember when I first went into the medbay? You said you could replace my eyes,” Scout said, turning his head towards Medic. “Or, do some kind of operation to help me.”

“Und I said it would be incredibly risky as well, Junge,” Medic replied, a note of fierceness in his voice.

“Yeah? So’s dyin’, Doc,” Scout replied, crossing his arms.

“Scout—for all we know, if you were to die now, you wouldn’t come back. We have no guarantee that it would not already be permanent,” Medic said, and Scout felt almost like he was being scolded, and he bristled under it. “This operation could kill you no matter how well I do, and I will not have you dying on my operation table.”

“Yeah? Spy already said it—I’m backed into a corner here! If any of you have some options other than “leave” or “die”, I’m all ears,” Scout said, sitting back in his chair.

There was a long pause around the table. Scout tapped his fingers against his arm, waiting. None spoke.

“This is so bloody unfair.”

Scout turned his head towards Sniper at the tremor in his voice.

“It ain’t right. You can’t help it—you don’t wanna be blind any more than anyone else does, y’didn’t get a choice in this, an’ it’s bloody unfair! If we could fix it, we’d’ve done it already, an’ as far as I can tell she hasn’t sent us any bloody help besides us all bein’ put on unpaid leave! I’ll tell ya whot the hell I think—“ He heard Sniper sitting forward, and an uneasy shift around the table. “If she’s gonna give our Scout the boot, I’m leavin’ too.”

“Bushman—“ Spy started, but Sniper continued.

“An’ I get it if you lot don’t agree, but he’s a member of this team, an’ he’s damn well earned a spot on it, an’ he’s put in too many years’a his bloody life out here in the middle’a nowhere t’just get kicked to the curb the moment he gets an injury!” Scout heard the sound of a knife being buried in the table. “I’ve made up my mind. If ‘e goes, I go. That’s that. It ain’t fair, an’ if it’d been any’a you lot who lost y’eyes, I woulda said the same.”

“Bushman,” Spy said again, and Sniper finally stopped, seething in his seat beside Scout. “First of all, if you would not bury your knife in the goddamn table. Secondly, I was going to say that I agree.”

“What?” Scout and Sniper said in unison.

“I said, I agree. It is unfair and quite frankly insulting that she would react like this to the situation. I’m with you,” Spy said, the slightest shift to indicate a shrug. “If he is fired, I will also leave.”

A beat of pause. “Fuck it, ‘m with ya too, lads,” Demo said, clapping a hand on Scout’s shoulder. “He goes, I go.”

“I also agree!” cried Soldier from down the table. “We will not be divided!”

“Wait, guys—“ Scout cut in, turning his head back and forth quickly.

“Leetle Scout is credit to team,” Heavy rumbled. “He does not leave without Heavy.”

“Mmph mhm!” Pyro mumbled cheerfully.

“Guys—“ Scout tried again.

“I guess I’m in too, then,” Medic said with an affectionate sigh, and Heavy and Pyro both cheered from either side of him.

“Welp, she’s a scary lady, but we’re a scary buncha folks too, huh?” Engie said. “An’ I don’t think she’d take kindly to us all quittin’—she wants to mess with the lamb, she’ll be seein’ the rams.” Agreement rose up around the table, amicable and rowdy.

“Guys!”

The chatter around the table stopped. Scout felt pale, his pulse pounding through to his fingertips.

“Listen, I… I appreciate this. Really, I do. This is… so great of you guys. Seriously. But you can’t do this. No, shuttup,” Scout said when Sniper started saying something in protest, pointing a finger at him, and the sharpshooter clammed up instantly. “I gotta say this.”

Scout considered his words for a few moments, folding and unfolding his hands on the table, staring down at nothing.

“It coulda happened to any of you,” Scout said, “I get that, but… it didn’t. An’ that means it’s my choice what we do here an’ how we do it. An’ I don’t want any of yous messin’ your own lives up too just because’a me. I’m not draggin’ you guys down with me. That ain’t fair t’you. If I have to go, I’ll go alone. But it won’t come down to that, because I’m not gonna go down without a fight, neither. We still got a whole day to figure out how to fix this.”

There was murmuring around the table for a few seconds. Sniper had gone still.

“Well,” Medic said, “If you are sure you don’t want us to make a suicide pact as a hail Mary, then I suppose our next best option is the operation I finished drafting forty minutes ago.”

Scout looked up. “What?”

“I want to say again—it would be risky and dangerous and I would have preferred to wait and research a bit more, but I wanted to draft a procedure in case of emergency. I feared she might do this, and I have been planning accordingly for such eventualities. It would seem we have come to the eventuality.” He heard Medic standing up. “Herr Scout, if you are certain that you want to follow this path, report to the medbay tomorrow at nine in the morning sharp. If you want Herr Sniper to accompany you, that is fine, but I prefer not to have anyone else nearby when I am working, so he will not be able to come with you into the infirmary. If you’ll excuse me, I need to make sure I have the correct equipment set up. Danke for the meal.”

Medic left, and several others hesitantly moved to take away their own plates as well, Heavy leaving the quickest, presumably to go check up on Medic. Only a moment passed before Sniper had seized the back of Scout’s collar, half pulling him up out of his seat, making him startle. “Out. Hallway. Now.” His voice was low and dangerous, and Scout swallowed hard.

“What for?” he asked.

“We’re gonna have a nice little talk.” Scout felt unexplainable guilt welling up in his chest, alongside a pinch of fear at the barely-repressed fury in Sniper’s tone.

Sniper practically dragged him into the hallway, and Scout’s cane clattered to the floor. He heard Demo standing and starting to protest the rough treatment of the Boston boy, but Sniper’s motion paused for only a second and he clammed right up.

They went into the hallway and Sniper shoved Scout, sending him into the wall (not painfully, but roughly), before he closed in.

“The hell d’you think you’re doin’?” Sniper asked tremulously, rage threatening to bubble over, but his voice didn’t border on yelling, not just yet.

“What’s your problem?!” Scout asked, bunching his fists up, shoulders squared, trying not to look intimidated.

“My problem? My bloody problem!? That’s real rich!” Sniper laughed breathlessly, though there was little amusement in the sound. “I’m not the one about to commit to an operation that’ll bloody well probably kill me, without thinkin’ about the damn consequences!”

“I get it, I could die, but news flash, Snipes!” Scout returned, throwing his arms out. “I don’t exactly have many options! I’m okay with takin’ this risk, an’ if this kills me then it kills me—but at least I’ll’ve tried somethin’!”

“An’ there ya go again, because you’re the only one with anythin’ to worry about, because if you cark it you’re the only one havin’ somethin’ to lose, aye?!” Sniper had a hold on his collar again, pushing him into the wall. “Has it even occurred to you to think about whot this’ll do to the rest of us, or are you just that fuckin’ selfish?!”

Scout instinctively gripped at Sniper’s wrist with both hands, eyes wide with fear, unseeing, unseeing. He felt like the air had been pushed out of him—in some ways, it was. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” he spat anyways with a sneer, and the words had hardly left his mouth when he realized Sniper was shaking.

…Shaking?

“You heard the rest’a the lads when they thought you were getting’ the boot. They care about ya. If you die, d’ya know whot that’ll do t’the team?” Sniper’s voice suddenly dropped, in volume and pitch, sounding a bit rougher. “Whot that’ll do t’… t’ all of us left here?” That wasn’t how he’d planned on ending that sentence, Scout could tell, but he didn’t have time to parse that one out.

“It’s my choice,” Scout replied through gritted teeth.

“Well maybe this isn’t just about you anymore, ya dense prick!” Sniper replied sharply, voice shaky again, hand shaking, why was Sniper shaking—“Could ya maybe think about the bigger picture here for a mo’, just take a step back and just…” He trailed off.

“Whatever you’re tryna say, just say it already,” Scout said bitterly.

Sniper’s grip loosened slightly. His voice was quiet now, almost a whisper, but still intense. “Whot’ll I have to tell your mum, Scout?” he asked, and Scout’s blood went cold. “You’re really gonna make her lose another son?”

“I didn’t want it to come to this either,” Scout protested, but it sounded weak, even to him. “I didn’t want to do this to her. I—I guess she at least knows how to handle losin’ a kid. She’ll know what to do with my body at least, huh? She can handle it.” It was morbid. He regretted it the moment he heard the words leave his mouth.

“Whot about the team?” Sniper managed.

“They’re grown men, they’ll get over it eventually an’ someone else’ll be hired. They’ll survive.”

“An’ what about me?” Sniper croaked, and everything froze.

“…Um. What… about… you?” Scout finally asked, slowly, slowly. He didn’t quite understand, but he could feel understanding just millimeters from his fingertips, if he could only stretch out a bit further and—!

“Nevermind,” Sniper managed to say, voice thick with… with something, and with disappointment, and he released Scout’s shirt, pushing himself off. “Y’know what? I’m done here.”

He almost didn’t process the sound of footsteps moving away from him. “S-Snipes?” he asked, and it was that first day again, waking up blind on the operating table, and it was the second day, waking up blind in the camper van, and it was the day alone in the storage closet, waking up blind and… “Where’re you goin’?”

“Home. The camper. Don’t bother followin’ me,” Sniper replied bitterly. “I think if you’re so determined to go get your eyes cut out, you can sleep in the infirmary, ey?”

Scout’s fingers dug into the wall, but he didn’t dare push off and follow, not without his cane, left behind in the common area, a stupid oversight. Because if he got himself lost again… he’d… well, he just couldn’t do it. “That ain’t fair!” he protested.

“Neither’s dyin’ on me,” Sniper replied coldly.

“You can’t just ditch me like that!”

“Oh, can’t I?” Sniper snapped, and Scout flinched back. “Remember how you said you owe me one, a few days back? I’m cashin’ it in. Here’s my request:" His voice dropped into a dangerous growl, the type of intonation that made people's hair stand on end and the faint of heart cower away. He said the sentence slowly, with emphasis, and each word felt like a punch to the gut. "Stay. The hell. Away from me. Goodbye, Scout.”

The sound of too-familiar boots against the hard floor, and Scout felt like he’d been stabbed in the chest. He felt like he’d been shot in the stomach. He felt like he’d had his eyes burned out. Moreover, he was very, very scared.

“Snipes? Snipes!” Scout called as soon as he could find his voice again, and it sounded just as fearful as he felt, just as desperate, but Sniper didn’t turn around. The sound of his footsteps finally faded into nothing, the walls not carrying any more reverberations back to Scout to tell of where Sniper might be. It was silent but for the noise coming from behind the door into the common area.

And Scout, for the first time since Sniper took him by the arm as he tripped leaving the infirmary, was alone.

Medic apparently only took one look at him standing in the door to his office, probably looking properly pathetic and miserable, clutching his cane like a lifeline, before he sighed and ushered Scout in.

“What did you do?” Medic asked shortly.

“I—I dunno!” Scout said, letting Medic just pull him along without struggle. “Snipes just got through getting’ real mad at me for agreeing to let you do the operation tomorrow, an’ told me I wasn’t allowed to sleep in the camper tonight, to go stay in here. Just—just ditched me! Chewed me out and ditched me! Just like that!”

Medic sighed, muttering something in German, and Scout was sat in a chair as Medic busied about doing something just a few steps away. “What did he say to you?” he asked levelly.

“I-I guess he said somethin’ about… uh. Well, one’a my brothers was in World War II—“

“I have read your file, I know,” Medic said, messing with something ceramic on the table a bit away. “If you could skip ahead?”

“Oh. Uh, well he said, he asked what I was thinkin’, that I’d risk bein’ the third son in my family to go off an’ die in a fight somewhere, an’ I said… at least my Ma would know what to do, because she does, right? She’s done funerals an’ stuff before, an’ she probably figured out that this job might be dangerous an’ stuff. An’, an’ then ‘e asked what the team would do if I died, an’ I said “they’ll get over it”, because all you guys are grown men, right? It ain’t the end of the world. It’d suck, but you’d live. An’ he said somethin’ like… like a “what about me?” sorta thing. An’ I don’t know what he meant. An’ now he’s pissed off and I don’t know how to fix this.”

“Mein freund, are you sure you do not know what he meant?” Medic asked bluntly, pausing in his task and turning to him. Scout could imagine the look on Medic’s face, unimpressed, cynical, judging. Scout, being both the enabler and the risk-taker at the same time, had gotten fairly used to it, and it wasn’t as effective when Scout couldn’t see it. “Do you really?”

“I—“

“Nein, stop and really think about this,” Medic said, before returning to his task calmly, giving him an excuse to sit silently and think.

So Scout did.

He considered how angry Sniper had gotten. Scout, even before he got his eyes taken out, had never seen Sniper really… enraged. Not like that, not like he was in the hallway. But he’d been angry before, because everyone got mad sometimes. He considered what caused Sniper to get bitter at their teammates. Usually it was things like running in front of his scope right when he was about to take a shot, or when he’d spent the day getting hounded by the enemy Spy. He couldn’t think of much in that line of though. So he moved on and considered the last time he’d seen Sniper angry at him, which was… the day that he’d gotten lost in the base, the day Sniper had to come and find him. He’d been angry then, too, except he’d said he wasn’t angry with him, hadn’t he? He’d said it in as many words, and moved on quickly enough from it afterwards. He’d said that he wasn’t angry with the runner, that he had just been really…

“He’s worried about me?” Scout said finally, tilting his head back up at Medic.

Medic huffed out through his nose. “We are all worried about you, Junge, try again,” Medic replied patiently. He turned around and he took Scout’s hand, put something in it. A saucer, on top of which was a cup. Tea, maybe. Scout took a sip and was pleased to find that Medic had apparently dumped a good amount of sugar into it.

Okay, so, not just worry. What else was there?

Sniper was… nice to him. He let Scout stay in his camper, let him play music and drag him around to do stuff. He didn’t mind when Scout babbled on about nothing in particular, and didn’t get mad when Scout pestered him about things. He gave Scout a piggyback ride to the base and nearly got into a fistfight with Spy over almost nothing. He’d refused to let Scout sleep anywhere but on their only mattress, he played a song on his instrument just because Scout had wanted him to, and he went looking for him when nobody else did.

“He…” Scout started, only to hesitate for a few moments. He heard Medic taking a sip of his own tea. He tried again. “He… likes me a lot? Uh. Cares about me,” Scout said, each word feeling odd in his mouth, stilted and awkward.

“Surely it is not that difficult to believe,” Medic said, clearly surprised by his tone.

“No, I mean, not just like how we all usually get along. More than that. I’m important to ‘im, more than most people,” Scout tried to clarify, still a bit hesitant.

Medic gave a world-weary sigh, and Scout heard the clink of his cup against the saucer. “I suppose that is close enough,” he murmured, and there was the sound of the saucer being placed down for a moment. “Alright. Junge, Herr Sniper might seem angry with you, but I am fairly certain he has no wish to fight. At least subconsciously, he is hoping that you will be upset enough by his negative reaction that you will reconsider and find a less risky option.”

“Huh?” Scout asked, blinking.

“Ja. He seems mainly upset that you would be at risk at all, but he is also upset that you made the choice without talking with him first. He expected you to think it over, I suppose, which is, admittedly, wishful thinking. You are a reckless person by nature. That is not how you make decisions. Still, he expected you to consider what would happen to him.”

Scout mulled over the words, taking another gulp of tea. “That ain’t fair,” Scout said finally. “This is my problem, not his. That means that this affects me, and not him.”

“You really do not think this affects him? At all?” Medic asked, sounding a little surprised for a moment, and just a little sad. Scout nodded. Medic sighed again. “Gott, why are young people so against just communicating like adults—okay, alright, Junge. Think with me for a few moments here. Let us suppose you die. He… ugh, cares about you. You go through with the operation and do not survive it. How would he feel? Take a wild guess. Just a wild verdammte guess. Go on.”

Slowly, understanding washed over him, and Scout pressed a hand over his own face, groaning. “Oh, god. I’m an idiot. Yeah, it would suck. He’d be upset. He’s the one takin’ care’a me, of course he’d feel bad if I died,” Scout said. “He would probably be real sad about it.”

"And there you have it,” Medic said, apparently finishing off his tea as he set his cup a good bit away. “The revelation of the year. Gott, you two can be dense. Did you know that Herr Sniper has been swinging by periodically, trying to get progress checks, and when I have none, instead trying to get my advice? It is exactly like this. Exactly. Every single time.”

“What should I do? I don’t wanna go into this with him mad at me,” Scout said, glossing past Medic’s biting remarks, putting his own cup down after taking a last gulp. He knew that it was just how Medic was, and it wasn’t personal, so he didn’t let it offend him. “I gotta fix this somehow.”

“Simple,” Medic said, and Scout’s cane was pressed into his hand. “Go to the camper and talk to him. If you think you should—and, for the record, I think you should—then apologize. I can promise with almost complete certainty that he regrets yelling at you, although I suspect he will be too proud to admit it. You two are also very similar in that way.”

“Okay. I’ll leave you to… what, you said you gotta prepare, right?” Scout asked.

Medic laughed. “Oh, heavens no! I wished to be left alone so I could sleep. I have not slept well for a few days, if at all. Too busy planning this operation and assembling materials. But Heavy is getting… what is the English word?” For a moment Medic hummed, thinking hard. “Ah, yes! Naggy.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll leave you to that, then,” Scout said, turning and heading for the door. “Night, Doc. See you tomorrow.”

“Ja, ja, good night—and do not eat breakfast tomorrow morning if at all possible, I’d prefer you not vomit in my medical bay,” Medic said, and Scout gave a thumbs-up, letting the door close behind him.

And there he was. Outside the door of the medbay. He stood in the hallway, knowing his path, knowing his goal, but unsure of what would await him at his destination. And wasn’t that just the way things usually were for him?

So he began to walk.

Chapter Text

Scout stood outside the camper, clutching his cane hard enough that the wood creaked in his hands. His heart was going a million miles a minute. He hadn't been this nervous since the first day they'd gone into battle. He hadn't been this nervous since the day Medic had installed the Uber implant, and that time he'd had literal fluttering in his chest from a bird. He hadn't been this nervous since—

He stopped himself. He couldn't psyche himself out like this. That wouldn't do him any good. He had to calm down and focus. Breathe, and focus.

He very carefully considered the sounds around him. Inhaled, exhaled, and focused.

The sounds of various nighttime bugs and animals were the first thing he noted. He also couldn't feel sun on his skin, meaning that it must be dark out. In the distance, the generators for the base's electricity hummed away. The steady buzz of the light on the side of the camper, the light that was always left on at night, as well as the second, subtler, lower buzz of the other light, the one over the door. And he strained his ears to try and hear for anything within the camper. Movement, music, glassware clinking, anything at all. There was nothing.

But Sniper had left the light on, the one over the door. He always turned that off before he went to sleep, to save the battery on the camper. He couldn't be asleep. And if he was? And if he wasn't?

He couldn't help it, his mind already spiraling again. What would he say to Sniper? What would Sniper say to him? What could Scout say? Was there anything, anything at all? He should apologize. Would that be enough? God, if it wasn't, if Sniper didn't forgive him, he didn't know what he'd do. Scout tugged at his dog tags nervously, and the old, worn, long-rusted chain—after all these years of service and abuse—finally snapped.

Scout yelped, jumping back at the surprisingly loud noise, and for a moment didn't comprehend what had happened. Then he was on his knees in the dirt and sand, scrabbling wildly to try and find any trace of metal, and in his panic he batted something aside—a rock or the only remnant of his brothers? He couldn't tell. He didn't know where they were. He couldn't see them or anything else and couldn't tell and he couldn't lose these, too, if he lost these he wouldn't have anything, he—

He dug his fingers into the sand and froze when he heard the sound of the door clattering shut. He felt more than heard the presence of someone standing just before him. He didn't tilt his head up, and after a long moment of silence he returned to searching the ground, with some urgency, but not nearly as much as before. Even with Sniper mad at him, his presence was enough to make Scout feel just that much safer, that much more in control. And wasn't that sad? Scout getting too attached too quickly, like he always did. Far too attached.

The thought hurt. He blinked it away.

"Whot're you doing?" Sniper asked, tone calmer than expected, leveler. He didn't raise his voice or start yelling, which was honestly already what Scout considered a best-case scenario. That didn't stop Scout from flinching minutely when he spoke, but he knew his hat would cover it. Or, he hoped that it would cover it.

"Lookin' for my dog tags," he replied, voice hardly a murmur, raking his fingers along the ground, sifting through the small rocks and dirt always littering the ground. His hands were hurting a bit now, scraped up from the sharper pebbles. He didn't care.

"That's not whot I meant," Sniper said, voice just as level. He sounded… detached, cold. Mechanical. It hurt Scout worse than shouting would've.

He was sure his pants were ruined, but this time they were stained red from sandy clay, not with his or anyone else's blood. He continued searching, not dwelling on the thought.

"I meant, whot are you doing, here, outside'a me house an' home," Sniper drawled, "When I've made it perfectly clear that you aren't welcome here?"

Scout's eyes stung, only partly from the dust. Still, he remained silent. Still, he searched.

"I called in my favor—remember?" Sniper reminded him, boots scraping along the ground as he shifted his weight onto his other foot. Scout could imagine it, Sniper standing with his back straight, arms crossed, staring coldly. He'd seen it before. When he wasn't particularly happy and wanted to be left alone, he would stand like that. Scout had never dared to challenge it.

He ducked his head down. He felt a sharp rock cut into one of his cuticles, hands not careful enough. It would probably bleed just a bit. Scout had definitely had worse. He continued searching.

"I only asked that you stay away from me. That's all. Just to get the hell away from me. So why," Sniper asked, and there was the slightest offset in his voice to betray him, to convey the hardly-restrained emotion threatening to spill over and out into the air, "Are you here?"

A sudden spike of pain hit his hands, and he clutched one to his chest for a second, squeezing it into a fist, clenching his teeth for one, two seconds before he shook it out and kept searching despite the distraction of the pain.

He found one tag, finally, and he picked it up, sat it next to his knee for safekeeping. The air was thick enough with tension that he could cut it with a butter knife. It threatened to suffocate him. So he did what he always did when things were tense. He spoke. "I told you I couldn't get you a dragon, didn't I?" he asked, and he tilted his head up for a moment to look at Sniper before he returned to his task. "I can't do the impossible here, I'm just one guy."

His hand connected with one of Sniper's boots, and he heard the Australian step to one side to let him search. A beat of silence. "Whot's impossible about it?" Sniper asked, and was it less cold and closer to normal, or was that just wishful thinking?

Scout's hands paused for a moment, and he dared to try and crack a smile up at him, but it felt pretty pathetic. "Hey, I warned you how hard it would be to get rid of me," Scout said, and his voice felt rough, not just from the dust. "Even I can't stop me now."

He found something, and realized it was the chain, and pulled it over, felt it out, felt the area right around where it was. Nothing. It was placed next to the first tag.

"An'… if you really hate me now," Scout finally continued, and he didn't know how, but his voice was still level albeit rough, "I'll fuck off an' leave you alone. I promise I will. I won't bug you no more, I'll head right back into the base and stay there an' you won't have to deal with any more of my garbage. But if you're just mad at me an' I can try an' apologize an' maybe make it up to you…"

He didn't know how to end that sentence. Here he was, probably for the first time in his life, left entirely speechless. Words failed. What could he say now?

A hand encircled his wrist, stopping him in his search. Turned his palm up, and a piece of metal was placed in his hand.

"Best leave findin' lost dog tags to me," Sniper said quietly, now similarly kneeled on the ground from what Scout could tell. "I've got more practice at it."

Scout struggled to find words, inhaled and turned his face up towards Sniper, but nothing came out.

"…Crikey, you've really gone an' buggered up y'hands," Sniper said, looking his more injured hand over in his own warm, calloused one. He brushed away dirt and sand off to get a better look at the damage that Scout had been doing his best to ignore. "That's no good. Oughta clean these off, maybe get you a bandage."

Scout blinked at him, eyebrows scrunching up. He had no idea what his own expression was, or what the feeling in his chest was.

"Medic can patch you up when he sees you next, tomorrow," Sniper said, and he had to be smiling, nobody could sound that warm without smiling—"For the operation. I'll walk you over if you'd really like, but I can't promise to be very good company. If… if you'll still have me, that is."

Scout lunged forward and nearly tackled Sniper in a hug. The sharpshooter was unsurprised, returning the embrace without hesitation, rocking with the momentum of the tackle but managing to keep from being knocked over. Scout held onto him for dear life.

"You ain't mad?" Scout managed to ask.

"Nah, I'm mad, but not at you, love," Sniper replied evenly. "You're just doin' what you think is best, an' if you could trust me to cart you around while you were blind, I can trust you to do what's right for y'self, aye?" A light thump on the back, and Scout just nodded. "Let's get ya t'sleep, then. Big day ahead'a you. I'll fix the chain on the tags, done it once before, weren't hard. C'mon, up y'get, I can't carry you like a koala."

Neither of them acknowledged the sniffle Scout gave, or how rough their voices had gone. Or at least, not out loud. Instead, they went through their nightly routine. Everything was just normal. As if Scout was forgiven. As if Sniper still cared after everything.

And Scout, somehow, still couldn't believe it. Not until Sniper wrapped an arm snugly around him, and fell asleep within only a few moments. No hesitation. No barriers. And it was really hard to argue that Sniper didn't care when he was holding Scout to his chest close enough that Scout could turn his head and hear his heartbeat.

So instead, Scout finally allowed himself to believe it.

It was fall, cross-country season, and Jeremy was still the fastest kid on the team. It was the last meet of the year, and Ma would be there even though his brothers had games going on that day too. Tony and the twins had football, and some of the others had soccer, and the meet was pretty far out of the way anyways. Nevertheless, it was really pretty outside. Jeremy wished for a little while that he had brought a notebook, if only to try and draw the trees, but he knew he wouldn't ever be able to get the colors quite right.

Ma came over to him and gave him a crushing hug, nearly lifting him off the ground despite his four inches of height over her. He laughed, picking her up instead as he hugged her wholeheartedly and unabashedly. She was where he got his smaller features from, he'd always figured. But apparently his dad wasn't that buff either, and the other brothers got their muscle from Ma's dad, Pops, who was built like a brick wall and had fought in World War I voluntarily. He was always a good guy, stayed strong into old age, up and moving well into his nineties.

He hadn't lived to see any of Jeremy's track meets, unfortunately. He had always been completely convinced that Jeremy would be the star athlete of the family despite being the scrawniest of his brothers, and there he was, winning every award he could track down in running, already building a name as the "Bullet of Boston".

Some days, he could hardly believe it. He wondered if this was the peak before a fall, whether things would get better or worse from here on out, and he couldn't be sure. But he had made something of himself, that was for sure.

"Jack would be so proud of you," Ma murmured quietly, as if she could read his mind, and Jeremy felt tears stinging his eyes at the words. But when Ma pulled back from the hug, she was smiling, eyes clear. She had recovered from the worst of the grief, had rebuilt from the rubble, and was back to smiling, to laughing with her boys. She wouldn't stop being sad about it, not so soon, but she could try and move on.

"Yeah?" he said instead of any of that.

"Mmm-hmm. Well, never proud as me, but still—real proud," she joked, and that earned a laugh.

As much as he wanted to, Jeremy couldn't stay long, and had to go off to be with the rest of their school's runners. Most of them didn't really like him that much. And he sort of understood why—who wouldn't be mad at some upstart sophomore, some kid who'd been held back a few times, showing up and breaking records left and right, stealing all the glory? He tried not to let it get to him, and made sure not to bring it up to his brothers. A team full of people who were a bit snippy with him was better than a mass murder investigation.

And he was at the start line, falling into runner's starting position without any trouble, concentration ready to fall down in a sheet once the countdown began. But he took a minute to quadruple-check his laces, roll his ankles around, crack his knuckles. His sacred pre-race ritual, the same one he used before baseball games in the spring. Call him superstitious, but he hadn't run or played poorly ever since he'd started doing it the first game of every season. He stuck to what worked.

"Lil' J!"

He looked up in surprise towards the rope separating the runners and the spectators, and he picked out his Ma without any problem, right up at the front of the crowd, and behind her was—

"Henry?" he asked, surprised, and then he looked further and—"Tony? Doubles!? What're-?"

"You got this, Shrimp!" Tony called, and his entire family, all seven of them, were cheering for him, and other folks in the crowd were laughing and cheering as well, caught up in the smaller crowd's overflowing enthusiasm. Other runners were probably ogling at him. He didn't look around to check. He'd been stunned frozen, jaw dropped in disbelief.

He could hardly hear the countdown get called over the sound of his heart singing.

He broke a state record that day, ending the race and spinning to take a running tackle at Tony over the rope line, who was whooping and cheering as he went down. It took Jeremy a few minutes to finally get his breath back and to try and get down some water, but then he was sitting with his family, staring around at them with amazement.

"How in the heck did you guys all get here!?" he demanded, leaning forward. "I thought you all have games happenin' like, now!"

"We know," Benny started to say. "Soccer starts in half an hour."

"But we ditched," his twin Terry finished. "Wanted to support our baby brother."

"Guys, you didn't hafta…" he said, looking around at his brothers. They all had the same smile on, the one that most of Boston knew to turn and run from by then. "You didn't hafta do that, your coaches are gonna kill you! Why'd you do it?"

"They wanted to," his Ma said, a hand on his shoulder and love in her eyes. "I couldn't'a stopped 'em if I tried, sweetie, and oh lordy did I try."

"Come h… heck or high water," Tony said, the barest moment of hesitation as Ma gave him a Look, "I'll be there supportin' my favorite little brother!"

Benny and Terry rolled their eyes in unison. Tony had been using that joke for years, but he still found it funny. "He's your only little brother," they said in deadpanned unison.

"For now," Tony said, grinning at Ma. She pursed her lips at him.

"Nuh-uh. No more. And even if I had another boy, I'd leave it on a doorstep somewhere," Ma replied, chin held high. "I've got too much rowdiness already from you wonderful, horrible troublemakers."

Most of them grinned sheepishly at that, while others laughed.

"Love you too, Ma. But anyways—we should get home to celebrate, Lil' Red!" Archie chimed cheerfully from somewhere in the back of their small crowd. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, let's head home!" Tony agreed, and Ma nodded.

But then Henry was looking at him, and the youngest of the O'Connell brothers felt the memory shifting into something else. Somewhere else. A street, or maybe the track field, or maybe their apartment's living room. The rest of the family faded into background noise, and Henry was pulled into sharp and sudden relief, because he'd remembered something just then. Henry hadn't been at that track meet. He'd already gone off to war. There were a lot of things about this dream that didn't line up, not at all.

"Nah," Henry said, and he was wearing dog tags around his neck now, dressed in the uniform of a draftee, hat pulled low. "Lil' J has some stuff he needs to do before he comes home. He's earned some extra time. Does that sound right, Big J?"

"Yeah," Jack said, and he was in the suit he was put in for the wake, although there was nothing over his face, which was un-charred and clean. The same clothes he wore at the funeral. The same outfit that he was, presumably, cremated in. "He's got time left."

Henry nodded. He looked seventeen, not like he'd have been when he died in his mid-twenties, nameless and forgotten. If Scout concentrated too hard, he could tell that the memory of his face was a bit foggy after all the years. "You're a good kid," Henry said, always one for fewer words. "You know that. Keep bein' good, alright?"

Jack reached out and flicked the dog tags around his neck, making them jangle against Scout's red shirt, and flicked the brim of his cap up to look him in the eye. "An' keep takin' care of Ma. You're braver than I ever thought you'd be, stronger than any of the rest of us. You… you do me proud, Lil' J." Jack pulled back, sat there next to Henry, and they both just looked at him, smiling faintly. "Go on. I believe in you, kiddo."

Scout woke up and spent a few minutes just staring at the blackness above him. He heard breathing next to him, felt the muscular arm hooked around his middle. He thought about the letters the family would receive from Henry, and getting shit from Archie because Scout had always been Henry's favorite. He remembered them getting letters in the weeks following the news. Henry had wrote in his last letter that he was proud. That he believed in Scout.

He remembered coming here, not wanting to write letters home just in case. Instead he would always call, at least once a month, and he'd try and pass along as many messages as he could to his brothers in that short time. He remembered missing them back when he first got here. He didn't have brothers on the base.

He heard slow, even breathing to his side, and no, it's true, he didn't have brothers here. He had something else.

He wiped his eyes and waited patiently for Sniper to wake up.

Chapter Text

Sniper decided not to eat breakfast out of courtesy, not wanting to tempt Scout, since he wasn't allowed to eat before he went to see Medic. It was a nice sentiment. Scout pulled on his uniform pants, uniform shirt. Baseball cap, tags, socks and shoes. He might not be capturing points that day, but he was still about to face battle. He hadn't been hanging onto Sniper while walking places for almost a week, fully independent and capable of getting around without help, but instead he walked shoulder to shoulder with the sharpshooter, clutching at his arm. Sniper tried to pretend that his hands weren't shaking. Scout pretended not to notice. They walked into the base as a single unit, moving steadily and with purpose. They didn't rush or hurry. They still had time before Scout was supposed to be there, after all, so they had no need to make haste. Instead, they just walked.

At the turn towards the residential hall Sniper paused for a second. "…D'you wanna go see your room?" Sniper asked. "Pick anything up?"

Scout thought about it. "…Nah. I don't need anything outta there. An' there's not really much for me to see anyways." He tried to go for a joking tone, but the words felt a little dry in his mouth.

Sniper just hummed, and began walking again.

At the junction of the hallway, one hall leading towards the medical bay, the other towards the common areas, Sniper paused. There was the sound of life down the second hall, off to the left. Everyone would be awake and eating breakfast, probably.

"Do ya wanna say anythin' to the rest'a the blokes?" Sniper asked, and Scout knew what he really meant. He was asking if Scout wanted to say goodbyes to the rest of the team just in case he didn't make it. If he had last words for any of them.

Scout was still for a little while, face turned to the hall, contemplating… well, everything. All the time he'd spent with the team. Everything they'd done for him, everything they hadn't. He considered how he'd been living his life all this time. He wondered, for the briefest moment, if he'd been honest with all of them; and if he hadn't been, would he be honest now? Was there anything important left? Any truth left to tell them?

"No," he finally said. "I don't have anything to say that they don't already know, yeah?"

Sniper didn't reply to that, just continuing down the hallway.

Scout knew when they reached the medbay even before Sniper stopped. Neither of them spoke for a few long moments, the only sound the faint hum of generators and other machinery within the depths of the base.

"Are ya scared?" Sniper asked, head turning towards Scout.

"Y'know, I thought I would be," Scout replied. "Figured I'd be real freaked out. But… I dunno. Had a weird dream. Thought about some stuff. And… I ain't scared, now. Just kinda… calm. Relaxed. That's pretty weird, huh?"

Sniper hummed. Scout thought for a moment.

"…Are you?" he finally asked. "Scared?"

Sniper barked out a laugh. "Crikey, nearly t'death," Sniper replied, voice a bit reedy. Scout moved from holding onto his arm to instead squeeze his hand. "An' I'm not even the one who might kark it. I mean, it should be me comforting you, shouldn't it? Not the other way 'round."

"Eh," Scout shrugged, "I was never one for doin' things the right way."

"Yeah," Sniper said, and there was the sound of a grin in his voice. "Still got about fifteen minutes 'til the Doc expects ya t'show. Anythin' you wanna do? Places you wanna go?"

Scout shook his head, resolve steeling somewhere in his chest. "Nah. I'm… I'm ready."

"CADET!"

Scout's head spun, turning around to look behind him, as suddenly the sound of boots thunking against the ground hit his ears. "Huh? Helmet-head?" Scout asked, confused. "What—?"

He was suddenly pulled into a choke hold, a hand snatching off his hat to muss up his hair, the sound of vaguely drunken laughter meeting his ears. "Aye, an' me as well, laddie!" Demo called from his place just behind him, letting Scout go and putting his hat back on good-naturedly.

"I am also here, although I will deny associating with them," Spy said from nearby.

"The whole team, in fact, minus the good Doctor," Engie piped up, approaching. Pyro made a sound of agreement, and Heavy rumbled. "Thought you could get away from us without sayin' nothin', did you, son? Ain't that easy, boy, you should know better."

"Indeed! We refuse to let you enter that room without approval—that would be desertion, the only proper punishment for which is a swift but humiliating death!" Soldier barked.

There was another rumble of agreement. "Heavy will not let leetle Scout see Doktor until he has seen rest of team, too," the giant said, and Scout turned his head back and forth around the now-crowded waiting area. Sniper had taken a step back once they showed up, but was stood at his shoulder now, calm as ever.

Scout struggled with words for a minute. "Sheesh, guys, I…" he tried, but he trailed off. "Come on, have some faith in the Doc, wouldja? I'll be fine!"

"Did not come to say goodbyes," Heavy said, resting a hand on Scout's shoulder as gently as possible, but his hand was still rather weighty despite the effort. "Came only to wish good luck. Leetle Scout is not baby, he always fight. He will not die so easy. Takes more to kill him than most think, da? Heavy does not worry."

Scout had to swallow back a lump in his throat. "Geez, big guy, really layin' that sappiness on thick, huh?" he managed to laugh. "Gonna make the Cyclops cry, over here."

Heavy just laughed, stepping back. Scout heard the Scot in question take his spot.

"Nae, lad, no waterworks for ye jus' yet," Demo said, hitting him on the arm, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make Scout grin. "An' none'a his mushy nonsense, 'm not so good with words 'less they're curses. I'll jus' give ye all the good luck I've got ta spare. I'm no wizard, so I can't promise it'll help, but I'd bet me last bottle that it's still worth somethin'. See ya soon, laddie."

Scout nodded at him, and Demo stepped aside.

"Cadet!" Soldier barked, and Scout stood up straight out of reflex. "You are about to enter a battle, a sort of battle that none of us on this team have so far seen, and I must say, the odds of your survival are looking very, very grim!"

Scout's grin faltered. "Uh…"

"Grimmer than ever, in fact! Grimmer than grim! The grimmest!"

Scout turned his head towards Sniper, who he felt just shrugging in response. "Uh."

"I for one do not forsee this procedure ending with anything except a body bag! A very short, very thin bodybag!"

"You are not helping, monsieur," Spy said from one side.

"So instead I have come to offer reassurance and guidance in this, your darkest hour!"

"I do not feel reassured," Scout said warily.

"Now, with the odds stacked so high against you, you might see there being no hope left! But I am here to say, no, sir, not today!" He heard the telltale click of shoes coming together that heralded Soldier moving to stand at attention. "When things looked bad in Gettysburg, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain did not give up! Instead, he and Abraham Lincoln charged those dirty greys with their god-given bayonets and won the whole stinkin' Civil War!"

"Is that whot really happened?" Sniper asked Demo quietly. Demo made a noncommittal noise, bottle sloshing as he took a swig.

"When Alexander the Great fought the Battle of Issus, all the way across a river and uphill through the battlefield to go up against the Persians, he did not hesitate! He was decisive! He was aggressive! Their horses ran down those damn Persians like nobody's business!"

"I think that there is the closest he's ever been to accurately citing actual historical events," Engie murmured to Spy.

"I cannot believe it, but it appears he is actually… helping?" Spy said slowly.

"And so in this battle, no matter how bad things look, do not give up, cadet!" Soldier concluded, voice ringing loud. "I do not give you permission to die! Fight across the river and uphill to win this Civil War! We're all counting on you, son! Do us all proud!"

Scout was left stunned for a moment, but finally, he smiled. He found himself standing up straight, heels clicked together, raising a hand up into a crisp salute, learned when he was a kid from his grandfather, the veteran. Soldier seemed satisfied by the gesture and grin, moving aside. Scout let his hand drop as someone else stepped into place.

Spy didn't speak for a few seconds. "I will only state the obvious, as you often seem to miss it," he finally said, voice dry. "Do not die. It would be very inconvenient for the rest of us. We would need to move all of your things and get a new Scout, and I can only imagine with our luck, he would somehow be even more bratty and annoying."

Sniper stiffened at his side and Scout moved to lightly elbow him, otherwise not outwardly reacting to the words, keeping his expression impassive.

"I, for one, do not want to have to go through the trouble. Miss Pauling would undoubtedly blame us, perhaps particularly me, for your death. That would be irritating to say the least." Spy moved in a way that suggested he was gesturing at Scout. No, probably pointing for emphasis. Scout couldn't even see it. He was just being dramatic. "It is not difficult to understand, but I will repeat myself regardless. Don't die."

Scout didn't reply for a second, then he extended one hand in front of him, calmly, without fanfare. A beat of pause fell over the hall, and finally, Spy accepted the handshake, one firm movement, resolute.

"See ya, Spy," Scout said with a nod.

Spy didn't reply. He released Scout's hand and moved away.

Engie sauntered into place. "Well, I don't have much to say that these here folks haven't already said," he drawled, just a little awkwardly. "But I may as well make like a bad record, I suppose." A hand on his shoulder. "Best'a luck, son. You'll be fine. You always somehow manage to bounce back, no matter how hard you get thrown. You just keep gettin' back on that horse, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. An' no matter what happens, know that we're all real proud'a you."

Scout nodded, and accepted a brief embrace from the Texan, who then promptly stepped back to allow the final of the mercs to move into place.

He heard the muffled sniffles even before they finished changing out and felt a stab of sadness, frowning.

"Aww, Mumbles," he said, and then he was practically tackled, lifted into the air by the pyromaniac, who was sobbing openly now, nearly in hysterics.

They babbled on completely incoherently, sounding inconsolable. Engie was about to step in when Scout spoke.

"Oh, come on, none'a that!" he scolded, tapping them on the head, and Pyro put him down reluctantly, still clearly crying in earnest, words made all the more unintelligible for the grief and tears. He put his hands on their shoulders, straightened them up. "Hey. Look at me. Look, I'm gonna be okay, alright? No cryin', you'll make Engie cry too, an' then everyone'll be cryin', an' we're all grown-ass men here, Pyro, nobody wants to see that. It's all gonna work out alright, I'll be fine. So you gotta keep your chin up, alright?"

A few more sniffles, then some sort of dampened, weepy affirmation.

"Hey, an' if I don't make it," he said, leaning in, voice lowering so that the others couldn't properly hear him, "I've decided you've gotta be the new funny one, okay? Someone's gotta keep this place lively, right? An' usually that's my thing. Don't let 'em get mucked down, no matter what. They'll need someone around to cheer 'em up if I don't end up makin' it, an' you're the best person for the job. Keep the flame goin'. It's what you do best, pal."

A sniffle, a shift that Scout interpreted as a nod.

"An', also, if somethin' happens," Scout said, and his eyes crinkled with humor, "I'm Irish-Catholic. I'll have to get cremated. So even if I get shipped back home, go and make sure they don't fuck it up somehow, okay? I'm countin' on you."

Pyro sniffled some more, but pulled Scout into a hug, nearly squeezing the air out of him. He returned the hug, patting them on the back reassuringly. After a few moments they finally pulled away, and made off down the hallway. Engie followed, and Soldier and Demo. There was a pause, Heavy lingering for a moment. Scout knew Spy was probably still standing there too. He didn't hear his footsteps leaving, at the very least.

"Leetle man is brave," Heavy finally said appraisingly.

Scout shrugged. "I guess."

"Is not goodbye," Heavy said firmly, "Doktor would not let you die. Is too good at being Doktor. No reason to say goodbyes." And he did very nearly sound like he believed it. Scout appreciated the effort, and had enough of a heart that he pretended to fall for it.

"I know," Scout nodded. "I'm no good at goodbyes anyways. How 'bout we just go with a "See you later"—that's way easier, an' it's also kinda funny, y'know? Since next time you see me, I'll have my eyes back an' all."

Heavy rumbled a laugh. "Yes. Will see you later," he agreed.

And then Heavy was leaving, and after a moment, a second pair of footsteps followed him away.

Silence between him and Sniper. Scout wasn't sure for how long.

"Why'd ya tell the firebug that?" Sniper finally asked curiously. "Didn't think you two were that friendly."

"Not really, no," Scout said, shrugging. "But they always act like they're best friends with everyone, don't they? An' I meant it—someone's gotta keep you guys on your toes. Pyro's easily the best one for the job, no contest."

"Mm-hmm." A few steady heartbeats passed, thrumming in Scout's fingertips. "Cremated, huh?"

"Yeah. Just figured I'd tell someone. It's definitely in my file, but I gotta be sure. Just in case. But I won't need burned, I'll be alright."

"Do you believe that?" Sniper asked, turning to face Scout, and there was nothing guarded in his voice, just genuine curiosity.

Scout nodded. "I really do. I mean, after Spy's inspirational speech, how could I not?" he joked, turning to Sniper, eyes crinkling.

Sniper huffed a laugh, elbowing him. Scout grinned. "Is this really a time for jokes?" Sniper chided.

"Always. Die as I live, y'know? Laughing."

He and Sniper stood in the hallway before the medbay, only maybe a foot apart, and they had an understanding. Unspoken, something they both knew without a doubt. But neither could figure out how to say it.

So Scout didn't speak.

Instead, he moved a hand up toward his own head, pulling his hat off, slipping his dog tags from around his neck. He put his hat back on, and took Sniper's wrist, pulling it so his hand was palm-up, before carefully putting the war-worn pieces of tin in his palm.

Questions hung sedentary in the air, statements, phrases, confessions. Scout tried to wade through them as best he could, let words fall from his mouth.

"Just in case," he said quietly. Sniper was frozen. Scout couldn't even hear him breathing. "You're in charge of getting these back to me once I'm done, okay? I—I don't want the Doc to lose 'em or nothin', the infirmary is always a mess. He'd definitely lose 'em somewhere."

Sniper didn't speak. Scout trained his eyes somewhere around Sniper's chest, grip tensing just a bit, just enough.

"An', an' you've gotta make sure you get these back to me safe, alright? You know how I get when I don't have 'em. So—so be careful. Chain's already broken before. Try not to let that happen again, or… well, actually, if it happens, you already know how to fix it I guess. Still, don't break 'em. An' don't worry, I'll be okay in there, I'll just be—be super mad if you lose 'em, okay? So—so um, just… keep these safe."

Scout finally stopped talking, closing his mouth, moving his other hand to close Sniper's around the tags silently.

"I will," Sniper said solemnly, words carrying the weight of understanding. "I promise." An exhale, the jingle of the chain, the soft thump of the tags against Sniper's chest. Then he took Scout's hand, holding him in place for just a moment longer, delaying the moment that Scout would need to walk through that door, if only for just a little longer. A little longer is all they wanted. A little longer.

Scout's heartbeat thrummed steadily in his chest. He wasn't afraid of what lay on the other side of that door for him. He was ready. Sniper seemed to see it, or sense it, because after a few moments he seemed to steady, to calm. Find his own courage somewhere in Scout's expression.

Then suddenly, he spoke. "I—I want to cash in the favor," he said. "The favor you owe me."

Scout couldn't help but smile. "Yeah? What's the request? I'm kind of on a limited time frame here, got an appointment comin' up," he said.

Sniper hesitated. "I—well, awright, I s'pose it's two requests. But the first one of 'em should be easy, accordin' to you."

Scout just nodded, waiting. Sniper inhaled, exhaled.

"You come back safe, y'hear me? I'll have no choice but to hate you otherwise," Sniper said, earnest, and Scout's smile widened.

"Done an' done," Scout said assuredly. "I will. What's the second thing?"

"Promise you won't be mad at me for this," Sniper said, words all in a rush, and Scout could hear him grimacing at himself.

Scout blinked, raised his eyebrows. "Uh. Mad? For what?" he asked slowly, face going a bit concerned, smile fallen away.

"I… I can't tell you that. Jus'—jus' promise," Sniper said, practically a plea, and his hands around Scout's smaller one were a bit fidgety, twitchy.

Scout only hesitated for a second. "Alright. I promise," he said, nodding once, confidently. He trusted Sniper. He really did.

"Okay. Thank you," Sniper said, anxious, breathless, and then he kissed him.

Scout pretty much short-circuited. He froze up, eyes surely wide, uninhibited by sunglasses. The impulsive press of lips only lasted for a second or two, but it felt much longer, left him with his lungs mysteriously empty, the inside of his ribcage buzzing not unlike a trapped bird, but there wasn't any pain with this one. Just a hammering pulse, a weightlessness in his muscles, a dizziness in his skull.

Then Sniper dared, had the audacity, the gall, the absolute fucking nerve to release his hands, to step away and break into a brisk walk, trying to flee the scene before—

"Fuckin' excuse you," Scout said, dashing after him, grabbing the back of his vest and whirling him around, taking him by the front of the shirt and giving him a fiery glare. "You can't just do that and walk away, Casanova! Who the hell do you think you are!?"

"M'sorry," Sniper managed to choke out, his voice tight, arms rising in surrender, tensed and preparing for a verbal or physical barrage.

"Uh, yeah, you better be! You gotta give me time to react, slick!" Scout said, and he yanked Sniper down by the collar, kicked up to stand on his tiptoes, and kissed him right back.

His aim wasn't perfect; he ended up kissing at the side of Sniper's mouth, but the moment Sniper came to his senses, he corrected it.

Sniper was warmth, and safety, and unsweetened coffee, and aftershave, and old records, and magazines, and quiet, the friendly kind of quiet. Sniper was a strong arm around his shoulders and waking up peacefully and genuine, if awkward, words of compassion. Sniper was coming back and resting after jumping rope and half-remembered song lyrics and snippets of good memories that he hadn't bothered with for a while. Sniper was trust. Safety. Protection.

And he really did like Scout.

Then Scout pulled away, plopped back onto his heels. He wished he could see Sniper's expression, but he knew that if he could, then (ironically enough) none of this would've happened. He also knew that he had to leave, now, before either of them could rope themselves into staying, before the fear caught up to them.

Much like ripping off a bandage, it really fucking hurt, but it had to happen.

So, "I'll see you later, Snipes," he said, pushing himself back. And he turned and walked into the medbay.

The door closed behind him, and he leaned on it, still breathless, still stunned, but rapidly coming back down to earth again. He couldn't let this distract him just then—he could celebrate later. He needed to be alert, just for a little bit. So he committed the moment to memory, and filed it away for safekeeping.

He almost jumped when Medic spoke up.

"Done with your heartwarming moment? I could hear Soldier shouting from in here," he said, sounding surprisingly casual considering the circumstances. But Medic had never been one to stress over doing surgeries—instead, he stressed over pretty much everything else. And even if he was worried, he was too much of a professional to show it. He moved to take Scout by the arm, leading him briskly through the infirmary. "I would appreciate if he had more confidence in my abilities, but unfortunately, he is not entirely inaccurate."

Scout's eyebrows furrowed as he hesitantly moved to sit on the operating table.

"I have already told you before. There is risk here. I have no way of knowing when Respawn is turned off for any individual, and with your lower body mass percentage, you are even further at risk of dying in this operation," Medic said, the very exemplar of brutal honesty. "I will not give you numbers, because I do not wish to discourage you. But understand that if you have changed your mind, and wish to simply resign as our Scout, I will not blame you, nor will I shame you or allow others to do so. I will make something up. I will say you contracted amnesia and were forced to return home, or that you needed a kidney from ein Bruder, or I could simply find some random cadaver and claim you died in the operation if you so wish. There is no shame in self-preservation."

Scout didn't dwell on the words. He simply shook his head. "No way, Doc. Not happenin'," he said firmly.

"If you want to simply go into battle as you are now and hope for a miracle, you could. I would not stop you. I could claim that it did not work."

"No," Scout said before Medic could continue. "I'm doin' this."

Medic paused. "…Alles klar," he finally murmured. "I suppose we can start the procedure. If you would lie back on the table and remove anything on your torso or arms, bitte."

Scout just nodded, and cold dread settled in his stomach as he pulled his t-shirt off, lying back. The table was cold. His mouth felt dry.

Medic began to move his equipment, setting up his station with a nearly mechanical efficiency, adjusting the height of the table, wheeling carts into place, clicking on equipment. But then he paused in his brisk movements for a second. "For the record, I will not be saying any sort of goodbye," Medic said, after what Scout deduced to be a moment of contemplation. "Especially considering I do not intend to simply let you die. That would be admitting defeat before the battle has begun, and I am not the sort to give up so easily. For that reason, no farewells—not from me, nor from you. Understood, Junge?"

Scout nodded, inhaled, exhaled. "Yeah. Okay," he said.

"Now, it is a bit redundant to ask this now, but… are you ready?" Medic asked.

It was, perhaps, his very last chance to back out. His last chance to walk away, to change his mind. If he continued forward, there would be no going back again. Nowhere to run or retreat. On the battlefield, that was a Scout's worst nightmare. But this wasn't the usual battlefield, these consequences would last until the end of his life, or maybe they would be the cause of it. This choice meant something. For the first time in a long time, his choice actually meant something.

So Scout said, "As ready as I'll ever be."

Chapter Text

Scout no longer focused on how badly everything hurt, just the different types of pain he was feeling.

Burning. He could feel everything burning. He felt himself inching towards the brink with each of his heartbeats. His fingers felt a bit cold, admittedly. His toes were, too. The room was cold, and he was burning.

A pulse of healing vapor into his lungs to yank him back from the brink of death and threatening to suffocate him as it did. The pull from the brink was not smooth, it was like a noose dragging him through gravel, like falling down a mountain, like being thrown into a pile of debris. It was rough, and parts of him caught along the way, and hurt as they were pulled through. And it threatened to suffocate him, the amount of vapor he inhaled, settling heavily in his lungs as an absence of air that slowly gave way. Then it stopped, finished sinking in, and he was left gasping, inching towards the brink again.

Admittedly, the pain did make flashes of white cross his vision, but he didn’t think it was his sight returning. He wasn’t sure if his eyes were even open or not. He couldn’t really tell. Burning. He wasn’t sure if his skin was actually sizzling. He thought it might be. It hurt very badly. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. His heart had gone still, and he watched as if from far, far away as the pain faded for a second, along with everything else.

Oh, new pain. Electrocution, near his left shoulder. His heart thrummed. The pain returned. He wasn’t screaming anymore, he was pretty sure. That part of him had shut down relatively quickly, along with control over most of his muscles. Piercing pain, in the vein of his neck, stronger than the piercing pains on the inside of both of his elbows. His heart thrummed strongly enough that he could feel individual pulses of his heart again, feel the one-two, one-two. He processed the sound of a beep somewhere. It only lined up with the first part of the one-two, one-two.

He didn’t think he was technically conscious, but he still registered the pain.

Only it was dwindling, and with it his ability to register the pain dwindled. Was this unconsciousness, or was it something else? He couldn’t feel the burning so much anymore. Now he could feel fatigue, cramping in his muscles as they seized up and threatened to crush themselves. His legs had it the worst, and his abdomen was fairly bad as well. The flashes of light faded behind his eyelids. His eyes were closed. And his eyelids were cold. A strange idea, cold eyelids. A strange…

Electricity, near his shoulder, and a pressure against his chest. He could almost hear something. It sounded so far away. Electricity, again. Yes, he was almost certain that there was something loud happening nearby, almost completely certain. And he was pretty sure the pressure against his chest was real. Electricity once more. His heart began beating. When had it stopped? He couldn’t remember it happening. His head was full of clouds. He couldn’t hear the something loud anymore.

In fact, there were a lot of things he couldn’t do, now that he was thinking about it. Breathe properly, for one. Move, for another, although it wasn’t for lack of trying, if the way his muscles were twitching and tensing was anything to go by. Speak was one—oh, but he needed to breathe for that, right? And his throat felt like it was closing up. He couldn’t… smell. Could he? If air would enter his nose, he could find out. Would there be anything to smell at all?

He couldn’t… think right. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do anything. Did that mean something, the fact that he couldn’t do anything? He wasn’t sure. Nothing was really making any sense all of a sudden, and he understood that under normal circumstances, that would be completely and utterly terrifying, yet he didn’t feel terrified.

In fact, everything just felt light. Like he’d been pumped full of helium, and he could just float right away into the sky. Into the clouds in his head. Or would the clouds be lifting him? The pain was fading again, and his heartbeat was slowing rather than weakening now, and he opened his eyes.

He was home in bed, and it was late, but Henry was still up studying, a flashlight propped between his head and shoulder. Jeremy himself was just a kid. He climbed out of bed and crossed the room to Henry’s bunk. Henry glanced up at him, apparently startled as he noticed his little brother standing beside his bunk.

“Oh. Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice hardly above a breath. “Snuck up on me. Did I wake you, should I turn this off?”

He shook his head. Henry relaxed.

“Then what do you need?” he asked.

Jeremy didn’t answer. He just hopped up and sat next to Henry, looking at the pictures in the tattered, well-worn textbook uncomprehendingly. Colorful diagrams, some letters bolded, others not. Strange and familiar shapes, all in neat printed lines.

“…Well, if Ma asks, I’m not taking the blame for you being up late,” Henry said, and Jeremy had nodded, and in the morning Ma had found them both sitting there propped up against each other and the wall, flashlight still on and book open on Henry’s lap. She’d said—

He felt his lungs seize up, protesting a sudden burst of raw pain in his chest as his skin was peeled back, ribs pulled open, everything exposed. His lungs felt like they’d cramped, refusing to operate correctly under the abject agony that his torso was in. He’d felt this before, and it still hurt just as much as it had the first time. There was no getting used to having your skin cut into and your ribcage forced open, no getting used to your organs suddenly being exposed to the open air. But ironically, the pain did cause his lungs to seize up, and they couldn’t get enough air. Or any, actually. He didn’t breathe for a little while, and it hurt, lungs burning, head—

“Tony,” Jeremy asked, six years old. “Do you remember our dad?”

Tony, who was just a bit less than a year older, yet already a full head taller and twenty pounds heavier, looked up at him from where he’d been digging a hole in one corner of the playground. “Huh?”

“Our dad. Do you remember him?” Jeremy asked again.

Tony shook his head. “No. I was four an’ you’re a year younger than me, so you were three.” He knew math better than Jeremy did, and showed it off at every opportunity. He could also read better, but so could everyone else. Jeremy just couldn’t seem to figure out the letters like everyone else did. He knew them individually, but all together he didn’t get it. But he’d learned his colors before Tony did, and showed it off at every opportunity. “I saw ‘im as much as you did.”

“You don’t remember nothin’ about ‘im?” Jeremy pleaded, refusing to give up so easily.

“Well…” Tony stopped his digging, scratching at his own head with a dirt-covered hand, but the color was all about the same. “He was uh… tall I guess. But that’s what happens when you’re an adult, though, uh… he dressed like people goin’ to work. He worked too, an’ Ma didn’t have so many jobs, because he worked. Just one. An’… he didn’t like when he got tackled, or when we tried messin’ around an’ fightin’, an’ he got along with Ma.”

“I know, those are just sotra… dad things, I knew those. But do you remember him? As a person? Do you remember anything about what he was like?” Jeremy asked insistently, leaning forward—

He can’t feel his toes. Or his legs, really, he just notices numb toes first. His fingers are numb as well. Not cold, just numb, which is strange. Is it a circulation problem, or have they been cut off? Scout can’t be entirely sure. Why would his toes, legs, and fingers be cut off? For that matter, why would he be in this much pain? He doesn’t remember why everything hurts, or why blackness clouds his vision, pressing in on him, threatening to—

“Did you hear?” Terry asks Ma as she’s cooking. Jeremy is hard at work peeling potatoes, and doesn’t look up from his job for more than a second, knowing better after one nick of the knife too many. He was the only one who liked the “help cooking” chore and was any good at it, so his brothers regularly traded chores with him so they didn’t have to do it.

“Yes, I did. I hear about everything, and don’t need boys to be specific when askin’ questions, because I can understand them without any problems. Turns out I’m magic, an’ psychic, an’ probably a secret agent, too,” Ma said, cutting carrots with speed and efficiency. Jeremy snorts from his place at the table, and he catches Terry’s twin giggling from the doorway as well.

“Okay, okay, but did you hear,” Terry continues, undeterred, “About Ricky Hayes?”

“That dark-haired junior boy?” Ma asked. “Football team, works at the butcher’s?”

“Yeah, him. Did you hear what happened?”

“No, I haven’t. What about Ricky Hayes?” Ma asked absently, still not having looked up even once from her job cutting carrots.

“You ain’t even listening!” Terry complained.

“Yes I am,” she replied, sweeping the carrots from the cutting board and into a bowl. “I’m half-listening. And half your hearing’s still one whole ear, y’know.”

“Ma!” Terry complained, but he was grinning, hand on his hip. Ma was smiling too, and she turned to—

Scout was distantly aware that there had been a period where he didn’t see, hear, or feel anything. He wasn’t sure for how long it had lasted, but he was back now, and starting to wonder if any of this was really happening, or if it was all in his head. He didn’t think it was a dream. He was at least pretty sure that—

“Mister O’Connell,” the woman behind the desk said, squinting badly enough to make Jeremy wonder distantly if she needed glasses. “How many warnings have you had?”

“A lot,” he said miserably, staring down at his hands, picking at a bandage on his knuckles absently.

“And how many times have you been held back already for your grades?”

He was sure his face was bright red, all the way up to his ears. “A few,” he said equally miserably.

“Young man, if not for your talent in sports, and if I’d have been allowed to make the call, you would have been kicked from this institution years ago,” she said. “Do you understand?”

Jeremy didn’t say that “this institution” was a crappy school with no art funding, and teachers who either didn’t care, or cared so much they’d practically beat kids into doing their work. He didn’t say that he was at least showing up to class, never late, his only absence that year due to the team going out to compete on a day trip, and he was never caught with drugs or alcohol. He didn’t say that the only problem that he had was that he just didn’t get the material. That he didn’t usually start the fights, it was always his brothers, and he was defending them.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said instead of any of that, knowing that arguing would just make things worse, and he couldn’t afford worse.

“As it stands, this is your last warning,” she said, putting down the paper. “No more F’s. No more fistfights. No more failed tests, and no talking back to teachers, and I better not get any complaints from other students. Are we clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said again. She hummed, apparently satisfied by his compliance (or obedience, as Jeremy understood it), and she turned over the paper to—

Everything was sore, but at least it wasn’t burning anymore. Just… sizzling, if that made sense. Nothing made sense. Where even was he? Scout really couldn’t tell.

A hand slapped the side of his face, not violently, just enough to snap him back to awareness as he drifted for a moment. Noise. He should listen to the noise. What was the noise? A voice. His skin felt like it was trying to sneak away. A little slap, and, oh right, the voice. He tried listening. And he almost understood, and then he did understand, or at least he knew what the words were. After that he started focusing on putting the words in order. They kept getting jumbled around and messing him up. Stupid words. And they weren’t even great words anyways, all weirdly bent and twisted. Why was the voice saying the words so weird? Whatever. He kept trying to put the words in order anyways despite the severe inconvenience.

Something… something about waking up. He got annoyed at that, because he already was awake, stupid voice. He felt like his veins had been replaced with wires. Did the voice want him to open his eyes? They probably said something like that, didn’t they? Or they maybe just meant that. He should do that, if only so they’d let him go to sleep. He wanted to sleep. He felt like his eye sockets were too full, like he had too many teeth in his mouth. His eyelids felt heavy, and he looked up, eyes opening. He squinted involuntarily as something bright hit him right in the retina. That hurt. Why did they do that? And why were they yelling so loudly now? He was already awake. Shut up, voice.

Well, at least they weren’t hitting him on the cheek anymore. He fell into blissful unconsciousness, and he didn’t dream at all.

Scout woke up to silence.

He didn’t really process wakefulness for a few moments, just shifting to sit up on instinct, half-expecting to have to run out to rejoin a fight. Then he processed that everything felt grimy and sweaty. Respawn didn’t leave you feeling gross. He wanted to shower very, very badly. So not a match. What the hell had happened to him?

“Scout,” Medic said from nearby, audibly happy to see him awake. Or maybe just happy in general, it was hard to tell just from his tone, and Scout wasn’t exactly on top of his game anyways. “How do you feel?”

“Uh,” Scout tried to say, but his voice gave out on him, and instead all that came out was a weird warbling noise. He reached a hand to his own throat, frowning, but then he felt his vocal chords stitching themselves back together. He knew the feeling of medical fluid going to work, but he didn’t know it could stitch up your insides without being directly inhaled or injected, and he didn’t smell or feel either of those two things happening.

He tried again to speak. “Uh, I dunno,” he said hesitantly. “Tryin’ to figure out my frame of reference on that one. Uh. What happened to me?”

“The operation,” Medic said patiently, voice calm and level.

Memories trickled in. He carefully swung his legs over the side of the cot, anticipating agony, but none came. Just a weird buzz. “Oh. Yeah. How long did it take?”

“Ten hours,” Medic replied. “And then five of monitoring your condition closely, and three more until you woke up.”

“…That’s, uh…” Scout said hesitantly, but he could barely do math at the best of times, and this was decidedly not that. Phantom pains made his skin tingle, he was resisting the constant urge to flinch, and his blood felt like it was shivering. “A lot of hours.”

“Ja. It is three-thirty at night now,” Medic said. “Or perhaps morning. Or simply about 0300 hours, as Herr Soldier would say.”

Scout paused, processing, processing. Operation. He’d been through the operation, and it was over now, so—

He suddenly gasped, eyes pulling open, then going wide.

He could… it wasn’t quite right, but his vision wasn’t just a black void anymore. It was like he was recovering from a flash grenade, colors odd and drifty and wrong and making him dizzy within only a moment, and it wasn’t much, but it wasn’t literally nothing, and—

“Oh my god,” he said, a second realization hitting him like a rocket to the chest. “I lived. I survived the operation!” He beamed, euphoria welling up in his chest. “Holy shit, I fuckin’ lived!” he shouted jubilantly.

“Nein,” Medic replied casually. “Your heart stopped a total of forty-nine times, and I needed to replace your Uber valve, unfortunately. But if you mean brain death, no, I am fairly sure that you only cut it a bit close, and only once. Very, very close. But not quite. To be perfectly honest, I did not expect your heart to survive stopping and starting so many times, but who am I to complain? It worked. You lived.”

“Does that make me like… a zombie times fifty?” Scout asked slowly.

He saw—saw!—the blurry, difficult-to-discern form of Medic shrug, and he tried to ignore the mild motion sickness that turning his head caused. “I am a doctor, not a horror movie producer,” he replied calmly. “Regardless, you are alive now. And as an added bonus, your sight dramatically improved! I do love helpful side-effects.”

“…Side-effect?” Scout repeated, frowning.

“Ja,” Medic said. “That was not the point of the procedure.”

Scout stared. “Then—then what was the point!?” Scout asked incredulously.

Medic sat forward in the chair. “Scout,” he asked, “I asked how you felt when you sat up a few moments ago. Care to answer me now that you are in a more stable state of mind?” he asked brightly.

Scout considered the question. “Uh. I feel kinda like—like when you almost get a sunburn, an’ then everything is kinda at that point of almost-hurt. And… like, my pulse feels weird. Probably the new Uber thing, but, whatever. And… I’m kinda weirdly shaky, and I can feel my veins… thrumming.”

He heard the scratch of a pencil on paper as Medic jotted down a note. “Hmm. Interesting,” he murmured, half to himself. “Tell me, can you feel any injuries besides phantom pains and general tenderness?”

“Uh, no. I don’t think so,” Scout replied.

Medic hummed, jotting it down. “How would you rate your eyesight? What percent of the world is visible?” Medic asked next.

“…Like, three percent, maybe five,” Scout said. “Just sorta… shapes, a little bit of color. Real outta focus, though. Uh, is this like… goin’ anywhere?”

“Hmm. Not excellent, but an improvement over nothing,” Medic said, ignoring the second half of what Scout said. He put the notepad down for a second, picked up something from the table, probably tea. “And would you say that—“

BANG!

Scout was already under the operating table before he properly processed the sound of the gunshot.

“Hmm. Your adrenaline response is still functional,” Medic commented calmly, and Scout heard him putting down the thing on the table again, and it was definitely not tea, it was definitely a pistol.

But more concerning… “Uh, Doc? Did you shoot the light out?” Scout asked slowly. “Because I just went from three percent to zero. My—my vision’s gone again.”

“Oh! Interesting,” Medic said, pencil moving. “Is it returning?”

Scout moved to stand back up and blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes. Panic mounted in his chest. “Uh, no. No, it isn’t. Oh crap, right when it was getting better—“

“Deep breaths,” Medic instructed, voice still calm. “Slow your heart rate.”

Scout did as instructed, and within a few moments his heart stopped panicking, and a few more seconds later things were fading back in. He blinked rapidly. “Oh. Wait, it’s back,” he said, surprised.

“Mmm-hmm,” Medic said, unsurprised. “Well, I assume that a sudden influx of hormones induced by fear, perhaps adrenaline, caused a change. Or perhaps a heightened heart rate, caused by the hormones. Haha! So many possibilities,” the doctor said cheerfully.

“Oh. So… I just gotta not get freaked out?” Scout asked.

“Yes, it would seem so,” Medic said.

“Why’re you so fuckin’ chipper?” Scout asked, glaring at the healer, irritation mounting.

“Today I have made miracles happen, Herr Scout. If playing Gott is a sin, I have outdone the devil himself!” Medic said cheerfully. “After no less than four breakthroughs in the medical field, I am feeling quite happy with the work I have done here today. Also, complete exhaustion sometimes makes me find little things humorous. I am extremely tired. Haha!”

“…Yeah, okay. I guess that’s fair enough,” he said, nodding to himself. He paused, then quickly glared at the German. “Hold on, no, wait, what was the point of the surgery!? Don’t change the subject on me!”

“I would not call it “surgery”, technically,” Medic said thoughtfully. “It might be more similar to a transfusion. But… not quite, as far as I can tell. Gott, I’ve always been terrible at naming things,” he tittered.

“Well, what the hell did you do to me!?” Scout demanded, anger mounting.

Medic hummed, and rose. “It appears a demonstration is in order,” he said, and he saw what seemed to be Medic approaching him, and yes, he did, because now Medic was picking up his hand—

“OW!” he yelped as Medic stabbed a scalpel right into the center of his palm, before pulling the metal instrument back out again, holding his hand in place. “DUDE, THAT FUCKIN’—“ he started to yell, but then he froze, because the wound was already gone. The wound hadn’t lasted more than a split second, hadn’t even had time to bleed, had healed the second the scalpel was pulled back, the moment it wasn’t in his skin. His hand felt like it was practically buzzing with energy.

Silence.

“What the fuck?” Scout asked, voice shaky as his vision faded back in, and he really wished it hadn’t chosen that exact moment, because now he could just barely make out Medic’s manic grin.

“Congratulations,” Medic said jubilantly. “You cannot be killed!”

Chapter Text

At 6:30 in the morning, the sedative that Medic gave Scout to calm him down and make him stop yelling still hasn't worn off, so he employs Heavy to carry the younger man to the meeting they'd all planned to have at 6:45. Unsurprisingly, everyone has shown up early, sat around the table, or stood around the room when they ran out of chairs. Medic, realizing that it might be a bit alarming to show up with Scout dangling lifelessly over Heavy's shoulder without any warning, enters the room first.

"He lived," he said, cutting to the chase. "Regained roughly five percent of his vision, and I successfully played god."

A sigh of relief went up around the table. Sniper, who hadn't managed to snag a chair, continued to practically vibrate with nervous energy in the corner of the small room.

Then Heavy entered behind Medic and put Scout down against the boxes near the door, and the nervous energy somehow ramped up even further.

Heavy took note of the sudden shift in posture from the Australian and gave him a glance. "Doktor gave sedative to make leetle man not panic," the giant said, and Sniper just gave a curt nod, glancing away.

"What got 'im so riled up?" Engie asked, glancing at Medic.

Medic sighed. "I managed to defy modern medicine, and he was angry that I didn't warn him about what I was doing, even when the end result did help his vision," Medic said, crossing his arms.

"That was not the intended result?" Spy asked, frowning, standing up a bit straighter, narrowing his eyes. "Then what was?"

"I made him essentially invincible," Medic said proudly, standing just a bit taller.

Silence met his words.

"Whot?" Sniper finally asked.

"Doc, how in th'hell didja manage that?" Demo asked, eye wide. "An' why didn't ya do it to anyone sooner?"

"Well, first of all, I only had the idea about seven days ago," Medic said. "And secondly, it is a… rather exhausting process to do on such a large scale. And the effects do not last forever."

"But what did you do?" Spy asked.

"I replaced his blood with medical fluid," Medic said cheerfully.

It was only the fact that Heavy knew it would happen that stopped Sniper from outright attacking Medic. Heavy managed to catch him in a bear-hug, effectively trapping him before he could start a fight. The intent was certainly there, though.

"You did whot!?" the Australian snapped. "You bloody lunatic!"

"Good god, Doc, how'd you think that'd be a good idea?" Engie asked, appropriately horrified, along with the other members of the room who also looked like they were considering having a fight with Medic just about then. "We got blood for a reason, how'd he even survive?"

"Oh, barely, but not for the reason you might assume!" Medic said. "And I did not replace all of it, only about thirty percent or so. I found thirty percent to be roughly the amount that his body could handle going without before his heart stopped. Trial and error may not have been efficient, but it is effective!"

Heavy was actually having trouble holding Sniper back at that point, and considered just letting him go, wondering if a beat-down would maybe teach Medic some sort of lesson about ethical experimentation. As it stood, Medic looked appropriately nervous.

"His heart is beating now, do not worry, Herr Sniper!" Medic said, hands up by his own shoulders. "And I feel as if we are skipping over how I made Scout invincible."

"Will take guard dog out for walk while you explain," Heavy said dryly before dragging the Australian out of the meeting room.

Medic explained what he did. It was a good idea. That was the thing that had really gotten to the other mercs by the end of the explanation—it was a good idea. Usually, medical fluid would enter into the bloodstream—either via wounds or through the nasal passage and lungs—and cause the body to overclock its process of cell reproduction. Wounds would rapidly heal themselves, and the recipient of the healing would also feel a massive boost of energy.

By replacing almost a third of Scout's blood with medical fluid, he suddenly had what was essentially the ultimate overheal. Also, Medic added, it was no plain old medical fluid. He'd been experimenting with the recipe, and had managed to figure out how to alter how it healed—the batch he'd pumped Scout full of was a particularly fast-acting type, and only activated when the nervous system registered pain. It had a few possible side effects—overall jitteriness and anxiety, shortness of breath, the like—but Medic thought that it was probably worth it.

There was one downside, however, Medic warned. The medical fluid, although leagues faster than what he usually brought onto the battlefield, could not heal wounds instantaneously, and didn't stop him from getting hit at all. This meant that Scout could, technically, still be killed in two very specific circumstances. If the enemy Spy managed to backstab him, his uppermost vertebrae would be severed instantly, and the medical fluid would be unable to act before Scout died, mostly due to the complex nature of death-by-paralysis. And if the enemy Sniper got just one shot through his skull, that would be that—brain death would occur instantly. Besides that, nothing—not even a Heavy's machine gun or an Engineer's sentry—could kill him as long as his skull remained intact.

The table was quiet for a few long moments.

"Geez," Scout said from his place on the boxes, startling most of the room, who hadn't noticed that he was awake. "That's… not ideal. But at least that means I won't be completely demolished out there, huh?"

Medic nodded. "It is not a permanent solution, but at the very least, it buys us time. It will take roughly three days before your system flushes the remaining medical fluid from your body."

"That's all fine and good, Doc," Engie said, sitting forward, "But if he still can hardly see anything, then what's he gonna do out there?"

"A good question, Tinkerer. Is there word yet about what type of mission we are having today?" Spy asked, looking over at Soldier.

The man nodded, helmet wobbling. "Capturing intelligence from the BLU sons-'a-bitches," he replied crisply.

"Could he stay in our intel room?" Engie asked. Pyro replied to him, and Engie hummed, nodding thoughtfully. "You're right, Pyro—especially since Spies are exactly what he needs to avoid. That wouldn't be safe at all."

"Nowhere is safe out on the glorious battlefield!" Soldier cried, slamming a fist on the table for emphasis, causing it to shake. "Nowhere!"

"Could the lad stay in Resupply?" Demo asked.

"Non—that would be as good as not showing up at all," Spy said. "We would see him fired within the afternoon. Perhaps hide the boy in a crate somewhere—he is certainly small enough to fit."

Pyro replied to that, and a few heads turned to Engie to translate. "The firebug's sayin' that all the crates are either flammable or metal—he'd be cooked alive an' left with nowhere to hide."

"We have been overlooking something," Medic said, pushing up his glasses, sounding amused. Everyone looked over at him. "It is really quite obvious."

"Well, then why don'tcha explain it to the rest of us then, smarty-pants?" Demo asked, looking visibly annoyed.

"Let us ask Scout what he wants to do," Medic said simply.

All eyes turned to the runner.

Scout was clearly deep in thought. "…So I definitely can't capture intel," Scout said. "An' I can't think of anywhere on the ground that's safe. I could go up somewhere high to hide, one'a the rooftops, but a Soldier or Demo could find me an' I'd be toast. So nowhere in the open air." He turned his gaze up towards the team. "So my biggest problems would be Spies an' their Sniper?" he asked.

"Correct," Medic replied.

"…Well, I could just ask whoever is the most used to dealin' with those," Scout said. "Who's usually the main target of their Sniper and Spy?"

There were a few beats of silence. Spy was the one who broke it.

"Ughhhhh," he groaned dramatically, tilting back in his chair. "Of course you just had to choose him. What was I thinking? That we could have one match without it being immediately infested with your lovey-dovey nonsense? Unfathomable! Absolument pas!"

"Uh," Scout said, confused. But the other mercs were also putting two and two together, with mixed reactions. Pyro was already bouncing in place, clapping softly and making little squealing noises. Engie was shaking his head, and Medic was resisting the urge to laugh, clearly having known the solution the entire time. Demo wasn't resisting his laughter at all—he was head down on the table, his cackling muffled by his arms. Soldier seemed to be thinking hard.

"I suppose there is no choice!" the military man finally said, mind clearly made up. "Men, for this upcoming battle, we will be having two wimpy, lily-livered, spot-camping cowards in our Sniper's nest! What a day to be an American!"

"To be fair," Medic said, "I think he has already proven to be a very effective guard dog. I don't believe any other member of the team would be quite so… ach, what is the word? Ah, single-minded."

"You're right on that one," Engie agreed. "An' our Soldier-boy here had the black eye to prove it. Not to mention, I reckon he'd be fightin' for the job tooth an' nail if he were here. Wouldn't trust us with the job, that's for damn sure."

"If it did not make sense, I would have disagreed with this plan on the principle of I hate that man," Spy said bitterly. "But unfortunately, it is the safest option we have."

"Forreal?" Scout asked, looking around at all the mercenaries around the table. "That's the plan, then? I hide out with Snipes?"

"Yes," Medic said. "But we will have to give him the briefing on our way to the battlefield—it is only fifteen minutes until our mission begins."

A murmur of assent went around the table. Spy stood.

"Then it seems we are done here," the Frenchman said, drawing out a cigarette in one smooth, singular motion, poised and professional. "We must take our leave. Gentlemen, failure is not an option. Do not allow our opponents a single step onto our ground. Today we protect both our briefcase and our teammate—only one of the two can be retrieved again if it is lost. So we must either fight like men, or die like rats." He sparked his lighter and lit his cigarette, flicking it off again and stowing it away. He ran his gaze over the room, taking a long drag. When he next spoke, his voice was ice cold. "And if you fail? Dieu vous aide, pauvres âmes malheureuses."

And with that, they began to make their way to the battleground.

They made it outside their base without problem, talking amongst themselves, when suddenly Demo called out.

"Aye! The laddie's awake, we're headed over!" he called, presumably to Sniper and Heavy. Scout stopped dead in his tracks, and several of the others stopped too, curious of what was up.

"Where're they at?" Scout asked Demo, who pointed. After looking in that direction for a bit he nodded, then looked back at Engie. "Uh, hey, we'll pick this conversation up later, gotta take care'a somethin'."

"Alrighty," Engie said, unoffended. Scout moved a hand to pull his hat to sit more firmly in place, quickly rechecked his laces to see that they were tied. "But, er… what exactly needs doin', if you don't mind me askin'?"

"Nah, you'll see," Scout said, and looked back in the direction of the two approaching mercs, and he broke into a dead sprint.

The two figures were pretty easily distinguishable just by size alone. Also from the fact that when Sniper saw Scout dead sprinting towards him, he stopped and called out.

"Scout! Why're you—BUGGER!"

The Australian cried out as he was full-body tackled to the ground, and they were both sent rolling, sprawling into the dirt.

Scout ended up lying face-up, his legs over Sniper's stomach. He winced at a bit of pain in his exposed arms, but it subsided almost as soon as he noticed it, leaving him without injury, or really, any consequences he would usually have from tumbling across the ground. Sniper, however, groaned from where he was lying. He was also face-up, it seemed. In the distance, the rest of the team was either hollering and whistling or yelling at them that now was not the time.

"Hey Legs," Scout started. "Remember that time you made fun'a me because I was in the church choir?"

Sniper made a vague noise. "I… yeah?" he said, clearly confused.

"Well uh, fuck you. Now we're even," Scout said.

There were a few beats of silence, then Sniper was wheezing, shaking with laughter. He pushed Scout's legs off his stomach and sat up, picking up his hat and dusting it off. "You're a real piece'a work, y'know that?" he said, giving Scout a fond look as he pulled his hat back on. Just a smile, this warmth that Scout could hardly miss, even with his eyes all messed up still.

"I know," Scout said with a grin, mimicking Sniper's motion as he fixed his own hat where it had gone crooked.

The expression fell away and was replaced with mild horror. "Wait, you can see now?"

"Yep!" Scout said happily. "Not great, everything's all weird and outta focus an' don't sit right, but I can see a lotta stuff!"

"Oh," Sniper said, glancing away, seeming fidgety, flushing. "Uh. That's… good."

"Yeah. So that means I uh, I caught that look you gave me just now, Casanova," Scout confirmed, just smirking, watching as Sniper slowly caved in on himself, pulling his hat down over his face.

"That—that can't be th'new nickname," he mumbled, embarrassment rolling off of him in waves.

"Yeah, but it can though."

"Will you two PLEASE come join the rest of the team!?" Spy yelled from where everyone else was standing. "I do not wish to see disturbing public displays of affection!"

"You're French!" was all that Sniper shouted back, which sent most of the team off and roaring with laughter, with a few confused exceptions. Sniper just grinned though, standing and offering a hand to pull Scout to his feet. Scout accepted it, also grinning.

"I'll keep workin' on the nickname thing," Scout said.

"You do that. Meanwhile, I do believe I made a promise, aye?" Sniper said, and he pulled off his hat, then reached down beneath the collar of his shirt. Scout blinked, feeling a wave of… some unnamed, strong emotion as Sniper fished Scout's dog tags out from beneath his shirt, moving to pull them up and off, then replacing his hat. "I believe these belong t'you?" he said, offering the tags, and now that Scout could see Sniper's body language, he suddenly seemed about a billion times more unintentionally charming than he'd been before.

Scout accepted the tags, pulled them over his head, felt them thunk in a satisfying way against his chest as they fell into place. "Thanks, Snipes," he said, with more sincerity than he was used to speaking.

Sniper was looking at him, and it took a second for Scout to map out his expression—intense, was the way he'd describe it. An intensity that Scout hadn't gotten to really see before. A few beats passed, and Scout didn't speak or begin walking towards the team, some unknown force holding him back. He was glad it did, because Sniper spoke a moment later.

"You lived," he breathed, as if he was just then realizing it, just then processing what that meant. As if he hadn't been able to really believe it just yet. He looked at Scout with all the weight of that realization, all the understanding, all the awe. "Bloody 'ell, you… you lived!"

Then Scout was swept up into a nearly crushing embrace, Sniper burying his face into the juncture of Scout's neck and shoulder in a surge of affection and relief and protectiveness and vulnerability, an embrace that was returned without any protest or hesitation, even though Sniper was lifting him off the ground. "Yeah, 'course I did," Scout said, a bit more quietly than he was used to talking, and his own voice was a little hoarse. "I promised, remember?"

They would release each other in a bit. They would let go and walk over to the rest of the group, who the two had tuned out, the majority of which were cheering and hollering at the display, with a few exaggerated protests mixed in for flavor. In a bit, they'd walk over and the team would begin briefing Sniper on their plan as they continued onwards towards the battlefield. Scout and Sniper would push their own emotions aside just enough to do their job as best they could, and that would be that.

But not yet. No, for the moment, they just stayed there, and they embraced, and they breathed.

Scout could tell that Sniper was torn on whether or not he was glad to be put in charge of Scout. On one hand, he wanted to be able to readily defend the runner. On the other, that meant that Scout's life was, ultimately, Sniper's responsibility. It was a lot of pressure.

But he seemed to be holding it together, at least. Medic was quickly relaying as much information as he could, listing off what he had already told the others. Heavy was also listening, walking on Medic's other side—but that wasn't out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary was the piece of equipment that Sniper pulled from his locker once they reached the building they would be defending. Sniper's rifle was slung over his back, his kukri hanging at his belt, but instead of his SMG, he pulled out of his locker…

"A bow?" Scout asked, sure that he was just seeing wrong.

"Yep," Sniper said, also pulling out a quiver. It was hung from the opposite side of his belt as the kukri, arrows sifted through as a cursory check.

"You can shoot a bow?" Scout asked, impressed.

"Yeah, 'course. I can shoot just about anythin'," Sniper replied, stocking up his ammunition. "But today, I'll mainly be shootin' at anythin' that so much as looks towards our tower."

Scout just nodded at that, turning to his own locker, where he pulled out his baseball bat, pistol, and scattergun. He managed to gear up with the majority of his things by muscle memory, as his eyes really weren't much help to him—if he turned his head too fast, the flashes of color and brightness of everything made him dizzy.

He was blinking away the motion sickness when he heard someone walking up next to him. "Laddie, the medicine woman told me t'give these to ya," Demo said with a grin, holding something out to him. "I thought, well bloody 'ell, they look awful familiar, aye?"

Scout took the object, and instantly recognized the sunglasses he'd been given before, what felt like months ago already. He grinned, slipped them onto his face, and was delighted to see that everything got just a bit more tolerable to look at.

"Thanks, Cyclops!" Scout said, and Demo just gave him a hearty pat on the back before moving away. Most of the team had assembled at the opposite end of the room to talk about how they'd orchestrate their opening charge—it was clear that nobody was playing around this match. He wondered if the BLUs were expecting them to be this serious on the first match after a long cease-fire.

But he and Sniper wouldn't be a part of their initial charge—they would be moving right away to get to the Sniper's nest way up above. It only had one entrance, and Scout's job was to watch it while Sniper did his thing. Simple enough. He just needed to keep a level head so his vision didn't black out on him like before, in the infirmary. Piece of cake.

He returned to the last part of his routine, taping up his hands, when he felt Sniper stop moving just to his side on the bench. He glanced up and saw Spy standing in front of them, his head presumably turned towards Sniper.

No, yeah, he was definitely looking at Sniper, because Scout could tell from the way Sniper was practically bristling that they were staring each other down. Sniper didn't move. Spy didn't move. Scout had frozen the moment he realized what was going on.

"Bushman," Spy started to say, voice dripping with venom, but he paused for a moment, stalled. When he continued, there was considerably less distaste in his tone, instead a sort of forced politeness. "You understand what will happen to you if you fail your task, oui?"

"You'll kill me?" Sniper asked, unfazed by the words, tone a bit dull.

"Obviously—however, it is not just me," Spy replied. He was holding a cigarette. At least the fifth one in the past half hour, Scout knew, a mental tally he was keeping in the back of his head. "If the boy dies, our entire team will kill you. Painfully. Repeatedly. Or, if you are very fortunate, swiftly. We will hunt you down, and we will kill you as many times as it takes to feel as if you have been adequately punished for your catastrophic, unforgivable, irreversible failure. We will be testing the true limits of our Respawn technology, putting more strain on it than it has ever had to withstand before. You will die, over and over, until we all believe you have learned your lesson. That is not a threat. It is a promise. Do we understand each other?"

Sniper's head tilted down, and his shoulders shook with silent laughter. Scout stared. Spy stared. Sniper took his hat off for a moment, carding his fingers through his hair and putting it back on again. Only then did he look back up at Spy, smiling faintly.

"Don't you worry, Spook," Sniper said, a wearyness in his voice that caught Scout off guard. "If 'e dies, your best bet t'find me is in Respawn. Because if I didn't die keepin' him safe, then I've already offed m'self long before you woulda' ever reached me."

The two stared at each other for another few moments. Scout hardly dared to breathe. Overhead, the one-minute mark was announced.

"Hmm," Spy finally hummed appraisingly, taking a pull from his cigarette, considering. "Well. I am glad that we have an understanding, Bushman."

"Thought we already had an understandin', Spook," Sniper replied.

A pause, then Spy nodded. "Touché," he said. He turned crisply, moving to walk away. "Do not disappoint me!" he called behind him without turning, voice lofty, raising a hand for a loose wave.

"Give 'em hell, mate!" Sniper called back.

A pause, then Sniper was closing his locker, adjusting his hat. He turned to Scout just as the thirty second point was called over the loudspeaker. "Best get goin' to our gate," he said over the noise, and Scout nodded, snapping out of his reverie, finishing up his tape and closing his own locker quickly.

They were at the gate, standing side by side, staring out. Scout had his baseball bat in his hand already. He quadruple-checked his laces, cracked his knuckles, rolled his ankles. His sacred pre-match ritual. Sniper had his bow ready, arrow already knocked.

Scout could hardly hear the countdown over his heart thrumming. The gate hardly had time to drop before they sprang into action.

He followed Sniper to the nest. It was nearby, only a short run, and they met no opposition. Sniper gestured for Scout to climb up first, and he scaled the tower quickly and with relative ease despite his vision flashing in and out. Be calm, he reminded himself. Calm.

It was fairly dim in the nest itself, and roomier than Scout had expected. Sniper moved to the window, half boarded-up, and peeked out for a moment before turning to Scout. "Right—sit over there," he said, pointing, and Scout followed his instructions. "Back to the wall—can't backstab what you can't get behind. If you stay there, y'got no clear line'a sight out to the field, aye? You can't see them, an' odds are, they can't see you neither. That's what we're lookin' for."

Then Sniper was standing before the window, pulling the arrow back, murmuring to himself faintly about wind speed, added weight, the arc. Numbers, a slow movement as he adjusted, a calm falling over him as he stopped being Sniper and instead started being a sniper.

"What're you doin'?" Scout asked curiously.

"Sendin' a message," he replied evenly, and then with a simple, light twitch of his fingers, he let the arrow fly.

In the BLU base, the team was setting up defenses, preparing for the usual cavalry charge that the REDs often pulled. To be fair, their own Scout, Soldier, and Pyro had already run off to do the exact same thing.

BLU Engineer looked up with mild alarm as an arrow impaled itself into the wall beside the doorframe with a resounding tunk. He then frowned, pulling it loose with a hearty tug.

"Uh, Sniper?" he called, and BLU Sniper looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. "Take a look at this?"

The taller man moved over and looked over the arrow, frowning as he took it, pulling loose the piece of paper stuck to it. "Must be from the other one," he said, and BLU Engineer's eyebrows rose over his goggles. The BLU unfolded the paper and read it.

After a moment his head tilted slightly to one side, and he read the message again, eyes scanning over it for a second time.

"What's it say?" the Engineer asked, loudly enough that their Medic, in the process of overhealing their Heavy, glanced over as well, curious.

He just turned the paper around and held it up, confusion reading clear on his face. BLU Engineer read aloud as their Medic and Heavy moved over to listen.

"Our Scout is off-limits until further notice. Do not look for our Scout. You won't like what you find if you do. This is your one and only warning.

Sincerely,

Fuck you.

-Reliable Excavation and Demolition"

There was a heart drawn at the bottom. It had a bullet hole in it. Not a drawn bullet hole—a literal, physical bullet hole, through the heart that was drawn at the bottom of the page.

Just inside the base, they heard the telltale swishing noise of Respawn spitting someone out, followed quickly by another, and another. Their Soldier and Pyro came jogging out, going back to the fray, BLU Scout trailing behind, looking miffed.

"Geez Louise, dunno what the hell got into 'em, but those guys seem pissed," BLU Scout said. He stopped when he saw the dumbfounded expressions of his teammates, deciding that to be the preferable option to dying instantly the moment he caught sight of the RED mercenaries. He moved over and glanced over the note, blinking. "…The hell?"

More swishing from Respawn, BLU Spy slinking out of the base looking sour. He caught sight of the small crowd and moved over, already glaring. "What is this?" he asked, glancing it over.

"Message from the RED Sniper," their Engie said, scratching the back of his head. "Sayin' their Scout is off limits, an' to leave the boy alone."

The Spy scowled, pulling out his knife and flipping it open. "I do not listen to our opponents, especially RED Sniper," he spat, and he was off into battle again.

They glanced between themselves. BLU Engineer shrugged. They returned to battle, still somehow blissfully oblivious to the hell about to rain down upon them the moment that the REDs reached their base.

Chapter Text

Scout wasn’t sure how long it had been, but the buzzing in his veins was getting worse by the second and he really didn’t like it.

Sniper was silent, because he needed to be in order to keep their position quiet. As far as the BLUs knew, Sniper might’ve taken up residence in one of the other dozens of places to shoot from. As long as he didn’t miss, they couldn’t track his bullets, and the individual sound of a single rifle was completely indistinguishable from other noises on the battlefield. They were hidden. Scout was safe.

But his veins were still buzzing with energy.

The crack of a shot being taken, the clack-clack of the manual bolt on the rifle. “Aces,” Sniper murmured to himself, satisfied. “Y’alright back there, mate?”

“Yeah,” Scout replied, keeping his voice down. “…You talk to yourself up here?”

Sniper tilted his head in an approximation of a shrug. “Sometimes,” he replied. “You?”

“Yeah. I think we all kinda do that, actually,” Scout said.

Silence fell again. Scout’s leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, and he’d started chewing on his fingernails just for something to do. He watched Sniper work for a little bit to calm his nerves.

After a few moments Sniper slid his finger onto the trigger, the movement only noticeable by the fact that it was the only movement. A pause. “Hold still,” he murmured, voice hardly above a breath.

CRACK. Clack-clack.

Scout returned to looking at the entrance.

It was a ladder up, meaning a Heavy probably couldn’t get up it, but there wasn’t a hatch anymore. It’d been blasted off at some point, or broken, or… something. It was uncovered. They couldn’t really bar anyone from actually entering the nest, outside of shooting them before they could get up the ladder.

CRACK. Clack-clack.

“That helmet ain’t gonna save ya,” Sniper said, nearly too quiet to hear, a bit of humor in his tone.

Scout grinned to himself for a second before it faded again. Just watch the entrance. Don’t get distracted.

How long had it been? Who was winning? Usually Scout knew pretty much every move being made, and he could report back about weak points, about sentry nests. Now he just had to listen hard to the gunfire coming from outside, hoping that it wasn’t coming closer, that he was just imagining things again. But he’s still bouncing his leg, still chewing his nails, only there’s hardly any nails to chew really, and already both index fingers were bleeding a bit, and his mind iwas buzzing with “what if”s. Because the fight might really be coming closer. In all of the confusion, someone could get up here. They might kill Sniper. They might throw Scout off the nest to hit the ground below. Would that kill him instantly too, like a bullet to the head? Or would he need to play dead until the fight moved away from him?

He didn’t realize his vision had blacked out until it was too late, and his heart was pounding, and cold sweat was collecting on the bridge of his nose, threatening to make his shades slide off. He fought to steady his breathing, to focus. He needed to calm down. The gunfire wasn’t coming closer. He was still safe. Nobody could get near them. Sniper was good at his job.

CRACK. Clack-clack.

He wasn’t in any danger just then, he just needed to breathe, and make his leg stop shaking, and to make his hands stop shaking, and everything would be fine. He blinked rapidly, waving his hand in front of his own face and exhaling. He would be fine. They’d get the briefcase and the mission would end and they could all go back to the base, and he’ll have proven his ability to survive, and he would be able to recover even further. He was fine. He tried to even out his breathing, waiting for the blackness to subside so that he could—

CRACK. Clack-clack.

(Creak.)

Scout froze, blood going cold.

He heard Sniper shifting, looking back at him. “…Hangin’ in there?” Sniper half-whispered, sounding confused. Scout didn’t reply, straining his ears. Sniper shifted further, turning further towards him hesitantly. “Uh… mate?”

Scout turned his head up towards Sniper, still blinking rapidly. Sniper muttered a curse.

“Gone dark?” Sniper asked, but his tone suggested he already knew, and Scout heard him moving from the crate he’d been sitting on, instead sitting beside it. “Awright, no need t’go wiggin’ out on me, love. How’s this—I’m outta that other wanka’s line a’sight for now. I lie low for a bit, not take any shots, an’ it’ll throw ‘em off for a while. Make ‘em think I’m movin’ to a different sightline. Besides, sounds like our lads are really givin’ the poor buggers a run for their money—I’m the least a’their worries.”

“How are you sure?” Scout asked, voice tight, and he knew Sniper was probably right, but there was still this little nagging sensation… or was that just the transfusion throwing him off? Either way, his heart was still racing.

He heard Sniper turn to the window for a moment. “Well, our Medic just popped an Uber on Heavy,” Sniper said, trying for humor. “Don’t think their morale is terribly high.”

Scout nodded. “Okay. Well… you should probably still keep watch though, right? In case anyone tries to come up here. I-I dunno, I’m just a little paranoid. Thought I heard somethin’.”

“Nah, I get it. After the first few backstabs, I get a touch jumpy too,” Sniper replied. “But I’ll keep an eye. No need t’get sloppy jus’ because we’re goin’ well.”

Scout nodded, and Sniper returned to his place on the crate by the window, moving to reload his gun as he idled. The sound was satisfying, and put Scout a bit at ease. Sniper wasn’t any old pushover, he was a mercenary, just like the rest of them. An assassin who’d been doing this for quite some time, who knew how to do his job correctly. Scout was worrying over nothing, and he listened to the steady tic-tic of a weapon being reloaded.

(Creak.)

Within only a second, Sniper was on his feet, and his kukri was drawn. A beat of pause. “…Y’hear that?” he asked, and Scout nodded, mouth dry. “…Bugger. Awright, keep y’head down, I’m gonna—“

The sound of a revolver firing seemed to echo in the small space, making Scout’s ears ring and his entire body flinch backwards instinctively towards the wall, clattering into the half-rotting wood.

But it hadn’t been fired at him.

Sniper cried out in pain, and Scout heard him lashing out, the gun being struck away and clattering to the floor. A curse in French, and the familiar, metallic sound of a balisong flicking open.

Metal striking against metal. Metal slicing through flesh. Blood splattering. Grunts and hisses of pain. Those four sounds filled the room, coming in quick succession. Scout wanted to help, because two on one, the Spy wouldn’t stand a chance. But he couldn’t. He had no way of telling whether he would hit the BLU Spy or his own Sniper.

So instead he was left standing off to one side, waiting for one of them to die, with the feeling of horrible, nauseating deja-vu turning his stomach to rot.

Time passed, Scout didn’t know how long. He stood up, pulled out his bat. He prayed.

But they were both very rapidly cutting each other down. He heard Sniper give a wet cough. “Scout—!” he cried, and then there was sudden movement, and a body tumbled to the wooden floor lifelessly only a meter away from Scout. It did not stir. The sound of labored breathing echoed through the room, which was still buzzing with the aftershocks of a knife fight.

“Mate,” he heard Sniper breathe from where he’d leaned on the opposite wall from him, pain obvious in his voice. “That was way too close.” He took a step towards Scout, who raised his bat in defense. He stopped. “…Whot’s wrong?” he asked, and Scout tried to stop his knees from shaking.

“Stay back,” he barked, sounding significantly braver than he felt.

“Have you gone mental?” Sniper asked, and he coughed wetly again. “It’s me, mate.”

“Okay. Sure. You’re my buddy Snipes, and not the enemy Spy in disguise. How about this—fuckin’ prove it,” Scout said, poised to fight, teeth bared.

“Ah, awright. That’s about fair. Ask me anythin’,” Sniper said agreeably, and Scout paused.

“Why am I up here in the nest?”

“T’keep you safe. Your eyes aren’t workin’ an’ you need protected,” Sniper said.

“Who hurt my eyes?”

“Their Pyro. Heavy carried you off the field.”

“What’s the nickname you started callin’ me?”

“Y’mean the petname? I call ya “love” sometimes.”

Scout hesitated for a moment at the warmth in his tone, the mild sheepishness. It felt familiar. It really did. He wanted to believe it, and that was what scared him so much.

“C’mon, don’t ya trust me?” Sniper asked, sounding a little bit hurt now, a bit affronted. “I take care’a you an’ keep you safe an’ help you for all this time while your eyes are healin’, and you can’t recognize me? Y’don’t know the difference between me an’ a bloody Spook in a costume?”

Scout’s expression darkened. “I do know the difference,” Scout said, a note of danger in his voice. His fear was quickly falling away, rapidly being replaced by anger. “You an’ Demo made a bet about it, remember?”

“…Right, we did,” Sniper agreed after a second, recollection fading in. “An’ that was our own Spy as well, he knows me better than that BLU wanker.”

“No, actually, that isn’t the way it happened,” Scout replied, turning his bat over in his hands, taking a step forward, glowering. “It was everyone but Demo who made the bet.”

“Mate, you can’t expect me to remember a lil’ detail like that,” Sniper said, sounding a bit betrayed, and a bit annoyed.

Scout considered it, and after a second he relented, bat dropping from where he’d been holding it, primed and ready to attack, instead allowing it to dangle at his side, letting out a sigh. “I guess you’re right,” he murmured begrudgingly. “Sorry for doubtin’ ya, an’ bein’ all… paranoid.”

“It’s fine,” Sniper said, the annoyance falling away. “I get it. Y’gotta be suspicious, otherwise y’get killed, aye?”

“Yeah,” Scout said with a nod. He turned his head up and smiled at Sniper, who was beginning to fade back into view as the last of the adrenaline burnt out, leaving him to idly buzz.

He looked like a wreck—slash wounds across his arms and a bullet wound in his shoulder, a deep gash through his leg, his less injured arm holding onto his left side in a way that suggested at least one broken rib. He’d probably punctured a lung, from the way yet another bubbling cough shook itself through his abdomen, and he turned his head, spitting a gob of blood off to one side. He also had a broken nose, clearly, blood dripping heavily from both nostrils and leaving the lower half of his face drenched and red.

The other body had disappeared from the room, already reclaimed by Respawn, but the blood was taking some more time to fade. The fight had been hardcore from the look of it. A small puddle of blood had collected beneath Scout’s feet from the vanished corpse, in fact, threatening to soak into his shoes. He tried not to feel nauseous at the sight.

He turned his head back up. “Alright. I’m convinced. Get over here, Stretch.”

Sniper took a few steps toward him, unhurried, and he made it halfway across the room before Scout had a pistol drawn and aimed at his head.

“If you can answer one last question,” Scout said.

Sniper sighed slightly, stuffing his hands into his pockets exaggeratedly. “Go on, then,” he said, “I really better track down Medic before I bleed out, y’know.”

Scout ticked his head just slightly to one side, a cheerful smile pulling at his lips. “What’s my name?” he asked.

Silence reigned for a good, long few moments. Sniper was searching his face, expression guarded. Scout’s shades hid his eyes. It would be impossible to tell that Scout was looking right back at him.

“Trick question—you’ve never told it to me,” the man said.

Scout shook his head, tutting sarcastically. “Wrong answer, BLU.”

His demeanor changed like a light switch being flipped off, and he was hunching, scowling, glaring in a way that was very much unlike him. “Alright, you’ve caught me,” he said, keeping the Australian’s voice along with his disguise, but his tone was entirely different. “What’re you gonna do, shoot me? Get on with it, then. I haven’t got all day.”

“Nah,” Scout said, voice bordering on chipper. “I mean, I might be used to workin’ blind like this, but it’s still a real handicap here—what if I missed my shots? I’d be dead before I could reload!”

He could see the Spy turning his head this way and that, trying to think of a way out of his situation. But he wasn’t dumb enough to start moving yet—Scout had heard him once before.

“Also,” Scout said, “That last question was pretty redundant—I already knew you had to be a Spy before then. You made a pretty rookie mistake, did somethin’ Snipes would never do.”

“Did I?” the BLU asked dryly, returning his focus to Scout at the words.

“Yep.” Scout’s eyes moved to the wall opposite the window, where if he concentrated, could see that a blue spot of light had appeared. “Stretch knows better than to stand up an’ go real still in full view of that there window.”

Comprehension was slow-going in finding its way over the Spy, mixed with growing disbelief and a sort of horror. The blue dot of light on the wall moved and took a careful residence square on the side of the disguised Spy’s head.

“But hey, look on the bright side!” Scout said, a grin spreading across his face. “At least your Sniper was fooled!”

The Spy turned his head towards the window with horror, and his head was a fine mist before it could get there.

A smoky sort of fog scattered from the body of the Spy, dissipating fairly quickly and leaving behind a corpse in a blue-tinted suit. Scout exhaled, putting his pistol back away and taking his seat by the wall.

Only a few moments later, Sniper was hauling himself into the nest, breathing like he’d sprinted the whole way there, which was probably the case. He caught sight of Scout sitting against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief, dropping to a knee so as to catch his breath without having his head in the view of the window.

Then he saw the body of the Spy on the ground and he gaped.

“…Good lord, how’d you do that?” Sniper managed to gasp between heaving breaths, looking with disbelief at Scout.

“Slimy douchebag disguised as you as soon as you dropped, tried to pretend to be you,” Scout said.

Sniper shook his head. “How’d that go?” he asked in a sympathetic deadpan, glancing at the body as it was quickly reclaimed by Respawn, disappearing in only a second.

“Oh, he fucked up bad,” Scout replied. “I asked him some stuff an’ he answered wrong, but I pretended to believe ‘im anyways to bait ‘im into standing up right there.” He gestured to the spot in question. “Other Sniper took the shot for me.”

Sniper stared at him. “…Crikey, that was… that was a brilliant idea,” he said, awed.

Scout shrugged, face going a bit red. “Well. Quick thinking is, uh. Kinda my whole job, y’know? No big deal, really. Normal, uh—normal workday for me,” he said, trying to play it off.

“Here I was, thinkin’ you’d need my protection,” Sniper said. “But I get sliced t’bits an’ the first thing you do is trick a Spy into getting killed by friendly fire.”

Scout beamed. “Yeah, that was pretty cool, huh?” he said.

“It was aces, mate,” Sniper agreed. He moved to sit against the wall below the window, lying his rifle in his lap. “I mean… a bit more complicated than it needed to be, but aces.”

“What’cha mean?” Scout asked, smile falling.

“Well… you can’t be killed, mate, you’ve gone pumped full’a medical fluid,” Sniper said. “Could’a just knocked ‘im over the head wiv that bat a’yours.”

“Oh! I mean, yeah,” Scout said, “I could’ve. But then he would’ve known I can sorta see, an’ he’d just come back and try again knowin’ that. An’ it only takes one lucky swing, don’t it? Nah—his own Sniper just splattered his friggin’ brains all over the wall. He’ll probably spend the rest of the match gettin’ back at him. Spies are crazy kinds’a petty, man.”

“That dodgy piker,” Sniper said, voice dropping to nearly a growl, glaring towards the ladder. “He got the message, s’well. Must’ve. Well, ‘e got a proper bloody rootin’ out of ignorin’ it, hope it was worth the trouble.”

“Message?” Scout asked, frowning with mild confusion. “What message?”

“Don’t worry y’pretty little head about it,” Sniper said, leaning over and pulling Scout’s hat over his eyes, the runner making a sound of protest. “Here’s hopin’ they’ve learnt their lesson, at least.”

Shortly following his shot through the RED Sniper’s head, the BLU Sniper was forced to make a quick exit as the enemy Soldier leapt suddenly on his position. Killing the other Sniper held no significance to him—a quick, easy kill. After all, only the RED Scout was off-limits. Everyone else was fair game.

Then the BLU Spy came stomping out of their base, radiating pure fury, and he began to reconsider.

“You shot me!” the Spy cried, getting right up in his face and snarling the words.

BLU Sniper winced at the volume, pushing his teammate back a bit. “Well, I don’t remember shootin’ any of our team today, so it sounds t’me like you buggered things up for y’self by not usin’ y’bloody radio to tell us where you were. God, if only anyone’d warned ya, even one member of our team, if only we reminded ya just once to keep us informed so we wouldn’t shoot at ya—“

“I get it,” Spy said, voice dead cold.

“An’… why were you up in ‘is nest disguised as him, anyway?” Sniper asked, frowning. “Who’d be up there except him?”

“The Scout is also up in his nest,” he replied, lighting a cigarette. “It seems our suspicions are correct—the ceasefire was for their sake, not simply for us to take contracts. It appears the boy’s eyes have been badly damaged, and his vision is effectively gone. It also seems that he has befriended his team’s Sniper. The Sniper was…” BLU Spy gestured vaguely with his cigarette, searching for the right word. “…very protective.”

“You gonna go try again?” Sniper asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Non. Fighting a blind boy is too easy. If not for your interruption, he would be dead. Not to mention it would be pointless—tactically, I have no reason to attack him.”

There was a pause.

“Th’other Sniper kicked yer arse, didn’t ‘e?” BLU Sniper said with a grin.

“Die in a fire,” BLU Spy replied stiffly, tossing his cigarette down and walking away.

Chapter Text

They succeed with the mission. Sniper lost a duel with his BLU counterpart at one point, but nobody came up to attack Scout, and if they did, they’d have been in for an unpleasant surprise. Ultimately, it’s Soldier who captures the Intelligence, and refuses to stop bragging about it. They returned to their base in a convoy, talking and laughing together. Scout closed his eyes occasionally as his vision swam just to keep his footing, but otherwise it was practically just like normal, if not better than normal, even. Everyone was in high spirits, animated and cheerful and alive.

Meanwhile, Sniper and Scout were knee deep in a bickering match.

“It’s bloody well weird is whot it is,” Sniper insisted.

“They’re socks, Snipes!” Scout replied just as insistently. “It’s like wearing pajamas, it’s all the goddamn same! What difference does it make what the fabric is, isn’t it just more clothes!?”

“Whot diff—it’s uncomfortable as hell! You’re a lunatic!” Sniper replied, voice rising in pitch. “Nobody should be wearin’ socks t’bed, y’maniac!”

From before them at the forefront of the group, Medic groaned. “I swear to Gott if you continue arguing about sleep wear, I will kill Sniper here and now.”

“Whot!?” Sniper cried in the same moment Scout threw his hands up, cheering. “Why me!?”

“Because I’m right!” Scout said proudly, crossing his arms.

“Nein, because Sniper is the one who I can get away with killing, and I am fairly certain that it would make you feel guilty if I killed him,” Medic said to Scout.

Scout paused. “…Okay, fine, I’ll stop,” he sighed.

Heavy chuckled. “Also, Doktor is taking Scout's side because he does same thing,” he said, and Medic swatted him on the arm indignantly, making him laugh again.

Scout and Sniper held about ten seconds of silence before Sniper spoke again, voice low. “It’s still bizarre,” he muttered.

“It’s the same as any other sleep clothes,” Scout repeated quietly.

“Well, you know I hardly ever even use those, neither,” Sniper said with a shrug.

“PLEASE END THIS CONVERSATION NOW,” Engie cut in loudly from behind them, Pyro giggling wildly. “I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW ANY MORE ABOUT THIS.”

“I wear bloody pants, y’bloomin’ prude!” Sniper called back. “Quit whinin’!”

“I mean… he does,” Scout confirmed, shrugging. “Like, it’s not a big deal. Don’t make it weird, Hardhat.”

“Yeah, don’t make it weird, Hardhat,” Sniper agreed.

“Why are you gangin’ up on me now?!” Engie sputtered.

“Well, usually I’d harass Spy, but I’m actually not mad at ‘im for once,” Scout said, glancing back at the Frenchman. “So uh, he’s off the harassment list for now.”

“What an honor. I will try to somehow contain my joy,” Spy deadpanned from somewhere behind him. Sniper laughed, and Scout just flipped him off over his shoulder. He was grinning, though, even though he tried to hide it.

But as they reached the base Heavy came to a sudden stop, and Scout only narrowly avoided bumping into him.

“Woah, big guy, what’s the holdup?” Scout asked, trying to peer around him. Medic had gone stiff, and he and Heavy exchanged a glance. Medic nodded once, and Scout was pushed behind Heavy’s back. Sniper seemed to catch on to whatever they were doing, moving to stand on the opposite side of Heavy as Medic was, the three going shoulder-to-shoulder. Engie quickly walked over to Soldier and muttered a few words, and the man nodded, pantomiming zipping his own lips.

“What’s—“ he started to say, but Engie quickly held a finger to his own lips, and Scout clammed up at how serious the man’s expression looked. The tone in the group had suddenly shifted, and it put Scout a bit on edge.

“Guten Tag, Fräulein Pauling,” Medic called out. Scout stiffened.

“Ah, here you guys are!” Miss Pauling called back, and Scout heard her approaching their group. Engie and Pyro went to stand on either side of Scout. “Wow, the mission is over already? I’m guessing you won, you look pretty excited.”

“Da. Easy victory,” Heavy replied with a nod. Sniper also nodded.

“Oh, Sniper—I need to talk to you later,” Miss Pauling said, just noticing the lanky Australian. Scout saw Sniper go rigid.

“Why?” he asked, voice a surprisingly calm mumble, but Scout knew how to recognize Sniper’s vocal tells after being around him for so long. Sniper was in a panic spiral just then.

“I’ve got a package for you—something from home I guess, but there wasn’t a return address on it.”

Sniper relaxed, and Scout breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Ah. Prob’ly m’parents. I’ll get it later,” Sniper replied, still mumbling.

“Cool. But anyways, that’s not the main reason I’m here—mostly I’m here to talk to…” She paused. There was a beat of silence. “Wait, where is Scout, anyway? I need him like, alone.”

“Why do you need to see him?” Heavy asked, voice an intimidating rumble.

There was another, different pause. “We’re doing a standoff, now?” Miss Pauling asked with a bit exasperation in her tone, almost a sigh. “That’s what we’re doing?”

"What on earth would ve be doing that for?” Medic asked innocently. “It is a simple question.”

“Just tell me where you’re hiding him, guys, come on,” Miss Pauling said, starting to sound annoyed.

“Just tell us what he is needed for,” Spy replied from beside Medic. “So we know he will not be in harm’s way. That is all we need to know.”

“You—christ, guys, I’m not here to kill him!” she replied, sounding appalled. “I’ve got a message from the Administrator! That’s all!”

“What does lady want?” Heavy asked.

“I don’t know!”

“Then we all hear it,” Sniper said, voice rising firm and unwavering, and there was a collective, silent agreement within the group.

A short silence. “Woah, since when does he talk?” Miss Pauling asked, and Scout stifled a laugh. “Fine. You can all stick around for it if you really want. But if she yells at you, not my fault.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Engie said with a shrug. “Think th’boy will be alright with that?”

“Yeah,” Scout replied, and he elbowed his way between Heavy and Sniper, standing between them now. “I think so.”

“…What’s with the sunglasses?” Miss Pauling asked, clearly confused. “You… trying out a new look or something?”

A beat of silence. “You didn’t… know?” Scout asked slowly. “Loudspeaker lady didn’t tell you?”

“…No?” she replied, even more confused.

“I—I got an injury, before the ceasefire we’ve been on,” Scout explained, stammering. “My eyes got all messed up, an’ I couldn’t see for like, weeks.”

“What!?” she blurted, looking around at the group with shock.

“Yeah! I was just straight up blind, an’ Legs here took care’a me an’ stuff while Doc was figurin’ things out, tryna’ find a way to fix me.”

“And—and did he?” she asked, looking at Medic.

“I did not—or, not intentionally,” Medic answered. “Our Junge is still recovering. His vision comes and goes, and… well, he is recovering, and let us leave it at that.”

“Geez, guys,” Miss Pauling said. “That… that really sucks. Well, I set up the screen in your common area—we should probably go in. She doesn’t like when people keep her waiting.”

Scout nodded, following after her. Sniper fell into step beside him, moving to give his hand a comforting squeeze. Scout returned it.

They pulled up chairs, settling everyone in a U-shape in front of the screen. Miss Pauling stood next to it, waiting for them to get seated before she turned it on, standing to one side patiently. Medic, Heavy, and Spy stood behind the couch, while Scout sat front and center, Pyro squeezing in on his left and Sniper on his right, Demo and Soldier on the ground by Sniper, and Engie sitting on the arm of the chair by Pyro.

Once they were all settled, she took out a remote and clicked the screen on.

The Administrator’s face appeared on the screen, looking just as intimidating and unimpressed as always, and Scout felt like all the air had been sucked from his lungs. He set his jaw. Sniper knocked his foot against Scout’s, and he made the smallest of nods.

She looked around briefly, noting the additional teammates, but she seemed unfazed. “Congratulations on your victory,” she said. “Your performance was significantly above average this round, clearly, so I believe that recognition is in order for that.”

“Danke,” Medic replied politely.

“I would also like to give a congratulations in particular to your Scout,” the lady said, looking directly at him. “You didn’t die once during the match. Very unusual, and also very unexpected given your considerable handicap.”

Scout just nodded once, not moving to speak. Miss Pauling looked a bit uncomfortable.

“May I ask,” she said, danger subtle but potent in her tone, “Why you also didn’t once leave the nest of your Sniper?”

“Would’a been hard to maintain that perfect no-death round if I went out, wouldn’t it?” Scout replied, head tilting just slightly. The Administrator’s jaw visibly tightened, he could see it even through the visual static that clouded his sight. “Besides, that makes my kill/death ratio for the round a perfect 1-to-0. Perfect. Ever seen that before? Ever?” The Administrator was starting to glower at him. “So, do I get any bonus points for that? Or for trickin’ their freakin’ Sniper into blowin’ his teammate’s head off? Oh, and just in case you didn’t notice, I also brought down this guy’s death rate,” he said, pointing a thumb at Sniper. “He only died like, twice. That’s way better than usual, huh? But hey, sometimes added pressure helps! It was a perfect score or perma-death, so, not like I had much of a choice.”

“You are playing a dangerous game, young man,” the old woman said grimly, and he didn’t so much as flinch.

“No, I was playin’ a dangerous game. By goin’ out there on that battlefield in the first place, an’ by not hidin’ out in our Resupply room where it was safe, an’ even before all that by agreein’ to a surgery that could’a killed me instead of just quitting. All that? That was a dangerous game that I played. And you know what I did?” He leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees, and he stared dead at the screen without a single trace of fear. “I fuckin’ won.”

A deadly silence fell over the room. Nobody moved, nobody breathed. Miss Pauling had a hand over her own mouth, looking horrified. The Administrator simply fixed a look on Scout, studying his casual posture, how thoroughly unfazed he was. How confident. His shades, he’d learned by then, could do wonders hiding facial cues. Expressions were all in the eyes.

“I would not say that you’ve won,” the Administrator said finally. “The more accurate term would be that you’ve passed.”

A beat of silence. “Pardon?” Engie asked.

“You’ve passed.” The woman leaned back in her own chair, poised. “I used this injury and handicap as a test of sorts. Your Scout worked through the subsequent challenges, your Medic made significant progress and some very important breakthroughs, and most importantly, you were working on the battlefield as a cohesive team as opposed to small groups of individuals. Under pressure and with a weakened team member, you banded together. I would have suggested you cut him loose, if not for the fact that he did indeed keep the Sniper safe and cause dissent among the other team. I did not realize your team was capable of being so productive while being subjected to such strain. I am intrigued and pleasantly surprised to find that you were able to do so well without cutting the badly injured Scout from your team.”

Sniper glanced over at Scout, who glanced right back.

“As it stands, you clearly have successfully somehow figured out that I turned off Respawn for him while he was injured over the cease-fire, as well as during the match that you won not long ago. He survived, despite expectations. I am not disappointed—finding a replacement Scout would not be easy—but I am, if I may repeat myself, pleasantly surprised.”

Miss Pauling looked with a note of shock at the screen, then back at the group. She mouthed something at Medic that Scout couldn’t quite make out, not through the fog.

“Now, I have turned his system back on,” the Administrator said, as casual as anything, as if she wasn’t discussing a matter of life and death. “And I thought this would be a good time to make a point. Any damage to the body, including that which your Medic cannot heal, is in fact, as of now, regenerated by the Respawn system. For future reference.”

Scout sat up straight, eyes going a bit wide. “Really?” he asked, surprised.

“Indeed. And should something indeed go unhealed, simply contact me or Miss Pauling in order to adjust the settings. We will sort it out. We do have multiple saves of each of you in case any one of them fails—they’re taken periodically as a sort of failsafe. They can be recalled at any time in the case of an emergency, simply contact us. Do you all understand?”

There was a general murmur of agreement from the collective group.

“I hope to see your good performance continue,” she said, forming a tent with her fingers. “Do not disappoint me.”

The screen flickered to black.

Scout spun to look at Sniper. “Dude, kill me!” he said, beaming.

Sniper blinked. “Whot?” he finally asked, shocked.

“I want my eyes back! C’mon, do it do it do it!” he said, practically bouncing in his seat.

“I—I can’t do that!” Sniper said, already sounding guilty, alarm making his voice go high pitched. “No!”

“Alright, fine. But someone’s gotta do it! C’mon!”

“I already injected you with euthanasia, Junge, do not worry,” Medic said, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “It should overpower the transfusion shortly.”

“The what?” Miss Pauling asked Spy under her breath.

“Don’t ask,” Spy replied.

“Oh. Cool, thanks Doc!” Scout said, ignoring them both and giving a thumbs-up to the German. Now that he thought about it, he definitely felt… fizzy, but he’d attributed it to being excited.

“Wait, but whot if she was lying?!” Sniper blurted, gripping Scout by the shoulders, panic clear on his features. “Or—or whot if she buggered up turnin’ it back on?! What if—“

“I’ll be fine, Legs, don’t worry!” Scout said, smiling at the sharpshooter. He pulled off his sunglasses, tossing them to Demo. “There, just in case those don’t go with me. Oof—yeah, I can’t live with my vision like this any longer, everything looks weird and bad. Yikes.”

Medic was looking at his watch, counting the seconds. “I’d give you five seconds,” Medic said, raising an eyebrow.

“Alright, sweet. See you guys in a bit!” Scout said, and winked, and died.

Every human being has an action that brings them an amount of satisfaction that stands unparalleled. For some, it’s driving a really, really nice car. For some, it’s walking into a room and being the best-looking person there. For some, it’s a 100% scribbled at the top of a test, or maybe looking at a piece of art they’d made, or maybe eating their favorite version of their favorite food. There are many, many things that people can find incomparably satisfying. It can be in their craft, or their achievements, or reaching their personal goals.

For Jeremy, he just loved to run.

It might’ve been some sort of biological reason. Some deeply-rooted part of his DNA that loved the feeling of speed, that craved the wind in his hair, the momentum carrying him forward, the burn in his lungs and legs.

The city was perfect for him, in that respect. It was dangerous, living where he and his brothers lived. Scrawny, buck-toothed, loud-mouthed kids didn’t survive that place. Jeremy was the exception to the rule, and that was only partly because the name O’Connell was infamous in certain parts of the city by that point. It certainly didn’t hurt, but that wasn’t why Jeremy was lucky. No, Jeremy was lucky because he was born a runner. Head ducked and elbows careful not to swing out too far, he would fly through the streets faster than the birds, faster than the trains, faster than anyone. He outran trouble, time after time after time, and they would never catch up to him.

He loved other things, too. He loved music, enough so that he kept trying to learn about it even though he was pretty bad at it when he started, and eventually had some real skill. He loved to draw, and even if he didn’t do portraits or landscapes in fancy oil paints, he still thought his stuff was pretty good, and felt happy with it most of the time. He loved baseball, the product of having seven older brothers whose only point of complete collective agreement was the fact that baseball was a damn good sport. He’d collected bottle caps at one point, and sold them for a brand new pair of shoes, the only piece of clothing he’d ever had that wasn’t a hand-me-down. He wore them until the soles threatened to fall off and the laces were little more than ragged twine, and only then did he finally retire them, a ceremonious dunk into the dumpster nearest the school.

But running. Running, it always seemed to come back to. Until his lungs felt like they were full of cellophane, until his eyes stung and his mouth may well have been coated in sand, until he was absolutely drenched in sweat and miles, so many miles, away from the source of any and all of his problems.

When he found out about Jack, he’d ran almost eleven miles straight before he finally collapsed. For Henry, it was nearly twenty miles, but in roughly the same amount of time due to more practice. When he was handed a letter at the end of his senior year of high school saying that he’d need to stay another year in order to graduate, he’d run. Whenever any of his brothers moved out, he’d run. Whenever he had his heart broken, he’d run. He ran when he was scared, mostly. He sometimes ran when he was angry, which was just an extension of fear. He ran when he was confused, because problems seem much less significant from the city limits.

The most important lesson Jeremy had ever learned was that eventually, he had to stop running. Eventually, he would need to face whatever he was running from.

He learned it a few times over the course of his life, when he forgot. But one in particular came to mind.

Once, when he was much younger, he’d been drawing at the desk by the window, and got frustrated, shoving his paper away. In the process, he also ended up knocking over a tall stack of books that had been placed on the desk. The books toppled out the open window and onto the rainy streets below.

The majority of Henry’s schoolbooks. Ruined, in one fell swoop.

Henry had found him hiding at the park a dozen miles or so from where they lived. Jeremy had made the mistake sometime in the early afternoon—it was nearly dark out now, sun setting somewhere behind the clouds in the sky. Henry had a satchel on, and a rain jacket to protect him from the light drizzle. He’d leaned down and looked into the concrete tunnel that made up part of the playground, and Scout had been sitting in the middle, knees tucked up against his chest below his chin. His eyes were red and puffy, and his expression was fearful when he saw that it was Henry.

“Lil’ J,” his brother said, voice as calm and gentle as ever, reverberating in the space. “Can you come out an’ talk to me?”

Jeremy, the coward, hid his face in his knees.

Henry didn’t seem surprised, and a few moments later after a brief struggle he was settled, a bit oddly, within the tunnel made for people significantly smaller than him. He shifted a bit to get comfortable, then just sat there, looking out at nothing. It was still drizzling out, and the park was somewhere far away from home, so he was pretty much soaked, hair flattened and dripping.

“Y’know,” Henry finally said, face turning towards him, “I think you nearly scared Ma t’death, disappearin’ like that.”

Jeremy didn’t reply, face remaining buried in his knees.

“She comes home an’ asks where you were, Terry an’ Benny says you were drawin’, she goes to check and sees her youngest son gone—” he snapped his fingers, “—just like that. Into thin air.”

Jeremy still didn’t reply.

“She couldn’t figure out why. Nearly had a heart attack when she saw the desk all messed up an’ the window open. Thought you fell an’ busted your head open on the ground. Looked out, saw a bunch’a my books out there instead.”

Jeremy’s grip on his legs tightened.

Henry was still looking at him. His voice continued to remain even, calm. “Lil’ J, what made you run?”

Jeremy didn’t speak. He clutched at his knees, eyes squeezing shut tightly to stop tears from flowing forth. He didn’t know how he still had so many left. He managed a single word, muffled into his legs.

“Scared,” he practically whimpered.

“Scared?” Henry repeated, and Jeremy gave a tiny nod. A pause. “What’re you scared of? Are you scared’a Ma?” A pause, no response from Jeremy. “What, scared’a ruinin’ the books, havin’ to pay for ‘em?” No response. “Lil’ J, are you scared’a me?” Henry finally asked, voice quiet.

The smallest of nods, a quiet hiccup of a sob that reverberated unnaturally in the tunnel.

A few beats of pause, a heavy sigh. “Slugger, I’m sorry I ever made you scared’a me,” he apologized, sounding truly remorseful, a little heartbroken. “I-I dunno what I did, if I seemed like I was pickin’ on you or bein’ threatening or whatever, but I’m sorry. I promise you, on my honor, on—on my life, on Gran’s grave, that I would never, ever, under any circumstances, hurt you.”

Jeremy shook his head. Another pause.

“…That’s not what you’re scared of?” Henry asked, clearly confused. “Then… what?”

He didn’t reply for a little bit. Moments passed as he sorted through words in his head, as he tried to swallow back the lump in his throat. Finally, Jeremy spoke. “I didn’t wanna disappoint you,” he managed, voice wobbly with grief.

“Oh, kiddo,” Henry said, sympathy embedded into his tone, and he allowed Jeremy to tackle him in a desperate, albeit awkward and cramped, hug.

“I—I’m sorry,” he sobbed, clutching at his brother’s shirt. “It-it-it was an accident, I swear! I didn’t mean to, but now they’re ruined an’ it’s my fault an’ you hate me, an’-an’ I can’t ever go home again if you hate me, because you wouldn’t want me there, an’ I-I didn’t know what to do!”

“Kiddo, a’course I don’t hate you!” Henry exclaimed, hugging tighter, surprised. “You’re my baby bro, that’s impossible! You can’t hate your baby bros, that’s—that’s probably illegal or somethin’! In at least like, thirty states!”

“Archie hates me,” he whined in protest, sniffling pathetically. “He says I’m just a big, stupid crybaby. An’—An’ Tony does, ‘cause I’m the youngest instead’a him, an’ the twins ‘cause they gotta babysit me all the time, an’—“

“Jeremy,” Henry said, tone as quiet as it always was, and he clammed up, quiet but for stifled, gasping sobs that shook his small frame. Henry didn’t speak for a few moments, just holding tightly, making the smallest of rocking motions, and soon enough the crying petered out into soft sniffles. “Lil’ J,” he began again, more gently, “I know for a fact that none’a the guys hate you. Jus’ because we get mad an’ say somethin’ stupid, that don’t mean we mean it. Everyone says stupid things when they’re mad, sometimes not even things that they mean, or things that’re true.”

The kid was quieter now, eyes just feeling heavy, head stuffed with cotton. “They don’t hate me?” he asked in the smallest voice Henry had ever heard from him.

“Nah,” Henry replied into his hair, still damp from rain, but his embrace was warm. “They don’t.”

A little more time passed in the concrete tunnel. But at some point, Henry had tapped him on the top of the head, and he blinked his eyes open.

“Hey, we should get goin’ home,” Henry said. “No fallin’ asleep on me. I’m strong an’ all, but I ain’t carryin’ you all the way back. That’d slow us down getting’ home, an’ everyone’s already worried sick about you.”

Jeremy nodded, and moved back, and Henry managed to struggle his way out of the tunnel, ending up in a heap just outside, groaning at his muscles’ protests. The tunnel really was much too small for him. Jeremy just popped right out and stood next to his brother, peering down with mild concern. “You okay?” he asked.

“I’m alright, just too old for playgrounds,” Henry had groaned, moving to stand, stretching his arms up above his head, wincing when his back popped.

“You’re like, a billion,” Jeremy had chirped, eyes big and innocent.

“Woah, ‘ey. A thousand at most,” Henry chided, feigning sternness. Jeremy giggled. “Alright, let’s go. Stick close, I didn’t wanna have to walk home in the dark like this, but special circumstances, y’know? An’ hey, the rain stopped, at least. Bright sides. Found ‘em. Found like, uh… Lil’ J, what’s a thing you find?”

“A prize in a cereal box,” he chirped.

“The differences in a spot-the-difference,” Henry countered.

“Dinosaur bones in the desert.”

“Cool stuff in garbage piles.”

“Garbage stuff in cool piles.”

“…Touché, little guy. Touché.”

Jeremy dutifully took his big brother’s hand, and they started making their way home. The streets weren’t empty, not by a long shot, but they were much quieter than usual once the sun went down and the last of the evening rush died down. They passed a pub from across the street at one point, and some older, stocky, red-headed men hollered and whistled at them with wide, sloppy grins. Jeremy waved back cheerfully with exaggerated motions, and Henry had just laughed, giving the men a mock salute.

“Do you know them?” Jeremy asked after they were well past the place.

“Nah,” Henry replied, still grinning. “Culture, though.”

“They’re Irish?!” Jeremy gasped, craning his neck to look back at them. The only Irish-Americans Jeremy ever met were his grandfather Pops and Pops’s old childhood buddies, and some of the older folks at their church. It was a heritage he’d never much inherited.

“Nope. Scottish, I think,” Henry replied, glancing back at the bar. “Or, at least the family that owns the bar is Scottish. It don’t matter, though. Redheads are redheads. Immigrants are immigrants. I mean, heck, people are people, y’know?”

Jeremy moved a hand up to his own head, to the tuft of reddish-blond hair poking from beneath his hat. “Yeah. People are people.”

That was that for another block or so. They were starting to get back to somewhere that looked familiar—admittedly, Jeremy had gotten himself hopelessly lost in his panicked run. In retrospect, it was either a miracle or proof of Henry’s incredible intuition that he’d been found at all, let alone in the same day.

Suddenly, as they stood waiting for a chance to cross the street, Jeremy spoke again.

“People are good,” Jeremy said, voice unwavering.

Henry looked down at him, surprised. “Huh?” he asked, blinking.

“People are good,” he repeated, turning his head up from where he’d been looking down at the sidewalk. “People do bad things an’ sometimes they get real scared an’ don’t know what to do, but they’re still good.”

Henry stared at his little brother for a few long moments. A few other pedestrians brushed past them as the light changed. Henry didn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah,” Henry finally agreed quietly, voice soft, mellowed. “People are good.”

They got home sometime real late—late enough that in the light just inside the door to the apartment building, Henry looked down at his watch with mild concern and panic. Jeremy kept holding on to his hand, looking up and waiting for Henry to figure out what to do.

Finally, Henry took a knee in front of Jeremy. “Okay,” he said, voice hushed. “Do you think Ma will be more or less glad that you’re home safe if you look like you’ve been cryin’?”

He thought about it. “…More,” he finally said with a decisive nod.

“Yeah, I figure too,” he said. He turned and fished through his bag, pulling forth a water bottle, unscrewing it and putting some water in the cap. “Okay, don’t blink,” he ordered, and splashed the water on Jeremy’s face.

“Ow!” he protested, moving to rub at his eyes, blinking up at Henry, disoriented. “What’s that for?”

“Now your face is wet an’ your eyes are all red. Proper cryin’ little kid,” Henry said, grinning cheekily. “I think your face is a lil’ pale, though. Hold still.”

He stood still as Henry tapped at the his cheeks with his hands, not slapping hard enough to hurt, but enough to get blood flowing. Henry fished in his bag some more and pulled out his wallet, sliding a shiny card from it and holding it up. Jeremy peered into it curiously.

He looked like he’d been sobbing only minutes ago. He beamed, which pretty much ruined the effect, but it was convincing.

“Good?” Henry asked, raising an eyebrow, smiling.

“Good!” Jeremy agreed with a nod.

“Sweet.” Henry held the door to the staircase open and Jeremy skipped through. “Okay, so if Ma asks, I found you at the park near where we live instead’a that one all the way over that way—you didn’t come out until the second time you heard me callin’, which was about… twenty minutes ago. Got it?”

“Yep!” he chirped, still smiling. “Got it!”

“Alright. An’ Ma is never gonna know about none’a this, an’ not the guys, either. This here is gonna be our secret. Cool?” He got another nod from Jeremy as they stood at the door to their floor. He smiled, a fondness there. “Also, I should probably mention. Y’know all those books you knocked over?”

Jeremy’s expression changed to downcast within a second. He gave a nervous little nod.

“Well, uh, guess what?” Henry asked, smile growing. “I uh, I didn’t need those no more. It’s summer, kiddo. School’s over. An’ they’re so old we couldn’t’a pawned ‘em off even if we wanted to. Fallin’ apart at the seams anyways. You didn’t hurt nothin’ important.”

Jeremy’s eyes lit up with wonder, and he looked at Henry as a grin split across his face.

“Yeah, good news, huh? But none’a that happy face once we get in there, c’mon now, be a professional here, slugger.” He quickly corrected his expression, and within a few seconds he looked suitably spooked and miserable. Henry gave a nod of approval and raised his gaze to the door, eyes twinkling. “Alright then, actors. Opening night. Spotlights on. Curtains up. It’s showtime.”

And then Scout woke up.

Chapter Text

Better than flying. Better than a caffeine high. Better than a reunion. Better than sex, drugs, and rock & roll. Better than fame. Better than money. Better than living forever, better than living like you were dying, better than dying in a blaze of glory and coming back more alive than ever. Better than friends. Better than family. Better than anything he’d ever felt before, better than everything he’d ever felt before, better than everything he’d ever felt before minus all the bad stuff.

That’s what it felt like as Scout really, truly ran again for the first time since the accident.

He’d already done laps around the base, yelling the whole time. While they’d been inside, the wind had picked up, blowing from the west and throwing up dust clouds—all of which Scout outpaced, running with the wind and feeling it pumping through his veins. He’d already lost his mind briefly over the color of the sand, of the sky—even before with the operation’s aid, the saturation had escaped him, washed out and dizzying rather than rich or deep. He’d moved on to running at full tilt around the sharp corners of the interior of the base, high-fiving the others when he passed them (Sniper having flopped back onto the couch with relief and some hard liquor the moment he’d heard Scout yelling from far away). He nearly cheered himself hoarse, sometimes slamming into walls as he took turns too sharply and skidded on the tile. Heavy had to stop him once, picked him up by the scruff of his neck like a kitten and held him still so Medic could heal the bruises that Scout hadn’t even noticed through the adrenaline rush.

He’d busted into his room and practically ripped open some of the boxes, moving to look through old sketchbooks and photo albums, excitement buzzing through his veins still even as he sat silently on the ground, overtaken and shaken with euphoria. He spent almost five minutes just looking around his room at all of the colors, the posters, the bedspread. He glanced over a book he’d snagged from home, not quite reading so much as admiring the insane amount of detail that each letter took on the page.

Sniper had found him like that not long later, just grinning a goofy grin down at a copy of god knew what, perfectly content to do so for the rest of the day. Scout looked up from the book, and he beamed, jumping up and deftly avoiding the clutter as he darted to stand before Sniper with perfect, practiced ease. Entirely mobile, extremely agile, light on his feet and with excellent balance. Exactly how he was meant to be.

Sniper had clearly had something to say when he entered the room, clearly had a good reason for tracking Scout’s place of residence down again, but the words died in his throat as Scout gently took Sniper’s face in his hands and just… looked at him, really looked at him, for the very first time.

Stubbly. That was the first thing Scout processed. He looked just as stubbly as he felt, and… man, his face had never seemed so expressive before. Had he gotten more expressive for knowing Scout? Was he just allowing it to be more visible now that Scout knew him better? Had Scout just not been able to appreciate it before since he didn’t know Sniper, either? Was it just more noticeable up close? Whatever it was, it was… good. And Scout’s memory had indeed served him right—Sniper was a really handsome guy.

Something Scout had learned back when he did art in school was the concept of color theory, how nothing was ever just one color, even if it was man-made. Shadows changed things, the color of the light in the area changed things, highlights and curves made every surface a thousand different hues, even if the object was only one color of paint. It was subtle, but so much more obvious now that Scout could see again. Bluer under the eyes, red at the nose and ears, subtle greys in the chin, warmer tones in the cheeks and cooler around the eyebrows. His irises, probably marked “Grey” on any official documents, were more of a bluish color in some places, grey in others, iridescent and currently darting around Scout’s face looking for answers, as if Scout ever had a good answer for the things he did.

Scout reached a hand to rake it through the hair on the top of Sniper’s head, grinning at him. “Nine outta ten,” he finally said, nodding to himself.

Sniper socked him on the arm, now going properly red-faced, setting his jaw to fight back a smile even as Scout laughed and pulled back a bit. “Shuttup, y’cheeky mongrel,” he murmured, glancing off to one side.

“What time is it?” Scout asked, deciding to cut Sniper a break.

“Oh. Er, dinner’s just up. You ran through it,” Sniper said. “Sorry, but. Nobody wanted to interrupt you doing… whatever you’d call that runnin’ around, makin’ a racket.”

“Rampage?” Scout suggested.

“Sure, close enough.”

“Well, at least I’m not hungry,” Scout said, shrugging, hands in his pockets. “So… no big deal.”

Sniper suddenly stood up a bit straighter. “Oh, but, I wanted to show you somethin’,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “An’… it’s sort of, y’know, time sensitive.”

“Yeah?” Scout asked, perking up. “Okay. Lead the way.”

He followed Sniper through the base, and realized they weren’t moving towards the common area like expected, or even towards the main exit. Instead they took a staircase upwards, a hall, another hall, a doorway, a second staircase, and Sniper was opening an innocuous-looking door there at the topmost step.

A gust of wind blew through the newly opened door and into the stairwell, swinging the door open wildly and forcing Scout to whip one hand up to save his hat and the other to the railing to save himself. Sniper had his arm up for his own hat as well, other hand still holding on to the knob, stood silhouetted in the now-open doorway as he was backed by brilliant copper-tinted light. Like the light of a bonfire, or the light shining off a bay, and his vest whipped along with the wind. He turned towards Scout, outlined in the light, perfectly calm despite the rebelling air. Scout’s heart skipped a beat as he looked up at the sight, blinking against the shine and the gradually dying gusts, momentarily moonstruck.

“After you,” Sniper finally said, the brilliant shadow gesturing for Scout to pass.

Scout could only nod.

He stepped through the doorway, and realized that they were on the roof of the base, a place Scout had only been to a few times and always forgot how to find. It seemed like the path to get there changed every time, and still couldn’t figure out how to get there even after being on the team for so long and having lived in the base so much. But the revelation of how to get to the rooftop was among the least important of thoughts on his mind just then.

Because before him, the sun was just barely beginning to sink below the horizon. Slowly. Steadily. Scout had frozen the moment his eyes locked upon it, every cell of his body going still. Not rigid or tense, but motionless.

…Sometimes, people try to take pictures of sunsets. They see one, and suddenly remember how beautiful they are, and gasp, and perhaps point at it should there be friends nearby. They feel their heart soar, or ache, or stall. They look at the landscape, and of course, they try to photograph it, to capture the beauty of that moment much in the same way that children capture fireflies in jars.

But the camera never quite catches the extent of the color, the fade between the sun and the opposite horizon. Those sorts of people are the types who have taken many pictures, of many sunsets, and the picture is never exactly right. The sun whited out, perhaps, or the oranges too red, and the yellows too orange, or the colors washed out with the rest of the sky much too dark.

And still, they try.

Before cameras, before pictures, and after those things as well, people still wanted to capture the sunset. So artists were either ushered or compelled forward to give the Sisyphean task a try. They picked up their paints, their charcoals, their pastels, their chalks, their colored pencils and their canvas or paper (based on personal preference). They stepped forward to take up the task.

And they too failed. The colors were too complex to paint quickly enough. By the time the very first hue was mixed, the sun would be nearly gone. The sky was painted from memory, which is among the most imperfect naturally occurring things in the universe. Some decided to return each day to the same landscape just before dusk, trying to capture the exact look of it, but never quite found it. Because the final product of that endeavor would not be a sunset—it would be the product of dozens of sunsets all layered atop one another, like dust over old furniture. Hundreds of landscapes, hundreds of works done through high-set windows, all made by artists looking to get it exactly right, and none quite found it. Instead, the picture, the moment, would slip through their color-stained fingers like sand or water or steam or wind.

And still, they try.

Some had no artistic talent. Their circles appeared wobbly and off-center, their squares listing gently into the title of rhombus, their rectangles tangled and triangles mangled and all lines they dared make unable to be wrangled. But they had their words, and some even had writing utensils. So the poets and writers stepped forward, a thesaurus at ready alongside a chart of the names of various colors. They fell into their seats, gazing out their windows or up from beneath their trees or down from their towers or into the reflection of a pond, and tried to explain with only words what a sunset was.

And they, too, failed. Because words are words. The light could never cascade from the page in the way that it cascades through the gaps between tree branches thrown against the sky, the colors listed do not gleam from within the ink, the feelings described are not universal, and are instead often exaggerated and turned into hyperbole. They attempt to turn the incomparable into similes and metaphors, just as this sentence was; a novice wizard’s failed transfiguration. That is to say, it is without meaning or significance. And even if the poet or writer so perfectly captured the sunset, it would still be just slightly off. Because their piece would take time to read, and could never perfectly convey how it feels in that split-second, instead revealing the sunset at the same speed at which the sun sinks below the horizon and finally dies. Of all mediums, writing was the furthest from conveying the precise notion of that beautiful solar wake and funeral.

And still, we try.

It is impossible to impart the dusk. It is too fleeting. Every attempt at doing so is unremarkable, ingenuous, analogous. Clumsy. But it’s what humans always try and do. Each hoping vainly that perhaps they will be the one to find the perfect resemblance of the precise moment the sun flickers from view over the horizon. Perhaps someday someone will manage it. Not just yet, though. Not just yet.

This story has already described many, many things. The love of a brother, or a son. The warmth of much needed friendship. The cold sting, or perhaps hot prickle, or perhaps heavy ache, or perhaps dizzying translucence of both mortal and irrational fear. An outline of the rain, a sketch of the feeling of music in your fingertips, a draft of improbable and wonderful coincidences, a hint of the sense one gets when sparring with an intellectual equal, a trace on the wind of the singular sensation that is taking someone’s hand to soothe them.

As we speak, at this very moment, the story is full to the bursting—practically tearing at the seams, seeping from beneath the door and overflowing from the goblet—when it comes to descriptions. Mostly of sound, or emotion. Perhaps each and every description was entirely necessary. Perhaps each short rambling on brotherhood and camaraderie, or the goodness buried deep in the hearts of humankind, or the imprecise speed at which a young, wounded heart beats when in love… perhaps they were all entirely necessary. Or perhaps not. Perhaps that babbling was nothing more than extra words and additional overly-flowery textual embroidery. The latter of the two is not unlikely, nor is it very hard to believe, nor is it even particularly untrue.

But in regards to the sight of the duskening sky in that particular moment, another description is not really necessary, even if it was sought for. There is no reason to try (and subsequently fail) to describe the freshly incepted sunset. That is because of one singular thing.

You have seen the sun setting before. It’s possible that the sun is setting off on the western horizon in the exact moment that you’re reading this—it’s not impossible; after all, it is setting as this is being written. You have seen a beautiful sunset. You remember the feeling of awe at the glory of it all, the ranging and raging and soothing palate of color. You remember the silhouettes of anything and anyone that tried to bar the view from you. You remember the slowness of the transition, the sun’s almost imperceptible motion down, and down, and down. You remember the colors cast upon the clouds in the sky, if there were any. If you live away from the city, you remember the sounds of crickets beginning to chirp, the birds falling away, the creatures of the day conceding to the creatures of the night.

You remember these things, much in the same way that Scout remembered his brother Henry, or Jack. Maybe the memory is foggy, but it is real. Maybe the memory is fleeting, but it is real. The difference between the two memories is that the sunset will always come again, soon enough.

We return to the roof. In the moment Jeremy O’Connell stepped through the door into the open air, and set his eyes upon the many colors of the sunset, he was struck with emotions that he hadn’t the vocabulary to express. The wind whisked past him, still warm from the day’s heat, yet to give way to the cold of the night. In a trance, he seemed to be. Unmoving. Unhearing. Trapped either tightly in the hold of the present moment, or a prisoner within the confines of his own head, bathed in light on the rooftop.

For moments, then minutes, then even longer, he stood there. Only when the western horizon was fading from cerulean to indigo and only when the sun was certainly gone did he move, head tilting to look up at the stars that had been appearing, one by one, so far above.

And on the rooftop, for just a little while, it was quiet.

Just…

Quiet.

Scout turned after a while, freed from whatever had bound him. Remembering that he’d had a guide, wondering what ever happened to him. As it turned out, Sniper hadn’t abandoned him, had just given him privacy, taking a seat in the shade of the structure of the staircase. He, too, was staring out at the sky, sunglasses removed, but his gaze was instead fixed on the eastern horizon. Scout sat down next to him and followed his gaze. The moon was sitting just above the canyons and mesas in the distance, and rising, gradually.

It was a beautiful night, it really was. The stars were clear and bright, this far out from civilization. Really, it was his favorite part of living out here. It had taken time to get used to the relative quiet during the nighttime. Eventually, he tuned in the sound of the wildlife, the bugs, the nearly too-far-to-hear coyotes, even an occasional owl. In the summer, there were sometimes fireflies as well, and Scout had to resist the urge to catch them.

On the roof, it was hard to hear the creatures, however. Instead, he could look at the stars, idly connecting dots.

“Y’alright?” Sniper asked, and Scout returned to looking at him. His brow was furrowed, crinkling with concern.

“Yeah,” Scout said honestly. “I’m good.”

“You’ve been crying,” Sniper said gently to counter him, raising a hand and brushing his thumb over Scout’s cheek, the digit coming away wet with tears.

Scout paused, raised a hand to his own face. Gave a breathless little laugh.

“What’s funny?” Sniper asked, no less concerned.

“It’s just weird,” Scout chuckled, moving to wipe clear his eyes and cheeks and chin, leaning against Sniper, smiling all the while. “I hadn’t even noticed.”

Time passed, the moon rising higher into the sky. Eventually, Sniper shook Scout from his doze against his shoulder, saying that they really shouldn’t sleep out in the cold, against a concrete structure, on the roof. Scout got up reluctantly, and Sniper let Scout pretend to pull the taller man to his feet. Then they started making their way through the base, and Scout led the way back to the camper.

Sniper unlocked the door without fanfare, flicking on the light and stepping inside. Scout followed just behind him, only to pause in the doorway for a few moments, head turning this way and that.

Sniper glanced back at him, sensing that he’d fallen behind. “Mate?” he asked, turning more fully to face him, frowning.

“Green, huh?”

Sniper glanced around at the walls of the camper, which were indeed a soft greenish-grey color. “Er… yeah,” he said slowly, hesitantly.

“Weird. I dunno why, but… for some reason I pictured orange,” Scout said. He finally stepped in, shutting the door behind him, still looking around. “In my head, this place looked…”

“Nicer?” Sniper offered, already wincing.

“Different,” Scout decided instead, moving towards the bunk. “Less homey, for one. Like… less lived-in I guess. Didn’t know about the posters.”

Sniper followed his gaze to the wall space beside the ladder, where a map of his home country was pinned up. He didn’t really have a reply for that, and scratched at the back of his neck nervously.

Scout hopped up to sit on the table, still looking around. Sniper was hesitantly moving through his routine, pausing occasionally and glancing over.

Finally, Scout broke the silence.

“Hey, Beanstalk.”

Sniper jerked, clearly startled at the noise. “Yeah?” he asked, trying to play it off.

“So uh, was that rooftop thing a date?” Scout asked, tone bright.

Sniper stared at him for a few long moments, then he broke into relieved laughter, leaning against the counter to steady himself, bowed forward with the force of it. The image of it looked even more wonderful than Scout thought it would, dropped feelings on him like a stack of bricks, and he was sent laughing too.

“I-I dunno, mate, do you want it to be?” Sniper asked once he got over the worst of it, eyes crinkling up with mirth still. “Don’t think it counts unless we both say it does.”

“Yeah, sure. And it was awesome, so now we don’t have to worry about the first date goin’ well,” Scout said with a shrug and an equally sized grin. “Since you’re the worrying type, that should be good for you.”

Sniper paused, then blinked in revelation, straightening up a bit. “Crikey, you’re right. That’s… that’s a good point, didn’t think of that,” Sniper said, clearly surprised. “Then… first date. Awright.”

“Done an’ done. Take it to the bank, boys,” Scout agreed, legs swinging lightly.

Sniper scratched at the back of his neck. “God, been a long time since I’ve dated. Aren’t I supposed to walk you home?”

“Well it’s a long way to Boston,” Scout said with a shrug and a smile.

“Oh, quiet,” Sniper said, flicking his arm, and Scout snickered. “You know what I meant.”

“Yeah. I mean, technically I walked you home, so we’re good there,” Scout said. “What else is on the first date checklist?”

“Er… aren’t we supposed to kiss?” Sniper asked next, leaned on the counter with his arms crossed.

Scout put a hand on his chest, exaggerating a look of affront and shock. “Are you insinuatin’ that I’m the type’a guy who kisses after just the first date?!” he gasped. “I was raised a good, proper Catholic boy, mistah! How so very dare you even suggest such a thing!”

Sniper was laughing again, and Scout dropped the act along with his hand, going back to grinning and swinging his legs idly.

“Well,” Sniper said once he recovered a bit, looking back up, “I’m sorry for insulting y’honor, there.”

“To answer your question, sometimes people do that, yeah,” Scout replied, letting up on the jokes just a bit. “But it depends.”

“Depends on…?” Sniper traild, raising an eyebrow.

Scout leaned forward a bit, grinning. “Do you wanna kiss me?” he asked, just a bit suggestive.

Sniper went red. He had to break eye contact, and after a second he hid his face in his hand, clearly flustered. Scout started giggling. “Shuttup,” Sniper groaned, embarrassed. “You can’t spend all that time bein’ unintentionally sweet an’ then suddenly do it on purpose an’ catch me off guard, it aren’t fair to the rest of us.”

“Aww. Well, sorry. Just thought it’d be funny,” Scout said, shrugging. “An’ to be fair, it uh, it totally was.”

Sniper glanced up from his hand, glaring a bit. “Well, no need to be pokin’ fun,” he muttered. “I can do that too, y’know, then you wouldn’t seem so clever, aye?”

“What? Catch me off guard?” Scout asked, raising an eyebrow. “I doubt it. I’d see it coming, now.”

“That a challenge?” Sniper asked, eyes narrowing.

“That a promise?” Scout countered, radiating a cheeky confidence.

“Alright,” Sniper finally sighed, moving to stand from his place leaning on the counter. “You asked for it.”

Scout watched with a bit of confusion (largely overshadowed with interest) as Sniper turned, walking over to the hook by the door. He retrieved his hat and glasses, putting them on calmly, without rush. Then he turned back to Scout and moved to stand at his full height, chin tilting ever so slightly up, shoulders squared. Scout blinked at the shift, suddenly reminded of just how much larger than him Sniper was, how much taller and stronger and broader at the shoulders. Sniper almost never stood up fully, and never tilted his head up like that, but he did just then and suddenly he was extremely intimidating.

The Australian took one, two, three long and unhurried strides towards him, one hand moving Scout’s knee aside so that Sniper could stand just at the table’s edge. The same hand fell just beyond Scout’s hip on the table to steady himself and further trap Scout in place in the same moment Sniper leaned forward, nearly chest-to-chest with him. Scout’s heart skipped a beat, and he leaned back a bit instinctively, only for Sniper to flick his cap off of his head and promptly catch him in place with his free hand, two fingers curled under his chin, thumb pressing just below his lip. With this grip, Scout’s head was easily, effortlessly tilted up so he would face Sniper head-on, their faces so, so, so close together.

Scout’s breath was shaky through his parted lips, heart beating a million miles an hour, butterflies tickling through his stomach. Sniper’s expression was passive, unreadable, eyes just barely visible through his sunglasses up this close, and they were locked on Scout’s and very intense.

“Whot’s wrong, pretty boy?” Sniper asked, voice low and rumbling through Scout’s chest like an earthquake, the thumb of his calloused, well-worn hand ghosting over his bottom lip in a single steady motion. “Cat got y’tongue?”

A few of Scout’s brain cells reactivated trying to supply him with some kind of answer, and Scout swallowed hard, moving to open his mouth and reply. Instead of words, only a weak, squeaking sort of noise escaped, and he shut his mouth firmly before it could happen again, face surely going scarlet (if it wasn’t already).

“I seem to remember warning you,” Sniper said, head tilting just slightly to one side, words taking a physical form in the form of his breath over Scout’s face, smelling just faintly of mint. He took his thumb from Scout’s lip, leaving behind a sort of tingling sensation, like electricity, turning his chin up even just a bit farther. His gaze flickered over Scout’s face before finding his eyes again. “Isn’t that right, love?” There was the slightest of winks at the last word, enough to nearly send a jolt through him.

Scout just nodded, a jerky little motion, swallowing again just before another embarrassing noise could escape his throat. The butterflies in his stomach had been replaced with bees, and surely his Uber valve was malfunctioning to make his heart beat like that.

“Not so smart now, are you, flustered like this?” Sniper asked with a leisurely blink, voice grating on the bottom of his vocal register, and Scout could listen to that voice reading the phone book. Scout could listen to that voice reading the ingredients off the back of a soup can. Scout could listen to that voice giving a play-by-play of paint drying. He would agree to just about anything that he was told as long as it was said in that voice.

And Scout somehow found his own, clearing his throat weakly, hands moving and gripping the front of Sniper’s shirt like a lifeline. “I-I, I change my mind about that, uh. That thing that I said earlier,” Scout managed to stutter, voice uneven and just a little bit high-pitched. Sniper raised one eyebrow over his shades, expression otherwise unchanging. “I-I might be Catholic, but I’m not any good at it, I—I’m definitely the type to kiss on, on the first date. For sure.”

That got Sniper to grin, shifting just slightly to accommodate for Scout’s arms. He removed the hand from Scout’s chin to pull his sunglasses back off, hooking them onto the front of his own shirt. Then the hand returned again, this time tangling into the short hair on the back of his head. “Then why don’t you come get one y’self,” Sniper said easily.

Within an instant Scout’s arms whipped up to wrap around over Sniper’s shoulders, pulling him down and kissing him silly, enough so that Sniper nearly lost his balance and sent them both tumbling down. The charged atmosphere was broken in an instant and they were both left giggling, kisses missing as they laughed, which only made them giggle even more. Scout’s cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, and Sniper’s eyes were all crinkled up with laughter.

That’s the moment that they both knew for sure that they’d be okay.

Chapter Text

He pounded his fist on Sniper’s door, shaking the entire camper just slightly. “Ay yo Stretch, wake up!” he called, morning air still crisp in his lungs, yet to give way to the day’s heat.

It had been a few months since the rooftop. Now that Scout could see, he hung out in his room when Sniper needed alone time instead of in the camper, where he was prone to waking the other man up with his shenanigans. They still often shared a bed, as doing so helped the both of them sleep better—Scout because he’d grown up sharing rooms and living spaces with people, Sniper because of paranoia and protectiveness over Scout (and, he admitted with a grin one day, because Scout was definitely a sleep-cuddler, but he was a liar and a fraud and Scout would deny it until he died, at which point he would deny it in his will). But now, sometimes Sniper could come stay in Scout’s room, where it was less of a walk to get to everything and so that he could access the shelf full of books and magazines Scout owned but had basically never touched.

For the most part, the team dynamic remained largely unaffected. At the behest of some of the other mercs (cough Spy, Medic, and Soldier cough), they were asked to limit the PDA in communal spaces, which was fairly easy for Sniper, who was already withdrawn around any group larger than three. They would still hang out and talk around the team, but they tried to keep sappiness to a bare minimum. Scout was usually the offender in terms of being too cuddly around others, but as much as Sniper blustered and huffed at him for his romantic displays, Scout knew he really liked the fact that Scout was willing to show affection around others—how unashamed he was.

On the battlefield, things were back to normal, outside of Scout having fewer BLU Spy sightings for a few weeks. In fact, their performance improved, the team suddenly more cohesive than normal, defense stronger and attacks hitting harder, overall morale staying high. It eventually evened out as the BLU team started getting spite-motivated, but even then, battles seemed just a little bit less like work for a while.

Medic’s operation that he performed on Scout was never replicated. He explained that it just wasn’t quite worth it for the cost and time, what with needing to replace Scout’s Uber valve and the cost of running the equipment, combined with the toll it took on both him and whoever the patient just so happened to be. That, and the fact that when Medic was explaining the aforementioned reasons to the team, he asked Scout just how the operation had felt. Scout had said with a more serious expression than most had ever seen on him that it was the most painful experience that he’d ever had in his life, so much so that he was fairly sure he’d very briefly lost his mind. Worse than every death he’d ever had combined, because he was in that pain for several hours without reprieve. After that, nobody much wanted to volunteer for the operation.

Scout wrote home a week after he got his sight back—something he hadn’t done for a while, usually preferring calls as his writing was slow and difficult to read, but he really wanted to after all that happened. He wrote home to Ma, told her that it had been cloudier than usual, and how the team was doing well, then about how he’d made a new friend of sorts, and that he was really happy.

He mentioned that this friend liked the same music as him, and played an instrument, and was always worrying over and protecting him even when he didn’t need protecting. He talked about how this friend was good at poker but awful at old maid, how he drank his coffee without any sugar or creamer or anything, how he always snored if he was uncomfortable or dreaming of something stressful. How he had an accent and refused to tell temperature in anything but Celsius, how he hadn’t liked sports much as a kid but had picked up on how baseball worked in about an hour flat, how he thought Scout was an animal for sleeping with socks on but was the type of person to wear sunglasses indoors. How he could sing the bass parts of songs but hated how his singing voice sounded, how he was so tall that he’d sometimes hit his head on the top of the doorframe if he was distracted, how he had a funny tan on his wrist where he always wore his watch when he went outside into the sun. It turned out he had a lot to say about this new friend.

In the envelope, he also put another piece of paper—a drawing Scout had made previously, copied from the original pencilled version, redone in pen. It had taken him a few hours to do the original, and a bit less time for the copy. Sniper had been sitting in Scout’s room at the foot of his bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, reading some play Scout had lied about reading when he was back in high school for both of his sophomore years. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, it was called. It took a bit of time to read, as the language was a bit difficult to understand and sometimes needed to be read and reread to make any sense, but Sniper had been getting there. He’d been sitting between Scout and the lamp on the table, and the way the light was thrown had reminded Scout so much of the day with the rooftop that his hands itched to draw it. He thought he’d captured the likeness perfectly, and Sniper was a great model—he was used to sitting perfectly still, after all.

Before he wrapped things up and signed the letter, Scout paused. Tapped his pencil on his desk a few times. Glanced over to where Sniper was sitting on his bed, this time against his headboard, eyebrows furrowed as he deciphered the book before him—the only book Scout had ever liked, about some little guy who ended up being a thief for a bunch of dwarves and a wizard, stole from a dragon and fought a battle. His teacher in second grade had read it aloud to the class, and he’d liked it so much that he hunted through every thrift store and pawn shop in town until he found a copy for himself. That same torn, tattered copy was now in Sniper’s hands, years and years later, with the request that he try his best not to give it to Pyro.

Scout turned back to the letter, and added just a bit more. About how he’d told this friend where he’d gotten the dog tags from. About how he’d told his friend about his struggle back in school. About how he’d told his friend a lot about himself, even though he wasn’t supposed to, because he trusted him. About how his friend wouldn’t hesitate to lay down his life for him. About how much this friend cared. So much. More than Scout had thought he was worth being cared for, all things considered. About how for the first time in a while, Scout wasn't just living in the moment; he was looking forward to the future.

He’d already asked a few questions about everyone back home, but he included one more right at the end, asking if it there would be room at the table for an extra plate when he next came home for holiday leave.

He signed the letter the same way he always did. “Love, Jeremy, one of your top eight favorite sons.” He carefully folded the papers and the picture up and put them in the envelope—it bulged slightly, but that was alright. Whenever he sent letters, they always did. Scout wrote the address and put two stamps on it and set it to one side so he’d remember to mail it the next morning once he got the chance, hopefully so it could get moving before Sunday rolled around.

Now, after some time, Scout and Sniper had a routine established. Whenever they didn’t sleep over, Scout would head over to Sniper’s camper in the morning to wake him up. On that morning a few months following the accident, Scout had gotten up bright and early so he could get ready with enough time to wake Sniper up, too. His first knock and call received no response, so he tried again.

“Ay yo, Legs! Beanstalk!” he called, pounding on the door again, loud enough to wake the dead. “It’s time to get up, come on, man!”

From within the camper came a reply, a sleep-hoarse yell etched with suffering. “Love, come on, it’s too early!” Sniper complained, voice muffled. “It’s still nearly dark out and breakfast aren’t even for another two hours on the weekend!”

“You’re right, but I still wake up at the same time, an’ do you know why?” Scout replied, voice raised to be heard, hands on his hips.

“Yes, I do, but I expect you’ll tell me any—“

“Because Saturday is leg day!” Scout cut in. “And you skipped last week!”

A loud groan of abject misery. “I’m not doin’ it an’ you can’t make me!” Sniper replied. “Not at this bloody hour on the bloody weekend before I’ve had me bloody coffee!”

“I fuckin’ swear, if you don’t open this door I’m gonna break in,” Scout said loudly.

“Like hell you will!” Sniper replied, voice muffled as if from beneath blankets. “Come back in an hour!”

Scout huffed, moving a hand to his bag and pulling forth a paper clip, bending to the lock on the door in question.

About two minutes later, he finally finished picking the lock, and the door was all but kicked open, banging against the inside wall. “RISE AN’ SHINE!” Scout shouted, and Sniper jerked upright, ruffled and baffled, just a little bit alarmed.

“How the hell did you—BUGGER!”

Scout had seized him by one ankle and pulled hard, and he was forced to catch himself before he could slam into the floor. He managed to land on his feet, but he looked torn between terrified and murderous.

“Gotta stay sharp, Shades!” Scout said, pushing the curtains open on one side of the camper, letting the sunlight spill directly into the space. Sniper cursed and shielded his eyes, and Scout handed him his sunglasses without fanfare. “Alright, seriously. Get dressed, you know you gotta keep a sleep schedule goin’ if you wanna stay on top of your game.”

Sniper recovered a bit from morning grumpiness as he woke up slightly, taking his shades and sighing. “I know,” he replied. “Usually it’s not half this bad.”

“You up late again?”

“Yeah,” Sniper admitted, moving over towards the bathroom. “Dunno why.”

“You know that you can just walk over and bust into my room whenever, right?” Scout said, leaning on the doorframe as Sniper moved to splash himself with water.

“It feels weird,” Sniper murmured in protest, glancing over as he tried to get his hair to not sit so oddly. “I don’t wanna wake you up.”

“An’ I don’t want you losing sleep,” Scout said stubbornly. “This is like, the third night in a row.”

“Well, it’s too hot to share a bed,” he protested next.

“There’s air conditioning and shade in the base,” Scout countered. “Next.”

“I hate having t’walk all the way there an’ back to get ready f’bed an’ in the morning.”

“You already have a ton of your stuff in my room, you could easily get ready and dressed in there if you wanted.”

Sniper didn’t have another retort, just staring down his reflection, jaw tight.

Scout took a breath in, exhaled. Stepped over to tuck in next to Sniper, who made room automatically. Stared at his own reflection. “You already lost a lot of sleep over me,” Scout finally said, gone solemn. “I don’t want you losin’ any more. Just… try an’ talk to me, okay?”

Sniper didn’t reply for a few seconds, then he sighed, visibly relaxing. He moved to pull Scout in front of him, arms winding around his torso, burying his face into Scout’s hair as he held him against his chest. “Alright,” he said quietly, “I’ll try. Promise.”

They stood like that for a few long moments, the atmosphere peaceful. Then Scout shifted a bit as if to move away. Sniper didn’t move, arms remaining around his chest. “Snipes? You gotta get ready.” No response. “You should get back to doing your thing.” No response. “You… you gotta let go eventually.”

“No I don’t,” Sniper replied, muffled. “I live here now.”

“Snipes!” Scout protested, trying to wriggle his way out and fighting down a grin, but Sniper’s grip just tightened. “Come on, man! We got stuff to do!”

“That’s a shame, because this is your new life,” Sniper replied, tone not rising despite Scout’s struggle. “Right here. Forever. Not sure how eating an’ whatnot will work, but you can figure out the mechanics of it. You won’t have a choice, really, because I’m never moving.”

“Dude, you’re not gonna have time to shave!” Scout protested, straining to get Sniper to at least move. It wasn’t working.

“Thought about growin’ it out a bit, actually,” Sniper said, tone as calm as anything. “Might be nice to not need to take care of it so much.”

Scout stopped his struggling when it became clear Sniper would keep him there until he saw fit, giving a light but affectionate sigh. “Think that’ll take long?” he asked. “To grow out?”

“Nah, not with the look I’ve got in mind,” Sniper replied. “Just a week or so maybe. ‘Sides, havin’ a bit of stubble’s got another upside.”

“Yeah?”

He felt Sniper’s face shift slightly. He sounded like he was smiling when he next spoke. “The fact that you love it so much.”

Scout felt himself turning red. “No I don’t!” he quickly protested, fighting to keep his expression in check, staring at himself in the mirror instead of literally anywhere else.

Sniper huffed a laugh, rocking them both slightly. “Oh, so you’d rather I don’t grow it out?” he asked innocently.

“N—“ Scout bit back the “no” that tried to fly from his mouth. “Um. I mean, you do what you wanna do, I, I’m indifferent. Doesn’t matter to me,” he lied. “No opinion.”

“No opinion?” Sniper repeated, leaning his head just a bit further forward so his cheek brushed Scout’s, morning shadow scratching lightly at the smooth skin, looking at him in the mirror. Scout bit the inside of his lip, keeping eye contact with himself. “None at all? That’s a first, you have opinions on everything.”

“Uh. It’s your choice, I meant. Up to you.” He resisted the very real urge to press closer to that cheek. Just barely resisted it.

“Hmm. Well.” Sniper turned his head and pressed a quick peck to Scout’s temple before finally releasing his grip, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “I think I’ll grow it a bit, then, if only because it’s convenient.”

“Okay.” Scout moved to get out of his way, still a bit red in the face.

Finally, about ten minutes later, Sniper was ready, and he managed to convince Scout to let him get coffee and breakfast before they worked out, just for the sake of morale. They started making their way over to the base so they could eat, but before they could get there Scout glanced up and stopped in his tracks.

Sniper stopped too. “Hmm?” he inquired, also looking up. Nothing but a few clouds overhead, not even rain clouds. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Scout didn’t answer, instead turning to look the direction they’d come from. Off to the east beyond the camper and the desert, the sunrise was in full bloom. Scout stood stock-still, eyes trained on the sight, fixated.

Sniper let him stay there for a good few minutes, but finally he elbowed the shorter man, breaking him from his trance and making him glance up. “Don’t wanna be late, aye?” he reminded gently, as he always did whenever this happened, which was rather frequently. Scout blinked a few times as he seemed to return to the present moment, glanced back at the sunrise. Then after another few seconds, he nodded, turning away and walking again.

He didn’t look back as they entered the base.

“You alright?” Sniper asked gently, taking his hand and swinging their arms lightly.

“Yeah,” Scout said with a nod, looking at Sniper with a genuine, lopsided grin. “Just a nice view.”

-The End-