Work Text:
self-lacing-nikes asked:
How about "Epiphany" (for the headcanon thing)?
Scout/Pauling - Epiphany
She fell in love with him for a single shining moment in the late afternoon sunlight, when he didn’t realize she was watching. She was not supposed to be watching. The cameras in the base weren’t there for her benefit, The mercs were done for the day. Miss Pauling was just supposed to be picking up a briefcase. She had lingered, for no particular reason, when movement caught the corner of her eye.
On the screen, for one of the exterior cameras, just the sight of him stretching, yawning, unfolding where he’d been sitting in the corner of the courtyard. Miss Pauling hadn’t noticed he was there, she had walked right past him. She noticed him now.
Just tall and lean and unaware of anyone watching, with his hands swinging at his sides, picking his bat up from the ground, tapping dust from his cleats. Picking up the messenger bag he carried everywhere, dropping it back over his shoulder, cinching it tight across the small of his back. If she’d had the sound on, she might have caught the barest hint of him singing to himself, just under his breath.
With the screen muted, she didn’t catch the sound that made him look up, over his shoulder, not at the camera but near enough to it that she saw his eyes, and the nonchalant way he had of half-smiling at everything. He waved to someone. Not to her. She was transfixed, though, and absently lifted a hand, waving shyly back. Then he laughed at someone, someone else, and vanished from the frame.
Miss Pauling realized her cheeks had flushed warm. She coughed, cleared her throat. Grabbed the briefcase. Smoothed a hand down her skirt. This was no time to be unprofessional.