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“Ah crap—hold on—I'll be right back, I gotta go iron my shoelaces."
"What?" Sniper asks.
But Scout is already gone. Apparently off to iron his bloody shoelaces. What kind of lunatic irons his shoe laces? And why would he leave mid-conversation to do so? Did Sniper bore him?
Feeling a bit miffed, he finishes his beer and decides to head back to his van.
"Man, Spy's such a bluenose," Scout complains, once he's in ear-shot.
"What?" Sniper asks.
"I walked into his smoking room n' he didn't have his gloves on. He screamed at me all red-faced like I'd just peeped up his skirt or somethin'." Scout cackles in that weird way that he always does. "It was hilarious, I'm tellin' you. You shoulda seen it."
"I'm sure it was," Sniper mumbles.
He's not in the mood for conversation. Especially not after Scout bailed on him Sunday night to "iron his shoelaces." He's (mostly) sure he didn't actually iron his shoelaces and just wanted to blow him off, but...
"—Hey, are you mad at me or somethin'? You've been ignorin' me all week. I just wanna talk."
"Talk is all you do," Sniper grumbles. "And you never listen."
"Wh-hat? That's total baloney. I was listening to you talk about 'gators all Sunday night. Which, you totally ditched me, by the way, not cool."
Sniper clenches his fists.
"I ditched you?"
"That's what I said, bird-for-brains."
"Oh that is bloody it, you damn piker—"
Sniper turns and he throws his entire body-weight into a punch. Scout evades him, just barely, and he stumbles and almost falls onto his face. Which is, undoubtedly, bright-red with rage.
"Woah-woah-woah! What the hell's your problem?"
Sniper screams and throws himself again. This time, he manages to tackle Scout, and they both hit the ground with a grunt. Dizzied from the fall, and lightheaded from the rage, Sniper doesn't have enough energy to throw punches. So he lays there, on top of Scout, with an iron-grip on his shirt. Scout groans.
Sniper sighs heavily through his nose and rolls off of him. Scout cusses under his breath and rubs his chest.
"...You're a real jerk, y'know that?"
"S'you who's the jerk," Sniper grumbles, glaring at the sky.
"I didn't do nothin'!" Scout protests. He sits up, and Sniper can see he’s frowning at him in his peripherals.
Sniper flops his head to the side so he can glare at Scout.
"You left in the middle of our bloody conversation to 'iron your shoelaces.'"
The anger disintegrates from Scout's face and is replaced by confusion. He blinks, he purses his lips, and then he smiles; in a suppressed and crooked kind of way that tells Sniper he's trying not to laugh.
"Hold on." Scout lowers himself back down, lazily, this time on his stomach, so they can be at eye-level. "What'd you think I meant by that?"
"I don't know. I thought you had gone completely mental. Who irons their bloody shoelaces?"
Scout's lips tremble. He manages to stay composed for exactly two seconds before erupting in uproarious laughter. Sniper grimaces and crosses his arms.
"What? What's so bloody funny?"
Scout attempts to explain, but is continuously interrupted by his own laughter. He stutters, he laughs, and then he coughs.
"Oh god. Oh my freakin' god."
"What?" Sniper demands.
"Sorry, I just—you thought that I—oh my god. I meant I had to go to the bathroom, man, haven't you ever heard that before?"
Sniper blinks. He looks up at Scout.
"What."
Scout smiles again, this time sympathetically; his buck-teeth on full display.
"Iron my shoelaces. It's a way to say you need to go to the bathroom."
Sniper chooses to stay silent and faces the sky. He reaches up and scrubs his face with his hands. Sigh.
"You gotta be kidding me."
Scout laughs again and lays down beside him. He puts his head on Sniper's shoulder.
"It's okay, pal. I forgive you."
"I don't want your bloody forgiveness," he grumbles.
Scout takes his hand and squeezes it. Sniper sighs and reluctantly squeezes back.