Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Bad Habits

Although the day had just begun, the prospective workload ahead of Miss Pauling was already packed. Almost as if the Administrator was squeezing her every minute on the clock for any last dregs of productivity before begrudgingly letting her off the hook for 24 hours.

Miss Pauling’s single day off per year.

And despite having the same routine each morning for the past however long, Miss Pauling always managed to find herself in a hurry. With agitated haste she wrestled her hair into its large bun, lost a minute trying to force the metal zip on her skirt that constantly caught, and eventually slammed the apartment door behind her with her jacket still half-sleeved. Rushing to the exit corridor, her shoes that always slipped off at the least opportune moment did just that, threatening to trip her down three flights of stairs – Miss Pauling only just managing to survive the descent intact. Outside at last, she vaulted over her Vespa, and the hole in her tights tugged apart even more. Miss Pauling clumsily fastened the buckle of her lavender bike helmet and set off into the city.

It was unlike Pauling to daydream, but as she travelled in the dawn light through the waking urban landscape, she began to wonder what she would even do on her day off. The infinite possibilities available in the immediate New York area seemed too overwhelming to choose from. Perhaps she would just spend time investigating the sharks that eponymously gave the nearby harbour its name - and their alleged penchant for man-eating, which already intrigued her, as it could come in very handy when clearing up the aftermath of whatever battle was scheduled to occur that week.

And there she goes again, Pauling thought to herself. Even her holiday plans weren’t spared the corrupting filter of her workaholism. She couldn’t help it.

After a full morning of running between Bidwell’s office and Saxton Hale’s armoury department, then a full afternoon submerged in the Administrator’s paperwork at [LOCATION REDACTED], Miss Pauling hopped on her Vespa for the penultimate time, and headed to the coastline to deliver her final assignment of the day. The RED mercenaries were situated in a brick-built warehouse in the harbour district; the slight stench of fish, and perhaps a tinge of gunpowder, was a dead giveaway – it was definitely the right place.

Plaice?

Stick to the program, Pauling.

Miss Pauling finished handing out a set of documents to all the mercs sitting at the rec room table. “I won't be able to answer any questions until I get back, so please read things over. In detail.” As she began to pack things onto her vespa, a figure stepped forward from the shadow of the awning.

“May I have a moment of your time, Mademoiselle?”

Pauling briefly startled, then realised who the figure was – Spy, being Spy, lurking as usual, accompanied by his inseparable trail of smoke. “Oh, Spy. Didn’t… see you there. You’ll have to make it quick. The admin needs these files returning before I clock out, and then… well, tomorrow is my only day off.”

“Indeed. About that incident last time-”

“Spy, you don’t have to mention it. I know you were the one behind that whole matchmaking thing.” She stared off at a patch of wall for a moment, caught in a distracted reverie. “It was such a weird day…”

“I-” Spy tried to interject once again, but Miss Pauling continued rambling on her train of thought, something she was wont to do when anxious or in a hurry. “I know you probably meant well, but ever since I promised Scout we’d hang out on my vacation, he’s been pestering me non-stop to remind me about it. And now that I actually have a day off, I’d rather it be a day off from him.”

“Then it is fortunate that our intentions are congruous. Miss Pauling, as invigorating as combatting bread monsters may be, you were called to clean up our mess once again - even though you were off duty. For that, I believe we owe you a debt; a day of uninterrupted respite, sans-life threatening danger… and sans-Scout.”

Miss Pauling put down her satchel and eyed Spy quizzically. “Where are you going with this, Spy?”

Despite her apprehension she had no plans set in stone. Whatever Spy was planning couldn’t be much worse than pulling teeth from the hundredth corpse that week.

Spy flicked the remainder of his cigarette out of the garage’s threshold. “I have an offer for your consideration. Perhaps it would be clearer if I showed you.” As he was about to turn on his heel, he looked back at Miss Pauling and raised an eyebrow. “And for the record, concerning any ‘matchmaking’, it was all Scout’s idea; I merely humoured his request for some life advice.”

Pauling found herself following Spy to his smoking room, growing ever more baffled by what he possibly had in mind that required this level of secrecy.

“Do I have your word for the utmost confidentiality?” Spy asked, as he leaned into a nook in the wall, which moments prior was covertly obscured behind a hanging painting. Pauling nodded, only for her apprehension to melt away to amused surprise when the safe unlocked with a click, and Spy produced a bundle of papers which thunked onto his mahogany desk: glossy magazines which spread out to reveal titles such as ‘La Mode’ ‘Chic Parisienne’ and ‘States of Style’.

“Oh!” Miss Pauling exclaimed, part relieved, still part bewildered, only now for different reasons. “Fashion, of course. Yeah, I’m really into... fashion...”

Miss Pauling couldn't remember the last time she had even set foot in a clothes store, let alone looked at a catalogue. There was simply never enough time in her day to worry about her appearance, only the morning routine she had habitually committed to muscle memory. The bare necessities of a practical hairstyle, minimal makeup and predetermined uniform meant she could start her day without thinking twice. What more could she need?

“It has come to my attention...” Spy began, “...That as much as I admire your unfaltering devotion to your work, it has evidently left you with no time to explore the options of more suitable apparel.”

“Thanks. Wait, hey!” Miss Pauling replied, realising the backhanded compliment. She shuffled awkwardly on the spot, suddenly painfully aware of her shortcomings in the fashion department. Sure, her skirt had a dropped hem, her favourite blouse had a few threads coming loose, and her shoes were getting a little worn, but… “What I have now is fine, I mean, I wear it every day…”

Spy looked her dead in the eyes, and his façade of charm completely melted away to apathy. “The ladder in that sorry pair of tights you have been wearing out for the past three years would beg to differ.”

“It can't be that bad?”

“Pull yourself together Pauling, your clothes are a nigh-on safety violation.” Spy said, then cleared his throat. “If you will, please allow me to accompany you on a tour of the local fashion district tomorrow.”

Pauling looked up at him, feeling conflicted. She didn’t deserve this. Or even if she did, she was the last person in the world who would be able to make the most of such an opportunity.  “I'm flattered Spy, really, but I don’t see what you get out of this.”

 “As you can imagine, my dullard colleagues do not share any interest in the art of sartorial taste. Pyro exhibited some curiosity, but I suspect they saw these exclusively imported volumes as nothing more than fodder for a flammable arts and crafts project. Hence the security.” Spy then carefully picked up one of the glossy volumes and leafed through it wistfully. “The truth is I have rather been missing the indulgence that is being immersed in the world of tailoring.” He placed the magazine back with others piled on the desk. “Alas, nothing will surpass my tenure in Paris when I was a close associate of Louis Crabbemarché...”

“You know Louis Crabbemarché?!”

“I… worked with him for a time, many years ago.”

Something about that sounded familiar to Pauling; a section in Spy’s file about his activities pre-Mann Co involving a fashion magnate scandal and subsequent assassination. That definitely tracked. Now that her interest was piqued, Pauling mused on the idea of getting her hands on those archives again, though she would have to rustle up a good excuse for the Administrator to justify it. Another time, then. For now, Pauling looked back at the magazines. Though they were worlds away from her normal reading material, why not treat this like any other research project? Clothes or not, if there was one thing Miss Pauling was at least slightly competent at, it was learning new things quickly on the job. And Spy seemed to be the closest thing to an expert on this subject that she knew of.

Spy slid the stack of papers towards her then lit up a new cigarette. “Consider this a preparatory assignment for the ‘mission’ ahead.”

That night, Miss Pauling leafed through the brochures and magazines with the same devotion she committed to the Administrator’s autopsy reports. Instead of dour mugshots and bloody forensic evidence, she carefully examined images of space age catwalk glamour and elegantly styled models. Her head swam with a flood of new words and names: André Courrèges. Pierre Cardin. Mary Quant. Slowly, as she acquainted herself with the linguistics and lore the of the fashion world, the realisation dawned that outside her window at that very moment - New York - was one of the happening places to be when it came to clothes.

Spy must have had this scheme in place for a long time, waiting for some particular stars to conveniently align.

Deep down, she would secretly admit to herself that an excitement stirred. But ever the realist, Miss Pauling still paused to consider the ludicrous scenario that she was, after all, about to go fashion shopping with one of her homicidal colleagues. Albeit one of the less idiotic ones. Well, stranger things had happened; bread monsters, for a start. Maybe it wasn’t a completely stupid idea after all…

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: A Model of Practicality

The city blocks of Fifth Avenue stretched onwards and upwards for miles, the glinting glass of shop fronts encrusting the street like the sparkling expensive gemstones they housed within. Miss Pauling and her taller, well-attired associate disembarked from their taxi, right outside the entrance to their premier destination of the day. Spy tipped the driver generously. On this occasion, he was wearing a thick overcoat and a fedora on top of his habitually permanent balaclava; a combination that in theory would have looked absurd on anyone else, but Spy carried it so naturally, as he seemed to manage with all of his styling choices. Miss Pauling was wearing her usual work clothes and coat, which, given that her wardrobe had very little variation and mostly contained duplicates of the same pieces, made it look like she was wearing the exact same outfit as the day before. And the day before that. And the day before that…

Before them was the entrance to a grand art deco era department store; the building’s double height doors were clad in gold coloured metal, flanked by pillars of brilliant white marble. Glimpsing into the lavishly decorated window displays with their expensively dressed mannequins filled Miss Pauling with unease. She was beginning to think was a stupid idea after all.

“I don't really feel like I belong here…”

Spy waited out her hesitance, which he predicted might have happened, and took another drag from his cigarette. “And you presume I do? I doubt that ‘Belle Lady’ has me in mind as their target customer.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I should just go, I probably ought to be-” Pauling stammered.

“Filing armament stocktaking ledgers?” Spy slyly jabbed, snubbing the end of his cigarette on the sidewalk with his shoe.

With Spy following closely behind, Miss Pauling made the step across the threshold into a world altogether unfamiliar to her. The concourse’s ceiling vaulted up into the heavens, where a grand chandelier hung down in a glinting cascade of crystal. All around were arcade shops bursting with bright pastels, floral prints, shimmering fabrics, and all manner of items she couldn’t imagine the function of. She had no idea where to start.

“I can't possibly go in any of these places, they look far too expensive!” Miss Pauling hissed aside to Spy.

“For today, money is no object. We came here for a reason, so unless you would rather turn down my offer…” Spy said, to which Miss Pauling responded with an apologetic look, making Spy smirk. “I’m surprised, Miss Pauling, I’ve never seen you quite so nervous before. Profiling criminals? Witness cleanup? Raiding Hale’s own weapon supply? And yet here you are made anxious by clothes, of all things…” Spy let himself indulge in teasing for just one moment, then took pity and directed Miss Pauling over to the first boutique. “We are not leaving until you try at least one item on.”

Barely an hour into the mission, Miss Pauling had sampled more outfits than she had ever owned in her entire life. From miniskirts to wool coats, scarves to socks, every conceivable item from head to heels, it was on the 49th pair of pumps that Miss Pauling realised her own exhaustion. She hadn’t anticipated that trying on an endless supply of luxury clothing would be such a workout, even with assistance. Being totally out of her depth didn’t help.

“Spy, it’s not that I don’t appreciate all you’re doing for me, but I just have no idea what ‘good’ clothes are supposed to be. Looking fashionable is the last thing I have to worry about in my job.” She sighed and wrangled a green shoe off her foot.

“Clothes are not all about looks,” Spy began. “Miss Pauling, why do you think I choose Louis Crabbemarché suits, over any other?”

Miss Pauling opened her mouth and stuttered in place of lacking an answer, but Spy continued, rolling his eyes. “That… was a rhetorical question. While it is true that stylish tailoring and the prestige of a brand are a deciding factor, I need a suit that can withstand anything I may require of it. Durable seams, quality lining, and ample pocket space while retaining a flexible well-fitting silhouette. You see?” Spy vaguely gestured to his whole outfit, smoothing over the pinstripe jacket, and displaying the crisp line of its cuffs. Pauling tried to study the suit carefully, but her brow was furrowed in concentration.

“I... guess?”

“Try this.” Spy sighed and handed her a new shoebox. “Ask not how well you suit the clothes; instead, ask how the clothes may better suit you.”

Miss Pauling mused over that thought as she absent-mindedly slipped into the next pair of shoes – a habit of autopilot she had only just developed having tried on so many that day. She shuffled around in the stiff patent leather, when suddenly she blurted out:

 “I wonder if they have something like this but with a slightly rounder heel?”

She looked up awkwardly and was about to retroactively conjure an apology when a shop assistant (who had either been lurking or seemingly materialised instantly) smiled cheerfully with an “Of course!” and darted off.  Up until that point Miss Pauling had just impartially tried on whatever article had come her way. But now, realising that she maybe did have a set of specifications in mind for her wardrobe, it granted her a newfound direction. Maybe she did prefer her shirts a little looser fitting. Or her skirts just an extra half-inch shorter to account for her height. Fifty different shoes didn’t look quite so identical anymore, and eventually all of Miss Pauling’s apprehensions melted away letting her give in to the fun of it all.

“It’s pretty. Though isn’t this skirt a little on the short side?”

“Ultra durable Lycra you say? I can’t count the number of times I’ve torn a ladder chasing after a target.”

“Wow, I never really considered pants before, but this would offer so much more freedom of movement when I suddenly need to dig a grave!”

“Does this come in purple?”

All the while, Spy looked on with a smug expression of satisfaction: the grin of a man who had won a personal bet with himself.

“Excellent.”

Back at the base, a very restless Scout had been pacing around, deliberately emphasising his trudging footsteps on the dusty concrete floor. Pacing around rather like an agitated animal in a cage, or perhaps more so like a shark circling in its aquarium. Just like the one in that very building, where the tank spanned the entire wall in the control room; its elasmobranchian inhabitant an unwitting eavesdropper on all the schemes that transpired below. Although a handful of other mercenaries sparsely populated the warehouse rec room, none of them paid attention to the Boy Wonder’s whine of the day.

“Yeah, Miss Pauling’s gonna be coming round, you’ll see. We have an agreement y’know, we’re… uh… close like that. Whenever she has a day off, boom, she’ll call me.” In true Scout fashion, he voiced his concerns aloud in the hope of garnering attention, but with enough boastfulness to protect his ego. Demoman was passing through a door at the corner of the building, merely entering to head off to another part of the base, but Scout had already rushed up to pull him aside, tugging on the red sleeve of his uniform.

“Hey Demoman, have you seen Miss Pauling around?”

“Eh? Uh, sorry lad.” Demoman shrugged to brush him off, but his uncertain tone betrayed a hint to the contrary. Engineer, who up until then had been casually leaning by the fridge, vaguely noticed the exchange, and tensed up as Scout then set his sights on him with the intent to interrogate.

Scout pointed at the Engineer accusingly. “Hey what’s the big joke here? Do you know where Miss Pauling is?” He demanded.

“I… don’t think you wanna to know the answer to that one, son.” Engineer cautiously advised, casting a warning glance to Demo.

Demo’s attempts to appear casual were all in vain, as he struggled to stifle his laughter from bursting out at the seams. “Well lad, I did see the lass leave this morning… with Spy.” He chuckled. The Engineer winced, putting a gloved hand to his forehead.

“What?! You're lyin’ pal. No way!” Scout rebuffed, red in the face.

In spite of Engineer’s attempted warnings, upon seeing Scout so riled up Demo was unable to contain his mischief for any longer. The floodgates opened and the Scot let out a hearty knee-slapping guffaw. “Spy going off with your girlie! Oh, this is priceless!”

Scout gritted his teeth, tape bound fists clenching by his sides. “That double-crossing scumbag. I'll show him.”

Air conditioning and sound system pumped music was at last traded for the refreshing outdoors and chorus of bustling city traffic, as Miss Pauling and Spy stepped back out onto the street, released from the fortress of finery. Or, at least the kind of limited outdoor refreshment that the streets of New York could offer, as Miss Pauling could catch only a momentary breather before the crisp air was smothered in a familiar smoke: Marlboros. While miss Pauling was completely overladen with a tower of boxes and bags that was ready to topple at any moment, the blissfully unburdened Spy lit up one of his favourite cigarettes.

The agreement was that Spy would pay for the clothes. He never said anything about helping to carry them.

Despite it being her day off, that moment reminded Miss Pauling that there were some workplace mindsets that she could never shake, having been arduously drilled into her from the very beginning of her tenure under the Administrator. Ever observing the mercenaries for scraps of intel at the Administrator’s behest, even on ‘social’ trips like this, Miss Pauling noted that Spy had not once reached for a cigarette the entire time they were shopping; their excursion must have had as much of a soothing effect on his nerves as he had insinuated. Despite being a horrendous chainsmoker herself, The Administrator always chided Miss Pauling for not prodding the men enough about bad their habits that may affect performance on the battlefield. Ironically, already being such a ramshackle group, the mercenaries’ little dependencies were sometimes the very thing motivating them to get to the warzone in the first place. Pauling didn’t fancy being the one austere enough to deprive them of their only comforts out in the field. Placated mercs were a handful enough to deal with already.

Which brought her back to the situation at hand: Spy had been uncharacteristically… kind all day. The last time he had suggested a ‘fun’ activity led to her being forced to learn piano via electroshocks, and on another occasion, wine tasting (thankfully electroshock free). Though if Miss Pauling was being perfectly honest, it was hardly an improvement, as she had found that to be equally pleasant - i.e., not very much at all. As much as it was an enigma to be gifted such a rare prospect like this, Miss Pauling figured it would be best to accept it gratefully at face value rather than worry about ulterior motivations.

Her attention was quickly redirected to the task of trying not to fall over in the street. It was nice to finally enjoy and indulge herself, although she was now very much feeling the weight of her purchases as she staggered away from the department store.

“Thanks Spy. This was… very generous of you.”

“The satisfaction has been all mine, Miss Pauling.” Spy replaced his cigarette case back inside his jacket with graceful ease. “However, we have unfinished business. There is one last place we must visit.”

Miss Pauling’s face failed to mask her weariness. “I can’t carry any more if I tried, I’ve already lost sight of the ground.”

Spy leant out into the road to hail a taxi. “That won’t be an issue. In fact, you may find it taking a little weight off the top.”

She didn’t expect to be so jumpy at the prospect of getting a haircut. But before Miss Pauling could even protest, she was wrapped in a robe, seated in a plush leather chair, and found herself at the mercy of a manicure, pedicure, and overly enthusiastic hairbrush simultaneously. The hairdresser listened to her effuse verbiage with angelic patience, silently devising the perfect coiffure to suit to her long-winded explanation of practical demands.

 “Well, you know I don’t really have time to spend on my hair every morning. So it can’t be complicated. Best not to go too extreme with it, but then again, I don’t think I’m ready to go super short either. But I always end up tying my hair back… oh god. Do we really need to do this? Maybe just a quick trim instead. It’s just hair…”

“On the contrary.”

Spy said, somewhere off to her right. He was lounging in the luxury waiting area, which featured complimentary champagne. No doubt an expensive vintage, Miss Pauling was relieved that the drink hadn’t been offered to her yet. Fortunately the makeover rendered her hands inoperative, so she had a polite excuse to turn it down if it came to that eventuality.

Spy hadn’t actually looked up from his newspaper, but still continued the conversation.

“Take it from my experience Miss Pauling - dressing for the job can mean more than simply looking the part, and every last detail matters. When you take your appearance seriously, you may find others taking you more seriously too.”

“Are you suggesting…?” She turned her head to look at Spy, only for the hairdresser to counter her squirming and face her back towards the mirror so he could continue his process. Miss Pauling watched the beauticians at work for a few moments, seeing how they snipped away increments of her dark wet hair and transformed her slightly bitten fingernails into delicately polished points.

“I don’t think Scout even understands the concept of someone being out of his league. I once caught him drunkenly hitting on a dispenser that had the Administrator’s picture taped to it.” She said.

Spy chuckled.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Dressed for the Job

Miss Pauling’s battered alarm clock buzzed angrily in her ear.

Walking miles of department stores the previous day had taken its toll. If only she had just a little longer to rest…

Her eyes lazily began to shut again, daring to sink back into sleep – until she bolted upright and realised in horror: she had slept in by an entire minute! Miss Pauling would be late for work!

She threw herself out of bed and launched into her habitual routine: teeth brushed, face washed, and speedy makeup done. Perhaps it was down to the lingering daze of sleep or the fact she hadn’t put her glasses on yet, but she paid no mind to the slightly less familiar reflection in the mirror that morning. She dragged a brush through her hair, fixed a hairclip to the longer strand of her bangs, and was ready to go; thanks to the hairdresser’s work there was no longer the need for her finicky updo. Without second thought she put on the new clothes she had laid out the previous night: not yet aware that her skirt zipper closed smoothly without catching; her jacket slipped on with ease, and as she ran down the stairs her shoes stayed firmly on her feet without jeopardising her balance. As Miss Pauling swung over the seat of her moped, her new tights showed no mark of tearing. It was only then she noticed, as she revved the bike’s handle and checked her watch, that she was not one minute late, but actually five minutes early.

A fact that even surprised the Administrator, seeing Miss Pauling burst into the office and clock in at an interval that wasn’t ‘barely on time’. And doubly surprised, as her assistant no longer looked like a haphazard heap of hand-me-downs.

“It is nice to see you finally dressing for the job, Pauling.” The posh smoky voice greeted from her cave of TV screens. The Administrator never complimented anyone unless she was lying to their face point-blank, so haughtily as it may have been delivered, that was practically the equivalent of being awarded a gold star. Miss Pauling smiled in response, and not sheepishly at that - she had a newfound confidence. Bidwell’s reaction would be something to look forward to as well, she thought to herself. Just before Pauling headed to her own cobwebbed closet of an office, she uncharacteristically found herself discerning the exact detail’s of her Boss’ pantsuit. From only a fleeting glimpse, Miss Pauling could have sworn her brain spontaneously conjured before her the words ‘Yves Saint Laurent 1967’.

Spy would be happy to know the reading material had soaked in.

Speaking of which, Pauling patted her satchel bag to make sure the covert documents were still safely contained within. That would have to wait until later for the main stop on her day’s agenda.

The nerves set in a bit as Pauling parked up beside the RED fishery warehouse. The Admin’s office was a familiar domain, but she wasn’t as sure about potentially being swamped with attention among nine gawking men. Especially when there was work to be done. She tried to shake the apprehension from her head. Hadn’t Spy said the team were completely clueless when it came to fashion? They would take no interest in her new look, and that was if they even noticed the change.

Pauling removed her bike helmet and headscarf (a new accessory Spy had recommended for protecting her hair in such cases) and tied it around her neck, attempting to recreate a fashionable look she had seen on a shop’s mannequin. And after taking off her gloves (another accessory acquired at Spy’s fevered insistence) she had barely made a move to enter the main building when it became clear more than one pair of eyes was already watching her. But she need not have feared being accosted with embarrassment, as Spy’s overdramatised accusations were proved not only wrong, but to a pleasing effect; her efforts in apparel had not gone unnoticed by the men, and were in fact the focus of much appreciation.

“Lookin’ good lassie!” A Scottish voice boomed, accompanied by a one-eyed wink.

“Quite ze transformation, fräulein!” The doctor called out.

“Is nice.” A deep voice added.

Miss Pauling readjusted her glasses and blushed as she walked over to the work table, setting out her assignment documents, all the while the rest of the mercenaries coalesced around with a mixture of playful banter, fascination, and curiosity. The flustered Engineer only managed a tip of his hardhat and a “Mornin’, Miss.”; Soldier was very curious to know the exact American origins of all her new garments (“It is not possible for anywhere other than America to make clothes so pretty”); Pyro seemed particularly taken with her new pastel violet scarf; and Sniper spared a moment to look up from his ‘#1 Sniper’ coffee mug with a silently stunned expression. When Spy finally showed his face, they both exchanged a knowing nod of approval, she went ahead with the briefing.

Scout was extremely late to arrive, so late in fact, that Pauling had already concluded her outline and handed Spy’s fashion magazines back to him. The warehouse had all but cleared out when the runner wandered in, looking a bit worse for wear; eyes red and bleary like he had stayed up into the early hours of the morning, probably plotting how to win back Miss Pauling by confronting Spy and looking cool in front of everyone while doing so. Or crying. Likely both. He spotted the vaguely Pauling-shaped figure by the garage door, though as he approached, she looked very little like the one he knew, aside from the Purple bike, and helmet, and bag. No, it must just be another one of the team’s pranks at his expense… At the very least he could practice his amazing charming skills on whoever this new assistant must be. Maybe make the real Pauling envious, or impress Spy by not only using, but mastering, the skills he had been taught. Yeah, now that is a plan.

Pauling was preparing to leave when the Bostonian’s vocal twang sounded from beside her. Scout slid up to her with a sultry look on his face, except the sultry look was just an uncomfortable smile that bordered on creepy. “Hey good lookin', don’t go leavin’ so soon. You must be new around here, I’ll show you the ropes. And by ropes, I mean-”

“Scout, what are you on about?” Miss Pauling said.

“Oh, I see how it is, we should probably introduce ourselves first-” Scout stepped back and attempted a botched formal bow, holding out his hand - for her to shake, presumably.

Miss Pauling removed her scarf and sunglasses and squinted at him, trying to figure out if Scout was truly delusional or had simply drunk one too many Bonks that afternoon. “Scout. It's me. Miss Pauling.” She said.

A look of starstruck awe washed over Scout’s face as he realised that it was indeed Miss Pauling, but something about her looked… different? Although he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was - she looked pretty, that was undeniable, but then again, she always looked pretty…

 “You look…” Scout murmured, frozen to the spot. “…Different. Good different.”

“Thanks.” Pauling smiled back, still eyeing him with confusion.

Soldier passed by with a casual and cheerful wave. “Oh, goodbye Miss Pauling!”

The sudden imposition of Soldier snapped Scout back to reality. "I mean… uh, yeah I knew that. Just makin’ sure.” He shook off the potential embarrassment with a forced laugh. “You see my pals over here have been prankin’ on me for the past couple a’ days, but clearly I’m too much of a genius for it to work. They said you went off with Spy on your day off even though we had a date planned. Ain’t that somethin’!”

Pauling looked at Scout, who was waiting with eager expectation, and her heart sank. It was a bit awkward facing the fact that the reason for her avoiding Scout, was Scout.

 “Sorry, Scout. I should have told you in advance, maybe we could hang out some other time. It’s just that yesterday I kinda needed to get new clothes, and well, Spy offered to help me.” She sighed. “I heard that he gave you some good advice one time too. You know, he really can be quite thoughtful and generous when you give him a chance.”

Scout’s head churned with conflict as his emotions made a hard U-turn, although his face remained blank.

"So you and Spy were...?"

“On a shopping trip, like I just said? Are you sure you’re doing ok today, Scout?" She cautiously asked.

"Yeah - nah, I was only thinkin’… that means..." Scout’s expression twisted back to his previously attempted flirtatious grin, his eyebrows angled in determination. “How’s about now for a raincheck on that ‘other time’?”

Miss Pauling hurriedly diverted her attention to the helmet and bag on the bag of her bike. “I don’t know, I really have to be going-"

Scout moved to lean directly in front of the Vespa. “Say we grab a couple of milkshakes and hit the boardwalk?”

Miss Pauling looked exasperated.

Somewhere back in the warehouse, having been covertly observing the conversation, Spy facepalmed.

Behind him, the shark in the shark tank circled hungrily.