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“So, I have a problem…”
Spy sighs and puts his magazine face-down on his lap. He looks up at his dear amour tiredly.
“Not even bonjour first?”
Sniper smiles sheepishly, crookedly. As exasperated as he is, Spy is never too tired to admire those fangs of his; like a wolf’s, or maybe a vampire’s.
“So, you know how we were going to… y’know… tell Scout about us?”
Slowly, Spy nods. He doesn’t like how nervously Sniper is tugging at the collar of his shirt. He looks rumpled, now that Spy thinks about it; as if he’d been up all night, yet to change clothes.
“He sort… of…” Sniper’s face is flushing rapidly. Spy’s concerned that he might be asphyxiating. “Um…”
“Are you going to live, bushman? Or will I have to perform CPR today?”
Sniper laughs, awkwardly, loudly. Spy now understands that this is something that he’s so nervous to say that he was getting that “internal burning” feeling he’d told him about.
“I, erm, well… Maybe, actually. I do feel lightheaded.” He takes a deep breath, then slowly, calmly, releases it. “I should just say it.”
I agree, Spy thinks, nodding his head again. All this tension is making him nervous, and that is really saying something.
“Oh, bugger…! Look, I was talking to the bloke, right? Y’know how you said that you thought he… looked up to me?”
Spy nods again, somewhat impatiently.
“The boy just about vomited all his feelings last night. And I guess it would be fair to say he more than just looks up to me …”
Spy lets his jaw hang loose for a second as he slowly processes those words. Sniper stands awkwardly, wincing at his astonished expression.
“So, what you’re telling me is…”
Sniper is officially tomato-red. He looks about ready to pass out from embarrassment. To avoid any further explanation, he nods his head vigorously. Spy leans forward on his elbows and holds his face in his hands. He rubs his face, then pinches the bridge of his nose. He sucks in a breath.
“Mon Dieu.”
[My God.]
“I know.”
“What am I going to do with that boy?” Spy shakes his head.
He hears Sniper shift, and when he peeks out from between his fingers, he sees him lowering himself down to the floor to sit. He rests his hot cheeks in his palms, hiding his face and clawing underneath his eyes anxiously.
“I—I mean,” Sniper stammers, “He’d been actin’ a bit strange, but I never thought—”
“—what I want to know, Sniper,” Spy interrupts, “is what you said in response.”
Sniper visibly cringes.
“Please tell me he didn’t try to kiss you. I don’t think I could ever get within 10 feet of you again, if he did.” He makes a point to shuffle back in his chair.
Part of him is sincere about that. It would definitely be a mood killer if his son had kissed his boyfriend.
“Argh—” Sniper’s face looks pinched, as though he’d bitten into a fresh lemon. “No, thankfully. I just sorta… didn’t… say anything.”
Spy couldn’t help but stare.
“Nothing?”
Sniper’s face somehow grows redder.
“Nothing.”
Spy returns to holding his head. It’s far too early in the morning for him to be dealing with this drama.
“I—I didn’t know what to say!” Sniper apparently feels the need to defend himself. “He just spilled all his bloody feelings to me, and, what, was I supposed to say, Ah, sorry mate, m’already doin’ yer dad?!”
Spy couldn’t help but laugh. It’s wry, and he thinks he might cry. It’s a delirious, crass laugh; the kind of one he only released after a long day of defeat. Sniper erupts with one of a similar calibre, only he sounds much closer to crying than to going crazy. Spy wipes his watery eyes and descends from his chair. He seats himself beside Sniper and slings an arm around his shoulders. Sniper leans into him, immediately reciprocating with an iron-tight grip on his shirt and his face pushed into his chest.
“You have the worst luck I have ever witnessed, mon amour,” Spy chuckles. “But don’t worry. I’ll help you clear this up, d’accord ?”
“Yeah,” Sniper agrees airily. He laughs, so brief, so wry, it sounds like a cough. “Yeah.”
While Sniper takes a recovery nap, Spy steps out of his room to assess the damage. The first thing he notices, as he makes his way to the kitchen, is that it’s definitely quieter than usual.
It’s too early for even Soldier to be rattling off, since it’s the weekend; if he’s awake, then he’s probably off outside digging trenches. Medic also seems to be sleeping in, since Spy caught not even the faintest of manic laughter echoing out from the Medbay hall. And it's completely unremarkable, but Engineer evidently isn't up either, though Spy has not the least bit of confidence in seeing him on the average weekend anyway, since he has the terrible habit of pulling all-nighters.
What puts him off the most, though, is the distinct lack of chatter. Even if Engineer isn’t up, there should at least be something going on. But it’s eerily quiet, like he’s just interrupted a performance and everyone is staring at him. As he makes his way through the rec room, he finds the only sound is the soft hum of the television, playing some sort of Saturday Morning cartoons, which Pyro is watching very intently.
The radio isn’t even on—which in itself isn’t much of a surprise, since Sniper is the only one who regularly listens to the radio during the morning—but it still leaves the air feeling a bit empty.
The kitchen is in a similar state. The soft, droning buzz of the refrigerator greets him as he enters. That being said, the room is lacking its usual bustle, even for a Saturday. Heavy is sitting at the table, sifting through the mail, a bear-sized mug of coffee and an empty plate full of crumbs nearby. Scout is seated next to him, stirring his spoon idly around inside of a bowl of cereal.
Spy pauses in the doorway, and he feels a humorous question on the tip of his tongue; something like, “Who died?” but the words disintegrate in his throat. Scout looks miserable, and it’s obvious he isn’t making an effort to eat. Spy sighs.
Scout stubbornly keeps his eyes trained on his bowl. Heavy glances up at him, briefly, but doesn’t say anything. That’s enough of a greeting from Heavy. He’s a man of few words, at least in English; speaking in his mother tongue, the man is a poet and Spy struggles to keep up with him in conversation sometimes.
Spy stops staring and moves to make himself a cup of coffee that he isn’t actually going to drink. He’s already had his morning cup of joe, which he’d only just polished off before Sniper had slunk in with a sheepish grin. During the weekend, he and Sniper usually have breakfast together in his suite. Belatedly, he wonders with worry as he pours his coffee, if Sniper has eaten breakfast yet. He makes a note to himself to fix something up for the two of them after he heads back to his room.
Coffee ready, Spy gently sets his mug down next to Scout and sits down. He pretends to sip for a moment or so, practised like an actor. Then he digs out his case for a cigarette.
Heavy seems to find this odd, and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to say something. But instead, he just shakes his head and finishes off the contents of his own mug in one swift gulp. Done with the letters or simply unwilling to sit through what might come next, he gathers them up under his arm, carries his dishes to the sink, and walks out.
Spy savours his cigarette, still pretending to sip his coffee while he waits Scout out. He can see from here that the cereal is terribly soggy, and Scout could only sit pushing it around for so long until it became stew instead of a cereal.
It’s always easier to let Scout talk first; which, now he realises, the reason that it’s so quiet is because he is quiet. Spy really hopes he won’t have to start this conversation, because if he did, there’s a chance that Scout would just up and leave. If Sniper was embarrassed to be on the receiving end of their conversation from the night before, then Scout was likely doubly embarrassed by the event. And Spy knows his embarrassment would spur into anger, especially if he was the one to bring it up first.
That being said, it’s not like they couldn’t talk about difficult things. They’ve been doing that since their relations to one another had been found out. But the difficult conversations always relate to stuff between them, not any of their teammates. And while Scout is not quiet about his love-life, he’s still a little embarrassed coming to Spy for advice. Especially after... a particular date.
Regardless, this is definitely not something Spy can give advice on. The situation is non-complex: Sniper is taken. What complicates it is who he is taken by. And he’s sure that Scout isn’t going to take the news well.
Finally, Scout breaks the silence.
“Why’re you sittin’ here, Spy?” He grumbles. Scout’s eyes are hidden by the visor of his hat, but Spy supposes that he’s being glared at. “I know you don’t drink that shit.”
Maybe he could have been less obvious about the “pretending to drink'' part of his plan. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, allowing himself some time to think of an appropriate response, and blows the smoke towards the ceiling. He doesn’t miss the way that Scout’s grip tightens around his spoon.
“I have a better question. Why are you sulking?” He knows it was a bit of a risk, being so blunt. But there’s no point in trying to lie about why he’s here. That wouldn’t get him anywhere.
Scout raises his head. He looks Spy right in the eyes—the same colour as his, and no less sharp, either, which still continues to surprise him. Spy sees the muscles of his face tighten with anger, but he can’t tell if it was simply because of him or what had happened.
“I ain’t sulking,” He states firmly. “Now tell me, why are you sittin’ here, drinking that shit coffee?”
Spy sighs and sits back. He crosses his arms and gives Scout a level look.
“I’m here because I want to talk to you,” he confesses, and the raw honesty hurts his throat a bit. “Because clearly something is bothering you.”
Scout’s glare falters, and it seems Spy’s honesty has shocked the anger out of him. Scout searches his eyes, then hides his gaze behind his hat again.
“...Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I just… It’s sorta weird, sometimes, having… you…”
“Care?” He asks, grinning.
Scout nods somewhat bashfully.
“I understand. Showing I care is still a struggle sometimes. And I know my… position here doesn’t make me any more trustworthy.”
Scout raises his eyes again, looking more relaxed. He smiles—very dimly, barely qualifying as one at all—but still a smile nonetheless.
“Yeah. And, uh…” Scout averts his gaze again. “Something happened last night. I’m just sorta confused. I thought that—”
Scout stops himself short. Like the words are stuck in his throat.
“Thought what?” Spy prompts softly.
Scout takes a deep breath.
“I thought Sniper liked me,” He says shortly. “But I guess I was wrong.”
“Ah bon ?” Spy feigns surprise. “Sniper?”
[Oh really?]
"Yeah?" Scout seems just as confused. "We were good friends, but I think I…"
"Scout, I really hate to be the bearer of bad news, but… Sniper is taken.”
Scout’s gaze snaps up to his face, quicker than the strike of a snake. His eyes search, frantically, looking—almost hoping—for any signs of deceit.
“By who?” His own voice nearly tears under the strain of his bewilderment.
“Ah. Well.”
Spy really should’ve thought more about his delivery. (Or what he was going to say at all. He's used to bluffing his way through situations, but Scout has always disarmed him in that regard). And perhaps he should've paid a little more attention to managing his expressions, too, because Scout recoils in further disbelief.
“No. Y’can’t be serious…”
“Scout,” Spy pleads.
But it’s too late.
“No, I can’t… I can’t believe this. Seriously, you?”
The tension returns to Scout’s face, and he clenches his fists in anger. Spy leans back in his chair, genuinely expecting retaliation. He wouldn’t be at all shocked if Scout threw himself across the table to tackle him. It’s happened before—Spy can recall very clearly—Scout shoving him to the floor, his eyes blazing and his arm pulled taught like a bow string, ready to inflict some (much deserved) revenge.
Scout huffs, dangerously close to a laugh. Like he finds it comedic.
“Nah, of course it’s you. It’s always you, Spy.” He spits his title like it’s an insult. “Can never catch a freakin’ break around here. And it’s because of you.”
Scout stands abruptly, and Spy internally curses himself for flinching. Not that Scout notices; too blinded by his own anger.
“Should’a known he was a dirty freakin’ traitor. Bet he’s been tellin’ you everything since the beginning, huh?” Spy opens his mouth to defend him, but Scout’s glare makes him reconsider. “Bet he knew before I did, didn’t he?”
It takes Spy a second to realise what Scout is referring to, but once he does, he purses his lips, trying to suppress the guilt. Seeing this, Scout’s face crumples. All his anger is immediately drained, replaced by a deep sadness and betrayal. His expression more heartbreaking than a dog's after you step on its tail.
“I can’t fucking believe you.” Scout’s voice breaks.
Spy feels like his heart is being squeezed for all it’s worth.
“Scout—”
“No.” His eyes are watery but his tone is firm. “We’re done.”
Spy allows himself to falter. Scout sniffles, wiping his tears with his bandaged palms. Knowing when a fight is lost, Spy allows him to flee without another word. There’s nothing he could say to salvage this. No words could possibly mend the hurt he’s caused—not today—not ever.
Spy sits at the table alone, with his cold coffee and bitter defeat.