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Scout was a mess. Not physically, no, he took great care of himself. Being a runner he had to. This was his excuse for most of his bad habits. From the meal skipping, and the self imposed “diet”, to the point of exhaustion training he put himself through.
When Demo had questioned why he wasn't eating, he had brushed it off with a, “You want me to keep being fast, right? Can’t be fast if I eat all the damn time.” That comment had earned him a 2-3 hour lecture by Medic on the importance of sustaining your body. Scout tuned it out 5 minutes in. He knew what worked for him, thank you very much. He had a system. Even Spy had seemed mildly concerned at his lack of eating schedule. Skipping meals in favor of going on a run or doing menial chores around base.
Even though he has a damn near perfect body, he was a mess inside. He could never seem to straighten out his heavy thoughts, and sometimes when he looked in the mirror he saw a stranger with his face. This was one of those times as he stood in front of his mirror and flexed the muscles in his arms. They weren’t as defined or as big as he wanted them to be. He knew, rationally, that he had amazing upper body strength. Bashing people's heads in with an aluminum bat wasn’t as easy as all the other mercs thought it was. After all, he didn’t want the BLU team to suffer, not like Medic or Soldier did. He just wanted to win.
They had won their battle that day. So why didn’t he feel better? He just seemed so frail. He could see the way his elbows jutted out awkwardly. He could define and trace the ligaments in his boney hands without needing to flex them. He hated his hands and the way they reminded him of his dad, but taping his hands up fixed that problem. For the most part anyway. What it didn't fix was the way he felt his chest was too feminine, too small, too boney, his brothers had always said so, so it must be true. Scout glared at the mirror and pulled a clean shirt on.
Flipping his reflection off as he left his room mumbling a quick, “I fuckin’ hate you.”
Scout felt like he was drowning. Drowning in his own head. How stupid was that? He always referred to those heavy, oppressive feelings like that. It made it hard to think, which made it hard for to control some of his impulses. Like one time when he was walking and he saw a squirrel just sitting in the middle of the path. He hadn’t even thought of it but he just started barking at it. The barking accomplished what he wanted because the squirrel ran up a tree. Scout had quickly looked around and had only seen Sniper looking at him. It was hard to read Sniper’s expression but Scout assumed he was either weirded-out or at least a little entertained. Scout could do some pretty killer impressions when he wanted to.
Scout fell onto the couch in their common area. Sprawling across all the cushions. Pyro and Engineer were setting up a bonfire, risky, but fun. Heavy and Doc were playing chess in the infirmary, typical post-battle wind-down for them. Soldier and Demo were off doing God-knows-what God-knows-where. He didn't care, but that rat-bastard French fucker was in his "Cigar Room" giving himself lung cancer. That left Sniper in his camper also doing God-knows-what. So that meant the couch and TV were all his.
Scout flipped the television on, some sappy rom-com. Oh well, he didn't have the energy to turn the channel. If only the crushing feelings would stop. Then he could get some real work done. He was only there 40 or so minutes in when he felt his legs get hoisted from their position and the couch dip under someone's weight. He felt his legs fall off the couch, forcing him to sit up. If Scout had the energy to fit the person with a glare he would have, but he was focused on the movie.
"Whatcha watchin' mate?" Ah, so it was the Australian bum.
"A movie." Scout's reply lacked any real conviction.
"I see that." Sniper rubbed his hand as they sat in silence. The woman on the TV sobbed, black mascara running down her face.
"No! Ricardo! Please! Don't go! Don't leave me alone again!" Sniper sighed, he wasn't sure why the runner liked this crap, but his lack of commentary was unusual. The sharp-shooters hands were stiff from the match, leaving him too lazy to change the channel. He continued to try and rub the soreness out of his palms as the male love interest, Ricardo, tried to pry himself away from the desperate woman. Sniper snuck a glance at the runner, he looked tired and almost asleep. Gunshots rang out from the TV forcing Sniper's attention back to the screen.
"Did that bitch just shoot Ricardo?" He said lamely, he hadn't expected that.
"Yeah," Scout replied, "Weren't you listening? She killed him so she could get with her lover. And they say I need ta' pay more attention."
"Ah, sorry mate, palms are sore so m' more focused on that right now." Sniper chuckled slightly, Scout never played around about movies.
"Gimme ya' hands." The Austrailian turned
"Whot?"
"Gimme ya' hands, Jackass. Ya deaf or somthin'?" Sniper confusedly but obediently gave the runner his hands.
"Whot ah you doin' mate?"
"Shut up an' watch the damn movie." So Sniper did until he felt Scout's wrapped hands gently and deftly massaging small circles into his palm. Then gently spreading his finger and pulling forward, moving the muscles without pain. Fearing he might break whatever spell Scout was under he turned his attention back to the screen, where the woman was now franticly making out with a man with black hair who was not Ricardo. Sniper let out a contented sigh, the pain and tenseness falling away as Scout gently massaged his hand. When the runner finally pulled his hands away from Sniper's, he was embarrassed, what was he even thinking? Giving your teammate a hand massage was weird! Even weirder than barking like a dog in front of him. But the heaviness had started to go away. Scout opened his mouth to apologize to Sniper for making this awkward but Sniper only offered his other hand.
"What?" Scout questioned as he looked at the outstretched palm.
"Can't leave me hangin' with one hand done and the other not." So, Sniper actually wanted this. It was okay with Scout, he hadn't had the opportunity to give anyone a massage in a while. Taking Sniper's hand he started the same process as the other. Leading the sharp-shooter to give an appreciative hum. Scout smiled for what felt like the first time today, he liked doing this and it made the heavy darkness go away. He probably just needed the company as well. The movie ended, Ricardo being found alive and the woman being put in jail.
Scout stretched and almost missed Sniper's comment of, "Bloody fantastic mate, might botha you for a massage after every match."
Scout huffed, "Ain't that impressive. Just had a lot a' practice is all." Scout realized he'd been holding onto Sniper's hand for the last 30 minutes. "But I can always use more a' that, so... Sure! Find me after the matches an' I'll do it for ya' again!" He bounced up face red, "Imma go for a jog, seeya!"
Sniper smiled. Score 1 for the Australian, free hand massages and time to hang out with Scout! Hell yeah, he'd be crazy not to seek him out more.