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Miss Pauling is a nice girl. A pretty girl. When she’s not in her meticulously ironed, brand name work dress, she looks like the textbook definition of a girl next door. Everything about her is soft lines and airbrushed rosiness, complete with a pair of dark, almond eyes blinking slowly behind defined frames. Yet she holds herself up, walks with her shoulders rolled back in a way that suggests something stronger, someone more confident than any average Jane from Down the Street.
She’s just the type of girl Scout would love to write home to his mom about.
Except that she also carries a gun in her purse, and hm, he’s not sure what his mom would think of that.
They’ve seen each other several times here and there, but they really meet after he notices her ad in the personals one day, on the back of Sniper’s morning paper (he was looking for comics, but this is objectively better). Between mouthfuls of dry, tasteless ration cereal, he manages to persuade the old bushman into helping him write a letter for the lady.
“You’re married, ain’tcha? You might be old but you oughta still know somethin’about writin’ sap,” Scout dares more than asks, since asking for help isn’t really his style. Sniper just growls some vague, drowsy insults and begrudgingly accepts the pen and paper Scout is now shoving in his direction. With some arguing and only a little bit of yelling, they manage to produce a relatively presentable, vaguely romantic, not at all truthful self-introduction letter—carefully signed with Scout’s real name—and Scout sees it off to the mailbox as soon as he finishes his cereal.
A week or so later, a small, nice-smelling letter arrives, and its contents are so favorable that Scout immediately dashes off to clap Sniper heartily on the back mid-swig, and their sharp shooter coughs on coffee for a good three or five minutes before he’s finally well enough again to wring Scout’s neck.
So worth it, though.
Miss Pauling dots her I’s with hearts.
Even sans the usual headgear and with a change of clothes, Pauling straightaway recognizes the man approaching her rendezvous spot as a familiar face. The big ears and flyaway tufts of sandy brown hair are unmistakable. She’s unwittingly set herself up on a blind date with the RED Team’s biggest headache.
Lovely. She’s glad she remembered to at least hide a pistol or two beneath her dress. “I should have recognized the name Keith O’Neill. I’ve even perused your profile before,” she groans, just as irritated with herself as she is with him.
“Ohoh, perusin’ my profile, huh?” Scout—Keith—chirps with equal portions of flirtatiousness and eagerness.
“Strictly business.”
Scout remains optimistic. Any attention is attention. He leans to wrap an arm around Pauling’s shoulders, and she ducks away with all the reflexes of a gymnast. The look on her face reads clearly as ‘no touching,’ so he shrugs away with his hands up apologetically.
“And I’m not a stupid woman, Mr. O’Neill,” she continues with an air of authority that makes Scout fidget a bit with his jacket sleeves, as if he were in trouble. “I can’t be won over by your cheap flattery or your meager physique. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t go home.”
Scout’s two front teeth poke thoughtfully from between his lips as he considers her. Pauling hates herself a little for noticing this. “I never—never said you were stupid, Miss Pauling.” There’s a balance of clumsiness and sincerity teetering beneath his surface, as the filter between his thoughts and his mouth has been frayed into nonexistence. His words tumble forth like all of his words do: flurried and uncensored. “You’re smart. Real smart. I like that.”
She raises a single brow, daring him to elaborate. Her stance solidifies, and she looks less prepared to walk away at any moment. Scout takes confidence from this.
“Like, I dunno. When I see you standin’ around base, givin’ orders an’ lookin’ all serious, I just wanna make you laugh. Gimme just this one chance, yeah? Please?”
Pauling hums low in her throat, weighing the pros and cons. Meanwhile, Scout gives her the absolute doofiest smile he can muster. It doesn’t sway her decision-making process much, but it does make a small crack in her firm expression.
“Well… I did go to all the trouble of putting make-up and perfume on.”
“And that shit’s expensive! Right? No use in lettin’ it go to waste!” he encourages.
“You’re paying for dinner?”
“And dessert, and a trip to the shooting range afterwards, if you’re into that kinda thing.”
Pauling sighs, shaking her head, and black curls bob along with her resignation. “Those are the magic words. Just this one night, Mr. O’Neill. No funny business.”
He beams. “We’re all about serious business, Miss Pauling. We are professionals, after all.”