Chapter Text
The plan was simple. About a quarter mile off-base, there was a really cool rock formation that looked like it had plenty of shady overhangs and places to rest your back against. Scout would walk out to it, climb up, and have a rare moment of peace.
Normally, the word “peace” had no meaning for Scout. He was a mercenary, after all—he killed people for a living. Sure, they were brought back to life ten minutes later due to science-y medical voodoo bullshit of some kind, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that he was always shooting people, or people were shooting him, and that tended to leave a guy pretty keyed-up. And if that guy happened to be keyed-up beforehand, that made things all the worse.
But it was just after quitting time on Friday afternoon, and there was the remainder of the evening and two more days of not-dying to look forward to. Scout could finally afford to loosen up a tad. He always tried to make it look like he didn’t care about anything, but that wasn’t exactly the truth about most stuff. Anyway, he needed to clear his head, and he’d like to get some fresh air while he was at it.
His backpack weighed heavily on his shoulders as he walked across an endless stretch of dried, dusty red clay. It wouldn’t have been so heavy if he hadn’t packed every single felt-tip marker in his possession, a drawing pad, twelve new comics he’d yet to read, four cans of soda, and an assortment of junk food to snack on, but he couldn’t afford to leave any of that behind. All of it was essential for tonight’s rare moment of peace, after all.
For sure, Scout didn’t want the other mercs to find out he read comic books. And he really didn’t want them finding out he liked to draw. Those weren’t manly hobbies, that was nerdy stuff, and he’d like to keep those little tidbits to himself. It’d probably be easier just to stay in his room with all of it, and no one would be the wiser, but that was stuffy and boring; he’d rather be outside.
From afar, the rock formation had not looked like it’d be easy to climb, but the long, flat rocks nearest the bottom were shallow enough to walk up, like a nature-made staircase. About halfway up, there was a little bit of actual climbing to be done, but nothing that required any real effort or skill on Scout’s part. He was up at the top of the rock formation within two minutes. Easy-peasy.
And to his relief, there really were a lot of rocks jutting up that’d be perfect to lean against. He unshouldered his backpack near a comfy-looking one and made a move to sit down.
But before he could lower himself to the ground, he spotted something out of the corner of his eye that nearly made him jump out of his skin.
He was not alone on this rock.
At first, Scout’s mind triggered into attack mode, his hand flying to the pistol holstered at his hip; he had the gun pulled halfway out of it before he registered the identity of the stranger not ten feet away from him. Shoulders sagging in relief, he let out a shaky little laugh.
“Jesus, Sniper,” Scout said, adjusting the pistol back into its holster. “I nearly shot you in the frickin’ head, man.”
But Scout’s comment garnered no response from his fellow mercenary. Sniper was reclining against a flat, angled rock, his slouch hat pulled low over his eyes. In his lap was an unopened paperback book, and beside him sat a coffee mug and a thermos. He was the textbook definition of relaxed.
Maybe a little too relaxed, Scout thought with alarm. Ah, God, Sniper was dead. He was dead, and since his body was still here, that meant they were out of respawn range—maybe if Scout hurried, he could fetch Medic and—
Then a soft, almost inaudible sound reached Scout’s ears.
Snoring.
Scout had to roll his eyes at how big a dumbass he was being today. His comrade wasn’t dead, merely sunning himself and enjoying a little cat nap. Well, Scout wouldn’t bother him, then. And surely Sniper wouldn’t mind if Scout stayed up here with him, right? There was plenty of rock to go around. Sniper was a man who valued his privacy—even Scout could figure that one out—but then again, Sniper would probably appreciate someone watching his back while he napped. If the coffee by his side and the book in his lap were any indication, he probably hadn’t planned on dozing off.
Scout made up his mind to stay atop the rock. As quietly as he could, he sat down and pulled his art supplies from his backpack. He flipped his drawing pad to a clean page and fished a pencil from one of his many zippered pouches.
Truthfully, he’d planned on sketching the landscape. He didn’t really do landscapes, but he wanted to try one. A lot of the mercs complained about how the New Mexico desert was barren and ugly, but Scout thought it had a kind of charm to it. It couldn’t hold a candle to the New England countryside, especially in the fall when the leaves turned, but the desert was kinda cool in its own way. Scrub trees, cacti, tumbleweed (which Scout hadn’t thought was a real thing until he’d joined RED), rock formations of all sizes and hues, soft sand and red clay, strange wildlife scurrying around…it was pretty aesthetically pleasing, to be honest.
And from his high perch, Scout had a good view of all of that. He penciled in a horizon line, then started to sketch out some of the rocks in the distance. As he worked, he kept glancing over to Sniper, like he expected the Australian to stop breathing and keel over at any second. Scout stared until he was certain he saw the steady rise and fall of the other man’s chest, then he’d go back to his drawing.
His pencil froze in mid-stroke as a sound crept to Scout’s ears, but it only took him a fraction of a second to recognize it as Sniper mumbling, his voice husky and coated with sleep. Scout turned his head to look at him, and Sniper was very clearly still napping—he was talking in his sleep.
“Ah, Mum, I said I’d go get more before Dad gets home, stop yer worryin’,” Sniper grumbled dreamily, his foot giving a little twitch.
Scout had to suck his lips into his mouth and hold his breath to keep from laughing. Sniper, the big bad assassin, the riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, was a sleep-talker. That, or this was a one-time thing and Scout had just been extremely lucky to witness it. Either way, Scout was glad he’d heard this rare glimpse into Sniper’s private life.
And the more he thought about it, Scout realized he’d never seen Sniper so…so vulnerable before, hell, he hardly saw the man at all. To see him like this…it was…
Inspiring.
Scout flipped to a new page in his drawing pad and began to sketch the general shapes of Sniper’s body, his other work-in-progress all but forgotten as he turned his attention to something much more interesting.
****
It surprised Scout how quickly he was able to get the sketch done. Well, not done, but complete enough that he could fill in what was left (details on Sniper’s hands, things like that) without having to look at a reference. Usually, he’d burnt up half an eraser and ruined at least one sheet of paper by now. Maybe it was so easy because he had a real-life, perfectly still model?
Heh. Calling Sniper his “model.” Sniper’d slice his head off with that weird curvy knife of his if he ever heard Scout calling him that.
It was a good thing he was nearly done sketching, because not five minutes after he got the important parts drawn, Sniper was fidgeting and sighing as he started to wake up. Scout’s body stiffened. If Sniper so much as heard a peep out of him over here, he’d be liable to shoot first and ask questions later. Scout didn’t exactly know the safest way to announce his presence, but he knew enough to stay silent while Sniper awoke.
Sniper blinked slowly, squeezing his eyes shut each time, taking in deep breaths. After a few seconds, he knocked his slouch hat back to its rightful position atop his head and sat up straight. A low, drawn-out groan rumbled up from his chest.
“Ah, piss,” he muttered, slipping his fingertips under his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. Judging by that reaction, he really hadn’t meant to nod off.
It was at that moment when Scout realized he was holding his breath. And he kinda, uh, needed to breathe again. He had no choice but to loudly fill his lungs with air.
Then several things happened at once.
Sniper’s head snapped toward the sound with an almost inhuman deftness, his normally half-lidded eyes opened wide with panic. Seeing that he wasn’t alone, but not yet registering that the intruder was friendly, Sniper jammed his hand beneath his vest.
Shit, Scout thought, locking a white-knuckle grip on the edges of his drawing pad, using his heels to push against the ground and scrabble backward. From behind his vest, Sniper produced a…what the hell was that thing?
The whatever-it-was was halfway to Sniper’s lips before he paused. He took a moment to stare at Scout, then eased the weapon back into his vest.
Scout had meant to say some form of apology for frightening the other man, some kind of consolation, but what came flying out of his mouth instead was, “What the hell was that thing, a frickin’ blow gun or sum’n?!”
Apparently realizing that Scout didn’t intend to sink a butterfly knife between his vertebrae, Sniper’s posture sagged.
“Sorry, mate,” Sniper mumbled. “Y’took me by surprise, is all…what’re you doin’ up here, anyhow?”
Scout racked his brain to think up a good lie, but seeing as he was holding a drawing pad and surrounded by a shrine of art supplies, it wouldn’t do him a hell of a lot of good. He sighed.
“Just wanted to come up here ’n’ draw,” he shrugged.
Sniper nodded once.
“Right, then.”
He settled back onto the rock and cracked open his book, bending one of his legs at the knee and drawing it toward his chest.
For a moment, Scout was dumbfounded. He didn’t know what he’d expected Sniper to do in response to Scout’s intrusion, but it wasn’t that. Really, Scout was surprised Sniper didn’t demand that the younger man get the hell off his rock and leave him be. Okay, maybe Sniper didn’t own the rock, but he’d gotten there first, so it was kinda like he had dibs. Be that as it may, he really didn’t seem to care either way if Scout stayed or went.
Well, then, Scout would stay. He picked up his pencil, which he’d apparently dropped when scrambling away from Sniper’s blow gun, and resumed drawing.
****
It was no secret that Scout liked to talk, and sitting here in silence was eating away at him. It just made matters worse that Scout didn’t know a whole lot about Sniper; that just meant he had about a gajillion more questions he could ask. But he knew better than to open his mouth and start yapping. For one, Sniper wasn’t exactly what you’d call chatty, and for another, the Australian was engrossed in his reading. Scout didn’t want to spoil the atmosphere by attempting conversation. It was almost like the two of them were hanging out together. Almost.
Sniper propped his book open against his knee and poured himself some more coffee from his thermos. He brought the white ceramic to his lips, stared down into its liquidy depths for a moment, and took a deep pull from its contents.
Before he could tell himself to stop, Scout’s pencil was zipping across the paper, seemingly with a mind of its own. Within a couple minutes, he had another (very) rough sketch of Sniper beside the first one, this one capturing the other man drinking moodily from his coffee mug.
As soon as he drew it, Scout was more than a little ashamed of himself, since he was more-or-less invading Sniper’s privacy by drawing the man without his permission. Scout’s hand lingered over the page, threatening to descend upon the paper and rip it to shreds, but he just couldn’t. He was actually pleased with how the two drawings came out. A little outlining and some color, and they’d look really nice. He decided to push the feeling of guilt to the back of his mind.
Five more minutes passed in relative silence, but the hush was broken by the growling in Scout’s stomach. He’d been thirsty for the past hour, but he hadn’t wanted to reach into his bag for a soda until he was about to die. Now that his stomach was protesting, though…he’d sure like to reach into his bag and grab some of that candy he brought…
Screw it, Sniper wouldn't care if he rustled around in his bag for a minute. He pulled his backpack toward him and fished out a soda and a foot-long Pixy Stix tube. He was just about to zip the bag back up when he thought of something.
This quiet was driving him nuts. He could ask Sniper if he wanted anything from his stash; that would technically be talking, and it would also be A Nice Gesture. But did Sniper even eat candy? Which then begged the question, what kinda stuff did Sniper eat? He never came to the base’s kitchen with the rest of the mercs, opting to remain locked in the comforts of his Winnebago. Once, Scout witnessed Sniper taking a banana from the kitchen’s communal fruit bowl—that would be the extent of Scout’s knowledge.
Well, Scout never was one to back off from a conversation (confrontation?) no matter how awkward the outcome might be. He stood up and carried his backpack over to the Australian’s side.
“Hey, I got a shitload a snacks in here, if ya want some’n,” Scout said, giving his backpack an enticing little shake. “Got Astro Pops, Starburst, uh, a Zero Bar, Now ’n’ Laters…”
Once again, Sniper propped his open book against his knee, peering into the proffered bag. Wordlessly, he reached his hand into the bag and pulled out the Zero Bar.
“Thanks, mate,” he muttered, never even trying to look Scout in the eye. He peeled open the candy bar, picked his book back up, and resumed reading.
Scout would have to admit that he was surprised. He hadn’t really expected Sniper to actually take anything, since Sniper was so…reserved? Shy? Whatever the word, Scout felt a sense of accomplishment at being able to coerce Sniper into accepting his tiny offer of kindness.
He sat back down and pulled a plastic-encased comic book from his backpack. He thumbed the plastic open and slid the book out, holding it gingerly in his hands as he opened it up to the first page.
****
He was nearly through reading his third comic when Sniper finally closed his book and slipped it into a vest pocket.
“‘Bout to get dark,” Sniper muttered, hefting himself to his feet and dusting himself off. “Think I’ll head back now.”
Scout looked up. The sun hung low in the sky; it wouldn’t be more than half an hour before sunset, if Scout had to guess. That meant he’d been up on that rock for more than two hours.
“Hey, hang on a sec, I’ll come with ya,” Scout said, cramming his things back into his backpack. He scrambled to his feet and threw his bag over his shoulders.
Sniper led the way, navigating down the rock formation with what looked like practiced familiarity. Even though he knew he probably shouldn’t pry, Scout had to ask.
“You, uh, come up here a lot?” Scout asked, hoping he sounded nonchalant.
Scout followed Sniper down the last bit of rock and onto the main path that led back to the base. “Quite a bit, yeah,” Sniper replied.
For every step Sniper’s gangly legs took, Scout had to take two. He was nearly jogging to keep up with the taller man.
Before he said anything else, Scout took a second to stare at Sniper’s face. He didn’t look pissed off that Scout had asked him a question, so it might be alright to ask him some more.
“Like, every day, or…?”
“Nah,” Sniper replied, “not every day. Few times a week, maybe.”
“Yeah, I kept lookin’ at it from the base and thought it looked like I might be able to climb up it, y’know?” Scout said, falling into his old habit of filling up silence with mindless chatter. “And I thought if I could get up high enough, I could, uh…well, I could, like, look out at all a this”—he made a wide arc with both his arms—“and sketch a landscape. Or sum’n.”
“I’m surprised you can sit still long enough to draw anything, Scout,” Sniper said, his voice taking on an almost teasing tone.
“Funny story, actually,” Scout beamed, jumping at the opportunity to talk about himself, especially to someone who might be halfway interested.
“You think I’m hyper now, you shoulda seen me in school. I was a fuckin’ hell-child. I couldn’t sit still for more than, like, five seconds, an’ I was always throwin’ shit or climbin’ on somethin’ or runnin’ all over the place.
Most’a the time, the school’d hafta call my Ma to come get me ‘cause they couldn’t handle me. Then she’d have to take me with her back to the dry cleaners ‘cause there wasn’t no way we could afford a babysitter—
Anyway, that part ain’t the point, but like, the school told Ma that unless they could settle my ass down, they was gonna kick me out. So I had to go see the counsellor every day, right, and she’d always make me draw. Not a lot a talkin’, just mainly lettin’ me color and stuff. She gave me some paper and stuff to take home with me so I could keep drawin’ if I wanted to. And I got real into it, I guess?
They made me keep goin’ to the counsellor’s office every day till I graduated high school, and she kept wantin’ to see what I drew and kept givin’ me more supplies when I ran out, and like…I guess it was a hobby I never knew I had? ‘Cause I still kept drawin’ every day even when I didn’t have to show it to nobody. And I still draw every day. It’s, uh…I dunno. Fun? Kinda?”
Sniper seemed to ponder this barrage of speech for a moment.
“Therapeutic, maybe,” he said thoughtfully.
“Maybe, yeah, I dunno,” Scout said, not sure how he felt about using the word ‘therapeutic’ to describe it. Kinda made him sound like he was crazy, or something. “Well, wha’bout you, Snipes? Were you, like, homeschooled, or somethin’? ‘Cause didn’t you grow up in the outback, or—“
“The bush, actually,” Sniper said. “There’s, er, a bit of a difference between the outback and the bush.”
Scout had half-expected Sniper to ignore the question entirely or mutter some noncommittal answer under his breath, but Sniper had gone above and beyond—he offered up a rare glimpse of his life before RED. Scout jumped at the opportunity while he still could.
“Yeah? I ain’t ever even heard of the bush.”
“The outback’s more…well, it’s a bit like New Mexico, actually,” Sniper said. “Plenty of desert, not enough rain to grow anything. The bush has loads of trees, plants, animals…”
“Bushes?”
The corners of Sniper’s mouth twitched into an almost-smile. “Maybe a few bushes, as well.”
“Hey, is it true there’s a buncha bugs ’n’ snakes ’n’ spiders ’n’ shit over there that’ll kill ya? Or is that a myth, or whatever?”
“It’s not a myth, that’s for sure,” Sniper said. “Got bit by a spider once and nearly lost me hand.”
“Shit, really?”
“Yeah. Couldn’t move me fingers for nearly a month.”
“How d’you even live in Australia?”
That time, Sniper did smile. “It’s like me dad used to say. You don’t live in Australia—you hide.”
Scout barked out a laugh. Sniper tried to pull his mouth back down to its trademark frown, but his eyes, which were crinkled in amusement, deceived him.
By that time, they had reached the wrought-iron gate that led to the south end of the RED base. Scout jammed his hand into his pocket, producing a keycard, and swiped it in the gate’s card-reader. The gate trundled open, granting the two men entrance.
“Y’know, I think you’ve said more to me in these past couple hours than you have, like, ever,” Scout said.
Sniper merely hummed in response as he veered off the paved driveway that led up to the main RED base, instead taking a much narrower dirt path that led toward his Winnebago. Without really thinking about it, Scout trotted along after him.
“You don’t have to walk me home, mate,” Sniper said, “I think I’ll manage.”
Scout’s cheeks burned in embarrassment. Overhead, the sky was orange and pink and purple with the setting sun; maybe the hazy colors would camouflage Scout’s red face from Sniper’s eyes.
“Nah, I wasn’t walkin’ ya home, or nuttin’ like that, I was just—!“
The rest of his argument died in his throat as he noticed a small, splotchy shape shifting around on top of Sniper’s Winnebago. He squinted at it, but when he couldn’t tell what it was, he pointed.
“Hey, what the hell’s that up there, you seein’ that?”
They were still a good forty feet away from the van, but Sniper barely took the time to glance at the mysterious shape before he answered. “Oh, er…well, I know we’re not supposed to have pets on the base, but…”
“Ah, that’s bullshit,” Scout said, flapping a dismissive hand. “Medic’s got all those birds in his office, hell, Soldier’s got frickin’ raccoons livin’ right over there”—Scout pointed in some random direction over his shoulder—“Ain’t nobody gonna say nuttin’ about you havin’ a…”
Scout squinted again. They were almost to the edge of the van, but he still couldn’t tell what it was.
“Owl,” Sniper mumbled.
“Owl?!” Scout repeated. He ran the rest of the way to the camper to have a better look. Sure enough, perched atop the camper was a squat little brown owl. It peered down at him with haunting, red eyes.
Of course Sniper’d have to have a weird, demonic pet. Scout didn’t know shit about owls, but he knew they weren’t supposed to have red eyes like that.
“The hell’s wrong with his eyeballs?” he asked when Sniper joined him at his side.
“I’m not sure,” Sniper admitted. “He’s not blind, I know that. ’N’ he’s got pupils, they’re just a darker red. They dilate when you shine a light in ‘em. Guess the little bloke was just born that way.”
Scout was about to say something to the effect of that being creepy, or something, when Sniper crooked his arm and held it at chest height in front of him.
“Oi,” he shouted up at the owl. “Come down ‘ere ’n’ show Scout what a smart bird you are.”
Sniper made a series of clicking noises with his tongue, which, for some reason, made Scout’s scalp prickle. The owl swiveled its head to stare down at Sniper with what looked like disdain, but it begrudgingly spread its wings and fluttered down to Sniper’s outstretched arm, anyway.
Scout’s eyes widened. “No frickin’ way,” he said, a wide grin nearly splitting his face in half. “How’d ya make that thing listen to ya like that?”
Sniper scratched the top of the owl’s head. “Guess he think’s I’m his mum. Found the lil shit when he was just this big,” he said, indicating four or five inches with a spread thumb and forefinger. “Stuck in some scrub grass, he was. Thought he may’ve fell from his nest, but there weren’t any nests ‘round. Dunno how he got there, but I couldn’t just leave ‘im there to die.” Sniper shrugged.
Scout wanted to say about a hundred things at once in response to that, but ninety-nine of those things sounded way too sappy and saccharine. He settled on, “That was awful nice o’ ya, Snipes.”
Obviously not someone who was accustomed to compliments, Sniper merely grunted.
“Y’wanna pet ‘im?” Sniper said, holding his owl-clad arm out to Scout.
Scout took an instinctive step back. Ma never let him or any of his brothers have pets when they were little (the apartment was plenty crowded without one), so he didn’t really know how to act around animals.
“Uh,” he said, torn between relishing the limited opportunity to interact with Sniper and the apprehension at touching something alive and foreign. “He ain’t gonna bite me or nuttin’, is he?”
Scout nearly fainted in shock when he heard Sniper give a genuine, shoulder-shaking laugh. It was a low, throaty sound that seemed to Scout to be winded and out-of-practice. In a way, it was haunting, like the last sound you hear before some ethereal cryptid emerges from the shadows and slices your neck open. Scout’s forearms erupted in goosebumps.
“Birds don’t have teeth, Scout,” Sniper said through his laughter.
How the hell’m I supposed to know that? Scout thought haughtily, but he didn’t voice that aloud. “Awright, well, is he gonna peck me or scratch me or sum’n?”
Sniper edged the owl closer to Scout. “He fancies head scratches,” he said, as if that answered the question Scout had just asked.
Scout had never seen Sniper like this before. The older man’s eyes were, dare he say, glittering in anticipation. For whatever reason, Sniper really wanted him to pet that damn bird.
Face contorting in a grimace, Scout reached his hand out, hovering his palm a few inches from the owl. When he wasn’t bitten—pecked, whatever—he lowered his hand down and ruffled the downy feathers on the owl’s head.
The owl’s red eyes slid closed in delight.
“I think he likes you, mate,” Sniper said as Scout continued the head-petting. “You like him, yeah?” Sniper said, talking to the owl now. “Why don’t you go over and say hullo, then?”
Sniper extended a forefinger and gave the bird a little nudge. The owl cracked his eyes open and gave an indignant little hoot, just before beating his wings and lighting atop Scout’s shoulder.
“Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod,” Scout babbled, shoulders hunched against the owl’s talons squeezing him. “He’s gonna kill me, Snipes, get ‘im offa me, ohmigod, ohmigod—“
The owl swiveled his head and nipped the top of Scout’s ear. It didn’t hurt—at all—but Scout yelped anyway.
“I thought you said he wasn’t gonna frickin’ bite me, man!” Scout wailed, his eyes wild with the fear of impending death.
“He does that sometimes,” Sniper said calmly. “It means he likes you.”
“Yeah, you keep sayin’ he likes me, but that ain’t really the impression I’m gettin’,” Scout said, frowning.
Sniper held his forearm back out and gave a few clicks of his tongue. The owl hopped back to Sniper’s arm, where Sniper rewarded him by scratching him at the base of his wings.
“Naughty thing,” he chided as the owl hooted softly. “Sorry, mate,” Sniper said, looking at Scout.
Though there wasn’t anything there, Scout dusted off his shoulder where the owl had been. “Nah, s’awright, I just, I ain’t ever been around animals before.”
“Really,” Sniper said, furrowing his brow. Was that pity in the older man’s eyes? “Don’t suppose I’ve ever been without a critter of some kind to keep me company.”
“That’s cause you grew up in the woods,” Scout said matter-of-factly. “I grew up in the city—in Boston. There ain’t many, uh, critters there.”
The owl flapped its wings and flew back up to its perch on top of the camper van. “Never was one for the city,” Sniper mumbled, the owl seeming to take Sniper’s confidence along with him.
“Ya don’t say,” Scout deadpanned.
Suddenly, Sniper craned his head up and looked at the sky. “Oh,” he said with mild surprise. “It’s past sunset already.”
Scout knew a cue to leave when he heard one. At least he’d been saved from floundering some kind of excuse to head back to the base.
“Yeah, I better get goin’,” Scout said. “I got laundry to do before tomorrow, anyway. Thanks for the, uh, bird…lesson.”
That awkward comment awarded him with a tiny smile from Sniper. “Sure.”
Scout opened his mouth to say words of parting, but he thought of one more thing he needed to mention before he left. “Hey, you won’t, uh, tell the guys about me drawin’ and readin’ comics and shit, will ya?”
Sniper regarded him with a look of mild confusion. “Why would I do that?”
Scout shrugged. “I dunno, ‘cause…’cause they’d laugh at me, and…” When he said it out loud, it did sound kind of ridiculous; Sniper wouldn’t ever partake in water-cooler gossip to begin with, and he also knew the value of one’s privacy. Scout’s secret would be safe with the older man, and Scout knew it.
“Suppose I won’t tell ‘em about you, if you won’t go tellin’ anybody I’ve been readin’ romance novels, yeah?” Sniper muttered, averting his gaze.
Scout knew Sniper had been reading a book, but he hadn’t even known what kind. He decided it best not to mention this fact.
“No problem,” Scout said, “I’m the best secret-keeper ever, like for real.”
Sniper gave a tiny scoff, but didn’t add anything to that. They stood there in awkward silence for a couple seconds before Scout came to his senses.
“Hey, maybe we’ll see each other this weekend, or sum’n,” Scout said. “Monday, for sure.”
“Yeah,” Sniper said with a single nod of his head.
“Later, Snipes,” Scout said, giving Sniper a little wave as he turned on his heel. He barely caught the ‘later’ Sniper mumbled in reply as he took off running for the base, his mind in a frenzy from the extent of the afternoon’s events.
He had just hung out with Sniper.
Sniper, for God’s sake.
Sniper.
He didn’t know why, but his chest swelled with pride at this thought. He entered the base through the back patio’s sliding glass door, a smug smile plastered to his face as he made his way back to his bedroom.