Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

He couldn’t believe he nearly shot Scout with a fucking blow gun.

Blow guns were lightweight, easily portable, discreet…the perfect little projectile weapon to take along with you if you were just going a stone’s throw away from the base.  He’d been out to that rock formation loads of times, and he’d never come across any danger; no sense in carting a cumbersome .308 rifle or a submachine gun up there, really.

And anyway, if he really had shot Scout, the poison he’d tipped the darts with was his own all-natural, non-lethal blend.  He would’ve been paralyzed for a few hours, but that was better than being dead, yeah?

Several things about that Friday afternoon kept running through his head, not just the bit with the blow gun.  It was almost like a mantra.  And here he was, still fretting over them two days later.

For example:  right after Sniper made the discovery that he had company on top of the rock, his hands shook and his teeth chattered so badly that there was no way Scout hadn’t noticed it.  Sniper kept sneaking peeks at the other man, to try and judge his facial expressions, but Scout had been completely engrossed in his artwork and his comics.

Frankly, Sniper was impressed that Scout managed to remain in a stationary position long enough to enjoy either of those hobbies.  Sniper didn’t go inside the base much, except to do his laundry and borrow a book from the rec room on occasion; he only ever really saw Scout on the battlefield, little more than a red blur through the scope of his rifle.  He’d never seen someone run so fast and jump so high in all his life.  With that kind of talent, Scout could’ve easily been a bloody Olympian, not to mention he was obviously crazy about baseball.  It made Sniper wonder why, out of all the different careers Scout could’ve pursued, why he hell he ever chose to become a mercenary.

As soon as he thought it, though, Sniper felt like an idiot.  Of course he knew why Scout chose this job, because the reasons were the same for everyone:  the money, and the fact that it was one of the few options in life you had left.

You didn’t go to RED—RED came to you, at your lowest of the low, wafting a briefcase full of cold, hard cash under your nose with the promise of much more to come.  You simply had to agree to become a part of an experimental government program disguised as what the locals called “the gravel war.”  Kill and be killed.  Have all your atoms deconstructed, whisked across the battlefield in a fine red mist, and put back together in a little glass coffin called “the respawn chamber.”  Take a few minutes to get your wits about you, then step back out into the dirt and do it all over again.

That was far from all there was to it, but they were told not to ask too many questions about it, unless they wanted to die and not respawn.  Sniper didn’t really care either way.  He liked sniping, and now he could do it guilt-free.  Sure, getting shot and stabbed and blown up and burned alive was no fun, but he’d gotten used to it.  And the money had been enough to…well, he didn’t wanna think about all that at the moment, it brought back too many sad memories.  He did get to trade in his disgusting old camper van for a brand-new Winnebago, which was nice.  He never thought he’d be able to afford something like that.  Now he could buy a hundred of ‘em, if he wanted.

Funny, that.

The feeling of something knocking into his shins jarred him from his daydreaming.  His hand spasmed and reached for the pocket knife stashed in his trouser pocket (no kukri swinging from his hip in public places—apparently that was frowned upon in the States) before he came to his senses.  A quick glance over to his left let him know that it had just been a little girl zipping down the aisle, her hands outstretched as she ran. 

I’m so ridiculous, Sniper thought with small shake of his head.

Public places made him anxious in the first place, but it was all the worse due to what he was shopping for.  He’d put off buying it for as long as he could, but he was completely out of…

…yarn.

Bloody yarn.  Why’d Mum have to go and get him started knitting, anyhow?  Well, at least it was a useful hobby. 

He put skein after skein of red yarn in his shopping basket, planning on getting a head start on his winter wardrobe.  New Mexican winters were right brutal, and he liked to have a sweater underneath his coat and a scarf looped round his neck during those numbingly freezing days on the battlefield.

He supposed he could just go out and buy a sweater and scarf, but that just wasn’t the same thing.  He couldn’t explain it.  And anyway, he hated shopping for clothes, and only did it when he absolutely had to.

At the thought of another winter sneaking up on his cold-sensitive Australian bones, Sniper stuffed more yarn into his basket, grabbing a few different colors that went well together (well, in his mind, they went together; who knew about anyone else’s), until no more would physically fit inside it.  There was a middle-aged woman hovering uncomfortably close to him, and Sniper could feel her eyes sliding all over him.  He knew she was staring, wondering what he could possibly want with all that yarn, what his malicious intentions were.  That, or the woman was trying to crowd him out of the aisle so she could stand in his spot.  Unable to take the scrutiny any longer, he grabbed three more rolls of yarn at random, tucked them under his arm, and made a beeline for the cash register.

But the person standing behind the counter wasn’t the doddering old man that usually attended to him.  It was a young girl—so young, Sniper highly doubted it was even legal for her to be working there.  Sniper had never seen her there before, but then again, it had been more than a month since he’d come into the hobby store.

A wave of panicked thoughts shot their way through his brain, dozens of them all at once.  His feet faltered, and to save face, he pretended to be engrossed in a rack of nearby knitting patterns.  He picked one up at random and feigned interest in it as his brain warred with itself.

I can’t do this.

Yes you can, stop bein’ a wuss and just put your basket up on the counter.  It ain’t brain surgery.

But what if she says some snide little comment about all me yarn?

And what of it, yeah?  It’s her damn job to be a cashier.  You’re a paying customer.  If she don’t like what you’re buying, she can bloody well get over it.

Surely she’ll try and make conversation about it, though, they always do—

Do ya want the yarn or not?

Yes, I want the yarn…

Well, you’re gonna have to buy the yarn, then, mate.

Piss.

Once he’d taken a moment to calm himself, he walked up to the counter and sat his things down.  He noticed he’d forgotten to put the knitting pattern back that he’d been pretending to look at.  Ah, well.  Too late now.  He’d buy it, he supposed.

“Hi, how’re you?” the cashier asked, grinning at him.

“‘M fine, you?” Sniper said, his voice coming out flat and clipped.

“Good.”

She rang up his yarn and his pattern and loaded it up into three brown paper sacks.  Sniper handed her some money.  She handed back his change.

“Have a good one.”

“Yeah.  You, too.”

He clutched the bags in his arms and nearly tripped over himself trying to get out the door.

Fucking…piss.  Piss.  Why did such stupid—stupid little common things like that bother him so much?  He sat his bags near his feet as he dug his car keys from his pocket, and his hands were shaking so badly that he dropped them.  Growling in irritation at himself, he scooped them up from the ground, jammed the key into the lock, and hurled himself and his packages into the car.

As he started his car engine, he felt a pang of…some kind of useless emotion in his chest.  It wasn’t too long ago that, when he’d get himself good and worked up, Mum and Dad were always a phone call away; he’d use the phone inside the base and give ‘em a ring whenever he felt like this.  He’d always start the conversation about something mundane, something silly, but Mum and Dad always knew something was up.  They knew all about his…whatever it was.  Mum always called it his “frazzled nerves,” but Sniper hadn’t a clue what the technical term for that would be.  Every time he called after one of his “bouts” (another term coined by Mum), they were more than glad to talk him down from it.

But he could call the farmhouse back in Australia all he liked.  No one would be there to answer the phone.

He gripped his hands tighter on the wheel and steered his car back to the base.

****

“Hey, are you knittin’?” Scout asked.  Before Sniper could even reply, Scout followed that up with, “What’s it gonna be when ya done with it, a sweater?”  The younger man’s Bostonian accent laid thick and heavy over that last word, and Sniper had to take half a second to comprehend what “sweddah” meant.

As the hands on Sniper’s watch steadily ticked toward five o’ clock that Monday, he found himself wondering more than once if Scout would come back out to the rock formation.  That previous Friday, Scout had said something like “I might see you this weekend, but Monday for sure.”  Maybe he was just meaning that they might run into each other at work (which rarely happened)—or maybe he implied he was coming back up to the rock to draw or read his comic books.  Sniper supposed it didn’t really matter.  He wanted to go back up there after work, regardless.

But loathe though he was to admit it, he was sort of hoping he might have a bit of company when he went.

He nearly didn’t bring his knitting paraphernalia with him, but he’d grabbed his wicker basket full of yarn and needles and various other bits and bobs at the last minute.  He probably looked like a lunatic, carting a basket of yarn about the desert, but no one would see him, anyhow.

No one but Scout, that is, and Scout had a secret of his own he wanted to keep hidden; for whatever odd reason, he didn’t want their coworkers knowing he liked to draw and read comics.  Both were perfectly respectable hobbies, Sniper thought, but what did he know. 

“Yeah,” Sniper nodded, though how Scout could tell what it was going to be from the two inches he’d completed of the sweater, he wasn’t sure.  “Won’t be this hot out for long.”

Scout moved his pencil across his drawing pad in an elaborate circular motion.  “Didja go outside last night, like past sundown?  I could see my frickin’ breath out there.”

“It does get cold at night,” Sniper agreed, his metal knitting needles ticking softly against one another as he worked.  “No matter how hot it is during the day.”

“Yeah, that ain’t how weather works back in Boston, I know that.”

“Gets awfully cold here in winter,” Sniper said, not really sure why he was talking to Scout about the weather, of all the enthralling subjects, but he decided to go with it.  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

“Does it ever snow in Australia?”

Scout’s question seemed to come from nowhere, but Sniper was glad to answer it.  “Not very often, it don’t.” 

A smile crept to Sniper’s lips at the memory of the first time he’d ever seen snow with his own two eyes.  He’d been eleven years old.  Mum and Dad let him skive off from school to play around in it, though there couldn’t have been more than an inch of the stuff on the ground.

God, he missed them both so much.

“And ain’t it like, like the seasons are backwards over there, or sum’n, like winter’s in summer, or—?”

“Sort of, yeah.  Australian summer starts in January, ’n’ the seasons carry on from there.  How hot it is right now, out here, this is nothin’ compared to back home.  Real common for it to get up to forty-five degrees out in the bush.”

Scout glanced up from his drawing pad for a brief moment, then continued his sketching.  “Forty-five degrees is chilly, man.  Like last night was prob’ly forty-five degrees.”

“What—oh,” Sniper said, understanding now.  “No, I’m meanin’ forty-five degrees Celsius, mate.”  He grinned.

“‘Kay, well here in America we use Fahrenheit, so I don’t know none a that Celsius shit.”

“It’d be about…”  Sniper’s knitting needles paused as he did some mental math.  “Oh, ‘bout a hundred and ten, hundred and fifteen degrees Fahrenheit, or there’bouts.”

“Holy shit,” Scout said, staring incredulously at Sniper.  “How the hell’s ya frickin’ brain not melt when ya go outside?”

“Once I was wearin’ thongs—flip-flops,” Sniper clarified, at the sight of Scout’s sly grin and raised eyebrows.  “And the bottoms of ‘em melted right into the bloomin’ sidewalk.”

“Ohmigod, ya kiddin’ me, I’d a flipped the fuck out.”

“It hurt me feelin’s, honestly,” Sniper said, barely able to stifle a laugh as he thought back to that (mostly) horrid trip he’d gone on twenty years ago.  “I only got to go to the coast three or four times a year, on account a we lived in the middle a nowhere, yeah?  An’ I knew Mum ’n’ Dad’d make me go home if they sawr all the blisters on the bottoms of me feet, so I had to try ’n’ walk without limpin’ the whole holiday.”

“Least you got to go on a vacation,” Scout said, swapping his pencil for a fine-tipped ink pen.  “I got seven older brothers, man, we were always too broke for shit like that.”

Sniper looked up from his knitting.  “Seven?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“An’ me makes eight,” Scout nodded gravely.

“Your poor mum.”

“Yeah, she…Ma did the best she could with us, though, I ain’t complainin’,” Scout said, his voice suddenly growing serious.  Just the sound of it, so unnatural, made a sick feeling well in Sniper’s gut—but there was also something about that change in tone, like a flip of a switch, that made Sniper cling to every word.

“She worked a twelve-hour shift at the dry cleaners every day ‘cept Sunday,” Scout continued, the ink pen cradled in his idle hand.  A wan smile crept to his face.  “She ain’t gotta do that no more, though.”

“Why not?” Sniper asked before he could stop himself.  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could have them back; it was absolutely none of his damn business why not.

But Scout didn’t seem to mind.  “I send her money every month,” he said simply.  “She won’t hafta work another day in her life, I made sure a that.”

That was something Sniper could understand from experience.  “I used to send Mum and Dad money every month, as well, yeah.”

“How come you don’t no more?”

“They, er…they died.”

Scout visibly winced.  “Ah, shit, I’m sorry man, I didn’t know.”

“’S fine,” Sniper mumbled.

Awkward silence fell between the two of them.  The only sounds breaking the monotony were the droning of insects, Sniper’s knitting needles clacking against one another, and Scout’s ink pen scritching across paper.

After a good two minutes of quiet, Scout blurted, “I don’t even know who my dad is, though.”  His pen fell still as he stared out at the vast expanse of desert.  “Not tryin’ to one-up ya, or nuttin’, I…I just mean, it…y’know.  Musta been nice to have both.” 

Sniper looked over to the younger man, watched as Scout chewed fretfully at his lower lip.  He looked so pitiful sitting there with that puppy-in-a-puddle look that Sniper felt compelled to say something he’d never told anyone—never even felt the want or need to tell anyone, at that.

“I was adopted.”

Scout’s eyes widened.  He opened and shut his mouth a couple times before settling on what to say.  “So the mom ’n’ dad ya always talkin’ about, that ain’t…”  He looked at Sniper pointedly, in lieu of finishing the rest of his sentence.

“Nope,” Sniper said.  “They found me when I was about a month old.  Out in the middle a nowhere, I was.  It’s a wonder a dingo didn’t eat me.”  Sniper chuckled a little at his self-deprecating joke, but Scout looked downright horrified. 

“Ya real parents, they just left ya somewhere?”

There was quite a bit more to the story than that, Sniper thought to himself, but that was the gist of it. 

“More or less, yeah,” Sniper said.  “Mum ’n’ Dad—the folks I call Mum ’n’ Dad, I suppose—they couldn’t have kids of their own, so they were more’n happy to take me in.  ’N’ they were in their forties when they found me, so…”  Sniper shrugged.  “It ain’t all that tragic that they’ve passed on, really.  The both of ‘em lived a long ’n’ happy life.  Dad died in ‘is sleep, ’n’ Mum died in hers the next night.  Weren’t nothin’ that sad abou’ it, it’s just a fact o’ life.”

“Well, ya real parents were obviously either assholes or crazy, so you were prob’ly better off without ‘em, for real.”

“I’ve met them, actually,” Sniper said with a wry smile.  “Just last year.  I didn’t find out about Mum ’n’ Dad not bein’ me birth parents till after they died.  ’N’ then one thing led to another ’n’ I ended up meetin’ my real ones.”

“Seriously?  What, uh, what’re they like?”

“Oh, they’re right arseholes,” Sniper laughed.  “Suppose it stings a bit if I think too hard abou’ it, y’know—abou’ how me own parents didn’t want me, but…two perfect strangers came along an’ didn’t owe me a thing, coulda left me there for dead and it’d be no skin off their noses.  But they took me in an’ raised me like their own.  That makes up for it.”

“Yeah, I know all about thinkin’ ya not wanted,” Scout nodded, the hangdog expression returning to his face for a split second before he forced himself to make a more cheerful look.  “So you’re an only child, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Lucky bastard,” Scout laughed.  “Shit sucks when you’re the youngest outta seven, lemme tell ya.  You ain’t gettin’ nuttin’ new, first of all, ya ass is gettin’ hand-me-downs that went through seven others before it got to you.  And ya better get used to cold showers, cause guess what, ya ain’t never gonna get to take a hot one—“

Sniper listened to Scout complain about his eccentric cast of older brothers, thankful to have a change of subject.  Talking about Mum and Dad was sad, and Scout’s “I know all about thinking you’re not wanted” comment was even sadder.  It still echoed in Sniper’s mind.  Scout had mentioned earlier that he didn’t know who his father was…and being the last-born of eight children must come with some guilt attached, Sniper assumed.  Why were you the child that made your mum stop having kids, if she’d had seven already?  Or, how could she possibly want another one when she’s already got so many others to take care of?  No doubt, Scout had probably thought those very things, and then some, about himself. 

Scout claimed he hated living in a crowded apartment with his brothers, but he certainly had plenty of stories to tell about them.  Not a single one of them knew who their real dad was with any amount of certainty.  His oldest brother, Anthony, was the only one who had something akin to a father; every year on Anthony's birthday, a mystery man named Robert would send him a card with a five-dollar bill tucked inside.

“Better than anything I ever got from my dad, which was a big fat nothin’,” Scout said.  “Ehh, that might be a lie, actually.  Ma says this came from my dad, but I ain’t really buyin’ it.”  When he said the word “this,” he jingled the dog tags hanging from his neck.  He grabbed the tags in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the metal.  “Whatever was on it’s been filed off, scratched out, sum’n.  Ma prob’ly got it at the five and dime, just told me it used to be my dad’s to make me feel better, but…”  Shrug.  Forced half-smile.  “Heh, whatever, I guess.”

This conversation was veering off into dangerous territory again, but Sniper couldn’t help but tell the story about how, when the first time he’d met his real dad, the man said he’d been waiting to ask his son something for a long, long time…

…could he borrow some money?

“I couldn’t just say no, on account of I was too shocked ’n’ everybody was lookin’ at me all strange-like, so I had to pull me wallet out ’n' gave him some,” Sniper admitted.

“Wouldn’t a gave that bastard dick,” Scout said through a mouthful.  He’d sat his drawing pad aside and taken a box of Cracker Jacks from his backpack.  He held the box out to Sniper.  “Want some?”

Sniper sat his knitting in his lap and held his hands out.  “Yeah, why not.  Toss ‘em ‘ere.”

****

Somehow, someway, Scout had talked Sniper into reading some of his comic books.

Not twenty minutes after the two of them parted company later that evening, Sniper heard the distant chirp of someone whistling, the sound permeating the thin walls of his camper.  When the source of the whistling grew nearer, he recognized the tune—“Good Vibrations,” he thought, rising from his armchair.

The whistling stopped, replaced by a familiar voice hollering on the other side of the Winnebago’s entrance.  “Hey, Snipes, I ain’t got any free hands, ya mind openin’ this door for me?”

Sniper opened the door, greeted by a Scout smiling so big, the younger man’s face was in danger of splitting in half.  A large cardboard box—almost too large to wedge through the narrow doorway, Sniper noted as he stepped aside to allow Scout to climb into the camper—was clutched to his chest.

“‘Kay, I’ve been thinkin’ about this long an’ hard,” Scout said, sitting the box down on the coffee table and collapsing onto the couch.  “An’ I’ve finally decided what ya oughta read first.”

This was the first time Sniper had ever had a guest inside his camper.  He’d been worried that Scout might make some comments about how small or cramped or stuffy it was in here, but Scout had quite literally marched in and made himself at home.  Sniper thought about making a little quip about Scout’s brazenness, but he didn’t want to come off as rude.  It was actually a relief that Scout hadn’t made the whole “welcome-to-my-home-make-yourself-comfortable” thing drawn-out and awkward.  They’d skipped right over all of those formalities, and Sniper was all the happier for it.

Ah, but there was one formality he couldn’t skip over, else Mum and Dad would roll over in their graves. 

“Would ya like a drink?” he asked, feeling for all the world like an idiot.  He’d never had company, ever, but you were supposed to ask them if they’d like something to drink, that much he did know.

“Nah, I don’t drink, it makes my legs feel weird,” Scout said.  “I mean, thanks, an’ everything, but I’m gonna pass.”

Shit, Sniper thought.  He’d worded that wrong.  “A drink” usually indicated alcohol.  He should’ve said “something to drink,” which could mean either spirits or normal beverages.  Shit, shit, he was an idiot.

“No, er, that came out wrong,” he said, his hand wandering over to his right wrist, scratching absently.  “I meant a normal drink.  I’ve got coffee I’ve just made.  ’N’ there’s a Coke ’n’ some Kool-Aid in the fridge.”

“Are we talkin’ regular Kool-Aid or that sugar-water shit they ration the base with?” Scout asked cautiously.

“I bought it from the market,” Sniper shrugged.

That piqued Scout’s interest.  He flashed his buck teeth in a grin.  “What flavor Kool-Aid?”

“Cherry.”

“Oh man, it’s been like three years since I had a glass a real Kool-Aid,” Scout said, pulling the box of comics toward him.  “Yeah, pour me a glass, if ya offerin’.”

This was yet another situation that could’ve been uncomfortable, but wasn’t.  Sniper remembered back at the farmhouse in Australia, when his Mum would have a few of the ladies from church over every Sunday afternoon for refreshments and knitting.  Mum would make tea, and when she offered it, all her friends would crow, “oh, no, no, I couldn’t possibly trouble you,” until Mum served them a cup, anyhow.  Even with the drink in their hands, they still insisted on the fact that they weren’t thirsty, please don’t bother, I’m fine.  Sniper never understood the sense in all that, and was quite glad for Scout to be so quick to accept his small token of hospitality.  He walked the five steps needed to go from the living area to the kitchenette and fixed Scout a glass of Kool-Aid.  He poured himself a mug of coffee and headed back to the couch.

“Aw, look, ya even put a straw in it,” Scout said when Sniper gave him the glass, the ice clinking cheerfully against the side of the cup as it passed hands.

“Aren’t you supposed to do that?” Sniper asked, sitting down on the couch beside him.  “Else you’ll stain your mouth?”

Scout stuck the straw in his mouth and took a drink.  “Well, I ain’t ever drank no Kool-Aid with a straw, but it’s a smart idea, for real.”  He sat the glass down directly on the tabletop, then apparently noticed the two coasters on either side of the table; before his hand even left the glass, he moved the cup over to a coaster.

“So the thing about comics is like, ya got one series that starts, and then there’s another series that’s kinda based offa that one, but different,” Scout said.  “And ya gotta read one first before ya read the other one, or it won’t make sense.  Well, sometimes it does.  Some of ‘em are pretty good at explainin’ what’s goin’ on in the beginnin’.  But don’t worry about all that, I got this.”

Sniper took a sip of his coffee.  “Okay,” he said evenly.

Scout started to reach his hand into the cardboard box he’d brought, but he yanked his hand back.  “So you ain’t ever read any kinda comics, like ever?”

“Well, the ones in the newspaper, I suppose.”

“Nah, nah, them don’t count,” Scout grinned.  “Awright.  So.  For the comic book virgin, I recommend…” 

He reached into the box and slowly pulled out a thin, yellowed comic encased in a protective plastic sleeve.  He held it at its sides by his fingertips.

“Captain America number one,” Scout said, beaming like a proud parent.  “March 1941.  It’s a classic.  If ya don’t like this, ya ain’t gonna like anything I got, that’s for sure.”

Scout held it out for Sniper to take, and Sniper really didn’t know how to hold it.  Even from within its protective plastic, it looked like it’d turn to dust at the slightest touch.  Sniper took it from the younger man like he might handle a baby animal.

“Think I’m too afraid to open it,” Sniper said, looking down at it.  Its cover depicted Captain America punching Hitler in the face.  The thing must’ve been worth a small fortune.

Scout made a pff sound and flapped a dismissive hand.  “Well, I mean I’d appreciate it if ya wouldn’t use it as a pot holder, or nuttin’, but comics are for readin’.  It won’t hurt if ya handle it, I promise.  I pull the old ones out and read ‘em all the time.”

Sitting the comic book very, very carefully in his lap, Sniper peered into the cardboard box.  It was full to bursting with plastic-covered volumes.  How many of those did Scout expect him to read, again…?

“There must be at least a hundred in there,” Sniper mused. 

“And that ain’t even a tenth of ‘em, neither,” Scout said, a hint of shame in his voice.  “See why I don’t want nobody knowin’ I read these?  The guys’d have a frickin’ field day if they knew how many o’ these I have.  They’d never lemme hear the end of it.”

“You think they’d really care how many comics you’ve got?” Sniper asked, hoping his tone didn’t come off as rude.  He wasn’t meaning to be derogatory, he was merely curious.

“Mm, prob’ly.  They don’t mean nothin’ by it, but they pick on me a lot.  All of us get along alright, actually, don’t gemme wrong—but they like givin’ me a hard time.  Think it’s cause I’m younger’n them.”  He gave a half-shrug.  “I just don’t wanna give ‘em any more, uh…what am I tryna say, uh…”

“Fuel for the fire?” Sniper offered.

Scout pointed at him.  “Yeah, that.”

Sniper looked down at the comic in his lap again.  “Are you sure you want me puttin’ me grubby mitts all over these books a yours?  I don’t know shit abou’ ‘em, but I can tell by lookin’ that they’re rare.”

“Just try not to spill some’n on ‘em, or whatever,” Scout assured him.  “You’re not an idiot, Snipes, I think you can handle openin’ a book without rippin’ it in half.  ‘Sides.”  Scout’s voice dropped in volume a little.  “You’d be doin’ me a favor readin’ ‘em, ‘cause then I’ll have somebody to talk to about ‘em.”

Sniper had agreed to read them in the first place because Scout had been so keen on convincing him to; in a way, he’d felt like there wasn’t really another option besides saying yes.  But as he looked at Scout’s collection—or rather, a small chunk of it—he had to admit that his interest had been effectively piqued. 

After all, even if it turned out he didn’t like them, there was still something else he could stand to gain from reading them.  It was obvious that Scout cared deeply for the things, and if he delved into their contents, he’d likely learn more about the younger man.

Willing to learn more about a person’s interests, all for the sake of getting to know them better…this was honestly a feeling Sniper’d never harbored for another human.

“For real, though, you ain’t gotta read ‘em,” Scout said, giving Sniper a handful of comics.  “I’m pushy, I know.  I’m workin’ on that, I swear.”  He paused, then added, “Well, y’gotta read one, then if ya don’t like it, ya ain’t gotta read no more of ‘em.”

“Just the one, eh?” Sniper said, giving Scout a small smile.  “I think I can manage that.”

“Awesome,” Scout said, and at that word, his leg began to jiggle.  “Those’re the first ten Captain Americas ya got right there, but I didn’t know if ya’d be a DC or a Marvel guy, so I brought the Flash, too, and—“

And Scout was off, explaining to Sniper with rapidly gesturing hands and a jiggling leg about Marvel comics, DC comics, Captain America, the Flash, the Avengers, the Justice League, and an assortment of other bits of information Sniper found difficult to follow.  Maybe it would all click into place when he actually read what Scout was talking about, though.

Some time later, Scout slurped the last drops of the Kool-Aid from his glass.  “Want me to wash this right quick?  I don’t care to, really I don’t.”

Sniper plucked the glass from his hand.  “I don’t reckon it’ll kill me to wash one glass,” he assured him.

“Well it feels weird, ya pourin’ me drinks and cleanin’ up after me and shit,” Scout muttered, but Sniper rose to his feet, taking the cup and his long-ago empty coffee mug to the narrow little sink in the kitchenette.

“Not a big deal, honestly,” Sniper called over the sound of rushing water.  He gave each cup a quick scrub and sat them on the drying rack beside the sink.

Scout stood up, then.  “Hey, I didn’t even know it was this late, so I better take off and go my happy ass to bed.”

Sniper checked his wristwatch.  Nine-oh-nine.  Somehow, Scout had managed to make more than an hour’s time feel like mere minutes.

“Yeah,” Sniper agreed, “I’ve gotta clean me gun before tomorrow, anyhow.”

“I’m just gonna leave all these here, awright?  That cool, I mean…?” Scout said, gesturing to the comic box. 

“’S fine,” Sniper nodded.

“No hurry on readin’ ‘em, I mean I know you got ya love books to read and ya sweaters to knit.” 

Sniper shook his head at him, but he was smiling anyway.  “What’s that you said about the guys pickin’ on you, again?”

“Yeah, I might do a little pickin’ back,” Scout said as he turned the door handle.  “Okay, man, I’m outta ya hair now.  See ya tomorrow, Snipes.”

“Sure.  Tomorrow,” Sniper said, staring at the door long after Scout had shut it behind him.

Snapping out of his stupor, he grabbed a dish towel from a drawer and began to dry the two cups.

“I’m pickin’ up good vibrations…” he sang under his breath as he dried.  At the realization of what he was singing, his eyes widened.

“Goddammit, Scout,” he grumbled, humming the admittedly catchy tune as he put the glasses back into the cabinet.

Chapter Text

All the way down the hall, Scout could hear the cacophony coming from the kitchen, the raucous laughter and the clinking of dishes growing steadily louder as he neared it.  He walked through the kitchen archway and was surprised to see it packed so full of his fellow mercs.  Usually, they all grabbed their breakfast at different times, and there were rarely more than two people at a time in the kitchen.  As Scout scanned the room, he found that every single one of his teammates were present—even Spy, who stood with his shoulders hunched in the corner of the room, one of his weird pastel-colored cigarettes dangling from a daintily-gloved hand.

Every single one of his teammates except for Sniper, Scout noted with a twinge of disappointment.

“Mornin’,” Engineer called to him as Scout made his way to the fridge.

“Mornin’,” Scout replied absently, pawing through the maze of Tupperware containers and take-out boxes and condiment bottles until he came across one of his energy drinks.  He shut the fridge and popped the tab.  The smell of ginseng and B-vitamins reached his nose as he took a deep pull from the can, mouth salivating from the mildly sour elixir.

“Miss Pauling brought donuts,” Engineer said, tipping his head toward the small mountain of little pink pastry boxes strewn across the length of the kitchen table.

At the mention of her name, Miss Pauling paused her scribbling on her paperwork and flicked her eyes over to Scout.  “Help yourself,” she said, turning her attention back to her work.

“I didn’t even see you sittin’ there, Miss P!” Scout wailed, his voice several octaves too loud for the occasion, but he felt dumb for not seeing her sooner.  He walked to the kitchen table and flopped down in a seat beside her.  “What’s the deal with all the donuts?”

She held a finger up in a “hold-that-thought” gesture, keeping it aloft until she’d jotted a few more words down on her paper.  She stilled her pen, lowered her finger, and looked over at him.

“The Administrator wanted to give you guys a small reward,” she said, her eyes scurrying back to her papers.  “Collectively, RED Team has reached its one hundred-thousandth kill, as of yesterday.”

“Yippee,” Scout deadpanned, thumbing open one of the donut boxes and helping himself to what he had hoped was a chocolate-flavored cake donut, but turned out to be some kind of lip-curling root beer concoction.  “Hey, who actually got the hundred-thousandth kill?  The fifty-thousandth one was me, I know that.” 

The Administrator hadn’t bought a bunch of donuts for fifty-thousand, but she had sent a lovely fruit basket, which went largely uneaten by anyone except Soldier’s pet raccoons.  The more he thought about it, Scout felt kind of cheated, but whatever.

“Mrrh!” came a muffled squeal of delight from the seat directly across from Scout.  Pyro jabbed his thumbs toward his chest.  As always, Pyro’s face was concealed by a black, rubbery-looking gas mask, but Scout knew there was bound to be a face-splitting smile lurking just underneath it.

“Well, congratulations, buddy!” Scout beamed, slapping his grip-taped palm against the tabletop.  He put a little more enthusiasm into his voice and hand gestures than was necessary; Pyro always seemed to get a kick out of it when he did that, for whatever reason.  “Guess I shoulda asked, ‘fore I ate one a ya donuts, hah?”

Pyro laughed, flapping a gloved hand in Scout’s direction.  “Hrr nrrt jrrst mrrh hrrh, drr frr huurrrhrrbrrdrrrh,” Pyro assured him.

After five years of living with Pyro, Scout could more-or-less understand the man’s mask-smothered grunting.  They’re not just for me, they’re for everybody, sounded like.

“That’s awful sweet of ya, Py,” Scout said, which garnered another muffled giggle from Pyro.  He took a large bite of his root beer-flavored donut, trying not to taste it too much as he washed it down with a swig of his energy drink.  It may have been gross, but like hell he’d ever be guilty of wasting food.

He polished off four more donuts and another energy drink as the morning dwindled on, the clock steadily ticking toward time to head off to work.  Scout liked to take a good hour, hour and a half each morning to enjoy the calm before the storm.  Not that he didn’t like his job, because he did, but he’d be lying if he said he looked forward to the impending mental strain it always wrought.  There was physical strain, too, but that faded away after a quick rest.  Mental strain lingered.

As it neared closer to time to head out, the crowd in the kitchen thinned.  Soon it was only Scout, Engineer, and Miss Pauling sitting at the table, the latter of whom still had her head buried in a stack of paperwork.  Scout was the master of idle chatter, so he worked his magic and got Engineer going on a tirade about Gilligan’s Island, about how the show only lasted three years because of all the glaring plot holes, et cetera et cetera.

“Yeah, if they was only goin’ on a three hour tour, how come Mr. and Mrs. Howell brought all that shit with ‘em on the boat?  That’s what I wanna know.”

“Why in Sam Hill would any of ‘em bring luggage for a three-hour tour?” Engineer said.  “And you know Mr. and Mrs. Howell ain’t gettin’ on no tiny little boat in the first place.  They’re rich, they can afford to go on somethin’ way nicer’n that.”

Miss Pauling stood up abruptly, tucking a lock of hair that had loosed itself from her bun behind her ear, and gathered her things into her arms.  “I’ve got to run and get Medic to sign off on a few forms for me, I forgot all about that,” she said, more to herself than to the two men in the room with her.  She pushed her chair underneath the table.  “Good seeing you guys, though.” 

“Always good t’see you, too,” Engineer said with a suave little tip of his hardhat, his smooth southern drawl insinuating a y’all come back now, y’hear at the end of that sentence.

“Later, Miss P,” Scout called to her as she made her way through the kitchen archway.  He could already hear her murmuring to herself, something about a Rolodex and binder clips.  Geez, the Administrator worked her too hard.

When the two of them were alone in the room, Scout could feel Engineer’s eyes on him.  He looked over and the other man was giving him an odd sort of look, an amused smile playing at the Texan’s lips. 

“What’re ya lookin’ at me like that for, Hardhat?” Scout asked him, his hands swiping at his face for possible donut smudges and, feeling nothing, flying up to pat at his hair.  Nothing amiss there, he looked down at his shirt to see if he’d spilled something on himself, or something.  No, that was fine, too. 

Well what the hell’s that look for, then? he thought, mildly annoyed.

“Nothin’,” Engineer said with a shrug, his easygoing grin widening.  “Just, ever’ time Miss Pauling comes down here to check in, you, uh…well, to be right real honest, you kinda fall all over her.  Never thought I’d see the day when you’d get over that crush o’ yours.  Pardon my sayin’ so, but it’s about damn time.”

“What?  No, I—I still like Miss Pauling,” Scout said indignantly.  “I mean, I know she’s way too busy to…y’know, date or whatever no time soon, but I—I still got a thing for her, for sure.”  Scout crossed his arms at his chest.

“Mm, alright, then,” Engineer said, the smile never wavering from his face as he took another sip from his coffee cup.

“What’s that supposed to mean, huh?” Scout said, feeling his temper rising.  “Whaddyou care who I like and who I don’t, anyways?”

Engineer plunked his mug back to the tabletop, smacking his lips once before he spoke.  “Ain’t no reason to get hot under the collar, son, that weren’t my intention,” Engineer said gently.

Scout’s shoulders sagged.  He’d never admit it, not for a million years, but Engineer was the closest thing to a dad he’d ever had.  That sentiment doubled when the Texan called him “son,” which was often.  He didn’t know what it felt like to back-sass your father, but he imagined it was a lot like what he felt at that moment.

“Nah, I know,” Scout said, casting his eyes down at the table.  “Miss P’s great and all, but I dunno, I…I guess my little pea brain finally figured out she ain’t interested.  I just…ain’t really feelin’ it no more, I guess.”

Engineer nodded slowly.  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, that poor woman’s married to her job.  She ain’t even got time for herself, let alone somebody else.”

“Yeah,” Scout sighed.  “Heh.  Me ’n’ her are kinda too different anyways, right?”

“Now, sometimes opposites attract, but it depends on what kinda opposite you’re dealin’ with, if you want my opinion on it.  You and Miss Pauling, well…the two a you are just a smidge too opposite.”

“Think so?” Scout said, putting his elbow on the table and propping his head up against his palm.  “How come I liked her for five years, then?  Ain’t that more than just a crush at that point, though?”

Engineer shook his head.  “Want me to be honest with you, here?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Think you liked Miss Pauling for so long ‘cause you knew she was unattainable.  She’s the perfect lady to, uh…well, if you tell yourself over and over that you’re just waitin’ on Miss Pauling to say yes to you, and use that for your reason why you ain’t lookin’ at other ladies…” 

Engineer reached up and adjusted his goggles with a thumb and forefinger.  “Ah, it ain’t my place to pry like that, I’m sorry.  Anyhow.”  He stood up from the table and grabbed his coffee mug.  “I’m gonna skedaddle before I stick mah foot any farther in mah mouth.  See ya in an hour.”  With that, Engineer made his leave from the kitchen, his steel-toed work boots clunking against the hardwood as he walked.

Scout might’ve been dumb, but he wasn’t an idiot.  He knew what Engineer was insinuating, and it took all the self-restraint he had in him not to sprint off after the short little bastard and plant a foot in his ass.  He didn’t nurse a crush on Miss Pauling for five long, torturous years because he knew she’d never like him back; that was the stupidest shit he’d ever heard, who’d do that to themselves?  He’d get married to Miss Pauling tomorrow, no questions asked.

…But would he really, though?

He had just told Engineer that his enthusiasm for Miss Pauling had tapered off to nearly nothing as of late.  He just chalked it up to a chapter ending in his life, a phase he was getting over.  He had crushed on her, hard, and it had gone fruitless for so long that he was finally ready to move on to other ladies.

Other ladies.  Engineer had made a remark about that.  Basically, the older man had said Scout was using Miss Pauling as an excuse not to go after these “other ladies,” meaning he didn’t really want to.  And if Scout knew Miss Pauling wouldn’t ever go on a date with him, but he felt like he had a valid excuse not to go after “other ladies” because of his crush on her…

Maybe he just wasn’t interested in girls at all.

That’s not what he was telling himself, Scout reasoned, that’s just what Engineer was getting at.  In his roundabout, polite little way, Engineer had hinted at the fact that he might be

(batting for the other team)

interested in…you know.  Dudes, or something.

Scout scoffed and took a swallow of his energy drink, squeezing the can so hard that it bent.  He wasn’t gonna think about this right now.  He’d get himself good and pissed off before work, and that was the last thing he wanted.  He needed to clear his head before he stepped onto the teleporter that’d whisk him off to Dustbowl.  His eyes flicked to the Kit-Cat clock swiveling its eyes and swishing its tail above the kitchen sink.  Eight twenty-something.  Yeah.  He had half an hour to take a run.  Running was good.  Running required very little cognitive thought.  He’d take a few laps around the base before he had to go.

Directly in front of the kitchen table was a sliding glass door leading out to the back patio.  The back patio looked out on the base’s back lot, and off to the right-hand side sat Sniper’s Winnebago, its metallic surface twinkling in the glow of the sunrise.  Scout had his hand on the handle of the sliding glass door, about to open it, when he caught a glimpse of movement just outside the camper.  The barely-visible form of Sniper was doing something out in front of his quaint little home—something that required bending down, though from this distance, Scout couldn’t tell what.

Hey, y’know what I just thought, Scout said to himself, everybody ‘cept Sniper got donuts.  That ain’t fair, huh.  I oughta take him some.  Py won’t mind, I know he won’t.  ‘Sides, there’s like, fifty of ‘em left, nobody’ll notice if I take like five or six out there.

Without giving it another thought, because thinking was bad and distracting and troublesome and he didn’t give a shit anyway, Scout grabbed five of the best-looking donuts he came across and put them into one of the empty donut boxes.  He sucked the frosting from his fingers and headed outside, jogging off toward Sniper’s camper.

****

The sky over Dustbowl was heavy and gray with rainclouds. While getting a broken femur MediGunned back together, Scout heard the distant growl of thunder.

“Ach,” Medic said as he tended to Scout’s leg, glancing up at the sky.  “I was hoping to get a bit of gardening done after work, but I’m sure that won’t be happening.”

“Think it’s rainin’ back home?” Scout asked.  If it was, he wouldn’t be going out to the rock formation to hang out with Sni—uh, to practice his drawing.

“If those clouds and that thunder coming from the west are any indication, I would say so,” Medic said, tipping his head toward the offending clouds.  Due to the man's thick German accent, it sounded like he'd said vest, not west, and it took Scout a second to work that out in his brain.  Scout had no room to talk, though; his Bostonian accent butchered just as many, if not more words than Medic’s, and English was Scout’s first language.

“Dammit,” Scout mumbled under his breath, wincing at the unpleasant, but not exactly painful sensation of his bone being fused back together.

Medic smirked at him, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.  “You look terribly disappointed.  Did you have plans with someone this afternoon?”

Medic’s word choice struck Scout as a little odd.  Medic hadn't asked him if he had plans; he had asked if he had plans with someone.  Did…did Medic know about him and Sniper?

Now wait just a frickin’ minute, Scout scolded himself, what the hell’m I thinkin’, “does he know.”  Ain’t nuttin’ to know.  So I hung out with the guy for two frickin’ days, so what?  It ain’t like we’re handin’ out weddin’ invitations, over here.

“Your face is flushed,” Medic said, giving Scout a knowing smile.

“No it ain’t,” Scout snapped, turning his head away.  “I’m just sunburnt or sum’n.  How much longer on the leg, Doc?”

Chuckling under his breath, Medic extended a rubber-gloved forefinger.  “Does it hurt when I do this?” he asked, prodding the flesh at Scout’s left quadricep.

“Nah,” Scout said, jumping up from the shoved-together wooden crates that served as Medic’s makeshift examination table.  He leaned some weight onto his leg.  No pain, but it did feel a little wobbly; it always did, though, so no surprise there.

“Feels good, thanks Doc, you’re the best,” he babbled, suddenly wanting to get the hell out of there.  Those thoughts he’d fought so hard to fight off were creeping back to the forefront of his mind.  He needed to bludgeon a few heads with his baseball bat or squeeze off a few meat shots with his scattergun or something.  He started to dash off, but he didn’t get far before Medic called after him.

“Before you go, Scout,” Medic said, “I need to ask you something.”  Scout froze in his tracks.  He had to quite literally squeal to a stop, the pointed rubber soles of his cleats skidding against the half-rotted wood of Medic’s lean-to clinic.

“Yeah?” Scout said apprehensively.  He just knew Medic was going to say some sassy remark about how Scout was spending a lot of time and filling up too many sketchbook pages with A Certain Australian as of late.  How Medic could possibly know about his drawings, Scout didn’t know, but he was sure Medic did, somehow.  Scout could tell by the accusatory glint in the German’s eyes.  Yeah, that was definitely an accusatory glint he was seeing.  Scout chewed at his bottom lip, his buck teeth pulling at a loose sliver of wind-chapped skin.

Medic had swapped his MediGun for a blood-spattered clipboard.  He flipped through the papers pinned to it, scrawled something down with a pen, then used the pen to point at Scout.  “Stop by my office this Saturday, ja?  I need to have a look at that femur of yours again.”

Scout breathed a sigh of relief.  It was just the leg Doc was worried about, then, not…something else.

“Y-yeah, awright,” Scout nodded, “I’ll swing by.” 

He took a step backward, about to turn on his heel and dash off, but Medic was stepping toward him, stripping one of his rubber gloves from his hand.  Scout’s eyes widened in alarm, unsure where this situation was headed as Medic came to a stop about a foot away from him.  Medic raised his ungloved hand to face-level.

He’s gonna hit me, Scout thought with panic, why, what the hell’d I do?  Scout wanted to back away, use his forearms to shield himself, something, anything.  But he couldn’t.  His entire body was numb with a fresh, jagged burst of fear.  All he could do was clamp his eyes shut and brace himself.

When two, three seconds passed by and the blow did not come, Scout cracked his eyes open.  Medic stared down at him with sympathetic eyes.

“I’m only seeing if you have a fever, liebchen,” Medic said, his voice uncharacteristically warm and comforting. 

“Oh,” Scout said, and there was no denying he was blushing in embarrassment that time; he could feel the heat radiating from his face.  “Uh, yeah.  I knew that.”

A soft, warm hand came to rest at Scout’s forehead.  He felt like he was six years old and in the school nurse’s office all over again.  The hand lingered there for a moment, then withdrew.

“You feel quite warm,” Medic said, taking a step back to allow the both of them the return of their personal space.  “And your skin is clammy.  Your face is flushed, you’re more skittish than the usual…you’re either coming down with something, or you have something on your mind.”  The inquisitive look on Medic’s face implied, which is it?

“I feel fine, Doc, really,” Scout assured him, already backing toward the lean-to’s exit.  “I’m good.  An’ my leg feels awright, so I’m just gonna get outta here an’—“

“This may come as a surprise to you, Scout, but I was your age once,” Medic interrupted.  “I know that look in your eye all too well.  You know, if there’s ever any questions you may want to ask, you are welcome to ask me.”

Scout wanted to fall on the floor and die.  Ohmigod.  Medic wanted to tell him where babies came from, or something.  This was way, way too uncomfortable.  He felt like the rickety walls of the lean-to were closing in on him.

Scout turned on his heel.  “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind,” Scout yelled over his shoulder, jogging for the exit.  “I better get back out there before somebody notices I ain’t workin’, uh, thanks for patchin’ me up, Doc, I feel a hundred percent now…”

A stream of barely-related words tumbled from his mouth until he was out of earshot from Medic.  He broke out into a sprint, scattergun clutched to his side, dog tags jouncing against his chest.  The rhythmic thud of his feet against dry, cracked earth, the comforting burn settling into his leg muscles, the fire in his chest as his breath quickened—all of it amalgamated into a haze of much-needed calm. 

Up ahead Scout spotted an inattentive BLU, back turned as they took aim with their rocket launcher.  Before they could fire their weapon, Scout darted up, squeezed off two shots point-blank into their backside, and sped off without so much as a backwards glance.  Whoever that poor sap was, he’d be headed off to respawn, for sure.  The familiar rush of adrenaline coursed through Scout’s veins, further pushing those intrusive thoughts back where they belonged—far, far away from the forefront of his mind. 

Good.

Grinning wickedly, Scout set his sights for another BLU up on the horizon, unsheathing his baseball bat from the gear bag strapped to his back. 

Don’t think. 

Thinking sucks. 

Just go. 

Chapter Text

Normally Sniper didn’t mind the rain, but this was getting bloody ridiculous.

He’d been content with it, for awhile.  Being inside for too long used to make him antsy, but there was something about being in a camper that made you feel half-indoors, half-outdoors at all times.  Being cooped up in the Winnie wasn’t so bad; it gave him some time to put a dent in Scout’s comic collection, if nothing else.  And the sound of the downpour plinking against the metal roof of the camper was relaxing.

But he was running dangerously low on clean clothes to wear.  Usually he did his laundry on Tuesdays, since Tuesday proved to be an unpopular day for anyone else to be doing their laundry in the base’s laundry room, but the rain had kept him from it.  It was Friday now, and he finally had to face facts:  he was out of clean trousers and was down to one clean pair of socks.  If he didn’t do laundry today, he’d be spending Saturday in his skivvies.

Sighing, he carefully closed the comic he was reading and slipped it back into its plastic protective cover.  He got up from his recliner, put his hands at the small of his back, and leaned backward, eliciting several satisfying pops. 

God, he was getting old.

Okay.  Maybe not old, old.  He’d be thirty-seven in two months.  That wasn’t so bad, Sniper supposed.  But thirty-seven was three years away from forty.  Ten years past forty was fifty, and fifty was the age when he’d legally be considered a senior citizen.  Thirteen years, then, and he’d be an old fuff.  He couldn’t quite believe it.

He came to the realization that he’d just been standing there in front of his armchair, hands clutching his back, for more than a minute.  He shook his head a little to clear it, then walked over to the large metal cage dominating his kitchen table.

“I’m going out for a bit,” he told the creature inside.  Hoots swiveled his head to meet Sniper’s gaze, the owl’s haunting red eyes regarding his owner coldly.

“Don’t gimme that look,” Sniper grumbled, frowning.  “I don’t like you bein’ in there any more’n you like it.”  He gestured a hand toward the camper’s side entrance.  “Would you rather be out there, out in this bloody monsoon?”

Restless, Hoots shuffled across the tree branch Sniper had put in the cage for the owl to use as a perch.  He just looked so…so sad.  It made Sniper’s heart ache, it did.

“I know I’m gonna regret this,” Sniper grumbled as he opened the door to Hoots’s cage.  He held out his forearm and clicked his tongue.  Hoots hopped from the perch, to the edge of the cage opening, to Sniper’s outstretched arm.

“I’ve got to go and do some laundry up at the base,” he said, situating Hoots on top of the cage, rather than inside it.  He pointed an index finger inches away from the owl’s beak.  “Listen, you, there’re some rules you’d better follow while I’m gone.  Don’t go tearin’ nothin’ up, and I swear, if you shit all over the place, I’ll—“

Hoots reached his head out and nipped at Sniper’s outstretched finger, chirruping softly.  Sniper shook his head, but he couldn’t help but smile.

Just in case his owl got any wild ideas while he was gone, Sniper stashed Scout’s comic book collection at the front of the camper in the passenger’s seat, tossing a throw blanket over them for good measure.  He retrieved his overflowing laundry basket from the bathroom and hoisted it to his hip.  Without a second thought to the nasty weather, he flung the door open and tromped out into it.

It was raining harder now than it had been when he got in from work.  At first he made a run for it, but after skidding at least a foot through the slippery mud and nearly falling flat of his arse, he decided he’d better speed-walk the rest of the way.  Didn’t really matter at that point—the rain was so torrential that there wasn’t a dry spot left on him.  All the laundry in his basket were bound to be soaked, as well.

His boots made moist squelching sounds as he plodded up the stairs to the back patio and over to the sliding glass door.  Through the door, Sniper could see people in the kitchen, but couldn’t really make out who—not only had his glasses slipped quite a ways down the bridge of his nose, but the lenses were dotted with water droplets.  Eager to get out of the rain, he started to open the sliding door, but he hesitated.

I can’t go in there, I’m soppin’ wet, Sniper thought.  Boots’re covered in mud.  Got a wet laundry basket full’a even wetter clothes.  I’d get mud ’n’ water all over the place, I can’t—

The door trundled open, and he could barely make out the portly figure of Engineer staring up at him, beckoning him inside with both hands.  “Good Lord, Slim,” Engineer called over the sound of the pelting rain, “get in here ‘fore you drown!”

“I’ll get water everywhere,” Sniper shouted back, squinting through his glasses.  Maybe he should’ve thought this situation through a bit more before setting out…

Another figure stepped into his blotchy vision.  Sniper probably wouldn’t have recognized who it was, had he not spotted the grip tape wrapped around the figure’s hands and wrists.

“That’s what we got a rug over here for, Snipes,” Scout yelled over the rain, pointing down at the object in question. 

Oh.  Sniper hadn’t noticed the floral-pattern rug stretching landscape-style in front of the door.  It was plenty long enough for him to stand on.

Overhead, lightning lit up the sky.  Not a half-second later, an ear-splitting boom of thunder crashed with such force, Sniper felt the floorboards beneath him tremble.  Both Engineer and Scout scrambled for him, grabbing at his shirtsleeves and yanking him inside.

“Did you frickin’ see that?” Scout said as Engineer slid the door closed.  He pressed his face to the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes and peering outside.  “That lightnin’ was so close, like I saw it hit the ground out there!”

“And if lightnin’ strikes near this door, you’re gonna have a face fulla glass,” Engineer warned.  At that, Scout jerked his head away from the door and took a cautious step backward.

Before Sniper had a chance to register what he was doing, Engineer tugged the laundry basket from his grasp.  “Howsabout you run ’n’ grab a couple towels for our damp friend, here?” Engineer said, inclining his head toward Scout—or, that what it looked like he was doing, anyhow.  Sniper’s glasses were still mostly useless.

“Yeah,” Sniper heard Scout say, followed by, “lemme take this, too, I gotta go in there anyways.”  The laundry basket exchanged hands.

As Scout dashed off, Engineer clapped Sniper on the arm with a metallic hand.  “Sit tight a minute, Slim, I’m gonna go grab you somethin’ dry to slip on.”

Sniper stiffened, becoming acutely aware of the water dripping from every part of him and spattering the rug below.  Engineer was offering to let him borrow a set of clothes.  He…no. 

That was…he couldn’t. 

“That’s—that ain’t, er…you ain’t gotta go through that trouble, ‘m fine.  Really.”

“It ain’t no trouble,” Engineer assured him, already walking out of the kitchen.  “I’ll be back in two shakes.”

Sniper grumbled out a deep sigh as he ran a hand through his rain-soaked hair.  He really hadn’t thought this through at all, had he?  He knew he was bound to get wet out there, that his laundry would get wet as well—he wasn’t that stupid.  But he hadn’t expected to be soaked to the point where he may as well have plunged into a lake, and he really hadn’t expected two of his teammates to have to dote on him as he stood there awkwardly, shoulders hunched, drip-drying on a kitchen rug.

This was bleedin’ awful. 

He removed his glasses and made to wipe them on his shirttail, but stopped when he realized it wouldn’t do him any good.  His shirt was wetter than his lenses.  Allowing himself another sigh, he gave a feeble attempt at shaking the water from his glasses.

A leather-gloved hand thrust itself inches away from his face.  He stumbled back in alarm, his backside colliding with the sliding door, before his brain registered that it was only Spy’s hand, and in that hand was a crisp, triangular-folded handkerchief.

“Take it,” Spy said, his voice low and without inflection.  “For your glasses.”

And now three of his teammates were fussing over him.  If Sniper’s heart stopped beating out of sheer embarrassment, he wouldn’t be surprised in the least.  It was obvious the hand wasn’t going to move out of his face until he took the what it was offering, so Sniper plucked the handkerchief from Spy’s glove with hesitant fingers.

“Thanks, mate,” he murmured, shaking the folds from the handkerchief and drying his lenses with it.  He jammed his glasses back onto his head, instantly regaining his sight.  Sniper turned to face Spy, holding out the handkerchief, meaning to return it.  Spy merely raised a hand.

“Keep it,” Spy said.  Sniper opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter a single word, Spy disappeared in a plume of hazy red smoke.

Sniper didn’t have but a few seconds to dwell on the strange encounter with Spy before Scout skidded into the room, his bare feet clapping against the linoleum, arms laden with a rumpled ball of towels.

“I swear they’re clean, I just ain’t folded ‘em yet,” Scout said, handing one to Sniper.  “Just pulled ‘em outta the dryer, I promise.”

The towel was still warm as Sniper tousled it against his hair.  As he dried himself, he might or might not have allowed himself to sneak a few glances at Scout.  The younger man was already in his pajamas—or what Sniper presumed to be pajamas, anyhow.  Scout had on a threadbare Red Sox jersey that hung loosely from his shoulders, the sleeves coming down well below his elbows.  Sniper noticed a glint of metal at Scout’s neck—still wearing his dog tags, then, though he’d tucked the necklace beneath his shirt.  He wore red cotton pajama bottoms, a tiny frayed hole at the right knee.

“Ya picked a hell of a time to do laundry, ya know that?” Scout said, handing him a fresh towel. 

Sniper draped the sodden towel on the back of a kitchen chair and took the dry one from Scout’s outstretched hand.  “Didn’t think I’d get this wet,” he mumbled, wiping the rain from his bare forearms.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Scout’s eyes widened and he broke out into a face-splitting grin.  “Oh, hey, I was gonna ask ya, didja ever—“

“Here ya go, Slim.”

Sniper hadn’t seen Engineer coming back into the kitchen, which was more than a little worrisome.  Any assassin worth their salt was aware of their surroundings and the people within said surroundings at any given moment, whether they were on the clock or not.  He’d allowed himself to become frightfully distracted.

As he took the pile of folded clothes from Engineer, Sniper saw Scout’s baseball jersey slip down his shoulder, exposing a flash of heavily-freckled skin.  Scout absently tugged it back into place with his free hand.

Freckles…

“I was thinkin’ you could just duck into the pantry, there, and slip that on,” Engineer said, snapping Sniper out of his stupor.  “That way y’ain’t trackin’ water all over the place tryin’ t’get to the bathroom.”

Sniper cleared his throat.  “Right, yeah,” he nodded.  “And, er…thanks for this.”  He flicked his eyes over to Scout.  “And the towels.  I, erm…thanks.”

Before he could make an even bigger idiot out of himself, he shed his muddy boots on the rug and padded into the kitchen pantry.

****

The set of red plaid pajamas Engineer loaned him managed to be both too big and too small, all at once.  The top was plenty wide enough, but the arms were about three inches too short.  The bottoms weren’t long enough, either, and they had to be cinched at the waist with a clothespin in order to stay put on his hips.

Certainly better than being a wet mess, though.

As he poured a capful of detergent into the washing machine, he heard a pair of voices approaching the laundry room—one of them familiar, one of them hardly a voice at all.

“Rrsk hrmm rrf hrr wrrnts trr plrrh rrh brrhd grrm wrrf rrsh!”

“I don’t think…uh, that ain’t really Sniper’s thing, Py.  He likes ta, y’know…be by hisself.”

“Jrrst rrsk hrmm, thrrh.”

“Well if I ask him, he’ll feel like he’s gotta say yes, an’ that ain’t really fair.”

“Yrrh…rrh nrrr…”

Sniper pressed the start button on the washing machine just as Scout and Pyro entered the laundry room.  Pyro had shorn his flameproof suit and its assorted accessories, now sporting a pair of red-striped pajamas, cotton gloves, socks, slippers, and what appeared to be a woolen version of his gas mask.  Sniper tried his best not to stare at his mysterious teammate, but he couldn’t help but sneak a few glances at the man’s choice of wardrobe.

Scout gestured toward the washing machine.  “Well that answers your question, huh?” he said to Pyro.

“Rrh, grrd,” Pyro nodded.

Sniper looked over to Scout, raising an eyebrow.

“Pyro was worryin’ hisself to death, thinkin’ ya mighta forgot ya laundry soap,” Scout grinned.  “So I said we’d come down here an’ see if ya had any.”

If he was being honest, he was a bit flattered by his comrade’s concern, especially considering he could count on one hand how many words he'd said to Pyro.  Still, all he could think of to say was, “Yeah.  I’ve got some.  Thanks, though.”

“See there?” Scout said to Pyro.  “Toldja you was worryin’ over nuttin’.  Feel better now, Py?”

In lieu of an answer, Pyro gave Scout a little nudge in the ribs with his elbow.

Scout gave a little sigh.  “Ya really want me ta ask him, huh?”

Pyro nodded.

Sniper came close to saying, “ask me what?” but he couldn’t quite bring his mouth to form the words.  Instead, he gave Scout what he hoped was an inquiring look.

“Look, before I even ask, just know ya don’t gotta say yes, awright?” Scout said.

“Okay,” Sniper said.

Scout put a hand at the back of his neck.  “Well it’s, uh…every Friday night, me’n Pyro, we, y’know—play a board game in the rec room.  An’ Pyro was kinda wonderin’ if you, maybe…since ya gotta wait on ya laundry ta get done anyways, maybe ya might, uh…wanna play too.  I told him already that it wadn’t your kinda thing, ya ain’t gonna be hurtin’ nobody’s feelin's if ya don’t wanna.”

Pyro nudged Scout on the ribs again and mumbled, “trrlhrrm hrr crrn prrkthrr brrdgrmm wrrplrr.”

Scout hesitated a moment before he spoke.  “He says you can pick the board game we play,” Scout translated. 

Sniper’s knee-jerk reaction was to decline the invitation, but honestly, what good reason did he have not to?  If he said no, he’d be stuck here in the laundry room with nothing to do except stare at the wall.  Just because he was about as good at socializing as a fence post didn’t mean he shouldn’t try.

Mum and Dad would want him to put forth some effort, wouldn’t they?

And besides, if he ever wanted to get any better at interacting with folks, what better practice could he ask for than with a person he’d become fast friends with and a bloke he couldn’t even understand?

Not to mention he'd never actually played a board game with someone who wasn’t a relative.  He wasn’t exactly the most popular kid in school, mind.

“Okay,” Sniper said.

“I—really?” Scout said, beaming up at him.  “I mean, uh”—he feigned a cough—“awright then.  I’ll go easy on ya.  I’m warnin’ ya, though, Pyro cheats.”

Pyro gave Scout’s shoulder a little shove.  “Rrrh drrh nrrt!” he said indignantly.

Sniper couldn’t help but give a little chuckle at that.  It never ceased to amaze him how Scout seemed to get along so well with everybody.  It was something Sniper always wished he could do—to just be able to talk to others, to interact with them.  As a general rule, though, humans seemed to irritate him.

Except for Scout, apparently.

Scout wasn’t so bad.

Scout was possibly even the opposite of bad.

As the three of them headed off for the rec room, Scout said, “hey Snipes, ya ever seen somebody make Jiffy Pop widda flamethrower?”

Sniper bit back a smile—he didn’t want to look like he was having too good a time before they even started.  “Can’t say that I have,” he replied.

“I know it don’t sound like nuttin’ spectacular, but you oughta see it, man.  You could do that for us, couldn’tcha, Py?”

“Rrh-hrr!”

“Yer a real peach, Pyro, I mean that.  ‘Kay, kitchen first, then rec room.”

All Sniper could do was follow dumbly behind them, walking into the kitchen with them to, apparently, watch Pyro prepare flame-broiled popcorn.

This was turning into an odd night indeed.

****

“Miss Scarlet, in the library, wiv a revolver.”

Scout tossed a tiny manila packet across the game board.  “I dunno,” he said warily.  “Open the magic envelope and see if ya right.”

The little envelope was about as large as a playing card.  TOP SECRET, the front of it proclaimed in red ink.  Sniper thumbed it open, shook the three cards out, looked at them.  He maintained a straight face as he fanned them out across the board for Scout and Pyro to see.

Miss Scarlet.  Library.  Revolver.

“Yrrwrrhhrrgt!” Pyro exclaimed, clapping his cotton-gloved hands in Sniper’s direction.

“How the hell’d ya do that, Snipes?” Scout said, gaping down at the cards.  “We’ve been playin’ for like three minutes!”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Sniper’s mouth.  “Not tellin’,” he said, reaching into the bowl of (surprisingly unburnt) popcorn and helping himself to a handful.

“Ya cheatin’ somehow,” Scout grinned, pointing an accusatory finger at him.  “I dunno how, but I’m gonna figure it out.”

“Skrrt thrrnks hrrbrrbrrdrrh chrrts wrrn hrr lrrsrrs,” Pyro said to Sniper.  By now, Sniper had picked up on how to pay attention to the number of syllables Pyro spoke, when he paused to say a new word, the inflection in his speech.  If Sniper paid attention, he could catch, maybe, thirty percent of what Pyro said now.  Scout thinks everybody cheats when he loses, Pyro had said.  Or, Sniper was pretty sure that’s what he’d said.  It would certainly make sense.

“I do not,” Scout said, flicking the Colonel Mustard figurine—Pyro’s gamepiece—with his forefinger, causing it to topple over.  Both of Scout’s legs were bouncing under the table, sending a miniature earthquake across the tabletop.  “Let’s go again, I got an idea this time,” he said, tearing the old scorecard off his notepad and crumpling it into a little ball.  “I’m gonna getcha this time, Snipes, just you watch.”

“Think so?” Sniper said after swallowing a mouthful of popcorn.  “How ‘bout we make it a bit more interesting, then, yeah?”

“Oh, ya wanna bet?” Scout said, grinning wolfishly.  “Awright, awright.  If I win…”  He chewed at his bottom lip in thought.  Suddenly, his eyes lit up with an epiphany.  “I got it.  If I win, you gotta come to the base an’ eat dinner with all’a us one night.  And I’d suggest Wednesday, ‘cause that’s when it’s Hardhat’s turn to cook, but it’s your choice.”  Scout crossed his arms triumphantly, waiting for Sniper’s rebuttal.

Sniper considered this.  He didn’t mind his teammates, he got along okay with all of them, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted to be crammed elbow-to-elbow with them, watching them shovel food into their mouths.

Then again, if he won the game—which he would—he wouldn’t have to worry about it.

“Okay,” Sniper agreed.  “’N’ if I win…you’ve gotta carry me clothes back out to me camper.  You’re an awful quick runner.  Bet you can get ‘em there fast enough that they won’t get too wet.”

“Aw, in the rain?”

“Well, if you don’t wanna take the bet on account of you’re afraid you’ll lose—“

“Oh, I’m takin’ the bet,” Scout said, a fire glinting in his eyes.  “And—!  And if Pyro wins, he gets ta paint whatever he wants on the side a ya camper.”

“Yrrh, yrrh!” Pyro agreed, nodding furiously.

“Wha—no!  He ain’t paintin’ all over me Winnie!”

“Well if you don’t wanna take the bet ‘cause you’re afraid you’ll lose,” Scout mocked.

Sniper took a moment to think it over, grumbling under his breath. 

“Washable paint only, and I leave it there for one day before I hose it off.”

“Trr drrs,” Pyro said, holding up two fingers.

Sniper stifled a sigh.  “Fine.  Two days.  We’ve settled on our wagers, then?”

“I think we have,” Scout said, flashing Sniper his buck teeth.

“Rrh hrrh,” Pyro nodded.

Scout slid their game pieces back to the starting point and started dealing out cards.  “Let’s get started, then, gentlemen.”

****

Scout hoisted the trash bag full of Sniper’s clean clothes to his shoulder and popped open an umbrella.  “I swear ya cheated,” Scout said for the hundredth time, sliding the patio door open and stepping out.

The rain had died down quite a bit, but it was still enough to need an umbrella.  Pyro had been nice enough to lend Sniper one, and as Sniper opened it, he found it to be fashioned to look like a frog’s head, protruding eyes and all.  Sniper snorted at the ridiculous thing, but he was certainly glad to have it; he wasn’t too keen on getting wet all over again.

“Smart idea to put ‘em in a trash bag,” Sniper remarked as he followed Scout down the patio stairs.  “Dunno if I’d’ve thought o’ that.”

“Yeah, I used to hafta do this all the time back in Boston,” Scout said.  “It rains a lot over there.”

“Didn’t rain much in the Bush, I can tell you that.”

A beat of silence, then Scout said, “y’know, ya do have a bedroom in the base.  Ya coulda stayed in there till tomorrow, and we wouldn’t be gettin’ wet right now.”

“I thought abou’ it,” Sniper said, giving a sizable puddle a wide berth.  “But I’ve gotta put Hoots back in his cage, anyhow.  I let him out before I came to do me laundry.”

“I’m guessin’ Hoots is that owl?”

“That would be him,” Sniper nodded, though he doubted Scout could see the gesture in the dim glow of the night-watchman light.

“An’ he gets ta just…fly around wherever he wants to, inside ya camper?”

“Well, he’s got a cage,“ Sniper said quickly.  “I just, er…let him out to stretch his wings for a bit.  You know.”

“What if he tears ya shit up, or sum’n?”

“He won’t, I trust him.”

Scout turned his head and looked up at him, studying the taller man for a moment.  Then he laughed.  He had a light, tinkling laugh.  It reminded Sniper of a eucalyptus tree, for some unfathomable reason.

They reached the camper door and Sniper took the bag of clothes from Scout’s grasp.  “Thanks,” he said, fumbling the bag and the umbrella handle to one hand, so that he could open the door.

“Hey, don’t thank me,” Scout grinned, “a bet’s a bet and I frickin’ lost, so I’m just deliverin’ on my end.  I ain’t doin’ nuttin’ nice, here.”

“‘Course not,” Sniper said, smirking.

“Really, though,” Scout said, his voice growing serious, “thanks for playin’ Clue with Pyro an’ me.  I know it ain’t ya thing, but…Py got a real kick outta you bein’ there, I can tell.”

“No worries.”

Scout shifted from foot to foot.  “Well, I’ll letcha get in there an’ do…owl stuff,” he said.  “Hand me that umbrella and I’ll take it back for ya.”

Sniper handed him the umbrella and climbed the first step that led to the camper cabin.  He nearly told Scout that he’d actually got quite a few of those comics of his read, but he didn’t want to start a completely new conversation.  That could wait till tomorrow, he supposed.

Tomorrow…

Tomorrow was Saturday.  He usually spent his Saturdays holed up in the Winnebago with a book, but he found himself wondering when he’d see Scout again.

Looking forward to seeing another person…

…That can’t be good.

As if he read Sniper’s mind, Scout said, “hey, maybe we’ll see each other around tomorrow, or sum’n.”

“Yeah,” Sniper agreed.  “Maybe.”

The rain pitter-pattered against Scout’s duckling-shaped umbrella.  He gave the handle a little fidgety twirl.  “Night, Snipes,” he finally said. 

“G’night.”

Scout walked back to the base, and Sniper watched him go.  There was just…just something about him, something Sniper couldn’t quite place.  You knew a little bit about a person, and you thought there’d be no possible way the two of you could ever stand to be around one another, let alone become something similar to friends.  But something about Scout was different.  Something…but he didn’t know what.

Sniper locked the door behind him, tossed the bag of clothes near the couch, and set off to wrestle Hoots back into his cage for the night.

Chapter Text

~July, 1966~

The elevator was out.  Again.

That was the final straw.  This had easily been the worst day he’d had in years, and he couldn’t even ride the goddamn elevator up to the fourth floor to get to his apartment.  He gripped the handles of his crutches tight, tighter, his fingernails digging into the padding there and leaving little crescent-moon indentions.  He needed to get ahold of himself, he needed to—he needed—he—

In through ya mouth, out through ya nose.  In through ya mouth, out through ya nose.

He sucked in a few calming breaths as he hobbled over to the stairwell.  The cast covered his entire left leg from hip to ankle, causing it to jut out in front of him at a forty-five degree angle.  Because of that, not only would he have to climb four flights of stairs on a pair of crutches, he’d have to do it facing backwards.

Gritting his teeth and trying his damnedest not to cry, he turned his back toward the stairwell and began his crablike ascent.

****

But the sharp pain in his broken femur, and the dull ache coursing through his body from clambering up forty-eight stairs, was nothing compared to the look on his mother’s face when he told her he hadn’t gotten the scholarship.

“It’s ya leg, ain’t it?” Ma said.  “They’re worried about ya leg.  Didja tell ‘em what the doctor said, honey?”

The doctor had informed him that the cast needed to stay on for another month.  After that, it’d be half a year of physical therapy, minimum, before he could hit the diamond again.

“Yeah, I told ‘em,” he muttered.  “They said everything else looked good, y’know, my grades and my battin’ average and stuff, but—but if I can’t start practice in September, they don’t want me.”

They don’t want me.  Heh.  Story of my frickin’ life, huh?

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ma said, smoothing a hand over his freshly-buzzed head.  He hadn’t wanted to cut his hair off, but he’d tried to look as professional and clean-cut as possible for the interview.  “I’m so sorry, honey, I know how hard ya worked for this. I’m so sorry.”  Her eyes grew glassy.

Ma was riddled with guilt over his broken femur.  It was one of her deadbeat boyfriends who’d broken it, but that didn’t make it her fault.  He’d told her that a million times, but he knew she still felt personally responsible.

“It’s awright, Ma,” he said, plastering a smile onto his face and forcing his voice to sound upbeat.  “I swear, soon as I’m back on two legs I’m gonna pick up some extra shifts at the store, and—!  And I think Capelli’s is hirin’, so I’ll swing by there and fill out an application, and even if they ain’t I’ll look in the classifieds and I’ll find me a second job.  Or maybe Gene’ll let me go full-time at the store, since I ain’t goin’ ta college no more, I’ll ask him.  And I’ll save my money up and I’ll just—“  He slapped his fist into his palm.  “I’ll just pay my own damn way through college!  Yeah, screw those guys, I don’t need their frickin’ scholarship anyways!”

Ma wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him to her side.  He never liked the smell of her pungent perfume, but its familiarity was comforting. 

“You’ll be playin’ Major League before ya know it,” she murmured, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

He highly doubted he’d ever play baseball again, but he’d never tell her that, not in a million years.  God, this frickin’ day.  He was completely and totally wiped out.  He wanted a Codeine and a nap, for real.  Gently, he pulled himself from his mother’s embrace, giving her a buck-toothed grin.

“Got that right, Ma.”

****

~Present-Day~

Lying supine on his bed, Scout unscrewed the pill bottle and tipped the little white tablets onto his chest.  Simple aspirin, nothing more.  He wasn’t allowed to have anything stronger.

He dropped three of them into his mouth and downed them with a swig of…whatever the hell was in this fancy glass-stoppered bottle.  The label was written in French, so he didn’t really know what kind of beverage he was enjoying.  He had found it stashed in the back of the liquor cabinet, behind the cheap tequila, Demoman’s scrumpy, and various half-full bottles of wine.  He had chosen it because the clear liquid within suggested it would get him drunk faster than anything else in there.

The radio on his bedside table was on, the haunting melody of “House of the Rising Sun” drifting from its speakers.  No, nonono.  He couldn’t listen to this song, it made him too sad.  His hand reached out to turn the dial, but he’d used the hand holding the bottle to reach, and he spilled the alcohol everywhere.  Cursing under his breath, he sat the bottle down on the bedside table for a moment, using his now-empty hand to twist the radio dial. 

Static.  He’d rather listen to that than the sad song.  He wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle and brought it to his lips again, not even tasting the bite of the alcohol anymore.

His leg hurt. 

He put five more aspirin into his mouth and chased them down with another pull from the bottle.

****

At first, Sniper thought he was just hearing the wind, or some kind of critter making noise outside.  But then he heard the gentle tap-tap-tap again, and that time, he was sure it was coming from the direction of the camper’s side entrance.  He dogeared the current page he was on in his book, shut it, and left it on the arm of his recliner as he rose to answer the door.

He opened the door and stared down at Scout, and several things were wrong about him at once.

The first thing Sniper noticed was that Scout’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat, though the evening chill had already set in and it can’t’ve been more than fifty-five degrees out.  Second, he was swaying on his feet, looking like he might topple over if Sniper gave him the slightest nudge. 

But third, and definitely the most alarming, was Scout’s pale face, which was whiter than Sniper had ever seen it, by far. Not only that, but his eyes were ringed in purple.  He looked like a bloody zombie.

“Scout?” Sniper said.  “You don’t look so good, mate, are you…feelin’ okay?”

Scout gave a small shake of his head, his eyes drooping closed.  At that, a pang of fear shot through Sniper’s gut, but Scout opened his eyes again—if only just.

Sniper could smell the alcohol wafting off of Scout—something stout, smelled like gin.  Scout was extremely drunk.  How he’d managed to walk all the way out here from the base without passing out, Sniper had no idea.

At first, Sniper thought about yanking him inside, pulling the hide-a-bed from the couch and tossing his stupid arse into it, to let him sleep his drunk off.  But Sniper noticed the rise and fall of Scout’s chest was jerky, erratic…not nearly frequent enough.  And those purple rings round his eyes…

Sniper stepped out of the camper, shut the door behind him, and grabbed Scout by the forearm.  “Let’s get Doc to have a look at you, yeah?"

A tiny whine escaped Scout’s nostrils, a pathetic little sound that didn’t seem like it should be coming from him.  By some miracle, Scout did not resist as Sniper led him by the arm across the base’s back property.  The younger man took slow, wavering steps, and after the third time Sniper nearly yanked Scout’s arm out of socket to keep him from crashing to the ground, Sniper opted to loop his arm around Scout’s shoulder and guide him that way.

Getting him up the patio stairs was hard.  Eventually, Sniper grabbed him by the armpits and hoisted him up each individual step until they reached the top.  When Sniper guided him into the kitchen, Scout whimpered again, but didn’t put up a fight.  Probably too weak t’fight me, or he would, Sniper thought.

Thankfully, the kitchen was empty.  Sniper didn’t want to have to waste time fielding questions from his teammates.  He didn’t know anything, anyway, except for the obvious fact that Scout was two steps past drunk. 

While he led Scout down the main hallway, he remembered that it was Saturday, and Medic might not be in his office.  Shit.  If he wasn’t, he’d have to pull Scout along like a ragdoll until he found the doc.  There was no way he could leave Scout alone, not even for a second.  Engineer had warned them all about self-inflicted injuries, and how sometimes, respawn didn’t know whether to regenerate you properly or not.  Engineer’s hand had never grown back, for that very reason.  If Scout’s liver shut down, or…ugh, God.  He couldn’t think about it right now.

They reached Medic’s office, and a wave of what could almost be considered relief washed over Sniper when he saw a light shining under the door.  He gave it an urgent knock and called, “Oi, Doc, you in there?”

“Ze door is open, come on inside,” came Medic’s muffled reply.

He threw the door open and half-dragged, half-carried Scout over the threshold.  Scout leaned most of his weight against Sniper now, his legs doing little to keep him upright.  Medic was at his desk in the back corner of the room, scribbling something on a yellow legal pad.  He didn’t immediately look up as the two entered his office, continuing on with his writing.

“Good evening, Herr Sniper,” Medic said, his eyes still downcast, “vhat brings you here zhis—“

Medic glanced up.  The pen tumbled from his hand as he finally caught a look at Scout, whose knees had completely given out; Sniper clung to him, trying not to think about how cold the younger man’s body felt.

“I don’t know what he’s done,” Sniper said as Medic jumped up from his seat, “he just showed up at me camper like this, I—“

“Can you carry him?” Medic said, the usual cheer gone from his voice, his face stony as he stared down at the nearly-unconscious man in Sniper’s arms.  Sniper didn’t like that look; it worried him even more.

“Yeah—yeah, I got him,” Sniper said, giving a shallow nod.

“Bring him in here.”  Medic stormed across the room and threw open the double-doors to the examination room.  Sniper tried to take a step forward, but at that point, Scout was purely dead weight.  He had to scoop him up and carry him damsel-in-distress style into the next room. 

Scout’s eyes were vacant and glassy.  If it weren’t for the juddering rise and fall of his chest, he’d have looked dead.

He’s so cold…

“Lie him down,” Medic said, pointing to a thin-mattressed hospital bed.  “Turn his head to ze side.”

Sniper did exactly what he was told, lowering Scout to the mattress and tipping his head over as Medic bustled behind him.  He heard the distinct sound of a pair of rubber gloves snapping over flesh.

“Are his eyes open?” Medic asked, the sound of rustling plastic reaching Sniper’s ears.

“Yeah, they—they’re open, but—barely.”

“Try to get him to look at you,” Medic instructed.  “Zhis vill be much easier if he doesn’t lose consciousness.”

Oh, God.  What should he—how should he—

Stop being such a fuckin’ wuss and say something!

“Scout?” Sniper managed, bending down to meet Scout’s empty gaze.  “Look, I—I know you know I’m rubbish at talkin’, I don’t know what I’m sayin’, really I don’t, but you’ve got to look at me, you can’t pass out, you—”

With what looked like quite a bit of difficulty, Scout cracked his eyes open the tiniest bit wider, locking eyes with Sniper.  He didn’t seem to be any more aware of his surroundings, but it was a marked improvement, at least in Sniper’s mind.

“Good,” Sniper breathed, “now keep ‘em open, yeah?  I dunno what Doc’s gonna do, but he’s workin’ on it, ’n’ you need to keep those eyes open till he gets over here.  I know you don’t hear a word ‘m sayin’ right now, ’n’ that’s alright, just don’t close your eyes, just keep ‘em open, keep lookin’ at me, that’s it, just like that…”

Sniper didn’t know what he was saying anymore.  He hovered inches away from Scout’s face, the smell of alcohol on the other man’s breath strong enough to make his eyes water.  He babbled and strung nonsense sentences together until Medic nudged him out of the way, wheeling a cart laden with supplies to the bedside.

“Hold zhis,” Medic said, thrusting a large, stainless steel bowl into Sniper’s hands.

It took all of about two seconds for Sniper to figure out what the bowl was for.  Pumpin’ his stomach, Sniper thought numbly.  Somehow, that made the situation all the more serious—as if it weren’t serious enough already.

Medic grabbed a length of stiff plastic tubing from the top of the cart and stuck one end of it into Scout’s mouth.  Scout’s eyes fluttered downward, possibly trying to get a look at the intrusion, but they focused on nothing.  Medic fed the tube down his throat, Scout doing little more to acknowledge this than giving a few feeble gags.

“Swallow, liebchen, don’t fight it,” Medic said, inching the tube further down his patient’s esophagus.  When all but about ten inches of the tube remained hanging from Scout’s gaping mouth, Medic reached over and picked up what looked to Sniper like your everyday half-gallon juice pitcher.  Hell, it probably was your everyday half-gallon juice pitcher.  He then affixed a funnel—again, a thing that looked like a common kitchen utensil—to the end of the tube, holding it above Scout’s head.

“Tell me you aren’t squeamish, Sniper,” Medic said.

“No,” Sniper said, which was actually true—if growing up in the Bush hadn’t hardened him to guts and gore and bodily fluids, his career at RED certainly had.

“Hold zat near his mouth, he may vomit,” Medic said.  Again, Sniper did as he was told without question. 

The liquid from the pitcher appeared to be water.  Medic held the funnel with one hand and poured the pitcher with the other, administering its contents as quickly as the tube-and-funnel apparatus would allow, which didn’t seem nearly quick enough.  When a steady flow of the liquid began to travel through the tube and into Scout’s stomach, Scout lifted up a shaky, sluggish hand, wavering it in the air a moment before moving to pull the tube from his mouth.

Without even thinking, Sniper grabbed at Scout’s hand with his own, his fingers curling around that cold, tacky skin.  He eased Scout’s hand back down to the mattress, keeping a gentle pressure on it, holding it there.  Scout looked up at him with pitiful, watery eyes, an almost inaudible groan squeezing past the tube in his throat and tumbling from his lips.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Sniper murmured to him.  “Don’t reckon you want that bein’ shoved back down your throat, yeah?  You’re alright, mate, you’re alright.”

Scout slid his eyes over to Medic, then back to Sniper.  He tried to raise his hand again, but Sniper squeezed it harder.

“I’m sure it ain’t all that pleasant,” Sniper continued, unable to keep silent when Scout was looking at him that way.  Medic must think him a right idiot, but he couldn’t help it.  “But we go through worse than this every bleedin’ day, this is nothin’.  Bit o’ plastic down your gob ain’t anything like a gut full o’ bullet holes, is it?  You’ll be fine.”

Five minutes passed, and the pitcher was finally empty, as was the bowl Sniper still held near Scout’s mouth with one hand.  He hadn’t thrown up at all, which Sniper didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

“Vell, ze easy part’s over,” Medic said, removing the funnel from the end of the tube.  “Now ze real fun begins,” he deadpanned.

The funnel gave way to a syringe missing the needle at the end, the barrel of which was about as big around as a silver dollar and at least ten inches long.  Medic wedged the end of it into the tubing and pulled up on the stopper.

Scout was using both hands now to claw for the tube.

“Hold him,” Medic instructed, cloudy whitish liquid welling into the syringe.  Sniper abandoned the bowl, shoving it to the end of the hospital bed as he snatched Scout’s other hand from the air, pinning it back down at Scout’s side.  He was looming over the younger man now, one knee on the edge of the mattress to steady himself, looking for all the world like he was about to bend down and kiss the pale figure beneath him.  Scout’s eyes grew panicked as he struggled to free himself from Sniper’s grasp, but he was far too weak to put up a real fight.

“I know it feels bad,” Sniper told him.  He didn’t know that, since he’d never had his stomach pumped before, but it can’t’ve felt good.  “But he’s gotta do it, okay?  I don’t know—“

Sniper flicked his eyes over to the syringe, which Medic had already emptied once.  He siphoned more clear whitish liquid from Scout’s gut, slow and steady.

“I, I don’t know what you’ve drank, or, or what you’ve got in there, but it’s got to come out.  You don’t want it stayin’ in there, you don’t.  Remember the whole bit Engineer told us, abou’ respawn?  Abou’ the self-inflicted stuff?  Who knows what’d happen if Doc don't get all this outta you, you’ll just have to bear it, I know it don’t feel good, don’t look at it, just keep your eyes on me, it’ll all be over before you know it…”

Only it wasn’t over before he knew it, because it took Medic an upwards of twenty minutes to siphon every last drop of liquid from Scout’s stomach.  Sniper’s leg and arms were cramping from holding them in an awkward position for so long, but he hardly noticed.

When Medic detached the syringe from the tube, Sniper thought it was all over, but it wasn’t.  The funnel was inserted back into the end of the tube, then Medic picked up a glass measuring container with a pour spout notched into one edge.  Inside it was a slushy, grayish substance.

“Charcoal,” Medic said, in answer to Sniper’s unspoken question.  “Last step.  Zis vill make him vomit, so be ready.”

Medic began to pour the slush down the funnel as Sniper scrambled to grab the stainless steel bowl from the edge of the hospital bed.

****

Sleeping now.  Breathing normally.  Resting.  With every few minutes that passed, a little bit of color seemed to return to Scout’s cheeks. 

Thank God.

Sniper was momentarily transfixed on the IV drip-drip-dripping into Scout’s arm.  Scout was extremely dehydrated after this whole…ordeal.  He needed fluids.  Intravenously was the easiest way to do that.

Medic had told Sniper he didn’t have to stay, but Sniper couldn’t just leave.  He and Scout hadn’t been mates for that long, he knew that, but…still.  It didn’t feel right to abandon him.  He wanted to be there when he came to. 

Medic had brought him a chair to sit in, and Sniper had dragged it over to Scout’s bedside.  Medic brought one for himself, too, sitting opposite Sniper.  He looked positively exhausted, and rightfully so.  It had been a long forty-five minutes.

“I blame myself, you know,” Medic said, sighing.  “I should have known he vould do zis.”

Sniper looked away from the IV and over at Medic.  “You can’t’ve known,” he muttered.

Medic shook his head.  “You don’t understand, I…gave him some not-so-great news earlier today.  I knew it vould upset him, I knew he might…act irrationally.  I should never have let him leave mein office vith his emotions running so high.  It vas irresponsible of me, I know zat now.  Zis could have been much vorse.”  Another sigh. 

Not only had Scout downed an obscene amount of alcohol, but Medic attributed the cloudiness of the younger man’s stomach contents to be the bottle of aspirin he’d given Scout earlier that day.  Other than liquor and what was likely an entire bottle of aspirin, Scout’s stomach had been empty, which had only caused everything to absorb more quickly into his bloodstream.  He was in for one hell of a hangover when he came to.

“I know you can’t tell me what’s wrong wiv him,” Sniper said, “and it ain’t my business to know, anyhow.  But this not-so-great news…he ain’t…dyin’, is he?”

“No, no, nozhing like zat.  He von’t care if I tell you, Herr Sniper, I know he von’t.  It’s his left femur—low bone density from an old injury zat didn’t heal properly.  It keeps breaking vhile he’s vorking, und it’s no trouble for me to keep healing it, but it’s not getting any better.  I’m afraid ze Administrator vill take notice if it keeps up, und zat’s vhat I told him today.  I suggested ve try a metal rod in zhere, to stabilize ze bone, but…surgery such as zat doesn’t come vithout risks, even vith ze MediGun und ze respawn chamber at our disposal.  Zhere’s a chance he…might never run again, if somezhing goes wrong.”

Sniper was at odds with himself.  On the one hand, he felt like he’d just violated Scout’s privacy, having Medic tell him all that.  But on the other hand, he was glad that he knew.  Scout probably wouldn’t have told him all those details, no matter what the doc seemed to think.  Now that Sniper knew, though, Scout would have somebody he could confide in—somebody who knew the situation at hand, what was at stake.  Sniper was no stranger to bottling emotions.  It was never good, but sometimes, you couldn’t keep from it. 

Well, Scout wouldn’t have to deal with this shit alone, Sniper’d see to that.

He didn’t know why he cared so much, but he did.

This sudden interest in another person’s well-being would have worried him, had he not just spent the greater part of an hour witnessing this man’s stomach being pumped.  Scout probably wouldn’t remember any of it, but Sniper would never forget it.  Sniper had been…scared.  Scared something would happen, scared that…he might lose him.

Lose him…what was he even thinking?  Why did he care?  He was an assassin.  Have a plan to kill everyone you meet, and all that.  He wasn’t a people person.  He was an island.  A lone wolf.  Solitary.  He had already conceded to the fact that he would be alone, friendless, for the rest of his life, and he was perfectly fine with that.  He had his own company, and he had his owl, and that was all he needed. 

Those negative thoughts began to stir in his mind again, undulating and compounding, but they quieted all at once when Scout shifted in his sleep.  He was moving.  That was good.  Moving meant he wasn’t dead.  Minute by minute, he was looking more and more alive.  He’d pull through.  He’d be feeling like shit tomorrow, no doubt, but he was in the clear now.

“I know you’re vorried about him, Herr Sniper, but you don’t have to stay.  I vill vatch him.”

“‘M fine.”

Medic stood up.  “At least let me get you somezhing to read vhile you sit here, ja?”

“You don’t hafta do that, Doc.  ‘M used to sittin’ ‘round, starin’ off at nothin’ for hours on end.”

“Ach, it’s no trouble.  I’ll find you somezhing.  I’ll be back in a moment.”

He left the room for a good ten minutes, Sniper sitting at Scout’s bedside like a lanky, scruffy-headed sentinel.  When he returned, Medic brought him not only a book, but a pillow and a blanket.

“I can tell by zat look on your face zat you aren’t leaving here tonight,” Medic smiled.  “Zat chair you’re sitting in, I know it doesn’t look like it, but it folds flat.  You can sleep here, if you like.”

Sniper hadn’t realized it before the doc had said that, but no, he really hadn’t planned on leaving that night.  On some subconscious level, he’d already decided to wait until Scout came to, and that would be hours from now, no doubt.

“Thanks, doc,” he said, taking the items from Medic’s arms.  He sat the pillow and blanket down beside him; it can’t’ve been any later than ten at night, and though he was tired, he wasn’t sleepy.  His brain was still running a mile a minute.  He doubted he’d be able to focus on a book, but he’d try.

He looked down at the cover of the book Medic had brought him.  To Kill a Mockingbird.

“Been meanin’ to read this, actually,” Sniper said, thumbing to the first page.

“I qvite liked it,” Medic said. 

Medic sat back down, a book of his own in his hands.  The two of them read together in silence, the slumbering Scout fidgeting in his sleep between them.

Chapter Text

Scout was awoken by a murmured conversation being held mere feet from his right ear.

“Go to bed, Doktor,” the unmistakable voice of Heavy said.  “I will watch leetle Scout.  Is not problem.”

“Na, na.”  A weary second voice, definitely Medic’s.  “I’ll be fine.  He should be waking up soon, anyway.”

How was he supposed to sleep with these two yapping in his ear?  And a better question—what the hell were they doing in his bedroom?  Scout wanted to open his eyes and ask that very question, but he had such a headache; he didn’t know if he was physically capable of opening them, at that moment.

His frickin’ leg hurt, too.  His leg was the whole reason he’d gone to bed early last night in the first place.  He’d taken two of those dinky little aspirins Doc gave him, but of course, they did diddly-nothing for the pain radiating from deep within the bone.  So he’d decided to take his pain management into his own hands and swipe that bottle of fancy French stuff from the liquor cabinet.  He’d gone back into his room with the bottle, turned on the radio, and…he couldn’t remember anything after that.

What time was it?  Oh shit, had he passed out?  Had he drank more than he’d intended to, and Medic and Heavy had decided to bust into his room to check on him? 

Finally, he cracked his eyes open and stared up at a ceiling that wasn't his bedroom ceiling at all.  Alarmed, he opened his eyes wider.  The more he came back into consciousness, the worse he realized he felt.  It wasn’t just his head and his leg—his whole body ached.  Then the all-too-familiar smell of industrial disinfectant hit his nose, and he knew at once where he was.

He wasn’t in his bedroom, he was in Medic’s ward.

Alarm blossomed into outright fear.  Scout jerked his head over to the right, in the hopes that one of the voices he’d heard would explain everything.  He was greeted with the sight of Medic pulling a needle from the crook of his arm and taping a cotton ball to the pinprick of a wound it left.

“As a matter of fact, I think he’s waking up now,” Medic said over his shoulder, before turning his head to look back down at Scout.  Medic smiled warmly—or tried to, though his beyond-exhausted facial features made that difficult.  “Good morning, liebchen.  You’ve had quite the evening, but you’re going to be fine now, don’t worry.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d woken up someplace other than his own bed, not remembering how he’d gotten there.  But he’d put those days behind him the moment he signed the contract to begin working for RED.  The asshole with his old name went on benders and swallowed strange pills and puked in alleyways and woke up in weird peoples’ basements.  Scout did not.  Scout drank soda and energy drinks and ate candy and sweets and bounced off the walls and ran really fast and whacked things with a baseball bat and was a general annoying pissant.  He didn’t like the old him, and he was just starting to form Scout into something he could live with. 

He couldn’t believe he’d slipped up like this.  He just couldn’t.  He was so, so mad at himself.

Scout tried to talk, but his throat felt like he’d ingested fire.  He swallowed (which did not help) and tried speaking again.

“What’d I do, Doc?” he croaked.

Medic sat down in a chair pulled close to Scout’s bedside, Heavy coming in behind him to wheel the IV stand away.  While Heavy bustled about the room, humming a warbling tune and cleaning this and that, Medic filled Scout in on last night’s events.

“No,” he groaned, when Medic told him it had been Sniper who’d dragged his half-conscious body into the ward last night. 

“Ja,” Medic said, nodding sympathetically.  He inclined his head and said, “look over to your left, there.”

Scout turned his head over.  His heart sank when he saw Sniper leaning back in a chair pulled so close to the bed, the Australian’s knees were touching the mattress.  A thin blanket was wadded around his arms and a pillow was shoved between his cheek and his shoulder.  He was snoring softly—just as he had atop the rock formation on the first day Scout had come into contact with him not as a colleague, but as a friend.

Well, that sad sight effectively put an end to Scout feeling sorry for himself.

He sat up in bed, a sharp pain at his right temple making him squint, but it didn’t deter him.  He reached over and gave Sniper a little pat on the leg.

Sniper must’ve been a fairly light sleeper, because Scout’s hand had been in contact with his leg for two seconds, tops, when his eyes snapped open.  Scout leaned over the hospital bed and tried to look chipper, flashing his buck teeth at the other man.

“Scout,” Sniper said, his voice still thick with sleep.  He raised his head up, and the pillow whumped to the floor.  “How ya feelin’?”

Like shit, Scout thought.  “I’ll be awright after I get some fresh air and sum’n to eat, I’m frickin’ starvin’,” he smiled.

As Sniper blinked the sleep from his eyes, he ran them over Scout’s body from scalp to toes, looking increasingly relieved the more he stared.  “I don’t doubt that,” he said, finally.  “Abou’ bein’ hungry, I mean.”

“Yeah, Doc told me the shit I pulled last night,” Scout said.  Instinctively, he reached out to give Sniper a squeeze on the shoulder—his Ma’s go-to gesture of comfort—but he thought better of it before he made contact.  He retracted his hand and let it flop back down to the mattress.  “And, y’know.  He told me all ya did for me, that’s—“

He felt a teardrop running down either side of his face, which was strange, because he hadn’t even felt like he’d been about to cry.  He scrubbed them away with the backs of his hands and continued.  “Look, I know ya ain’t the touchy-feely type, Snipes, so I won’t say all I wanna say, but—thanks.  For real.”  That time, he couldn’t help it.  He put a hand on Sniper’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, breaking the contact almost as quickly as he’d initiated it.  Sniper didn’t seem too traumatized by the gesture, so he might not’ve been too bothered by it.

“Don’t thank me, thank the Doc,” Sniper mumbled with a small shake of his head, “I haven’t done anything, anybody would’ve…”  He trailed off, looking away from Scout’s gaze.

There was a lot Scout could’ve said to that, but the majority of the responses he had in mind would make Sniper more uncomfortable than he already was.  He tried to pick the next words carefully.

He bypassed the shower of praise and compliments he wanted to say, opting instead for, “hey, you got a watch on.  What time is it?”

That, Sniper could answer.  He looked down at his watch.  “Nearly seven-thirty.  In the morning.”

“Y’know what sounds good right now?”

Sniper thought about it for a moment.  “Cup o’ coffee’d be lovely right abou’ now,” he said, rubbing at the five o’ clock shadow prickling his face.

“Know anywhere that’s got good coffee and good breakfast?”

“What’s that diner you always find when you’re abou’ to get on the interstate, the one wiv the yellow sign?  You know what I mean?”

“Waffle House?”

Sniper nodded.  “That’s the one.”

Scout threw the bedsheets off of his legs.  “Wanna go?”

Sniper blanched.  “Right now?”

“Well, I was wantin’ a shower first.”

“Shouldn’t you…rest, or something?  Don’t you feel…you know…bad?”

That was sort of a tricky question, which created an even trickier situation.

On the one hand, Scout wanted to show that he felt okay, that he’d made some kind of miraculous recovery, even though he truly felt like hammered hell.  If he pretended to feel better, maybe Sniper wouldn’t have to worry so much about him.  Seeing Sniper worry was just so weird, so unlike him.  Sniper never worried about people.  Animals, yeah, but Scout doubted he wasted his energy worrying about people all that often.  It would almost be flattering, if it didn’t make Scout feel so heavily laden with guilt and shame.

On the other hand, Scout didn’t want to badger him into doing something he might not be comfortable with—people who liked to keep to themselves usually weren’t the “going to a restaurant” type.  Then again, calling a Waffle House a restaurant was a little bit of a stretch.  It was more of a sticky, cramped room where weirdos gathered that also happened to serve decent food and coffee.  Sniper kinda made it sound like he’d been there before, anyway.  Maybe it wouldn’t rattle his nerves too badly to go.

“I’ll feel the same if I’m here or if I’m there,” Scout reasoned, “‘cept at Waffle House, I won’t be hungry.”

“You really feel like gettin’ outta that bed right now.  Gettin’ in a car.  Drivin’ fast.  Eatin’ greasy food.”

At that, Scout felt truly guilty and horrible, because it was obvious now how much he’d scared Sniper last night.  Medic did say they’d had to pump his stomach and Sniper had had to help, but the severity of that hadn’t sunken through his thick skull until just now.  Who knew what was going through Sniper’s mind when he’d had to witness Scout in that kind of state?  The man was good under pressure, no doubt; but last night’s events had clearly bothered him, if he was showing this much outward, uncensored concern.

Instead of getting all sentimental on him, which was becoming increasingly difficult to pull off, Scout decided to go with an offhanded reply.  “Ya makin’ it sound better and better,” he grinned.

Sniper looked over to Medic, who was unashamedly eavesdropping on their conversation.  “Doc, what d’you think of all this?  Scout’s not fit to leave his bed yet, is he?”

“I think some time away from the base with a responsible companion would do him wonders, actually,” Medic said.  “Just as long as he drinks plenty of water.  He’s still a bit dehydrated, but other than that…a good meal and a good friend would be the best thing for him now, if he truly feels up to it.”

A responsible companion.  Yeah, Scout could probably use one of those.

“See?” Scout said, gesturing toward Medic.  “Doctor’s orders.”

Sniper sat there for a moment, seeming to think all of this over.  Finally, he tossed the blanket covering his arms onto the hospital bed and stood up.

“Alright,” Sniper said warily, “but if you puke everywhere, it’s your own fault.”

“I ain’t gonna puke nowhere, Snipes, I promise,” Scout said, ignoring the screaming pain in his head and leg as he jumped out of bed.  Actually, he felt like anything he ingested wouldn’t even think about staying down before he projectile vomited it halfway across Teufort, but he decided not to mention that aloud.  He wanted to get away from the base for awhile, and badly.

“’N’ what’s that you said abou’ drivin’ wiv the top down?  What d’you drive?”

“Sixty-seven Ford Mustang,” he said proudly.  “Eight cylinders.  I dunno what the hell that means, but I know it’s fast.”

“Automatic or stick?”

“…Automatic,” he admitted.  Hardhat had tried to teach him how to drive a stickshift, but he’d literally crashed Engineer’s truck into the broad side of a barn.  That had ended the driving lessons pretty quickly.

“You oughter let me drive, at least,” Sniper grumbled.

Scout could hug the other man, but he didn’t want to press his luck, nor did he want to give Sniper an aneurysm.  Instead, he gave Sniper the broadest smile his aching head would allow.

“Ya drive a hard bargain, Snipes,” he said, “but we got a deal.”  His legs trembled as he made for the door, but he tried to walk as normally as possible.  “I’m gonna go rinse off and I’ll meetcha at ya camper, awright?”

“Yeah,” Sniper agreed, rubbing at the side of his face again.  “Could do wiv a shave, meself.”

“I’ll hurry, I swear,” Scout said, walking through the archway of the examination room and out into Medic’s main office. 

Behind him, he heard Sniper murmuring something, though he couldn’t make out the words.  This was followed by Medic saying, “You worry too much, he’ll be fine.  Just make him drink lots of water today, ja?”

Scout couldn’t help but wonder if Sniper had always been this worrisome and he just hadn’t known it—or if he, himself had been the one to bring about this change in the other man.  It was probably the latter, and Scout felt awful about it.  He’d have to make it up to Sniper, somehow, someway.  He’d put the guy through a lot, more than a lot, last night. 

He didn’t know what he could do to make this right, but he’d think of something.  He tried to come up with some ideas as he walked down the hall to his bedroom, attempting to ignore the all-over ache coursing through him.

****

God, he’s gorgeous.

When this thought sprang to Scout’s mind, he wasn’t even mad about it anymore.  His head hurt, his leg hurt, he was tired and hungry and he didn’t have the energy to lie to himself.  Every now and again he’d cast his eyes over to the driver’s side of the car to sneak an indulgent look at Sniper.

The early morning lent a bit of a nip to the air, but Scout didn’t mind it; to him, it was refreshing.  Sniper, however, was far less tolerable to the cold, and had thrown a thin button-up sweater (cardigan? Scout thought, ain’t that what they’re called?) on over his shirt to shield him from the wind.  As they sped down the interstate in Scout’s Mustang, Sniper had an elbow propped out the window and one hand guiding the wheel.  The wind whipped his mop of thick brown hair every which way, creating a delightfully tousled mess.  The sun was rising directly in front of them, causing Sniper to squint a little as he drove toward it—but a sun-kissed glow settled over the sharp features of his face, softening them, accentuating them, illuminating them.

What was the name of that swordfighting dude in those old movies?  Errol Flynn?  Yeah, Errol Flynn.  That’s who Sniper reminded him of, at that moment.  Suave, even though he wasn’t trying to be.  Still rough around the edges, still swarthy, but there was a soft kindness in those squinting brown eyes—Scout could see it.

Sniper had brought his slouch hat along with him, but he couldn’t exactly wear it while they were driving with the top down.  He’d appointed Scout to hold it for him, so the wind wouldn’t blow it out.  With one hand, Scout ran his fingertips over the hat’s felted surface, keeping a death grip on it with the other.  After everything that happened last night, it’d be the icing on the damn cake if he lost Sniper’s hat, too. 

Little bits and pieces of last night were coming back to Scout, and he almost wished they wouldn’t.  He remembered being surprised that the bottle of aspirin had been empty, because he would’ve sworn that he’d only taken three.  When the decanter of fancy French stuff was empty, he had risen to his feet to stagger off and get something else to drink out of the liquor cabinet.  But the further he walked, the sicker he realized he was.  He wasn’t just drunk, he had known that, and he had also known that there was a very real possibility that he could die.  When the word “die” had echoed through his brain, he’d decided to bypass the liquor cabinet and ask Sniper’s advice for what to do.

After that part, he didn’t remember a whole lot, but he did recall Sniper saying “look at me, look at me, look at me” over and over again.  And Scout must have listened to that command, because he remembered looking into Sniper’s wide, worry-riddled eyes as that plastic tube slid further and further down his throat.

Look at me, look at me, look at me.

How could he have been such an idiot, though? 

No, this wasn't Scout’s doing.  This was the other guy’s doing, the one who used to be in charge of this body—the guy he used to be before he became Scout.  The other guy had reared his ugly head when Scout had heard a snippet of bad news; he’d spiraled downward fast at the thought of risky surgery and never being able to run again, which caused Scout to momentarily lose control.  One thing was for sure—Scout would do everything in his power to make sure that kind of bullshit never happened again.  Not only for him, but for the one sitting next to him, who might not admit it aloud, but who obviously cared a great deal for him.

Look at me, look at me, look at me.

****

“So we’re at Waffle House.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you didn’t order a bloody waffle.”

Scout grinned at him from across the table, which was vaguely tacky with old syrup.  “I don’t want a waffle,” he said simply, “I want scrambled eggs and I want bacon and I want two slices a toast.  So guess what I ordered.”

Wordlessly, the waitress plunked down Sniper’s mug of coffee and Scout’s (begrudgingly ordered) glass of water before bustling away.  Yeah, this’d be Sniper’s kind of restaurant—nobody talked to you unless it was absolutely necessary, and the people who worked here were so used to crazies fresh off the interstate blowing through, they wouldn’t look twice at somebody with a string of crocodile teeth around their neck and yellow shooting glasses and a side-snap hat. 

“They named the place Waffle House for a reason, mate,” Sniper remarked, tearing open two sugar packets and tipping them into his mug, offering Scout a barely-there smile.

“If it makes ya happy, I’ll get a frickin’ waffle next time, how’s that?” Scout said, sticking a plastic straw into his glass.  As his lips touched the straw, he realized with something akin to horror at what he’d just done.

Without even meaning to, he’d just flirted.

“Next time, eh?” Sniper said, quirking an eyebrow at him.

Scout took a long, long drink of his water, to buy himself some time to think of a good retort to that.  He couldn’t, so he decided to answer a question with a question.  “So, this place.  Does it get to ya?  Y’know, like…make ya nervous?  Be honest.”

Sniper stuck a spoon into his coffee and stirred it.  Scout tried to commit the pose to memory to draw it later—left forearm resting against the table, right elbow propped up, right hand bent at an angle as it held the spoon, thick brown lashes moodily shielding his eyes, lips slightly parted.

“Used to be terrified of places like this,” Sniper said.  “When I was little, I’d have me mum order for me.  I wouldn’t even look at the waiter.  Waitress, whichever.”  He gave his head a tiny shake.  “Got real good at cookin’ ‘cause o’ that, though.  Bein’ too scared to order at a restaurant leaves you wiv one other option.  Two options, if you count starvin’ to death as one of ‘em.”  He huffed out a little laugh.

“How’d ya get over it?  Bein’ nervous in restaurants, I mean?”

“I didn’t,” he said simply, taking the spoon from his cup and resting it against a napkin.  “It’s not nearly as bad as it was, though. You obviously heard me order a coffee and two waffles just now.  I’ve got a handle on the basics.  I think.” 

“I don’t guess stuff like that ever bothered me.”

“But you lived in the city, wiv people everywhere.  And you had six brothers.”

“Seven brothers.”

“That’s what I meant,” Sniper said, biting back a smile and staring down into his coffee.

He really is kinda cute, ain’t he.

…Dammit.

“Oh hey, I just thought a sum’n,” Scout said.  “Didja read any a my comic books yet?”

“I did, actually,” Sniper said, blowing at his coffee and taking a tiny sip before continuing.  “Started wiv the Captain Americas from the forties.  I finished abou’ eleven of ‘em, then I got curious abou’ the newer ones, so I read the first five o’ those.”

“The newer ones’re better, ain’t they?” Scout grinned.

“Well, the older ones, they’re not bad, they’re just a bit…”

“Boring?”

“I wouldn’t call it that, they’re just, er…a product of their time, really.”

“Yeah, the newer ones’re better, they’re more, uh…well I could talk ya ear off about it, but the older ones ain’t got a lotta plot, just punchin’ Nazis an’ shit like that.  Which is cool, but the newer ones go into like, Cap joinin’ up with the Avengers after gettin’ unfrozen from the ice, an’ it’s him tryna deal with…with stuff.  Other than just fightin’.  Y’know, like nearly thirty years passin’ while he was frozen, the war bein’ over…Bucky dyin’…”

“Emotional bits.”

“Yeah, exactly, that’s exactly it.”

“Got a question about the old ones, though.”

“What?”

“How…how old is Bucky supposed t’ be?”

Scout laughed.  “Y’really want me to tell ya about Bucky, Snipes?  It’s gonna take like three minutes, minimum to explain it.”

Sniper gave him a little half-smile. “Go on.”

“‘Kay, so right before World War II started, Bucky had a dad in the army, right?  And Bucky’s dad died, so…”

Scout yapped about James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes until the waitress sat their food in front of them.  As he drowned his scrambled eggs in a sea of ketchup, he said, “anyway, long story short, he’s supposedta be sixteen.”

“Was sixteen,” Sniper said, pouring a perfectly respectable amount of syrup onto his stack of chocolate-chip waffles.  “He’s kinda dead now.”

Scout grabbed up his butter knife and slathered his toast in jelly.  “Ehh, if ya read enough comics, ya figure out most people don’t stay dead for long.  They’ll come up with some crazy thing to bring him back to life, you watch.”

For awhile, they ate their breakfast in silence, but it was a comfortable one, so Scout wasn’t bothered by it.  The waitress came by and tipped more coffee into Sniper’s mug, and as she did, Sniper’s eyes lingered pointedly on Scout’s mostly-full water glass.  He glanced from the glass, then to Scout, then back to the glass.  Though he said nothing, Sniper seemed to be silently nagging him with that look of his.  Now what did Doc say before we left? they seemed to say.  He told your stupid arse to drink plenty o’ water, didn’t he, and you’ve hardly drank a drop. 

So, to appease the man across the table, he stuck his straw in his mouth and drank about an inch’s worth of the stuff.  He followed that up by giving Sniper a “there, happy now?” sort of look, which caused Sniper to gnaw at the inside of his cheek—literally biting back a smile.

“How come ya always do that?” Scout blurted, pointing at Sniper with his fork.

“Do what?”

“Well whenever ya go to smile, ya like…try real hard not to.  Like just now, ya did this.”  Scout sucked his cheeks in and bit them.  “Like that.  Why d’ya do that?”

“Dunno,” Sniper said, suddenly becoming very interested in slicing his waffle into smaller and smaller pieces. 

“‘Cause for the longest time, like when I was in middle school, I didn’t like smilin’ ‘cause everybody made fun a my big rabbit teeth,” Scout said, tapping the items in question with the tines of his fork.  “But your teeth are totally normal and straight, so that can’t be it.”  Sniper’s teeth were a little bit on the pointy side, sure, but they didn’t look bad or weird or anything.  Maybe Sniper thought they did?  Scout nearly asked, but he caught himself before he did.

“It’s not that,” Sniper said, after chewing thoughtfully at a bite of waffle.  “Me face looks…odd, when I smile.”

Scout really didn’t mean to laugh, but a little “hah” slipped out, anyway.  “No it doesn’t,” he said with a little shake of his head for emphasis. 

“It does so,” Sniper countered.  “Me wrinkles get worse, ’n’ they look deeper.”

Scout rolled his eyes to the ceiling.  “You ain’t got wrinkles, ohmigod.”

“Well what d’you call these, then?” Sniper said, flashing Scout the most dazzling smile he’d ever seen grace the Australian’s face.  Sniper pointed to the fine lines that formed at the corners of his mouth. 

Scout soaked in the sight, making a mental note of yet another thing he wanted to draw, before he said, “those’re just dimples, man!”

“When you smile, you’ve got dimples.  These’re bloody wrinkles ’n’ I know it.  ’N’ me eyes’ve got ‘em, too, see.”  He smiled again, this time pointing under his eyes. 

“Everybody’s eyes do that when they smile, Snipes, look,” Scout said, demonstrating with a grin of his own. 

Sniper looked, but he didn’t seem convinced.  “I dunno abou’ all that,” he muttered.

Sniper reached for more sugar packets at the same time Scout reached for more tiny jelly containers.  Their knuckles bumped together, and Sniper withdrew his hand like he’d just jammed it into a furnace.

“Sorry,” Sniper said quickly.

Scout opened his mouth to give him some lighthearted teasing about it—apology not accepted, I’m very offended over here, how dare you—but that probably wasn’t the best idea for somebody who obviously hadn’t socialized much in their lifetime.  He’d probably think Scout was being serious.

“Don’t worry about it,” Scout said instead, tossing two sugar packets over to him.  Sniper’s hand moved to scoop them up from the tabletop, but he let it fall back down to his lap.  He sighed, softly enough that Scout barely heard it.

“I’m really bad at this,” Sniper mumbled.

Scout furrowed his brow.  “Bad at what?”  Eatin’ waffles? he nearly added, but didn’t.

“Bad at bein’ ‘round other people, I don’t…”  He scratched at the side of his freshly-shaven face.  “I dunno.”

“Well I think ya doin’ great,” Scout said matter-of-factly.  “Part of it is, ya just need some practice.  Like this right here”—Scout gestured in random directions with his hands—“this is good, this is good practice.  This is public, but it ain’t like too public, y’know, there ain’t a lot a people here and the ones that are ain’t payin’ attention to ya.  So this is good, and I know someplace else that’d be good, too.  The bookstore I get my comics from?  Over in Threeview, ya ever been there?”

“Can’t say I’ve ever been to Threeview at all, actually.”

“Aw, for real?!  This bookstore I go to, it’s called Yellow Lemon—yeah don’t ask, I dunno what frickin’ other color lemons come in ‘sides yellow, but that’s what the name of this place is.  Seems like your kinda thing, I think, ‘cause it’s real quiet and shit in there, and there’s people readin’ everywhere, like they got these big armchairs and couches to sit on?  And the whole place, like as soon as you go in the door it hits ya, it smells like coffee—they got a coffee shop in there, too.”

“Really,” Sniper said.  Scout could be mistaken, but those two breathily-uttered syllables sounded…interested?  Or was that just wishful thinking on his part?  He’d have to pry a little more.

“You like coffee.  And I know ya read books.  Hey, maybe we—“

The waitress came by again and slid the bill onto the table.  Both of them grabbed for it at the same time, but Scout was quicker.  He slapped his hand on top of it and dragged it towards him, smiling victoriously.

“I can pay,” Sniper mumbled.

Scout slipped out of the booth to head to the front counter and pay the ticket.  Really, it didn’t matter which of them paid, because the both of them had more money than they’d ever know what to do with, but was the principle of the matter. 

“Tell ya what, you leave the tip, how’s that?” Scout said.

The longer Scout remained vertical, the sicker he felt.  He noticed his hands were sweaty when he went to pull the money from his wallet, handing the cashier vaguely damp dollar bills as he paid out.  Sniper was waiting for him at the front, hands jammed in his pockets, looking more than a little uncomfortable standing off by himself.  The nausea churning in Scout’s stomach quelled a little when he looked at the other man; his own problems seemed to matter less as he hurried back over to him.

“You’re lookin’ a bit better,” Sniper remarked as they headed out to the parking lot.  The mid-morning heat wave had begun to move in, raising the temperature at least fifteen degrees since they’d been inside; Sniper shed his sweater as they walked to the car, slinging it over a forearm.

“Am I?” Scout said, vaulting over the car door and plopping down into the passenger’s seat.  He might be ready to puke, and the whole jumping-into-the-car-instead-of-opening-the-door-like-a-regular-person thing definitely didn’t help that, but he still wanted to seize the opportunity to look cool in front of his…

His, uh…

…Huh.

Sniper got into the car—like a regular person—and buckled himself in.  Before he put the key into the ignition, though, he stared down at the single keychain hanging from it, grinning.  He didn’t bother to try and hide his smile that time, which sent a curious warmth creeping into Scout’s cheeks.

“I like this, by the way,” Sniper said, holding up the keychain.  It was a little green plastic alien with a hand raised, index and ring finger sticking up in a V shape. 

“Yeah?” Scout said.  “Whenever I drive outta here to head home, like for Christmas or whatever, I always stop in Roswell to get gas.  I don’t remember when I bought that little dude, but I know he came from a gas station there.”

Sniper’s eyes widened, but he tried to conceal the look of intrigue that crossed his face by starting up the engine.  “You’ve been to Roswell?”

“Oh yeah, like five or six times.  It ain’t nuttin’ special, for real.”

“I’ve always wanted to go, actually.”

“Well I guess it’s kinda interestin’,” Scout said, trying to redact his previous statement as smoothly as he could.  “There’s like a visitor’s center thing you can look at.  And all the shops ’n’ shit are alien-themed, like even the Coke machines got little aliens all over ‘em, heh.”

They were back on the main road now, headed for the interstate that would take them back to the base.  As the wind whipped through the car, Scout clamped a hand on both Sniper’s discarded hat and the newly-shorn sweater, to keep them from blowing out.  The sweater was much softer than it looked. 

Scout had to half-shout his next question.  “Didja knit this yaself, Snipes, this sweater here?”

“Yeah,” he shouted back.

Scout wedged the hat between his knees for safekeeping and held the sweater out at arm’s length, admiring it.  “You’re wicked good at it,” Scout hollered.

“Thanks,” Sniper yelled.

When they merged onto the interstate, Scout slipped his arms into the cardigan’s sleeves, essentially wearing the garment backwards.  He wasn’t all that cold—or at all, actually—but it was so soft.  He kept staring down that those horrendously tiny stitches and could hardly believe Sniper had done all that himself.  It must’ve taken him forever. 

And there also might’ve been the fact that Scout got a noseful of Sniper’s scent when he slipped the sweater on.  That part was completely unintentional, of course it was.  Scout had absolutely no interest in taking in the man’s natural musky scent combined with something that smelled of coconut.  That coconutty smell, was that shampoo?—soap?—maybe even cologne?  His nose was buried in the stitching near the cardigan’s neckline, so it was probably shampoo—

“Should we stop ’n’ put the top back up?” Sniper called over the wind.  Scout wondered why he might be asking that, but then it hit him; Sniper thought he was uncomfortably cold now, since he’d donned the cardigan.

“Nah—nah, I’m awright,” Scout assured him, flapping a dismissive hand.  “I’m good.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, I’m awright.”

Sniper was still fretting.  The guy may very well have saved Scout’s life last night (since respawn tech was a little touchy when it came to self-inflicted stuff, Scout reminded himself with disgust), and he was still worrying.

In a really morbid way, Scout was flattered, but he felt like an asshole for feeling that way.

He’d have to make it up to Sniper, he’d just have to.  He didn’t know how, because what the hell can you do to repay a guy for that?  And it wasn’t just the kind gesture he needed to make up for, it was the emotional strain.  God, he’d put Snipes through a lot last night, he knew he did.  He couldn’t imagine what went through Sniper’s mind when he saw Scout full of gin and aspirin to the point of half-consciousness, all glassy-eyed and unresponsive…

Look at me, look at me, look at me.

Scout’s stomach gave a forceful clench, and it wasn’t from his post-bender nausea.  As he watched the wind tousle Sniper’s hair, he racked his brain for something he could do to make it up to him.  Or several things.  Yeah, it wouldn’t just be one thing, it’d be like…seven hundred things, or something.

Then it hit him.  He knew the first thing he was gonna do.  He’d need to go shopping before he could get started, but he had an idea.

Chapter Text

Sunday night, Sniper lie in his bunk and stared up at the ceiling of his Winnebago, trying to trick himself into falling asleep.  So far, he was having no such luck.  There was a weird feeling churning in his stomach and a strange tightness in his chest, and every time he tried to shut his eyes they popped right back open.

Wonder if Scout’s feelin’ okay.

Wonder if he’ll go to work tomorrow.

Wonder if Scout’s in bed already.  It’s nearly midnight…he oughter be in bed by now, surely. 

Doc told him to drink plenty o’ water.  He didn’t drink much at breakfast…wonder if he ever drank any more?  Probably not.

Today was a bit nerve-wrackin’, but I think I handled it okay.  It was nice.

He was handsome, all wrapped up in me sweater like he was.

Sniper felt an uncomfortable heat creeping up his neck.

Oh. 

No.

This is bad.

The night he stayed by Scout’s bedside in Medic’s ward—which had only been last night, but it felt so much longer ago than that—he had done a lot of thinking.  Soul-searching, if you will.  A lot of it went nowhere, but there were some undeniable facts he’d discovered about himself.

One:  he genuinely cared about a living, breathing person’s wellbeing.  Someone that wasn’t himself, or Mum or Dad (God rest their souls), or another relative.  He didn’t know how he’d let his guard down long enough for that to happen, but it had.  There wasn't any point trying to deny it, because denying it wouldn’t make it any less true.

Two:  he thought about Scout a lot.  A lot, lot.  He worried about the other man, so much so that he was currently unable to sleep.  That couldn’t be good.

Three:  though he’d never experienced something like this before, he’d read enough romance novels to know what this peculiar feeling in his gut and chest was.

He had a bleedin’ crush.

This is bad.

Real bad.

He’d never really considered himself the type to fancy blokes, but then again, he’d never fancied ladies, either.  He was equally indifferent towards everyone.  Didn’t find anyone attractive, never felt the urge to date anyone.  He’d had sex exactly three times (with quite a few shots of liquid courage swimming in his stomach, mind you) just to say he’d done it, and really, he could take it or leave it.  He’d conceded to the fact that he was an oddball and a loner, and that was that.  It suited him fine.  He didn’t need anyone.

Then along came Scout, and of course the little gremlin had to go and mess all of that up.

From the first time they’d really met outside of work for longer than a minute or two, up on that rock formation, Sniper had known there was something different about Scout.  Something that all the other people he’d ever come into contact with had been missing.  What did Scout have that all those other people didn’t?  What was it?

Maybe…maybe it was because the two of them could play off each other’s strengths and weaknesses so well.  Bit of a deep, philosophical sort of thought, but Sniper might be onto something with it.  Scout had charisma, confidence, courage…Sniper did not.  On the other hand, Sniper was mellow, grounded, practical…Scout, not so much. They weren’t exactly opposites, but they were different enough that they could be mutually beneficial to one another.

Did he really have a crush on Scout?  The word “crush” seemed so juvenile.  Maybe he was just confused?  Is this what all people felt when they were starting to form a bond with another person, and not necessarily a romantic sort of bond?  Could this just be platonic?

Infatuation, love, romance, desire, sex…those kinds of emotions puzzled Sniper more than any of the other ones.  That’s why he engrossed himself in so many sappy Harlequins and smutty pulp fictions.  He thought maybe he could live vicariously through the words on the page, could at least pretend to understand what came so easily to everyone else.

And now that he was feeling something for somebody in his real life, he didn’t know what to make of it.  It wasn’t like him.  To, you know, care.  Wasn’t like him at all. 

Or maybe it was like him, and he just hadn’t had the right person to care about until now.

To think he was thirty-six years old and he might be having his first crush was fucking nauseating.

Let’s have a round of devil’s advocate, yeah?  Say you do like him.  D’you really think he’d ever go for a bloke like you?

He might.

Alright, say he does.  D’you think that’s fair?  Don’t you think Scout deserves better?  He’s young, ’n’ you’d only be holdin’ him back.  He can do loads better than you, ’n’ you know it.

Yeah.  I know.

Thirty-six is too old to be startin’ shit like this, you’re better off alone.

Yeah.  I know.

It ain’t fair to Scout. 

Yeah.  I know.

If you care as much abou’ him as you’re thinkin’ you do, you need to keep him outta this, this…whatever the hell this is.  That’s the kindest thing you could do for him.

Sniper sighed deeply. 

Yeah.  I know.

The light of dawn was peeking through the Winnie’s curtains before he knew it.

****

He peered down the scope of the .308 rifle, trying to get a bead on an enemy BLU creeping dangerously close to a key choke point.  By the looks of that odd gun he held, the BLU was a demoman, but he looked new.  His mahogany-colored skin seemed to drink in the desert sun, his dreadlocks swaying madly as he popped off a halo of stickybombs near the choke point’s entrance. 

New bloke or no, he had to be dealt with.  Sniper stroked the trigger lovingly, waiting for the demoman to saunter into his crosshairs.  Just a bit more to the left, and…

He flicked the trigger and sent a .308 round cracking through the air.

The BLU demoman’s head remained curiously intact as his mouth opened in a silent scream.  He scrabbled out of the way of enemy fire and took cover behind a rock face.

I missed.

I fucking missed.

No.  No, no, this did not happen.  He could overlook it if he were shooting at a BLU scout, or maybe even a medic (BLU had trouble keeping medics under their employ, for whatever reason, but all of them had proved to be deceptively quick on their feet), but he had missed a demoman.  A demoman.  A new one at that, one who was tottering around like a bleedin’ idiot just begging to be picked off.

And he missed.

You know why you missed, mate.

Shut it!

It’s because you were thinkin’ abou’—

Sniper yanked the scope away from his eye and stood up, so abruptly that he forgot he was huddled under a low overhang until he suffered a rude reminder.  His head thumped hard against a wooden support beam, his slouch hat doing little to soften the blow.  He grunted, running a hand under his hat to soothe the sting before hefting his rifle into the gun holster strapped at his back.

If you shot at someone and left them alive to tell the tale, your hiding spot was as good as gone.  He needed to get out of there before they sent someone to pump his hidey-hole full of lead.  Luckily he'd only filled one piss jar that day, so there wouldn’t be much of that to relocate.  He thought of emptying its contents, letting his urine trickle down the side of the rocky-overhang-turned-mineshaft-entrance he was currently hidden under, but his temper got the better of him.  He was normally very slow to anger, but the fact that he’d missed such a gimme kill pissed him right off.  He checked the lid of the mason jar to make sure it was on there tight and, finding it was, he chucked it as hard and as far as he could over the side of the overhang.  It shattered against the ground some thirty feet away.

He crammed the rest of his things into his rucksack and threw it over his shoulder, grumbling and griping at himself under his breath as he made his way down the old mineshaft.  This had been a bloody good spot for a nest, too.  Shame he had to leave it.

From his pocket he produced a flashlight no bigger than a roll of quarters, a handy little thing whose brightness could be adjusted with a twist of a knob.  He adjusted it to the dimmest he could whilst still being able to see in front of him, and picked his way down to the mineshaft’s entrance. 

He turned the flashlight off, stuck it back in his pocket, and peeked out the jagged opening of the mineshaft just in time to be plowed into by a small red blur.

The wind was knocked from his lungs as he stumbled backward, arms pinwheeling.  For a split-second he wondered what sort of thing could’ve collided with him without killing him, but then he saw Scout’s grip-taped hands grappling for him, grabbing ahold of his shirt collar and tugging, saving him from falling over.  Sniper sucked in a much needed breath and tugged his shirt back into place.

“Sorry man,” Scout said.   “Hey, ya ain’t seen Doc around anywhere, have ya?”

Sniper shook his head.  Before he could think better of it, he asked, “is it your leg?”

Surprisingly, Scout smiled at that.  “Nah, it’s just this,” he said, pointing to a relatively clean-looking bullet hole in his right forearm.  “I dunno how it got there, like I just kinda looked down and I saw it.  And now that I know it’s there, it hurts like a bitch.  Kinda funny how that works, huh?”

“I’ve got bandages,” Sniper said, already unshouldering his rucksack.

“I don’t need no bandaid, Snipes, I’ll be awright,” Scout assured him, giving him a fleeting squeeze on the shoulder.  He turned his back to Sniper and poked his head out the mineshaft entrance, then looked at the other man over his shoulder.  “We’re gonna get our asses blown off if we stay here any longer, though, ‘cause they’re gonna be on top of us in like thirty seconds.”

Just what Sniper needed.  He thought he'd at least make it till noon before having to take a trip through respawn.  That was always his little goal, to survive until then; that way, he could take his lunch break inside the munitions room without having to trek across the battlefield, which would undoubtedly get him killed if he tried that, anyhow. 

“We’ll needa find ya somewhere else to hide, Legs,” Scout said, already making his way out of the mineshaft.  “Just try and stick as close to me as ya can.”

Sniper didn’t have time to argue, didn’t have time to insist that he couldn’t run half as fast or a quarter as far as Scout could.  Because Scout was already off, admittedly setting his pace at what was probably a leisurely jog for him, but was a lung-burning sprint for Sniper.  Sniper bustled after him, loosing his submachine gun from a strap on his rucksack as he went, trying his best to keep up with the man in front of him.

At least they hadn't run into any BLUs yet, but Sniper could hear the gunfire and fanfare getting closer to them with each passing second.  Scout could outrun them in no time, but since he’d had to slow his pace for Sniper’s benefit, they’d be gaining on them soon enough.  Sniper opened his mouth to tell Scout to leave his arse behind and go on, but he knew Scout would never hear of it, so he didn’t bother wasting his precious, precious oxygen. 

Suddenly, Scout skidded to a halt, his cleats sliding to a graceful stop in the dust.  Sniper didn’t know why they were stopping, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask questions.  He doubled over, his stomach in knots and a stitch in his side and mouth full of cotton and a face coated in sweat, gasping for more and more air that didn’t seem like it would ever be enough.  Even if a BLU did come round the corner with guns blazing, he doubted he could hold his gun upright in his slippery hands.

“Hey, how ‘bout up there?” Scout said.  Still bent over, Sniper craned his head up to look.  He was pointing up toward a rock formation a few dozen feet where they were standing, not unlike the one where they first met as mates.  It looked about as easy to climb as the one near the base, too.  Some of those tall rocks up there ought to provide enough cover for him to hide behind, especially considering the fact that they’d have company on their arses any minute now…

“Looks good,” Sniper huffed, straightening back up with some amount of difficulty.  God.  He really was too old to keep up with Scout, wasn’t he?  This was all the proof he needed.

“You go up first, I’ll watch ya back,” Scout said, ushering him to walk ahead.

“First”?  That implied Scout was going to follow him, didn’t it?  There was no time to make a detailed analysis of Scout’s syntax, though.  Sniper did as he was told, hurriedly sheathing his gun and scrabbling up the craggy rocks to the top.  He could hear Scout following close behind him, but he didn’t turn around to survey the situation until he was safe behind the cover of a wide jut of rock.  Scout soon joined him behind the rock, sliding in so close to Sniper that their elbows touched.

Such a simple brush of skin was enough to make the hair on Sniper’s arms stand on end.

He was pathetic, wasn’t he?

They were far up enough, and hidden behind something tall enough, that it would be nearly impossible for the BLU team to spot them—until Sniper peeked out from behind his hiding spot and started aiming, that was.  But that would all come in due time.  Right now, he was desperate to catch his breath and have a nice, long drink of water.  He pulled his bag into his lap, trying to make it look like he wasn’t too tired by taking in measured breaths. 

“Hey, Legs?” Scout said, turning his head to look at Sniper.

Sniper supposed “Legs” was his new nickname, then.  “Yeah?”

“Think I’ll take that bandaid now,” Scout said, holding up his injured arm for Sniper to see.  A thick trail of blood trickled from the angry wound, soaking into the rough fabric of the grip tape wound around Scout’s wrist and hand.  It looked twice as bad as it did just a moment ago; all that running and climbing must’ve opened it back up.

Sniper unzipped his bag and pawed around in it until he found the first aid kit he always kept on him.  Scout reached out to take the kit, but Sniper batted his hand away.

“I’ll do it,” Sniper mumbled.  Scout couldn’t have done it himself, anyhow, not one-handed. 

He popped the tabs on the little plastic box and tore open an alcohol pad, swiping his hands clean with it.  Then he opened another alcohol pad, pulling Scout’s wounded arm nearer to him.

“This’ll sting.”

Scout laughed.  “I think I’ll live.” 

It took five of the little alcohol napkins to mop the wound clean, since, upon further inspection, there was both an entrance wound and an exit wound in Scout’s arm.  True to his word, Scout lived through the procedure.  Matter of fact, he didn’t so much as wince when Sniper dabbed at the tattered skin within the wound, which was impressive.

Once he got the wound as disinfected as it was going to get, Sniper put two layers of thick, pre-cut gauze padding on either side of it, securing them with a roll of self-adhering gauze tape that he wrapped round and round Scout’s arm.  It was plenty secure on its own, but he tacked it closed with medical tape, just to be on the safe side.  Sniper studied his handiwork, frowning.  Already, the blood was dotting through the bandages.  Scout would live, that was for sure, but it had to hurt a lot more than Scout was letting on.  Sniper hoped he’d find Medic pretty quickly.  He hated to think of him running about with his arm like that all day long.

Scout held his arm up at eye level and turned it this way and that, grinning that amazing grin of his, buck teeth and all.  “Maybe ya oughta quit ya day job, huh?” he joked.

“It’s nothin’,” Sniper said, the sudden barrage of eye contact making him uneasy.  He flicked his eyes to the ground, trying not to smile.

But then he remembered what Scout had said yesterday, about the fact that he tried to conceal his smiles all the time.  He decided to let it go, then.  He felt the corners of his mouth turn upward without restraint, but what the expression looked like, he couldn’t be sure.  It felt like it must be quite ugly.  But according to Scout, he looked fine when he smiled.

And if Scout thought his smile looked okay, then…

Scout hopped to his feet, hunkering down a little to avoid detection, inspecting his bandages again.  “Yeah, this’ll definitely work till I can find Doc, for real.”  He put his hands on his knees, peering down at Sniper like one peers down at a puppy.  “Oh hey, I was gonna ask ya.  Like maybe an hour after we get off work, or whatever, I’m gonna go to that hobby store in town, whatzit called, uh…”

“Hobby Hutch,” Sniper offered.

“Yeah, that place,” Scout said.  “I gotta pick up some stuff.  Y’wanna go?”

It shocked Sniper how quickly he answered. 

“Sure.”

His gut squirmed again.  He wasn’t sure if he’d really meant to say yes or not.  Did he need to go to the hobby store for anything?  No.  He had plenty of yarn.  Then why did he say yes? 

It couldn’t be because he wanted to spend time with someone he fancied, could it?

It most certainly could.

Ah, piss.

“Cool, I’ll just come by ya camper when I get around, I…”  He sighed.  “Frickin’…gotta stop by Doc’s office again, gotta set a date to get that damn stick put in my leg.”  His upper lip pulled into a snarl and his nose scrunched.

Stick?  Sniper wanted badly to ask what that was all about, but Scout was already slinking away, a whispered “seeya, Snipes,” the only thing that remained of him as he climbed down the rocks.

Looks like I’m going shopping this afternoon, Sniper thought to himself, his left hand drifting over to scratch at his right wrist.  The skin there was getting flaky again from his worrisome picking.  An indescribable feeling, much like what kept him awake last night, raged through his body.  He supposed he felt excited—a rare emotion for him, to be sure—but his stomach churned like he might vomit any second.  Also, his brain was letting him know about five thousand things that could go wrong, and five thousand more reasons why he should race down the rock and tell Scout he’d changed his mind, he’d just stay cooped up alone in his camper, thanks though.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he found himself to be lying in repose within the glass confines of the respawn chamber.  He hadn’t recalled getting killed, certainly hadn’t felt anything.  The BLU team’s sniper probably lodged one in his temple, then, allowing him a quick and painless death while he, himself was too busy planning this afternoon’s fucking tea party in his mind.

Piss.

****

He’d been thinking about what it might be like to kiss Scout.

Earlier that day, when he’d missed such a gimme shot trying to hit the new BLU demoman—that’s what he’d been thinking about. 

He’d kissed people before.  Two girls and one bloke, if you wanted to get technical about it.  On all three occasions, he’d been in some roadside bar or other, well on his way to being fall-down drunk.  He’d been tired, so tired of not knowing what it (and other sins of the flesh) felt like, so he’d decided to bite the bullet and try it out.  Of course, his nerves wouldn’t allow for such a thing, so he’d had to pump his veins full of White Russians and whiskey sours to work his way up to it. 

Due to that, he didn’t really remember what kissing someone felt like.  Well, he sort of did.  Mostly, he remembered the fear creeping up the back of his throat as his lips touched a stranger’s, even with the alcohol dulling his senses—the indifferent coldness of it, the emotionless means to an end.  It had felt weird, he remembered that much.

Then again, maybe he just hadn’t been kissing the right person.

He’d read tons of books and he’d seen his fair share of films where kisses were passionate, wonderful things.  Sniper couldn’t imagine how that could be possible, people actually enjoying kissing one another, but his own experiences weren’t much to go on. 

Mostly, he’d been thinking about how Scout was at least six inches shorter than him.  He couldn’t just have a go at it and brush his lips against the other man’s, because the height difference would make it near impossible.  He’d have to scoop Scout into his arms and tip him backwards, then lean into him like Rhett Butler kissing Scarlet O’Hara…

Try to get that mental image out of your head when the man dominating your fantasies is sitting right next to you.

They were in Scout’s car, riding with the top up this time.  Sniper suspected it was because there was a Red Sox cap atop Scout’s head, one that had seen much better days, so he probably didn’t want to risk it blowing out.  The old hat contrasted sharply with the new-looking Beatles tee shirt he wore, with trendy bellbottoms and a pair of dusty red Chuck Taylors to finish off his attire.  Separately, the articles of clothing weren’t anything special, but when worn together, they looked right stylish.  Then again, Scout always dressed better outside of work than he did while he was on the clock. 

He still wore the grip tape around his hands and wrists, though he did take the dirty tape off and replace it with some fresh.  Sniper just supposed he liked the look of it, or maybe the feel of it, or both.  Sniper didn't find that to be too strange.  He’d be one to talk when it came to wearing odd things.  Sometimes folks just liked what they liked, and there wasn’t much of a reason for it.

Scout was driving this time, too, and he was surprisingly good at it—both hands on the wheel, only going a few miles over the speed limit, using his turn signals, staying exactly two car lengths away from the vehicle in front of him, et cetera.  He was doing a far better job than Sniper thought he would, Sniper had to admit.

Scout was doing most of the talking, but that was fine because Sniper liked to listen.

“Hardhat’s gonna make the actual thing, the, uh—it’s got a name, Doc told me what it was called—intra-sum’n-or-other rod.  Whatever, I don’t remember the actual name of it, but it’s this big, long stick Doc’s gonna shove up in there.  And then there’s these lil screws that gotta hold it in place, too, they go in through the side a my leg…Gawd, I’m dreadin’ this.”

Sniper could have merely offered his consolation, but somehow, he felt like that wouldn't be the best thing for this situation.  “I know Doc’s a bit weird—okay, really weird,” he corrected when Scout cast him a sidelong glance.  “But he’s good at what he does.  I was dead for twelve hours once, ’n’ he brought me back to life just fine.  Think I’ve got a few non-human organs in me now, but—”

“Whoawhoawhoa,” Scout said, removing a hand from the wheel and holding it up.  “Back up.  You were dead?  For twelve hours?  When the hell’d that happen, man?!”

He could probably spend a whole day getting into the particulars of that whole harrowing incident, but he decided to keep it short and sweet.  He told Scout about the events that shortly followed the meeting of his real parents—how some grisly old mercenary hired by Gray Mann shot him twice in the chest, killing him.  But it just so happened that, when the team temporarily disbanded a year and a half ago, Medic took up a job working for said grisly old mercenary, and had been more than happy to slice into Sniper’s cadaver in an attempt to revive him.  The procedure had left a road map of scars all over his chest and abdomen and upper arms, but he was very much alive.  And it had all been thanks to Medic’s knowledge and skill…and maybe a bit of the man’s blurred moral sense, as well, but he didn’t mention that part to Scout.

“That makes me feel a helluva lot better about this whole thing, believe it or not,” Scout said.  By that time, they’d made it to the little stretch of shops in downtown Teufort.  Scout parallel parked the car with ease, which Sniper was silently impressed by.  “If he can bring a dead dude back to life, I guess he can jam some metal in my leg, no problem.  ‘Sides, if sum’n goes real wrong, I guess I’ll just respawn, right?  Heh…”

But a shadow had fallen over Scout’s eyes, Sniper could tell.  He was trying to put on a brave face, but it was clear he was still scared about it—who wouldn’t be?  Medic’s words rang in Sniper’s ears:  he may never be able to run again.  Sniper was sure Doc would have no trouble completing the surgery; it was what might happen after the fact that worried him.

They climbed out of the car, and as they entered the hobby store he said, “I wouldn’t worry abou’ it too much.  You’ve got the best doctor in the country workin’ on you.  ’N’ you couldn’t ask for more state-of-the-art tech than what Truckie can build.”

“Yeah, maybe ya right,” Scout said, though he didn’t look all that convinced.  Scout had said yesterday that Sniper tried to hide his smiles; well, Scout had the habit of forcing smiles to his face, even when it was obvious he wasn’t at all happy.

Sniper floundered for what to say in response to that, but Scout saved him the trouble.  “Ya don’t gotta follow me if ya don’t wanna, I’m goin’ over that way,” Scout said, pointing toward the far left of the store.  “You’ve been here before, haven’tcha?  They got yarn an’ stuff over there.”  Scout pointed again.

“Yeah,” Sniper nodded.  “I’ve been here.”  It would be odd, wouldn’t it, to stay on Scout’s heels like a lovesick kitten.  To follow him around, to hover over him.  No, Sniper supposed, he’d better not be doing any of that.  Sniper didn’t need any more yarn, but—ah, what the hell.  He’d get more yarn.  Could never have too much yarn, that’s what Mum used to say.  “I’ll be over there,” he said, inclining his head toward the racks of color-coordinated skeins. 

As he and Scout parted ways, it felt like he was trudging through molasses getting over to the yarn section.  He still couldn’t decide if he’d made the right decision or not.  Should, er…did people usually stay together while they went shopping?  It seemed odd that they would, but maybe the whole point of shopping with another person was mostly to have their company.  Should he go back over to Scout, or should he just keep to his yarn?  Sometime during this crisis, he’d apparently grabbed a shopping basket from one of the stacks situated throughout the store, though he couldn’t remember picking one up.  He tossed some more red yarn into it, and some black, for good measure.  Red and black.  Good staple colors.  Yep.  Good colors.  Right.

Why did people have to be so bloody complicated?

After about ten minutes of pretending to look at yarn, he couldn’t stand it anymore.  The cashier, the same young girl from the last time he was in there, was bound to be looking at him funny by now.  Staring.  He couldn’t bear it anymore; he needed to move, needed to slink off into another part of the store to get her eyes off him.  He went to the end of the aisle and turned the only direction he could, which was left.  Scout was down the first aisle he came to. 

“Hey, Snipes, c’mere a sec, I want ya opinion on somethin’,” Scout called to him.  His voice boomed like he held a megaphone to his mouth, it was so loud in the tiny store.  Sniper’s legs felt curiously sluggish again as he made his way to Scout’s side.

“I got my stuff already,” Scout said, giving the basket hooked onto his arm a little shake, “an’ now I’m just shoppin’ for Pyro.  My question to you is, if you were Pyro, wouldja rather have this”—he held up a box with a hundred and fifty colored pencils inside—“or this?”  The other hand held a thick plastic pouch containing a hundred and fifty slim-barreled markers.  “Whaddya think?”

“He’d probably be less tempted to set the markers on fire,” Sniper said.  “Since they’re, you know.  Not made of wood.”

“Excellent point,” Scout said, hanging the colored pencils back onto their respective hook.  “He’s gettin’ these.”  He slipped the pouch of markers into his shopping basket, then pointed to Sniper’s watch.  “What time is it?”

Sniper peered down at the watch face.  “Nearly seven,” he said, surprised that it was already that late in the evening.

“Shit, I’m kinda late,” Scout said.  “Whatever, they’ll get over it.”

Sniper opened his mouth to ask what Scout was late for, but Scout beat him to it.  “It’s Monday, so it’s my night to cook.  And y’know what that means, don’tcha?”

“No, what?”

“Means we gotta swing by Pizza Hut and order seven large pizzas before we head back,” Scout said with a wide, goofy smile.  That lopsided buck-toothed grin of his was growing to be a bit more endearing to Sniper each time he saw it. 

Sniper couldn’t help but smile back.

****

Each time one of Sniper’s teammates walked into the kitchen, their eyes immediately fell upon him, seeming to scream, what the hell are you doing in here?  Thankfully, Engineer was the only remaining merc who hadn’t breezed through yet, so when the short little Texan stepped into the kitchen, Sniper felt more than a little relieved.  He’d only have to endure one more line of questioning, and—

“W’hey there, Slim!” Engineer called, Sniper’s presence momentarily stunning him in his tracks.  “‘F I’d a known you were gonna be here, I’d’ve got here earlier!”

Sniper tried to smile.  “Yeah,” was all he could manage, which didn’t even make sense.

Engineer grabbed a paper plate and helped himself to some of Scout’s lovingly-prepared meal.  “How’dja talk Sniper into comin’, Skeeter?  I’ve been tryin’ for years.”

“Guess I’m just better-lookin’ than you are,” Scout said.

“Whatever you gotta tell yourself,” Engineer said with a smirk, sitting down at the table between Pyro and Demoman.  “Scout’s a mighty good cook, ain’t he, Slim?”

Sniper was horrid at this kind of lighthearted banter.  He didn’t know what to say, he never did.  In the span of one second, he felt his mouth go dry, his entire body tense, his eyes widen.  He’d have to say something, there wasn’t a way around it, but what, what?  He—

In the second that followed, he felt warm fingertips ghosting over the back of his left hand, brushing soothing lines into the skin there.  Scout’s fingertips, he didn’t have to look to know that.  Trying to calm him.  How the other man knew he was struggling, he didn’t know, and he didn’t care.  Scout’s touch had been fleeting, almost nonexistent, but it was somehow effective. 

“The best,” Sniper said, trying to put actual emotion into his voice this time.  It didn’t sound so bad, did it?  In any case, it must’ve satisfied Engineer, because the man let loose a stomach-jiggling chuckle.

“Skeeter always takes the easy way out when it’s his turn to ‘cook’”—Engineer put air quotes around the word—“but that’s prob’ly a good thing.”

“Yeah, I can’t even cook cereal,” Scout said through a mouthful of pizza.  Demoman let out a slightly belated guffaw at that remark, helping himself to another swig of the brown bottle he curled his hand around. 

Maybe sitting at the dinner table with his fellow mercs wasn’t so bad, after all.  Sniper certainly learned a lot.  Pyro hooked a finger under the edge of his mask and pulled it straight out in front of him, then slid the pizza slice underneath it to eat.  Spy dabbed the grease off of his with precision and care, balling napkin after napkin beside his plate.  Heavy didn’t even bother getting a plate, opting to take a whole pizza box for himself.  Medic sprinkled an obscene amount of red pepper flakes all over his.  Soldier crammed entire slices into his mouth and didn’t appear to bother chewing them before forcing them down his gullet.  Demoman ate exactly one slice before nodding off at the table, his soft snores barely audible over the rest of the group’s chatter.  Engineer ate his with a fork.  Scout ate fast and ate a lot, probably due to being raised with seven older brothers; despite that, his table manners weren’t all that bad.  He talked with his mouth full sometimes, but Scout never could stop talking, even while he was trying to eat.

It was a much more bearable experience than Sniper could’ve ever hoped for.

Scout spared Sniper from having to endure very much after-dinner smalltalk, which Sniper was very much thankful for.  Soon after both their plates were cleared, Scout simply stood up, beckoning for Sniper to follow him, and out the back door they went.  No making up a story for why they were leaving.  No awkward goodbyes.  No handshakes, no “come back soon”s.  They just got up and left, and that was that.

As soon as they stepped out into the chilly night air, Sniper felt a weight lift from his shoulders.  In a way, he felt better being outside and (nearly) alone, but all this social interaction had left him drained and exhausted.  Part of him hoped Scout would bid him goodnight or whathaveyou at the porch steps, and let him walk back to his camper in solitude.  And another part of him wished Scout would follow him, maybe step into the Winnie for a bit, just to watch the tele or maybe…God.  He didn’t know what he wanted.  All of this was so…it was just bloody weird, is what it was.  And what was that whole thing at the dinner table, with Scout brushing his fingertips against Sniper’s hand?  Did that mean something, or was he just reading too much into it?  Probably the latter.

…Right?

“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Scout asked him, pausing at the top of the steps, looking up at him.

“Nah,” Sniper said.  “It was fine.  ’N' Truckie has been tryin’ to get me to come to dinner for quite awhile.  Sorta…”  He fumbled absently with the strap of his wristwatch.  “Sorta glad I went, finally."

“Well good, I’m glad it wasn’t like a total nightmare or nuttin’, that’s awesome, man.  Anyway, I can tell by lookin’ that ya’d really like some alone time right about now.  So I’m gonna get outta ya hair for tonight.”  Scout’s eyes caught the light shining through the sliding glass door, almost seeming to glitter and twinkle, like a million little stars had fallen into them.  They hadn’t always looked like that, had they?

Sniper squeezed at the back of his neck.  He supposed he really would like to be off to himself at that moment, so he could think.  “Thanks, mate,” he said, grateful that Scout seemed to understand that.

“No worries, mate,” Scout said, doing a horrible impression of an Australian accent.  Sniper just shook his head at him and huffed out a little chuckle; once again, Scout had brought a begrudging smile to his lips. 

Sniper went down the steps, but turned around at the foot of them, watching Scout retreat back into the base.  Scout didn’t even have the door closed behind him before Pyro was running up to him, showing him something he’d drawn in a spiral-bound sketchpad.  Whatever was on the paper, Scout did a fine job of looking impressed, clapping Pyro on the shoulder and pointing at various parts of the drawing.  Then Pyro threw his arms around Scout, pulling him close and hugging him tight.  Scout returned the gesture without hesitation, giving Pyro some hearty pats on the back, his face crinkling into a laugh.

And there came that curious icy clench in Sniper’s chest and stomach again.

He turned abruptly on his heel, marching toward his Winnebago.  He needed a cup of coffee.  And to think a few things over.  Badly.

Chapter Text

While Scout was doing it, he knew it was a beyond horrible idea, but he couldn't stop himself from finishing it.  Now that it was done, he didn’t know what to do with it.  Let Pyro set it on fire, maybe.  Yeah, that’d be good. 

He definitely wasn’t gonna give it to Snipes.  That had been his original intent, but then he realized how…how frickin’ lame it’d be, for a grown man to give another grown man a handmade painting.

Grown-ass men did not give other grown-ass men gifts, unless it was Christmas or some shit.  Especially not handmade ones.  Scout couldn’t even remember why he thought it was a good idea in the first place.  He wanted to smack himself.

How old are you, five?  What the hell, man?  This is a new low, you know that, don’tcha?  This is worse than the other night, when you tried to grope Sniper’s hand under the dinner table.

There was still a tiny little spark in the back of his mind, though—something that kept telling him Sniper might actually like it, that he was the kinda guy that could see the hard work put into something handmade like this.  That was the only thing keeping Scout from slamming his fist through the canvas right then and there.

He’d worked hard on it, and it did turn out a lot better than he imagined it would (he wasn’t nearly as good at painting as he was just drawing on paper), but still.  He was pissed off at himself for ever thinking something like this would go over well.

He just wanted to apologize so bad, y’know?  For all the shit he put Snipes through, that night in Medic’s ward.  He said sorry a thousand times, but words weren’t enough, he knew they weren’t enough.  He’d wanted to, to—give Sniper something that had meaning, but…that just ain’t how guys do shit.  Scout knew that all along, but it was really starting to sink in now.  He’d just been wrapped up in the moment, and had made Sniper—another dude—a gift, and there was no way in hell he was gonna actually give it to him.

Scout yanked the canvas off the easel and barely resisted the urge to pop a hole in it with his knee.  He’d take it to Pyro, let him burn it.  He couldn’t bear to put his hours of hard work in the trash, but seeing Pyro burn it might be poetic justice, or something.  He threw his bedroom door open, painting tucked into his armpit, and set out to find his flame-enthusiast friend to give him some fresh kindling.

He’d start his search in the rec room, since the TV was in there and Pyro was a big fan of those goofy evening-time game shows on channel seven.  The hallway was empty as he made his way down there, and Scout was grateful for that; no one would have the chance to ask him what he was doing, wagging around an impressionist-style painting.

He opened the door to the rec room and was greeted with the calming burble of the television.  Well, somebody was in there, that was for sure.  He took one step through the doorway and yes, Pyro was there, sitting cross-legged on the couch and watching Let’s Make a Deal, but Sniper was in there too and oh shit oh shit what was he doing in here he never comes in here that don’t make any frickin’ sense why is he in here right now though—

“Hrr, Skrrt!” Pyro said, waving.  Sniper, who wasn’t sitting on the couch, but rather had a knee propped up on the arm of it, gave him a tiny nod and a muttered “hey, mate.”

As quickly as he could, Scout shoved the painting behind his back, let it tumble from his hands, and drop-kicked it with the heel of his Chuck Taylor.  He heard it clatter against the wall behind him. 

Real smooth, asshole.

“Hey,” he said, striding casually into the room with his hands jammed in his pockets, trying his damnedest to look nonchalant.  He had found Pyro, alright, but he couldn’t very well give him the painting to burn with Sniper standing right there, now, could he?  He’d have to play it cool. 

He flopped down on the couch next to Pyro.  “Thought I’d just, y’know—come in here for a minute, hang out, watch some TV.”  He looked up at Sniper.  “Don’t see you in here real often, Legs.  And by that, I mean I have literally never seen you in here.”  He grinned.  “Finally decided to join the land of the living?”

Shit, shitshitshit, his brain was switching to defense mode, like it always did, trying to make himself feel better about being caught in an awkward position.  He was picking at Snipes without meaning to.  He groaned inwardly, waiting on pins and needles for Sniper’s reaction to his snarky little comment.

“I come in here sometimes,” Sniper said, “to borrow books.”  He held up a paperback with the words “ROSEMARY’S BABY” slashed diagonally across the cover in heavy script.  “There’s a big bookshelf over there in the corner, you know.  For folks who know how to read.”  He was smiling mostly with his eyes, but he did allow the right corner of his mouth to curve upward in the tiniest smirk.

Whew—thank God.  Scout had never been more thankful to be accused of illiteracy in his life.

“Hey, Pyro’s read that book before,” Scout said, pointing at the item in question in Sniper’s hand.

“Pyro would be the one who recommended it to me,” Sniper said, turning the book over to look at the cover.  “Not exactly a genre I usually read, but I’ll give it a go.”

Well, Scout didn’t know dick about books, unless they were a) comic books or b) books full of artwork and paintings (which, admittedly, he had a shit-ton of), so maybe he could change the subject.

“You watch a lotta TV, Snipes?” Scout asked him.

“Nah,” he said.  “Eh, some.  Like to have it for background noise when I’m knitting.”

Scout slid over to the middle cushion of the couch and slapped his palm on the now-vacant spot to his left.  “Howsabout ya actually sit down and—“

The rec room door opened and Medic strode in.  That on its own would’ve been okay, but Medic just so happened to be carrying Scout’s painting with him.

Oh, for—

“I was hoping I’d find you in here, Scout,” Medic said, his dress shoes tupping against the tile as he walked over to the couch.  “I found this lying in the hallway.  I suppose you’ve dropped it, ja?”

Scout opened his mouth, about to make up some story about how he didn’t know what the hell Doc was talking about, he didn’t paint that, but he remembered he’d signed his name in the bottom right corner.  There’d be no denying it. 

Medic flipped the painting over and made to hand it to Scout, revealing its subject matter for all to see.  Pyro had already seen it, so that aspect of it wasn’t a big deal, but Sniper obviously hadn’t.  Scout’s face was completely, absolutely on fire with embarrassment.  He knew he should’ve just thrown that son of a bitch in the trash can, he knew it.

With rigid movements, Scout took the painting from Medic’s outstretched hands, holding it like he might hold a ticking time bomb.  Slowly, he craned his head up at Sniper, forcing a sheepish grin.  He dreaded what sort of reaction he was gonna get from the other man, but he’d have to look at him eventually, so he decided to go ahead and get it over with.

Grown-ass men do not paint paintin’s for other grown-ass men.  You’re a frickin’ weirdo.  Maybe just tell him you were doin’ it for some practice, or sum’n, or—

But somehow, by some miracle, Sniper didn’t look mad.  His upper lip was slightly raised, exposing a sliver of his front teeth as he smiled down at the painting.

“That’s me owl, innit?” he asked, cocking his head a little to get a better look at the painting.  “It’s got to be, on account o’ the red eyes.”

“Yeah, well uh, it is, but see I was just kinda—“

“That’s really bloody good,” Sniper said, still transfixed on the painting.  “You’ve even got the lil spot under his beak, there.”

“I didn’t know you were an artist, Scout,” Medic said, coming to stand beside Sniper to admire the painting, a rubber-gloved finger crooked at his chin.

Goddammit.  “I ain’t exactly an artist, I mean it’s just sum’n I do when I ain’t got nuttin’ else to do, y’know…heh…“

“You have a pet bird as well, Herr Sniper?” Medic said, and Scout felt his shoulders sag in relief as the attention was pulled away from him.

Sniper shifted his weight to his other leg, staring at the wall beyond Medic’s head.  “Er, yeah…I know it ain’t allowed, but…”

“Tch,” Medic scoffed, flapping a hand.  “They say they don’t want us to have pets, but I’d like to see them come in here and take them.”  He smiled devilishly.  “I know you’ve seen Archimedes and his little friends in my office—I’m quite fond of birds, as well.”

It looked like Sniper attempted eye contact with the doc, because his eyes flicked over to Medic’s for a fleeting moment, before skittering off to rest on the TV screen.  “Yeah…I like ‘em,” he muttered.

Suddenly, Medic’s face brightened as he turned his attention back to Scout.  “Ah!  You should paint Archimedes’s portrait, liebchen!  And I shall hang it in the office right above his roost.”

See, that right there was half the reason why Scout didn’t want the other guys to know he liked to draw.  Once they know that, they ask you stuff like “can you draw me?” or they assume you have nothing better to do but spend hours out of your day painting some scruffy-ass dove.

“I dunno about that, Doc,” Scout said.  “Paintin’s not really my favorite thing—“

“Oh, there’s no rush, take your time,” Medic assured him.  “In fact, Archimedes would probably sit still long enough to be your model, if you tempted him with some—“

A shrill beeping sounded from Medic’s coat pocket.  He reached his hand inside and pulled out a little stopwatch, then pushed a button on it to silence the noise.  “I must go, gentlemen,” he said, his overly-wide grin returning to his face.  “I must pull something out of the incubation chamber.”  He took quick strides to the rec room’s exit, calling an “auf wiedersehen” over his shoulder as he shut the door behind him.

Scout rose to his feet.  He couldn’t sit down anymore.  He held the canvas uncertainly in his hands, not really sure what to do with it now.  He wanted to pace around the room and think it over for a sec, because that’s what he usually did when he couldn’t make his mind up about something, but that was out of the question.  He had all of about two seconds to analyze his options, here. 

Painting something for another dude was weird.  That was a given.  But now that Sniper was aware of its existence, should Scout just…go ahead and give it to him?  He couldn’t just flat-out say he was planning on having Pyro burn it, that’d be even worse.

Oh, what the hell.  He took a breath.

“Hey man, I know what ya thinkin’, and ya absolutely right, but uh…I kinda…look, just take the damn paintin’, awright?” Scout said, his voice coming out more gruffly than he meant it to.  He felt his cheeks getting hot again as he thrust the canvas toward Sniper.  “You can throw it away when I ain’t lookin’, it won’t hurt my feelin’s or nuttin’, I know this is weird, but whatever, so…yeah.”

Gingerly, Sniper plucked the painting from Scout’s hands.  As soon as his hands were free, Scout crossed his arms and stared at the TV, watching the game show host as he handed a man in a pirate suit a tiny pink box.  He knew he was being a little piss-baby right now, but this whole thing was not going how he’d planned it to.  He knew he should’ve just thrown it away, he shouldn’t have ever risked bringing it through the hallway like that, he knew something like this was gonna happen.  He hadn’t wanted Snipes to see it, he really, really hadn’t.  He and Sniper were just starting to get close, y’know, like pals, and now Sniper was gonna think he was weird, and—and this just sucked.

But Sniper was smiling as he looked down at the painting.  And he wasn’t trying to hide that smile, either.

Scout’s stomach clenched.

“How’d you get the stars in the background to look like that?” Sniper said, running a fingertip over the canvas’s surface.

He was asking questions about it…?  Maybe that meant he didn’t think Scout was a total creep.  That was a good thing, for real.  “Oh, I uh, I dipped a toothbrush in some white paint and like, I ran my thumb across it and let the paint just fly wherever.  Kinda cool, huh?”

Why did he say that last part?  Even in his darkest hour, he was still a self-centered prick.  Frickin’ great.

“Huh,” Sniper said, tilting the painting this way and that, admiring it.  “I’d have never thought o’ that, that’s right clever.”

“Yeah, I learned that in art class, that’s like one of the few things I actually remember from high school,” Scout grinned.

“But are you sure you want me to have it?” Sniper asked him.  “Don’t you wanna keep it?  It’s quite good, I…I can’t imagine you’d want’er give it away.”

Scout sighed.  He’d have to tell him.  “Well I kinda…kinda made it for you, specifically, actually…?  So I mean…I definitely want ya to have it, but I know that’s real frickin’ weird, Snipes, I wasn’t thinkin’ about it, I know dudes don’t paint shit for other dudes, please don’t think I’m some kinda weirdo.”  The words came tumbling from his mouth like a waterfall.  Not only were his cheeks warm, but his entire head and neck were, too. 

Sniper looked at him in a way Scout couldn’t describe, but somehow, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Sniper was trying to wordlessly communicate with him.  The other man’s eyes were widened ever-so-slightly behind those yellow-tinted glasses, his mouth a nervous, thin line.  What was he trying to say that couldn’t come out?  That was definitely the same “I-know-I-should-say-something-here-but-I-ain’t-got-a-clue-what” face Sniper had made at the dinner table a few nights ago.  Now Scout was the cause of that look.  His stomach clenched again, but it was more of a…a flutter, or something, that time. 

“Really, keep it, it’s yours,” Scout said, his voice coming out too gentle and patronizing for his liking, but it was too late to take it back.  “To be real honest with ya, I wasn’t gonna show it to ya, ‘cause I know it’s dumb.  I was bringin’ it in here so Py could throw it on his burn pile out back, and…”  He laughed a little.  “I didn’t know ya’d be in here.” 

Sniper stared down at the painting again.  “Can’t believe you were gonna burn it,” he said.  He looked back up, meeting Scout’s eyes.  “Suppose I picked the right time to fetch a book, yeah?”

Scout smiled back.  Maybe this wouldn’t pan out so bad, after all.

“Yeah.  Guess ya did, Legs.”

****

After Sniper left the rec room, Scout told Pyro he had to go do something and headed back to his bedroom.  He made sure his hallway door was locked, then checked the other door leading into the jack-and-jill bathroom connecting his and Pyro’s rooms.  Also locked.  Good.  He needed some privacy for a sec.

At his bedside, he dropped down to his knees and felt around blindly until his hand collided with what he was looking for.  He pulled out a round aluminum box that actually used to be Ma’s old makeup case, but it looked manly enough, so he’d glued the broken latch back on it and saved it from the trash can.  He flipped up the latch and opened it.

Inside was a mishmash of things, some sentimental, some not.  He swept away a layer of baseball cards and pulled out a worn Playboy magazine.  A fringe-banged blonde with a splash of freckles across her nose and heavy makeup ringing her eyes stared up at him.  He’d bought it from a gas station a couple years ago, feeling embarrassed and excited all at once as he pointed at the one he wanted behind the cash register, hands shaking as he flashed his driver’s license to the cashier. 

He thumbed it open to a random page.  A brunette with perky tits sat on a beach towel in a classic pinup pose, hands clasped behind her head to give “readers” a good look at her generously-sized melons.  Scout squinted at her, concentrating hard on the swell of her breasts.  After what seemed like a million years, but was probably no more than thirty seconds or so, he felt a twitching down in his groin.

He breathed a sigh of relief.  Thank God.

His masculinity secured for yet another day, he was about to put the magazine back into the box…until something else in there caught his eye.  He tossed the magazine off to the side of him somewhere and reached into the box, batting away more baseball cards as he unearthed an old, yellowed photograph.

Scout knew what it was going to be a picture of before he picked it up, but he was still surprised at it.  He felt like somebody dumped a huge thing of ice water over him.

Why had he even kept this picture?  And a better question, why’d he bring it with him all the way from Boston?  He knew the answer—he couldn’t bear to part with it.  It was all Scout had left of him.

Him.

The picture was of him in his Boston Bashers jersey, both arms thrown around the neck of a dude clad in an identical jersey.  The dude was in the process of scooping him up princess-style; Scout’s mouth was permanently frozen in mid-shout.  The dude’s face, on the other hand, was nothing but warm happiness and a lazy smile, a little bump at the bridge of his nose and a jawline for days. 

Scout remembered it like it was yesterday.  One of his teammates had snapped this photo just before Bucky dunked him into the fountain just outside the ballpark.  They’d just won the last game in the semifinals—mostly due to their fantastic first-baseman, who just so happened to be Scout.  He’d been so happy.  His whole team had been happy, but there was no way they were as overjoyed as he and Bucky were—no way.

Funny his name was Bucky.  ‘Cause, y’know.  Like Captain America’s sidekick.  They even kinda looked similar, with that wavy reddish hair. 

The picture Scout held in his hands was one of the last happy moments he and Bucky had together. 

Not that Bucky died, or anything; it was a hell of a lot more complicated than that, for real.

That night after the big game, he hopped into Bucky’s car.  He had ridden up to Framingham with Bucky, so they wouldn’t have to cram into the school bus to get back to Boston.  Before Scout even had a chance to reach for his seatbelt, Bucky grabbed either side of his face, hard, and for a second Scout was certain he was about to get headbutted.  But that wasn’t what happened at all.  Bucky took a sharp intake of breath and smashed their lips together. 

Scout would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about Bucky…like that.  But he’d never act on those feelings, not in a million years, he’d never let himself.  Then again, it hadn’t been him that had initiated the kiss, had it?  No, it most certainly had not been.  So, by default, he could enjoy it guilt-free, right?  It hadn’t been his idea, so it didn’t count.

They devoured each other’s mouths for about a minute, but to Scout it seemed like it was over before it even started.  Then without saying anything about it, Bucky pulled away, started the car, and drove him home.  They rode for nearly an hour in total silence.

And the very next day, Bucky announced that his girlfriend was pregnant.

He avoided Scout every single day after that.  Which was hard to do, since Scout was first-baseman and Bucky was the pitcher—they stood in close proximity to one another on the field, and Coach paired them up to toss the ball back and forth during practices.  He’d be around Scout if he was forced to, but Bucky never said another word to him.

Not another goddamn word.

“Asshole,” Scout muttered, tossing the photo back into the box with an angry little flick of his wrist.  He trickled some baseball cards on top of it, put the Playboy back in there, and shut the case.  He kicked the case back under his bed, hearing a dull thunk as it collided against the wall. 

He tipped himself onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, watching the fan go round and round in lazy circles.

“Asshole,” he muttered again, sighing bitterly.

****

“Forty-two point six-four centimeters,” Engineer said, more to himself than to Scout.  He jotted the number down onto a notepad, then went to work unscrewing the complicated measuring device from Scout’s femur.  “So if it’s forty-two point six-four in length, then the circumference would be…”  He did little loops and curlicues through the air with a metal finger, presumably doing some mental math.  “Two point two-three.”  He jotted that number down, also, then went back to work removing the uncomfortably tight device of his own design from Scout’s leg.

“So this thing ya makin’,” Scout said, hopping down from the workbench.  “It’ll keep my leg from breakin’?”

“Well,” Engineer began, tossing the cagelike measuring tool into a box underneath the workbench, “Doc says it’s breakin’ ‘cause ya got low bone density, so in theory, if ya stick a titanium rod up in there, it oughta get a helluva lot more dense.”  Engineer grinned up at him.  It was weird to have to look down at somebody, Scout thought.  Engineer was easily the shortest man on the team.

“But it can still break, though?” Scout asked, his brows knitting together in worry.  He wasn’t agreeing to this risky surgery just to have a small chance that his leg would stop breaking.  Who would?

“I ain’t a doctor—not a medical doctor, anyhow—but from what I understand, your leg was breakin’ due to just normal stuff, like your runnin’ and jumpin’, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Figure that won’t happen near as often,” Engineer said, pulling a red paisley bandana from the pocket of his overalls to mop at his brow.  “And it’ll be able to withstand blunt or penetrative trauma a lot better—that titanium’s just as strong as steel, y’know.  And it’s lightweight, so I don’t see it slowin’ ya down none.  Now y’might get some hairline fractures on the surface of the bone every now’n again, or…”

He prattled on for a couple minutes more, Scout’s attention fading in and out as Engineer explained how everything about this metal rod and these three screws to hold it in place were gonna be sunshine and rainbows.  But all Scout could think about was laying up in a hospital bed for three months, which is how long Medic said his mandatory recuperation time was going to be.  Knowing his luck, Scout would take his first step out of bed and snap.  And when it happened, he’d just crumple to the floor and laugh, because he’d known all along that it would never work.

The more he thought about it, the more pissy he got.  Without really realizing it, he started bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, ready to get the hell outta there.  He needed to let off some steam.

“…not quite there yet,” Engineer concluded, punctuating his last sentence with a hearty laugh.  Scout had no clue at all what Engineer’d just said to him.  He’d been watching the shorter man’s mouth move, but he wasn’t able to focus on the words.  All this surgery and bone and titanium and whatever talk was making him want to punch something.  Or kick something.  Or run over something in his car.  Or slam a baseball bat into something.  Or shoot something.  Any of that would work.

Scout put a grin on his face, though, hoping Engineer wouldn't catch on that he had no idea what he’d been saying for the past couple minutes.  “Heh.  Yeah.  That all ya need outta me, or…?”

“I reckon,” Engineer said, clapping him good-naturedly on the shoulder (and thankfully, he’d used his non-metal hand to do so).  “You’ll be fine, son.  I wouldn’t take part in this if I thought it was dangerous.  Quitcher worryin’.”

(son)

“Yeah, I’ll try, but”—Scout shrugged—“y’know.”  He could feel the smile slipping from his face.  “I’ll let ya get back to your, uh…stuff.  Seeya tomorrow, Hardhat.”

“G’night.”

Scout pivoted on his heel, taking very controlled footsteps toward the open garage door.  He waited until his feet left the smooth concrete and touched down upon the dirt to break out into a run.

He didn’t know where he was going.  Didn’t care.  The burn in his lungs, the strain in his muscles, it felt good, felt familiar.  It was something he could control.  If he wanted to stop running, he could.  If he wanted to keep going until the world ended, he could do that, too.

But as he ran, he remembered he didn’t bring a weapon with him, save for the Swiss army knife he always carried in his pocket, which didn’t count for a whole hell of a lot.  He better not go off-base, then.  Instead of running to the base’s back gate, he altered his path, curving off to the right.  He’d just run the perimeter of the base a couple times, then, if he couldn’t leave it.  And if that got boring, he guessed he could go back in and get a gun and a flashlight to tote with him off-base—

Wait, what the hell’s that noise?

Scout could hear something—or someone—in the little crop of scrub trees he’d just passed.  He slowed, then trotted to a stop, and doubled back to the spot where he thought he’d heard it.

“Come on, don’t be like that, I’m trying to help you, y’little—“  A hiss of pain, then:  “That hurt, you ungrateful little mongrel, I oughter leave you in there for that!”

Scout recognized the voice instantly.  A little gritty and rough around the edges, but kind at its core.  Strangely melodious and enticing.  Just like the man it belonged to.

“Snipes?” Scout called into the scrub trees.  He was surprised he couldn’t see Sniper’s head poking out of the group of little trees, since they weren’t but five feet tall, but he couldn’t.  Sniper must be bent down, or something.  He could see the beam of a flashlight skittering around as its handler struggled with it.  “Y’havin’ fun in there?”

Sniper grunted in response, then said, “Oi, could I possibly talk you into givin’ me a bit of a hand, here?” 

Scout heard a frantic rustling noise and what sounded an awful lot like an animalistic growl.  The flashlight beam juddered over the tops of the trees again as Sniper apparently struggled to keep it steady.  Snipes was in there trying to wrangle some kind of animal, wasn’t he?—seemed to Scout like if he lent a hand, he might get it bitten off.

But he’d help, anyway. 

Of course he would.

“Yeah, hang on, I’m comin’,” Scout said, parting the low-hanging branches and fighting his way in.  One of the branches snagged on his ballcap and pulled it from his head, but when he turned around to retrieve it, he couldn’t see it.  It was getting dark in a hurry, and he didn’t have a light to—

The flashlight beam shined down at his feet, immensely helping him to navigate through the roots and branches and miniature shrubs below.  The beam guided him to Sniper’s side; the man was currently down on his hands and knees, the hand not holding the flashlight gripped against something small and wriggling.  Ah, shit, it was some kind of animal he’d dug up, huh?  Scout was gonna end up with rabies or mad cow disease or something before the night was over, he just knew it.

“You’d help me out a lot if you’d hold this,” Sniper said, handing him the flashlight.  Okay, that, Scout could handle.  He took the flashlight and shined it down on the mystery animal.

It was probably the filthiest, most raggedy-ass tabby cat Scout had ever seen in his life.  Its back leg was ensnared in a root or a vine or something, something that had tightly wrapped its way around it.  It was stuck, Scout realized, and Sniper was trying to get it out.  Scout could smell the faint, all-too-familiar tinge of blood in the air, and he wondered if it was coming from the cat, or from Sniper, or from both of them.  Probably the latter, if the spitting hisses and yowls from the cat were any indication; no doubt that little bastard put up a fight when Sniper tried to help it, or else it’d already be free by now.

Once Sniper had another free hand, he used it to grab hold of the scruff of the cat’s neck which, in doing so, the cat’s struggling lessened considerably.  Sniper hurriedly fished around in his pants pocket until he pulled out a knife, snapping it open with a practiced flick of his wrist. 

“Now hold still, mate, unless y’want me to cut your whole leg off—“

Sniper slipped the knife-tip underneath the root at the cat’s leg, but once the cat felt something cold and foreign there, its hissing and fighting began again in earnest.  It swiped a paw at Sniper’s forearm, leaving three red lines in its wake.  Scout adjusted the flashlight to have a look, to make sure it wasn’t serious, and he was not surprised to find that the current scratches welling with blood were ones of dozens.  That cat had been slapping the shit outta Sniper for a long while, by the looks of it.

I’m gonna regret this, Scout thought, groaning inwardly as he dropped to his knees.

“Here, I’ll hold its neck-thing,” Scout said, pointing to the cat’s scruff, “and that’ll give you another hand to work with.  That’d help, right?”

“Nah, I couldn’t ask you to”—Sniper grunted as the cat tried to wrestle its way out of his grip again—“to do that, he’s spooked, ’n’ he’d probably scratch you.  I’ve got ‘im.”

“I got my hands taped,” Scout reasoned.  “If he scratches me or whatever, it ain’t gonna hurt.” 

Sniper looked to Scout, to the cat, back to him, then back to the cat.  “Okay,” he said.  “Careful, though.”

Scout nudged Sniper’s hand out of the way and grabbed the cat’s scruff, simultaneously holding the flashlight high above their heads.  Its fur felt wiry and was gritty with dirt.  He tried not to grimace as he held the cat in place, feeling the extremely agitated critter squirm and jerk under his grip.

“You’re alright, puss, it’ll just be a second now,” Sniper said, his voice a low, soothing croon.  With one swift motion, he cut the vine, freeing the cat’s leg.

Now, though, the cat had his haunches free to fight with.  He tried to scratch and scrabble his way out of Scout’s grasp, but Sniper grabbed the cat and pinned him to his chest. 

Scout lunged forward to avoid yanking the cat’s head off, his hand still gripping its scruff.    His and Sniper’s knees were smashed together.  He didn’t know if he should let go now, or what. 

“‘Kay, his leg’s free, can’tcha let him run off and be a free kitty now?”

Sniper gave a little sigh.  “He’s hurt.  That back leg’s definitely broken.  He’ll die if I leave him out here.”

After seeing all the scratches on Sniper’s arms, and after all the hell the cat raised, Scout was kinda thinking it might be time for the cat to visit the great beyond.  To buy the farm.  To get put out of its misery.  Y’know.  There was no way Sniper was even going to consider that idea, though.  The other man would never be able to kill the cat, broken leg or no—and Scout knew he wouldn’t be able to kill it, either.

“Well we can’t take him to ya camper, ‘cause cats and owls don’t get along,” Scout said.  “…Ain’t that right?  Cats and birds hate each other, don’t they?”  He really, honestly didn’t know a lot about animals.  He’d never been around them long enough to learn.

“Owls kill cats,” Sniper nodded.

“Huh, I thought it’d be the other way arou—‘kay, whatever, we gotta hurry up and think a sum’n, ‘cause this lil bastard is obviously not very happy.”  The cat had its claws sunk deep into Sniper’s skin, and would’ve been biting the man, too, had Scout not been holding his scruff. 

“Er,” Sniper said. 

“I was thinkin’ Doc’s office, maybe, so he could at least take a look at the leg—but he’s got birds, so that’s a no.  He’d throw a fit if we brought a cat in there.”

“I know,” Sniper mumbled.

“And I can feel the fleas jumpin’ off him from here, so I’m kinda not too inclined to put him in my room.”

“I know.”

“Uh, well don’t get freaked out, just gimme a sec to think about this, uh…”  Scout gnawed at his lower lip, trying to come up with something.  So the cat was definitely infested with fleas, because he could feel them jumping on his arms, so bringing him inside the base was a no.  If they had to flea-bomb the base again, Miss P would kill him.  So if they couldn’t bring the cat inside, then…

“Oh, hey!  How ‘bout Hardhat’s garage?  He’s prob’ly still in there, I just left from there like five minutes ago.  We could go ask him if we can stick the cat in there for the time bein’.  He’s got a buncha big cages left over from that whole thing with the tumor bread shit, I bet he won’t care if we use one, y’know?  We could put the cat in there ‘till we fix the leg and get the fleas off him, at least, then—I dunno, after that.  I’ll figure it out.”

Sniper opened his mouth, took a breath, shut it again.  He obviously wanted to say something, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.  Probably something about not wanting to put Hardhat between a rock and a hard place with a mangy cat.

“Don’t worry, I’ll ask him, you ain’t gotta say nuttin’.  Y’think he’ll bite ya if I let go?”

“Nah,” Sniper said, “he’s worn himself out for the most part.  If he does bite me, it won’t be nothin’ I can’t handle.”

That was all Scout needed to know.  He let go of the cat’s scruff and, just as Sniper had suspected, it was too tired to put up much more of a fight.  It still struggled beneath Sniper’s hands, but not half as savagely as it had moments before.

“‘Kay, I’ll try to, like, hold the branches and stuff while we get outta here,” Scout said, pointing the flashlight out in front of him and guiding the way out of the scrub trees.  He parted a few limbs and warned Sniper of protruding roots on the ground, leading the two (well, three, technically) of them out of the patch of foliage. 

Once they were out of there, Scout clicked off the flashlight.  The night watchman light had clicked on, which was plenty bright enough to light their way.  He could see that Engineer’s garage door was still wide open and several lights were on inside, so more likely than not, he was still in there.  As they walked toward it, Scout kept looking over to the cat, making sure it hadn’t turned Sniper’s face to ribbons with its claws.  Of course, the cat was making an agitated “mrrrh” sound and worming around, but it was weak, and if Sniper’s assumptions were correct (they probably were), it had a broken leg, too.  The fight was slowly leaving it.

They stepped off the dirt and onto smooth, shiny concrete.  Engineer’s back was turned to them as he tinkered with some metal shit or whatever, Scout didn’t know what it was.  The air smelled of sawdust and burnt oil.

“Hey Hardhat, I got a big favor to ask ya,” Scout called, which made the short, portly man abandon the tool in his hand and turn around to face them.

“What can I do ya for—Oh, Lord,” Engineer said, apparently having spotted the nasty cat in Sniper’s arms.  It was hard to tell what he was looking at, since he wore those thick welding goggles, but his head was turned in Sniper’s general direction.  “Where’d you dig that thing out of, Slim?”

“We found it in those lil trees over there,” Scout answered for him, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.  He was trying to edge the blame away from Sniper by saying we, even though we didn’t find a gross cat, Sniper found a gross cat.  Scout didn’t know why he was doing that. 

“His leg’s broke and he can’t come inside ‘cause of—well, he just can’t,” Scout continued, not really thinking it wise to mention the thing was covered in fleas just yet.  “I was thinkin’ maybe you’d let us stick him in one a those old cages, y’know the ones I’m talkin’ about?  And I’ll go fetch Doc right quick and see if he can gun the cat’s leg back together, but we kinda need a place to put him for a minute and—“

Engineer put his hands up.  “Hold on there, Skeeter, one thing at a time.  You talk a mile a minute, I swear.”  He ambled over to the garage door, pushed a button on the wall, and it trundled down.  “Now he won’t get outside, at least.  Slim, y’think you could hold that feller for another minute or two?”

“Yeah,” Sniper replied, the cat barely even struggling against him now.

“Alright, good.  Skeet, them cages you were talkin’ about are in that back room over there.”  Engineer pointed to a wooden door off to his left.  “You be fetchin’ one a them, and I’ll run in and get the Doc.  He ain’t a vet, but I bet he can try.”  Sniper’s eyes widened at those words, but Engineer had already turned his back to them, walking through a set of double-doors and back into the main part of the base.

Scout waited till the doors closed to say this next part.

“I’ll call a real vet tomorrow mornin’,” he assured Sniper, outright embarrassed at how sappy and dumb his voice sounded, but he couldn’t help it.  “We’ll get that gross lil bastard checked out for real, stop worryin’ about it.” 

Even though the cat’s claws were sunken into him, Sniper still reached a hand up and scratched the cat behind the ears, like they were old pals.  The man’s face had fallen into a look of pure despair.  Scout could actively feel his heart shattering as he stared at that sunken expression, the feeble reassurances of Sniper’s fingers trailing through the cat’s scruffy fur.

“And I’ll—I’ll take care a the frickin’ cat,” Scout sighed, crossing his arms.  “But he ain’t comin’ in my room ‘till he’s flea-free.  And also not covered in dirt.  Deal?”

“You don’t…” Sniper started, probably attempting to say you don’t have to, or something equally guilt-ridden.  But after a brief pause, he said, “would you really?”

Well, with you lookin’ so pitiful like that, how could I tell ya no, it ain’t fair, Scout wanted to say.  Lookin’ like that, you could prob’ly ask me anything and I’d say yeah.

Which was really frightening in its own right, that Sniper could have that effect on him with simply a look, but he’d worry about that later.  Or maybe he wouldn’t.  He probably wouldn’t.

“Ye-ah,” Scout drawled, unfolding his arms and smiling up at Sniper.  “I guess.”  He wanted to give Sniper a squeeze on the shoulder, but the cat had laid its head against it.  Its eyes were shut.  Scout thought it was dead for a second, but he saw its whiskers twitch, so he guessed it had just fallen asleep.  So he did the next best thing and put a hand at the middle of Sniper’s back, giving him a little reassuring pat.  That was the next best thing, wasn’t it?  And not weird at all?  And it also wasn’t weird at all if his hand lingered there for several seconds, was it?

As soon as he realized what he was doing, Scout lifted his hand away slowly and dropped it back down to his side, trying to be smooth about it, like it was no big deal.  Maybe it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t know.  He’d have to think on that one.  Or maybe he wouldn’t.  He probably wouldn’t.

“And I know the pet store ain’t open this late, obviously, but the Penny Saver’s open all night, so I’ll swing by there later and see if they got any—“

He was going to say cat food, and maybe some of the other stuff cats needed, too, but he was cut off by the sound of the double-doors opening and Engineer and Medic walking through.  The doctor had his MediPack strapped to his back and his MediGun in his arms, the hum of the device growing steadily louder as he neared them.

“Forgettin’ to do somethin’, Scoot?” Engineer grinned.

Scout didn’t know what he was talking about for a second, there, but then he remembered.  “Aw, shit, the cage,” he said, bolting off to retrieve it.  “My bad.”

“Theoretically, the MediGun should work,” Scout heard Medic say, just before he entered the storage room.  “But I’ve never tried it on a feline, believe it or not.  Well, let’s give it a shot!”

Scout hurried into the storage room and slammed the door behind him before he could hear anymore.  If the cat exploded in Sniper’s arms, or something, he didn’t want to know about it just yet.

He found one of the cages quick enough.  They were stacked in the back-left corner of the room, still assembled and everything.  He grabbed one from the stack, thinking he could just carry it in his arms, but it was too heavy.  He had to put it on the ground and push it out of the room.

“Got the cage,” he announced, still not brave enough to take a peek up at Sniper’s arms.  “Cat still in one piece, Snipes?”

“Yeah.  All better,” Sniper said with the cat cradled in his arms, his tone notably more upbeat than it had been before.  “We’ll worry about those fleas o’ yours later, won’t we, puss?”

The cat was exhausted, even with his broken leg repaired, so it was no trouble getting him put in the cage.  That was one thing, at least.  The doc was thanked for his services and he went on his way, bidding them all a “gute nacht” as he left. 

Engineer said that the cat looked like it could use a bath, and while it was still tuckered out and couldn’t protest much, it might be wise to give it a good wash in his slop sink.  Sniper thought this was a good idea.  Scout, however, wasn’t about to give a frickin’ cat a bath, no way, but he might…possibly, kinda help give the cat a bath, if Snipes needed him to. 

Engineer also informed them that he used to have a ton of barn cats back on his ranch in Texas, and a surefire way to kill fleas was to scrub them down with blue dish soap. 

And Scout knew for a fact that they kept an industrial-sized bottle of blue dish soap in the kitchen.  He knew this because he was the one stuck washing dishes ninety-nine percent of the time.  Since he knew right where it was, he offered to go fetch it, and also to grab some towels.  There came that guilty look to Sniper’s face again—distressed at imposing on Scout, probably.  Scout wished he could tell the man in a non-lame, non-saccharine way that he really, truly, did not mind to help him.  Sometimes people just needed a lil leg up, a lil favor done, and Snipes shouldn’t feel bad for accepting it.  He knew the man wouldn’t buy it, though, so he said nothing.

Scout sped off into the base to grab what he needed, and by the time he got back, Sniper was already wetting the cat down in the slop sink.  It was howling something fierce, but it wasn’t fighting too horribly.  Its front paws gripped the edge of the sink in desperation, but that only made Sniper’s job easier. 

Scout did help a little bit, feeling really bizarre as he doused a wet cat in dish soap.  Sniper scrubbed the stuff in, and it killed fleas, all right.  It was a wonder the cat wasn’t eaten alive, judging by all the flea carcasses swirling down the drain. 

Now that the cat was free of grime, too, Scout could tell a little more about it.  He thought the cat had been a medium brown color at first, but it had literally just been dirt he was seeing.  The cat was actually bright orange.  It’s face was a little on the round side, and it was actually kinda not-ugly, but it still had a mean glint in its eye.  Scout had seen alley cats like this guy roaming the streets of Boston, tipping over trash cans and brawling with one another.  As stupid as it sounded, he never really thought about them being pets.  Maybe they used to be pets.  Maybe this cat used to belong to somebody…

As if he could read Scout’s mind, Sniper said, “He ain’t feral, he’s bein’ too calm.  I know he’s tired, ’n’ that’s a part of it, but I can tell this ain’t the first time someone’s given him a bath.” 

Maybe the cat realized that these two strange men crowding around it were friends instead of foes, because it seemed to be relatively cool with getting a bath—about as cool as a cat could be toward getting wet, Scout presumed.  It had dropped its paws down from the side of the sink, and now it merely stood there under the spray of the water, allowing Sniper to scrub it clean without any qualms.  It still let out a yowl that sounded eerily like a human child every now and again, but other than that, it seemed to be doing alright.

Drying the cat was a different story, but the two of them worked together and got it done pretty well.  Scout was only scratched once.  In the midst of drying, Sniper announced that the cat was most certainly male.  Scout had pretty much assumed that; it just looked like a dude cat.

Scout didn’t want to let it loose in his room before he went and picked up a litter box, for obvious reasons, so he had Sniper put it back into the cage for the time being.  He had a little water bowl, a folded-up towel for temporary bedding, and a plate of leftover meat scraps from that night’s dinner.  He wolfed down the shredded bits of chicken with a frenzied hunger, pausing only to lap at the water bowl for a moment before attacking the plate again.  Scout had to admit, it made him sad that the thing was so hungry.  Nothing oughta be hungry.

He wasn’t so sure if he wanted it living in his room, but it was too late to back outta that now.

Sniper was crouched down, watching the cat eat.  “Good stuff, eh, puss?  You’re lookin’ better already, mate.  Doc’s gun fixed your leg, ’n’ gave you your eye back, ’n’ your ear’s not torn in half anymore…no more fleas…bet y’feel loads better, yeah?”

He’d talk to the cat all night long, but he could barely tell the waitress thanks for refilling his coffee.  Weird how that worked.  Maybe it was because the cat couldn’t talk back.

“I’m gonna run down to the Penny Saver and see what they got,” Scout said after Sniper finished conversing with the cat.  “Wanna go?”

Sniper straightened himself up, dusted the fur from his vest, and gave Scout a small smile.

“Sure.”

Chapter Text

Not surprisingly, Sniper had no idea what to do in this sort of situation.  This was so awkward.  It felt like his insides consisted of nothing but worms wriggling through dirt.  He knew he should say something, but he could think of nothing good.  He sat with his back propped against the side of Scout’s bed, the wailing guitar riffs of a Led Zeppelin song reaching his ears, fingers picking at a loose thread in the seam of his trousers.

When the last song ended and the music faded to nothing but scratchy static, Scout rose from the bed and flipped the record to the B-side.  He lingered there in front of the turntable for a moment, fists clenching and unclenching, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.  But after a moment he turned around, walked to the side of the bed, and sat down beside Sniper.

Sniper could still think of nothing to say to him.

Amigo roused himself from his basket at the foot of the bed, pausing to stretch and yawn before padding over and collapsing into Scout’s lap.  It was Pyro who’d chosen the name for the scruffy orange tabby.  Sniper thought it oddly appropriate; its round eyes, squashed-in face, and stocky frame looked very friendly indeed.  He reached out his hand and scratched behind Amigo’s ears.

Scout huffed out a mirthless laugh as he drummed his fingers against the cat’s belly.  “What if he’s better than me?” he said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion.  “What if they fire me?”

After a moment, Sniper said, “they won’t fire you,” because he didn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah, ya prob’ly right, they’ll just take me out past respawn range and put a bullet in my head.”  Another mirthless laugh.  He rubbed at his face with his hands.  “Jesus, I’m screwed.  What’m I gonna do, Snipes?  Should I call it off, should I tell Doc I changed my mind?”

“No,” Sniper said immediately, “‘course not.  They can’t fire you for needin’ surgery, Miss Pauling told you that herself.  And even if they could, they wouldn’t.  You’re the best bloody scout RED’s ever had.”

Sniper would know.  He joined up with RED a full two years before Scout did, and it seemed like every few weeks, here came another scout to fill the place of the one who’d just quit.  And if Sniper had been working here for seven years, that would mean Scout had held his own position for five.

Scout seemed to let those words percolate for a moment as he fumbled with the tiny silver bell tied to Amigo’s collar.  “But what if everybody just—just falls in love with this temporary guy they’re bringin’ in, though, I mean…three months is a frickin’ long time for me to be M.I.A.  It’d be, like, the perfect opportunity for the Administrator to sweep my stupid ass under the rug.”  He smoothed his palm (surprisingly free of grip tape) over the cat’s back, over and over and over.  “This cat’s fur feels like a frickin’ Brillo pad,” he said with a sniff, but he didn’t stop the petting.

“He is a bit wiry,” Sniper mumbled in agreement, though Sniper thought that just gave the cat more charm.  “And it don’t matter if they like the new guy or not, as soon as you’re better, he’s out the door.  You say it to me all the time, ’n’ now I’ll say it to you—quit worryin’ abou’ it, mate.” 

Had the tables been turned and Scout was the one doing the consolation, the other man would’ve reached out and given Sniper one of those odd little shoulder squeezes he was so fond of.  But Sniper hadn’t worked his way up to initiating any sort of bodily contact yet.  Sometimes he felt like he wanted to try, which was a milestone in and of itself, but he hadn’t.

Yet.

Scout was quiet for a moment, which was unnerving—it wasn’t like him at all.  Had the room not been filled with the soulful stylings of Zep, Sniper probably wouldn’t have been able to take the man’s silence.  After petting the cat and staring at the wall, then petting the cat again, followed by staring at the wall some more, Scout puffed his cheeks out in a heavy sigh.

“Man, if that was the only thing to worry about, maybe I’d be good,” Scout muttered, gnawing at his bottom lip with his buck teeth.  He turned his head to look at Sniper, and his eyes were so strikingly blue, so glassy, it almost felt like Sniper had seen something he shouldn’t’ve.  Sniper swallowed.

“Hey, I know this is kinda outta left field, but uh…can I tell ya sum’n?  Y’know, like…sum’n kinda private?”

Those pitiful eyes and that hushed voice were almost too much for Sniper to bear.  It made him feel strange, it made him feel…something.  He wasn’t sure what.  Almost like a sense of longing, but a bit different.  He was still new at the whole feelings thing; some of them were still hard to identify.

Sniper nodded.  “Yeah, ‘course.  Go on.”  After he said that, he realized it probably hadn’t been the best word choice nor tone of voice to use.  “Er, I mean,” he said, backpedaling, “if y’want.  Reckon I’m a good listener.”

Scout’s lips glistened with saliva.  The moment he stopped petting Amigo, the cat chuffed in mild irritation and snaked into Sniper’s lap.  Sniper patted at him absently.

“Well it’s just,” Scout began, “after ya have surgery, obviously you’re in a lotta pain.”  He stared down at his hands.  “And ya think ya get used to pain, with the job we got, but…I dunno if I can take it, just layin’ there with nuttin’ else to think about, ‘cept how bad it hurts.” 

“I’m sure Doc’ll give you somethin’ for the pain,” Sniper reasoned.  Medic wasn’t quite the sadistic prick he once was, not like when he’d first joined RED; Sniper didn’t know what had given the doctor a change of heart, but something certainly had.  Sniper doubted that Medic would allow Scout to stew in his own agony.  Surely he’d give him something to dull the pain.

Scout shook his head, ran a hand through his hair.  “He can’t.  Well he can, but what he can gimme, it ain’t gonna do shit.  Thing is, I…”  He sighed again.  “After my leg broke that very first time, right before I graduated high school, the doc—my doc back in Boston, not our Doc—well, he gave me Codeine tablets.  Y’know.  For the pain.  And I kinda…got real bad addicted to ‘em.” 

He moved the fingers of one hand over the back of his other hand, as if he were about to pick at the grip tape that wasn’t there.  On finding none, he entwined the fingers of one hand with the fingers of the other, like he might be about to utter a strange prayer.

“Crazy thing about it is, ya get a tolerance to shit like that real quick,” Scout said.  “Re-eal goddamn quick.”  He flicked his eyes to Sniper, who visibly winced when he did.  God, Sniper wished he hadn’t winced, why did he wince?  Scout was looking away now.  Sniper’d offended him, hadn’t he?  He was about to flounder out an apology when Scout continued.

“Doctors kinda don’t mention that part to ya.  Y’know, take this magic pill, and you’ll feel good for a couple weeks, but then you’ll hafta keep takin’ more and more and more till ya buyin’ ‘em off the street—takin’ eighteen, twenty of ‘em a day like they’re in a frickin’ Pez dispenser.  Then all’ve a sudden ya dealer says he got sum’n else ya might like to try, and why the hell not, so ya mixin’ Codeine with red devils.”

A wry smile briefly crossed his lips before it turned into a grimace of disgust.  Scout reached over and put his hand on the cat, not petting or scratching, just holding it there.  That, Sniper could certainly relate to.  Animals could be quite calming things, and they didn’t even know it. 

“Red devils ain’t sum’n to mess around with, but I didn’t know that, I just knew I…I dunno.  And my dumb ass was mixin’ em with Codeine when I could only afford a couple a one or the other, and before ya know it, I’m wakin’ up in an alleyway somewhere with Miss P standin’ over me.  Holdin’ this big needle.”  He indicated the syringe’s size with his hands, spreading them about a foot apart.  Another mirthless laugh slipped from his lips.  “She had to put pure adrenaline straight into my heart to wake me back up.  Thought she was an angel when I first saw her—thought I frickin’ died.  Prob’ly did die for a few minutes, there.”

He put his hand back on the cat.  Amigo chirruped softly.  “And I’ll never forget it, the first thing she said to me.  She said, ‘how would you like a job?  We’ll pay you a shitload of money to get in fights.’”

Sniper finally spoke up.  “Said the exact same thing to me,” he nodded.  Probably not the best sentence to break his silence with, but Scout didn’t seem to mind it.

“Think that’s why I had such a big crush on her for so long,” Scout said.  “She kinda saved my life, and all.  Gave me a good job.  I remember—heh, I remember savin’ my money for a whole year to get Ma a new couch for our livin’ room, this one time.  Felt so good to hand her the deed to her new house.”  His eyes looked faraway, wistful.  “Kinda makes me wonder if I’d be here at all if I didn’t…if I didn’t use to be a…frickin’ dumbass, y’know?”

“I wonder the same thing abou’ meself,” Sniper said.  “Where I’d be if I hadn’t ever come here.  I can’t even imagine it.”

Scout shook his head.  “Me neither.”

Scout leapt up from the floor and jerked the needle from the record, the speakers echoing a jarring vrrp sound throughout the room.

“I need some air,” he announced, commanding his lips to smile.  “Wanna go?”

Sniper didn’t know where they were going, but he was very much in agreement about needing some air.  Also, he found he didn’t care about knowing where they were going.  He was rather beginning to like Scout’s unpredictableness.  He put the cat on the bed, gave him a little pat on the head, and followed Scout out the door.

****

Somehow they ended up on top of his camper.

Before he barged out of his room, Scout hadn’t thought to grab a jacket.  Sniper said he could borrow one of his, if he wouldn’t mind stopping by the camper.  They went inside, Sniper allowing the other man pick of the closet, and Scout had chosen the same sweater he’d tucked around him the day they first went to that Waffle House—the red cardigan with the black trim.  It was too big for Scout, but it’d serve its purpose just the same.

(i like the way the sleeves bunch up at his wrists like that)

Once outside, Scout happened to look up and see the telescope atop the Winnie.  He said he’d never looked through a telescope before.

Well, that was a shame, that was.

Pretty night.  Loads of stars out.  Did he want to have a look?

He did.

“‘I can definitely see how that’d be the Big Dipper,” Scout said, peering through the eyepiece of the telescope, “but I ain’t seein’ no bear, Snipes.”

“Yeah,” Sniper said, “I think that one’s a bit of a stretch.  I can only make it out when I’ve got a star chart in front of me.”  And even then, Ursa Major didn’t really look like a bear to him.  At all.  “Still seein’ the Dipper in your scope?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay—kind of trail your eyes down the handle of it.”

“‘Kay…”

“And do you see that swirly, globby bit just to the right of it?”

“Hang on,” Scout muttered, tweaking the telescope the tiniest bit, like Sniper had showed him.  When he did, he gasped a little.  The sound caused a warm thrill to buzz up Sniper’s spine.

He’s getting a kick out of this.  I can’t believe he’s not bored out of his skull.

“Whoa, what the hell is that?” Scout said, twisting the focus knob to zoom in on it. 

“Whirlpool galaxy,” Sniper said.  “That thing beside it’s a dwarf galaxy.”  Messier 51b, he thought, but he might not ought to mention that part.  He didn’t want to come off as too much of a know-it-all.

“This is gonna sound weird,” Scout said, “but I can’t believe that’s even a thing I can look at right now.  Like, this is NASA shit.”

“It is hard to believe you can see an entire galaxy up there,” Sniper mused.  “Makes y’feel small, dunnit?”

“For real,” Scout agreed.  “Hey, ya think there’s aliens up there?”

Sniper grinned.  “Think abou’ this,” he said.  “Earth is in the Milky Way galaxy, yeah?”

Scout crinkled his nose, still looking into the eyepiece of the telescope.  “Yeah, I think I knew that, I feel like I’ve heard that somewhere before.”

“Okay, well…Earth is just one planet out of a hundred billion others in the Milky Way.  ’N’ I for one don’t think one lil planet out of a hundred billion is gonna be the only one wiv life on it.  There’s gotta be somethin’ else out there.”

Scout leaned up from the telescope and pulled up one of his sleeves, laughing a little under his breath.  “That seriously just put chill-bumps on my arms, man, look.”

“I can’t look, dummy, it’s too bloody dark out here.”

“Well feel, then,” Scout said, tugging Sniper’s hand to his arm, brushing it across the goose-pimpled skin.  After a second, he loosed his grip on Sniper’s hand, but Sniper couldn’t bring himself to pull away from the other man’s arm.

Because it felt nice to feel that skin underneath his palm.  It wasn’t horrendous or gross or anything like that at all.  It was…

It…it was calming.

After steeling his courage for a moment, Sniper turned his gaze upward to meet Scout’s eyes.  They were wide and inquisitive, the faraway night watchman barely offering enough light to cast a glimmer into them.  He could hardly make them out in the dark.

But he had no trouble feeling the hands that found their way to either side of his face, nor did he have trouble feeling the thumbs that rubbed soothing half-circles at his cheekbones.

Oh God, oh God, this was really happening, wasn’t it, this wasn’t a hallucination or a dream or Alice tripping down the rabbit-hole, this was real.  Really real.  His hand had tumbled from Scout’s forearm, and he realized with horror that it now lay resting against Scout’s thigh.  But how could he move it without being too conspicu—

A numbness washed over him as he watched Scout lean towards him, slow and cautious, their faces inching closer and closer to one another.  He knew what was about to happen, and part of him screamed for him to scramble out of the way, to jump down from the Winnie’s roof and lock himself inside his camper and try to forget about all of this.  Another part of him, the part currently keeping him rooted to the spot, knew full-well how many times Sniper had played this scenario out in his mind, knew he wanted to let this happen.

He was at war with himself over what to do, his hand still perched atop Scout’s thigh, when a pair of warm lips pressed against his.

He closed his eyes.

The lips pulled away and Sniper panicked, thinking he’d done something wrong, or—or maybe his lips were too chapped or the skin round his mouth was too prickly.  But they were only gone for a fraction of a second before they were back, focusing on his lower lip rather than the upper one now. 

Wasn't Sniper supposed to be doing something, too, here?

Kiss him back, you sodding idiot!

He didn’t really know how to do that, but he tried his best to ease his own lips into the other man’s, meshing them together like surprisingly well-fitting puzzle pieces.  He felt like there was something he was forgetting to do, because shouldn’t this be more disgusting than it was?  Shouldn’t there be more smacking and movement and other cringe-inducing things? 

Apparently he’d made the correct choice in his actions, however, because Scout had his arms draped around Sniper’s neck now, his body crumpling into Sniper’s lap and his breath huffing from his nostrils in short little sniffs.  One knee was dangerously close to Sniper’s crotch, and the other ground itself into the jut of Sniper’s hip bone.  Sniper had to bend his spine into a sort of candy-cane shape to maintain contact with Scout’s mouth.  It was not comfortable, yet…it felt very, very right. 

As their lips parted long enough for Scout to tip his head to the opposite side, claiming Sniper’s bottom lip again with something that could’ve either been eagerness or desperation, Sniper eased his arms around the other man.  He wasn’t sure where to put his hands, so he didn’t put them anywhere; he tilted his wrists up and held them out at right angles.  That was also wrong, he knew, but better than putting his hands in the incorrect spot.  Maybe.  Perhaps he’d just ask, after this.

It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds later when Scout pulled their mouths apart, this time for good.  His head fell into the crook between Sniper’s neck and shoulder.  Thankfully, he removed the knee at Sniper’s hip bone and flopped his leg over to Sniper’s side. 

“That’s my bum leg, I ain’t got a lotta feelin’ left in my knee,” he murmured, voice muffled from Sniper’s shirt.  “I didn’t know it was stabbin’ ya like that.”

“’S alright,” Sniper said, staring up at the stars, but not really seeing them.

He felt Scout’s hands grab two fistfuls of his shirt, clinging to him.  Scout started to say something, making a “yhh” sort of sound, but he never said anything.  Instead he put his forehead on Sniper’s shoulder, resting it there.

Sniper’s wrists were cramping.  He had to put his hands somewhere.  Scout would just have to forgive him if they weren’t in the right spot.  He thought a hand at either side of Scout’s waist was fairly safe—several inches above the belt, and all—so that’s where he put them.  And when he did, he felt rather than heard Scout sighing against him, so he figured that meant it was okay.

Certainly felt okay.

Better than okay, actually.

This was nice.

A bit strange, but nice.

Sniper wasn’t sure how long they stayed that way, all wadded up together like that, but Scout was the one who pulled away first.  He detached himself from Sniper, sliding backwards across the camper till he was next to the telescope again.  His hand twitched like he was about to reach for it, but he didn’t.

“How do ya know all that stuff about space, Snipes?” Scout asked.  “They teach that in school over in Australia?”

“Nah,” Sniper said.  “I’m, er…sure you can imagine I didn’t exactly have a lot of mates in school.  Spent all me free time in the library.  Read a bunch o’ astronomy books.  Copied down star charts ’n’ such, kep’ ‘em in this big three-ring binder I had.  Dunno.  Just…always held me interest, I suppose.”

“So that’s how come ya wanna go to Roswell,” Scout said.  “‘Cause ya like stargazin’ and stuff.  I was wonderin’ about that.  Heh.  Guess I coulda just asked.”

Well, if Scout was interested enough to ask, he may as well expand upon it a bit.  “Think I’d rather go to Area 51 than Roswell, honestly.”

“There’s supposed to be some real shady business goin’ on out there,” Scout nodded.  “Crazy government shit.  They say there’s like these weird military planes flyin’ over all the time, and like spaceships that’ve crashed to earth?  They test-flight ‘em there, or sum’n.  And ya can’t get too close or these guys in white jeeps come and shoot ya tires out.”

Sniper had heard all of that and then some.  As Scout spoke, he nodded fervently.  “The highway just outside it’s public land,” he said.  “Anybody can park there ’n’ camp.  Be nice to sit out there ’n’ watch for aliens, yeah?”

“Betcha could see all kindsa stuff with this thing,” Scout said, jabbing his thumb over at the telescope.

“You could.”

“Hey, maybe like, y’know, after…after all this shit with my leg’s straightened out in three months, uh…we could like…do that.”

Sniper was about to ask do what, but he put two and two together pretty quickly.

He grinned.  “You ever been campin’ before?”

“Pff.  No.”

Sniper’s smile widened.  “Y’ain’t gonna like it, mate.”

“I bet I would,” Scout countered.  “I could sit out there and draw or sum’n if I got bored.  Take my dirt bike out there and ride around.”  He took a sharp intake of breath, like he’d just thought of something brilliant.  “We could bring ladderball, ya ever played ladderball?  There’s like this ladder-thing—well clearly there’s a ladder, it’s called ladderball, but—and ya take these things, they’re like two balls on a string, right?  And ya throw ‘em and try to get ‘em to wrap around one of the ladder poles, and…”

Scout explained about ladderball, and an equally odd-sounding game called corn hole—which he said Engineer had turned him on to at one of the many team get-togethers Sniper had not attended.  Lots of fun, Scout said, he’d like ‘em.  Engineer would let them borrow his set, he was sure of it.  They could play them while they were waiting for the aliens to show up.  And when the stars came out, Sniper could show him more stuff through the telescope.  It’d be a minimum of three months before he could walk on his own, and even then he might not feel up to traveling, but still, they ought to plan on going to Area 51 together sometime.  They really should.  Sounded fun, didn’t it? 

Sniper definitely needed to bring his telescope, and Scout was wanting to buy a nice camera anyway, so he’d get a camera and they could take pictures of any spaceships that happened to fly by—because there would be spaceships.  Sniper would have to drive, of course, since Scout obviously didn’t have an RV, but Scout promised he’d pay for gas (like it mattered who paid for what).  And, and, and…

Sniper did very little of the talking.  He mainly just listened.  To him it sounded like nothing more than a pipe dream, but he’d never say that.  He just agreed with him, said his ideas were nice, all that.  And they were nice.  But he didn’t reckon either of them would be getting time off work in the near future.  Also, three months from then would be November, and the nighttime Nevada desert was supposed to be brutally cold during that time of year. 

But he mentioned neither of those things.  Scout’s surgery was the following morning, after all.  If he went into it with a nice, lofty idea like a spaceship-hunting trip in his mind, well…that would be all the better.

Suppose we’re not gonna talk about what just happened, then, Sniper thought.  Which was probably a good thing, truth be told.  He didn’t know what to make of it yet.  It didn’t quite seem real, but every now and then he’d get a whiff of Scout’s cologne (or soap, or general scent, or a mixture of all three) that still clung to him, much as Scout had clung to him not ten minutes ago.  It reminded him that it really did happen. 

Well.  He might not know what to make of it, but he knew one thing:  he was glad he hadn’t pulled away, like he’d wanted to at first.  He was glad he’d let it happen.  He wondered what Scout thought of it though, and—

Wait.

Scout had been the one that kissed him, not the other way around.  So that meant…

That meant…

…what did that mean?

“But I was gonna tell ya,” Scout said, snapping Sniper out of his thoughts.  “Doc’s puttin’ me under at, like, eight tomorrow mornin’, and he said the surgery shouldn’t take more than like four hours, if that.  But I was gonna say, like, I should be awake and stuff by that night, but I’ll be out of it, comin’ up from the knockout gas.  So uh…what I’m gettin’ at is, it’d be cool if you came and visited me and stuff, while I’m stuck in bed, y’know?  But tomorrow I’ll be so doped up on anesthesia, I ain’t gonna remember anything.  So ya ain’t gotta come around tomorrow, unless ya just really, really wanna.  But I ain’t gonna remember if ya there or not, so.”  He shrugged.

Sniper nodded, though he doubted Scout could see that in the dark.  “Alright.”

He knew he'd visit Scout tomorrow, though. 

Of course he would.

Chapter Text

Today was the day.

The MediGun was a wonderful thing, there was no denying that.  Up until last year, when he’d resurrected Herr Sniper from the dead, it had been his finest medical achievement.  The only thing Medic disliked about the MediGun (other than the weight of the MediPack making his shoulders ache) was that it nearly made routine surgeries a thing of the past.  Instead of his patients going under his knife, he merely pointed the MediGun at them for a few seconds, and they were right as rain.

But the MediGun wasn't perfect.  Far from it, actually.  There were certain things it could not do, for reasons the combined minds of Medic and Engineer couldn’t explain.  It had something to do with the nature of the respawn chamber, it seemed, but how to rectify that problem was still a mystery.  Ach, no matter.  Some things just had to be done the old-fashioned way.

And how Medic missed the old-fashioned way.

“You are in good mood this morning,” Heavy remarked, smiling broadly as he reclined in Medic’s office chair.  He’d come in to help, but Medic wouldn’t need him for a few more minutes.  Young Scout wasn’t due to arrive for another hour, but there was much preparation to be done before then.  It had been since Herr Sniper that he’d gotten to do any serious carving with his scalpel, and he wanted to make sure every little thing was in order.

“I don’t get to do this very often, you know,” Medic said.  He smoothed his hands over the crisp white sheet covering the operating table.  So clean, so pure…it wouldn’t be that way for long.  “I want everything to be perfect.”

The instrument table.  He ought to wheel it over, get a feel for where to put it.  As he strolled to the other side of the room, he passed Heavy, pausing a moment to put a little peck on the man’s temple before going on.  He tried to continue walking, but was forced to stop when he felt a pair of gargantuan hands on his shoulders.  The hands spun him around to come face-to-face (or more accurately, face-to-chest) with Heavy.  He had time to widen his eyes in surprise before those hands gripped his waist, lifting him several feet into the air.  Medic’s stomach dropped at the sudden ascent.

He beat his fists against Heavy’s shoulders, but he could do nothing to keep the smile from springing to his lips.  “Put me down, bärchen, you know I hate it when you—“ 

But he punctuated that sentence with a most unmanly shriek as Heavy tossed him high into the air, the top of his head brushing the ceiling.  He fell neatly into Heavy’s outstretched arms, his vision temporarily blurred by his glasses being knocked askew.  He pushed them back up the bridge of his nose as Heavy roared with laughter.  Medic shook his head at him as he clambered his way out of the man’s embrace. 

“I wanted you here to help me, and you are not helping,” Medic said with faux indignation, straightening his rumpled lab coat.  “You are hindering.”

“But I am helping,” Heavy smiled.

“Ja?  And how is throwing me into the ceiling tiles helping?”

“You like it,” Heavy said, pulling Medic close again and putting a noisy kiss at his lips.  “You smile.  Is helping.”

Medic made a dramatic spectacle of wiping the slobber from his lips, batting Heavy away from him.  “Oh, you are distracting me, I must get back to my vork.”  He crossed the room and retrieved the instrument table, wheeling it over to the operating table’s side. 

“Look at this,” Medic said, holding up a long, slim metal rod in one hand.

“What is that?”

“This is what I vill use to stabilize Scout’s femur,” he said.  “I’ll bend his leg, slice open his kneecap, and then I’ll take this little angel”—he picked up a small metal mallet from the instrument table—“and hammer it up into the bone.”  Medic was practically salivating at the thought.

“Doktor is getting too happy about this, I think,” Heavy said with a quirked eyebrow.

“I just enjoy my work, that’s all,” Medic said, sitting the tools back down on the table.  “Now then, we must sterilize this entire room.  Beginning with ourselves.”  He began walking towards the adjoining surgery prep room, beckoning Heavy to follow him.  “Come this way, please.”

Medic could hear Heavy stomping along behind him, then heard him say, “This will involve getting naked, da?”

Medic was glad Heavy couldn’t see his face at that moment.  It had to have been downright saccharine.  That man had turned him into such a spineless pushover.

But maybe he was a little bit glad to be a spineless pushover, in a strange sort of way.

“Yes, we will be getting naked, to disinfect ourselves and change into appropriate attire, but there’s no time for fun,” he said.  “We have much to do before Scout arrives in…”  He grabbed Heavy’s wrist and stared at his watch.  “Forty-nine minutes.”

Heavy set to work unbuttoning Medic’s lab coat with practiced swiftness.  All the buttons undone, he pushed it from Medic’s shoulders and let it pool to the floor.  “Maybe…five minutes of fun?” he persisted, peppering Medic’s cheeks and neck with kisses. 

Medic felt like he was melting.  It didn’t matter how many times this happened, how predictable and routine it was.  He loved it.  Heavy had the power to strangle him with one hand, to pick him up and crack his spine in half with no effort, but he wouldn’t.  Heavy would never, ever lay a hand on him in anger, and Medic knew that.

Not like some other people he’d had the displeasure of working with, but he didn’t want to think about that at the moment.  Or ever again, if at all possible.

“I’d love to, bärchen, but there’s too much work to be done,” he said, leaning away from Heavy’s ministrations and stroking the man’s shiny bald head.  His rubber gloves made delightfully grating squeaks against the smooth skin there. 

Heavy frowned at him.

“Don’t make that face at me,” Medic said, pinching Heavy’s cheeks, “you know I can’t bear to look at that sad face you make.  I promise I’ll make it up to you.  Tonight.”  He waggled his eyebrows enticingly.

Heavy raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to one side, seeming to consider this proposition.  “Tonight could work,” he reasoned.

“Then it’s a date,” Medic said, allowing himself to brush his lips against Heavy’s before pulling away.  “But now we must work,” he said in a much louder tone, scooping up his lab coat and tossing it into a tall clothing hamper.  “Remove all of your clothing and put them in here, and no funny business, I mean it.”

“No funny business,” Heavy said, peeling his shirt away from his body, wadding it up and tossing it into the hamper.  “Saving funny business for later.”

It took a considerable amount of effort for Medic not to cackle at that comment, but laughter would only encourage Heavy’s mischief, and they simply didn’t have time for it.  There was still so much to do.  He bent down to untie his boots, and was met with a faceful of Heavy’s underwear the man had slingshotted at him from across the room.

After chucking the garment into the hamper, Medic opened his mouth to scold the other man, but Heavy’s infectious laughter reached his ears before he could get a word in edgewise.  He let out a sigh instead, rolling his eyes at the naked man before him.

****

There were dark circles under Scout’s eyes; it was obvious he hadn’t slept a wink.  He had come in wearing a darling little handmade sweater over his usual pajamas, a red one with black trim.  And even when Medic gave him a hospital gown to change into, he’d come out of the prep room with the sweater draped carefully over a forearm, not wanting to part with it.  Like a child with a teddy bear, Medic thought.  Perhaps his mother had knitted it for him, and it was a comfort item of sorts.  Still, it couldn't be in the operating room.  With great reluctance, Scout handed the sweater over to Heavy, who took it into Scout’s soon-to-be hospital room for safekeeping.

Now Scout lay on the operating table before Medic, the young man’s eyes wide and his fists clenched as Medic injected the general anesthesia into the crook of his arm.  When the needle broke the skin, Scout hissed in a breath through his teeth and looked away.  Strange—he was killed in a number of gruesome ways every workday, but he couldn’t stand a little needle-prick.  Such a baby.

But he looked so pathetic, Medic couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy.  He didn’t used to feel such things for his patients—that verdammt Heavy must be humanizing him.

Ugh.

“Count back from ten, liebchen,” Medic said, Heavy coming in behind him to properly dispose of the syringe.

“Huh?” Scout asked, his eyes already taking on a bleary glassiness.

“Begin counting backwards from ten.”

“Wh…why, though?”

Medic stifled a sigh.  “So I know when the anesthesia takes effect.”  Idiot, he added silently.

Scout mumbled a series of unintelligible syllables as his eyes drifted closed.  Medic hovered his hands inches away from Scout’s face and clapped them a few times.  No response.  He gave Scout’s bicep a pinch.  Nothing.

“Scout?” he hollered.  “Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

“He’s out,” Medic announced, a giddy smile spreading across his face.  He fiddled with the knobs and levers on the side of the operating table, adjusting the bottom third of it to angle downwards, bending Scout’s legs at the knee.  That done, he stomped against the hydraulic foot pedal until Scout’s knee was within comfortable slicing distance. 

“Heavy?” Medic called, trailing his finger across the instrument table.  He was trying to decide which of his designer scalpels to use to make the inaugural incision.  Maybe the gold…?  Yes, the gold one with the sapphire-encrusted handle.  That one would do nicely. 

“Yes, doktor?”

Medic picked up the scalpel, holding it as one would hold an ink pen.  “Be a dear and angle that light a bit closer, ja?”

He peeled back the hem of Scout’s dressing gown, giving him ample room to work.  His toes curled inside his sterile rubber shoes as he hovered the blade above Scout’s kneecap.

Heavy brought the light down lower, the gems adorning the scalpel’s handle sparkling, almost like they were in a display case at a jewelry store.

Medic took a deep breath.  Let it out slowly.

“It’s time to begin.”

****

Medic had been hoping the use of the MediGun wouldn’t be necessary, but it was either use it or have Scout’s nearly-deceased husk whisk off to respawn.  Respawn, of course, would undo the hours of work he’d already put into the procedure, so he’d like to avoid it if at all possible.

“Heavy?” Medic said wearily, keeping an eye trained on the vitals monitor.  Scout’s body was rejecting the intramedullary rod already; his entire upper leg was turning a darker and darker red as the minutes passed.  Medic knew this might happen, but he figured several doses of steroids would take care of it.  It hadn’t.

“Doktor?”

“Please go and find Engineer for me.  Tell him to bring the device just in case, but…but I think I have an idea.”

Heavy nodded, his mouth a tight-lipped frown.  “Da,” he said, tossing his bloodstained rubber gloves into the biohazard bin before he marched from the room.

Medic gave a little sigh.  There wasn’t much he could do now except staunch the bleeding and monitor his patient’s vitals.  Normally the thought of amputating an entire leg would give him a thrill; it had been years since he’d used his bone saw in a non-combative situation.  Oddly enough, he found himself wanting to save the appendage instead of wanting to hack it off.

He stared at the blood-spattered, golden scalpel in his hand, turning it this way and that, watching the light wink off its sharp blade.  He didn’t know much about building things, but his idea may very well be feasible.

As soon as Engineer got here, the two of them would set to work devising a plan.

****

Scout opened his eyes.  Stared up at the ceiling.  That wasn’t his bedroom ceiling.  Where the hell was he?

Oh, yeah.

The femur surgery.  That was today, wasn’t it?  He must be through with the surgery now.

He felt the cool draft of an air conditioner on his left forearm.  It felt nice for a second, but then he thought of something.  If he could feel a draft, then…

Snipes’s sweater.  Oh God.  He didn’t remember what he did with it, didn’t even remember taking it off.  He remembered trying to sleep in it last night, but the combined warmth of both the sweater and the scraggly cat snuggled against his side was too much.  He remembered taking off the cardigan and tossing it to the foot of his bed, then waking up the next morning and putting it back on over his pajamas.  After that, he remembered nothing.  He couldn’t even remember coming into Doc’s office, but he must’ve found his way there, because he was very clearly staring up at that familiar ceiling.

He could feel a bedsheet covering his legs.  That was sort of a good thing, he guessed—he still had feeling in both his legs, then.  And by reasonable deduction, that also meant that Doc didn’t cut off his left leg entirely, the possibility of which Scout had been extremely afraid of.  He wanted to crane his head up and look, but he couldn’t move.  Well, that was kind of a lie.  He could twitch his fingers a little and succeeded in moving his neck a fraction of an inch.  Not paralyzed, then, either.  Good stuff.

Tired of staring at the ceiling, Scout closed his eyes.  When he opened them again, he felt a hell of a lot better.

Uh, sort of.  He was much more aware of the pain in his leg now, but at least he wasn’t so damn woozy.  He blinked a few times to clear the sleepy sting from his eyes, then flopped his head over.

Just as he had suspected (and hoped), Sniper was sitting in a chair at his bedside, staring down at a book held open in his lap.

“Whatcha readin’?” Scout said, his voice weak and croaky.  He didn’t sound so hot, huh?  He’d kill for a drink of something right now.  Maybe he could bat his eyelashes and ask Sniper to go get him something.

Head snapping to attention, Sniper slapped his book shut and scooted his chair closer to the bed.  He opened his mouth to say something, but then he stood up instead.

“I’ve got t’tell Doc you’re awake,” he explained, holding his book awkwardly in his hand.  “I’ll be back.”

“Hey,” Scout said, just as Sniper was turning on his boot heel to leave.

Sniper froze in his tracks and turned around.  “Yeah?”

“Give ya a dollar if you’ll bring me sum’n to drink,” Scout said, attempting a smile.  But he was becoming more and more aware of the pain in his leg as the seconds ticked by.  It was hard to get his face to do much of anything except contort in discomfort.

Sniper nodded at him, and it was then that Scout realized the man wasn’t wearing his trademark slouch hat.  Instead, Scout stared at a thick head of brown hair that Sniper had tried to tame by smoothing pomade over it and combing it back.  A few tufts of hair sprang forth from the waxy styling product, curling over his forehead in a way that was managed to be both dorky-looking and cute at the same time.

Cute…Scout couldn’t believe he even thought about the word “cute” to describe Sniper.  Sniper wasn’t cute, he was…okay.  At certain angles, maybe cute would be appropriate.  Anyway, Snipes couldn't hear Scout’s inner monologue, so it was all good.

Scout could think Sniper was cute if he damn well wanted to.

“Okay,” Sniper said.  “I’ll be back.”

Scout watched the swinging door flap to a close in Sniper’s wake, all the while fighting to keep his eyes open.  He could go for another nap, but Sniper’d just headed out the door to tell Doc he was awake.  He better try and stay that way, then.

He wanted to sit up, but when he tried to lift himself into a sitting position, the muscles in his back trembled and gave out.  Apparently he couldn’t do that much yet; flopping his head from one side to the other seemed to be the extent of his abilities right now.  Wait.  No, he could lift up his left hand.  His right one, he could wiggle his fingers, but that was it. 

He was so thirsty.  He hoped Sniper remembered the whole bringing him a drink thing.

Medic came through the door, Sniper in tow.  In Sniper’s hand was a large plastic mug with a lid on it, a bendy-straw sticking from the lid’s mouth.  Sniper walked to Scout’s left side, Medic to his right.  At first Scout didn’t know who to look at, but he decided to look at the guy with the drink.

“Here, let’s get you elevated, ja?” Medic said, detaching a little remote from the side of the hospital bed and holding down one of its buttons.  The head of Scout’s bed began to rise at an angle, adjusting him into a much more comfortable sitting position.  “I’ll put this right here, and you can fix it however you’d like it.”  Medic put the remote atop the bed within Scout’s reach.

“’S that for me?” Scout said, raising his left hand to gesture at the plastic mug in Sniper’s grasp.  He tried to extend his index finger in a pointing motion, but he didn’t do a very good job.

“Yeah,” Sniper said.  Instead of handing the mug over, he guided the straw to Scout’s mouth.

“I think I know how to hold a cup, Snipes,” Scout gurgled, his half-lidded eyes struggling to meet Sniper’s.  “Nah, I’m just kiddin’, I”—he paused long enough to put the straw in his mouth—“I feel frickin’ fruit-loopy, man, I”—he took a deep pull from the straw—“hmmh, I don’t think I can hold that thing if ya wanna know the truth, my hands ain’t workin’ right.  ’S that water in there?”  He felt so strange, he was having trouble identifying the liquid.  He was pretty sure it wasn’t carbonated, at the least.  He pulled the straw from his mouth and stared intently at it, like that might give him the answer he was looking for.

“Yeah, it’s water,” Sniper answered.  “Doc said he wanted you to drink some.”

Scout groaned dramatically.  “I want a root beer float real bad right now,” he whined.

Sniper laughed a little bit under his breath.  “Root beer float, eh?”

“And I don’t even like root beer, root beer’s frickin’ gross, man, but I want one so bad.”

Medic let loose one of his chilling cackles, though the sound of it was softened by what sounded like a hand covering his mouth.  “Unusual cravings are quite normal after such an extensive surgery, liebchen, it will pass.”

Scout hated to take his eyes off Sniper—he didn’t know why—but he wanted to ask Doc a question, so he had to.  He turned his head over and said, “oh yeah, how’d that whole surgery thing go, by the way?”

Medic’s back straightened.  “I will not lie to you, Scout, it was much more difficult than I had imagined.  But as you can see, I—oh, well I suppose you can’t see.  Here.”

Medic grabbed the edge of the bedsheet and pulled it away from Scout’s lower half.  Looking down, Scout discovered that his entire left leg was heavily taped and bandaged, and it was also strapped into some sort of weird metal brace from ankle to upper thigh.  He tried to move it, but all he could do was wiggle his pinkie toe. 

“Anyway,” Medic continued, “as you can see, I was able to save the leg after all.”

“Y’mean I nearly lost it, or sum’n?” Scout asked.  His voice was unusually calm for such a question, and even he himself could realize that.  He was sure after the loopy juice wore off, he’d care a whole hell of a lot more about his leg nearly having to be amputated.

“Your body rejected the first titanium rod I inserted,” Medic chirped, like he was remarking on a nice sip of wine he’d just sampled.  “So I had to call Engineer in to help me think of another solution.  We decided to make another rod, this time using one made of a titanium-gold alloy.  That one took quite nicely.”

“So here’s the hundred-thousand dollar question,” Scout said, blinking slowly.  “Am I, uh, ever gonna be able to walk on it again, or is it just for decoration now?”

“Eh…” Medic said, averting his eyes.

As hard as he could (which was not very hard), Scout slammed his head into his pillow.   This was probably yet another of those thing’s he’d care a lot more about when the anesthesia wore off.  “Goddammit,” he groaned.

“It’s just that there will be quite a bit more scar tissue, and—and possible nerve damage than I initially anticipated,” Medic said.  “We won’t be certain about the extent of the damage until the brace comes off and you complete enough physical therapy to regain some muscle mass there.”

“How long till the brace comes off?” Scout asked.

“Depends on several factors, but I’d say at least a month.”

“Ya kiddin’ me,” Scout huffed, his eyelids close to drifting completely shut.  Well that sucked.  A whole month with this iron maiden thing clamped to his leg was gonna be rough.  It was bad enough he had to stay in the hospital for a million years, but now he had to do it with this stupid thing bolted to him. 

But apparently he had gold in his body now.  That was pretty cool.  If he ever died for real, they could take his femur out and sell it and pay for his funeral with it.  Neato.

He heard himself snoring, and that’s how he realized he’d fallen asleep.

Chapter Text

Sniper stood in front of the the sink, staring at his sleepy-eyed reflection in the mirror as he brushed his teeth.  A couple things Doc said to him last night still resonated within his mind, unnerving him. 

Scout—poor little gremlin—kept drifting in and out of consciousness, and every time he came to, he asked Sniper the same questions.  Was it still Sunday night?  Yes, it was still Sunday.  Could he have something to drink?  Yes, but only water for now, Doc’s orders.  He was hurting, couldn’t Doc give him something for the pain, just a little something?  Yes, and he already had; it just wasn’t very strong.

The falling asleep, waking up, and asking the same things he’d just asked routine had gone on until nearly eleven that night.  After that, Scout seemed to have fallen into a deeper, more stable sort of sleep.  Scout had been snoozing soundly for about an hour when Medic eased his way into the room, patting Sniper on the shoulder.  Sniper marked his place in his book with a finger and looked up at the man.

“I know you don’t want to leave him,” Medic said.  “I can tell how much he means to you.  But I’ve slipped him a little something—non-narcotic, I assure you—to help him sleep through the night.  I’ll check on him periodically, but he should be fine.  Why don’t you go and get some rest yourself, Herr Sniper?”

Sniper knew he wouldn’t be worth killing (ha, ha) tomorrow if he didn’t get some shuteye.  And if Scout was set to sleep through the night, anyhow, maybe it really would be alright to go on back to the Winnie.

Sniper stood up to leave, but he thought of something.  “Who’s gonna watch him when we’re all off to work tomorrow, then?” Sniper asked.  Surely Doc wasn’t planning on leaving Scout alone, was he?

“There’s a nurse coming in to take care of him.”

Sniper spat the toothpaste into the sink, rinsed off his brush, and put it back in the medicine cabinet.  The first thing he didn’t care for was the whole I can tell how much he means to you bit.  That was an odd thing to say to someone, wasn’t it?  Sure, Sniper supposed he…he might…

Well, he’d already come to terms with the fact that he was keen on Scout, hadn’t he?  It was hard for him to admit, even to his own self, but he supposed he quite liked the little bugger; and anyway, it wasn’t like he could flip a switch in his brain and turn his feelings on and off (though he’d love to have that luxury).  He’d just have to get used to the fact that he liked who he liked. 

But that didn’t mean he wanted others to know how he felt about the other man just yet.  Perhaps he never wanted anyone else to figure it out.  The times, they were a-changing, but there was a long way to go before a bloke and another bloke could walk down the street arm-in-arm, all touchy-feely and whatnot—that was just the simple truth of it.

He didn’t want his fellow mercs to know he fancied Scout, that was for sure.  The last thing he needed was for the folks he worked with to treat him any different—and they undoubtedly would, if they knew.  They may even begin to hate him.  And word would get back to Scout that Sniper fancied him, and…

Hold on.  Sniper kept conveniently forgetting the fact that Scout had been the one to kiss him just two nights ago.  Sniper suspected Scout had done it on a whim, hadn’t really meant anything by it.  He’d been wound up because of his impending surgery, he was probably lonesome for his mum and brothers, he had no one round to comfort him…Sniper was probably his only available outlet, and that’s why he’d kissed him.  What other reason could there be, really—there was no way Scout could actually be interested in him.  Sniper was nearly thirty-seven years old and he lived in a Winnebago.  His hobbies included talking to animals, shooting a gun from really far away, pissing in jars, knife-sharpening, reading, UFO-hunting, and knitting. 

Bloody weird, is what he was.  He didn’t want Scout to like him back; it just wouldn’t be fair. 

Scout could easily do better.  Scout was skilled at his job, an excellent artist, always had loads of entertaining stories to tell, had good taste in music, just…just good company in general.  Nice smile.  Very considerate, and very patient when he wanted to be…anybody’d be lucky to have him. 

Still, Doc had said something else that gave Sniper a tinge of worry: there’s a nurse coming in to take care of him.

There was something about that, something Sniper didn’t like.  Something that didn’t sit well with him.  Some mysterious nurse coming in, looking after Scout…it would be different if Doc was seeing to him, but this new person could be anyone.  Come to think of it, Sniper had read loads of books where the nurse and the patient fell madly in love with one another…

Now, you just told yourself you wanted Scout to find someone better than you.  Maybe this new nurse’ll be good for him, who knows.  They’re gonna be spending a lot of time together, after all—maybe they’ll get on, maybe that’ll be a good thing, maybe…

…Wait, what’ve I done here, something ain’t right.

Sniper had been conjuring the mental image of a nondescript nurselike figure doting all over Scout and trying to button up his own shirt at the same time.  In his distracted state, he’d missed a button-hole up near the top, and all his buttons were one hole off.  Muttering under his breath, he unbuttoned his shirt and tried again.

Better get your head on straight before you leave for work, mate. 

Yeah.  I know.

Though he’d just brushed his teeth, he deemed it necessary to pour himself another cup of coffee.  Maybe that would help.  He sat down with his mug at the booth-and-table and his eyes invariably drifted up to the painting of Hoots.

He’d hung up Scout’s painting just above the table; every time he sat down for a meal or a drink of coffee, the owl stared down at him with those jarring red eyes.  Where had Scout learned to paint like that?  Sniper knew he liked to draw, but he’d never seen nor asked to see any of the man’s drawings (he reckoned they were private, so he didn’t press the matter).  This was the first of Scout’s work he’d ever laid eyes on.  That counselor of his, the one that made Scout draw every day back when he was still in school…had she been the one to teach him?  Or he may be self-taught.

In any case, Scout’s skill with a paintbrush was phenomenal.  He’d said he “wasn’t that good” at painting, which was rubbish—said he liked working on paper better, though.  Sniper was itching to see his drawing pad now, see what kinds of things were in there. 

He was also itching to know what this nurse person was going to be like.

Well it ain’t like you can do anything about it, he told himself as he took an irritable sip of his coffee.  Be best if you’d stop thinking about it.

Yeah.  I know.

You can still be his friend, even if he doesn’t…even if he isn’t…

Yeah.  I know.

If he likes this new nurse gal—bloke—whoever—best to just let him.  Probably be better than liking you, anyhow.

Yeah.  I know.

Despite his attempts to shove these thoughts to the back of his mind (a skill he used to be quite good at, but couldn’t manage to do very well as of late), he still went to work feeling sour, stepping onto the teleporter with his shoulders drooping and his head hanging low.  As he scuttled off to find a good hiding spot for the day, he found himself already eager for the workday to be over, so he could do a bit of investigating on this new nurse fellow—or lady, or whoever.

That was another first for him.  He liked his job, liked spending time on the field.  It had its drawbacks, for sure, but he enjoyed it all the same.  And now he was chomping at the bit to head back to base.

It was like Scout was re-wiring his brain, or something, making him…he didn’t know how to explain it.  He figured at nearly forty, his life was pretty much on cruise control, and there’d be nothing in him to change.  He was who he was, and that was that.  He’d die that way.

But no.  Someone had to come and catch his eye, and now he was being an idiot.

He wedged himself amidst a stack of old wooden crates, mostly out of sight from enemy eyes (or so he hoped).  He raised the scope of his rifle to his eye, scanning the horizon for a glimpse of blue uniform, but it was increasingly hard to concentrate; his thoughts always wandered back to a certain someone.

This was miserable.  And to think there were people out there who wanted to feel this way for other people.

Actually, Sniper was beginning to think he was one of those people.

Had he not been trying to keep hidden, he would’ve sighed.  This was going to be a long bloody day, he could already tell.

****

Now that the anesthesia wore off, Scout was, as Hardhat was so fond of saying, fit to be tied.  His leg didn’t even feel like a leg anymore, it felt like a swollen, aching, throbbing protuberance—something that had no business being connected to his own body, something foreign.  He knew he couldn’t have anything major like Codeine, but shit, he’d have a hard time refusing one right now.  He thought his leg hurt bad the first time he broke it all those years ago, but that had been nothing.  This pain right here, this was something else.  His frickin’ teeth chattered, it hurt so bad.

The door swished open and Scout got ready to give Doc an earful, tell him to go get him some aspirin, at least.  But in walked not Medic, but Miss Pauling, followed by someone Scout had never seen before.

The person trailing behind Miss Pauling was a full head taller than her, maybe even taller than Sniper.  They had tawny-colored skin that looked oddly shiny in some places.  Their hair was dark brown and nearly shoulder-length, and they wore it parted at a dramatic angle on the left side of their head.  A set of red medical scrubs was the new person’s outfit of choice, which Scout thought was kinda weird.  Weird, because that made them look an awful lot like a—

Oh.

Oh.

“Good morning, Scout,” Miss Pauling said, giving him a small smile.  As always, she looked weary, but in a good enough mood nonetheless.

“Mornin’, Miss P,” Scout said carefully, picking his teeth with his tongue as he looked first to Miss Pauling, then to the mystery person, back to Miss Pauling. 

“How’re you feeling?”

“I’m hurtin’ pretty bad, but I figured I would be, y’know?  Nuttin’ I can’t live through, though, I’m good.”  Never one for subtlety, Scout barged right along with his next comment.  “Hey, who’s the new guy?”

“Well, that’s exactly the reason I’m paying you a visit this morning,” Miss Pauling said.  “As I’m sure you’ve gathered by now, Medic can’t be here to tend to you since he’s needed on the field.  So the Administrator’s hired a temporary solution.”  She gestured toward the person at her side.  “Scout, I want you to meet Nurse.  Nurse, that’s Scout, as…as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now.”

Scout knew they used codenames here, but “Nurse” sounded a little dumb.  Then again, he thought “Scout” sounded stupid when he’d first heard it, too, so maybe it’d sound better once he got better acquainted with this guy.  Or lady.  Or…huh.  He couldn’t tell which one this Nurse person was supposed to be.

Nurse left Miss Pauling’s side and strode over to Scout, extending their hand towards him.  The hand was narrow yet long-fingered, and upon taking the proffered hand in his, Scout found it to be lightly calloused at the palm.  Nothing like, say, Sniper’s hand, but it was still rough.  The handshake was neither firm nor floppy.  (In other words, it could be a dude handshake or a lady handshake, Scout couldn’t tell which.)  So to be on the safe side, Scout decided to steer clear of the sir/ma’am formalities.  He hated using those, anyway, they sounded too uppity.

“Good t’meetcha, pally,” he said, doing his best to smile at his new acquaintance.  “I’m Scout, like Miss P just toldja.  I’m sure she’s toldja a lot more than that about me, though, huh?”

His offhanded attempt at humor was met with a slight nod and a barely-there, tight-lipped smile from Nurse.  To say Scout was disappointed with that reaction would be an understatement.  He’d been hoping to hear what their voice sounded like.

“Nurse will be taking care of you from nine AM to seven PM, weekends included,” Miss Pauling said.  “Call for Medic if you need something after seven or before nine, but try not to give him too much trouble—the Administrator’s got him working on a lot, here lately.”  At that, Miss Pauling’s face seemed to fall a little, like she knew all about the Administrator giving people a lot of work to handle.  “I know it’s not an ideal fix, but you know how the Administrator is.  We’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got.”

Even though Scout had pretty much convinced himself he didn’t want to ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after with Miss Pauling anymore, that didn’t mean he’d stopped caring about her.  He tried his best to ignore the agonizing pain coursing through him and slapped on his best, toothiest smile.

“Don’t worry about it, Miss P,” he said.  “I ain’t dyin’ over here, I don’t need somebody hoverin’ over me all hours of the day.  I got this.”

She seemed relieved to hear him say that, her face relaxing slightly.  “We’ll kind of play this by ear, okay?  If it turns out you need more help during the evening, maybe I can figure something out.”

“I’ll be awright,” Scout assured her, but he didn’t think she heard him.  She glanced down at her watch and huffed.

“I’m running late, so we’ll have to cut this introduction short,” Miss Pauling said.  “Nurse, I’ll leave you to it.  I gave you my desk number, right?”

Still standing at Scout’s bedside, hands clasped primly in front of them, Nurse nodded in response.

“Good,” Miss Pauling said.  “Feel better, Scout.”

“Thanks.”

As soon as Miss Pauling left the room, Scout started babbling.

“‘Kay, so first of all, I just woke up and I gotta piss, like, now,” he said.  “I dunno how ya wanna do this, like…like the last time my leg was all screwy, I had a big long brace like this, too, and I could get around real good on a pair of crutches.  I think I got enough of my strength back to hobble on into the bathroom if you’ll—“

But he stopped speaking when Nurse unclasped their hands and held up a finger, effectively shushing him.  They turned and left Scout’s bedside, exited the room through the swinging door, and came back seconds later pushing a wheelchair.  They brought it over to Scout’s bedside and adjusted the left footrest, elevating it to support his injured leg. 

When Nurse held their hands out and reached for Scout, Scout recoiled, laughing nervously.  “Nah, for real, you ain’t gotta go through all that trouble, uh—“

Nurse said nothing in response, instead clamping their left arm around the small of his back.  They were uncomfortably close as they hoisted Scout up with their left arm, guiding Scout’s bum leg with their right, easing him into the awaiting wheelchair.

“You’re stronger than ya look, ya know that?” Scout said, impressed.  He hated feeling this helpless, but he had to give credit where credit was due.  All he got in response was a nod (albeit a curt one).

Nurse wheeled him into the bathroom and made to grab him again, but Scout recoiled again.

“Nah, nahnahnah, I ‘ppreciate it and all, but I’m gonna do this part myself, I got this.”  He grinned up at Nurse, whose narrow-eyed stare was deceived by the smile ghosting their lips.  “They had to special order me a pair a crutches way back when, so I was in a wheelchair for nearly two weeks while I waited on ‘em.  I’m like an expert on how to climb outta these things, I swear.”

Though they hesitated, Nurse eventually decided to give Scout some privacy.  He climbed out of the chair, pissed, climbed back in, and even washed his hands before he joined Nurse back in his hospital room.

“So you don’t talk much, huh?” Scout said as he accepted Nurse’s help back into the bed.  He’d admit, he might not be able to get back in the bed without a little hand up—the brace on his leg wasn’t exactly what you’d call lightweight.  When Nurse said nothing in response, Scout continued.  “I’m gonna be drivin’ you crazy, then.  I’m a chatterbox, I’ll just tell ya that right now.  Hardhat says I’d talk the paint off a fencepost.  Hey, you met any a the other guys yet?”

Nurse nodded.

“Well, I’d ask ya who, but I got a funny feelin’ ya wouldn’t tell me,” Scout said, giving Nurse a nudge with his elbow.  “Yknow what, pally?  You ain’t gotta say nuttin’ if ya don’t wanna, that’s cool with me.  I got a buddy, Pyro—you’ll know him when you see him, he’s the one in the gas mask—“

When he said that, Nurse nodded with more force and flashed him a thumbs-up.  At the mention of Pyro, they looked perturbed.

“You’ve seen him already, I take it,” Scout said, to which Nurse replied by giving him another nod.  “Well he wears that gas mask all day, and he won’t take it off.  He’s got reasons, and that’s cool, but it’s pretty frickin’ hard to understand what he says.  You gotta listen real close.  Talks with his hands a lot and does a lot a noddin’ and shakin’ his head, too.  What I’m gettin’ at, pally, is I’m real good with body language.  So y’know what, if you don’t wanna talk, you ain’t gotta.  It’s cool.”

Nurse gave Scout what he interpreted to be an appreciative pat on the arm before turning away from the bedside.  They went over to the far side of the room, opened a refrigerator Scout hadn’t even noticed was there, and started digging through it.

“But that don’t mean I ain’t gonna talk to you, though,” Scout went on.  “I’m gonna get real lonely if I don’t talk to somebody, so I’m just gonna apologize for gettin’ on ya nerves right now.  But I got a…a friend that might be comin’ to see me after he gets off work today, so maybe at like, six-ish this afternoon, you’ll get a break from my ass, heh.”

Man, I hope Snipes really does come by, Scout thought, already bored from the lack of anything to do.  He’d have to ask Sniper to bring some comics or his art stuff or something in here.  Hell, he’d read a book book right now.

A moment later, Nurse rolled a little table over to him, one that extended over his bedside and nestled over his lap.  On it was a cup of clear liquid (probably water), a jiggling square of red gelatin, and a plastic spoon.

Breakfast of champions, he thought, his nose curling as he took a bite of the mostly flavorless cube.

****

But talking to someone who didn’t talk back lost its novelty after awhile.

Apparently, Nurse had sensed that Scout was bored when he started jostling his good leg to the point where his bed inched across the floor.  Or maybe they sensed it when Scout would throw his pillow up in the air, bang it against the ceiling tile, and catch it over and over again.  Or maybe they sensed it when he started singing the first songs that popped into his head in a grating falsetto.

He was halfway through “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” when Nurse wheeled the little table in front of him again, this time with a book of crossword puzzles and a pencil atop it.  Scout couldn’t remember a time he’d done a crossword puzzle, but hey, he’d take it.

But instead of filling in the actual crossword, he ended up doodling in the blank spaces around the puzzle.  He started out drawing your standard doodle shit—lightning bolts, stars, the transparent cube thing—but his hand had a mind of its own.  Before he knew it, he was drawing a three-quarter view bust of Sniper without his hat.  He’d drawn Sniper way—way—more times than he’d care to admit, but never without his slouch hat on.  He didn’t remember a whole hell of a lot from last night, but he did remember seeing Sniper without his hat.  The way his thick, unruly hair broke free of the pomade that tried so hard to tame it, curling over his forehead, was ingrained in Scout’s memory. 

Speaking of, there was something else about Sniper that was ingrained in his memory, too.

Scout hadn’t planned on it, not at all, but he’d done it.  He—he kissed Sniper.  That didn’t sound right, not even in his own mind.  He still didn’t know what had come over him two nights ago, when they’d been up on top of Sniper’s camper.

It was just…Sniper had opened up to him so much.  That had been hard for Sniper to do, Scout could tell; his hands had shaken when he demonstrated how to use the telescope and he stammered when he explained how to find the different constellations.  As he watched Scout use the telescope, Scout could hear him fidgeting with something against the roof of the Winnie, something that kept going plink-plink-plink. 

And then they’d gotten to talking about aliens, and then Sniper had said the thing about Earth being only one of a hundred billion planets in the Milky Way galaxy, and Scout could put his eye up to the telescope and see a whole other galaxy up there…who knew how many planets were in that galaxy, too.  Sniper had said that out of billions of planets, he didn’t believe Earth was the only one with life on it.  He’d also said that looking at the stars made him feel small.

It made Scout feel small, too.  He was just one person out of billions of Earthlings, living on one planet out of billions of other planets, floating in a galaxy out of billions of other galaxies.  Some little green dude on some faraway planet was probably looking at him through a telescope right then, too.

Compared to all that, kissing Sniper had seemed like the only logical thing to do.

But everybody’s got twenty-twenty hindsight, don’t they?  The kiss had been nice—better than nice—but maybe he shouldn’t have done it.  He didn’t stop to think how the other man might feel about it, now, did he?

No, he hadn’t.  He felt like an asshole about it, too.  Sniper wasn’t one for bodily contact, and then Scout went and slobbered all over him like that.  Then again, Sniper did kiss him back, and when Scout had broken down and collapsed into the man’s arms, Sniper hadn’t shrugged him off, or anything…

But in that same vein, Sniper was very particular about being polite.  Maybe he was just doing what he thought was the proper thing.

And Snipes aside, what would Ma say about her youngest son, her baby, over here kissing dudes?  Scout didn’t think she’d disown him, really, but she’d probably think about it for awhile.  No doubt she’d be disappointed in him.  Probably wouldn’t talk to him for a few weeks…months…years…

She’d never look at Scout the same way again.  There’d always be a glint of disapproval in her eye and she’d blame herself for raising a broken son.  Well, an even more broken son—it was pretty obvious by now that he was the class-A fuckup of her litter of kids.

(And even within his own mind, he felt guilty about thinking the word fuck; Ma would fly off the handle if anybody said that word around her.  It was the one word you better not even think about saying under her roof.)

Anthony, Randy, Vinny—his three oldest brothers—were already working on a small herd of grandchildren for Ma to enjoy.  He talked to Tommy, Freddy, and Danny on the phone last week, and they all still had their girlfriends.  In fact, Tommy was thinking about asking Tiff to marry him.  Stanley, he couldn’t get ahold of, but that was pretty normal; Stanley liked to drift from town to town on his motorcycle and, if his wild tales were to be believed, he had lots and lots of sex with lots and lots of ladies. 

If you did the math, Ma was bound to have one gay son out of eight, wasn’t she?

…Was he gay?  Maybe?

He wanted to deny it, of course.  He always thought he’d be the kind of guy to have two-point-five kids and a smokin’ hot wife and a house with a picket fence and a dog in the backyard.  But there were several indelible facts, here.  Facts he couldn’t shove to the back of his mind anymore.

One:  Back in high school, he had had a very real crush on one of his baseball teammates.  That same teammate had kissed him the night they figured out they’d made it into the finals.  Scout hadn’t slept a wink that night, he remembered that part very clearly.  He remembered lying in bed and reaching up to touch his lips, not quite believing it had actually happened.  And then that next day, when Bucky dropped that huge metaphorical bomb on him (he’d had physical bombs dropped on him that had hurt less, Scout mused), his heart had broken.  He knew he wouldn’t have hurt that bad if he hadn’t been in love.  There was no way.

Two:  He’d had tons of girlfriends in the past, but none of them had lasted very long.  Matter of fact, the longest he’d ever dated a girl was Amy Kitzner, back in 11th grade.  It had lasted a whole entire month.  Either he wasn’t good at relationships, or he wasn’t good at liking girls.  He might be able to get a stiffy over a girl in a magazine, but girls on paper and girls in the flesh were two totally different things.

Three:  Ever since he’d gotten on good terms with Sniper, they were growing closer at an alarming rate.  Every spare moment they had was spent together.  And when they weren’t together…Scout frickin’ missed him.  Actually missed him.

Four:  It had partly been on a whim, but that didn’t change the fact that Scout had kissed Sniper the other night.  He had made a conscious decision to do it, and he’d done it.  And y’know what?  It felt good.  Felt right.  And he’d been thankful it was dark out, because otherwise, he’d have had to shuffle around to try and hide the huge boner tenting his jeans.  (Yet another telltale sign he was probably…y’know…right there.)

Though a small part of him wanted to just sweep the whole kissing Sniper incident under the rug, he knew he needed to bring it up.  It was gonna be weird, but he and Snipes needed to talk about it.  Otherwise, something like this would redden and fester until it burst.  It needed to be dealt with sooner rather than later, so Scout vowed to bring it up the next time they were alone together.

He penciled in a little heart right next to the bust of Sniper he had drawn on the crossword puzzle.  Looked at that little heart for a moment.  Erased it.

He let the pencil roll into the spine of the crossword puzzle book, putting it aside for now.  Then he lie his head back on his pillow and groaned.

Chapter Text

Should I knock?

Like some kind of creep, Sniper lingered outside the door to Scout’s hospital room.  He should knock, shouldn’t he?  Scout could be naked in there or something, might appreciate a bit of forewarning.  But what if—what if that new nurse opened the door?  He didn’t know what they looked like, didn’t know what to expect, didn’t know how to present himself.  What would he say?  What if they wouldn’t let him in?

Well.  Couldn’t stand there and stare at the door forever, could he?  He curled his hand into a fist and rapped on it with his knuckles.

From inside the room, he could hear a voice that undoubtedly belonged to Scout, but the thickness of the door prevented Sniper from making out any of the words.  Seconds later the door opened, revealing a tall person (nearly as tall as he was, Sniper noted) with longish, dark brown hair and beige-colored skin.  They were clad in a set of red medical scrubs and their face conveyed an air of complete and total indifference. 

Sniper had never seen this bloke—gal—person before.  It was only logical, then, that he must be face-to-face with the new nurse. Sniper felt his body tensing, starting at his chest and radiating outwards.  He’d been afraid of this.  He didn’t know what to do in this situation, not at all.

Before he could think much more about it, however, the supposed nurse opened the door a bit wider and stepped aside, ushering Sniper inside with a wave of their hand.  Should—should he say thank you, or—

“Snipes!” Scout yelled, jolting up to a full sitting position in his hospital bed.  “Snipes, thank God, I’m goin’ nuts over here.  I need somebody to talk to.”  Scout adjusted his gaze to look at the nurse.  “No offense, pally.”

The nurse shucked up a shoulder, not seeming to care either way.  Without uttering a single word, they walked through a set of swinging doors that Sniper was fairly sure led into Doc’s examination room, giving the two of them some privacy.

He took a seat at Scout’s bedside and he began to feel like he probably shouldn’t’ve shown up empty-handed.  He thought about at least bringing a book along, in case Scout was asleep, but he hadn't even brought that.  Didn’t most hospital rooms at least have a telly?  Sniper looked around the room to see if he could spot one.  No telly, but there was a fridge, which Sniper thought was strange.

Just when he was about to comment on the new person who’d just left the room, Scout started talking.

“Hey, so I’ve had all day to be thinkin’ about somethin’,” Scout said, steepling his hands and drumming his fingertips against one another.  He looked nervous.  That only served to make Sniper nervous, which, admittedly, wasn’t all that hard to do.  “And I know it’s weird to just jump on into this, but I think it’s kinda like rippin’ off a bandaid, y’know?”

Sniper didn’t know.  He was pretty confused at that point.  Luckily, Scout only allowed a beat of silence before he continued.

“I think me and you better talk about the other night,” Scout said, staring at Sniper so intently that it was physically painful for Sniper to maintain eye contact with him.  “Y’know—the other night?  When ya showed me how to use the telescope?  And, uh…”  Scout’s face reddened.  “…and the other thing?  When I…well, when we…”

Scout took both hands and rubbed fitfully at his face.  Somehow, that resulted in it becoming even redder, which Sniper didn’t think to be possible at that point.  “Geez, I’m sorry, Snipes. I had this all planned out, how I was gonna frickin’ say this, and I guess I forgot it all.” 

It was obvious what Scout was trying to say.  He wanted to talk about the kiss they’d shared two nights ago.  In contrast to Scout, Sniper felt his cheeks grow cold, all the color undoubtedly draining from them.  He knew they’d have to discuss it eventually, but he didn’t think it would be this soon.  He still hadn’t quite worked out how he felt about it with any amount of certainty.  And by the look and sound of things, neither had Scout.

“’S alright,” Sniper told him, his voice falling into something only slightly louder than a mumble.  “I know what you’re tryin’ to say, yeah.  The other night, when”—he swallowed, trying to force enough saliva to his tongue to be able to utter the rest—“when you kissed me.”

He couldn’t believe he’d just said that.  Aloud.  In front of Scout.  How his mind and body worked in tandem to make those words come out of his mouth, he’d never know.  It was a bloody miracle he hadn’t passed out cold from fright.  And Scout’s startled (awed?) facial expression wasn’t helping matters.  Sniper fought the urge to pull them brim of his hat over his eyes to shield them from the other man’s peculiar gaze.

“Yeah,” Scout agreed, drawing the word out for a good three seconds.  “Look, I know it’s weird and stuff, but we were gonna have to talk about it eventually.  So I just figured sooner’d be better than later, don’tcha think?”  Sniper was not allotted time to answer that before Scout went on.  “‘Cause I’ve had all day long to be thinkin’ ‘bout a couple things, since there ain’t nuttin’ in here to do but think, and I thought…maybe you’d be cool with talkin’ about it?”  He looked at Sniper expectantly, offering a sheepish smile.

It went without saying that Sniper hated things like this.  It was awkward, embarrassing, uncomfortable, draining.  But Scout was right.  This was a thing that average folks would talk about amongst one another, so they could sort it out together.  He might be rubbish at talking, especially when it came to—feelings, and whatnot—but it was necessary.  And he knew this was something he’d have to trudge through.

“Yeah, we…yeah.  Er.”  He wanted to push his glasses up and rub at his eyes, but he didn’t want to be rude.  “We should.  Talk about.  It.  Yeah—yes.  We oughter do that, so.  Go on.  I mean—!  No, no, that came out wrong, I only meant we should…discuss it.”  God, he was an idiot.  He wanted to go outside, dig a nice, deep hole, and bury himself in it.  “Er, maybe you should…start us off, here, I’m not doing a very good job of it.”

Scout looked like he was biting back a smile.  Sniper didn’t fault him for that; that little speech Sniper had just floundered through was an all-out disgrace. 

“I feel kinda bad, ‘cause basically I just threw myself atcha.  Like I feel genuinely guilty about that, like…I shoulda warned ya it was comin’, at least, or sum’n.  So I guess what my big mouth is tryna say, first of all, is…sorry.”

“Well, you did lean in awful slow.  I sawr it comin’, I knew what was about to happen.  I had plenty o’ time to stop you if I didn’t”—he cleared his throat—“want you to.”

Scout’s eyes widened.  “You, uh…”  He looked down at his lap for a moment, then slid his eyes back up to meet Sniper’s.  “You wanted me to, huh?”

There was no sarcastic undertone to Scout’s question; he sounded genuinely curious.  Sniper could only stare into the frightening blue of Scout’s eyes for a few seconds before he had to look away. 

“Yeah,” he choked, his gaze falling on a plastic cup resting on the lap table pulled up to Scout’s bed, the outside of the glass sweaty with condensation.  What he wouldn’t give for a drink of that right now.  “Yeah, I—suppose I did.”

His voice had barely even been audible.  He was surprised that Scout had heard him at all.  He felt his hands tighten around the armrests of his chair, squeezing them till his knuckles turned white.  He should’ve lied, he should’ve said something other than that, because now things would just become uncomfortable between the two of them, they wouldn’t be able to be mates anymore, they—

“That’s good, then,” Scout said, trying to reason out his thoughts as he said them aloud.  “‘Cause I obviously wanted to, if I was the one that started it, and if you wanted me to, then, uh…that means it was, uh…”  He waved his hand through the air, stirring his thoughts.  “What’s that word when two people both want sum’n, like they both agree on it?”

“Mutual?”

“Mutual, yeah, mutual,” Scout nodded.  “So when I…kissed ya, it was mutual.  Right?”

Sniper didn’t quite know where Scout was going with this.  Then again, he hadn’t known where any of this conversation was headed.  “Reckon so,” he agreed.

“Okay,” Scout nodded, his brow furrowed.  “Okay.  So.  I gotta ask ya sum’n, and ya don’t have to answer it if ya don’t wanna.  ‘Kay?”

Ah, piss.  Sniper knew what he was gonna ask.  “Okay.”

“Are you…are you, y’know…”  He lowered his voice.  “Are you gay, Snipes?”

Precisely what he thought Scout was going to ask him.  He took a sharp intake of breath through his nostrils and released it slowly. 

“I dunno,” he said.  “To be honest, I…up till I”—he cleared his throat again, God his mouth was dry—“up till I met you, I didn’t think I was anything.  Not into blokes, not into girls, not into anyone.  I just thought I was one of them folks that was meant to be alone their whole life.”

Scout picked at a hangnail on his thumb.  “I dunno what I am, either, man,” Scout muttered.  “Y’know, part a me wants to kinda forget about the whole likin’ dudes thing.  Be a shitload easier if I did, but…”  A tiny smile crept to his lips as he met Sniper’s gaze.  He was still a little sallow-skinned and dark-eyed from his surgery, but he was still quite handsome.  Especially when he smiled like that.  “I’m just gonna say it, Snipes, I…I really like you.  Like, I like like you.  Or I think I do.  I, uh…I dunno.  ‘Cause you’re my friend and stuff for sure, but…I mean, ya don’t wanna kiss ya friends on the mouth, know what I mean?”

Sniper could only gape at him.  He was aware that his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t do a thing about it.  He was temporarily numbed.  Perhaps he’d never heard the phrase “like like” before—there were loads of American slang he found he didn’t know—but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what it meant.

At that moment, he was very glad he hadn’t taken the time to grab a bite of dinner before heading over, because he’d most certainly be heaving it straight back up.  As it was, he swallowed down a mouthful of bitter bile, eyes watering at the acrid taste.  He was not equipped with the social skills necessary to deal with this situation.  What should he say, what should he say, what should he say?

Just be truthful.

For once, his inner monologue had something non-pessimistic to tell him.  He listened hard for any further advice his own mind could conjure for him, but none came. 

He took a steadying breath.  To hell with it.

“I think…” he said, finally able to look Scout in the eye again.  “I think I might…er.  Well.  Like you.  Also.”

Sniper had died more times than he’d ever be able to count, and this current experience was more painful than any butterfly knife through the spine or bullet through his gullet.  This was agony.

But then a wide, goofy smile spread across Scout’s face, and just looking at him gave Sniper the warm fuzzies.  Maybe this wasn’t quite so bad as Sniper was letting on—couldn’t be, if it got Scout to grin like that.  It made him want to lean up and smooch those dimpled cheeks all over.

He wouldn’t, but he wanted to.

“For real?” Scout said, his voice husky.  He grabbed two fistfuls of his hospital blanket in what Sniper could only assume was eagerness.  “I mean the other night, I kinda expected ya to punch me in the face for—for kissin’ ya.  But I just thought, y’know, maybe ya didn’t pull me offa ya ‘cause ya didn’t wanna be rude or offend me or whatever.  So—so you’re kinda feelin’ sum’n too, then, huh?  With me and you?  Maybe-kinda-sorta?”

Sniper opened his mouth, but all that came out was a series of gurgles.  He felt his face flush in embarrassment.  He cleared his throat for the third time and shifted in his chair before attempting to speak again.

“I…” he started, but he didn’t know where to go from that point.  He tried again. 

“I think so,” Sniper said, scratching absently at his wrist.  “But to be perfectly truthful, I’ve…look, I’ve never had this happen to me before.”  The desire to pull his hat over his eyes was stronger than ever before.  He couldn’t believe he’d just said that, why did he have to say that of all things—

“You ain’t ever liked anybody before, Snipes?”

Scout’s voice was low and tender.  Not accusatory.  Not teasing.  Not derogatory in any way.  Just…soothing.

Sniper felt the muscles in his shoulders loosen a bit.

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“Well, ya ain’t gotta be embarrassed about it,” Scout said.  “Everybody’s different, they like, they all do their own thing on their own time.  Or that’s my opinion, anyway.  My oldest brother, Anthony?  He was twenty-four when he went on his first date.  Ended up marryin’ the girl, too.  And then y’got me, I had a ‘girlfriend’”—he surrounded the word with air quotes—“when I was in frickin’ kindergarten.  So what, you’re…holy shit, I don’t even know how old you are.  How old are ya?”

Scout’s aimless babbling never ceased to put Sniper at ease.  He was feeling quite a bit more comfortable now.  Still a bit on-edge, of course, but when was he not?  He made the spur-of-the-moment decision to have a bit of fun.

“Aren’t you supposed to take me on a date first before you can ask me how old I am?” Sniper said, quirking an eyebrow.

That seemed to light a mischievous fire behind Scout’s eyes.  “Hey, how’m I supposed to take ya on a date with this tin can strapped to my leg?” he said, pulling the blanket away from his leg for emphasis.  Even though it was heavily bandaged, Sniper could still tell it must be swollen to about twice its normal size.  He felt more than a little sympathy towards the other man.

“How’s that feelin’, by the way?” Sniper asked him.

“Hurts like a lil bitch,” Scout said with an exaggerated smile.  “Don’t worry about it, though.  I’ve felt worse, believe me.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Scout fiddled with one of the latches on the leg brace, snapping and unsnapping it, before he let out a dramatic sigh.  “Okay, Snipes.  I told myself I wouldn’t ask ya this, but I just gotta.  I can’t take it anymore, I just gotta know.”

Oh, hell.  What could he mean by tha—

“Don’t freak out, it ain’t about you, or nuttin’ like that,” Scout assured him.  Scout was getting better and better at sensing his thoughts, Sniper noted.  “It’s, uh…you haven’t happened to meet the guy that replaced me yet, have ya?  Or seen him, or anything?”

“He’s a temporary replacement,” Sniper reminded him, “and I haven’t seen him.  Actually, I reckon he’s not here yet.  Had to pop by Truckie’s dispenser for a tic, earlier this morning, and him ’n’ Spy were talkin’ about how neither o’ them’s seen the new bloke.  And you know if Spy ain’t seen him, he ain’t here.”

“Check you out, Snipes!” Scout beamed, reaching down from the hospital bed and giving him one of those peculiar shoulder squeezes.  “Gettin’ out there and socializin’ with everybody else!”

Sniper had to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling; Scout’s grin was contagious.  “Supposed I’ve learned a thing or two from you, yeah?” he said, allowing the corners of his mouth to twitch upward.  He felt more than saw Scout’s studious gaze roving all over his face, which caused his cheeks to grow warm.

“Oh, what?  I’m makin’ ya blush, huh?” Scout teased, flashing his buck teeth as he moved his hand from Sniper’s shoulder to tickle under his chin. 

“Quiddit, you,” Sniper said as he batted Scout’s hand away from him, but he could no longer keep the smile from possessing his lips.  The tiniest smidgen of laughter huffed through his nostrils.

A silence spread between the two of them, but contrary to what Sniper would expect, it was a comfortable sort of silence.   There were actually several things he’d like to talk to Scout about, but all those things could wait.  It felt like he and Scout were wordlessly conversing with one another.

Having a moment.

And Sniper didn’t want to break the spell by speaking.  It could wait. 

He was rather enjoying the view, anyhow, Sniper thought as he traced the sharp angles of Scout’s jawline with his eyes.  He’d have about a million questions to ask himself when he got back to the confines of his Winnebago, but those annoying thoughts could wait their turn, as well. 

He’d worry about all that later.

Chapter Text

“How’d all your stuff get in here, mate?”

That was the first thing out of Sniper’s mouth as he walked into the hospital room.  The minute Scout laid eyes on him, he felt a wild grin clawing at his lips, but he took a page from Sniper’s book and bit the insides of his cheeks.  He didn’t wanna make an idiot out of himself quite so quickly.

The thing about it was, Sniper looked a little different than he usually did; he had tried to dress up without making it look like he’d dressed up, but his little wardrobe tweaks did not go unnoticed by Scout’s discerning eye.

He still wore the same battered leather vest he always had on, but there was a crisp button-down shirt underneath it that looked nearly new.  It was red, as was required of them even after working hours, but it featured a subtle argyle print that Scout would definitely remember if he’d ever seen Sniper wear it before.  Scout couldn’t tell if the belt was the same one he usually wore or not, but the belt buckle was different, for sure; it was silver with some kind of opaque red stone set into it.  There was a neat little crease ironed into the front of his trousers and his boots were polished up and shining.  Probably not enough of a wardrobe change to send up any red flags amongst their teammates, but Scout could definitely spot the differences.

Badly, Scout wanted to make a comment about it, but he thought better of it.  Anything he said would just embarrass the other man, especially since he’d only just walked through the door.  No, Scout might say something about it later, but he had just enough sense to know that now wasn’t the time.

Instead, he chose to answer the question Sniper actually asked him.  “I had Pyro bring some stuff from my room yesterday.  He swung by after you left and asked me if I wanted him to bring me anything, so y’know.  Had him grab me a couple things.”

“A couple?” Sniper said, striding over to the portable turntable and stack of records atop a card table.  “Looks like you’ve moved in.”

“I didn’t have him get that much stuff,” Scout said.  But then he looked around the room, at the boxes of comic books, the mishmash of drawing supplies scattered here and there, the art books stacked against the wall, the turntable and record collection Sniper was currently occupying himself with.  Sniper may have had a point.

“Okay, maybe I did have him get a shitload of my junk,” Scout admitted.  “But it’s just so frickin’ boring in here, man.  I can’t just do one thing for too long, y’know?  My brain don’t work like that.  I gotta have variety.”

Sniper looked over his shoulder at Scout, giving him the tiniest of smirks.  “You, not bein’ able to focus on somethin’? Surely not.”

“Screw you,” Scout grinned.  He was only joking, of course he was, but did Snipes know that?  He told himself a hundred times last night that he was gonna watch what he said from now on.  Y’know.  Try not to say anything dumb.  This thing with Sniper—he didn't even know what to call it—was just starting, and he didn’t want to do anything stupid to mess it up. 

Thankfully, Sniper didn't seem to mind Scout’s snarky retort.  He turned around to face Scout with an album in his hands, one that Scout had honestly forgotten all about having.

On its cover, three gents in matching pale blue suits stood around a woman in a pale blue schoolmarm’s dress.  The three men had the luxury of wearing fairly modern fashion, but the woman’s high-necked, ruffled ensemble was unfortunate to say the least.  Above their heads in ornate white lettering were the words, “The Best of The Seekers.”

He’d actually bought it by accident—checked the wrong box on the record catalogue’s order form—but he’d listened to it a couple times, anyway.  The Seekers weren’t horrible, they were kinda folksy-sounding, but Scout definitely wasn’t wearing the grooves out on the thing.

“Could we listen to this?” Sniper asked.  “It’s silly, but…I’d like to hear it again.  If that’s alright wiv you.”

Something about Sniper’s words really yanked at Scout’s heartstrings.  Such an innocent request, to listen to a goofy folk album, but the way he had asked was so somber.  Scout could only wonder what that meant.

“Yeah, sure-sure, put it on,” Scout told him, giving him an enthusiastic nod.  While Sniper fiddled with the turntable, Scout tried to quietly scoot to the opposite side of the hospital bed, which was much easier said than done on account of the iron maiden ensnaring his entire left leg. 

After some skillful maneuvering and a lot of eye-watering pain, he got himself situated.  He’d been thinking about this very scenario all last night, and had secretly hoped the addition of the turntable in the room would entice Sniper to turn his back for just a couple seconds.  That way, Scout could move over to the other side of the bed, all smooth-like…and when Sniper turned around, he could casually ask him to take a seat on the edge of the bed instead of the straight-backed chair the man usually sat in.

Sniper probably wouldn’t go for it.  It was awfully suggestive, Scout realized that.  Two grown-ass men sitting on a bed together, where oh where could that lead?  But that honestly wasn’t what Scout had in mind.

Truth be told, Scout was starved for attention to the point of raw desperation, and he’d love nothing more than for someone to hold him for a few minutes.

(But he’d never admit that out loud.  He barely admitted it in his own mind.)

The tinny notes of an acoustic guitar swelled into the room through the turntable speaker.  Sniper took another lingering look at the album cover in his hands, then sat it back down atop the other albums on the table.  He turned around.

His eyes first went to the now-vacant side of the bed nearest him, then drifted over to the chair he usually sat in, then came back to the edge of the bed.  When he finally met Scout’s eyes with his own, he seemed to be silently saying, what should I do, here?

Scout’s breath hitched.  He was about to get cocky again, but he stopped himself.  The look on Sniper’s face indicated that now definitely wasn’t a good time for that.

“Sit,” Scout said, patting the empty strip of mattress beside him.

With the caution and nervousness of a wild animal in unfamiliar territory, Sniper took halting steps to the bedside, then perched himself on the edge.  He let out a long sigh, and as he did, his entire body seemed to deflate; his shoulders sagged, his head drooped, his spine curved downward.  His fingers fidgeted with the creases in the bedsheet.

The back of Sniper’s hand was covered in a fine layer of fuzz, Scout noted, as he trailed his fingertips across it.  To his surprise, Sniper angled his hand ever-so-slightly when he felt Scout’s touch, allowing Scout to curl his own hand around it.

“You know,” Sniper said, his voice not much more than a low rumble, “back abou’ two years ago, when RED disbanded for a bit…I went back home.  To Australia, back to Mum ’n’ Dad.  On account of I didn’t know where else to go.”

Scout didn’t know where this story was headed, but he didn’t dare interrupt.  It wasn’t often that Sniper started divulging personal details out of the blue, and he didn’t want the other man to stop.  In lieu of words, he gave Sniper’s hand a tiny squeeze.

Go on.

“Mum had this album.  Loved it.  She’d play it all bleedin’ day.”  A wan smile crept to Sniper’s lips.  “Till Dad got home from the fruit shop, then Mum’d put on some Sinatra or something.  Dad never did like the Seekers.  I didn’t either, really.  I heard ‘em in my bloody sleep, Mum listened to ‘em so much.”

Sniper gripped Scout’s hand a little tighter.

“Till they died,” Sniper said, “and the house got quiet.  Too quiet, even for me.  I’d play this record when I got lonesome.  Kind of, er…kind of tricks you into thinkin’ you’re not as alone as you really are, I suppose.”  He gave a mirthless laugh.

If this record reminded him so much of his parents, why would he want to torture himself and listen to it, Scout wondered?  Maybe it brought some good memories back with the bad ones.  Or maybe Sniper was just feeling homesick and needed something to remind him of the bush. 

But could you really feel homesick for a place where no one was waiting for you when you got there?

“You’re lucky, Scout,” Sniper said, and it sounded weird for the man to use Scout’s name.  He didn’t say it a lot; it sounded nearly foreign coming from his mouth.  “You’ve got such a big family.  I…now that Mum ’n’ Dad’re gone, I’ve got no one.”

Scout wished he could scoot a little further up the mattress, but his leg brace left him effectively anchored where he was.  The best he could do was lean forward and trace his free hand along Sniper’s upper arm.

Maybe now was a good time to let some of that Scouty snark slip through.  Not much, but just a tad. 

Though Sniper wasn’t looking at him, Scout offered him a reassuring smile anyhow.  “You got me, don’tcha?” he said.  “Or what, I don’t count?”

Finally, Sniper turned his head and looked at him.  Even through the yellow lenses of Sniper’s shooting glasses, Scout had no trouble seeing the hurt in the other man’s eyes.  It squeezed at his heart.  Scout blinked furiously, trying not to bawl all over the place.  He had a soft spot for Snipes, and he hated hated hated seeing him like that.

Maybe it was better for Scout to see him like that than for Sniper to keep it bottled up within himself, though.

“Yeah,” Sniper said, nodding once.  “I do, don’t I?”

Sniper sniffled. 

He wasn’t crying, so far as Scout could tell, but he’d sniffled all the same.  That little noise was what finally broke Scout’s resolve to be on his best behavior.  He pulled his hands away from Sniper, only to hold his arms up and out, like a toddler waiting for someone to carry them up the stairs.

“I can’t take it no more, Snipes, ya killin’ me here,” he said, still determined not to shed any tears, but not quite as determined to keep his childish behavior in line.  “Gimme a hug or somethin’, I’d do it but I can’t reach ya, c’mon, please.”

Sniper was motionless for a moment, leaving Scout’s arms dangling in the air, but the man finally relented.  He inched closer to Scout and crumpled into Scout’s embrace, his chin digging almost painfully into Scout’s shoulder.

“What if that Nurse walks in and sees us like this?” Sniper murmured into Scout’s ear.

One of Scout’s hands went to the back of Sniper’s head, fingers toying with the curly cowlick at the nape of Sniper’s neck.  His other hand lingered between Sniper’s shoulder blades, his nubbly fingernails scratching useless patterns there.

“That Nurse has literally not said one word to me this whole time I’ve been in here,” Scout said, his voice muffled from the collar of Sniper’s shirt almost touching his lips.  “Even if they do see us, they ain’t gonna say nuttin’ to nobody.  They seem kinda cool, I don’t think they’d do that.”

Sniper’s arms tightened around the small of Scout’s back.  “The Administrator might not like our…our seein’ each other, though.  What if word gets back to her?  What then, do you reckon?”

“What’s she gonna do, fire us?  We only got millions a dollars in the bank.  She’s got a problem, we’ll tell her old dusty ass to go screw herself and we’ll go have fun for the rest of our lives.  Hey, just think.  If we get fired, you can finally take me campin’.”

“You’d hate campin’,” Sniper said, surprising Scout by turning his head long enough to plant a kiss square in the middle of his cheek.

For a few moments, Scout was speechless.  He didn’t know something so simple as a kiss on the cheek could leave the whole left side of his face tingling. 

“I dunno, Snipes,” he said after awhile, “I always wanted to roast marshmallows and shit.  I could like it.”

Sniper said nothing in reply to this, merely huffed a slight laugh through his nose.  Well, that was a good thing, Scout guessed.  Maybe Sniper was starting to feel a little better.

He took in Sniper’s scent, breathing it deeply while trying not to be too obvious about what he was doing.  Unlike the plethora of perfumed, hairsprayed, makeupped girls he’d held like this, Sniper smelled like sun, like old leather and fabric softener, like soap-scrubbed skin and whatever his body’s natural oils were comprised of.  He could catch a whiff of it as Sniper walked by, sometimes, if he was lucky.  But Scout’s nose was quite literally buried in the smell now.  He couldn’t get enough of it.  It made him feel lightheaded.

And it also kinda made him wonder what he himself smelled like.  He couldn’t fully submerge himself in water due to his leg, so his showers were mostly him catching water with a washcloth and rubbing fruitlessly at his skin with it.  Washing his hair was an Olympic event in and of itself, and he had a funny feeling he didn’t do a very good job at getting it totally clean.  And to top it all off, Nurse had been doing his laundry for him, and his clothes didn’t smell like they usually did when Scout washed them (he didn’t know why, but they didn’t). 

To put it bluntly, he was pretty sure he smelled like ass, but there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it.

Well, if he reeked, Sniper didn’t seem to mind it.  They stayed that way, clutching each other awkwardly, until the needle reached the end of the record and static popped and hissed through the turntable’s speaker.

The spell was broken.  Slowly, Sniper pulled himself out of Scout’s arms, sitting on the edge of the bed in a haze for a moment before standing up.

“Let me get that,” he muttered, making his way to the turntable.  He grabbed the needle arm with a thumb and forefinger, guiding it back to its resting place, then took the record off the platter and slid it back into its album sleeve.

“Sure y’don’t wanna listen to the other side?” Scout said.  “I don’t mind, if ya wanna.”

“Nah,” Sniper said.  “Just wanted to hear it for a bit.  For old time’s sake, I guess.”  He scratched at his wrist.  Scout was beginning to think that was a nervous habit of his.  “Maybe we might—“

Sniper was interrupted by the sound of two authoritative knocks sounding against the door.  Before Scout could even yell for the person to go ahead and let themselves in, they took it upon themselves to barge into the room.

“Hey there, Skeeter,” Engineer said, carrying a cumbersome-looking toolbox in his arms. 

“Uh, hey, Hardhat,” Scout said, confused.  He could possibly understand Engineer dropping by to pay him a polite ten minutes’ visit, or something…but if that was what he was doing, why would he feel the need to bring a toolbox with him?

“How’re you, Slim?” Engineer asked, sitting the toolbox down at the foot of the bed.

“‘M fine,” Sniper said uncertainly.  “You?”

“Can’t complain,” Engineer said, opening the toolbox.  He pulled a wrench from its innards, pointing at Scout with it.  “Scout’s about to be complainin’, though.”

Scout’s eyes widened in alarm.  “Why, where the hell’re ya gonna put that thing?”

Engineer chuckled at him.  “I gotta adjust your brace, son,” he said.  “Doc told me the swellin’s gone down quite a bit and we needa tighten that puppy up.”

“And that’s gonna hurt?”

“Well, I don’t figure it’s gonna feel good, me squeezin’ your sore leg,” Engineer said, positioning the wrench onto one of the bolts at the top of the brace.  “Ah, maybe it won’t be too bad.”

Scout looked over to Sniper, who had a hand on the back of his neck, looking around the room like he didn’t know what to do with himself— like he was the odd man out.  Scout knew he should probably say something to him to put him at ease, but this was a little bit of an odd situation.  He didn’t know how long this whole brace-tightening ordeal was gonna take, and he’d hate for Snipes to sit around listening to him moaning and groaning as Engie jostled his injured leg around.  He guessed the best thing to do would be to let Sniper know he didn’t have to stay.

He started arguing back and forth with himself in his mind.

I want him to stay, though.

Yeah, but look at him, he’s so uncomfortable over there.  Look at that face he’s makin’, it’s pitiful.  You should just tell him he can come back tomorrow.

Well, but the thing about that is, we don’t hardly get to see each other at all anymore, me bein’ cooped up in here.  So—so I don’t want him to go.

Okay, but have ya considered you’re bein’ a selfish prick right now?

…Shit, you’re right.

“Hey, Snipes, uh…you ain’t gotta stay for this, I don’t figure it’s gonna—“

But he cut off his own sentence with a piercing cry as the leg brace dug into his swollen, tender flesh.  He saw little white stars darting across the outer corners of his vision and his stomach lurched dangerously, like he might puke up the meager offerings that passed for a meal around here. 

“Son of a bitch!”

“Sorry, son,” Engineer said, giving him a pat on the arm that did not help matters at all.  “It’s gotta be that tight, though, we gotta keep compression on it or—“

“Compression my ass!  It feels like a frickin’ knife stabbin’ me, man, I can’t take this shit!”

He was screaming.  A dull part of his mind realized that.  But there was jack shit he could do about it.

“Listen, Doc said if the pain’s really that bad, maybe he could give ya a little somethin’ to take the edge off for just a few—“

“No!” Scout wailed, chest heaving, a fistful of bedsheet in both his gnarled hands.  “I ain’t takin’ no more a that shit, ya know what it did to me, I ain’t gonna—“

And then he felt the tears streaming down his face like a floodgate had opened.  The pain in his leg was so bad—so, so bad—worse than when Nurse changed his bandages every morning, worse than the other day when Doc had to drain pus from one of the incisions.  The brace was squeezing his femur, which would hurt like a bitch under normal circumstances, but right after he’d had surgery on it?  He couldn’t take it.  He was losing his mind.

“Y’gotta loosen that thing, I can’t do this,” he said feebly, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.  He hated that Sniper was seeing him like this, being all weak and crying and shit.  He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t in so much agony.

“I cain’t,” Engineer said with a sorrowful shake of his head.  “Just lemme get the rest a these bolts tightened right quick, okay?  Let’s just get it all over with in one go-round.  I’ll be fast at it.”

This probably wouldn’t be so bad if he could have some kind of narcotic to dull the pain.  Like regular frickin’ people.  But he knew if he ever started that again, he wouldn’t be able to stop.  He didn’t know where that dangerous road would lead him again, but he doubted he’d get lucky twice.  The first time he overdosed, Miss Pauling had awoken him and offered him the job of a lifetime.  Here, he didn’t have to worry much about death—respawn would probably revive him—but there were a plethora of other things he stood to lose now.

Like Sniper, for instance.

No, he wouldn’t be taking any more codeine or morphine or seconal or any of that other bullshit ever again.  He’d have to suck it up and get through this without ‘em.

He felt something nudging his arm.  He peeled his hands away from his face and looked with bleary eyes up at Sniper.  Somehow, Sniper had crossed the room and came to stand at his bedside without Scout even noticing.  Sniper’s face was stony and emotionless, but beneath those yellow-tinted lenses, his eyes were glassy.

“I hate that you’re seein’ me like this, this is wicked embarrassin’ right now,” Scout said, his voice warbling.  “But this really does feel like this one time when a BLU spy shot me a buncha times in the leg with a nail gun, like…like that didn’t kill me, obviously, so I had to hopscotch my ass across the field till I found the Doc, and that is exactly what I’m feelin’ like right now.  Like somebody’s pumpin’ my leg fulla nails.”  He inhaled deeply through his nose, sucking up snot, then swiped some of the tears from his face. 

He could feel Engineer working away at his brace, tightening it, but the pain didn’t worsen.  If it did, Scout was pretty sure he’d pass out cold.  True to his word, though, Engie seemed to be working as fast as his tiny human hand and slightly larger mechanical hand possibly could.  Maybe if Scout would quit staring at it, it’d be better.  He made the executive decision to keep his eyes pinned on Sniper.

Look at me, look at me, look at me.

“Would it be okay if I brought a book wiv me tomorrow?” Sniper said, his voice oddly light and conversational.  “I know I usually sit for a bit ’n’ chat wiv you, ’n’ then I leave, but…I wouldn’t mind to stay longer, you know.  Keep you company.  I don’t suppose we’ve gotta be talkin’ to each other the whole time, I could just…be in the room, here.  Might make you feel less lonesome, yeah?”

“Yeah, and I could—draw, or sum’n, or I got—got comic books I could look at.  Just like we used to do up on Sniper’s Ridge.”

“‘Sniper’s Ridge’?” Sniper questioned, smiling down at him and quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah, that’s wha—what I call that big rock out—out there, that we used to—go and sit on, remember?”

“Course I remember, that was only a few months ago we did that.  ’M not that old yet, ‘m not senile.”

Despite the pain, Scout grinned.  Sniper was trying so hard to keep him distracted while Engineer finished up on his brace.  And it was actually working.

“But you ain’t gotta—sit in some stuffy room all—all evenin’, that kinda sucks for you, don’t it?  But—but yeah, maybe just to—tomorrow, you could come keep—keep me company?”

Sniper nodded.  His lips parted like he was about to add something to that, but before he could, Engineer interrupted by tossing his wrench back into his toolbox with a noisy clang. 

“Done and done,” he said.  “Your leg should adjust to that pressure, it won’t be this bad for long.  And I figure any minute now your endorphins’ll kick in, that oughta help out some.”

“Sweet Jesus, I hope so,” Scout whined, his face coated in a sheen of sweat.

Engineer reached over and gave him a couple good-natured pats on the back.  “Proud of ya.”

For what, he wanted to ask, losing control of himself and crying like a little brat?  Shit, he was mad at himself, and his anger had multiplied by a gajillion since Sniper had been there to witness his little outburst.  Hell, Sniper had felt so bad about it, he’d felt compelled to come over and calm Scout down.  That was embarrassing for sure, but he hated himself for putting Sniper through that.  What kinda guy does that to his—to his—

Well he didn’t wanna say boyfriend, but he couldn’t think of an appropriate word just then.

What kinda guy does that to his boyfr—

—He couldn’t even make his own mind finish the thought.

Anyway, he felt horrible about it.

To his credit, Engineer didn’t linger at Scout’s side waiting for a response to his “I’m proud of you” comment, which Scout was grateful for.  He didn’t know if he could think of something good to say in reply to that, even if he wasn’t in misery.  That particular phrase was not one he’d heard very many times in his life.  Engineer closed his toolbox and hoisted it into his arms.

“Well, I’ll go on and get outta your hair now,” Engineer said.  “I’d stay and visit, but it looks like you’re already entertainin’ company.”

“Yeah, I’m entertainin’ alright, I’m just a barrel of fun,” Scout griped, wincing as a fresh stab of pain throbbed through his femur.  Admittedly, though, the pain was starting to lose its edge.  Maybe those endo-whatevers were starting to work their way through his blood.

Engineer gave a hoot of laughter at Scout’s comment as he ambled to the door.  When he made it to the doorway he turned around and said, “you boys stay outta trouble, hear?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scout said, garnering another chuckle from Engie as the door closed behind the man.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Scout attempted to save face with Sniper. 

“Hey, I didn’t mean to like, like cry and shit, it just hit me all at once, y’know?  I don’t cry when I get shot or nuttin’, I’m usually real good at takin’ pain, but—I dunno, ever since that surgery, man, my leg—it just always hurts.  And Hardhat started twistin’ on this frickin’ thing and it was just too much, I—I dunno.”

Sniper sat down on the edge of the bed, turning his head to look Scout in the eye.  “No worries,” he said, attempting a small smile.  “I’m, er…not good at this type o’ thing…you know…words of comfort.  But…”  Sniper gave a slight shake of his head.  “This…all this…must be rough.  And if you shed a tear or two, that’s…that’s perfectly normal, I’d expect.  And I certainly don’t…you know.  Think any less of you.”

Sniper laughed a little under his breath.  “God, I’m rubbish at this.  I can barely string a sentence together.  Hope that didn’t make y’feel worse.”

“Nah,” Scout smiled, leaning forward and pecking a kiss near the corner of Sniper’s mouth.  “That was pretty good, Legs.”

Scout wished he had the energy to do more, but he couldn’t remain upright any longer.  The whole brace-tightening ordeal left him exhausted.  He eased back to rest against the mattress, his head on the pillow.

“I know I’m bein’ a big wet blanket right now,” Scout started, but interrupted himself with a yawn

“No, s’fine,” Sniper said.  “You’re not in here to entertain guests, you’re in here to feel better.”

“Think I’m gonna fall asleep, though,” Scout said, feeling his eyes drift closed.  He couldn’t keep them open any longer, no matter how hard he tried to fight it

“Go to sleep, then,” Sniper said simply.

“Yeah, but we don’t ever get to see each other anymore, hardly, I don’t wanna go to sleep.”

“We see each other every day, mate.”  There was slight amusement in Sniper’s voice.

“Yeah, but”—Scout yawned again—“not for very long, and…”

He must’ve dozed off, because the next time he opened his eyes, the lights were off and the room was empty.

Once again, he was alone—alone with nothing but the throb in his leg to keep him company.

Chapter Text

Something had embedded itself deep into the flesh of Sniper’s upper arm.  He wasn’t sure what, exactly—the entry wound looked too jagged for a bullet.  Probably shrapnel, if he had to guess.  He had to set up his nest much closer to the fray than usual, so a piece of wayward metal or wood hurtling at him wasn’t completely out of the question. 

Though his nest left much to be desired, he still didn’t want to leave it; he didn’t fancy getting his head blown off, thanks very much.  Instead of making a dash for a dispenser or tracking down the Doc, he decided to take matters into his own hands by patching himself up.  He unzipped his rucksack and got out his first aid kit, then fished out a wide roll of gauze. 

He barely touched the gauze roll to his arm when a jolt of pain shot down the entire length of his arm.  The wound was agonizingly tender.  Whatever had managed to wedge itself down in there, it must’ve done a lot of damage going in.  Sniper gritted his teeth and quickly wrapped the gauze round and round his arm, eyes watering as he forced himself to tighten it.

It hurt, but at least he wouldn’t be bleeding to death now.  He shoved the medkit back into his bag and picked his .308 rifle back up, resolving to get back to work.

But his shots were getting sloppier and sloppier.  As much as he tried to pretend his arm wasn’t bothering him, it just wasn’t working.  He rested his rifle in his lap for a moment to have another look at it.  Blood had permeated all the layers of the gauze and was now seeping out the top.

Apparently this was not something Sniper could take care of himself, then.

Bugger.

He had no choice but to find Doc or a dispenser, whichever came first.  He slipped his rucksack onto his back and shouldered his rifle, crouching low as he crept out of his nest.

He’d set up shop that day in an abandoned warehouse.  One might think that would be a perfectly fine place to get some good ol’-fashioned sniping done, but it wasn’t; old buildings with busted-out windows were like homing beacons for enemy spies.  They did a sweep of those kinds of places first thing, and as such, Sniper tended to stay away from them as often as he could.

Sniper opened the warehouse’s front entrance the tiniest crack to peek out, and the damned thing nearly fell off its hinges, it was so rotted.  So much for being stealthy—if any enemies happened to be in the immediate area, they would’ve seen him fumbling to keep the door from falling out of the frame.  Since he was still in possession of all his bodily extremities, however, he figured he was in the clear.

Much like Sniper choosing a spot to serve as his nest, Engineer liked to set up his dispensers and teleporters in inconspicuous locations.  There was another abandoned building directly across from the one Sniper stood in, which was about as good a place to start looking for Truckie as any.  He eased out the door, careful not to let the thing clatter to the ground and bring attention to himself, and made a mad dash for the adjacent building.

Though it was two stories tall, there was no feasible way to make it to the second floor.  The staircase had all but collapsed on itself.  Sniper searched the ground floor and found nothing, so he tried again with the abandoned building to the right of the one he was currently in.

When he walked through the door, his eyes darted around the room and lit upon the familiar red contraption that was Engineer’s dispenser.  It was out in plain sight, but one of Engineer’s mini-sentries stood guard, swiveling its head this way and that in its constant search for enemies.  The sentry stared at him, passed some sort of infrared light up and down his body, and gave a satisfied be-deep as it allowed Sniper to walk past it unscathed. 

Sniper stumbled over to the dispenser, his legs wobbly from blood loss, and draped himself over it.  The machine began to work its magic before he even got the sodden gauze unraveled from his arm.  He gave a contented sigh.

Whatever had been in his arm ejected itself with a satisfying pop, then clattered to the ground with a metallic thud.  Sniper heard someone to his left give out a low whistle, but he did not open his eyes to see who it was; the little sentry a few feet away from him would shoot any non-REDs on sight.  He was safe.

“Look’a that hunk a junk,” Engineer said.  “That come outta your arm, Slim?”

“Suppose so,” Sniper said, the dispenser’s mysterious rays getting to work threading his tattered muscle back together.  It tickled.

“It would appear as though I am not the only one having poor luck today,” another voice said.  The voice belonged to Spy, there was no doubt about that.  Sniper was surprised he couldn’t smell the ever-present aroma of Spy’s expensive cigarettes wafting through the air.  It wasn’t often you spotted Spy without a smoke dangling from his lip.

“Hoo boy, you shoulda seen Spy draggin’ through here a couple minutes ago,” Engineer said, amusement in his tone.  “He was cooked extra crispy.”

Spy gave a disgusted snort.  “The BLU team’s pyro has a bit of a vendetta against me, I suspect.  He makes a point to set me ablaze at least once per day.”

Sniper grimaced.  For obvious reasons, being burned alive was not an enjoyable experience.  He hadn’t fallen victim to the BLU pyro’s penchant for molotov cocktails in at least a week; he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be subjected to it every day. 

“Think mine was just a bit of shrapnel,” Sniper said, surprising even himself that he was willingly joining in on the conversation. 

“Yeah, that’s prob’ly it,” Engineer said.  “Scout’s replacement fella led BLU’s new demoman right to us.  Lots of explodin’ goin’ on through here.”

At that, Sniper opened his eyes.  Engineer was crouched in front of him, sorting through a bundle of wires leading from the dispenser. 

“So the new bloke’s here, is he?” Sniper asked, trying to keep his tone conversational, as opposed to the panic he truly felt.  The fact that the new guy had finally arrived made him squirm with worry—for some reason.

“Yes,” Spy answered, stepping into Sniper’s frame of vision, though from this angle Sniper only saw the man’s patent-leather Oxfords and a bit of his tailored trousers.  “Presumably, he is to be reprising Scout’s role on the team.  We are to refer to him as ‘Looker.’”

“Kinda funny his codename’s Looker,” Engineer said, “‘cause, uh, how should I put this kindly—“

“He is quite unattractive,” Spy finished for him.

“Well he ain’t a looker, that’s for sure,” Engineer said.

The dispenser’s red mist webbed Sniper’s top layer of skin back together, a prickly itch settling into his arm as his wound closed up.  Sniper straightened his back, turning his arm this way and that to inspect it through the frayed hole in his shirt.  It was a little swollen and reddened, but nothing like it was.  Much better.

“So he’s ugly,” Sniper said.

“Not—I wouldn’t say that,” Engineer said.

“Why don’t you see for yourself, Bushman?” Spy said, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a Polaroid photograph. 

Sniper thought about asking why Spy was carrying this new person’s photo around with him, but Sniper already knew the answer to that.  Spy had to know every single shred of new information that presented itself amongst their team, and Scout’s temporary replacement was no exception.  It was an invasion of privacy, no doubt, but Spy cared little for things of that nature.

Invasion of privacy or no, Sniper was glad Spy had taken the photo.  He’d hate to run into the fellow without knowing what he looked like.  He took the photo from Spy’s outstretched hand and inspected it.

It was a bit blurry—taken from a faraway distance, most likely—but Sniper had no trouble making out this Looker bloke’s basic features.  He had a square head, a buzz cut with a reddish look to it, a squashed-in nose, beady eyes, and a wide, froggy mouth.   An oblong brown birthmark, about as large as a quarter, marred his right cheek.  He was tall and muscular, Sniper would give him that, but he looked too top-heavy; his arms were disproportionate to the rest of his body.  In the photo, he was sneering, which added to his overall snotty appearance.  Sniper knew he shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but…

“He’s, erm…not the handsomest bloke I ever sawr, lemme say it that way.”  Sniper handed the photo back to Spy, who tucked it back into his suit jacket.  “Either o’ you seen him face-to-face?  Talked to him, like?”

“Not yet,” Spy said, drawing a slim leather case from his suit jacket and producing a lavender-colored cigarette from it.  He lit it with something Sniper didn’t see—sleeve lighter?—and held it between his index and middle finger.  “I cannot get close enough to strike up a conversation with him.  He is always on the move.”  He took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly, the delicate wisps of smoke expelling from his lungs and permeating the air.  His eyes locked with Sniper’s.  “But you can tell Scout that this new gentleman cannot run nearly as fast as he can.  Given Scout’s ego, it should make him feel considerably better about this situation.”

Something about the way Spy said that didn’t sit well with Sniper.  He supposed that if someone wanted to stick their nose where it didn’t need sticking—which was undoubtedly written into Spy’s job description—it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out that he and Scout were spending a lot of time together.  All you’d have to do was follow him around after work and note where he went every day (namely Scout’s hospital room).  But a bloody eight-year-old could do that much sleuthing.  The more Sniper thought about it, the more he doubted Spy would stop there.

Where had Spy intruded that he didn’t belong?  How much did he know, how much had he seen?  And more importantly, did he have photographic proof of any of it? 

Spy was civil enough, when you got to know him, but it was never a good idea to get on his bad side.  Cross him, and he had enough blackmail on you to completely destroy your life.

Sniper hadn’t been planning on pissing Spy off, but he made a mental note to be especially careful from now on.  No telling what Spy knew about his and Scout’s relationship, but it was safe to assume he knew all about it.

That alone made Sniper queasy, but he reckoned he couldn’t do anything about it.

Sniper mumbled an excuse about needing to get back to work and made his leave.  He needed to find another suitable nest before the fighting picked back up again, and besides, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to try and catch a glimpse of this Looker through the scope of his rifle.  As he slipped into the next abandoned building he came to, he couldn’t help but hope Spy was right about Looker being half as fast as Scout—that really would make Scout feel better, if he knew he was superior to his (temporary) replacement.

Scout was certainly far superior when it came to outward appearances; he was much handsomer than Looker.  Or, at least, Sniper thought so.

…Then again, it was possible that Sniper was a bit biased when it came to who was better-looking.

His new hiding spot wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do—even without the aid of his scope, Sniper could see the BLU heavy weapons guy bounding in his direction.  He knelt down out of sight, poked the barrel of his gun through a jagged window pane, and took aim.

****

When Sniper went to the med-bay that afternoon after work, he was surprised to find that Scout was out of bed.  He was seated in a wheelchair, his injured leg jutting out in front of him at a right angle, held aloft by a leg-rest protruding from the chair.  He had a drawing pad in lap and some kind of art utensil (a marker, maybe, Sniper couldn’t tell from that distance) in his hand.

The person they’d all come to refer to as ‘Nurse’ opened the door for him, and as soon as Sniper walked inside, Nurse skirted off into the next room to give him and Scout some privacy.  Even though Sniper had never spoken to Nurse before, they had exchanged plenty of meaningful looks; at this point, Sniper would almost consider this Nurse person an acquaintance of his.

“Hey, good lookin’,” Scout said, flashing Sniper a toothy grin.  He capped his marker and sat it on top of his drawing pad. 

“You’re out of bed,” Sniper noted, taking a seat in a nearby straight-backed chair.

“I been in that thing for like two weeks straight,” Scout grimaced, “I couldn’t take it no more.  Long as I try and keep my leg as still as I can, I’ll be awright.”

The temptation to look down at Scout’s drawing was almost too much to bear.  Sniper had been itching to see some of Scout’s other work ever since he’d been given the owl painting, but he was sure Scout’s drawings were private—or, at the very least, quite personal.  He wouldn’t look unless invited to.  It was only fair.  He averted his eyes, looking instead at the refrigerator behind Scout’s head.

Scout followed Sniper’s gaze, turning around to look at the fridge, then turned back to Sniper with a bemused smile on his lips.  “What’s so interestin’ back there, huh?”

“Er,” Sniper said, not really sure what to say that wouldn’t make him sound like a bloody idiot.  No point in fibbing about it, though—one of Scout’s many talents was that he was a human lie detector.  “I was tryin’ not to look at your drawring, there.”

Scout let out a little laugh.  “How come?”

“Well, I just reckoned it was private…”

“Nah, nah, if it was private I woulda put it up when ya came in the room,” Scout said.  He held up the drawing pad for Sniper to look at.  “See, nuttin’ private.”

For a moment, Sniper roved his eyes across the page, dumbfounded.  He didn’t quite know what to say.

The page was full of drawings of him.

Sniper with his head tilted downward, reading a book propped open in his lap.  Sniper with a coffee mug cradled in his hands.  Sniper crouching down to pet a scraggly orange tabby cat.  Sniper wearing the red argyle shirt he only wore on special occasions (so he did notice it, Sniper thought).  Not to mention an impressive rendition of Sniper standing in front of a mirror, shaving—how Scout could draw his back and his mirror image so perfectly was beyond him.  Had Scout ever even seen him standing in front of a mirror before?  He certainly hadn’t ever seen Sniper shaving.

“Does it creep ya out?” Scout asked, smiling sheepishly.  “It’s, uh…kinda weird, I know, but it’s like my frickin’ hand’s got a mind of its own sometimes—just draws what it wants, y’know?”

Maybe Sniper should think it was weird, but he didn’t.  “Doesn’t bother me,” Sniper said.  “Fact, I’m…I’m a bit flattered, really.”

“For real?  Oh, thank God.  I thought ya might think I’m some kinda weirdo, or sum’n.”

“You’re quite good at that.  Drawring, I mean.”

“Ya really think so, huh?” Scout said, beaming.  “Here lately I’ve been tryin’ to get better at perspective, but I keep—oh!  Oh, shit, I nearly forgot, is the new dude here yet?  ‘Cause I heard ‘em bangin’ stuff around in the hallway and I thought he might be movin’ in, finally.”

Sniper was hoping Scout would ask about that.  He was in the mood to hop on his soap box for a moment or two.  “He’s here, all right,” Sniper grumbled.  “’N’ he’s a no-hoper if I ever sawr one, that’s a fact.”

Scout appeared to take morbid joy—schadenfreude, as Doc would call it—in hearing that.  “So he sucks eggs, huh?  You gotta tell me about him, like I wanna know everything, like—well what’s his codename?  It ain’t Scout, is it?  Please tell me it ain’t.”

“It’s not,” Sniper said with a shake of his head.  “We’re supposed to call him Looker.”

“Looker?  Pff.  That’s lame.  And what does Looker look like, does he got big muscles, is he tall, what?”

“He is pretty muscular,” Sniper admitted, “but he don’t look right—if that makes sense.”

“Kinda how I got these big thunder thighs down here, but then I got these little bird arms up top?” Scout grinned, flexing his biceps.

Sniper chuckled at him.  Scout really did seem to be in a much better mood now that he was out of that hospital bed.  “No, no, you don’t look strange like this Looker bloke does.    He looks…lumpy, I suppose’d be a good way to describe it.  His lower arms are nearly bigger than his upper ones, ’n’ one side of his chest looks loads bigger than the other side.”

“What’s his face look like, is he handsome, is he ugly, is he kinda normal…?”

“He’s, er…not…the best lookin’ bloke I ever seen, I’ll put it that way.”

“So I’m better-lookin’ than he is?” Scout said hopefully.

“Oh, by far,” Sniper said without hesitation.  “He’s got these beady little eyes that give me the right creeps.  Big ol’ pumpkin head, mouth that takes up half his bloody face, ’n’ he’s got this big birthmark on his cheek that looks like somebody colored on him with a magic marker when he weren’t lookin’.”

Normally, Sniper wouldn’t dig into someone’s outward appearance like that—he, himself knew what it felt like to be ridiculed for your looks—but he’d honestly thought it would make Scout feel a bit better about this whole situation.

But by the looks of things, though, it had done quite the opposite.

Sniper watched as sudden realization crept to Scout’s face—his eyes widened, his eyebrows rose and crinkled his forehead, his mouth gaped open.  Sniper didn’t like that look one bit; it made him feel squirmy.  He wondered what he’d said to have caused that sort of reaction.

“Big birthmark?” Scout said.  “Right here?”  He brought his finger up to his face, jabbing his fingertip to his right cheek.

“Yeah,” Sniper said uncertainly.

“‘Bout this big around?” Scout said, curling his thumb and forefinger into an oblong O shape, indicating a size about as large as a quarter.

“Er…yeah,” Sniper said.  “Why, d’you…you think you might know him from somewhere?”

Scout’s face changed dramatically, morphing from surprised to downright furious.  Sniper tensed.

“Does he got red hair?”

“Well it’s buzzed nearly flat, but—but yeah, he does.”

“Real square jawline, like square square, like kinda weird square?”

“Yeah—you’ve seen this bloke before, haven’t you?”

Scout’s eyes darkened.  He calmly sat his drawing pad and his marker atop his bed, then began propelling himself in the wheelchair toward the door.

For a moment, Sniper was taken aback, unsure as to what exactly was happening.  But he snapped out of it quickly enough, jumping out of his seat and trailing after the man.

“Where’re you going, mate?” he said as Scout struggled to hold the heavy door open and wedge himself out at the same time.  “You can’t be rollin’ all over the place, you said it yourself, you’ve gotta keep your leg still—“

Scout looked back at him, and it was obvious that Scout was trying very, very hard to keep his hot temper in check.  “Help me get this door open, please,” he said slowly, icily.

“Now—now wait just a bloody minute, gremlin,” Sniper said, gently tugging Scout’s hand away from the door handle.  He held it sandwiched between his own hands for a moment, feeling the tremors that ran through it, the sweat that slicked it.  He gave it a reassuring squeeze before releasing it.  “What’s got you so desperate to get outta here all sudden-like?”

“I gotta know if it’s really him,” Scout said, and his voice sounded so pathetic that Sniper nearly crumbled, nearly held the door open for him so he could wheel himself out.  But that was a horrible idea, and Sniper knew that.

“This Looker bloke?” Sniper asked, just to be sure.  Couldn’t be anyone else, he thought, but he needed to be certain.

“Yeah, I—I think me and him usedta be—on the same baseball team.  But I don’t—but I gotta know, I can’t sit here not knowin’, I—“

And just like that, Scout’s face went from sad to angry yet again.  “I wanna give that asshole a piece a my mind if it’s him, I got some things I been wantin’ to say, I told myself if I ever saw him again I’d speak my piece and then I’d punch his goddamn lights out.  I got a knuckle sandwich with Bucky’s name written aaaaall over it, and if that’s really him out there, I’m—“

“Bucky’s his name?”

That snapped Scout out of his rant.  He shrugged, like it didn’t really matter, but then he said, “yeah.”

“Don’t think you’ve ever mentioned him ‘round me before, have you?”

“Prob’ly not,” Scout said, gnawing on his bottom lip.  “I don’t like to talk about him much, it’s…it’s just a buncha shit that happened in high school, I guess, but I’m still real sore about it.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it, then?” Sniper said, gesturing back to his straight-backed chair across the room.  “Dunno what happened, but I’m sure it ain’t worth riskin’ your leg to try ’n’ fight him.”

“You could beat the shit outta him for me, Snipes,” Scout said, attempting a smile.

“I may do.  Tell me the story, and I’ll see.”

Scout looked to the door, then back over to Sniper’s chair.  He sighed deeply, then wheeled himself back over to the chair.  “Awright, I’ll tell ya all about Bucky.  Hell, this poor guy might not even be Bucky, I mean, what’re the odds a that, but—but I’ll tell ya anyway.  Y’know, cause…cause I trust ya and shit.”

“Heartwarming,” Sniper grinned, crossing the room to sit next to him.  He was desperate to hear anything about Scout’s past; as it was, he didn’t know a lot.  He leaned back in the chair, balancing it on two legs, settling in for what was bound to be an interesting tale.

Chapter Text

“But that don't make much sense, does it?” Sniper said.  “If he went ’n’ got some girl pregnant, you’d think he’d want his best mate around to—I dunno, be there for moral support, at least.”

It was obvious that Sniper was doing his absolute best to try and imbibe all of this information.  Normally Sniper tended to listen more than talk, but right now, he was full of questions.  On more than one occasion in the past, Sniper had mentioned he didn’t have any friends growing up.  Complicated stuff like the whole Bucky situation were notably difficult for Sniper to make sense of, since he didn’t have any points of reference to compare it to. 

And to make matters more complicated, Scout had never told another soul about Bucky.  Sure, his Ma and brothers knew about him, would probably recognize him if they saw him, even, but they didn’t know about Bucky.  They didn’t know Scout had had a hopeless crush on the guy.  And they definitely didn’t know the two of them had kissed.  Sniper was the first person he’d ever told the entire story to, from start to finish, and it came out poorly organized and confusing.  It was no surprise that Sniper would be full of questions.

Scout was silently grateful someone cared enough about him to ask at all.  This thing with Bucky had been a thorn in his side for far too long.  And if that new Looker guy really was Bucky, he’d be yanking that thorn out once and for all.

“It didn’t really make a lotta sense to me, either, at first,” Scout answered.  “Guess I’ll never know for sure what he was thinkin’, cuttin’ me outta his life like that, but I got a couple ideas.”

“Like what, maybe…maybe he thought in some odd way, he’d be sparin’ your feelings, you reckon?”

“See, that was my very first thought, but after thinkin’ about it for awhile, I don’t think that was it.  If he was tryin’ so hard not to hurt my feelin’s, he’d’ve explained everything to me so I wouldn’t be…y’know.  Left wonderin’.  Like he could’ve just said to me, ‘I like you a lot, like I like like you, but I did sum’n stupid, I got my girlfriend pregnant.  And I can’t be foolin’ around with you and lookin’ after her at the same time.’

And y’know what?  I’m not an idiot, I came from a whole house fulla kids who ain’t got a frickin’ clue who their dad is, me included.  And if Bucky wanted to kick my ass to the curb and go be the best dad in the world, I woulda understood that!  I woulda understood that better than anybody, prob’ly!  I—he—I told him about me growin’ up without a dad, he shoulda known I woulda understood.  We coulda still been friends, I mean—!  Yeah, it woulda been weird, but I woulda tried! 

So I don’t think it’s got a frickin’ thing to do with sparin’ my feelin’s, nah.  I think he was just bein’ an asshole.”

When Scout finally finished his rant, Sniper sat there in silence, seeming to let all of that information percolate.  It was a few good seconds before he said anything in reply.

“All o’ that sounds about right to me,” he said, “but you gotta remember, the two o’ you were still in secondary school when all this happened.  Teenagers ain’t exactly notorious for makin’ the best decisions.”

Scout knew all about being a teenager and making bad decisions.  Bucky was no different.  Maybe the whole thing with Bucky had turned out so bad because neither of them knew how to really deal with it.

Maybe he should just forget all about Bucky.  Why should he waste his time, why should he get all bent out of shape, because of something that happened over six years ago?  Scout still had a deep-seated anger towards the man—that couldn’t be helped, he was temperamental by nature—but maybe it would be better if he forgot all about the whole “giving Bucky a piece of his mind” thing.  Unless he actively hunted the man down, the two of them would likely never cross paths.  He could be the bigger person and let it go.

All of this was assuming the new guy was Bucky after all.  Maybe it was just some guy who looked like him.  Scout didn’t know for sure, yet.

“Snipes?” Scout said.

“Mm?”

“Could I getcha to do me a huge favor?”

“Dunno if I like the sound o’ that,” Sniper said, but he was grinning.

“I just—I just gotta know if this dude’s really him or not,” Scout said.  “It’s drivin’ me nuts.  You said Spy took a picture of him, didn’tcha?”

Sniper didn’t outright sigh, but he exhaled slowly.  “You want me to go fetch the photo ’n’ bring it back here, I suspect?”

“Wouldja please?  I’ll owe ya one big time.”

“I dunno,” Sniper mumbled, “Spy’s kind of like me, he likes to keep to himself ’n’ all…”  His left hand jerked over to scratch at his right wrist, then migrated up to graze across the stubble of his cheek.  His aloof, somewhat hardened facial expression seemed to say “I’ll do it if you insist, but I’m hoping you won’t make me.”

Scout opened his mouth to beg Sniper, plead with him—he needed to see that picture so bad, he needed to know—but Scout managed to come to his senses before he said anything stupid.  It was obvious Sniper didn’t want to talk to Spy.  He was fidgeting all over the place and wouldn’t even come close to meeting Scout’s eyes.

“Uh, hey, y’know what?” Scout said.  “On second thought, I don’t need to see that picture.  I mean, who cares if this guy’s really Bucky, right?”  He flapped a dismissive hand.  “I’ll just forget about it, no problem.”

Sniper’s fidgeting all but stopped as he bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling.  “You’re a rotten liar, you know that?”

“I ain’t lyin’, though!  You don’t gotta get the picture, Snipes, I know ya don’t like dealin’ with people and stuff, I…I shoulda never brought it up, man, my bad.”

Sniper stood up abruptly and adjusted his hat.  “He’s not gonna hand it over,” Sniper said, tugging his vest back into place.  “But I’ll ask.  Know why?”

“‘Cause ya like me?” Scout said hopefully.

Sniper allowed himself a slight smile.  “Maybe a bit.”

Sniper turned, as if he was about to make his leave.  But before he could get very far, Scout stopped him.

“Oh hey, hang on, turn back around here for a sec.”

Sniper did as he was told, pivoting on his heel to face Scout.  “Yeah?”

“Ya got sum’n on ya face right here,” Scout said, running a finger across his own left cheek, “looks like dried blood, maybe?”

Sniper wiped at his face with the flat of his hand.  “I promise I showered before I came over here,” he said.  “Suppose I missed a spot.  Did I get it?”

“Kinda—here, lean down, lemme get it.”

Sniper bent down to Scout’s level, and when he did, Scout grabbed the man’s shirt collar to pull him close and planted a rather loud kiss square on his mouth.  When he pulled away, Sniper merely looked at him in awe for a moment, before flicking Scout on the forehead with his index finger.

“Ow!” Scout said, though it hadn’t really hurt.

“That was a dirty trick,” Sniper mumbled, giving Scout’s head full of already messy hair a brief tousle.

“Ain’t so bad a liar after all, am I?” Scout said triumphantly.

“I’ll be gettin’ you back for that,” Sniper said, a mischievous glint in his eye.  Without waiting for Scout to reply, Sniper turned on his heel again and made for the door.

I hope ya do, Scout thought, eyes drinking up the sight of Sniper’s long, long legs sauntering out of the room.  I hope ya do.

****

This is what you get for fancyin’ someone, Sniper thought as he walked down the hallway to Spy’s bedroom.  Hope you’re happy.

He’d tried to get Scout to let him off the hook.  He didn’t want to walk up to any of his teammates’s bedroom doors and go knocking on it, least of all Spy’s.  And Scout had actually said it was fine if he didn’t go, but what was he doing?  Walking toward Spy’s bedroom.  And why?

Because even though Scout tried to conceal everything beneath all those jokes and smiles, Sniper could see the worry and hurt in the man’s eyes.  Scout wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew if this bloke was really Bucky or not; he’d hyperfocus on it and drive himself mad. 

If Sniper had been having any doubts or second thoughts about going to fetch the photograph, they’d been swept away when Scout had kissed him just a moment ago.  It had been fleeting, brief, but what made it different from the last time their lips came together was that he didn’t have time to prepare himself for it.  As a result, it knocked him completely for a loop, and it made him think—made him feel—things.  He still didn’t know how to describe what he felt for Scout.  It was far too early in the game to call it love, he wasn’t that green, but this feeling certainly felt like it was well on its way to becoming love.  Part of him didn’t want to admit that, really, but it couldn’t be helped.  It was a watered-down sort of love, he supposed.  A tender affection, a fondness, a…oh, hell, he didn’t know.  All he knew was that he was standing in front of Spy’s bedroom door, staring at it, trying to work up the courage to knock.

After a full minute of just standing there, he shook his head.  He couldn’t do this.  He tried to tell himself it was just Spy, he’d talked to the man earlier for God’s sake, he wasn’t going to bite his head off.  (And if he did bite his head off, he’d just end up back in respawn.)  But even from outside the room, he could smell that fancy cigarette smoke wafting from underneath the crack in the door.  Spy was probably in there lounging about with his tie loosened and his shoes kicked off, having himself a leisurely smoke, enjoying his rare moment of solitude.  Sniper couldn’t interrupt him, what would he say?  He wanted to borrow a picture Spy had taken so Scout could see whether or not it was an old flame of his?  That just sounded ridiculous.

“Do you intend to stand there all evening, or are you waiting for an invitation inside?” came an amused-sounding voice from the other side of the door.  Sniper nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Sorry,” Sniper said automatically.  “Could I—talk to you?  For a second?”

As soon as he said that, Spy swung the door open.  Like all the mercs (or most, anyway, Sniper suspected), he had shorn his bloodied clothing from the workday and was now dressed in a clean suit similar to the ones he wore on the field.  He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket, Sniper noted, and had allowed himself the luxury of rolling his shirtsleeves nearly to the elbow, but he still wore those cumbersome leather gloves and that form-fitting balaclava.  To each their own, Sniper supposed.

“Actually, I have been expecting you, Bushman,” Spy said, stepping to the side to usher Sniper into the room.  “Come inside.  Make yourself at home.”

Sniper didn’t like the sound of that.  It couldn’t possibly mean anything good, but he may as well not dwell on it; he was here now, and he had no choice but to go inside.  He willed his feet to step over the threshold.

Though the room was the same size as Scout’s regular bedroom, its layout was radically different.  A row of filing cabinets lined an entire wall over to Sniper’s left, undoubtedly stuffed full of confidential documents and candid photos and all sorts of other incriminating items.  There was a standard single bed catty-corner to the filing cabinets; unlike Scout’s bed, which had a fitted sheet and a Red Sox throw blanket and a garden-variety pillow atop it, Spy’s bed was so pristine you could bounce a coin off the neatly-tucked duvet.  Across from the bed was an armoire with intricate fleur de lis patterns carved into the wood, no doubt imported from somewhere fancy (France, if Sniper had to hazard a guess). 

The other half of the room looked as though it might be a businessman’s office quarters.  There was a small, round table with four chairs around it, and to the side of that was a love seat and coffee table.  Behind the love seat was something that looked like an awful lot like some sort of high-end, wood-paneled refrigerator—it had an electrical cord running from it, and it also had a handle—but Sniper couldn’t be sure. 

Sniper wasn’t too keen on the idea of siting side-by-side with Spy, so he chose to sit at the table instead of the couch.  Perhaps that was rude, but if it was, Spy had the decency not to tell him about it.

Once he was seated, Spy stepped into the room, shutting and locking the door behind him.  He went to the filing cabinet and plucked two small, squat glasses from it, then went to the little refrigerator (the mysterious piece of furniture had been a refrigerator after all, Sniper noted) and withdrew a brown glass bottle from it.  Spy plunked the glasses onto the tabletop and filled each of them halfway with the dark, sweet-smelling liquid.

Sniper was mildly curious about what kind of liquor could be residing in that tall, ornate bottle, but he didn’t bother asking.  Just as long as it wasn’t complete rotgut stuff—which Spy wouldn’t be caught dead drinking—he could stomach it.  When it came to liquor, Sniper wasn’t very picky.

“Thanks,” he muttered, grabbing the glass and taking an experimental sip.  It had a similar bite to whiskey, though the flavor was vaguely fruity.  He watched as Spy opened another filing cabinet drawer, pulled out a thick manila folder, and brought it over to the table.

Spy took a leisurely drink from his glass before speaking.  “I’m sure you are wondering why I was expecting you,” he said.

“Yeah,” Sniper said, unsure of what he should say to that other than a general affirmation.

“I was doing a bit of…research on our new teammate,” Spy said, flipping the folder open.  “And I found something quite interesting.”

He took something from the folder and slid it across the table.  With uncertain hands, Sniper picked up the item in question and had a look at it.

It was a large, full-color photograph of a bunch of scruffy kids in baseball uniforms.  They were standing on some sort of riser (or maybe a set of bleachers) in three neat rows, so it was most likely a school yearbook photo.  In the front row, smiling that unmistakable buck-toothed grin, was a Scout from six years ago.

Though he tried not to, Sniper broke out into a grin at the sight of it.  Lookit him, he looks exactly the same.  Hair was a lot shorter back then, but other than that, this picture could’ve been taken yesterday.

“Yes, but have a look at who is standing beside Scout,” Spy said with that same amused tone he’d used earlier, as if he could read Sniper’s mind.

Sniper looked.  Scout had his arm thrown around the shoulders of a copper-headed boy with a square head, beady little eyes, and a large blotch of a birthmark on his cheek.

“That’s the Looker bloke, innit?”  Sniper asked, looking up from the picture.

“Yes, it is,” Spy said, taking another sip of his drink.

Sniper studied the photo again.  “He didn’t age well, did he?”

Spy snorted.  “Considering only six years have passed since that photo was taken, I should say not.  I imagine you have spoken to Scout about this so-called Looker, non?”

Sniper took a drink from his glass.  “Yeah.  ’S why I came here, actually.”

“You have given Scout a description of Looker’s physical appearance, no doubt—he would want to know if he was the better-looking one,” Spy said with a smirk.  “And when you described this man to him, Scout noticed similar-sounding characteristics between Looker and his old teammate, Bucky McAllister.  Am I correct in those assumptions?”

Impressed, Sniper raised his eyebrows.  “That’s exactly what happened.  ’N’ now he’s sent me to fetch that picture you took, so he’ll know if Looker and Bucky’re the same person.”  He glanced down at the baseball photo again.  “Which, I can see they are, but—“

“But he must see the evidence with his own eyes,” Spy finished for him.  “I can respect that.”  He riffled through some more papers inside the manila envelope, then pulled out the same Polaroid photograph he’d had tucked into his suit jacket earlier in the day.  He held the photo between his index and middle fingers.  “I would like this back as soon as you are finished with it, if you please.  As of right now, it is my only copy, and it was quite difficult to acquire.”

He handed the Polaroid photo over to Sniper and stuck the baseball picture back into the manila folder.  “I wouldn’t recommend taking this one, however,” he said, tapping at the baseball picture before shutting the folder.  “The mind has a tendency to…well, you have heard the phrase ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder,’ yes?”

“Course,” Sniper said, a little confused as to where this conversation was headed.  Maybe he meant that Scout’s years apart from Looker-slash-Bucky had made Scout like the man more?  Surely not, after Looker had given Scout such an abrupt, unexplained cold shoulder.  Then again, Sniper’s perception of emotions was a bit odd, so maybe he just didn’t know how the rest of the world thought about things like that.

“When you are close to someone and then you spend time apart from them,” Spy said, running a gloved fingertip around the rim of his glass, “your mind begins to form a…an idealized version of that person.  You conveniently forget all of the wrongs they have caused you and focus only on the good memories.  I think it would be best if Scout thought back on these good memories with Looker as little as possible.”  He flipped the folder shut, hiding the baseball picture from view.

“How come you’re so concerned with Scout all of a sudden?” Sniper asked.  He hadn’t meant it in an accusatory way, he was merely curious.  He thought Spy and Scout fought like two territorial housecats.  Didn’t they?

Spy took another drink, then spoke.  “Scout is irritating, I will admit.  We exchange rude comments quite often, and if we are speaking to one another, we are usually having an argument.  However.”  His upper lip curled in disgust.  “This Looker is worse than Scout could ever be.  At the very least, Scout has enough sense to know when to act civilized.  I can get along with Scout if I must, merde, sometimes Scout’s company isn’t so horrible once you get past that grating accent and the sheer volume of his speaking voice.  But I’m not so sure Looker possesses any redeeming qualities.”

“So you’ve talked to him, then?”

“Yes,”  Spy seethed.  “I merely wanted to ask him a few questions about himself—it makes my job easier if people simply tell me these things, after all—and he broke out into a fit of rage.  I admit that my questions were a bit personal, but he could have refused to answer them instead of resorting to such an extreme.  I was momentarily taken aback by such a ridiculous display, but I am not one to be insulted and do nothing about it.  I told him I did not wish to start out on the wrong foot, as it were, but he would not listen.  Things escalated from there, and he made the mistake of throwing a punch at me.”

“And I thought he made piss-poor decisions at work,” Sniper grumbled.  “Suppose he’s just as stupid off the field, ain’t he?”

“Apparently so.  Suffice it to say, the more I get to know this Looker, the more eager I am for Scout to make a quick recovery.”

Sniper huffed out a laugh at that.  “I can tell ya one thing: nobody wants this bloke gone more than Scout does.  He’s scared half to death Looker’s gonna take his job.”

“I highly doubt Looker will be replacing anyone.  Scout is…”  Spy sighed deeply, as if what he was about to say pained him.  “…Quite good at his job, I must admit.  And though he irritates me to no end with his tactless jokes about my home country and his hyperactivity, there is no real ill intent behind his words or actions.  Looker is different.  There is something about him that does not seem right to me.  I cannot explain it.”

Spy had downed quite a bit more of his drink than Sniper had; maybe that was the reason he was being so open about all of this.  Sniper took a big swallow from his glass to match how much Spy had drank, his throat burning at the sudden barrage of liquor.

“I haven’t met him face-to-face yet, so I dunno how bad he is, really,” Sniper said, staring down at the slightly blurry photo of Looker.  The man forever trapped in the Polaroid photo sneered back at him. 

“I’m sure you will get your chance soon enough,” Spy said.  “Well, I won’t keep you, Bushman.  I have a feeling someone is waiting for you to return with that photo.”  He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, manila folder in hand.

“Right,” Sniper said, chugging the rest of his drink before standing.  “I’ll just, er, bring this back when he’s had a look at it, shouldn’t be long…”

“Just slide it under the door when you are finished with it.  No need to rush with it, I suppose.”

It was still a bit suspicious that Spy was being so generous, but Sniper did not think it wise to question it.  “Thanks, mate,” he said, nodding in Spy’s direction as he opened the door.

“No worries, mate,” Spy said in an eerily spot-on Australian accent that made the hairs stand up on the back of Sniper’s neck.  Sniper’s face must’ve showed his surprise, too, because Spy flashed him an evil grin as he stumbled out the door.

****

When Scout heard knocking at his hospital room door, his good leg immediately started jiggling in anticipation.  Please be Sniper please be Sniper please be Sniper—

Nurse, who had been busying themselves with disinfecting the cabinetry, tossed a wad of paper towels into the biohazard bin and opened the door.  Sniper stepped into the room and Nurse immediately made their leave, retreating back into the adjacent room to leave Scout and Sniper alone together

“Didja get it?” Scout said, every muscle in his body tense save for his juddering leg.  His eyes darted to Sniper’s hands, both of which were empty.  His heart sank.  “Aw jeez, he didn’t give it to ya, did he?  I kinda didn’t think he would, actually, ‘cause—“

But his voice died in his throat when Sniper sat down in a chair beside him and pulled a small photograph from the inside of his vest.  Sniper stared down at the picture, his face looking like he was studying its contents one final time, before handing it over.

“Ya got it!” Scout said, relieved.

“I’ve got to give it back once you're finished havin’ a look at it, though,” Sniper said, handing him the Polaroid photo.  Scout yanked it out of Sniper’s hands and stared down at it. 

He looked at it for about point-two-five seconds before he identified the scowling man in the picture.  He felt like he might puke.

“Goddammit,” Scout said, resisting the urge to ninja-star the photo across the room just to get it away from him.  Instead of doing that, he did the opposite, roving his eyes over the photo once again.  “It’s him.  That’s, that’s definitely Bucky.”

“Figured he was,” Sniper said.  “Don’t see many blokes wiv that sort of birthmark on their face.”

Scout shook his head and looked at the picture yet again.  Bucky was different—he’d changed.  A lot.

“‘Kay, in my defense, he was not this gross-lookin’ when I was crushin’ on him, I swear,” Scout said, attempting humor to lighten the situation.  It wasn’t helping.

“I know,” Sniper said.

Confused, Scout flicked his eyes over to Sniper.  “You know?”

Sniper winced.  “Spy found a picture of you ’n’ Looker standing beside each other wiv the rest o’ your baseball team.  Yearbook picture, or something.  He showed it to me.  Think that was supposed to be a secret, actually, but it’s too late for that now, I suppose.  I sawr what he looked like back then, and he does look…odd.  Dunno what it is, but he don’t look right, does he?”

“No,” Scout said, looking down at the picture for the umpteenth time.  “He looks like shit, like…like he aged or…or I dunno, like I can’t really describe it.”  He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts, then handed the picture back to Sniper.  He was tired of looking at it.  “I’m through with this, I guess,” he said as Sniper stuck the photo back into his vest pocket.

“Whaddya think I oughta do, Snipes?” Scout asked, his voice coming out more pathetic-sounding than he would’ve liked.  “‘Cause like a big part a me wants to give him a piece a my mind, but then another part a me’s just thinkin’…let it go.  Leave him alone, and he prob’ly won’t ever see me, since I gotta stay cooped up in here all day.  I can just try and pretend he ain’t here, till he leaves.  If he leaves.”

“Well…you know I’m not great at this sort of thing, but…but I suppose you could think abou’ it logically.  You know.  If you talk to him, what would be the likeliest thing to happen?  He’d probably pummel you first ’n’ ask questions later, honestly, he’s already tried to deck Spy in the face for no good reason.  If he sawr you, there’s no telling what he’d do.”

“Wait, he tried to punch Spy in the face?  Did he catch Spy takin’ this picture, or sum’n?”

“Spy claims he was just trying to introduce himself to the bloke, is all.  Whether that’s true or not, I dunno, but that’s what he says.  And you know—now that I think of it, Spy said kind of the same thing you’re sayin’, abou’ how somethin’ just seems off with the bloke, like he ain’t normal.  I haven’t met him personal-like yet, so I’m not sure what he’s meanin’ by that, exactly…but you say he looks weird to you, too?”

“Yeah, he looks rough.  He mighta got into drugs, or sum’n, that might explain tryin’ to punch Spy for no reason and how come he looks like shit.”

“’S possible,” Sniper muttered, averting his eyes.  He looked uncomfortable. 

“Hey, uh,” Scout started.  He wasn’t sure what he was about to say, he just knew the general idea of what he wanted to get across, but he was good at talking on the fly.  “I know I’m makin’ a big deal about this, but it’s like…Bucky’s just some asshole I knew in high school, is all he is.  And yeah, I guess he hurt me—a lot, like a lot, a lot—but that’s all this is, is me tryin’ to decide whether I wanna call him out on it and say my piece or not.  What’s the word when ya, like”—he puffed out a frustrated little sigh, he hated when he couldn’t think of words—“when somebody ya used to know comes back in ya life, and ya don’t really wanna start nuttin’ with ‘em again, but ya wanna, kinda, put an end cap on it?  So you’ll quit thinkin’ about ‘em?  Write ‘em outta ya life once and for good?  There’s a word for it, I know there is.  Y’know what I’m talkin’ about?”

“Er,” Sniper said.  “Maybe closure’s the word you’re lookin’ for?”

“Yeah,” Scout said, nodding.  “Closure, that’s exactly what I was tryin’ to say.  That’s what I’m after, Snipes, and that is all I’m after.  If I talk to him at all, which I still ain’t made up my mind about it yet.” 

Scout reached out and tried to grab Sniper’s hand, but it was just beyond his reach.  The best he could do was brush the pads of his fingers against Sniper’s fingernails.  He flailed his hand around, trying to get Sniper to take a damn hint.  That garnered a half-smile and a grunt of amusement from the other man, which Scout was relieved to see.  Sniper scooted his chair closer to Scout, allowing their hands to interlock properly.

“I ain’t tryin’ to get together with him or screw him or nuttin’ like that, I swear,” Scout said.  “For real.  Even if he did a complete one-eighty and he’s a total angel, gentleman, Mother Teresa or whatever, I don’t give a shit.  People can change, I guess, but—but old habits die hard, y’know?  I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can frickin’ throw him.  I ain’t even interested in bein’ his friend no more, for real.  I just wanna…” 

He squeezed Sniper’s hand a little harder.  He didn’t completely know what it was he wanted. 

“…I guess I just wanna forget about him.  And it’s kinda hard to do that when I’m wonderin’ all the time why he ditched me like that.  And he’s got a frickin’ kid now, I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t wanna know how all that turned out.  Did he marry that girl, or what happened to that?  It’s just shit I wonder about and it eats at me and—“ 

Scout abruptly stopped talking, scoffing at himself.  “I’m ramblin’ again, ain’t I?”

Sniper gave him a smile, a real one this time, one that crinkled his eyes beneath those yellow-tinted glasses of his.  “A bit,” he said.

“If ya don’t want me to talk to him, I won’t,” Scout said, his voice softening.