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The van smells like motor oil, instant coffee, and eucalyptus—Sniper’s fault, apparently. Scout doesn’t mind. He’s sprawled across the narrow bench seat with his feet in Sniper’s lap like he owns the place, sneakers kicked off, socks mismatched. Outside, the desert hums quietly, heat wavering the horizon.
“Yer gonna get crumbs everywhere,” Sniper says, not moving his legs away even a little.
Scout grins around a mouthful of pastry. “Relax, bushman. I’m bein’ careful.”
He is not being careful. There are definitely crumbs. Sniper sighs, but it’s the fond kind—the kind that ends with him reaching out anyway, brushing sugar from Scout’s cheek with his thumb. Scout freezes for half a second, then melts into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey,” Scout says, quieter now. “You always do that.”
“Clean up after you?” Sniper replies dryly.
“No—” Scout nudges his ankle against Sniper’s knee. “That thing. Like I’m… I dunno. Important.”
Sniper’s hand lingers, warm and steady. “You are.”
Scout blinks. Once. Twice. Then he looks away fast, ears pink. “Yeah, well. Don’t go gettin’ all poetic on me.”
Sniper smirks and goes back to his coffee, watching Scout out of the corner of his eye. The radio crackles low—some old rock station fading in and out. Scout hums along, off-key, tapping his fingers against Sniper’s thigh in an unconscious rhythm.
After a while, Scout shifts closer. The van is small, but somehow there’s always room. He tucks himself sideways, head resting against Sniper’s shoulder, like he’s testing the idea first. When Sniper doesn’t move away—just adjusts so Scout’s more comfortable—Scout lets out a little satisfied huff.
“You ever think,” Scout says, eyes half-closed, “that this is kinda nice?”
“Kinda?” Sniper murmurs.
“Okay, okay—really nice,” Scout amends. “No shootin’. No runnin’. Just… us.”
Sniper rests his chin lightly against the top of Scout’s head. “Yeah,” he says. “I think about it.”
Scout smiles, small and soft, like he’s holding something precious and doesn’t want to drop it. He reaches up, fingers curling into the sleeve of Sniper’s vest.
“Hey,” Scout says sleepily. “Next time we stop, you gotta let me drive.”
Sniper snorts. “Absolutely not.”
“C’mon!”
“You’d kill us in five minutes.”
Scout laughs, bright and easy, and presses closer anyway. “Worth askin’.”
They sit like that for a long time—Scout warm and solid, Sniper steady as a heartbeat—while the sun sinks lower and the world stays quiet. No mercs. No missions. Just a van, a radio, and two idiots who somehow found peace in the middle of nowhere.
Sniper thinks—just for a moment—that he could stay like this forever.
Scout, already asleep, probably would too.