Chapter Text
Spy, was an asshole.
A step, a kick.
clang
Scratch that. Spy, was the asshole.
Three steps, a shuffle, another kick.
Clang
The asshole to end all other assholes.
Another step. A wind up…
The great french asshole extraordinaire!
And, a release.
CLANG
Scout watched listlessly as the can he’d been kicking skipped and clattered its way down the pavement, each impact ringing louder than the last. Stopping just a few steps away from the mouth of an alley, it rocked in place, once, twice, before settling, dented side down.
The renewed silence was deafening.
He didn’t know exactly how long he’d been out here, meandering his way through the dark deserted streets of Teufort, hands in his pockets and mind heavy, but it was long enough that the warmth of the few beers he had managed earlier had dissipated; the pleasant night air now a leaching chill. Scout burrowed his face deeper into his jacket to fight the sting.
Teufort was a different place late at night. More calm, more quiet.
Too quiet.
It was setting him on edge. No people, no traffic–no night life to speak of–just Scout, alone with his thoughts…and his thoughts weren’t the greatest place to be at the moment.
He stepped forward and stopped just before the discarded can, prodding at the faded label with the toe of his sneaker.
Spy was clearly an asshole, so why couldn’t Scout seem to get his words out of his head…
It was a sad affair to begin with.
The two weeks, fourteen days, and some odd hours of–Scout couldn’t be bothered to try and attempt the math–straight losses certainly had their effect on morale. The team's regularly scheduled night out turned from its usual celebration into some sort of strange, drowning of sorrows.
Surprisingly, Tavish wasn’t the only mercenary deep in his cups, it seemed like tonight, in some unspoken agreement, the whole team had chosen to lose themselves to over indulgence, staring despondently into their pints as if the answers to their troubles would be found floating at the bottom.
Scout had looked, but the only thing that had greeted him was a few leftover bits of scum.
Hidden from sight in their usual back corner booth, the most recent match replayed through their minds: every death, every mistake, every little thing they could have done better. Scout had thought them past the point of pointing fingers, each too deep in their own melancholy to look for blame anywhere else but themselves, but tensions were high and liquid courage flowed–it was really only a matter of time.
To be clear, Scout did not start the fight. He never truly did, not now and not when he was younger, though his ma might say otherwise. He just always seemed to find himself in one, stumbling into trouble like it was his calling, and well, once you were in, there’s really only one way to get out.
So no, he did not start the fight, but he certainly did rise to the occasion.
He had just scooched out from the booth, intending to grab the next round of drinks, when a gloved hand latched itself around his wrist and wrenched him down across the table, straight into a snarling masked french face. Phrased like a question but dripping with disdain Spy spoke, “What would you call a performance like zhat today, hm Scout?”
Scout tugged fruitlessly at his arm. “Why,” he spat with a glare, “Wassitmatter to you?”
“It matters–” Spy sneered back, drawing the younger man closer by an inch, “Because as a member of this team, I must inform you zhat such a pitiful showing holds you no place on this roster.”
A hush fell over the table; the attention of their teammates gained.
Scout ceased in his struggles, eyes wide in disbelief as the question flowed over him like a wave. Taking the opportunity afforded by their close proximity, he peered directly into Spy’s eyes, flinching back at the humorless look given in return.
Spy really meant it then; he really felt that Scout didn’t deserve his place on the team…
Well, tough shit.
Scout renewed his struggles in earnest, the table shaking from the sheer force of his pulls. “I belong here more than you. Who died and made you king anyways?”
“Why, you did.” Spy revealed, his sneer morphing into a haughty grin as he shared the fact. “Thirty-seven times, if we’re being exact.” He leaned close, his voice dropping low and pitious. “I shouldn’t be so surprised at your ignorance, we all know you can’t count zhat high.”
“You can’t talk to me like that.” Scout snapped, finally managing to rip his arm free and take a step back. He could feel the area behind his eyes start to throb, frustration turned embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Avoiding the weighted looks from the rest of the team he trained his gaze to the floor.
It wasn’t his fault he was bad at numbers, at words. He could still get there in the end, if given enough time, but the middle was a muddle of merging lines and mismatched spaces. His brain just didn’t work the way others do. It didn’t make him dumb.
It didn’t.
“Oh, but I just did.” Spy said, a smarmy grin overtaking his face as he basked in Scout’s humiliation.
“No fighting in bar,” Heavy grumbled, the only mercenary with his eyes still firmly fixed to his beer, the hairline fractures in the glass the only proof of his underlying irritation. “Is not night for it.”
Ever used to playing the victim, Spy leaned back against the booth’s cushioned seat, placing a hand daintily to his chest in mock offense. “It was an honest question,” he offered, with clearly feigned innocence.
Sniper threw back the rest of his drink before slamming the now empty glass on the table, interjecting into the conversation with a growl, “There’s nothing honest about ya, Spook.”
The others nodded their agreement.
Spy was nothing if not a lie wrapped in falsehood, sprinkled with fabrication. Everything he said or did had some sort of ulterior motive in mind. If you thought otherwise, you just weren’t looking hard enough. It was as integral a part to his character as patriotism was to Soldier or malpractice was to the Doc.
Strengthened from the added support, Scout stood up tall, pulling his shoulders back and raising his chin to look down his nose at the other. “Yeah, what they said.”
Spy’s charade fell in a blink.
Leaning forward on crossed arms, he looked Scout up and down slowly, taking in the squared feet to the head lifted in confidence. He tutted in disapproval. “Needing your teammates to carry you even now–How pathetic.”
Scout flinched back as if struck.
…pathetic? Pathetic!? He’ll show Spy who’s pathetic. Fueled with indignation, Scout made to step forward, hand clenched shut into a fist to form his response, but the slap of a palm to his chest stopped his advance.
“Now that’s enough.” Engineer cut in, his tone brooking no argument, eyes trained on the rest of the bar, cataloging the growing unease. In an attempt to mediate the situation he turned to Scout and offered an out with the pat of his hand, “Scooter, how bout those drinks, huh?”
“Fuck off, Hardhat,” Scout bit out, brushing the hand aside. He was simply too keyed up to just walk away. “Can’t ya see we’re in the middle of somethin’ here?”
In a stage-whisper to Medic on his right Spy shared a thought, “It seems vhat his mother never taught him any manners.”
And that was that.
All bets were off.
There were a few universal truths known around the base, ones learned quickly after a trip or two too many through respawn. You don’t hide Demo’s alcohol, no matter the good intentions behind the act, you don’t lay a finger on Engineer's toolbox, unless you had his express approval, and you don’t talk bad about Scout’s ma.
Not unless you were itching for a fight.
With a yell, Scout flung himself across the table, hands latching tight around a balaclava covered throat. Gloved fingers clawed at his face in retaliation, spit shined oxfords kicking bruises into his body as Spy attempted to shake him off. They knocked into the table, sending beers and pints over the side to shatter across the floor, never pausing in their grapple for dominance to care. The rest of the team bailed from the booth, offering shouts of encouragement or disapproval as they escaped the chaos. Scout clenched his grip tighter, watching with satisfaction as the visible skin around Spy’s mouth and eyes began to blend with the color of his mask.
He didn’t start the fight but he had plans to finish it, just a moment more and–
“I said, that’s ENOUGH!”
The whole bar fell silent, the fight stopping cold. Scout’s hold loosened involuntarily at the order allowing Spy to gasp in a breath.
Two pairs of hands grabbed hold of Scout's shoulders and yanked, pulling him off of Spy and out from the booth. They manhandled him until he faced the waiting figure of Engineer, glimpses of alarmed patron faces just visible over his shoulders; Scout cringed at the thought of the amount of damage control needed for the night.
The Texan fixed Scout with a look, his crossed arms and darkened brow radiating displeasure. He nodded over toward the door, “Why don’t you go take a walk, son. Give yerself some time to cool down. Get ah handle on things.”
Scout couldn’t believe his ears. He was being told off? For what, defending himself? He tried to speak, stammering from the indignation, “Wha–but I don’t–”
“Walk.” Engineer pointed, his word on the matter final.
Fine. Fine. Sending the shorter man a glare, Scout shook himself free from the hands still trapping him in place. “This is bull-shit.”
With one final jab over his shoulder at Spy still huddled in the booth, “He couldn’t handle me anyways,” Scout turned and cut through the crowd, striding out the back door and swinging it shut behind him with a bang.
Back in the present, Scout felt his frustration rise. It was unfair. Why was he always the one told to cool off, why was he always the one punished for rising to the bait? What else was he supposed to do? Be the bigger man, they say, don’t respond and they’ll leave you alone, they say; what a load of garbage. As if the real world even worked like that.
You stand up or be stepped on, that’s all there is to it.
He prodded again at the can before him, tracing over the faded logo of some draft beer with his eyes, attempting to make out the words.
Scout was sick of being stepped on.
He loved the team, he really did–was the only one ballsy enough to acknowledge that they were actually all friends, best friends, maybe even family–but just like his family back at home they made sure he knew his place. Scout wasn’t an equal, not in their eyes, not by far. He was below them, too young to be considered anything but a nuisance or a bother. He couldn’t even be sure he wasn’t sent out on this walk just to rid them of his presence…
He deflated at the thought.
Whatever. Who needs them anyways? Certainly not this guy. He was a lone wolf, leader of his own pack. He didn’t need anyone–
He didn’t.
Scout brought his foot down hard on top of the discarded can, crushing it beneath his heel and grinding it–with a twist–into the pavement. Taking a few leading steps away, he reeled back his leg and punted the now flattened puck of steel into the nearby alleyway out of sight. His ire waned with every ping that sounded from inside.
As the sounds of the can rocked to a stop a new sound rumbled from within, a low, guttural growl. Scout took a cautious step back as one, two, three pairs of ghostly white eyes turned towards him from the darkness. A scuffle of feet and then three…dogs–mutts–beasts slunk from the shadows, their teeth barred and saliva pooling, dripping in globs to the floor as they eyed the fresh meat before them.
You have got to be kidding.
Scout’s hands shot up from his sides, fingers splayed wide in an attempt to placate. “O-kay, uh, this does not look great for me here, um…nice doggies?”
Glowing eyes–or was that a trick of the light–tracked his every move as Scout backed further away, gaining as much space as he possibly could without startling the beasts to action. Eyes locked unwaveringly forward he took another step–only to be met with air.
His heart dropped to his stomach as he suddenly tumbled back, arms pinwheeling in a hopeless attempt to catch himself. Scout landed hard against the road, the wind knocked from his lungs. The eyes of the creatures flashed at the sight. He recovered just in time to dodge the snap of a jaw as the foremost beast of the pack sprang forward.
Scrambling to his feet, he did what any sane man would in that moment: he turned on his heel and fled.
The things rushed after.
Scout ran. He ran past darkened shop windows and shuttered stores, past overturned trash cans and flickering street lamps, he ran as fast as he possibly could and then he ran faster, the beasts nipping at his heels.
He ran like his life depended on it, because at this moment, he was fairly certain it did.
Scout was built for speed: lithe frame, solid legs, well toned calves and thighs. Once, on a triple dog dare from one of his brothers, he crushed a whole watermelon between his legs, bursting the fruit into chunks and juices all over their kitchen floor. His ma had them scrubbing the tile for weeks but it was worth it, it proved a point. Sure his arms weren’t that much to write home about (though he always had a spare ticket to the gun show) but his legs could leave a mark. They were powerful, strong. Long distance, short distance–you name it, the very poster child for track and field.
It was his job for a reason; he could outrun the team, he could outrun a bullet, he could outrun anything–on a good day.
Today…today was not a good day.
Eight hours of on the job sprinting, three beers sloshing in his belly and through his head, and the added factor that Teufort was essentially a brand new location to mental-map out, had Scout panting for breath and muscles burning, lost as can be not even three streets over.
Fighting through the stitch in his side Scout careened around a corner, taking quick note of the long expanse of open street ahead, he dashed into the first alleyway he could find. Two legs, no matter how fast, could never win a race against four on a large open stretch like that. His best bet–his only bet–was to lose those things in the maze that was urban planning.
He took a turn, then another, the streets passing by at a glance. The pounding of his footsteps and panting of his breath drowning out all other noise. Were they even still following? Was he running from nothing at this point? Scout didn’t dare look over his shoulder to check. He stumbled a bit as he turned another corner, a hand flinging out to catch himself on the wall before pushing off and throwing his body forward once more. Eyes focused on the ground, on the swing of his feet back and forth, he repeated in his head: just one more street, just one more alley, just. one. more. He hurtled down another pathway before skidding to a halt.
Un-fuckin-believeable.
Scout snapped his head back and forth, searching frantically for an overhang or some part of the wall jutting out at an angle–anything at all that he could possibly use as a handhold to wall climb himself up to safety, but there was nothing.
A dead end. Of course, why wouldn’t it be?
The sound of slowly advancing growls coming up from behind answered his earlier questions; Scout hung his head in defeat.
Today just really wasn’t his day.
With a steadying breath, Scout spun to face his pursuers, a step taken back for every stride stalked forward until his back made contact with a wall. The three forms converged on him, their bodies bending low, paws splayed ready to pounce. His eyes closed without permission, muscles tensing as he waited for the first bite of teeth that would tear him apart.
He remembered asking the Engineer one day about the possibility of respawn outside of the base, if it would even work and how; he also remembered the Engineer’s less than positive response. The machine is a might persnickety, he had said, if it’s satellite even managed to pick up your signature from that far away I’d reckon it’d be about five–ten minutes give er take for the respawn process to finish. Scout had shuddered at the thought. Respawn was an amazing advantage, even he could recognize that, but it wasn’t exactly a joy to experience. You were essentially torn apart and remade, reduced down to nothing but molecules as your mind continued to scream, stuck in an endless void until the process was completed and your new body formed. It was maddening, it was limbo, and that was just for the few seconds it took to reappear during a regular match. Ten minutes stuck in that hell, he didn’t even want to imagine it.
Scout was imagining it now.
A sharp note cut through the alley and Scout’s eyes slammed open, the beasts’ frozen in place.
Their ears–or what was left of them–perked, heads swiveling back from which they came to take in the fool that dared interrupt their dinner, the new side dish to their main course. Scout followed their gaze, squinting his eyes at the back lit figure that had possibly come to his rescue. Long spindly legs, a slight hunched posture, and the silhouette of an unmistakable hat with its brim tucked up on one side. He could just make out a flash of amber shades as Sniper’s fingers rose back to his lips and released a series of whistles: two short–sharp, pointed–and one long, a shrill note reverberating off the brick walls.
The creatures whimpered at the sound, paws coming up to claw at their ears desperate for the ringing to stop. Another piercing note from Sniper and the beasts turned tail and ran, skirting past the Australian and down the street without so much of a backwards glance.
“Yeah, that’s right!” Scout called at the retreating forms, gasping out the words as he sagged back against the wall, “You-you betta run–”
The adrenaline high that had carried him this far was finally crashing, his heaving breaths softening with every gulp of air. His body came back online with a wave of dizziness, knees buckling at the sudden influx of pain, the effects of his frantic run no longer able to be ignored. Collapsing to the ground, limbs heavy with exhaustion, Scout settled, head sagging forward to rest between his knees.
He survived. Thank God, he survived; no nightmare trip through respawn needed. For some reason though, Scout couldn't find it in him to care.
Wasn’t this just proof? That Scout couldn’t handle himself, that he needed his teammate’s assistance to get by? That Spy was right all along and he didn’t deserve his place on the team.
That Scout truly was…pathetic?
He curled more in on himself, arms rising to wrap around his legs, head squeezed tight between his knees. Dully, he noted the faint sound of footsteps approaching, Sniper making his presence known with a cough.
Scout chose not to look up.
“You alright there, mate?” Sniper asked, giving a soft nudge to Scout’s foot when the younger man didn’t react. “Had ya cornered good, they did. Lucky I was nearby.”
Scout grimaced. Lifting his head, he glared up at the Sniper, ambered shades mocking him as they reflected his huddled form. “Did I say I needed your help?” He asked, resentment building as he took in the pitiful picture displayed. “I had it all unda control, had ‘em right where I wanted ‘em.” He jerked his face to the side, refusing to look any longer.
“I didn’t need you,” he bit out, choking a little on the words. “I didn’t.”
They sat in silence, Sniper staring down at him and Scout staring off at the wall, still determined not to look. His chin wobbled slightly, eyes filling with unshed tears before he swallowed them back. He felt bad for snapping, for denying Sniper the save, but not bad enough to take it back. Scout was actually quite appreciative for the assist, probably would have been in pieces if not for the marksman but, that didn’t make it feel any better.
“Course, mate,” Sniper finally replied, a moment later. “Sorry for stepping on yer toes then.”
Scout squeezed his eyes tight, taking a deep breath in and out. Sniper had nothing to be sorry for but he appreciated being humored just the same.
A hand materialized in his peripheral. “Come on roo, up you get.”
Scout accepted the offer, allowing Sniper to haul him to his feet. His legs buckled slightly at the sudden change but Sniper’s quick reflexes stopped his fall, the other merc making sure he felt steady on his feet before pulling away to hover.
“Yeah, yeah I’m good,” Scout said, shaking off the other’s mother henning. “Move it already would ya?” He staggered forward, knocking his shoulder into Sniper’s as he passed, making his way toward the street.
Sniper simply shrugged before following. “The truck’s right around here.”
“Truck?” Scout questioned, stride faltering. “I rode in the van.”
Sniper smoothly stepped around him, taking the lead.
“No can do, mate. Vans left. Couldn’t find ya when the lot started packing it in so…” Sniper paused at the mouth of the alley, looking back over his shoulder, head tilted slightly to the side. “You’re stuck with what you can get.” Piece said, he continued around the corner.
“Great,” Scout muttered, his shoulders curling inward as he picked up the pace, not wanting to be left behind. “So they just left me then? Figures.”
They retraced his steps for a while before Sniper cut off the route, turning left instead of right at a fork. It was clear that the taller man had more sense for the town than Scout did, not just taking random streets but deliberate ones. Though, to be fair, Scout never claimed to be directionally abled. Seeing the Engineer’s beat up truck in the distance, clearly identifiable by the subpar parking job–Engineer maintains that the gunslinger doesn’t pull right, despite the clear evidence to the contrary–Scout quickened his tread, anxious for the night to be over.
Rounding the hood to the passenger side, fingertips leaving trails through the dirt caked body, Scout couldn’t stop the despondent question falling from his lips, “So how’d ya get stuck with babysittin’ then? What, you draw the short straw or somethin’?” Looking down at his now darkened fingertips, thumb rubbing at the grime, he let out a soft self-deprecating laugh.
They would do that too, he wouldn’t put it past them.
A moment passed, long enough for Scout to accept the silence as a response, before Sniper stepped forward, his arm stretching past Scout’s frozen form to pull at the passenger side handle, swinging the door wide.
“Volunteered, actually,” he gave simply.
Scout stared at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Did he hear that right? Sniper, the soft-spoken keeps-to-himself recluse, volunteered to search for Scout, the loud-mouthed hyperactive people person, to bring him back to base? Him?
Why would he–why would anyone–
“Don’t got all night, mate.”
Scout sent Sniper an abashed smile before making his way to the offered seat. Pulling himself up onto the running board he caught a glimpse into the truck bed from the corner of his eye and recoiled, hands karate chopping the air before scrambling forward and latching onto the roof. “What the hell is that crap!?!”
Sniper peered through the slats of the back, eyes wandering over the two unconscious figures tangled in the bed. Noting a stray limb strewn over the edge, he pushed it gently back inside. “That is the aftermath of a few too many shots. Got to hand it to Soldier tho, he lasted longer than I had money on. Tavish is tough competition to beat.”
“Should we bring ‘em inside or somethin’?” Scout asked, eyeing Demo as he cuddled closer to Soldier’s body heat. “That can’t be dat comfortable…”
Sniper slapped the side of the chassis, a low drawn out snore the only response from inside, “They’ll be fine, no worries. Could sleep through another bloody war with how pissed they are.”
Deciding to trust the marksman’s judgment on the matter, Scout clambered inside, his attempt at pulling shut the door behind him halted by a hand on the frame. Peering up at the looming figure, he watched his reflection dance in Sniper’s shades, the amber lenses aflame under the faint glow of the street lamp above them.
“Need to get something through yer head before we go.” Sniper jerked a thumb over his shoulder at their teammates sprawled in the back. “That, right there, that’s babysittin’. They’re the ones we’ve gotta worry about chundering all over the side.”
“This?” Sniper now gestured between the two of them. “This is something else altogether. Get it?”
No. No Scout didn’t get it. He didn’t get it at all. Could hardly wrap his head around the question. What did that even mean, ‘something else altogether’?
He swallowed back his concerns. “Got it.”
“Good.” Sniper answered, letting go of the door, the weight of Scout’s hand still attached enough for it to fall shut with a click.
Scout tracked Sniper as he made his way around the hood, long legs bringing him to the driver’s side door in record time. With a grunt of exertion, he pulled himself inside, placing the keys in the ignition and giving them a turn; the truck thundered to life. Sparing a glance behind them at their teammates, confirming Sniper’s earlier assumption, Scout settled back into his seat for the ride.
It wasn’t often Scout got to travel in Engie’s truck, more likely to be thrown in the back of the van with how little space he took up, so everything inside was of note. The fraying leather seats and the nuts and bolts found wedged between them, the permanently cracked buttons of a radio from where Hardhat had exerted too much force. There was a certain smell to it too, one the mostly disintegrated forest-pine air freshener swinging from the mirror wasn’t doing much against, like grease and tobacco had a child, though Scout could swear the Texan never smoked a day in his life. The most interesting element of all were the faint traces of Pyro found in the many half peeled stickers littering the cab. He leaned forward and poked at a sun-faded balloonicorn decorating the glovebox. Cute.
“Didn’t take you for the maudlin drunk.” Sniper threw out after a couple minutes of silence.
“I dunno what dat means,” Scout mumbled in reply, giving up on his inspection to swivel and face the driver’s seat.
Sniper quickly turned his head back to the road, fingers tapping out an absent tune on the wheel. He clarified, “Means you’re quiet.”
“Yeah, well,” Scout picked idly at the fraying edges of the upholstery, giving Sniper a weak shrug in return. “Tryin’ not to be a bother. Know ya like your silence and all dat.”
What an understatement that was.
It wasn’t that Sniper never talked, it was more that he never seemed to have much to say. Mostly keeping to himself–except for the few times a teammate managed to drag him along, Pyro most often to thank for that–Sniper would stick to the outskirts, refusing to engage then leaving as soon as it was no longer considered impolite; a regular Australian wallflower.
Sniper’s finger’s froze, hovering uncertainly above the steering column, eyes glancing over to Scout and back. His left hand reached down and flicked on the blinker, the springs of the beaten truck’s suspension squeaking at every bump as he pulled off the road. Without looking back over, Sniper threw the stick into park and settled back against the seat.
They sat in a tense silence. Scout, too scared to speak up, waited with bated breath for Sniper to make the first move; Sniper, too busy gathering his thoughts, failed to take notice.
Scout knew he shouldn’t have said anything. Should have just kept his big mouth shut, questions asked or no. He probably talked too much, overstayed his welcome, Sniper probably thinking of a way he could just kick Scout out here and have him walk back. It was always like that. Sure, the team would humor him for a time, act like they’re listening, like they care, but eventually they would snap, pushing him away or telling him off, begging for quiet.
He shouldn't be so surprised that Sniper's threshold was this small.
“I’m…bad, at this–at…people,” Sniper finally choked out, eyes firmly fixed out the front windshield, hands spasming before he locked them to the wheel. “Find ‘em difficult. Always have. They say one thing, mean another, it's…it’s confusing.”
Scout hummed softly. Not in agreement–he couldn’t say he exactly understood the sentiment–but in acknowledgement, letting the marksman know he was listening.
“And when there's a lot of ‘em.” Sniper continued, grip tightening on the steering column, voice cracking as he fumbled out the words. “It get’s–it’s too…well, it ain’t exactly pretty.”
Sniper glanced briefly out of the corner of his eye, making sure he still had the runner’s full attention, before flicking his gaze back to the front.
“That don’t mean I don’t like talking.”
Scout couldn’t help but interject then, his mouth running off before his brain could think better of it, “But you’re always so quiet! And-and, ya run off back to your van soon as stuff really gets started.”
“Yeah well, I’m more of a listener, simply put.” Sniper shrugged. “And you’ve met our team. Controlled chaos ain’t really the right definition for ‘em. Sometimes–heh–most times really, it all just gets a bit overwhelming…” He trailed off, glancing back over to Scout, holding his gaze. “But, I think I can handle the one runnin’ mouth just fine.”
“Sure, pally. Long as I don’t talk your ears off though, right?” Scout countered, sure he’d found the catch. “Long as you get some breaks in between?”
“Nawh mate,” Sniper was quick to reassure, turning fully toward the other, pushing himself forward. “Like listening to you. Think it gets too quiet without yer chattering to fill the background.” He gave Scout a soft, sincere smile.
Scout returned the smile hesitantly, still skeptical of the truth behind the words. He raked his eyes over Sniper’s face, searching for any signs of insincerity hidden from first glance, pausing on the small uptick to the corner of Sniper’s mouth.
“You really mean that,” he realized, awed.
It wasn’t a question, but Sniper answered anyway.
“Course, mate. Why lie about it?”
Try as he might, Scout honestly couldn’t think of a reason.
Letting the conversation stall there, Sniper shifted the truck back into drive and pulled smoothly back onto the road. For all the talk of encouraged conversation, it was age before either of them spoke.
“Ya know,” Scout mused, eyes fixed on the obscured view outside the driver’s side window before sliding over to trace the profile of Sniper’s face. “You’re really not that scary once you get to talkin’.” His eyes narrowed, “You’re just…weird.”
“Real fine compliment that is,” Sniper snarked back.
“Hey!” Scout cried, hand shooting across the gap to slap at Sniper’s arm in offense. “I really mean dat! Everyone talks about ya like you’re one wrong move away from pullin’ a trigger and, well, they’re kinda right–but you’re cool too. I mean, hey, that thing you did earlier was pretty freakin’ great.”
Sniper chanced a glance over, “Thing?” He prodded.
“That thing!” Scout blurted, gesturing wildly behind them. “Back in the alley! You remember? That like whistle thing ya did.”
“Ah, mate. That was nothin’, anyone can do that.”
“Well I can’t! Least, I don’t think so…” Scout ran his tongue over his lips, making sure they were nice and moist, before bringing his middle finger and thumb to his mouth, pushing the tip of his tongue inside and taking a deep breath–
Sniper reached over and knocked Scout’s fingers away, eyes not even straying from the road.
Scout sputtered, hands coming up to karate chop away the offending limb. “Yo, what was that for!?”
“Not in the car, roo,” Sniper gave as explanation. “It’s bloody loud if ya do it right.”
Scout let his arms fall from their defensive posture. Looking down at his wet fingers with a grimace, he glanced around the cab and, when it offered no alternative, wiped them off on his jeans. “Yeah well, whatevah.” He shot another look towards the marksman, giving him a shrug. “It’s impressive, s’all I’m sayin’.”
“It’s really not.” Sniper stressed with another shake of his head.
“Well, explain it ta me then. Why ain’t it? Is it cause you’re Australian, is that it?” Scout guessed with a grin, purposely attempting to rile the other man up. “Do all the Down Unda types take special whistle courses or somethin’?”
“You’re hopeless,” Sniper groaned.
“Nah, come on man, now you’ve got me all curious.” Scout relaxed back against the door, pulling his legs up onto the seat then stretching one out to prod insistently at Sniper’s thigh.
He was actually curious. Sniper never talked much, not about anything but especially not about himself, and Scout found himself unexpectedly desperate to know more.
Sniper swatted half-heartedly at Scout’s leg, the truck drifting slightly into the other lane before straightening back out. It was a good thing the road to base was so secluded or they’d probably have wrecked by now. “It’s just real easy to do once ya learn how, and anyways, wasn’t even sure it would work. Mongrels probably never been trained a day in their lives.”
“Yeah probably, I mean, did ya even see their eyes?!” Scout sprang up, waving his hand in front of his face. “All white! Like a cue ball or somethin’, nothing behind ‘em at all. I mean, jeez, Snipes, they were scary lookin’. Big and growly–fast too! They almost gave me a run for my money, me!!” He collapsed back to the door, crossing his arms with a huff. “Best bets on them being some sortta escaped lab experiment from Doc’s torture chamber, cause brotha’, whatevah they were ain’t normal.”
“Well, can’t say I’d disagree. Didn’t get the best look at ‘em but from what I did see they didn’t exactly scream natural. They were four legged with tails though, so thought it couldn’t hurt to try out a canine command.”
“Is that what they were, the whistles? You use those on wild ones out in da Bush then?”
“Not really, reckon I got more use out of ‘em back at the ranch. Dog training does tend to go hand in hand with sheep farmin’.”
Scout shot up like a rocket, eyes full of stars, foot kicking out hard at the other man in excitement.
“Watch it!” Sniper yelped, the truck swerving.
“You had dogs?!” Scout cried, paying no head to Sniper’s complaint, questions running off his tongue at rabid fire, “How many?What were their breeds?No-wait, what were their names?Do you have any pictures?Can I see them?When did you–”
“Woah, woah, woah mate, simmer down will ya?” Sniper hollered, shoving away the limb beating bruises into his thigh, palm rubbing at the leftover ache. “Crikey, roo! Not everyone’s as quick as you, gotta give me a chance ta answer before you throw another one out, eh?”
“Sorry, sorry,” Scout slunk back, apologetic, foot rising from the floor to push delicately against Sniper’s hand, and the bruise he had made underneath, with remorse. “I just, I just really like dogs, Snipes.”
“Yeah,” Sniper granted, giving Scout’s sneaker an absentminded pat. “I gathered that.”
The marksman chewed on his lip in thought, “Didn’t really catch half of yer questions but I’ll try my best. I’d say we had about four or five in total, just enough to move the flock easy. Breed wise, kept it mostly to Blueys but there was a Kelpie or two in the mix.”
“I’ve heard of those,” Scout said, sitting up from his slouch. “Cyclops talked about ‘em before.”
“Ah, not quite, bilby,” Sniper was quick to correct. “He’s probably speaking more to the horse variety–-spooky seaweed blokes that drown ya if you touch ‘em.”
“Uh, think I’ll pass on that one, Snipes.”
“Yeah, mate, me too. I’m talkin’ ‘bout the cattle dogs: good strong workers, fierce protectors, fast little buggers too.” He flicked a sly glance to his right. “Almost as fast as you, I’d reckon.”
“There ain’t nothing as fast as me!” Scout proclaimed with a shout. “Not a dog, not a bullet, not even one of those things from today. If I didn’t get lost they nevah would have stood a chance.” Scout puffed up his chest, banging a fist against his pecs. “I’ma force of nature, Snipes. Ain’t nothin’ can beat me.”
“That so?” Sniper asked, conceding the fact with a tilt of his head. “Guess I’ll just have to take your word for it, not like Sydney’s here to race ya.”
Scout settled down in his seat, happy with the concession. “Is Sydney one of their names then?”
Sniper tucked his head slightly in embarrassment. “Ah, yeah it is. I was a little ankle-biter when we got them so they’re all mostly just named after places I knew at the time, like Sydney or Adelaide.”
“Ooooh Snipes,” Scout cooed, watching a flush spread up Sniper’s neck. “That’s adorable.”
“Piss off.” Sniper grumbled good naturedly.
“I always wanted a dog growing up.” Scout shared, his head tipping back against the seat, eyes glazed over, wistful. “Begged and begged ma for one every single year, and when she didn’t budge, y’know what I did?” Sniper shook his head. “I went above her! Took it directly to the big man upstairs. I tell ya,” Scout jokes, a smile building on his face. “God’s got to be awfully busy cause he ain’t answered none of my prayers.”
“It was probably for the best.” Scout admitted, expression turning thoughtful. “I mean, eight boys packed sardine style into a six-hundred square foot apartment was tight enough as it was, not to mention havin’ to feed all those mouths–and that’s without the extra one thrown in.”
Still would have been nice though.
“Never had a real pet myself either, mate,” Sniper offered in return. “The dogs weren’t exactly mine, they were the farms. Had a job just like the rest of the hands. Think I would have liked the company if I had the choice though,” he trailed off, adding after a second, “Hoots taught me that much.”
“Hoots?” Scout perked up at the unfamiliar name. “Who’s Hoots?”
“Oh er,” Sniper scratched sheepishly at his face. “Guess you wouldn’t know about him would ya? Hoots is, well, er, that’s a nickname actually, short for Sir Hootsalot.” He flashed a glance and a sheepish smile over Scout’s way. “He’s my owl.”
“You have a pet owl???” Scout screeched, not unlike the bird, hands thrown in the air.
An owl! A wild animal that was–well not all that surprising for Sniper now that he thought about it, but it was certainly still cool!
“Heh, yeah, guess I do. Found ‘em next to the camper few months back, wing torn to bits. Think he got caught flyin’ too close to all the fightin’ if ya know what I mean. Musta been awfully desperate to come to me for help.”
Scout nodded along. The matches did get a little out of hand, stray bullets and rockets shooting off to land God knows where. He really wasn’t that surprised to hear something got hit from it all, he was just surprised it was damaged, not dead.
“Can’t fly too good on his own, even now, so he mostly just hangs around the van.” Sniper gave an over exaggerated groan, “Living up to his name every chance he can bloody get though, the wanka. Reckon you could probably hear him from base how loud he is.”
“That’s so frickin cool, man.” Scout said, words tinged green with envy. It wasn’t really that likely he’d ever get a chance to actually hear it, not with how loud the base was day to day. With Soldier’s commanding voice and Demo and Engineer’s explosions and tinkering, Scout could hardly hear himself think on the regular, but he made a mental note to listen for it regardless, just in case.
“Is it?” Sniper questioned, sounding genuinely curious.
“Course it is!” Scout confirmed with a shout. “I ain’t ever seen an owl up close before and you’ve got one livin’ in your back-freakin-yard, I’d say that’s pretty awesome. Hey, they really do that freaky three-sixty head thing?” Scout tried to mimic the movement with his own head, twisting it as far as it could to the side.
“Sort of,” Sniper argued. “It’s more of a two-seventy than a full turn around. See, they got these eyes like telescopes so they can’t turn ‘em, have to…”
Scout wasn’t really paying attention, too focused on his owl imitation attempt to give Sniper’s words more than half an ear. How do they do that anyways? He reached a hand up and pushed on his chin, trying to shove it further back over his shoulder but it just. wouldn’t. go.
“Would you quit that!” Sniper shouted, interrupting his lesson to once more reach over and slap at Scout's face. Missing the mark due to keeping his eyes on the road he returned his hands to the steering wheel with a sigh. “You’re gonna hurt yourself, mate, and then you’re gonna complain cause I won’t be the one ta wake the Doc up from his beauty sleep to heal ya.”
Scout relaxed, the hand from his chin falling down to rub at the newly formed soreness of his neck. “Rude. I just don't get how they do dat, y’know? Must look creepy as hell watchin’ ‘em real time.”
A beat passed without a response.
Scout looked over to the Sniper, watching as emotions flickered over his face: contemplative then anxious then hopeful, the last being what he seemed to settle on. Sniper cleared his throat pointedly, “If you’d like I could er, well I could introduce you to him sometime? Could see how he does it for yerself, all up close and personal like.”
Scout was having a hard time processing the offer. He’d grudgingly accepted that Sniper didn’t hate his guts and that he was surprisingly okay with a chatterbox for a passenger, but Scout had assumed that was a tonight only kinda deal. A one and done dose of classic Scout. He didn’t expect anything like this, didn’t even consider it possible; it sounded like Sniper wanted to hang out again, like he wanted more of Scout's specific company.
His silence had Sniper tossing out more reasons to agree, like he even needed the one in the first place. “He uh, he don’t have much for company with me as his only mate so, sure he’d love the extra attention. Knows a few tricks too. Could probably convince him to show ‘em off, if you er, if you were interested in that sorta thing?” Sniper’s voice ticked up, like he was unsure, like it was a question.
Scout wanted it to be true, he really did, but it felt too good to be so. He knew how he was, knew how the others treated spending time with him.
No one wanted for Scout’s presence before.
“You mean that?” Scout asked earnestly, hopeful fingers crossed tight behind his thigh. “You’re not just sayin’ dat to get me to shut up about it?”
Sniper’s exhale was heavy, his voice rumbling so low Scout had to strain to pick up the words, “Thought we covered that already…” Louder now, and with a firmness to it, Sniper answered. “No Scout, I’m not just saying it. I’d really like for you ta come by and meet my good mate Hoots.”
“That sounded like an opening for an Australian children’s show,” Scout noted absently, utterly floored by the sincerity behind Sniper’s statement. At the other’s confused glance he tried to explain, “Y’know like–” Attempting his best Australian accent, a fairly decent one for a first try if he was reading Sniper’s delight right, he announced, “Now kids, let me take a moment ta introduce ya to my good mate, Sir Hootsalot. Hoots, can you give ‘em a g’day?”
Unable to hold back a snort, Scout dissolved into giggles, Sniper following hesitantly after.
Taking note of the nervous edge to the other man’s chuckles Scout forced himself to calm, laughter dying out with an easy sigh. Turning in his seat to look the other dead in the eye–or as close as he could get to it with those glasses in the way–Scout replied, “Alright. Alright, yeah. Abso-freakin-lutely man, I’d…” His voice softened, sincerity of his own pushing through, “I’d love to.”
They shared a bashful grin across the truck’s cab before settling back in their seats, the rest of the journey passing in companionable silence. What seemed like just moments later, but had to be about twenty minutes or so, Sniper pulled the vehicle into the base’s garage, cutting the engine.
Scout tumbled from the truck, standing with a stretch as a hand covered up a yawn. He felt like he could sleep through an intruder alert with how exhausted he was–emotional whiplash would do that to you. Walking over to the driver’s side, he stepped up next to Sniper as he threw the door closed.
“Hey,” Scout said, calling for Sniper’s attention. “Thanks for the ride, pally. It was actually kinda nice talkin’ for a while, almost worth the whole,” he waved his hand, “getting lost and almost bein’ eaten thing. Should do it again sometime,” Scout proposed tentatively, relaxing when Sniper replied with a smile and a tip of his hat.
“Oh and, I uh, I also wanted to thank you for the help with–well with all that back there too.” Scout nervously rubbed at the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. “Woulda probably been toast if ya hadn’t turned up when ya did. So yeah, sorry I snapped at ya for it. I was just thinkin’ bout how Spy was right after all, ‘bout me always needing the assist and I-I guess it just got to me, y'know?”
“Mate, I don’t care what the bloody Spook says about it, it’s my job to support ya–hell it’s his too! Ain’t nothing wrong with needing a little help now and again.”
“Ya sure about dat?” Scout parried. “Cause I don’t hear the others calling for it all the time like I do.”
“Need to get yer ears checked then, roo, don’t know how you miss all those hollers for Medic during a match.” Sniper shot back.
“That’s different.”
“Is it really?”
Scout couldn’t think of a counter.
“Look, mate,” Sniper sighed, lifting his hat off his head and running a hand through his hair. “Don’t let the Spook get to ya, yeah?”
Scout scoffed lightly, “That’s easier said than done.”
“Might be,” Sniper conceded with a tip of his head, eyes wandering about the inside of the garage before centering back on Scout’s face. “But you’ve got to remember, he’s really nothing but a bloody ar–”
“Ass-hole?” Scout said, cutting the other off with a laugh, emphasizing the American pronunciation of the swear.
Sniper huffed a chuckle in return. “Yeah mate, that.”
They shared a look, then a grin, then the two of them were overtaken by laughter, bodies falling into one another as they fought the force of their chuckles. Scout pushed against Sniper’s shoulder, pulling himself up to recline back against the side of the truck, one hand over his aching stomach, the other laid across his breast. Sniper followed his example, relaxing back beside the runner, hat in his hands.
Their shoulders brushed.
The mirth decorating Scout’s face waned after a moment, his mind calling back to how the night began. He dropped his eyes to the ground. “You think I don’t know dat, Snipes?” He asked, hands twisting in his shirt. “Cause I do. Know it really frickin’ well actually but, it doesn’t seem ta matter–he’s still all up in my head.”
“Well I don’t see why!” Sniper blurts out, pulling Scout’s attention from the floor. “Why’re you lettin’ anything he says stick with ya, mate? He’s a snake, Scout, that’s all he is.” He huffed a sigh, body deflating in on itself as the excess energy left with his breath. “He’s not even right about ya anyways…”
What did he mean by that?
“What do you mean by that?” Scout prompted, not one to leave an unfinished thought to rest. Especially not one he was so interested in hearing. “Cause honest to God here, pally, I ain’t followin’.”
Sniper groaned in response, head rocking back to thunk against the truck in frustration. He stared up at the ceiling, searching for the words, while his fingers fidgeted with the hat in his lap. “He’s all up in arms about yer performance, ‘bout how many kills you’ve made or how times you’ve died–” No need to rub it in. “But he ain’t takin’ into account what you do. Scout you’re, well you’re there, mate. Not hiding behind enemy lines, not skulking around invisible, you're right. there. In the middle of the action, with all eyes–all guns–pointed at you. Sometimes with only that toothpick ya call a bat at hand.”
“Brotha', dat is a bat.”
Sniper ignored the interruption, continuing on. “It’s downright crazy, roo, is what it is. Watch ya through the scope sometimes and can’t help but wonder how ya manage it.”
“And sure, that means ya die a little more than the Spook or I,” Sniper admitted. “But, so what? Look what ya do with it.” He gestured over to the Engineer’s workbench, the top of which was littered with blueprints and notes, all advancements to their tech made possible from the intelligence Scout had gathered earlier that month.
“Wouldn’t have gotten a single point in the match today if not for you, Scout. Not a single one.” Sniper pushed himself off of the truck, placing his hat back on his head where it belonged. Turning to his side, Sniper tilted his head down to look at Scout over his sunglasses imploringly, “No matter what the bloody Spook says, roo, you’ve earned yerself a permanent spot in my books.”
For the first time, Scout found himself speechless. Stunned into silence by the nicest words anybody had ever said to him. It was one thing to think the world of yourself, but it was another to have someone confirm that they think the same.
He needed a moment, a minute to pause and gather his thoughts, a second to breathe. He needed to say something, could tell by the way Sniper pulled his hat down to cover his eyes that Scout was taking too long to respond, but what, what does he even say? How do you even respond to something like that?
Finally, after an age, Scout spoke, “Yeah…yeah! You’re right!” Pushing himself off of the truck and into a pace, he cut back and forth across the floor. “Look what I do with it!” He cried, an arm flinging out towards the bench, waving around, “That’s all me brotha’, bout time I got a little recognition for it. My back must be hurtin’ from carrying you guys all the time.” He trekked back over to Sniper, stepping in close to peer up under the hat, finger jamming into the marksman’s chest as he made his point. “I’m the freakin’ best and you guys would be lost without me.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, mate.” Sniper joked, rolling his eyes hard enough for his head to follow the movement. He seemed to relax at the cheer at least, a finger tipping his brim back up. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you implied! ‘Sides,” Scout took a step back, knocking his fist into Sniper’s shoulder, “No take backs.”
Sniper rubbed at the spot. “What are ya, twelve?”
“What are you, forty??” Scout shot back, not bothering to fight the growing grin on his face.
He was enjoying this.
He missed this.
Youngest of eight boys was a life full of back and forths. Constant ribbing on one another and calling each other out, prank wars, wrestling, and noogies to the head. Scout couldn’t believe he didn’t realize how much he was missing that energy until just right now. He didn’t have something like that with the team, everyone already paired off on their own. Heavy and Medic, Soldier and Demo, Engie and Pyro, Spy and, well, no one really but that fit too.
Scout had thought he was all alone out here, how come he had never considered taking a look at the other loner?
“Why does everyone keep sayin’ that?” Sniper grumbled, turning to peer into the truck’s side mirror, angling his head all around. “I don’t think I look that bad for twenty-eight.”
“Ha-ha, good one, Snipes.” Scout chuckled, patting the bent back with a slap of his hand. Except, on second glance, Sniper wasn’t laughing. “Wait, no way, you’re bein’ serious?!”
“No need ta sound so surprised.”
“Snipes! Dat’s only,” Scout attempted to count the difference on his fingers before quickly giving up and throwing his hands in the air. “Only a few years older than me! How come I nevah knew that?”
“How come ya never asked?” Sniper countered.
“I-well…fair point, I guess.”
And it was. A fair point. Wasn’t he just asking himself something similar? How come he never did try and talk to the Sniper before now, never bothered bothering him? He had done it with all the rest of the team at some point. Following them around, asking question after question, badgering them about themselves until he grew bored. Sniper must have just managed to slip through the cracks.
That wouldn’t be happening again.
A long drawn out groan erupting from the bed of the truck jolted them from their moment. Swiveling their heads to the side, they watched as Soldier slowly sat up in an exaggerated stretch before all of his bones seemed to leave his body as he flopped back down on top of Tavish with a snore.
Scout blinked a few times in shock, hesitant to move and maybe trigger another rise from the dead. “Snipes, tell me you saw dat too.”
“That I did mate, that I did. Downright spooky that was.”
“Hey, you’re tellin’ me, I almost forgot they were even back there.” He placed a hand over his fast beating heart. “Man, that scared the bejesus outta me!”
Sniper nudged the younger man with his elbow. “You scared of ghosts, bilby?”
“Nah,” Scout answered, dancing away before turning and pointing back at the other. “But I’m rightfully freaked by zombies.”
“The bloody undead?” Sniper wheezed, shaking his head. “Mate, couldn’t we be considered that? What with respawn and all?”
Scout shook his head in denial. He could see how Sniper could be confused but the two were completely different situations. “That’s different, we don’t go around eating each other's brains or anything. It’s fine though, if it does suddenly start happening,” Scout leaned forward with a grin. “I gotta plan for it.”
“I don't,” Sniper remarked simply.
“Well,” Scout paused, considering. “I could probably work ya into mine then, extra firepower is always a plus and head-shots for zombies are preferred.” He cast an assessing glance over Sniper’s body, zeroing in on his legs. Scout hummed, “Could out run ya easily if need be too, those legs of yours won’t stand a chance against mine. Sorry ta say it but, if it’s you or me, brotha', I’ma choose me. You understand.”
“Cheers, mate.”
“Got wheels too now that I think of it.” Scout muttered, already working out how having the campervan would upgrade their survival chances.
Sniper cut that thinking off quick. “You’re not using Matilda to escape no outbreak, roo.”
“You named your van?” Scout asked disbelievingly, rocking forward with a shit-eating grin.
“I named my home,” Sniper corrected with a scoff. Face slowly morphing into a smirk, he cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t got a leg to stand on though, do ya?” He nodded to Scout’s crotch. “Ten to one you named yer dick.”
Scout blanched, falling back to his heels. He could neither confirm or deny that fact.
Sniper shook his head at the other’s antics, trying to but failing to hide the smile on his face. He glanced out the open door of the garage, taking in the position of the moon. “Should probably head back soon, and you should head in; you look dead on yer feet there, mate. Might not be a match tomorrow but you could use all the rest you can get after a night like tonight, know I could at least.”
Clearly not wanting to but feeling the need, Sniper gestured over to the two idiots still sprawled asleep in the back, “You er, you need any help getting them in?”
“Ah nah,” Scout waved him off. “Don’t worry about it man. Ta be honest, I was gonna just leave 'em in there and let Hardhat deal with it in da morning. Maybe waking up in here will stop Sun Zoo over there from bursting my ear drums with dat horn of his.”
“Don’t envy ya there, mate.”
“Yeah…Hey, uh, Sniper?” Sniper tilted his head to the side. Like a puppy, Scout thought with a smile. “Would tomorrow work? To um, to meet your bird.”
Sniper looked shocked at the question.
Scout quickly backtracked. “Or is dat too early? Cause I could always just–”
“No!” They both seemed a little surprised by the outburst. Sniper cleared his throat and tried again, softer. “No, mate, that's-that’ll be apples.”
“So…that’s a yes right?” Scout really needed to study up on Sniper’s weird Australian slang.
“Yeah Scout,” Sniper chuckled. “That’s a yes.”
“Good, uh, great.”
A beat passed.
Sniper straightened, his face taking on a touch of pink. “Well, er, night then.” Turning in place, he hurried out of the garage, long legs carrying him quickly toward his van.
Scout watched Sniper walk away, faintly catching the sound of a long drawn out whistle cutting through the night. At the call, an almost imperceptible bird perched on top of the camper swooped down and landed on Sniper’s outstretched arm. Scout softened at the sight.
Another groan rumbled from inside the truck bed, ripping Scout’s eyes away. “Shut it chucklenuts, not even you can ruin this night for me.
Spinning in place, he made his way to the door, skipping up the last few steps in his excitement.
Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.