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Knock, knock-knock.
He looked up from the paper he was reading, brows creased. Hesitant, he stood up, opened the door.
“Oh, hey!” Scout chirped, his hand falling to his pockets. “Uh. So you’re probably wonderin’ why I’m here.”
Sniper nodded.
“Okay, so Medic asked all of us ta come ta his office a bit ago for like, a check up? I dunno, he cut me up and looked around in my insides. Actually, it’s kinda weird ‘cause like, he’s never done that ever, but um, you didn’t show up for like half a week, so he asked me ta just go and get you already.”
He reached up to rub at the back of his neck, a nervous tick.
“And I tried sayin’ no, ‘cause y'know, he coulda just called you over after ceasefire ends anyway and you don’t like people comin’ over here and invadin’ your van and whatever—”
Sniper nodded.
“—but he kinda just pushed me outta da infirmary and yelled at me to go and everyone was watchin’ and I didn’t wanna look like an asshole, so uh, now I’m here. And… Yeah, you gotta go ta doc.”
“Er… Well, ‘m not really busy, so sure. Right now?”
“Right now,” he nodded.
“...I’ll be out in a moment. Thanks for th’ call.”
“Yeah no problem.”
They stared a few more seconds.
“Uh, see ya,” Scout blurted, starting back toward the base.
Sniper stumbled for a response, still whiplashed by the sudden visitor; he ended up trying too late, the kid already halfway gone.
Knock, knock-knock.
He set his coffee down, confused. Nothing— no one— had bothered him for ages, then twice in a month? The confusion cleared up when he opened the door to Scout.
“Hi. Uh..”
“Back for more, I see.”
“Yeah, sun's addicting,” he quipped. “Uh, anyways, you remember yesterday when all of us were in a rush ta get back, ‘cause it was frickin’ cold as hell in Viaduct and everyone’s clothes were stuffed wid snow?”
Sniper nodded.
“Well I think on da way through da teleporter, you uh, you kinda dropped one’a your bullet, pack, things, so I figured I’d return it.” Scout held the little packet of bullets out.
“Oh, cheers, mate.” He took it and set it aside on the counter.
“Why do ya keep extra sniper rounds in your vest anyway? You can always just get ammo crates when ya run out.”
“For convenience. Much easier t’ reach into yer pocket than muckin’ about in the field.”
“Huh. Fair enough. Uh, anyways, bye-bye,” he waved before heading off.
He thought for a moment. Stared. Closed the door.
Knock, knock-knock.
Rolling his eyes was the only reaction he allowed himself before rolling out of bed. He had half a mind to put on a singlet before opening the door.
“So, I got kind of a weird one. Well, not really, but… I-I dunno.”
Sniper nodded.
“Uh okay so we got a package— uh, Soldier, Heavy and Demo... yeah, just those three, they tend ta kinda steal packages and stuff whenever it's food, ‘cause them chuckleheads can't control themselves— so we got a package like a week ago, it's addressed ta you, and I've been tryin'a hold ‘em back for like forever, so I figured I'd just save both of us effort and just give it ta ya.”
“The lot's wild, I tell ya. Sorry for th’ trouble.”
“Oh nah, no problem. ‘Ey, what's in there though? Been dyin’ ta know.”
“Er… ‘S from ‘Straya, reckon it's just local food. My mum sent it, probably.”
“Oh jeez, I'd kill for my ma ta send me food from back home. Your mom do dat often?”
“‘Bout twice a year.”
“Huh. Lucky bastard. Uh. Yeah. Bye!”
“Bye,” Sniper managed as Scout took off, not sure if the runner actually heard him.
Next time, then.
Knock, knock-knock.
Really, now? He thought.
He huffed through his nose, tried his best to wrap up what he could of his bloodied palm, and opened the door.
“Really, four in a month? ‘M startin’ to think yer obsessed wiv me.”
“Uh, I— what the? No I’m.. wha— Anyways, I was just gonna ask if you could— Oh my God, what the hell happened to your hand??”
“Got cut, don’t mind it. Whot’d ya come ‘ere for?”
“You… Sure you’re like- like okay? Or…”
“Mate, I’m fine. Whot were ya gonna ask?”
“Uh, I was just… I was… the… mmmmm— maintenance, I- I was gonna ask you how you took care’a your gun, but uh.. Think I caught'cha at a bad time.”
“Yeah, just, could you get back t’me?”
“Yeah, no, of course. ‘Nother time. Do you like. Need help wid dat?”
“Doubt you can help.”
“Nah, patched myself up like, all da time— used ta get in fistfights back in Boston, got real banged up, y’know?”
Sniper thought for a moment.
“If you muck about, I’m kickin’ you out,” he decided, and moved inside the camper.
Scout took the invitation hesitantly. Awkwardly stood to the side, eyes darting this way and that.
“So how big is it?” Scout asked, “What’d you even cut yourself wid?”
“Knife,” he deadpanned. He sat on the couch of his booth and carefully unwrapped the long-soaked gauze. “Washed it, applied’ pressure, an’ it’s been bleedin’ for a quarter bloody hour now.”
“Hold on.” Scout went to his knees in front of Sniper, took his palm carefully into his own hand, raising it up to chest level and laying gauze on top of the wound stretching through his entire palm. “Uh.. might sting.”
“I know.”
Scout placed his hand perpendicular to Sniper’s, gentler than the latter’s ever seen him. Despite the warning, he still flinched when Scout squeezed.
The kid’s face was twisted in focus, brows creased and eyes locked onto the red seeping into the cloth. Soon, the skin of his palm felt all too sticky again, but the discomfort was short-lived when Scout added more gauze.
“Jeez, how the hell does somethin’ like this happen..?”
“Try dealin’ wiv a 20 centimetre blade, see whot happens.”
“Never fought wid a knife before. Stuck ta good ol’ fists, y’know? Is it, like, is it harder than just punchin’?”
“Never fistfighted, don’t think I’d make much of a good stand on that.”
“What if I teach you an’ you teach me, best’a both worlds?” Scout half-joked.
“Think you have the patience for that?”
“Nothin I ain't good at, right?”
“...Maybe some time,” Sniper said after a pause.
“Maybe.”
The room fell silent again.
Uncharacteristically, Scout wasn’t as snappy with his comebacks then. Sniper could expect him to maybe crack jokes, talk about his day, his gripes with the team, how great he was, anything. What he didn’t expect was how focused Scout could actually be, how silent he was when he was really into something, how gentle he was when it came to medical care, how…
How silent the room was.
It was never silent when he was with the runner. Or anybody. Actually, the only silence he could manage was when he was alone. But he wasn’t alone, and it was silent, and calm, and it was… Well, it wasn’t bad. It was wringing his neck, and it was putting pressure in his chest for an entirely different reason, sure, but it wasn’t bad.
It was just so silent.
Somehow, in ten minutes flat, Scout had managed to stop the bleeding.
“How’d ya bloody do that?”
“Do what?”
“Stop the bleedin’.”
“Uh.. You might’a been squeezin’ it wrong, I dunno. Like I said, nothin’ I ain't good at.”
“Yeah, okay mate.”
Despite Sniper's protests that he could do this part himself, that he knew first aid, Scout placed a pressure pad on the wound and started slowly wrapping gauze—new ones— first around the wrist, then up between his thumb and index, over the back of his hand, down to his wrist, again, again.
“Why didn’tcha just go ta doc instead’a tryin’ ta patch it up for… what, fifteen minutes?”
“Didn’t seem worth the effort at the time.”
“...The effort.”
A beat.
“The effort of walkin’ for five minutes,” he laughed.
“Shut it.”
“The effort of walkin’ five minutes for a one second fix.”
“Mate.”
“The incredibly, overwhelmin’ly exhaustin’ effort of walkin’ for— for not even five minutes, so you can heal your rapidly bleedin’ palm.”
“Scout.”
“I mean, yeah, five minutes’a walkin’s so much worse than fifteen'a blood, right?”
“Scout, I am gonna carve a bloody—”
“Alright alright, I’m done,” he chuckled.
Scout finished the bandaging at the wrist with a piece of tape, parting with a little pat. “I uh, I left it a little loose so you could like, like still move your hand and do stuff, ‘cause I know you do like, a lot. With your hands.”
“Aces. Thanks, Scout.”
“No problem. Uh, anyway, I’m gonna…” He jerked his thumb to the door.
“Er. Yeah. Thanks again.”
He gave a little thumbs up as he walked to the door, only then realizing his hand was covered in red.
“Oh.”
“You can wash off in my sink.”
“Nah nah it’s okay, I can just—”
“Least I can do.” He gestured loosely at his palm. “C’mon.”
“Uh.. Okay.”
Scout undid his handwraps with efficiency only experience earns, stuffing them loosely into his pockets and quickly rinsing off the crusted blood.
He headed out the door with a little salute, quickly shaking his hands of the leftover water once on the other side of the door.
“See ya!” he called out, and legged it to base.
Sniper stared at the bandage work on his hand. It was well done, like Scout had done it loads of times before.
He forgot to say bye again.
Knock, knock-knock.
Was it bad that he was getting used to this?
He set the brass down and walked over.
“Wassup. So your- I saw you had cards last time I came ‘ere, sorry if I pried, but I saw a deck’a cards on your counter, so I figured you knew how ta play. Uh.. me, Demo… Heavy, Medic— actually no, just all of us, we’re gonna play poker later. Wanna come?”
Sniper blinked. His mouth moved wordlessly, trying to find something to say to that. “Me?” was all he thought of.
“Yeah,” Scout replied easily.
“Er.” Years of nothing, nothing at all, then all of a sudden, out of absolutely nowhere, he gets invited to play poker? The last time that happened was… well, he couldn’t think of a time. Hell, he barely even remembered how to play, let alone with eight people. Was nine-player poker even possible? “Whot time?” he asked instead.
“Uh… I dunno, like, eight? There’s gonna be drinks, too,” Scout added. “Oh, and cigarettes if you smoke.”
All at once, he ran out of words.
“You.. You don’t hav’ta come if you don’t wanna,” Scout offered after a pause.
“Er. No. I’ll.” He shook his head, collected his words. “Nah, yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Really? Great-! Uh, glad you’re comin’! Oh yeah, also, I know you probably get your own groceries and stuff, ‘cause you, uh… Anyway, me an’ hardhat’re headin’ inta town dis weekend, you want us ta bring you back anythin’? Y’know, save time?”
“Uh.” He looked into his camper, thought for a second. “Actually yeah. Would you mind getting me coffee grounds?”
“Yeah sure! Alright I’ll leave you ta— Woah, is dat a… what's it called, a shazzophone?”
“Saxophone,” he corrected.
“Yeah, dat. Holy crap, I-I didn’t know you played an instrument! How long have you had dat?”
“‘Bout… Since I was twelve, I think.”
“Jeez, bet you sound great! Anyways, gettin’ off track. See ya tonight!” he smiled, then ran off.
He shook his head.
Scout didn’t ask him what brand of coffee he drank.
Knock, knock-knock.
Knock knock-knock.
Sniper groaned at the interruption of his sleep. Despite the sting in his eyes, he looked around.
Knock knock knock.
Checked his wrist watch. ‘2:13’. His eyes squinted at the fact that anyone was awake still. He shucked the little sheet down to his feet and sat up slowly.
Knock knock, knock.
Sniper stumbled down the little ladder, dragging his feet across his camper. His motions were lazy, what with the haze of sleep still clouding his head.
He didn't know who or what he expected to be behind the door. Well, he expected Scout, considering he was the only one who bothered to ever come out here. He expected another ridiculous reason, like asking for sugar or… Or something.
He opened the door, letting in the cool midnight winds. Scout stopped dead in his tracks, a good ways away, and whipped his head back. Scout couldn't seem to look at him.
What he didn't expect was the slump in his already rounded posture. The way his eyebrows were knit together, the thin line his mouth was pressed into.
“Um. Hi,” was all Scout could manage, voice tight.
“‘Ello,” was all Sniper could think of.
“Uh. I- crap, I woke you up didn't I? Sorry, I-I'll just, I'll just go—”
“No wait, it's fine. Get over ‘ere.”
Scout did, hesitant, eyes fixed to the floor.
“Why're you awake at— ” checked his watch, “— Two in the bloody mornin’?”
“Couldn't sleep.” His hands fidgeted in his pockets.
“An’ you, why come ‘ere?”
“I… I dunno. I dunno, I-I just needed ta get outta there.”
“Out of base?”
Scout nodded.
“Sorry, I-I'll just get outta your hair, I don't even know why I knocked, I-”
“Mate, get in before ya catch a cold, yeah?”
Scout thought for a second.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Then, for the first time that night, their eyes met.
Sniper didn't expect the purple spot darkening on his left cheek. He didn't expect so much hurt hidden behind those cloudy eyes. He didn’t expect those eyes to be so red. Not red like an infection, or red like a pool of blood. Red like it stayed open for a week straight, red like it…
“You sure?” he asked, voice cracking.
“Yeah,” Sniper said, easier than ever. “Yeah. C’mon.”
Five.
Six.
Seven.
“Okay.”
Scout stepped in, albeit hesitantly, and stood off to the side as Sniper locked the door.
“Care to tell me why yer awake?” he started, grabbing his almost-empty sack of coffee grounds.
“Don't wanna talk about it.”
“...Awright. You can sit down, mate.”
The next few minutes were spent in silence, Scout fidgeting with his handwraps and Sniper working on coffee.
Soon enough, Sniper sat adjacent to Scout at the booth, sliding a cup to the latter.
“Huh?”
“Milk. Figured you wouldn't like coffee.”
“Oh. Uh.” His eyes darted around a second. Two. He took the cup into his hands. “Thanks. Wait, why’dja get coffee then?”
“Er… ‘ve got a thing where I can't sleep again after wakin’ up. Might as well get an early start.”
“Ah. Oh. Oh, sorry.”
“Nah, ‘s fine.” Sniper took a sip. “So how's your day goin’? Terrible, I'm guessin’.”
“The worst,” he agreed.
“You lot have a bit of a bust up?”
“Uh…?”
“Fight,” he clarified.
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah no, Spy was an absolute prick yesterday.”
“Not much different from usual, then?”
Scout managed a chuckle, despite himself. He took a sip.
His eyes explored, lingering on a bag on the countertop.
“Anyway, what'd you do today? Or, yesterday.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Barely eva get ta hear ya talk, c'mon.”
“Day wasn't the most entertainin', dunno if it'll make much of a good—”
“Tell me anyway,” Scout cut in.
Normally in these situations— forced proximity, persistence, really just any situation where he needs to talk— he would either retaliate, shut up, or just leave. But instead, for some unknown reason, he felt… Weirdly comfortable enough to start.
“Well, I woke up, made coffee, Ate brekkie an’ read th'paper…”
“What was on it?”
“Not much… Oh, but I do remember somethin’ about a baseball player winnin’ an MVP.”
“Oh crap, really? Who?”
“Er… Yater.. zemki?”
Scout chuckled. “Carl Yastr-frickin'-zemski won MVP, who's surprised,” He said softly, almost a whisper, a smile finally on his face. “Seriously, dat guy? Frickin’ best.”
“He important?”
“Hah, ‘Is he important', he says. ‘Is he important’—” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “— Nah, he's only just left fielder for the Boston Red Sox, five-time All-Star four-time Gold Glove winner and three-time batting champion, Triple Crown winner and overall MVP in the entire American Major League of baseball, Carl Michael Yastrzemski. ‘Is he important’.” He huffed, only a little disappointed.
“Awright, awright.” Despite the obvious jab, Sniper felt somewhat glad that Scout had calmed down, the tense in his shoulders and the crease in his brows much less intense.
“What else?”
“Nothin’ much of interest on th’ paper besides—”
“Nah nah I meant like, your day. What else?” He took a sip.
“Oh. Er, I jit did maintenance an’ cleanin’ on my weapons… cooked— did dig up some'a my campin’ gear, thought about goin’ sometime.”
“You can camp? Aw crap, cool. Whaddya do when you're campin’ anywho?”
“Usually set up a fire an’ eat... personally I hunt or read.”
“Wait, you read?”
“Not often. Got a few books I've already gone through if you wanna borrow ‘em.”
“Nah, I-I can't read. Tell me about one?”
“Sure. Lets see, er…” His gaze searched his book pile, skimming over worn titles until it landed on an interesting one.
“‘Ere, Lord o'the Flies. Bit dark. Lot of ankle-biters crash land on an island an’ they try to survive. Hunt, set up shelter, try t’ make some semblance of order, but it all ends up fallin’ apart. Most of ‘em are— whot, five, six years old? Blokes don’t bloody listen.”
He wasn't used to speaking often, let alone this much. But as Scout started to lean back, as his eyelids started drooping, as his shoulders relaxed more and more every few words, as his reply of little nods were given between longer and longer intervals, he found it easier to keep the words flowing.
“One'a them, they wouldn’t shut their cake-hole about some ‘beast’, ends up wiv that one dyin’. Eventually, everythin’ just falls apart; the lot falls into chaos, two end up bein’ murdered, none are rescued, the like. Real tragic book.”
By the time his little book report finished, Scout was out cold— head tilted back, mouth ever-so-slightly open around even breaths.
He was surprised at how glad he was to have been able to calm the runner down.
Taking just the tiniest bit of pity— he knew from experience how sore Scout’s neck would be if he stayed like that— he went to shift him to instead lay on the little booth couch, Scout mumbling a vague noise as his head settled.
He should catch up on his reading.
He walked to his little stack of books, scratching the back of his neck. After the smallest bit of thought, he took a title— one with a dented spine and a little strip of wood halfway— and sat down to read.
Knock, knock-knock.
He turned away from his plants, setting his little sprinkler down and checking his watch. He was just glad it wasn’t the middle of the night this time.
The moment he opened the door though, he did notice something a little off.
“Uh, hi.”
For one, Scout was still avoiding eye contact like it would kill him. Two, he was bouncing on his feet a little more than normal. Three, he had a bag.
“‘Ello.”
“Uh, me an’ hardhat— we finally got ta town yesterday, so I uh, I got'cha coffee,” he said, holding out a little sack.
“Oh, cheers.”
He did get a tinge confused when he got a good look at the bag.
“Wait,” he called out as Scout turned to leave. “How'd ya know whot brand I drink?”
“Huh? Oh, uh, yesterday, when I— or, day before, I guess— I saw it on your counter when you made us drinks. Thanks by the way.”
Sniper hummed. “Observant.”
“A little.”
“An’ whot happened to you?”
“Huh?” Scout finally looked up at him.
“You're quiet,” he whispered carefully.
“Just…” His gaze turned away. “Stuff. Spy, Engie and Medic—” he ticked off his fingers, “— are kinda still mad at me. Everythin's gloomy back at base. Don't really wanna talk about it.”
Didn't want to talk about it. That's new. “Right,” he said instead.
“Well anyway, thanks for the um.. lettin’ me stay yesterday.”
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“Yeah. Uh. Bye,” he waved, and he was off.
What the hell happened?
Knock-knock-knock.
Not too particularly surprised anymore, he stood up easily headed towards the door.
Scout slouched beside it, leaning against the metal wall. His eyes were fixed to the floor.
"Roo..? Y'awright?"
"Can you, agh- can you let me in? Please?" he rushed to say.
Looking closer, Scout’s hand was fisted over his left abdomen. Was his shirt always that saturated? And were his hand wraps always tinted—
"Why, whot's th'matter? Mate-"
"I have a hole… in my side," Scout blurted out, punctuated with rapid gasps.
"Sorry, whot?
“I got shot.”
“Christ, bloody- get in,” he all but ordered, getting to work and hoisting Scout's arm over his shoulder.
They rushed into the camper, situating the runner into the booth before fumbling for a first-aid kit from his drawer.
“Sit up,” He urged, pulling Scout up from where he hunched over. The kid gasped sharply through his teeth. “May I know how th’ bloody hell ‘is happened? Shirt,” he warned, lifting the wet shirt up gently. He flinched at the motion.
Scout lied, there wasn't a hole in his side. There were holes in his side. 5 of them to be exact, all small and gushing with blood, scattered through pale skin.
“A freakin’, a uh, BLU pyro, got me with a, a shotgun, when da match ended- ow!” Scout flinched when a wipe pricked red flesh.
“An’ why didn't ya go t’ Medic t’ get this sorted out? Y'ran all th’ way out ‘ere, for what?” Again when it dabbed a different spot.
“‘Cause doc would, probably, tell me off, or scold me, somethin’, I dunno, okay- ah!” Scout's fist moved to the table, knuckles almost white.
“Sorry. Yer gonna have t’ see him anyway for the pellets, mate.” He whimpered when the wipe touched a little further in.
“I- I know, I don't care, I'm sorry for, for the bother, I'm gonna go ta, ta Medic anyway, I'm sorry, I just, I panicked, I-”
“Stuff it an’ save yer strength, roo.” Again when it poked another spot.
“Yeah, right, sorry.”
Sniper finished cleaning, then took gauze from the kit.
“Might sting.”
“I know,” he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut anyway.
A grunt was practically kicked out of him when the gauze made contact. He tensed further when pressure was applied.
“Thanks.”
“No worries.”
“No really, thanks for, for the help, man.”
“Mate, stuff it.”
“Sorry.”
Sniper wrapped more gauze around Scout’s waist when the bleeding stopped, white slowly turning red. The kid’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his whole body jerking every so and so. The former taped up the bandage and stood up with a little tap to his back.
“Yer wrapped up f’ now. Hold it.”
No response.
“...Scout?”
“Uh- what?”
“Hold th’ gauze. Need’a get t’ Medic soon.” Scout took hold of the cloth.
“Um, thanks. Maybe, maybe later,” he breathed, words slurring.
“Move over.”
“Mhm.”
Scout scooted to the side, and Sniper took a seat.
Being this close, Sniper noticed some new things. How pale Scout really was and how purple his lips were. How he was picking at his red-stained hand wraps. How he was slightly swaying side to side. How his eyes were still shut despite the more painful part being over. How sweaty he was despite the sun setting. How his back continued rising and falling rapidly.
“Mate, are you-”
“Y’know, is it, cold in ‘ere? I, it might be, y’know, a time thing, but it, it’s really cold, right now and, I- it’s-”
“Scout- hey, calm down, whot’s happenin’?”
“I- I dunno, man, it’s just, I just, I’m really cold right now, and I don’t-”
“Oi, c’mere real quick.”
“Uh, okay? What’s…”
Sniper put a finger to Scout’s pulse point. Fast and weak, cold to the touch.
Oh, damn it.
“Mate, Scout, c'mere—” Scout did as he collapsed into Sniper's chest.
“I- sorry, lost my, balance..”
“Shit, ya wanker, c'mon,” he persisted as he slid an arm under the runner's thighs.
“You're really, you're panicking, Snipes, what’s goin’ on? What's up?”
“Yer in shock, that's ‘Whot's Up’. C'mon, cooperate.” He slid Scout's arm over his neck before sliding him out of the booth.
“What? No way, I'm fine.” Scout tried pushing himself away, but the motion was lazy, almost weak. “I-I'm just, cold. That's all.”
“Stuff it.”
Sniper brought Scout up to his mattress and set him down carefully, a pillow under his legs and a blanket over him.
He took a deep breath.
“Scout, I'll need you to listen carefully. I'll be just a second, I’ll go an’ get Medic. Stay here. I'll only be a second, awright?”
“Nah don't, get Medic, I'll be fine, Snipes.”
“Mate m’ sorry but I gotta. I'll be back.”
He tapped the runner's arm again before legging it to base.
Despite common sense, he didn't care about locking the door anymore, didn’t care that, because of respawn, Scout would be okay anyways even if he… didn’t make it, he only thought about getting to Medic on time.
Despite common sense, he didn't care about how his hearing was limited to sometimes just his heartbeat, sometimes just his breathing, sometimes just his footsteps, sometimes nothing at all.
Despite common sense, he didn't care about how the only thing he could feel at that moment was the air slapping him in the face and the sweat sticking his work shirt to his back and the glove shifting ever so slightly on the back of his hand.
Despite common sense, he didn't care about how everything seemed to blur around the edges, and that the only thing in the center of his vision was the red and white of the base, the color fading in and out of his view.
Despite common sense, he didn't care about how long this run was taking.
Or maybe he did.
Scout was bleeding out, side sprinkled with red, yet he ran all the way out here just to get help, and he's been sprinting and it's already been at least 3 minutes since he's left his camper— at least he thought so, time stretched on forever.
Despite common sense, he kept running.
And running.
And running.
Until his hand made contact with red concrete.
He was fine.
Ignoring the fact that he could only hear his heartbeat and his breathing… and that his vision turned blurry… and that the world seemed to be spinning around him… and that everything was hyperfocused, or maybe unfocused… and that his head was filled with static… and that his side was wet and sticky… he was fine.
That's what he told himself, at least.
Sniper was overreacting, he was perfectly normal and okay. He just got a little nicked. It's fine.
His side didn’t even hurt anymore!
He could prove it.
He could shove that stupid blanket off, and walk around, and meet Sniper at the base, and tell him he was okay, and be completely fine.
He could.
A lot of things, actually. In the entire team, he was the only one that could drive a motorbike. He was the only one who could run that fast. He was the only one who could draw, the only one who could double-jump, the only one who could hold a conversation for really, really long, the only one who could… who could… Well you get the point.
He couldn't find the strength but he could.
Hell, he was strong. Maybe not as strong as Soldier, or Medic, or Demo, or Sniper.. Or Heavy— okay, that bear could take down the moon as far as he knew, that wasn’t fair. But he was strong, strong enough to lift himself off of that mattress and walk away scot-free. Even if it was that bad, he would still be fine, because respawn totally didn’t mess up his head and make him hurl and almost throw up every single freakin’ time he goes through… like everyone else. But he was strong, he could do this.
He tried as best as he could.
He could even argue that he was one of the most useful classes in battle. Of course Medic was the most utilized, healing is really important when literal guns are used. Engineer was also really needed, the sentries are mostly what kept the BLUs at bay. Well, Demo, Soldier, Pyro, and Heavy were also useful, their damage was high and they could definitely take more hits than his small ass. Sniper and Spy were also utilized really often, one-hit kills were really useful when it came to crowd control. But not even the big guy could push carts and cap points as fast as him, and not even the psycho and the drunk could come close to his mobility and speed.
Nothing was showing that he could.
Why was he still thinking about this? He needed to get up.
His arm lifted up ever so slightly before he lost the strength to keep it raised.
Get up.
His leg felt like jello, barely any feeling going through.
Get up.
Come on, he’s done this before.
He could do it, just get up.
But every flex of his stomach sent some sort of wetness out into the blanket.. Or were those the bandages.. Or his shirt?
But… every movement led to him slowly draining, even the simple action of moving his finger an inch needing too much effort to be useful.
But every jerk of his body sent more of that wetness out— to his face this time, not his shirt— and he might’ve thrown up with how clogged his throat was.
But every second that passed by ramped up his shivering just a smidge, the blanket only helping a bit but otherwise just not doing much.
But every… every second that passed by messed up his brain so much that he could barely make one thought.
Every sound blurred into the background, clatters of wild animals and chirps of crickets and cicadas unextinguishable. No, was it.. Undisguise, no, in…desc… indistinguishable.
Every color swirled around into a messy and pretty and disgusting and euphoric spiral or tunnel of some sorts.
That distinct crack blended with the ceiling, disappearing behind the light grey. A noise outside.. Or was that a voice? Maybe.. Oh who cared, it all was blurred anyway. Muffled, that’s the word. And was his side always that sticky?
Then he started drifting.
Not really up, or down, or either side. Just... Drifting.
The ceiling started changing color, slowly fading black.
Drifting…
That loud noise should have woken him up, like his alarm clock or Soldier yelling with his trumpet.
But he kept drifting.
And drifting.
He slowly, distantly became aware of some sort of music playing.
It sort of sounded familiar..?
The tune was soothing in a way, like they had absolutely nowhere to be, no cares in the world.
Soft guitar, light drums, smooth rhythm, and a voice enough to make him fall asleep.
Or was he already?
He started to feel warm, like something was holding him. He could gloss his hand over something he was hugging, shift his head over what it rested on.
The song became a little clearer, words instead of muffled music.
Soon enough, he had the strength to open his eyes.
A blanket was around him, a pillow under his head. He was elevated, at least 3 feet from the ground.
His head turned, and his eyes locked onto a tall figure at the foot of the bed.
There lied Sniper, sleeping sound, albeit sitting awkwardly. He looked to be in sleepwear. Dark circles under his eyes, sleeping so deeply like he hasn't had a wink at all yet.
He gently nudged the blanket off, moving slowly both because he felt weak and he didn't want to wake Sniper.
When he got upright, he lost his balance and moved to lean onto the side of the camper. His head felt fuzzy and it took longer to get his bearings.
The movement woke Sniper up, blinking his eyes awake surprisingly quickly from such a small sound. It took a second, but his eyes cleared, then narrowed at Scout.
“Hey, Snipes. Sorry to wake ya,” he whispered.
“G'mornin’ roo. Get- lie back down, c'mon. Y'gotta rest.”
Sniper crawled to the head of the bed and guided him back into lying down.
“Why am I in your bed? And why am I dizzy… What happened?”
“Don't remember?”
“Just little bits. I remember… gettin’ in the van… I was sittin’ on da booth, I think you were patchin’ me up or somethin’... Then… Then everythin’ was blurry.. Was- did I get shot? Dat why I'm ‘ere?”
“Mhm. Five shotgun pellets.”
“Ah, yeah. Then.. Then everythin’ kinda went spinny.. I think.. I don't remember much after that.”
“Well, y'lost too much blood, an’ went into shock. Y'remember lyin’ ‘ere alone?”
“...Not really, no.”
“Er, I got Medic, an’ he patched you back up. When we got ‘ere, you were passed out wiv blood in yer throat.”
“Aw, crap, really?”
“Yep. Glad yer awright now, though.”
“Thanks,” Scout whispered after a beat, almost too quiet for Sniper to hear.
“No worries.”
“Sorry for, y'know, havin’ to deal wid dat.”
“Mate, it's fine. Really.”
The room fell silent at that.
“D'ya need anythin’?” Sniper prompted. “Thirsty, or..?”
“Um… A little, yeah.”
Sniper moved slightly, leaning down over the edge of the mattress, before returning with a glass of water. His hand slipped under Scout's head, lifting it up ever so slightly, and pushed the glass to his lips.
Only then did Scout realize how thirsty he was, replacing Sniper’s hands with his own and swallowing like that was the first liquid he’s drunk in his life. Despite the latter pulling the water back to stop him from choking, the glass was emptied in one, two gulps.
Scout let out a satisfied sigh when the glass clinked against the table below. “Crikey, slow the hell down,” Sniper worried.
“Snipes, I drink dat fast on da daily, I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you an’ yer radioactive waste.”
“Gives me- gives me superpowers, so I ain’t complainin’.”
“All that bloody radiation's gonna catch up to ya one day, mate.”
“Says da guy who's kidneys're twice da size'a my frickin’ fist.”
“You're no better, I reckon I know whot's in yer ‘mad milk', mate.”
“I- you- c'mon, pal, you live in a- a camper van!”
“Well yer a precious little posey!”
“A precious—” He broke out in giggles, “—A little what now??”
“Ah- I dunno, roo,” he snickered, Scout's laugh infectious.
The room— van— filled up with their laughs, Scout having to bang on the mattress to get some air.
“What’re we even fightin’ about? Dis is stupid!” he blurted out.
“You started it, mate!”
“Did not!”
“Did too.”
“Did not! I defended myself! Don't you frickin’ dare point fingers, fella!”
“Look who's talkin’!”
Their shouting match quickly devolved into just laughter, both too out of breath to speak.
When they eventually came down from their high, Scout sighed. Not in the tired sort of way, it sounded more.. satisfied.
“Hey, who is dat?”
“Who's whot?”
“Song's playin’. Who is dat?”
“Er… Frank Sinatra, I think.”
“Who?” Scout asked, confused.
“Crikey, yer an uncultured gremlin, ain't ya?”
“C'mon, I hardly think likin’ Tom Jones is uncultured.”
“Yeah, but Frank Sinatra? Somethin’ Stupid especially, ‘s practically top song right now.”
“Well maybe I only listen ta da best artist evah for a reason.”
“I oughta make ya listen to real music sometime, mate.”
“You callin’ me tasteless, pal?”
“Yer words, not mine.”
“Asshole,” he scoffed.
“Delinquent,” Sniper shot back.
“Moron.”
“Hooligan.”
“Bozo.”
“Drongo.”
“Uh, chucklehead.”
“Mongrel.”
“How are you thinkin’a these so fast,” he whispered, “um… Coward.”
“Weasel.”
A long pause.
“Ah, crap, I’m out.”
Knock, knock-knock.
Thud.
“Over ‘ere,” He called, groaning.
Scout peeked over the side of the van to Sniper shucking himself out from under it.
“Ya- ya busy?”
“A little.” He sat up from the sand, hand smearing his forehead with oil.
“What were you doin’ under there?”
“Maintenance. Oil changes.”
“Explains the stains, jeez. Why not just call Hardhat for dat?”
“I can do it myself, why ask someone else for help?”
“Eh, fair enough,” he nodded.
“So how’s it goin’? Why’re ya here?”
“Oh right. Uh.” He paused, eyes darting. “Um… So… here's the thing.”
Sniper glared.
“Okay, you’re gonna laugh at me—”
“Scout.”
“— And you, that’s totally reasonable ‘cause—”
“Scout, bloody hell.”
“‘Cause I forgot, yeah. Might'a slipped my mind— I got distracted ‘cause you were under the van, and I… Yeah.”
“That’s a first.”
“Sorry. You were busy too, and I interrupted you for nothin’.”
“Nah, ‘S okay, just.” He paused, contemplating if he should say the next sentence. “Actually, now that yer here, d’ya mind helpin’?”
“...Me?”
“Nah, the bunny behind ya. Who else would I be talkin’ to, mate?”
“Sorry, uh, yeah sure.”
Knock, knock-knock.
It really was surprising how much he was getting used to this. And it wasn’t the bad kind of surprising.
“Hey,” Scout greeted when he opened the door. “So, we got another package for ya, and I just decided ta bring it instead’a waitin’ a whole week. Perishables.”
Sniper took the little box from the runner. No return address, packaged hastily— the only somewhat-hint was a little note stapled in the corner addressing directly, “to sniper,” in shaky handwriting.
“Any idea who’s this from?” he asked idly, careful not to rip it.
“No.” Scout was avoiding his eyes again, bouncing on his feet more.
“Chocolate?” he asked, pulling out the candy.
“Ah, cool,” he chirped, not particularly surprised.
“...Bloody shame, then,” he joked, fighting a smile.
“Huh? Why?”
“‘M not much of a fan of sweets, especially—” A consult to the package, “— this, chocolate. Sorry mate. You want it instead?”
“Uh. Yeah, sure.” Scout took it, quickly shoving it into his pocket.
“Really, no idea who it's from? Could just give it back.”
A moment's pause. “No. Not a clue,” he shrugged.
“Right,” he chirped, voice tight from holding back laughter, “sorry for the trouble.”
“Nah, it's not a— not, um. No problem.” He flashed a smile, jaw clenched. “Bye.”
When he was sure Scout was out of sight, Sniper finally let himself snicker.
Knock, knock-knock.
Sniper moved to the door. “Whot's on the agenda today?”
“Um,” Scout tried, voice shaky. Cleared his throat. It might have just been the heat, or the walk it took to get here, but Scout's cheeks were tinted red. “You busy?”
“Not particularly.”
“Are you, uh, do you got anythin’ goin’ on later? Or, really any day this week, actually. Like, are you busy?”
Sniper tilted his head to try and get a look at what Scout held behind him, to no avail. “I've got a few errands, but that's all. I’m free ‘round the end of the week,” he shrugged.
“Oh, oh great! Uh, good to know.”
A beat. Two. Three.
“...Why?”
“Okay, so, here's the thing. I kinda just wanted ta ask if you were, if‐if you could…” He trailed off.
“If I could?”
“I dunno, I just… Y'know what, forget it. I forgot.”
“Don't think so, mate.”
“No, really, I-I totally forgot, just— completely lost in the sauce, what was I even talking about?” He laughed awkwardly. “Sorry.”
“Really?” he asked, not convinced.
“Mhm.”
“...Awright then. Have a good one mate.”
“Yeah, bye.”
He turned on his heel, bringing whatever was behind him to his chest.
Okay, Sniper was sure he wasn't imagining it, he swore Scout muttered something along the lines of, “Stupid dumbass, what is wrong with you”.
…Weird.
Knock, knock-knock.
Not even two days, he noted.
As soon as the door opened, he immediately noticed that a) Scout’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, b) his face was extremely red, and c) his hand was clutching a red rose.
“Y'know what, I'm just gonna bite the bullet here,” he stammered, hiding his face under the brim of his cap, “I- I tried like two other times, and both'a them kinda blew up in my face— and I was too scared ta actually tell ya anythin’— so I figured that I'd just run over here and just say it already so I wouldn't give myself enough time ta overthink it, and if I keep goin’ without tellin’ ya this, I'm pretty sure I am going to explode.”
He only paused long enough to take a breath before continuing.
“I lied about the first time, too— it was, when Medic called ya— he didn't force me ta go, I volunteered. All the other times were also kinda me just digging for excuses and volunteerin’ ta come ‘ere, ‘cause even since before I started comin’ here for frickin’ whatever reason, I liked you, and I still do, ‘cause you're really hot and cool and just everythin’, and I'm pretty sure I'm talkin’ too fast for you to understand me, but do you wanna go out with me on Friday?” he blurted out, bringing the rose up over his head.
Silence.
“Orrr we can just pretend I never came over and forget I said anythi— ”
“I know,” Sniper cut in.
Scout looked at him, hand lowering to pick at his hand wraps. “Huh?”
“About the… Making excuses. And the chocolate, I assumed that was you. And the— yesterday, when you ‘forgot’,” he clarified, air quoting.
“What— really?”
Sniper nodded.
“Wha— you— why— why didn'cha say anythin'?”
Sniper shrugged.
“Well I— is— is— is that a no? To the me askin’ you out?”
“Didn't say no, did I?”
Silence.
“Oh,” Scout said, and winced.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Where are you takin’ me, then?”
“Oh. Oh, I… Didn't think that far ahead.”
Sniper chuckled.
“Shut up. How about uh… Friday at 7? I-I know this real nice restaurant a town over.”
“Sounds good.”
“Okay!” he chirped, now visibly brighter and less shivering-with-awkwardness. “See ya then, Snipes!”
As he turned around to leave— a good few steps away, the door half-closed— he stopped, turned.
“Hey, you know where the town is, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I'm assuming you don't wanna go on a motorbike?”
“Yeah.
“Okay. I might need a ride.”