Tf2 Ocs - Blog Posts

Munchies Run Teaser/WIP

(In most of the shorts where both Scouts are present, they're going to be referred to in narration as Red and Blue, just FYI.) If anyone who can actually speak Spanish reads this, please let me know if Pyro's Spanish dialogue is wrong in any way! I'm an English-only girl and I try to get my translations as accurate as I can, but, especially for the longer bits, I'm sure I probably screwed something up D:

Warning: this one's got excessive f-bombs and f-slurs (courtesy of Blue). Proceed with caution if that kind of language bothers you! Also marijuana use *shrugs*

Summary: Pyro and the Scouts get some of Spy's weed for their hangout session, and the munchies inevitably strike.

——

Munchies Run

[...]

“¡Eyyy, Rojo! ¡Ese! ¿Qué pasa, hombre?”

Red’s shock stole away any greeting he might have been prepared to offer, leaving his mouth hanging dumbly open. He had heard maybe five un-mask-muffled words out of Pyro in the weeks they’d hung out, and those only in moments of extreme surprise or excitement. Hearing as many words again, all at once, in that surprisingly deep, hoarse voice brought Red’s brain to a stuttering halt.

His silence didn’t go unnoticed: Pyro started laughing after a few seconds without a greeting in return, and Blue snorted, grinning up at Red.

“I know, right?” he said, giving Pyro a light shove. “He gets right fuckin’ chatty when he’s high, compared t’usual anyway, but most a’what he says is in fuckin’ Mexican.”

“Español, pendejo,” Pyro said, shoving him in return. “Es-pa-ñol.”

“Yeah, Mex-i-can,” Blue said, rolling his eyes and attempting to take a puff from the joint he held. He grunted when he realized it had gone out. “Roll another one, now Red’s here.”

[...]

Pyro’s face lit up. “¿Tu hablas Español?”

“Un poco,” Red said, grinning when Pyro made a gleeful sound. “I’m from Brooklyn, man, c’mon. I’m multicultural as shit, for a freckly blond white dude. Spanish was my language class in school, and there was this Puerto Rican family that lived next door; their oldest daughter was hot as shit. One a’my brothers dated a Mexican chick for a while, too. She made the best fuckin’ fajitas, man; really got my ma to step up her game on taco night.”

“Wait, hold on! This ain’t fuckin’ fair! You two can talk in Mexican to each other and I’m not gonna have a fuckin’ idea what yer sayin’!” Blue threw up his hands, and Red turned his grin on him.

“Español, pendejo,” he said, and Pyro cackled.

[...]

“¿La camioneta de Engie?” Pyro suggested, pointing over his shoulder. Red knew, from warnings on his previous visits, that the BLU Engineer was protective of his beat-up green Ford pickup, but he was less likely to murder them for borrowing it than the BLU Sniper would be if they took his camper. Blue glanced over at the vehicle and grunted in a vaguely frustrated manner.

“No keys,” he said, drumming his fingers against his cheek, narrowing his reddened eyes as he thought.

Red, coughing into a hand as he passed the joint on to Pyro, said in a tight voice, “Y’serious, man? Don’t need fuckin’ keys.”

He coughed again and staggered to his feet. He felt both Blues’ eyes on him as he swayed for a second, wobbling a step backward before steadying himself. He took a deep breath and carefully weaved his way across the courtyard to the truck. He wasn’t dizzy or anything unfortunate like that, but his limbs felt as if they were working a few seconds ahead of, or maybe behind, his brain. That, and his head seemed to want to float along independent from the rest of his body. Spy had some good shit.

Pyro and Blue followed him as he tugged off his shoulder bag and fished through it, withdrawing his still-gleaming new slim jim. He knew it wasn’t usually the most useful piece of equipment out here, but he liked having it with him; it made him feel closer to home. He’d made it with a little help from Wrenches not long after Dickface had told him to fuck off. The price for the materials and aid had been a promise to drive the asshole Australian’s camper into the fence at least once. Red had gleefully driven it through the fence and into a ditch (or ravine, or side of a butte) on multiple occasions since.

Pyro made a soft sound of approval, and Blue stared in open fascination. He started to lean in, and Red had to push him out of the way so he could actually get the slim metal rod into position and start working at the truck door’s internal mechanisms.

“You can boost cars?” Blue said in undisguised awe, squatting as if that would get him a better view of what Red was doing. Red grinned, jiggling the slim jim until he heard, and felt, the familiar heavy clunk from inside the door, and pulled it open.

“Ty, my brother, taught me,” he said, tucking the tool back into his bag and retrieving a screwdriver, before tossing the bag into the bed of the truck and wriggling in under the dash panel. “Breakin’ in when I was eleven, hot-wirin’ a year after. I can bust my way out of a locked trunk, too. Ty’s doin’ six years for a bunch a’grand theft autos right now, but he’s- Ow! Fuckin’ wires… He’s still my best brother, taught me loads a’shit. He just likes cars.”

“My brother Joey likes cars, but he never stole ’em,” Blue said in a reproachful tone, though it was diminished somewhat by his blatant interest in Red’s activities, especially when the lights on the dash panel flickered and then began to glow steadily. “S’kinda cool, though.”

“Es bueno saberlo,” Pyro said, leaning back against the truck bed. “Por si acaso.”

“That’s what Ty always said. ‘Just in case,’” Red said. The truck rumbled to sudden life as if in response and Red slid out of the cab, beaming. “I dunno if he was thinkin’ munchies when he said that, but still applies, right?”

“Fuck yes!”

It was unclear whether Blue was agreeing or just happy that the truck was running. Either way, he bolted past Red and hopped into the driver’s seat, slapping his hands on the wheel with a whoop.

Then he froze. When he hadn’t moved for a couple seconds, staring out the front windshield with wide eyes, Red gave him an experimental poke, making him jerk as if shocked. He shook himself and looked between Pyro and his fellow Scout, dismay painting his features to an almost comical degree.

“Can anyone drive high?” he said in a whine. Red blinked and frowned—he hadn’t thought of that—but Pyro rolled his eyes with a snort.

“Mueve tu trasero, pendejo,” he said, jerking a thumb. Blue stumbled out of the truck with significantly less grace than when he’d entered, and Pyro took his place behind the wheel. His eyes roved briefly over the dash and center console before he set his foot on the gas. He revved the engine experimentally a couple of times, and seemed pleased, nodding to himself with a small smile. He switched his foot to the brake and set the truck in gear.

He then noticed the two Scouts still standing next to him, staring. Blue’s mouth was hanging open as if he had just witnessed something magical. Red looked less impressed, though he still stared slightly wondering at Pyro’s apparent competence. That putting a truck in gear indicated competence must have said something about their current collective state, but Pyro didn’t seem in the mood to figure out what. He raised an eyebrow, and gestured to the passenger seat and truck bed.

“¿Nosotros vamos?” he said. Blue continued to gape until Red jostled him in his rush to jump into the truck bed.

“I wanna ride in the back!” Red said, bouncing with his hands on the roof of the cab. Blue blinked, then snorted and weaved his way to the passenger seat.

“We’re not stoppin’ if ya fall out,” he said as he slammed the door shut and, after a second’s thought, buckled his seatbelt. Pyro rolled his eyes again and opened the cab’s rear window after closing his own door.

“Él no es el que conduce,” he said over his shoulder. “Aunque deberías sentarte.”

Red chuckled, but did sit, leaning back against the cab as the truck gave a lurch before creeping steadily forward, gaining speed as they passed the fence and started toward the vague, distant lights of town.

——

“Augh, my God, take them away, somebody, before I fuckin’ die.”

Red snorted, but grabbed the flailing bag of cheese puffs as Blue waved it in his direction, more to prevent any more from being flung from the bag than to sate his own hunger. He still popped a few of the vibrantly orange snacks into his mouth before setting the bag down beside him, with the myriad other packages of half-finished junk food. He hummed happily. He hadn’t had cheese puffs in so long; even without the munchies, they would’ve tasted awesome.

Pyro sighed from the other side of the truck bed, crumpling his latest chocolate bar wrapper and flicking it lazily at Blue, who was sprawled like a well-sated rug on the roof of the truck’s cab. He smirked when Blue’s only response was to grunt and weakly flap a hand at him.

“Munchies achieved,” Pyro said, stretching his legs out, careful not to crush any of the bags of chips, cookies, and various other snacks scattered through the truck bed that still actually had anything in them. There were still plenty of empty wrappers and bags to provide percussive accompaniment to his movement, though. Red had to laugh.

“Fuck, man, we are fuckin’ pigs,” he said, flicking away an empty flaky pastry wrapper, still with smears of icing clinging to it. When the squat, balding man who’d owned the desert town’s sole convenience store had seen them strolling up to the counter with at least half of his stock of snack foods in both the salty and sweet varieties, Red had thought he’d been on the verge of fainting, or having a heart attack. They’d paid a pretty penny for the inevitable victims of their cannabis-enhanced appetites, more than the little store probably saw in a month.

The munchies’ grip on all three of them had been complete and unwavering, though. The drive into town had been uneventful, if a little bumpy—Pyro was an exceptionally careful driver when stoned, apparently, keeping the truck going no more than twenty even on the straighter stretches of pot-holed road—so Red had rolled another joint for them to smoke on the way in. They had all been giggling and half-starved by the time Pyro had very carefully managed to manoeuvre the truck into a space in the middle of the otherwise empty lot, and their extravagant paychecks had left little room for self-restraint in their intoxicated state once they’d laid eyes on the shelves filled with processed sugar, salt, and fat.

A short drive to the edge of town later, and the three mercenaries had spent the better part of the next hour and a half gorging on candies sweet and sour, chips ranging across almost every flavour and brand, various mass-produced and hand-made baked goods, jerky and Slim Jims (of the edible variety, though Blue had taken five thoroughly bewildering minutes to ponder the similarities between the processed meat snack and the car-jacking tool in Red’s bag), and multiple large bottles of every kind of pop the store had on hand. Both Blue and Pyro had expressed amazement at the amount of food Red had packed away—for someone so small, he had a seemingly bottomless stomach—and the trio had spent a good ten laughter-filled minutes bouncing cheese puffs and gummies off each other’s faces as they tried (and more often failed) to make a toss into waiting mouths.

Now, though, the feast was complete, the wreckage strewn about Red and Pyro’s legs in the bed of the truck. Despite his protestations of near-death, Blue rolled over onto his stomach and groaned, reaching vainly for one of the discarded bags.

“Nnnnh, fuckin’ Skittles’re too far away,” he grunted, slithering ponderously off of the truck’s roof and into the bed, brushing aside bags empty and half-full alike as he cleared a spot for himself near Pyro and, more importantly, the large bag of Skittles that had been resting by his knee. He echoed Pyro’s earlier sigh as he tossed a few of the brightly coloured candies into his mouth.

“If this is how pigs fuckin’ feel, man, then pin a curly tail t’my ass and call me Bacon,” he said. “Fuck, I haven’t had Skittles in so fuckin’ long.”

“Oink oink,” Red said, chuckling and barely resisting the urge to find that bag of pork rinds; he couldn’t remember if they’d finished them off or not. “Ugh, man, I’m so fuckin’ glad we don’t hafta fight tomorrow. I’m gonna be rollin’ ’round the base for days.”

Pyro nudged Red’s leg with his foot. “I still can’t believe you ate four whole cans of Pringles by yourself.”

As the high from the drive had faded, Pyro’s chattiness had diminished somewhat, but he had started using more English often when he did speak up. Red was kind of glad he didn’t have to mentally translate everything Pyro was saying anymore, especially while he was high. And there was still enough Spanish peppered into Pyro’s speech to confuse Blue, which would never not be funny.

“Pringles are fuckin’ delicious, bro,” Red said with broad grin, folding his hands over his stomach and nodding at the heap of used cling-wrap sitting next to Pyro. “How many fuckin’ cookies did you eat, anyway? Ya cleared out that whole shelf a’home-baked shit, and I only got one.”

“Me gustan las galletas,” Pyro said, glowering sullenly at Red. “I knew I was missing one.”

“Wait, so you ate all of ’em?” Blue said, staring. “Dude, that was, like, thirty cookies, plus those brownies, and most a’the Oreos. And ya took the last Oreo! Dude!”

“Like you didn’t keep all the candy for yourself,” Pyro said, giving the Skittles a significant glance; Blue clutched the bag tighter and hastily popped a few more into his mouth as Red laughed. “It’s a miracle you still have any teeth, hombre. Between Bonk and…” He looked over the scattered wrappers. “At least five of those chocolate bar wrappers are yours, and that whole bag of sour gummies. You’ve gotta have tantas caries.”

“I don’t got… whatever Mexican shit ya said,” Blue said, flapping a hand when Pyro rolled his eyes. “My teeth’re fine. Not like fuckin’ Bucky over here.”

He tossed a Skittle at Red, who caught and ate it despite the glare he leveled at Blue. “There’s nothin’ wrong with my fuckin’ teeth, assface.” He ran his tongue over them self-consciously and muttered, half under his breath, “They ain’t that big.”

Pyro smiled at him and nudged him again with his foot. “Es lindo. Ellos, y las pecas. Me gusta la mirada pecosa, y chicos blancos que se sonrojan.”

Blue stared at Pyro in utter bafflement, but Red could feel a flush rising in his neck and cheeks. Not that he didn’t stare as well. He was far from fluent in Spanish—even if he did know a not inconsiderable amount—but he thought he’d gotten the gist of what Pyro had said. He thought, but if he had… Pyro was ignoring Blue’s puzzled gaze, instead smiling warmly at Red. There was something in that smile, something more than friendly, and it only got stronger when Pyro’s eyebrow quirked up. Red swallowed hard, and jumped with a bitten off yelp when Blue suddenly spoke:

“What’s with that look?”

The elder Scout was looking between Red and Pyro, though he seemed mainly focused on the latter. He gestured vaguely, pointing between the other two with eyes narrowed. Pyro turned his raised brow on him, though it became a decidedly less suggestive expression as he did; Red’s face was a credit to his name. Blue squinted at both of them for a moment longer, then wagged a finger at Pyro.

“You got the hots for Red. Like, y’actually think he’s cute ’n’ shit,” he said. Red made a choked sound, but Pyro only gave a nonchalant shrug, leaning more comfortably back against the edge of the truck bed. Blue continued his intense scrutiny of him, a thoughtful grimace tugging his lips down. 

“Ya fucked old Red, too, back at Teufort,” he said, gaze going distant with remembrance without leaving Pyro’s indifferent face. Red was silently wondering if it was possible for someone to blush to death. “I mean, halfa the dudes there fuckin’ did, but I remember, he barely hadta pester you at all. He said some shit… You woulda barely been with the team a few months…”

He blinked, and fixed Pyro with a wide-eyed, disbelieving stare. “Dude, are you, like, actually a fag?”

Pyro growled sharply and punched Blue hard in the arm. “I’m fucking gay, cabrón,” he said, giving Blue another punch high on the shoulder for good measure. “Call me ‘fag’ again y te freiré los huevos.”

“Ow! Fuck, man, Jesus!” Blue yelped, deflecting another punch. “Shit! I won’t say it!” He hesitated in lowering his hands from their defensive position. “But you’re, like… Y’actually like dudes? To fuck? No chicks?”

Red had to laugh despite the heat still tickling his cheeks, and Pyro crossed his arms over his chest, still glowering as he settled back. “Sí, pendejo. I ‘like dudes, to fuck, no chicks’. That a problem?”

“No!” Blue said quickly, flinching. “Fuckin’- It ain’t a fuckin’ problem. I just… never realized before, and I never really met someone who’s actually… y’know. Queer. At least, I don’t think so.” A thoughtful frown flitted back across Blue’s face. “I guess Spy is, kinda, and Heavy, maybe. And I know Doc’s a faaaa- gay. He’s gay, too,” he said, shying away again from Pyro’s dark glare.

“Nice save, bro,” Red said, smirking.

“Fuck off, assfag- ah, dammit! Stop lookin’ at me like yer gonna fuckin’ hit me!” Blue threw up his hands again and gave Pyro a pleading look. Pyro’s glare didn’t falter, but he shook his head.

“I won’t hit you any more,” he said, “for now, but I don’t like esa maldita palabra. That word,” he clarified with a sigh when Blue gave him a blank look. Blue looked uncertain for a moment, but soon sighed as well and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Fuck, man, fine. I’ll try not t’say it,” he said, “but ya can’t get pissed if I screw up, a’right? S’just… It’s just what ya fuckin' say, y’know.”

Pyro nodded in a surprisingly patient way, given that he’d likely just left two good bruises on Blue’s arm. “Good. And if you call me that again, I still get to fucking murder you. Pausadamente. Con fuego.”

He held Blue’s gaze for a long moment, long enough to make Blue shrink back, but jumped when a joint bounced off his cheek and landed in his lap. He looked over at Red, who was tucking the weed box back through the truck window into the cab. He smiled when he saw Pyro blinking at him.

“I didn’t wanna ruin the moment,” he said, “but I figured one more to wind down before we head back? It’s the indica this time, should keep it mellow.”

“Issat what ‘indica’ means?” Blue said, watching as Pyro baptized and lit the joint with no further prompting. “I saw that on most a’the containers Spy’s got, so I guess it’d make sense. I’ve never actually caught him stoned, but he’s pretty fuckin’ chill most a’the time anyway, so it might be tough to tell.”

“I don’t think Spy actually smokes enough to get stoned. No como nosotros,” Pyro said. He puffed and passed the joint to Red before continuing. “Some people use it to help with stress, sabes, just a hit every now and then. Pain relief. Apetito. Depresión también, y… uh…” He looked to Red, frowning. “Ansiedad. ¿Cómo lo dices?”

“Anxiety?” Red said after a second’s thought. He passed the joint on to Blue, who was listening to Pyro with such rapt attention that Red had to shove him before he took the weed.

Pyro nodded. “Sí, sí. Anxiety. Puede ayudar con el, ah… panic attacks, y cosas así.”

“Spy doesn’t have those, I don’t think,” Blue said, coughing a little. “He might use it for pain, though. His knees bug him sometimes.”

Red’s smirk returned. “Oh yeah, I forgot yer fuckin’ an old man. Gotta watch out for grandpa’s knees.”

“Oh, like Wrenches wasn’t a dirty old man, fuckin’ you,” Blue shot back. “He’s not that much younger’n Spy, and yer still a fuckin’ kid.”

“I’m not a kid, fuckface, and Wrenches is only, like, thirty-four,” Red said. “Spy’s gotta be forty. At least.”

“He is not. He’s late thirties, max. Py, back me up here,” Blue said, turning to his teammate. Instead of bolstering his argument, however, Pyro cast a meaningful glance at the joint, still barely smouldering between Blue’s fingers, forgotten. Blue blinked, then cursed and took a few frantic puffs to keep the joint alive. He started hacking, trying vainly to stifle the vicious coughs that resulted in his elbow, and Pyro managed to pluck the joint from his weaving and bobbing hand with a smirk of his own.

“Me preguntaba cuánto tiempo ibas a bogart eso,” he said, taking a contented drag. 

[...]

“So, ya don’t like tits? Like, at all?”

The idea seemed completely baffling to Blue; he was pretty damn high, but Red figured it wasn’t that hard a concept to grasp. Pyro shook his head and made a face as he passed the joint on to Red.

“Son solo… sacos de grasa con pezones. Nada especial,” he said, gesturing and shrugging. “Quiero decir… Heavy’s got tits.”

Blue blinked, looking stunned for a few silent seconds. Then he groaned and scrubbed viciously at his face. “Aw, fuck, man! Now I got th’image a’Doc motorboatin’ Heavy stuck in my head! Thanks a fuckin’ lot!”

Red choked on his latest inhale and started hacking out laughter, his face quickly becoming, once again, near as crimson as his t-shirt. Pyro rescued the joint when Red lost his grip on it, chuckling at Blue’s continued groans of disgust as he took another puff for himself.

“Sabes que probablemente lo hace,” he said, his smile becoming conspiratorial. “Nunca le digas… but I saw something, ahhh, lacy in Heavy’s size in the Infirmary closet, una vez. No pude verlo bien, pero creo que Doc es un poco… kinky…”

Red was still laughing, clutching his gut as tears leaked down his cheeks, but he managed to get out a revolted groan. “Eugh, fuck. At least that’s one thing I don’t hafta worry about with my team. Imagine walkin’ in on that.”

Red jumped when Pyro burst out with a hearty laugh of his own, and Blue went beet red from shirt collar to hairline. Red looked between the two, then made a face and exclaimed in a combination of amusement and disgust.

“Aw, shit! You already walked in on ’em? Fuck, dude!”

“I needed some fuckin’ Tylenol!” Blue said, the picture of indignant, horrified distaste. “I had a fuckin’ headache ’n’ all I wanted was some fuckin’ Tylenol, but those assfucks wouldn’t answer the fuckin’ door, so…”

“Acabas de entrar, con Doc montando a Heavy como un caballo,” Pyro said with a vicious grin. Blue scrubbed his face again, making inarticulate sounds of revulsion. “You’re lucky I was just listening to music when you busted into my room, pendejo. Pudo haber sido mucho peor.”

“Dude, don’t even,” Blue said, groaning. “Ugh. Just… ugh.”

Red shook his head with a few final chuckles, wiping the last traces of moisture from his cheeks, and said, “Man, I don’t get it. Ya fuck Spy up th’ass and ya suck his dick, but yer still all squeamish ’n’ shit. I mean, I wouldn’t wanna see yer Heavy gettin’ nasty with anyone-” He shuddered theatrically and Pyro snorted back another laugh. “-but, I mean, for the rest it’s just… dudes fuckin’. S’no big deal.”

“No big deal? It fucked! It’s- It just-” Blue ran a hand through his hair, half shoving off his hat, then stopped. He blinked slowly before turning a suspicious, red-eyed glare on Red. “Waaaait a minute. I thought you said when we talked before that you wasn’t a fag.”

Pyro growled, but Red’s indignant yelp held Blue’s attention. “I’m not! I ain’t a fuckin’ fag! Sorry,” he added when Pyro hissed at him. “But I’m not fuckin’ gay, man.”

“Y’let Wrenches fuck ya, though,” Blue said, “and y’were gettin’ fucked by yer Sniper in, like, a week. And y’practically fuckin’ begged me to blow and fuck ya, too!”

“I didn’t beg, asshole; I was drunk, and I’m fuckin’ horny! I’m only nineteen, ya fuckin’ geezer! Jackin’ off don’t fuckin’ cut it, and there ain’t no chicks ’round here, in case ya haven’t noticed!”

“I’m only twenty-four, cockfag! I get horny, too, and it was still more’n a fuckin’ year before I got desperate enough t’actually fuck a dude, even when old Red was throwin’ himself at everythin’ with a dick and a pulse! And I still don’t take it up th’ass!”

“Hey, we already agreed suckin’ dick is way gayer than gettin’ fucked, so-”

“We did not fuckin’ agree, ya little assfag! You said that so I wouldn’t think you was fuckin’ queer, and I think it’s pretty fuckin’ obvious ya are! ‘It’s just dudes fuckin’.’ The fuck is that? Admit it! Yer a fuckin’ fag!”

“Fuck you! Just ’cause I don’t turn into a pussy-ass little bitch any time someone mentions two guys together don’t make me fuckin’ gay!”

“You getcher ass! Fucked! How can you not be a fuckin’ faggot if you-”

A heavy, echoing thud made both Scouts start. Unnoticed by either of them, Pyro—with a great deal of eye rolling, head shaking, and disgruntled muttering—had extinguished the joint, slipped out of the truck bed, and started collecting the various empty chip bags and snack wrappers within easy reach. He had built up an impressive pile as Red and Blue had argued, and the thud had come from him dropping a sizable chunk of scrap wood on top of it to keep it from being blown away by the light night breeze.

Noticing the Scouts’ attention, he shrugged. “Necesidad de deshacerse de la basura,” he said, “y no quería interrumpir la pelea de tu pequeño amante.”

Red flushed and sputtered, but Blue vaulted out of the truck bed to examine Pyro’s garbage pile, curiosity shoving his and Red’s disagreement firmly from his mind.

“Yer gonna burn it?” he said. Pyro nodded, arranging the heap more to his liking and adding a few more pieces of wood. Where they’d come from, neither Scout had any idea; Pyro always just seemed to have something flammable at hand.

“How’re we gonna light it, though?” Blue said, frowning. “Y’don’t got yer flamethrower.”

Pyro gave his teammate an unimpressed look, pulling out the book of matches they’d been using to light their joints. “¿De verdad crees que no puedo iniciar un incendio sin mi lanzallamas, pendejo? ¿Lo dice en serio?”

Blue opened his mouth, but his retort turned into a yelp when Pyro lit the entire matchbook, a ball of fire coming to life at his fingertips with a faint whoof. Blue jerked back, cursing, but Pyro just watched the little ball of flame for a moment before calmly setting it into the garbage-tinder nest he’d created for it.

[...]

“What in the sweet blue Hell did you boys do to my truck!”

[...]

Heart-to-Heart Teaser/WIP

Just some Scout comfort chats :) Not as long as the other WIPs, but still sticking it under a cut.

Summary: The RED Scout experiences his first permanent respawn error, and calls Blue out to talk and hopefully give him a little insight into just what he's gotten himself into.

——

Heart-to-Heart

[...]

“So… how bad was it?”

Red didn’t look up, but he lifted his left arm before him, pushing the sleeve of his sweater up past his elbow and spreading his fingers wide. Blue choked on his beer.

Around Red’s elbow and wrist, and halfway down his forearm, were thin rings of tight new scar tissue. It was as if his arm had been cut into precise sections and then glued back together. And more than half of his ring finger was gone. Just gone. Between his middle finger and pinky was a nauseatingly obvious gap.

Blue wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck…”

“Yeah.”

Red pushed his sleeve back down. He stared at his hand, curling and uncurling his fingers with a grimace. His thumb kept prodding at and swiping over the end of the newly shortened digit. Blue couldn’t help but stare at it. Respawn errors were nothing new to him, even more extreme ones (especially after that… weird day, a little while back), but Red was new. Like, brand new. He hadn’t even hit six months yet. Blue hadn’t had his first really bad, permanent respawn error until he’d been with BLU for more than eight, and, though he’d never admit it aloud, he’d died a lot in those first few months back at Teufort.

Red sighed, scrubbing his maimed hand through his hair and grabbing the beer Blue had opened for him. He took a deep swig and shuddered.

“Doc said I’m lucky it wasn’t worse, that I didn’t lose my whole hand,” he grunted, taking another, smaller sip. “If this is fuckin’ lucky… And it’s only my first one. How bad does this shit get?”

Blue made a soft sound, lowering his own beer slowly. He didn’t want to freak Red out, but he felt like he should let the kid know at least some of what he could expect. He had a feeling that the warnings he’d received from his own teammates had helped blunt the shock of his first bad error—kept it from pushing him into either suicide or psychosis—and, if Wrenches hadn’t done it yet, it seemed unlikely anyone else in that pack of psycopaths with RED was going to offer up that information to the younger Scout. Taking in a slow breath, Blue set his beer aside and lifted up the left side of his track jacket and t-shirt. It was Red’s turn to choke.

Seated over Blue’s lowest ribs was a jagged scar, almost as wide as his hand, reaching nearly as far inward as his navel and spine. Even after months, it refused to fade in the slightest, remaining as a bunched ridge of dark, angry red while his other scars had become less prominent with fairly little age, and it was still sensitive to too hard a touch. Where Red’s new scars were surgically precise, it looked as if someone had tried ripping Blue in half and stopped halfway through. He’d grown used to the grisly sight, but Red’s horrified stare reminded him just how bad it really looked.

He smoothed his shirt back down and lightly prodded at his two lowermost ribs. “These two ribs are fake, had t’be replaced,” he said, “and Doc said he was surprised he didn’t hafta regrow half a’my lung and a few other organs.” He sipped his beer. “Yer Pyro got me good with his fuckin’ axe—almost cut me the fuck in half—and when I respawned I still had the gapin’ fuckin’ axe wound. And of fuckin’ course it was right at the end a’the fight, too, so if I woulda croaked again I’d’ve been stuck in the void for days. It was almost a whole fuckin’ week before the next fight, and if I woulda been in there that long, it prob’ly woulda killed me for good.”

“Is that how the last RED Scout died?” Red asked softly. Blue winced and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Ehh, pretty much, but he was…” He shook his head and sighed. “Red—old Red—was pretty fucked in the head. Ya know he was a total fuckin’ slut, right?” Red snorted, the briefest flicker of a smile tugging his lips. “Well, I’m pretty sure he had a fuckin’ death wish, too. He was worse than both fuckin’ Soldiers, always runnin’ head-first into shit, no matter how many times it got him killed. He spent more time in the void, and had more respawn errors, than everyone else on both teams combined.” He shrugged. “One fight, he just didn’t respawn. He’d been in the void a few days and when the fight started he just… wasn’t there. Didn’t even last a full year.” He grimaced. “Better than what happened to my old Pyro, though.”

Red’s voice was small and hesitant when, after a few too-long seconds, he asked, “What happened t’him?”

Blue rubbed his neck again, hesitating, before he said, “I don’t really know, for sure. One fight, I respawned, and Pyro ’n’ Doc was already there. Py was just on the ground screamin’ and thrashin’ around and shit, completely covered in blood. It-” He swallowed thickly, the memory making his gorge rise. “It was comin’ out from under his suit and mask, and out through his mask, y’know, like through them filter things. Took him a few minutes t’actually die, and his body didn’t fade out like it usually would. Was just layin’ there in a pool a’blood on the respawn room floor. Took weeks for the blood-smell t’go away, even after, like, five bottles a’bleach.”

Red shuddered again and lowered his forehead to his knees. He was silent another long moment, until he said, almost too softly to hear, “What the fuck am I doin’ here, man…?”

His voice cracked and he hugged his legs tighter. Blue could see him shaking, and his hand was stroking up and down Red’s back before he even had the conscious thought to move it.

It was… heart-wrenching, seeing Red like this. He was a little shit when they were fighting, yeah, but Blue had grown to kind of like the brat. He’d grown up with nothing but older brothers, but, along with Pyro, Red made him feel like he had two younger ones. It was kind of weird, but he found himself wanting to look after them, especially Red. Red was just so young, and clueless in so many ways, like a lost puppy or something. It felt… wrong, seeing him so upset.

He could feel that Red’s shivering had stopped, though he hadn’t lifted his head.

[...]

“So yer sendin’ most a’yer money home too?” Red said and Blue nodded, leaning back on an elbow.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not like I need it for much out here, and even if I did, I got enough t’never hafta worry regardless. Less’n two years into a five year contract and I already got almost two hundred grand banked, and that’s after sendin’ more’n half of it t’Ma,” he said. He finished off his beer and sent the bottle winging off down the train tracks. He waited to hear the distant tinkle of the glass shattering before continuing, “Ma did everythin’ for me ’n’ my brothers growin’ up; it’s only right makin’ sure she’s taken care of.”

“You got brothers? How many?”

Blue smirked and held up eight fingers, and Red punched him in the shoulder. “Bull. Shit. You do not have eight fuckin’ brothers.”

“Oh, yeah I fuckin’ do. Older brothers, too,” Blue said, ticking them off on his extended fingers: “There’s Robby in th’Army; Joey workin’ on his cars; Tony’s at fuckin’ MIT, the smartass; Matt and the twins, Alex and Adam, are doin’ the whole wife-and-kids thing, white-collar city jobs; Paul’s still in jail for a few more years; Johnny was flippin’ burgers, last I heard; and then there’s me.”

“Yer the youngest?” Red said, and Blue nodded.

“Yeah. M’dad died when I was three and Ma never got married again,” Blue said. “There was guys around every once in a while, but none of ’em really lasted too long.” He glanced over at Red, eyebrow raised. “How ’boutchu? Brothers? Folks?”

“Four older brothers,” Red said. “Well, two half-brothers, two full brothers. Ethan and Mike had a different dad from me, Ty, and Jonah. My pops fucked off when I was five, though. Y’know, ‘gone out for smokes and never came back’ shit.”

“Ah, fuck, that sucks.” Blue frowned. “Sorry dude.”

Red shrugged and finished his beer, sending his bottle flying after Blue’s. “Eh, he was a dick. Ma’d been sick of him for a long time, since before I was born, even. Was always gone for days, doin’ who fuckin’ knows what. I barely even saw him for the whole five years before he fucked off for good. Jonah loved him, but me ’n’ Ty fuckin’ hated him.”

[...]

Proving Oneself Teaser/WIP

A big end-chunk for this one. Got a few earlier bits, but they're either really short or I'm not as thrilled with them and am probably gonna rewrite them.

Summary: Soldier blames the day's loss on Scout, and labels him a useless liability to the team. Scout decides to prove him wrong.

——

Proving Oneself

[...]

[...] The bulkhead slammed shut behind him, cutting off the screams of the pursuing Reds with a deep, final clang.

He collapsed back against the heavy steel, his legs finally giving way. It was done. He’d done it. The intel briefcases felt heavy enough to drag him straight through the floor, but he had them.  He’d brought them both in, all by himself. Soldier couldn’t say shit this time. He just had to get the cases down to the War Room, now, shove them in Soldier’s stupid face, show that helmet-wearing dick he wasn’t useless. He laid his head back against the bulkhead, swallowing hard to fight down a wave of nausea when the room spun around him. Maybe he could just take a minute…

Groaning, Scout heaved himself up straight. He wasn’t going to do this half-assed. He’d gotten the intel this far; he just had to get through a few hallways and rub Soldier’s nose in how fucking wrong he was. Then he could go pass out. There wasn’t even going to be anyone shooting at him the rest of the way. Easy peasy, numbnuts. Hard part’s done. Just start walking.

The first step nearly sent him tumbling to the floor—without the adrenaline rush of running for his life, his pains were starting to vigorously make themselves known—but he caught himself with another step, then another when his pounding right knee threatened to buckle under his weight. He realized he was more falling forward one step at a time than walking, but it was movement. The long, empty concrete passage seemed to stretch and yaw before him, and he shook his head. Just get to the War Room, show Soldier-

“Scout! Damnation, boy, what in the holy Hell happened to ya?”

Hardhat was in front of him, holding a hand against his shoulder to stop him. He wasn’t wearing his goggles. He looked weird without his goggles. Scout looked at the hand pressed to his shoulder and shrugged it away, stepping sideways to move around the stout Texan. Keep moving, drop off the intel, prove Soldier wrong…

“-et Medic, now. When did he even go out, I didn’t-”

“I don’t know, I just heard the door and came t’see-”

“I would nae try stoppin’ him. I’ve ne’er seen that look on the lad’s face…”

The concrete corridor was slowly being populated by his teammates. He saw their wavering blue silhouettes, some approaching but none making another move to touch him after Engie. He heard the thump of their footsteps as they started falling in behind him. Or was that his heartbeat? Doesn’t matter, he thought, steadying himself against a wall for a moment. He took a deep breath and peeled himself away—almost literally: his bloody shirt clung to the wall as he straightened—and continued around a corner.

There was the kitchen. Halfway to the War Room. There was a hushed buzz of voices behind him, but he couldn’t make out the words. As long as they didn’t try to stop him, he didn’t care. The briefcases really did seem to be dragging him down, and if he stopped he probably wouldn’t be able to start again. He just had to drop them off, shove it in Soldier’s stupid, stupid face…

His knee throbbed sharply and he stumbled. Gloved hands caught him, keeping him upright, and someone said… something. He mumbled in return—he wasn’t sure what, but it was enough to get the hands to release him—and started dragging his feet laboriously forward again. He could feel someone close at his side, slowing to match his pace as he took one wavering step at a time. Each one sent knives through his calves and made the hallway rock around him. He closed his eyes when one particular architectural lurch was accompanied by a similar motion in his stomach, but his feet kept moving. Almost there… Then he could rest.

He didn’t realize he hadn’t opened his eyes until an arresting hand on his shoulder made him blink, and then squint. Fuck, was it always so bright in here? His feet had stopped. He looked down at them—Christ, his legs were a mess—and then up again, jerking when he saw the War Room door. The War Room? Fuck, right, the War Room. The intel. Shove it in Soldier’s face.

He lifted a hand to knock, and paused, blinking owlishly, when the RED briefcase swung before his eyes. Right, right. He carefully managed to settle the briefcase handle in his other hand with its blue twin, feeling very lopsided with all the weight held to one side, and lifted his now empty hand. It hurt to knock, but he thumped his fist against the door again and again.

He fell forward when the door wrenched in, colliding face first with Soldier’s chest. It actually felt amazing after the initial lurch, being able to rest his weight against something solid, at least until Soldier pushed him back.

“What the Hell is this pansy parade? Do you maggots have any idea-”

It took most of Scout’s strength to shove the briefcases at Soldier, but the stunned look on the man’s face was worth it. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, so Scout could fully enjoy watching his eyes pop when he registered what had been thrust into his arms. His mouth gaped, and his bewildered gaze flicked between Scout and the intel with growing incredulity. Without the briefcases weighing him down, Scout was able to straighten (mostly), and he met Soldier’s baffled stare. He hoped he looked badass, rather than woozy.

“Call me useless now, asshole,” he said. “I fuckin’ dare you.”

Silence. Sweet, shocked silence. Scout had never thought it could sound so good.

Letting out a slow breath, he tottered back a few steps, the jarring thud as his back hit the wall not dislodging his smile. He slid down the wall to sit heavily, closing his eyes against the glare of the fluorescents. He’d done it. All by himself, no matter what anyone said. He wasn’t fucking useless…

“Open your eyes, cher.”

Spy. Always calling him those stupid froggy things. Share. Petty, or pity, or whatever the fuck it was. He opened his eyes, just a slit; a blue blur filled almost his entire vision.

“S’bright,” he murmured. He closed his eyes again. His voice sounded far away. “I got it, Spy. All by m’self…”

“You did, petit, you did.” A hand brushed through his hair, pushing his cap and headset away. It felt nice, the lightly probing touch across his scalp. Something gently slid behind his shoulders, pulling him away from the wall, and something else slid under his knees. His stomach swooped as the floor disappeared beneath him, replaced by the cradle of two heavy arms.

“Da, little Scout is credit to team.”

Heh, Heavy arms. Heh.

He could feel more words rumbling up from Heavy’s chest, but they lost their distinction to his ears. Deep mumbles and clipped murmurs drifted unintelligibly by him, lulling in the way their inflections matched the gentle swaying of the world, now more soothing than nauseating. His pains had faded, not entirely, but the sharp individual stings and twinges had amalgamated into a less intense full-body ache. Worth it, he thought, a weak smile turning his lips as consciousness slipped away.

Deathmatch Teaser/WIP

Some beginning, a complete chunk of middle, and the end *headdesk* I'm sorry, I just can't write linearly. It's a problem...

This one's going to be mostly Spy-centric, taking a look at his thoughts on and relationships with Scout, Sniper, and the RED Sniper in particular. A little attempt at a fight scene, too (not sure how well I pulled it off, though).

Summary: The Administration introduces a new match-type. No teams. Last man standing wins.

——

Deathmatch

[...]

“Wait. She said ‘deathmatch’,” Engie said slowly, frowning. Scout shrugged, picking more dirt and gravel out of his shoes.

“Yeah, so? Deathmatch. Big fuckin’ deal. We done it before,” he said, flicking a pebble caught in his cleats across the room. “Go out there, bash the Reds, try not to get bashed too many times ourselves-”

“‘Deathmatch’, she said,” Engie repeated. The horror in Spy’s face said he alone yet understood. “Not ‘team deathmatch’.”

Scout froze in the midst of picking at another stubborn pebble. A thankfully inactive grenade dropped from Demo’s limp fingers, bouncing wildly across the floor until Sniper stepped on it. Both were gaping at Engie, as were Medic and Heavy, the former of whom shared Spy’s look of abject horror. Soldier was the only one not stunned to some degree by the observation; even Pyro stood clutching his flamethrower to his chest, looking nervously between the others, while Soldier waved his shovel and bellowed about treason and bureaucrats, for which he seemed to have an equal hatred.

A screeching electronic sound drew everyone’s attention to a small slot in the wall. A chugging series of beeps filled the room as a long piece of paper came sliding from the slot, creeping out inch by inch, until a ripping sound came from the other side of the wall and the paper fluttered to the floor. Spy was closest and he stooped to pick it up. He read through it as Scout inspected the slot—he’d wondered aloud at its purpose in the past and his curiosity was once again piqued—and the others shuffled and fidgeted uneasily as they waited for Spy’s report. It was brief, when it came.

“We are in for a fun day, mes amis,” Spy said grimly, scowling as he passed the page to Sniper, who skimmed it quickly before shoving it at Engie with a curse.

“Deathmatch,” he growled as Engie started reading with a more critical eye. “No teams. Last man standin’ wins. That means full friendly fire.”

“Hhhr shhht,” Pyro moaned, looking down at his flamethrower with a mournful droop to his shoulders. Active friendly fire meant Spy-checking—fully half of Pyro’s job on most days—was next to, if not entirely, impossible.

Spy gave the weapon a look that was significantly more distasteful and muttered, “‘Oh shit’, indeed.”

“Ten respawns apiece, yeah, and full friendly fire, sorry Py.” Pyro moaned again and Engie gave him a sympathetic smile before he continued, “The other respawn rooms’ve been opened up and we’ll get shuffled randomly through the ones on our side every time. Other’n that, it’s pretty much just kill whatever moves ’til yer th’only one left. We’ll all get respawned back in after someone wins, at least; s’not gonna be seventeen of us hangin’ ’round in the void ’til the next fight.” He passed the paper back to Spy. “There’s some in there specifically fer you about yer disguise kit and whatnot, and some fer Doc, too. The rest is just the usual bull. ‘You signed up fer this, y’can’t pull out now or else,’ yadda yadda yadda.”

“It is bull!” Scout popped up straight, hobbling a little until he got his left foot settled back properly into its shoe. “Total bullshit! I didn’t fuckin’ sign up to shoot you guys!”

“Vhile I’m sure ve all appreciate zhe sentiment, Scout, I am also sure you are likely zhe least qualified to argue over vhat you, or any of us, signed up for,” Medic said drily, rubbing his chin. “I do seem to remember zhe vording of zhe contract being slippery, and, knowing you, I doubt you spent a great deal of time sorting zhrough zhe specifics.”

Scout puffed himself up and started to step toward him, but Spy gripped the back of his shirt to stop him without looking up from the paper. His face was looking more and more grim the longer he read.

[...]

“We could simply ignore this little ’iccup, of course—only kill the Reds, like we would during any normal team deathmatch—but I ’ighly doubt the Reds will do the same. We’d likely be down to killing each other in the end, regardless.”

[...]

“If yer holdin’ any grudges, now’s the time t’get ’em out, I s’pose,” Sniper said.

[...]

——

The report of a sniper rifle coming from above him made Spy freeze. Ahh, so there he was… He crept forward, using the boxes in the RED warehouse as cover until he could tiptoe up the ramp toward the RED Sniper’s perch. If he could kill that fils de pute at least once today, he could die—well, “die”—a happy man. That beastly convict… He had suffered the man and the indignities that had accompanied him for too long to let any opportunity to kill him slip by.

He heard another rifle crack, this time followed by a distant wailing cry. A very familiar wailing cry. Spy’s stomach dropped and he started creeping faster, trying to move as quickly as he could while still maintaining stealth without resorting to his cloak. The convict had a tendency to play with his targets, even when he wasn’t using that damned bow of his, and that had been Scout’s all too distinctive scream. As if Spy needed another reason to hate the bastard.

There was another shot and another scream in the time it took him to fully ascend the ramp, and Spy’s jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth squeaked against each other. He found the RED Sniper kneeling beside one of the windows, his focus fixed entirely on what lay at the other end of his scope. The smile on his lips was smug.

“Can’t run so fast now, eh Zippy,” he murmured, shifting the rifle against his shoulder, and only two decades of professional experience kept Spy from hissing out his rage. Instead, he drew a deep breath through his nose, activated his cloak, and moved up behind the oblivious Red. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the convict fired again, and his hand trembled holding his knife as the subsequent chuckling that came to his ears sent a spear of pure rage through him.

Fil de pute de câlisse de- He could see out the window, see the convict’s target in the distance, sprawled just outside the train station entrance. Scout. One of his legs appeared to be missing from just below the knee, and the other was a red mass above. There was also a wide dark patch staining the lower right of his shirt. Even up here, Spy could hear his frantic, but quickly weakening, cries for Medic.

The RED Sniper popped the spent casing from his rifle and slid in a fresh round, letting out another smug chuckle. Spy couldn’t hold back a growl, and he saw the convict start. Spy dropped his cloak as the convict pushed away his rifle and started to rise with a curse. Let the connard see him. Spy didn’t give him a chance to straighten fully anyway.

“You should not ’ave done that to my Scout, you filthy condamner,” he hissed, driving his knife into the back of the Red’s neck so hard he pitched forward through the window, kukri not even half drawn. Spy held on, riding the corpse to the ground, and he calmly but quickly stepped away as they struck concrete, folding his balisong back into his pocket.

He couldn’t hold his calm long, however. Scout. He found himself sprinting toward where he’d last seen Scout’s mangled form, thankfully surrounded by a pocket of battlefield quiet. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or pained that Scout wasn’t there. He’d already died and respawned, so at least he wasn’t suffering any more, but Spy knew it must have been a horrible death to go through. Scout never handled slow deaths well.

Spy shook his head and ducked into the train station, reactivating his cloak. He had to look after himself, first and foremost. During a match like this, so much sentimentality was likely to cut short his already diminished chances to win the day. Scout did tend to draw it out of him, though… He grimaced when he heard the beeping of a sentry in the direction of the BLU base and started back toward that side of the field. He had to try to get through to the end of this, and hopefully help facilitate that end’s coming a little sooner. No matter how much Scout’s pain twisted in his guts.

——

[...]

“Tell you what, mate,” the convict said, wiping a line of blood from his chin with a predatory smile. “You win. I’ll let ya kill me, if I get to take that Scout a’yours for a spin, eh? Gettin’ kinda tired a’mine; could use some fresh meat. Yours has got… spirit, and-” His grin widened. “-judgin’ from his hollerin’ earlier, a fine set a’lungs. I like that.”

The words hit Spy like a dash of ice-cold water; every muscle twitched to instant tensity, and his skin felt suddenly drawn tight across them. He didn’t recognize the feral roar that echoed through the room as his own, didn’t remember closing the space between himself and the filthy convict. He found himself swinging his knife with reckless abandon and, though there was none of his usual finesse in the flurry of swipes and stabs, he still felt the blade find purchase far more than once.

The convict’s amusement quickly faded, and he met Spy’s furious attacks with growls of effort, turning aside the butterfly knife with his kukri whenever he could, but finding the sudden onslaught too vicious to keep razor lines of red from being opened all across his face and arms and chest. Every line drawn fuelled Spy’s fervent desire for the bastard’s death. He slashed harder, and faster. The convict grunted, one eye squinted shut against the blood streaming down from a wide cut above his brow, and shoved forward, kukri held across his chest like a shield.

He managed a couple more swipes, but Spy was unprepared for the push. He stumbled back a step, and that was enough opening for the convict’s longer blade to carve a long, deep line down his thigh. The pain flared through his fury and bloodlust, overpowering them, and he staggered to the floor, hissing at the bolt of agony that spread from his leg. He tried to get his arms under him, but the convict delivered a sharp kick to his ribs that had him collapsing onto his stomach, and then planted a firm and surely feculent boot in the center of his back.

“Well, that certainly touched a nerve.” The boot pushed down, and Spy screamed as the blade of the kukri drove into his forearm. “Wouldn’t’ve thought that arrogant, loud-mouthed mongrel would be the type fer a fancy-pants French poof like you.” Spy ground his teeth against another cry as the kukri jabbed in again, higher up his arm. “Must be somethin’ special in the sack, eh? Can’t imagine you takin’ it from a brat like him, but the kid’s prob’ly still virgin tight after nothin’ but your pencil dick. Lookin’ forward to findin’ out…”

“Funny, I really don’t think it’s any a’your concern, mate.”

Spy’s rapidly returning fury was doused by shock. He couldn’t see from his current angle, but he recognized Sniper’s voice. The BLU Sniper. There was a growl above him, and Spy choked when the kukri twisted vindictively before being withdrawn from his arm. He rolled onto his back, cradling his arm to his chest, and watched as the Red Sniper stalked toward the Blue. His Sniper stood just inside the intel room door, looking weary but otherwise freshly respawned. He held his rifle as if it weighed a hundred pounds, not set at his shoulder for a shot, but still pointing squarely at his RED counterpart.

“Shoulda hung back, mate,” the convict said, pausing and starting to circle, juggling his blade from hand to hand, as Sniper stepped further into the room. “Let me take care a’him, nip me from a couple dozen feet.”

“Thought about it.” Spy could hear the weariness from Sniper’s face echoed in his voice. “But I figured the frog’d probably rather me pullin’ the trigger on him than you.” Sniper raised his rifle to chest height. “’Sides, I’ve wanted to do this face-to-face for a long while.”

The convict darted forward and to the side, growling like an animal, but not moving far or fast enough to avoid the rifle’s long barrel as he closed in. Sniper flicked it up under his opposite’s chin almost lazily when he got close, steadying the heavy stock against his hip, and he pulled the trigger without shifting so much as his gaze. There was something comical, Spy thought, in the way the convict was propelled backward, lax body trailing after his ruined head. Then he came to earth with a dull splat, and started to fade.

Sniper was at Spy’s side, helping him to his feet, before the body had fully vanished. Spy groaned, his wounded leg nearly buckling under him, but Sniper kept him steady, not seeming to mind the copious amounts of blood as he helped him to the nearest wall so he could lean back against it. Spy’s arm was a blaze of pain, but numbness was starting to creep into his fingers. He flexed them, hissing as they filled with pins and needles, and a renewed stab of agony drove into his forearm. He fumbled in his jacket with his other hand until Sniper held out a cigarette to him. Sniper’s were a decidedly inferior brand, but it would do.

“Merci, mon ami,” he said, holding it to his lips and letting Sniper light it for him. He shuddered and took a long drag. “I did not relish the idea of ’aving that salaud take ’is time with me. Things were already bad enough.”

“Yeah, it looked like a good time to step in. That, and I saw on the respawn board that you two were the only other ones left, and I meant it about wantin’ to kill him up close and personal,” Sniper said, arms crossed over his chest. “Surprised he had you in such dire straits, though.”

Spy grunted. “Rest assured, I did not expect it either. My cloak ran out at the worst time, and we ’ad a lovely little tussle before ’e… touched a nerve.” He flicked ash from the cigarette, frowning. “I reacted more strongly than I should ’ave.”

“Sounded like ya had plenty cause, from what I heard at the tail end there,” Sniper said, and a cold, hard lump dropped into Spy’s stomach. It must have shown; Sniper shook his head and went on, “Relax, mate. It ain’t none a’my business, any more than it’s his or anyone else’s. I won’t say nothin’ t’anyone.”

Spy nodded slowly, feeling the lump in his gut loosen, and he took another drag. He watched the other man as Sniper propped his gun beside him and lit a smoke of his own. He was a good man, truly, for all that he could be utterly uncivilized and uncouth. He had acted as Team Garrison’s unofficial leader for years; even Soldier deferred to him almost without question. While tactless, blunt curiosity and an inability to keep personal secrets seemed to be universal traits shared by the members of the BLU team (and Spy was self-aware enough to include himself amongst them), and despite a genuine concern of his own for the rest of the men, Sniper was exceptionally discrete and never one to pry unless he felt there was a real, pressing need. Spy felt he could trust him near unconditionally, startling and strange as that was, even now after over a decade of professional acquaintance.

No one else would learn of Spy’s relationship with Scout from him, Spy was sure. And Scout wouldn’t hear anything about the convict’s threats, or how damnably effective they’d been.

A sudden wave of dizziness washed over Spy and he bowed his head, resting his forehead on his palm. His other hand was numb again, and the loss of feeling was creeping up his wounded arm. He huffed out a sigh.

“Ugh, we should get dees over weed,” he said, grimacing when he heard the thickening of his accent. He had lost more blood than he’d thought. “Ma tête feels like eet ees full of coton.”

“And how’s that any different from usual?” Sniper said, smirking. Spy rolled his eyes at him.

“Hon hon hon, monsieur ees so funny,” he said drily, grinding out his cigarette against the wall. He reached under his coat and withdrew his revolver, holding it for the other man to take. “No offense to dat beastly rifle of yours, but I would radder leave my ’ead at least somewhat eentact. Call eet a Frenchman’s vaneety.”

Sniper frowned. He took a long moment to stub his own cigarette, blowing the last of the smoke out slowly, eyes on the gun. He drummed his fingers against the wall. Spy’s hand started to shake—the revolver was heavy in his blood-loss weakened grip—and Sniper sighed, taking the weapon. He frowned at it, flicking open the chamber and snapping it shut again.

“Y’sure, mate? I don’t mind givin’ ya the win,” he said. Spy grunted.

“Oh, ouais, I ween and must ’obble my way back to base so Medic can ’eal me, eef de blood loss does not keell me first,” he said, snorting in a very un-Spy-like manner. “I am not so eager for de respawn void, mon ami. I’d radder be put out of dees meesery so we can all put dees maudit jour be’ind us.”

Sniper chuckled, hefting the revolver. “Fair ’nough, I suppose. Alright.” He pushed himself away from the wall and snapped the gun up so its barrel pointed right between Spy’s eyes, posed like a spaghetti-Western gunslinger. He smirked. “Any last words, ya froggy bastard?”

Spy observed the theatrics with a blasé expression. “T’es osti de criss de con.” He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Can you-” He swallowed past a wave of nausea. “S’il te plaît, do not tell… mon voyou about…”

“No need to worry, mate. He won’t hear a word from me.” The gun barrel pressed against Spy’s forehead, refreshingly cool even through his mask. “See ya on th’other side.”

Scout vs Scout Teaser/WIP

Longer one (a little over 6k words), but ends pretty abruptly again. Still, I'm happy with most of it, so *ta-da*.

Some homophobic language and lots of cursing in this one. Scouts do be like that.

Summary: The Scouts at Well get to know each other a bit better, on and off the field.

——

Scout vs Scout [tent. title]

“I will never stop killing you!”

Those words rang in the RED Scout’s head as he respawned yet again, his BLU counterpart’s gloating face filling his eyes. That fucker. That absolute, shithead motherfucker! All day, he’d been on Scout’s ass: chasing him down every time they caught sight of each other, always yelling trash-talk and insults, unerringly blocking him every time he tried getting further across the field than the train station. He seemed to have made it his mission of the day to piss Scout off.

Scout had suspected his opposite had had a problem with him from his first day on the field, and the frequency—and annoyance level—of their clashes during today’s fight certainly lent credence to the idea. He had no sweet clue why, though. He was being singled out, and for what? What had he done to piss the BLU Scout off so bad?

It was infuriating! They had been sent out here to kill each other, yeah, but he still tried to be sportsmanlike, not going after any one member of the BLU team unless they kept getting in his way. As far as he could tell, no one else on the team had the same problem with their counterparts. What the fuck was that other Scout’s problem?

Growling, Scout pulled down the brim of his cap and tightened the wraps around his hands. If that asshole wanted to fuck with him so bad, so be it. He wasn’t going to make it nearly so easy for him this time.

——

BLU’s Scout gave Medic a thumbs up as he bounded down one of the train station ramps, on his way back toward the RED base. They’d pushed ahead pretty hard today, and Hardhat had a nice little sentry blockade set up just on their side of the central train tracks. None of the Reds had made it across since he’d finished setting up, and Pyro diligently bathed everyone who passed, and the empty air around the sentries, with flame to keep the RED Spy at bay.

The Reds were mostly holed up in their warehouse, poking their noses out the door and—most often their Soldier—making the occasional mad dash into the train station and across the central tracks, only to be blown away by three turrets’ worth of rockets and machine gun fire. Scout grinned when he heard Engie’s maniacal laugh behind him as the level three sentry once again reduced the RED Soldier to meaty rain; he was certainly enjoying himself.

Scout cleared the RED moat in an easy hop and leapt onto one of the train cars perpetually lingering on the RED base’s tracks. He popped a few rounds off at the enemy Pyro, who’d peeked out just a little too far past the warehouse door frame, but he was on high alert for the RED Scout.

The look on that little shit’s face the last time he’d killed him, oooh, it had been priceless! He looked forward to trying to bring it back. Maybe a little too much, but that fucker had been a pain in his ass since he got here. Something about the kid got under his skin, and it wasn’t just that he kept popping up whenever Scout least-

“Rrraaaaagh!”

Scout turned quickly, trying to find the source of the enraged, and strangely high-pitched, battle cry. What he found was a hundred and ten pounds of furious New Yorker, lunging straight into him and sending them both flying off the end of the train car. Scout landed hard on his back with a whoof, the air whooshing from his lungs as he skidded a few feet along the concrete before coming to a stop. He was dimly aware of his tackler’s weight atop him for half a second before he saw the RED Scout bounce and tumble away.

He rolled over and struggled to get an arm under himself, gasping to fill his aching lungs. That little shit. Scout was gonna kill him, once he could breathe again. He shuffled unsteadily to his feet, bent double as he tried to get his wind back, and a bat cracked him solidly across the shoulders. His chin collided with the concrete when he pitched forward, and he tasted blood as the tip of his tongue got caught between his teeth.

Okay, breath or no, he was gonna fucking murder this brat.

He spat and pushed himself to his feet, quickly stepping back to be out of Red’s range. He whipped out his own bat to square up against his foe, panting hard. Red was glaring at him, feet wide apart with his bat in a high two-handed grip, ready to swing. He was fresh out of respawn, the only dirt smutching his shirt and pants being what he had picked up when he’d tackled Scout off the train car. It was funny, the cleanliness and batter’s stance combined with the rage twisting his freckled, child-like face. Scout sneered.

“Wanna die again that fuckin’ bad, huh?” he said, twirling his bat in his hand. “Come on, cockfag, whaddaya got?”

Red let out a roar and launched himself forward in lieu of a proper response. Scout knocked away his first two vicious swings before slamming him solidly in the arm. Red hissed, but instead of cowering away as Scout expected from previous experience, he took a hard swing in return, hitting Scout’s shoulder with a meaty thud. Scout took a couple steps back, switching his bat to his other hand with a curse, but Red kept on him, swinging again and again. Scout was able to turn the blows, mostly, but one jarring, clanging strike of bat on bat sent his weapon spinning out of his numbed hand.

He dove without even a thought for his guns, a more primal drive taking over; he didn’t need his guns to destroy this little fucker. He tackled Red just above the knees, sending them both back to the ground. Scout crawled up until he could grip Red’s bat-wielding hand and slam it against the ground. Red let go of his weapon, but only because he seemed to prefer his knees and fists in such close quarters. Brilliant white spots bloomed across Scout’s vision as a fist crashed into the side of his head, and a dull ache spread from where a knee was planted firmly in his ribs. He jammed his own knee into Red’s stomach and was rewarded by a choked yelp, only to find himself shoved roughly away by a sneaker-clad foot and a hand in his face.

There was an odd near-silence over the battlefield, now. Both sides had stopped shooting, sixteen men watching in amusement, disbelief, frustration, or concern as the two Scouts struggled with each other like boys in the schoolyard. Hissing and growling, yelping and cursing, the  two young men rolled across the concrete, punching, kicking, elbowing, kneeing, and head-butting each other with murderous intent. They seemed to be evenly matched, Scout’s greater height and weight offset by Red’s squirrelly quickness. For every swung fist, there was a retaliatory elbow or knee, and by the time Scout managed to pin Red beneath him—a knee digging into the small of Red’s back as he wrenched an arm behind him—they both bore blackened eyes, split lips, and noses streaming blood.

“Ready to call ‘uncle’ yet, fucknuts?” Scout growled, pressing Red’s arm down into his back at a painfully awkward angle. Red cursed and squirmed as much as he could, wriggling in an attempt to rip his arm free.

“Fuck you,” he spat over his shoulder. His writhing managed to overbalance Scout, and Red promptly straddled his stomach, aiming quick, hard punches at Scout’s face and chest. “What the fuck… is your problem?”

“My problem?” Scout yelped past his arms, thrown up to defend his face as best as he could. “Aside from you bein’ a fuckin’ little shit?”

“I never fuckin’ did anything!” Red yelled, throwing a relatively weak, but well-aimed, punch at Scout’s throat that had him choking and squawking. “You always come after me! The fuck did I ever do to y-Aaah!”

Still coughing, Scout rolled, pinning Red again and wrapping a hand around his throat, pressing in until he could feel the raging heartbeat under his palm. Red grunted and wheezed, his hands tugging at Scout’s but really only catching the bandaging wrapped around it.

“Fuckin’ shithead,” Scout said, using his free hand to pummel Red’s ribs. Red groaned, and Scout could hear the heels of his sneakers pounding out a frantic beat on the pavement. “Ya come in here, show me up yer first fuckin’ day, and every day after that yer always in my fuckin’ face! I can’t fuckin’ turn around without seein’ you runnin’ off. Yer always… fuckin’… there!”

Each of his final words was punctuated by another hard body blow. Red’s eyelids were starting to flutter and Scout slammed his head down against the concrete, drawing out a choked whine. The movement also allowed Red to draw a quick breath. It was small and shallow, but clarity bloomed in his eyes. When his head was pulled up again, his fist rabbitted out to strike Scout, surprisingly hard, in the crotch.

Scout gasped, eyes bulging, and he fell to the side, curling into a ball and cradling his injured manhood. Red gasped as well, more deeply, then choked, rolling onto his side as hard coughs wracked his thin frame. For a long moment, both of them were too focused on their own pain to even remember the other’s presence.

“You… fuckin’… cheated…” Scout eventually moaned, trying to curl in tighter around his damaged goods. Red glared at him, rubbing his throat and spitting a thick gob of bloody saliva to the side.

“Cheated? We’re tryin’-” He coughed harshly but his voice still rasped. “We’re tryin’ to fuckin’ kill each other, shit for brains.”

“You punched me… in the dick! You fuckin’…!” Scout trailed off with another groan. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“You-” Cough, cough. “-were fuckin’ stranglin’ me!”

“We’re tryin’ to kill each other!”

“That’s what I said!”

“Ya don’t hit another guy in the fuckin’ dick, man! It’s rule number one!”

“Anything goes when yer gonna die!”

“Oh yeah?”

Scout’s foot lashed out, and he caught Red with a much more forceful shot between the legs than the younger man had bestowed on him, and with his cleats. Red let out a strange warbling gurgle as his hands flew down, clutching at himself as Scout laughed and rolled onto his back.

“Yeah, take that, fucknu- Guh!”

That was Red’s shoe, hammering into his groin. Cursing, Scout found himself back on his side in the fetal position, glaring at his counterpart through watering eyes as he fought not to puke. The kid glared back, panting, and for another long moment they stayed that way, the ability to enact their murderous fury stymied by pain no good man should have to feel.

“You two dumbasses done yet?”

The shout came from the RED Engineer. Scout sat up slowly with a wince, noticing for the first time the two lines of men who’d been watching his battle with Red: the Blues had come to the edge of the moat, and the Reds were gathered behind their train tracks. He looked back at Red, who was also taking the time to notice the assembly. The kid was in rough shape. So was he. He still wanted to beat him to bloody pulp, but the adrenaline of the fight was fading, and his balls hurt. Maybe it could wait, at least until his next respawn. When Red looked back at him, he shrugged.

“We done?”

Red glowered, but then sighed, flopping back. He still hadn’t released his crotch, and he looked as tired as Scout was starting to feel. “Fuck, man, I guess.”

“Good.” Scout drew his pistol and fired a single shot into Red’s skull. The body jerked once and then was still. Scout holstered the weapon as it started to fade, and he waved at his team. “Yeah, guys, it’s all good! We’re do-”

His head exploded into a cloud of skull fragments and fine red mist.

The clatter of the RED Sniper’s empty shell casing hitting the ground seemed very loud in the sudden silence. The two teams stared at each other across the moat and train tracks. Weapons were hefted uneasily on both sides.

“Anyone up fer a thirty-second truce?” the BLU Engineer suggested. A gently lobbed, red-banded grenade was all the answer anyone needed to that.

——

The metallic tink as Scout hit another baseball over the train station toward the BLU base relaxed him in a way nothing else could. It was a sound from childhood, from long summer afternoons with his brothers, where they would take turns with their one dented old aluminum bat, trying to hit the ball harder and further than everyone else. It hadn’t been until he was fifteen, and two of his four brothers had moved out, that he’d been able to reliably outshine his siblings. He smiled, tossing a new ball in his hand. He’d managed to hit a ball almost two blocks once, but he’d done it while he was alone at the old lot; no one had believed him, even though he’d broken the windshield of old Mister Mulhaney’s car. He was fairly sure his brothers still didn’t think he’d actually done it.

Scout lobbed up the ball in his hand, smoothly raising his bat as he watched it ascend. Despite the tensing of his muscles in preparation, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so calm. He kept his eyes on the ball as it started to tumble toward earth, then swung, explosively uncurling his arms and feeling the satisfying crack of bat meeting ball. Another light tink filled the night air, and his smile widened as the ball soared up over the train station, clearing its roof by a good twenty feet, and disappeared onto the BLU side of the field.

He had to laugh. He’d found an entire crate of baseballs in his room when he’d moved in—apparently RED had continued sending the “ammunition” in the brief time that the team had been without a Scout—and he’d filled two buckets before heading out to take his current place by the moat. One bucket was already empty; he’d been out here for over half an hour. He could just imagine the Blues’ faces when they emerged from their base in the morning to a couple dozen baseballs underfoot. Just a little payback for today.

He bent to reach for another ball when he heard the unmistakable thump of a baseball hitting the ground off to his left. He straightened, frowning, and glanced over to see a red-stitched white orb rolling slowly away from the moat. He started toward it, but stopped when there was another thump behind him. Then another, and one more back toward the first. Then a gurgly plonk as yet another ball was swallowed by the moat.

“Think these’re yours, chucklefuck.”

Scout rounded his shoulders and refused to look toward the train station, and the owner of that infuriating, snarky voice. He plucked another ball out of the bucket and tossed it up with a growl. “Can you not seriously leave me the fuck alone?”

He swung again and this time the ball was lower. Instead of popping it up over the train station, he sent it shooting straight across the moat. He was rewarded by a thud and a yelp. He smirked. Not bad for not having aimed.

“The fuck was- That fuckin’ hurt, ya little psycho!”

Scout rolled his eyes and swung his bat up onto his shoulder, turning to face his complaining counterpart across the moat. The BLU Scout was rubbing at his ribs and scowling glumly, his other arm working to contain a shifting pile of baseballs. Some were scattered at his feet and, as Scout watched, one teetered precariously at the edge of the moat before falling in with a bloop. He raised an eyebrow, slinging his other arm up to cage his bat against the back of his neck. He expected to feel absolute fury at the sight of the Blue after the misery they’d put each other through on the field that day, but though there was anger simmering deep in his gut, mostly what he felt was cold frustration.

“It was supposed to hurt, numbnuts,” he said. “Fuck off. I’m sick a’yer dumbass face after all that bullshit today.”

“Fuckin’ Christ, I was just bringin’ yer fuckin’ balls back!” Blue threw one across the moat and, tink, Scout sent it flying back over the train station with a quick swing. Blue blinked, eyes following the ball’s arcing path, and he sounded impressed when he said, “Hey, you ain’t half bad.”

“No shit,” Scout said, taking up another ball from his bucket and sending it soaring after the other with ease. He was almost able to forget Blue was there in the toss and swing motions, and the simple satisfaction that came with that echoing tink. But then the ball was lost to sight and his eyes drifted back to the annoyance across the moat. He sighed. “Seriously, can ya fuck off? I just wanted to hit a few balls and relax, okay, not deal with the biggest shithead on the planet.”

“Fuckin’ Christ, yer a brat!” Blue threw up his arms in a cascade of baseballs, one of which flew up and came back down solidly atop his head. He cursed and rubbed at the sore spot, glaring when Scout laughed. “Fuckin’- I’m not here t’be a dick, dumbfuck. I saw the balls when I came out for a run, figured I’d come see what y’were doin’.”

Scout narrowed his eyes, lowering his bat so he could lean on it. “Why wouldja wanna do that?”

Blue shrugged, and Scout tensed a little when he stepped up closer to the moat, but he just took a seat on the concrete by the water’s edge. “Dunno. M’curious. Me ’n’ old Red used t’be- well, we wasn’t really friends, I guess, but we didn’t fuckin’ hate each other’r nothin’. I guess I wanna try to, y’know, get a read on th’enemy or whatever. Maybe figure out why ya piss me off so fuckin’ much.”

“That’s easy: I’m better than you,” Scout scoffed, taking a seat across the moat from Blue and setting his bat across his knees. Blue snorted and picked up one of the balls nearby, juggling it idly from hand to hand.

“Yeah, sure y’are. Not like I didn’t kick yer ass today, even after ya fuckin’ dick-punched me,” he said. He paused for a moment, then lobbed the ball across the moat. Scout caught it. “Yer numbers ain’t any better than mine, neither.”

Scout tossed the ball back lazily, scoffing again. “Yeah, but they ain’t worse. And you’ve been here way longer than me.”

“Not way longer,” Blue said, arcing the ball high on his next throw. “Our team only got here when you did, and I only been with BLU… a year ’n’ a half, I think? Maybe a li’l less? ’Cause I joined up just before Pyro.”

“Just proves my point. You been doin’ this more’n a year, and I’m already makin’ yer numbers.” Scout bounced the ball up in his hand before pitching it across the moat. It made an audible slap as it hit Blue’s palm, and Scout chuckled when he shook out his fingers. “Figure I’ll be runnin’ circles around ya in a few more months.”

“Pff, yeah right,” Blue said, rolling his eyes and flexing his hand. “Yer forgettin’ that yer stuck with RED. Bein’ around those psychos’ll make ya just as fuckin’ stupid ’n’ useless as they are in no time.”

Scout frowned, catching the ball distractedly when it sailed back. He rolled it back and forth between his hands. “They’re not all that bad…”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Those guys are fuckin’ nuts!” Blue hooted; he didn’t seem to notice—or care about—the furrow building in Scout’s brow. “I’m pretty sure yer Medic’s an actual, honest-to-fuck Nazi; yer Heavy’s a Red—like an old-school Commie Red, not just a RED Red—and I’m not sure yer Pyro’s even fuckin’ human. Yer Demo’s an even worse drunk than mine, and yer Soldier is lit-er-al-ly fuckin’ insane; ya seen him talkin’ to his shovel yet? Oh, and yer Spy’s a fuckin’ fag, always tryin’ t’crawl up Hardhat’s ass—my Hardhat, not yours.” He shrugged. “I mean, I guess yer Engie’s not so nuts, even if he did cut off his fuckin’ hand for that robot one he’s got.”

“What!”

“Oh yeah, man, you ain’t seen it yet?” Blue grinned, taking hold of his right wrist and shaking his hand limply. “Fuck, man, it’s wicked nasty. Wicked cool, though, too. It can do all kindsa crazy shit, like, it’s got pliers and a little blowtorch in the fingers ’n’ shit. Kinda makes me want one.” He wiggled his fingers, gazing at them critically, and shrugged again. “But yeah, you guys got the blueprints ’n’ shit for a fuckin’ robot hand one supply run, and yer crazy-ass Engie didn’t even fuckin’ hesitate. Just shng! Off with his hand. My Hardhat just about puked when he heard.”

“Fuck, I had no idea,” Scout said, goggling. “I guess I’ve never seen him with both gloves off before. Fuck…” He shook his head, and his frown returned. “And, uh, what about Sniper? My Sniper. I mean, RED’s Sniper.”

The tips of his ears were getting hot, and Blue’s smug smirk only made them burn hotter. “What, ya worried yer fuck-buddy’s nuts- Whoa, hey, watch it! What is it with all you fags gettin’ pissed at me lately?”

Scout growled, reaching for another baseball. “You watch it! And whaddaya mean ‘you fags’? I seen you ’n’ yer Spy, bein’ all lovey-dovey over on yer barracks roof.”

Blue froze, and it was his turn to start goggling. The baseball he’d picked up for a retaliatory strike on Scout rolled from his lax fingers and joined its more adventurous brothers for a swim.

“You seen me ’n’ Spy?”

“Yeah,” Scout said, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. “Not like I fuckin’ peep on ya or nothin’! I’m not a fuckin’ perv. S’just I go with Snipes up to his nest sometimes, and it’s high enough t’see yer base’s roof.”

Blue sat slightly stunned, still not having moved, hands hanging loosely in his lap. “Shit… Spy’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed.”

“I swear to God, I only ever saw you two, like, once!” Scout said. Blue shook his head and sighed, finally shifting to rub his eyes.

“No, fuck, I don’t give a fuck about you,” he said. Scout made an indignant noise, but Blue went on, “Spy hates yer fuckin’ Sniper. Haaaates him. I dunno the history—s’from before my time—but I know it’s nothin’ good. If Spy finds out he can see us, probably has seen us… And, fuck, I mean, I don’t like it much neither. He’s the fuckin’ RED Sniper, and he might not be as crazy as the others, but he’s fuckin’ creepy. Knowin’ he can see me off the field makes my fuckin’ skin crawl. How high up is his fuckin’ nest, anyway? The moon?”

Scout snorted, but said nothing. So Blue thought something was off about Sniper too, huh? Scout didn’t like admitting it, even to himself, but Sniper was… yeah, “creepy” really was the best word. Not in a spiderwebs in a dark hallway kind of way, but in a reclusive neighbour with a record kind of way. Scout never really knew what he intended until it was already happening, and his glances were always too intense, too… laden. Laden with what, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t something bad. Wrenches had warned him about Sniper, too, in a roundabout way; Scout didn’t think Wrenches liked Sniper much more than the BLU Spy did.

“He’s… real intense. Like, scary intense sometimes,” Scout said. He picked up a baseball and started lightly tossing it up and down, giving his hands something to do as he spoke, and his eyes somewhere to rest besides Blue’s discomfited face. “It’s real hard sayin’ no to him. But he’s not… he’s really not that bad. Just kinda scary, ’specially if he’s mad. He almost put his kukri through my head one night when I wouldn’t leave him alone.”

Blue whistled through his teeth. “Yeah, that’s pretty fuckin’ intense alright. Makes Spy seem downright fuckin’ tame, not that he’s anywhere near the creep yer Sniper is. No offense.”

“Some taken,” Scout grumbled and Blue huffed out a laugh.

“Fuck you. At least Spy ain’t tried stabbin’ me. He’s just a sneaky fucker, always poppin’ up when I don’t expect him to,” he said, and he grinned. “Kinda like you, fucknuts.” He laughed when Scout threw his baseball at him, turning it with his shoulder rather than catching it. “Hey, y’should take it as a compliment! Showin’ up outta nowhere like ya do, without one a’them cloakin’ devices, is a fuckin’ talent, man, as much as it pisses me off.”

“I am pretty fast.” Scout couldn’t help the prideful grin that crossed his face. “I was fast before I signed up for this shit, and whatever RED did to me before they shipped me out pumped me into overdrive. It almost makes all the killin’ and dyin’ worth it, even without the boss paycheque.”

“Aw man, just wait ’til ya get yer first new gear! They send us such cool shit, man, y’gotta- Wait. Wait here.”

Scout blinked when Blue hopped to his feet and sprinted back toward his base without another word or backward glance, nearly tripping over one of the scattered baseballs in his haste. Scout realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it. Honestly, leaving didn’t even cross his mind. His annoyance with the other Scout had faded, leaving behind intense curiosity. Beyond contemplating Blue’s apparent (though less likely seeming, now) hatred of him, Scout had wondered about him more than once. Despite a few obvious differences, they were remarkably similar. Young, foul-mouthed, cocky, full of boundless energy, and an intolerable pain in the ass to all but a few of their teammates. It was kind of spooky, but kind of cool.

A sudden resounding crack split the air and Scout jumped to his feet with a yowl, gripping his upper arm below the shoulder where a white blur had just collided. He glared as Blue stepped out from behind a train car on his side of the moat, twirling a hardwood baseball bat in his hands. Blue wore a cocky smile, and when he saw Scout watching, he switched to the same batter’s stance Scout had used in their scuffle earlier in the day.

“Revenge for the one ya hit at me, chucklefuck,” he said, giving the bat a few swings. “Come check this shit, though, man. Fuckin’ beautiful. Could send a ball straight over the Green Monster with this baby, no sweat.”

Still rubbing his arm, Scout stepped to the edge of the moat to get a better look, then shrugged to himself and hopped over; if Blue had been planning on killing him, he could’ve sent that last ball at his head instead of his arm. His new agility still amazed him somewhat—he’d cleared the ten or so feet of moat like skipping over a puddle—and he shook his head as he closed the distance with Blue.

Blue didn’t seem surprised or concerned by his approach. He held out the bat for Scout’s inspection proudly, a swaggering grin on his lips. He even let the Red take the bat and give it a few experimental swings.

“They sent me that just ’cause I’m so fuckin’ awesome,” he said. “Had a note in the crate and everythin’, sayin’, ‘Yo, yer such a badass, here’s this wicked sweet bat to beat skulls in even better with.’ It’s pretty kickass, huh?”

Scout thought this must be the kind of bat angels played baseball with. The weight was just right, and the tape-wrapped grip settled perfectly against his bandage-wrapped palms. He gave it a few more swings, whistling through his teeth and giving it a more thorough examination. Though a long strip of electrical tape wrapped around the head seemed to be keeping a crack in the wood from widening, it looked otherwise pristine, the grain of the wood gleaming under the train station’s floodlights. The Sandman was emblazoned in bold black letters just below the taped head.

“It’s a pretty bitchin’ bat, alright,” he said, handing it back with a small pang of regret. It made his own dented metal bat seem downright dinky in comparison. Blue nodded, swinging off his shoulder bag and unzipping it.

“Fuck yeah. And that’s just the tip a’the iceberg. Here.”

He tossed a can at Scout. Catching it, Scout was immediately stricken by the blazingly purple label, and the symbol that, he was pretty sure, meant radiation. That the symbol had replaced the “O” in “BONK Crit-A-Cola” made him slightly wary, and the ingredients list wasn’t very reassuring.

“‘Water, radiation, sugar,’” he read, raising an eyebrow. “Yer shittin’ me, right?”

“Trust me man, that shit is like… fuck, I don’t even know what it’s like, it’s just awesome,” Blue said. “Try it! They’ll prob’ly be sendin’ some for you too, eventually; old Red was gettin’ it.”

Scout frowned, but popped the tab on the can. It hissed and fizzed a little before settling. He sniffed it cautiously before taking a sip. It didn’t smell bad and the taste was like cola, but… electric. Something about it made his tongue tingle and his stomach flutter with the most intense case of the butterflies he’d ever had in his life. He didn’t realize he’d drained the can until he gasped to fill his desperately deflated lungs. Electricity jittered up his spine and along his arms. He felt like he could shoot lightning from his fingertips if he tried.

“Hoooooly shit! What is that stuff?” he said, staring at the empty can. Blue laughed, and Scout looked up. He was just in time to see Blue standing twenty feet away, preparing a pitch.

He saw the ball leave Blue’s hand, and felt the grip of his bat filling his own. He didn’t remember drawing it, or dropping the soda can, but he distantly heard the hollow aluminum clatter tinnily to the ground. He wound the bat up over his shoulder. His muscles bunched in that familiar, comforting way, and his eyes latched onto the approaching ball. He was a coiled spring, and when the ball was close enough, he released.

There was the cheery tink he had grown accustomed to, but higher, sharper. A high whistle filled the air, followed by a deep, startling bwang as the ball left a deep indent in one of the nearby train cars. Blue whooped with delight and jogged over to examine the impact.

“Hoo fuck! There’s a fuckin’ hole, man! Ya dented it deep enough to make a fuckin’ hole!” He pumped his fist in the air. “Let’s see fuckin’ Soldier pull that shit off! Even Heavy probably couldn’t do it, not with a fuckin’ baseball!”

Scout stared, and then grabbed one of the baseballs still scattered about from Blue’s earlier gathering. He threw it up and laughed ecstatically after his swing sent it into the side of the train station with a crack. Even from where he stood, he could see a tiny new crater in the concrete, amidst the many pre-existing deep cracks and bullet holes. Blue hooted again, throwing up both hands this time as he bellowed with triumphant glee.

There was nothing quite like a little wanton property damage to bring two young men together.

Scout reached for another baseball, but stumbled as the unnatural energy from the soft drink faded all at once. He let out a hard breath and leaned on his bat, steadying himself as the world gave one lurching tilt before settling. He still had to sit down roughly when a flurry of white spots flashed across his vision.

“Yeah, the crash hits kinda hard,” Blue said, and Scout looked up to see him settling on the ground a couple feet away. “Totally fuckin’ worth it, though, right? Can crack right through Soldier’s helmet on that shit. Still not as good as regular Bonk, though.”

“That’s not the regular shit?” Scout asked, grabbing the empty can and inspecting it again. Blue’s grin reached from ear to ear.

“Fuck no, man. Regular Bonk is different, and a million times more awesome,” he said. “Bonk’s like… It’s… I kinda imagine it’s like mixin’ the strongest fuckin’ coffee y’can get with a assload of cocaine. Yer literally fuckin’ untouchable. Like, if yer faster now than y’were back home, Bonk makes ya a gazillion times faster than that.

“Medic says I should stop drinkin’ it or it’ll kill me for good, but it’s too fuckin’ awesome, and tastes too fuckin’ good. It’s the only reason I’d wanna join RED; you get cherry flavour.” He sighed. “They only send two crates a supply run, though. I always go through it in, like, a week. I mean, the Crit-A-Cola’s pretty good, but it ain’t the same.”

“How often do they send stuff?” Scout asked. “I mean, I know we get food ’n’ supplies ’n’ shit once a month, but do they send new weapons and stuff then too?”

“Not every month,” Blue said, shrugging. “I been with BLU almost a year ’n’ a half, like I said, and I got my Sandman, Bonk, and the Crit-A-Cola; they only started sendin’ me the Bonk every month after I’d been at Teufort, like, six months or somethin’ like that. And they sent me some fuckin’ hats and clothes and shit, too.” He made a face. “S’fuckin’ weird, man. They send us all this super cool shit, invented stuff like the medigun and th’Übercharge, and double-jumpin’, and fuckin’ respawn, but then next thing ya know, they send us fuckin’ dorky-ass clothes like we’re a buncha fuckin’ girls…”

Scout frowned and cocked his head to the side. “Whaddya mean, ‘double-jumpin’’? I saw Doc Über Heavy once, but I ain’t seen… the fuck d’ya mean?”

Blue fixed Scout with a deeply incredulous stare. “Oh, fuck right off. I see ya flippin’ around and doin’ fuckin’ gymnastics ’n’ shit like a fuckin’ spaz all the time. Ya musta double-jumped at least once.”

Scout glared at Blue and flipped him off. “Fuck you. I wouldn’ta asked what it was if I’d done it. The fuck is double-jumpin’?”

Blue stared at him in total disbelief for a few more silent seconds, then popped to his feet so fast that Scout jumped up himself and took a couple wary steps back. There was no hostility in Blue’s face or movements, though. If anything, he looked offended.

“What, did they not fuckin’ tell ya before shippin’ ya out?” he said, and he spluttered when Scout shrugged, pushing his cap back as he shoved a hand through his hair. “Fuckin’ shit, man! Double-jumpin’ is what makes ya a fuckin’ Scout! Jesus! Look!”

And he leapt straight up into the air, a solid seven feet. Just as he reached the apex of the jump, he kicked at the air, and Scout’s mouth fell open. Instead of starting to descend, Blue shot further upward, maybe another three or four feet, and arced through the air to land atop the train car Scout had dented. He held out his arms in a ‘Ta-da’ gesture.

“See! Double-jumpin’! It’s what Scouts do!” He crouched at the edge of the train car, grinning down at Scout. “Y’seriously had no clue?”

“Wh- Fuck, no! What the fuck, how do I-?”

Scout jumped, but he didn’t feel anything special or different as he reached the peak. He still got up just as high as Blue had in his initial jump, but then he thumped back down to earth with a curse. What had Blue done? Just kind of… kicked the air? Scout huffed and glared up at Blue when he laughed.

“C’mon, man! Just do it! Yer a Scout! We run fast, we hit hard, and we fuckin’ double-jump!” He straightened and hopped down from the train car. Another little mid-air hop just before he hit the ground popped him up just enough that his cleats barely made a sound as he landed. “Don’t think about it, just do it. Just jump, then jump again before ya hit the ground. Easy.”

“Oh yeah, fuck the laws of physics, right? Like, gravity? Who cares?” Scout said, giving Blue a flat look.

[...]

Tales of Well Timeline/Masterpost

[Updated April 26, 2025]

Putting everything in one place for easy access and reference :) Timeline includes all of the one-shots (and other fics in the "Tales" timeline) that I have planned/started.

Bolded titles are complete (at least tentatively), italicized titles aren't significantly started yet (either just ideas or under 250 words), and everything else is a WIP (most are sitting at 1.5k+ words so far). Also, the ones titled with "Little Moments" are more drabbles than full shorts, usually more light-hearted and goofy, and the ones with "Inner Workings" switch to first-person for little internal monologues. There are also likely to be more shorts added as inspiration strikes me (still got some time to fill between the main body of shorts and the longfics that follow [see bottom of timeline]).

Also now on AO3! ToW on AO3!

INFO POSTS

Tales of Well Basics Team Garrison (BLU) Bare Bones Basics Team Rampart (RED) Bare Bones Basics Main Character Bios & Info Post-ToW Longfics Basic Info Tales of Sawmill Main Character Basics

Timeline under the cut :)

——

Prologue

Tales of Sawmill [1983-1988; will (eventually) become its own series] Tales of Teufort [1988-1993; may become its own series as well]

Tales of Well (Start Date: March 6, 1993)

Moving Day

First Day

Privacy

A Special Cigarette

Art Therapy

Untitled (RED Speeding Bullet [smut; *RED Speeding Bullet begins])

Gentle Hands

For the Birds

In Vino Veritas [smut; *BLU Spy/Scout begins]

Untitled (BLU Scout/Spy [smut])

Scout Vs Scout [tent title]

Respawn Errors

Little Moments: Arson Face

Deathmatch

Going Public

Little Moments: Supply Day

Southern Comfort [smut? maybe? still on the fence; *RED Speeding Bullet ends, RED Texas Two-Step begins]

Bloody Suit [tent title]

Untitled (first Trio [Scout/Pyro/Scout] hangout)

Toys [PWP]

Desert Rain

Little Moments: Respawn Errors 2

Proving Oneself

Sick Scout

Heart-to-Heart

Life, Death, and Respawn [tent title]

Little Moments: Long Jump

Check-Up [Six-month mark]

A Bad Idea [smut; *(occasional) Scoutcest begins]

“The Gayest Fuckin’ Conversation of My Life” [*RED Texas Two-Step ends]

Pillow Talk

Munchies Run

Little Moments: Laundry Day

Spawn Camping

Little Moments: BONK!

Line in the Sand

Heat [smut? maybe? *cross-faction Flash Fire begins]

Shave and a Haircut [tent title]

Check-Up 2

Inner Workings: RED Scout - Who Am I?

Little Moments: Story Time

Town Fair

Parle Salement A Moi [PWP]

Little Moments: Spy’s Secret

Anniversary

Strange Feeling

Good Morning [PWP]

Breakfast

A Breach of Trust

Spell-Check  [One year mark]

Inner Workings: BLU Spy - Expressions

Grocery Run

Camping [smut; *Flash Fire/Scoutcest-combo begins]

Inner Workings: BLU Scout - I’m Not A Fag

Little Moments: Twinkie

Sick Scout 2

Little Moments: Respawn Errors?

Cockblocked

Dance Lessons

Happy Birthday

I See You

Untitled (RED Sniper tortures Scout)

The Other Side of the Fence

Untitled (Pyro/Spy trapped)

Accessorizing [PWP]

Little Moments: A Ticklish Situation

Float Like a Butterfly

Sting Like a Bee

“Charge Me Doktor!” [PWP]

Lover’s Quarrel

Inner Workings: BLU Pyro - Mine

Night Terrors

Little Moments: Respawn Errors 3

Little Moments: Feliz Cumpleaños

Campfire Songs

Old Dogs

Scout Hunt

Brotherly Love

Those Words

Little Moments: Noise Complaint

Kindred Spirit

Reaper at Your Back

Little Moments: Fishsticks

Little Moments: Brownies [...]

Fast Car

Ink

Our Third [PWP] [...]

(End Date: June 10, 1995)

Into the Future

Tales of Well: On the Run [longfic] Great White North [longfic]

Team Rampart (RED) Bare Bones Basics

Again, what it says on the can! There'll be less focus on the Reds than the Blues over the course of the shorts, though a few will (eventually) take more prominent roles. They aren't quite as fully realized in my head as the Blues are yet (aside from the aforementioned few), so they might sound a little trope-y/archetypal in their descriptions. They'll grow, though; my boys always do :)

RED - Team Rampart

Scout

Age: 18 (almost 19) Nationality: American (New York [Brooklyn]) Time w/ RED: N/A [begins “First Day”] Height: 5’4 Hair: Strawberry-blond, fade Eye Colour: Light brown Build: Thin, well-defined legs Distinguishing Features: Buck teeth, freckles (literally everywhere: face [particularly over nose and cheekbones], neck, shoulders, back, legs, and arms)

Fresh meat. Recruited to RED to replace Team Rampart’s recently (permanently) deceased Scout, and still trying to find his footing in the world of RED and BLU’s bizarre “war”.

Looks like he’s in his mid-teens, at most, thanks to his height (or lack thereof) and babyface. He hates it.

Young and friendly, but not as naïve as one might expect, and has enough attitude for someone thrice his size when pushed too far.

Engineer ("Wrenches")

Age: 34 Nationality: American (Georgia [Savannah]) Time w/ RED: 5 years, 3 months Height: 5’8 Hair: Dirty blond, buzz cut Eye Colour: Dark brown Build: Stout, broad-shouldered and -chested Distinguishing Features: Customized Gunslinger (right hand), perpetual five o'clock shadow

More stoic and reserved than his BLU counterpart, though it is largely due to his teammates being, on the whole, less friendly than the Blues. Perfectly willing to open up to and relax with the right people, though he can be quite picky about who exactly the “right people” are.

Has a deep love of machines and robotics, to the point that it may be slightly unhealthy (he had a perfectly functional right hand before he received blueprints for the Gunslinger). It’s not uncommon for him to skip meals and lose sleep while working on a new sentry upgrade or the schematics for a new gadget.

The guy to vent to if you need to get something off your chest. He may not have much to offer by way of advice, depending on the situation, but he’ll listen and empathize and won’t judge, and no one will ever hear a word of what’s been told to him in confidence.

Sniper

Age: 31 Nationality: Australian (Queensland [primarily Outback]) Time w/ RED: 8 years, 6 months Height: 6’2 Hair: Brown, short, messy Eye Colour: Brown Build: Thin, broad-shouldered Distinguishing Features: “Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril

The best word to describe him is likely “intense”. His smile, his stare, his presence: all of it gives the impression of tightly contained ferocity and force, and something… unsettling just below the surface.

A loner who’s rarely seen around base during ceasefire unless he’s after something specific. Spends most of his time off the field either in his nest or hunting out past the fences.

Sadistically cruel to his enemies; prefers using his Huntsman and kukri during fights for more visceral kills. Also has a deep hatred of the BLU Spy, a feeling that is returned with interest.

The Rest

Soldier: A violently delusional madman. Frequently observed conversing with his shovel (her name is Miss Tabitha, and you will show her the respect a lady of her calibre deserves), and as quick to lash out at his teammates as his enemies, if he feels they deserve it.

Pyro: Never seen out of his (their? its?) suit. Ever. No one knows if they are male, female, or even human. Enjoys blood almost as much as they enjoy fire; the Axetinguisher is their favourite weapon.

Demoman: An alcoholic, red-headed Irishman with an uncanny knowledge of chemicals and explosives. Still has both of his eyes (so far), but is missing two fingers off his left hand and is more than a little hearing impaired.

Heavy: The strong, silent type, who will crush you like an empty soda can if you get on his nerves.

Medic: Psychotic. Sadistic. Terrifying. Definitely should not be practicing medicine in any capacity. Sees his teammates more as test subjects than potential patients, and isn’t afraid to tell them so.

Spy: Despite being a mercenary with RED for almost six years, he is 100% certain that he is too good for this shit. Arrogant, self-centered, and vain. Has been forcing (thoroughly unwanted) romantic advances on the BLU Engineer for years to keep himself entertained.

Team Garrison (BLU) Bare Bones Basics

What it says on the can! Some details about my BLU boys. Eventually might put up proper bios for everyone, but for now, just some very basics about who they are. Scout, Pyro, Sniper, and Spy are the primary focus on the BLU team, so they've got a little more info. I'll throw up the RED one soon, once I've actually got it done (it won't be as long, though).

BLU - Team Garrison

Scout

Age: 23 Nationality: American (Massachusetts [Boston]) Time w/ BLU: 13 months Height: 5’11 Hair: Light brown, crew cut Eye Colour: Hazel Build: Slim, broad-shouldered, well-defined legs Distinguishing Features: N/A

[Technically the main character? At least in the beginning.]

The prototypical Scout. An arrogant, loud-mouthed, hard-brawling boy from Boston, with a single ma, eight older brothers, and enough energy (even without his monthly supply of Bonk) to drive even the most patient of his teammates up the wall.

The biggest pain in everyone’s ass. General levels of tolerance for him and his antics range from Engie and Sniper’s resigned acceptance to Soldier and Medic’s near-homicidal antipathy.

Unapologetically offensive (though racism is generally off the table. Homophobia is fair game, though). Curses constantly, insults everyone he meets, and loves to push people’s buttons to see how much of a rise he can get out of them.

Pyro

Age: 20 Nationality: Mexican (Santa Ana) Time w/ BLU: 12 months Height: 5’9 Hair: Black, chin length, long bangs Eye Colour: Brown Build: Underweight, defined arms Distinguishing Features: Third-degree burn scar: left arm, elbow to shoulder; left side, mid-ribs to armpit; back, left side, mid-back to upper shoulder; neck, left side; left cheek from jaw to cheekbone (primarily hypertrophic scarring, some contracture on left shoulder)

Almost never seen out of his suit and mask, and rarely spends time with the rest of the team. He showers and eats on his own, and barely leaves his room during ceasefire, usually only emerging for the occasional visits with Engie in his workshop, or to burn things.

He was “convinced” to show his face by Scout several months ago at Teufort (during a very long weekend of Bonk-induced harassment), and hasn’t really forgiven him for it yet.

Is only really comfortable around Engie and Medic. He will only speak to the two of them willingly without his mask, and if he’s not in his room, Engie’s workshop is the next best place to look for him.

Sniper

Age: 38 Nationality: Australian (Northern Territory [primarily Outback]) Time w/ BLU: 11 years, 3 months [longest-serving merc] Height: 6’5 Hair: Dark brown, short, messy, long sideburns Eye Colour: Dark blue Build: Thin, broad-shouldered Distinguishing Features: “Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril, perpetual five o'clock shadow

Team Garrison’s unofficial leader.

He and Spy have been on the same team since Spy was recruited at Sawmill a decade ago. He considers Spy to be his best friend and they give off major “old married couple” energy, despite their relationship being entirely platonic. 100% heterosexual life partners.

More friendly than a lot of Snipers, and is seen around base more often during ceasefire. He has a camper van, but it’s more a means of transport than a home. He actually sleeps in his provided room in the barracks most nights, and is usually the first one up in the morning (he makes the coffee).

Spy

Age: 41 Nationality: (Assumed) French Time w/ BLU: 10 years, 1 month Height: 5’8 Hair: Wouldn't you like to know? Eye Colour: Light grey Build: Slender Distinguishing Features: N/A

Like Sniper, more friendly and less reserved than one might expect of a typical member of his class. He’s been at this “war” long enough to not take things too seriously any more, and he’s grown to have at least some degree of affection for the rest of the team over the years.

Incredibly nosy, and a shameless gossip. Knows more about the rest of the team than they would ever expect.

Surprising absolutely everyone (including himself), he’s found himself on unexpectedly friendly terms with Scout. He’s one of the few that Scout will actually sit down with long enough to have an actual conversation with.

The Rest

Soldier: Utterly devoted to the cause, and expects the best from the rest of the men, to an often infuriating degree.

Demoman: An alcoholic, one-eyed, Black Scotsman. Suspiciously similar to the Team Fortress Demoman, Tavish DeGroot. The “fun older brother” of the team; one of the few members of Team Garrison that tolerates, and even sometimes enjoys, Scout’s particular brand of obnoxious, hyperactive jackassery.

Heavy: Uncle Heavy. Laid-back and easy-going, more than willing to sit and chill with the guys, drinking a few beers and shooting the shit. Very protective of his team, especially Medic (his “husband”).

Engineer: The team dad. Quiet, friendly, and down-to-earth. Always willing to sit and listen to any of the guys’ problems and try to help them sort through them. The only married merc, and the only parent: he has two young daughters (nine and eleven years old) back home that he will gladly talk anyone’s ear off about.

Medic: The chronically exasperated mother-hen of Team Garrison. Austrian, despite Soldier’s unwavering belief that he must be German (due to German being his mother tongue). Oldest merc at 58 years old, a fact which Scout never lets him forget. Has a pet turtle dove named Rokitansky (after the Austrian physician and pathologist [not anything to do with rockets in spite of, again, Soldier’s certainty that this is the case]) who lives in the Infirmary. Has been in a loving relationship with Heavy since their days at Sawmill.

Respawn Errors Teaser/WIP

An actual coherent WIP, with (mostly) complete scenes and no randomly ending in the middle of a scene! Technically a WIP since there's going to be a lot more to this short; I guess this could be considered as part one of Respawn Errors? Even though I do want to post the whole short as one piece once it's done. I dunno, just wanted to throw this up.

Summary: Something's gone wrong with respawn...

——

Respawn Errors

You could always feel a respawn error. The fact that there was any feeling at all told you what it was. Respawn was painless, entirely sensationless even. You died, then opened your eyes again in the respawn room as good as new. It took ten, or fifteen, or however many seconds (depending on how often you’d died already), but it felt like no more than a blink. Just dead, then not.

Respawn errors, though… Whether it ended up just leaving you with a new scar, or rearranging your organs in all kinds of fun and painful ways, you felt it. Sometimes it was something as simple as pain or injury, but there was also full-body pins and needles, memory loss, nausea, panic attacks, dizziness: the whole list of shitty side effects.

This was different. BLU’s Scout had experienced more than his fair share of errors, enough to know what could be considered “normal”, under the circumstances. This time there was no pain, no nausea, none of the usual unpleasantness. Instead, there was a… giddiness. A flush of almost orgasmic ecstasy that raced from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He felt stretched, then compressed, and then the entire world—such as it was, in the void—pulsed.

He opened his eyes in the respawn room, gasping and stumbling as he hadn’t since his earliest days with BLU. Something was… not wrong. Different. His hands flew, feeling across his torso, arms, legs, crotch, head. Nothing felt out of place, and he didn’t seem to be growing anything new. He wasn’t spitting blood, and his memory was still intact; he remembered the RED Soldier’s shovel swinging in to split his skull all too well. There had to have been an error, though.

He looked around, and froze. He was… He was usually taller than the benches in the respawn room, right? Wait, of course he was taller than the fucking benches, what the fuck was was he thinking? Why did they seem so tall, then? And everything else, for that matter. The lockers were steel cliffs a good thirty feet away, and the handle of one of Hardhat’s toolboxes sat right at his eyeline.

“SCOUT?”

Scout yelped and covered his ears, looking up to see who’d screamed at him. Up, and up, and up… His eyes went wide, and his hands fell limply to his sides.

“Hardhat…? I- I think I need some help.”

——

There he was, the tricky wanker. Sniper rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath. He’d been trying to get a clear shot on the damn RED Sniper for the last hour, but the bastard was always just too far around a corner, or just below a windowsill. Now he was sitting pretty, thinking he was so clever, ducked down behind a shipping container with his Huntsman and waiting to nip off any Blues who made it over the moat. Bloody drongo, Sniper thought, settling his rifle stock against his shoulder and laying his finger on the trigger. Gotta wait for just the right-

“Sniper!”

He jerked, scope jittering away from his target. God, he’d been sitting still too long if he was this twitchy. He cursed under his breath, gritting his teeth, and slowly turned from the balcony window he’d been sniping through.

“Truckie, you’d better have a damn good reason for interruptin’ my- What the bloody Hell!”

He leapt back from what Engineer thrust toward him. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. It looked to be a perfect, doll-sized replica of Scout. And it was cursing furiously in a tiny voice as it flailed and writhed in Engie’s hold.

“Lemme go, Hardhat! This ain’t fuckin’ funny! Put me the fuck down! This ain’t fuckin’ helpin’!”

Sniper bent down slightly, pushing up his aviators. “Strewth… Is that Scout?”

“Fuckin’ right it’s Scout, numbnuts!” The tiny figure in Engie’s hands pedalled his feet desperately before going limp with a defeated sigh.

Sniper couldn’t believe it. It was Scout, maybe a foot tall but otherwise still bearing perfect adult proportions. Engie held him with a hand under each armpit, though he was small and thin enough that one hand easily could have encircled his entire body. Sniper curiously tipped back the bill of Scout’s tiny cap; a baseball bat about as long and thick as a half-used pencil swatted his hand.

“Hey, fuck off!” Scout barked. His voice was high and almost tinny, but distinctively Scout’s for all that. “Will ya quit starin’ and fuckin’ help me? Hardhat’s just been runnin’ around lookin’ for ya, holdin’ me in this-” He looked over his shoulder at Engineer and bellowed schreechily, “-fuckin’ retarded way! I can fuckin’ walk, gears for brains!”

Engie frowned at Scout, but set him down on the crate that Sniper used as a coffee table during fights; Sniper’s tall coffee mug stood almost as high as Scout’s waist. Scout started to sit, but, realizing the mug would likely be taller than him if he did, remained standing with a scowl. He started pacing across the crate-top instead, his cleats making a soft tik-tik-tik against the wood.

Sniper did sit, and Engie as well—they were still beside the window in plain view, when all was said and done. Lighting a cigarette, Sniper watched Scout sulkily stalk from one side of the crate to the other, occasionally giving the coffee mug or that one exposed nailhead a kick.

“So… how in the Hell-?” he started, frowning when Scout winced and covered his ears.

“Christ, lower the volume, wombat,” he said. “Ev’rythin’s right loud.”

Sniper raised an eyebrow, but obligingly lowered his voice. “What happened?” He frowned at Engie. “Don’t tell me this is some kinda experiment ya roped him into?”

“Hell no!” Engie yelped, and Scout cursed.

“Seriously! Hardhat, we been over this!”

“Sorry, son, sorry,” Engie said, patting Scout on the head. Scout growled at him. “But this wasn’t me. I think somethin’s gone wrong with the respawn system. Real wrong.” He poked Scout in the side, which sent him stumbling halfway across the crate. “Tell him.”

Scout glared, rubbing his ribs, but he sighed and looked over at Sniper. “It felt like a respawn error, kinda. I mean, the fuckin’ RED Soldier bashed me, and I was actually feelin’ shit before I came back. It felt… nice, though. Kinda. I dunno!” He threw up his hands. “I just died and fuckin’ respawned like this! Hardhat was already there, and he brought me t’you so we could try to figure this shit out.”

“I think that when-” Engie made a soothing gesture when Scout flinched and opened his mouth to scold again. He said more softly, “I think that earlier, when the Demos went boom and took out halfa both teams, it was too many simultaneous respawns fer the system t’handle. Now it’s all… screwy. I gotta admit, I came out just a li’l before Scout and I felt the same kinda thing. Doesn’t seem t’be anythin’ wrong with me yet, though.”

“Bullshit,” Scout said. “Total bullshit. I get the fuckin’ Thumbelina treatment and Engie’s fuckin’ fine?”

“I said there ain’t nothin’ wrong yet, son,” Engie said. He looked uncharacteristically grim. “Who knows what mighta happened that just ain’t had the chance t’trigger yet?”

Sniper took a drag from his cigarette and scratched at the long scar running along his left cheekbone. “Has anyone else respawned since? D’ya know?”

“I saw the RED Scout bite it on our way over here, but I dunno if the Reds are havin’ the same problem,” Engie said, chuckling when Sniper blew a weak plume of smoke at Scout, who coughed and staggered, waving his hand frantically before his face. “I didn’t see any a’ours, but who knows what’s happened in the last couple minutes?”

Sniper grunted. The sounds of battle beyond the sniper deck hadn’t stopped during the course of their conversation. Scout was peeking out the window, having moved away from the smoke cloud and leaning carefully around the edge of the frame. He winced when blue Pyro-chunks went fountaining up in front of him.

“Pyro’s out,” he said, shrugging and stepping back from the window to lean against Sniper’s mug. “Maybe we should head back to the respawn room, meet up with him and see if anythin’s wrong.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea, Twinkle Toes,” Sniper said. He got to his feet, tucked into the corner, and plucked Scout up by the back of his shirt. Scout yelped and squirmed, but settled once Sniper lowered him onto his shoulder. He chortled—which was odd in itself; Scout didn’t chortle—and stood with his feet firmly planted against Sniper’s vest and a hand keeping him steady by gripping Sniper’s hat.

“Whoo! Hi-yo Silver! Awaaaaay!” he crowed, pointing in the direction of the respawn room. Engie snorted behind a hand, and Sniper rubbed his eyes with a weary groan on his way down the ramps.

“How is he even more annoyin’ when ya shave him down by five feet?”

“Less talkin’, more walkin’! Mush, wombat! Mush! To Pyro!”

——

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Breathing was hard, his limbs felt heavy, and his clothes were way too warm and tight. The RED Scout groaned, eyes squeezed shut, and laid a hand against his forehead, battling nausea and a throbbing pain in his temples as he respawned. What the fuck?

“Eugh, what the Hel- Mmph!”

Scout slapped a hand over his mouth. That was not his voice. That was not his voice. It was deep and a little raspy, and there wasn’t any of the usual (slight) whistly lisping that came from his not-really-that-big-fuck-you front teeth. The usual inflections were there, but it lacked the pitch and smoothness that he’d come to associate with his own golden pipes over the years.

He coughed and cleared his throat, and was about to speak again when he caught sight of the hand he’d coughed into. He stared, raising the hand, fingers spread, before his face. The fingers were long and slender, and clothed in black leather. Gloves. He never wore gloves, especially not gloves like these, which even to Scout’s eyes looked fancy and expensive.

“What the fuck!”

That voice! It wasn’t his voice! He looked down at himself, and wailed. There was no familiar red t-shirt and dark grey-brown pants, high white socks and worn red sneakers. Instead, there was finely crafted, almost brick-red Italian wool—suit jacket, waistcoat, and pants—and he could feel some kind of smooth, flowy fabric encasing his arms beneath the jacket. Even his underwear felt… soft. Kinda nice, actually…

“Ugh, Dio mio, what ith thith fresh Hell?”

Scout spun, and recoiled with a yell. That was him! He was standing there, a few feet away. It was like looking in a mirror, if the image in the mirror had suddenly stepped through and taken a life of its own. It spoke with his voice, muttering barely audible curses, and looked thoroughly disgruntled. Scout felt sick.

He cautiously shuffled forward and poked… himself in the shoulder, drawing a sharp flinch and a decidedly un-him-like sneer.

“Are… are you me?” he said weakly. The man that looked like him rolled his eyes and flicked him sharply in the forehead. The familiar gesture drew out an equally familiar response:

“Aw, fuck off Spy!” Scout blinked, and stared. “Spy?”

“Obviouthly, you mitherable petht.” Spy-in-Scout’s-body glowered, crossing his arms over his chest. Scout’s chest. Fuck, this was weird. “Ugh, why can’t I thpe- thpea- speak properly? Merda, thith ith- thisss isss-” He threw up his hands. “Nel nome di Dio! What ith wrong with you!”

“Wrong with me? I can barely fuckin’ breathe, my head’s fuckin’ killin’ me, I feel like I’m gonna puke, and I’m in your fuckin’ body, apparently! That’s what’s fuckin’ wrong with me!” Scout snapped back. “What the fuck is goin’ on!”

[...]

Spy was silent for a long moment, just looking at him, before he said, “Have you had a thig-” He closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and continued in a more deliberate and grating tone, “Have you had a cigarette since you respawned? Merda de Dio…”

Scout blinked again and opened up his—Spy’s—suit jacket, searching for the pocket where Spy kept his disguise kit. Spy rolled his eyes and Scout yelped when he slapped his hands away and dug through the jacket’s left inside pocket—and his pants pocket—to retrieve the disguise kit and an engraved Zippo lighter. Muttering to himself in Italian, Spy took out a cigarette, almost put it in his own mouth, then groaned and handed it to Scout. Scout reached for the lighter, but Spy flicked it to life himself and lit the cigarette for him before stuffing the lighter and disguise kit in his pocket. Scout’s pocket. Scout’s body’s pocket. Scout pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to shake off another wave of… he could only call it “existential confusion”. He’d put up with some pretty freaky shit in the time since he’d signed on with RED, but this definitely took the fucking cake.

He took a puff on the cigarette, grimacing at the taste and the burn in his throat and on his tongue. How could Spy smoke these things? Weed he could get behind, but cigarettes were just fucking gross. The throbbing in his temples almost immediately lessened, though, and the nausea receded. He even felt a little more relaxed. He took another puff, and crossed his arms over his chest as he slowly started feeling less like he’d been run through the tumble-dryer on high. He looked down at the still lispily muttering Spy (oh fuck, was he really that fucking short?) and let out a sigh.

“If ya buzz the esses like zees when ya talk, ya won’t lisp as much,” he said, “or keep yer tongue further back from yer teeth when ya say ’em.” He shrugged when Spy shot him a suspicious look. “I don’t want ya makin’ me sound like a fuckin’ lispin’ moron.”

“But that ith… is so far removed from the truth, I would not want to sound disingenuous,” Spy said, blinking and making a small sound of surprise; the lisp, and the slight whistling accompanying it, still clung, but it was definitely less pronounced. “It actually works. Huhn.”

Scout rolled his eyes. “After years a’speech therapy, I’d hope it fuckin’ works.” He took another puff and looked for a spot to ash, eventually settling on just ashing off to the side when no likely ashtray presented itself. “Now that y’can talk without givin’ yourself an aneurysm, will ya tell me what the fuck is happenin’? Is this…”

He had been going to say “normal”, but the word was so far from their current situation, he couldn’t get it out. Spy grimaced and looked down at himself, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt.

“No, this is not something I have ever heard of, or experienced, before,” he said. He examined his hands closely, frowning at the calluses on his fingers. “Respawn errors are a fact of life out here, but this is decidedly abnormal.”

“‘Abnormal’? Understatement a’the fuckin’ century there, pal,” Scout grumbled. In his (admittedly limited) experience, respawn errors meant a headache, or feeling dizzy, or needing to puke. This was… “This is so fucked up. What the fuck are we supposed to do? Die again and see if it gets fixed?”

“Under more ordinary circumstances, suicide may be preferable to our current situation,” Spy said wryly, “but if respawn is malfunctioning badly enough to cause-” His mouth twisted. “-whatever this is, I would rather avoid risking it failing completely if I die again. So, no, dying again is something that we should do our best to avoid, I think, if at all possible.”

“It was just a suggestion, Jesus Christ,” Scout said. “I don’t hear you offerin’ anythin’ to get us outta this.”

“Because I have not had a chance to think, between shepherding you through how to satisfy nicotine cravings and trying to figure out how your malformed mouth works.” Spy ignored Scout’s indignant “Hey!”, and rubbed at his forehead, shutting his eyes. “Ingegnere is our best chance to fix this, clearly. Respawn is facilitated by a machine in some capacity, after all. More complex than his sentries, but he is still more likely to have at least some idea of what to do with it than anyone else. We should go find him, and see-”

A sharp electrical bzzzt filled the respawn room and Scout and Spy both covered their ears with cries of pain. For a few endless, agonizing seconds, Scout felt like his entire skull was being criss-crossed by live electrical wires; it was as though all of the bones in his head were vibrating. His vision faded into a void of white, and he heard nothing but a nerve-piercingly high, almost electronic whine. It was like chewing on foil or hearing nails on a chalkboard, but a million times worse.

Then, in a blink, it was gone. Completely. No fading or winding down; just gone, as if a switch had been flipped. Scout let out a hard breath and lowered his hands from the sides of his head. Oh, come the fuck on! What now? He didn’t need any more weird shit on top of everything else going on right now. He looked quickly around the room. Everything seemed the same. Spy stood before him (still in Scout’s body, unfortunately), though he was now cursing and rubbing his ears, and nothing about the respawn room itself had changed.

Wait. One of Wrenches’s toolboxes sat a little ways behind Spy. That hadn’t been there before. Frowning, Scout stepped past Spy and reached for the toolbox’s handle.

The toolbox unfolded with a smart snap before his fingers came within an inch of it, and Scout yelled and jumped back as a sentry started assembling itself before him. The clack and rattle of metal was the only sound after that brief cry as both he and Spy stared, watching the level one sentry build itself up before settling with a sharp, high beep. The turret head swiveled around the room, more quickly than Scout had ever seen a sentry move. It turned its barrel first on Scout, then on Spy. It beeped again, swiveled back to Scout, then to Spy, still moving too fast. Scout frowned when the sentry let out another beep, this one shriller, almost a sound of alarm. He glanced at Spy, who was scrutinizing the sentry with an air of blatant disbelief. There was no fucking way…

Swallowing hard, Scout crouched down to the sentry’s level. Its turret swung back to him, its barrel extending and retracting as it continued emitting periodic alarm beeps, and Scout hesitantly reached out to lay a hand on top of it.

“Wrenches? Issat you?”

He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry when the sentry bobbed its turret up and down in an unmistakable nod.

——

In Vino Veritas Teaser/WIP

Decided I'm gonna start posting more completed chunks of some of the WIP shorts that I'm happy with. Fuck it, right?

This is the first smut short (this teaser will be cut off before the actual smut starts, though), and the first Spy/Scout-centric one.

Reminder that these are OCs! Not the canon Spy and Scout! They are not related! Yes, the age gap is there and big, but they are not family! I always loved how the Scout and Spy personality archetypes played off each other in a pairing back before canon introduced the squick factor, and now that I'm writing an entirely OC cast, I'm gonna let my boys have fun :)

For the WIP, only warnings are for Scout's language, as always. The complete version will get to the good shit ;) Starts a little after some intro that I'm not happy enough with to post yet.

Summary: Scout is drunk, and lonely, and horny. Maybe Spy's down to... talk?

——

In Vino Veritas

[...]

Imbibe. That was a good word. Where had he even pulled that from? He’d probably heard it from Spy. Spy was always using all those stupid fancy words, and saying way too many of them for someone to make sense of it. All those stupid frog words, too. Why couldn’t he just speak English like a normal fucking person?

Even if he did make French sound good. Real good. Like, sexy without him even being a chick, good. Scout shifted, adjusting his pants slightly at the familiar throb deep in his gut. Fuck, was Spy sexy? Maybe, kinda, if he thought about it. Spies were kind of sexy just by being spies in the first place, really—dangerous, mysterious, refined, and stylish by default—but Spy, his Spy, had an appeal entirely separate from his profession. The French and the accent was hot as fuck, and something about his eyes was just… enticing, drawing you in while still reading everything about you. And that little smirk he had, the one that made it feel like he knew something he shouldn’t, something about you, and he liked it…

Scout sat up quickly, his head swimming a little, as he felt another deep throb, this time in a much more interesting location. Okay. Okay, fuck. Fuck. He looked at his beer and finished off the last mouthful, trying to ignore the building tension between his legs and think for a Goddamn second. Okay, so Spy’s kind of sexy. He’s also kind of a fag. Scout’s horny and—fuck, he guessed he could at least admit it to himself—pretty fucking lonely. He’s not fucking gay, not by a long shot, but it had been a long-ass fucking time, and he was getting tired of feeling nothing but his own hands.

Fuck, was he really doing this?

Huffing out a breath, Scout pushed himself to his feet. He dropped the empty beer bottle onto the couch—he’d deal with it later—and straightened his hat and pants. He was a doer, not a thinker. He wasn’t just gonna sit around here chasing his thoughts in fucking circles all night. Fuck it. Let’s do this shit.

He almost stopped and turned back as soon as he was through the door. The hallway was thankfully empty, but it suddenly seemed like a really long way down to Spy’s room; it was all the way at the other end of the hall, after all. He shook himself with a soft growl, pulling his door shut, and started walking. Well, staggering. Maybe he was a little drunker than he’d thought. The tapping of his cleats sounded way too loud. He flinched a little as he passed each other door on his way down the hall, half-expecting to see heads poking out to ask about his late-night wandering, but none of the doors popped open, no one appeared to question him. In what somehow felt like both hours and no time at all, he was standing in front of the door marked with a blue knife.  For a few seconds, he just stood, swaying slightly, staring at the bland slab of wood and trying to force some order on his similarly swaying thoughts. Then he knocked.

The thunking of his fist against the door, again, seemed far too loud in the silent hallway. He fidgeted as he heard soft shuffling from inside the room. There were a few seconds, and the sound of footsteps drawing up to the door. He took a deep breath as the locks rattled and clacked, and then the door was swinging in, revealing a smoking, dressed down Spy. 

His suit jacket and tie had been abandoned, and his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. The first couple buttons of his shirt had been undone, revealing the lower edge of his balaclava and an inch or two of pale skin. He still wore his mask, gloves, and waistcoat, but he wore them as comfortably as another man might an old pair of sweatpants. He wore them well, too. Scout’s gaze had fallen on Spy’s face when he’d first opened the door, but now it started to wander. Spy looked skinnier without his jacket, Scout thought, with more defined hips. Like a really flat-chested chick, but… sharper.

“Bonsoir, petit. It is later than I would ’ave expected a visit from you,” Spy said. Scout blinked and looked back at Spy’s face. There was a warm, if somewhat confused, smile there. The mouth hole of his mask was slightly askew. Scout blinked dumbly again, and Spy raised an eyebrow. “Is there… anything I can ’elp you with?”

Scout took a deep breath, ready to explain himself, but nothing came out of his mouth as his mind completely blanked. Shit. Shit. He’d come down here for a reason, right?

“Yeah,” he said, “yeah, a’course. Wouldn’ta knocked otherwise.” He frowned. He’d wanted to talk? About… about… “Wanted t’talk ’bout somethin’.”

“Something?” Spy said, lifting his smoke to take a long puff. The corners of his eyes were crinkled. Scout nodded, closing his eyes when the world started to wobble a little. Something. Something about… Man, it was hard to think with the floor rocking back and forth.

“Why don’t you come inside, petit?” Spy said, his voice tight. Scout opened his eyes and saw Spy clearly fighting a smile. His eyes narrowed—was Spy laughing at him?—but he nodded and stepped into the room.

The Frenchman’s sense of style and class was well on display here, from the sleekly outfitted king-sized bed tucked into a darkened corner, to the elegant but comfortable sofa and wingback armchair arranged in cozy proximity to a pair of dark wood bookcases near the door. A record player sat on one of the end-tables beside the couch, and the table at the sofa’s other arm bore a finely detailed crystal ashtray, and a decanter full of deep amber liquid with a pair of similarly patterned crystal glasses arranged beside it. Even the walls had been draped in large sheets of deep blue fabric, hiding the grimy concrete and subduing some of the light from the overhead fixture.

Scout weaved his way across an expensive-looking rug to the couch, and he flopped bonelessly at the end nearest the record player as Spy closed the door and latched his numerous locks (he was up to four, now). The world had stopped rocking for the moment, and Scout’s thoughts were forming a little easier, but he still felt pleasantly muzzy. This was a good level of drunk, now that he’d staggered his way through his brief case of the spins. Thank fuck for his stupid-fast metabolism.

He watched Spy move to his desk in another corner of the room, gathering up papers and placing them carefully in a drawer that was unlocked and then locked again with a small key drawn from seemingly nowhere. It always amazed Scout how Spy could do that, the little tricks of sleight of hand that came so naturally he didn’t even seem to recognize them. No matter how closely Scout watched those slim, gloved fingers, he could never trace their movements well enough to see exactly what Spy did. Case and point: though Scout’s eyes had never left him, he had missed the entire replacement of Spy’s nearly spent cigarette with a new one, only noticing that Spy had a fresh smoke when he took a seat at the other end of the couch.

“So, mon petit voyou,” the masked man said, resting an arm over the back of the sofa in a strangely casual gesture, “what ’as driven you to seek the pleasure of my company this evening? I believe that you said you wanted to speak to me about-” He smirked and took a drag from his cigarette. “-‘something’.”

Something. Oh… yeah. Scout felt heat starting to rise in his neck. The fog that had laid over his brain when he’d stood at the door had dissipated, and he remembered with unpleasant clarity just what that “something” was. He took a deep breath and straightened a little from his limp sprawl. He licked his lips and rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe comfortably drunk wasn’t quite drunk enough for this. Fuck his fast metabolism.

Spy seemed to understand. As Scout’s silence held, moving from thoughtful to awkward, he turned to the end table and poured out two fingers of the decanter’s contents into each crystal glass. He held one out to Scout, who took it and looked over it, giving it a sniff. It was definitely some kind of hard liquor, but it wasn’t very much. He said so to Spy with an eyebrow raised, and was surprised when Spy barked out a laugh.

“It is scotch, petit,” he said, holding his glass lightly on his fingertips. “It is not like your mediocre American whiskeys, to be guzzled with more concern for ’asty intoxication than any true form of quality. This is oak-cask aged ambrosia, meant to be sipped and savoured, enjoyed for the subtle complexity of its flavours, rather than something so pedestrian as mere alcohol content.”

Scout listened to Spy’s wordy explanation with a frown, and he gave his drink another narrow-eyed inspection. “Sounds stupid. And faggy. I betcha drink fuckin’ wine, too.”

“Naturellement,” Spy said, sipping his scotch. Scout sniffed his again and wrinkled his nose. “There is little in life better than a glass of fine Cabernet Sauvignon and a lovely rare steak. Though, good scotch and a cigarette comes close.”

“’Specially if it’s one of yer ‘special cigarettes’?” Scout asked, not without a touch of bitterness. Being stoned hadn’t really been that bad—he’d actually enjoyed it a fair bit, that first time, once he’d eventually realized what Spy had given him to smoke—but a little warning would have been appreciated. He took a hesitant sip of the scotch, grimacing a little at the burning it left on his tongue and in his throat. He had to admit, it didn’t taste that bad, and the fumes it sent curling up his nose felt sufficiently alcoholic.

“That was just funny,” Spy said, and Scout glared at him. It only made Spy laugh. “Seeing you and Pyro ’igh as kites was honestly the best entertainment any of us ’as ’ad in far too long. And tell me you didn’t enjoy it. Go on. If you can make me believe you, I will take over your share of the laundry for the next month.”

As tempting as the prize was, Scout had never been a good liar and he knew it. He flipped Spy the bird and took a larger swig of scotch as he grumbled, “Fine, it wasn’t that bad. Was still a sneaky fuckin’ trick.”

“I am a Spy, mon voyou,” Spy said. “I believe ‘sneaky’ is to be expected.”

He took a longer drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment. Scout could only stare in fascination as Spy let the smoke drift out in a thick, slow-curling cloud, and inhaled it back through his nose before exhaling it normally. Scout had seen that kind of shit in movies and on TV, but it looked even cooler in real life. Spy noticed his stare and smirked.

“As well as suave, mysterious, and dashingly ’andsome, non?” he said, and he mimed pushing hair back from his forehead, giving Scout a smouldering look. Scout snorted and, to hopefully hide the sudden flush rising again in his neck, quickly finished off his scotch; Spy’s glass was still mostly untouched.

“Bein’ suave ’n’ mysterious ain’t likely t’getcha much out here,” he said. “Just means ya got a fuckin’ nosy, pain in th’ass Scout pesterin’ ya for weed and booze and gossip.”

“And my devilish ’andsomeness?” Spy’s smirk grew. Scout made a face at him. The implications of the statement hit uncomfortably close to his recently recalled reason for visiting. He toyed with the empty glass in his hands until Spy held up the unlidded decanter with a questioning shake. Scout held out his glass and let Spy refill it, a little more than he had the first time. Scout took a swallow and swiped at his lips with a thumb, not meeting Spy’s gaze again. He could feel it on him, though; there was something unmistakable about the way having a Spy’s eyes on you felt.

Once again, the silence stretched. It didn’t quite lose its companionable quality this time, even if Scout couldn’t bring himself to do more than glance at Spy out of the corner of his eye. From what he could tell, Spy was more than happy to sit smoking and sipping his scotch. He was so patient, and calm. Understanding, if someone could be understanding and still be a sarcastic bastard sometimes. Scout sipped his scotch and coughed into his hand.

“Spy, d’you, uh… D’you ever get lonely?” he said, still not raising his eyes. Christ, he felt like a fucking chick, saying that, but Spy’s oak-cask aged ambrosia was working well with his earlier imbibing (imbibing? Was that actually a word?) to loosen his tongue. He’d never been that good at keeping his mouth shut anyway, once he got something in his head. The lack of immediate response made him round his shoulders, and he opened his mouth to take back the stupid, girly question.

It snapped shut again when Spy said, “Of course.” His tone was no longer playful and teasing. “Even in such a small space, with so many disparate personalities it is not easy to find… reliable companionship.”

“Companionship. Yeah.” Scout rubbed the back of his neck. Fuck it. He downed the rest of his scotch with a shudder, feeling it burn pleasantly all the way down his throat. He coughed again. “Y’ever… uh, get lonely in- in other ways? Like… the missin’ chicks kinda ways?”

Spy’s silence lasted long enough to draw Scout’s eyes up. He looked surprised by the question, but not displeased or, as Scout had feared, disgusted. He’d known Spy was kind of a fag—that was part of why he’d drunkenly stumbled down to his room in the first place—but that niggling little part of him, the South Boston boy who’d pummel anyone that said anything that could be even remotely perceived as gay, still expected to see some degree of distaste.

“You are asking if I ever weary of… lending myself a ’and, as it were?” Spy said, gesturing vaguely with his cigarette-bearing hand and sending swirls of smoke bobbing up toward the ceiling. Scout swallowed thickly and nodded. Spy surprised him again with a lazy shrug, as if it were the most normal line of questioning in the world.

“Bien sûr,” he said. “I may be a man of more varied tastes than the majority of the team, more willing to engage in—what do you like to call it? ‘All that faggotry’?” Another brief smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But finding not only reciprocation of my tastes, but the proper level of compatibility, is difficult, again largely due to working amongst those with such volatile dispositions.”

Scout blinked; those were a lot of long words. “Uh, what?”

Spy let out a sound that, if anyone else had made it, Scout would call a snort. “I am willing to sleep with men, but none of the men ’ere are willing to sleep with me, or I with them.”

“Oh.” Scout looked back down; he’d started fiddling with his cup again without realizing. His stomach was… fluttering. “Ain’t no one worth your time, huh?”

There was a light clink as Spy set his still barely touched glass on the end table. “I am a Spy,” he said again, slowly, “and a Spy must ’ave standards. There are a few I believe would be acceptable, ’owever, if they ever felt so inclined as to approach me.”

Scout stopped fiddling with his glass. “A few?”

Spy nodded and stubbed out his cigarette, blowing out a last plume of smoke through his teeth. “Engineer would be interesting, but ’e ’as made it abundantly clear that attempting to approach ’im about indulging such desires would be… unwise. ’E is a married man, after all. Sniper, obviously, ’as a certain rugged charm. ’E is surprisingly sophisticated for a man ’oo prefers to live out of a camper van, and we’ve known each other for over a decade now, besides. Medic is also intriguing.”

“Doc?” Scout made a face. “He’s so fuckin’ old, though. Even if he is, y’know, like, an actual fag.”

“More advanced age need not be seen as an impediment, petit,” Spy said. “An experienced partner can make encounters far more ex’ilarating.” Spy locked Scout’s eyes with his own. Scout’s fluttering stomach gave a nervous lurch. “As can an inexperienced one.”

There it was. That look and those words. Even Scout’s alcohol-addled brain (though it was less addled than he had expected. Or hoped. Fuck his metabolism!) could sort out the blatant implication behind them. He fully expected to feel disgust—to be walking across the room and out the door without even having to think about it, despite the fact that he’d been the one to come here in the first place—but it wasn’t there. There was just the army of eager butterflies that seemed to have taken up residence in his stomach, and a thundering in his ears that he thought was his heart.

Moving Day teaser/WIP

The first short chronologically. Been having way too much trouble just getting my wording right when I try to continue it (it's just the BLUs arriving at and exploring the new base and getting settled in ffs) but I've got the opening and part of a scene later on (separated by [...]) and I figured, fuck it, I'll throw it up. Probably end up deleting this post once the full short is done, but it's been bugging me having the second short be the first one that I posted anything for :/

It's pretty safe to assume any short with one or both Scouts in it will have excessive f-bombs; this one does.

Summary: The BLU team arrives at their new home.

——

Moving Day

Sniper had never thought his camper van small. For one man with limited spatial requirements and little desire for luxury, he thought it was perfect. It had a tiny kitchenette with a stove, fridge, and diner-style table, a cubby bed tucked up over the cab and a pull-out folded into the sofa along the back wall (and the kitchen’s table and benches could be converted into a bed, too, in a pinch), and even a little bathroom with a shower and flush toilet. He’d seen some of the monstrosities that tourists liked to roll around in, more full trailer homes on wheels than proper camper vans, and could only shake his head, wondering who could possibly need so much extra space.

On the long drive from Teufort to Well, however, he had to wonder if maybe something a little bigger would have been so bad.

It was supposed to be a simple two hour drive, moving Builders’ League United’s Team Garrison to their new base. A few dozen clicks or so of empty desert backroad—boring, but easy. Easy, if one didn’t consider the innumerable potholes in the barely maintained road, or the fact that there were nine mostly large men jammed into the camper’s few, not very large seats in hundred-plus degree heat. It was now approaching the midpoint of the third hour of their two hour trip, and none of them were particularly happy about it.

Despite multiple stops already to stretch their legs and get some air—and once to replace a tire fallen victim to one of the many, many goddamn potholes—everyone was feeling hot and cramped. Even up in the cab, with the windows down to allow in as much breeze as possible, it was sweltering, and bloody bright. Sniper could feel a rager of a headache building in his temples after so long staring at the black strip of asphalt in the endless waste of sun-baked dirt—even through his sunglasses, it was like staring into the Goddamn sun—and Spy, in the passenger seat beside him, had discarded his suit jacket in a rare concession to the heat. There had been a few grumbles from the back, but so far, most of the team had had the courtesy to keep their dissatisfaction to themselves in such tight, uncomfortable quarters, so as to not make the extended trip any more unpleasant.

Most of them.

“Are we fuckin’ there yet?”

A chorus of displeased groans followed on the heels of that most hated of road-trip questions, and Sniper’s tightening grip squeaked on the steering wheel. He’d known it was coming—really, it surprised him that it had taken this long—but he still had to unclench his jaw before he could reply.

“No, Scout,” he grated out, trying and failing to keep the annoyance from his tone, “we’re not there yet. Can see the base, though; shouldn’t be much longer.”

The heat-distorted silhouette of their future home had first risen out of the craggy desert landscape in the distance not even a minute before, and had only just begun really gaining distinction from its surroundings as the road’s meandering track led them on toward it. Sniper judged they had another five minutes of unnecessary twists and turns—maybe fifteen, on this shithole road—before they reached it. If Scout could’ve kept his damn mouth shut for just another fifteen minutes…

The sounds of scuffling and scrambling were accompanied by another outburst from those in the back, seemingly propelling Scout into the camper’s cab on a wave of outraged cries. He nearly impaled himself on the center console in his haste to see out the front windshield; Spy pressed a hand to his skinny chest to keep him from throwing himself straight into the glass. Scout didn’t seem to notice: he was still fully leaning into Spy’s hand when his face split in a massive grin at the sight of the structures looming in the distance.

“Fuck yeah! S’about fuckin’ time!” he said. Sniper rolled his eyes when Scout leaned further into the cab, finally brushing away Spy’s hand and fully blocking Sniper’s view of the road as he tried to get a look at the speedometer. “Christ, why’re ya goin’ so fuckin’ slow, wombat? We’re almost there and yer drivin’ like my fuckin’ gramma.”

Sniper shoved Scout out of his way with a hand in the face, and said, “I can’t go any faster if I can’t see the bloody road. Gonna send us straight into another pothole, and I don’t have a second spare tire, so unless ya wanna walk the rest a’the way?”

“I could probably get there fuckin’ faster,” Scout griped, but he subsided somewhat, bracing himself crouched in the cab’s threshold. He popped up every few seconds, though, to peer out at the slowly approaching base. He reminded Sniper of—funnily enough—a wombat, peeking in and out of its hole. A very talkative, vulgar wombat.

“Seriously, who the fuck drew up this road? A straight fuckin’ line from here to there, how hard would thatta been? They can afford to pay us hundreds a’grand a year, and they invented fuckin’ respawn, for Christ’s sake, but they can’t fill in a few ditches and blow up a few rocks so we can have a fuckin’ straight road? Wait, is that fuckin’ train tracks? We’re drivin’ through the desert in the fuckin’ hobo rape-van, and we coulda taken the fuckin’ train?”

“It’s not a ‘rape-van’, ya bloody whelp,” Sniper growled, tugging the bill of Scout’s baseball cap down over his eyes and cutting a glare at Spy when his cough didn’t quite cover a tight chuckle. “There’s no direct line from Teufort to here. Drivin’, even on this sorry excuse of a road, is faster than havin’ t’switch trains three’r four times.”

“Man, if the Reds got ta take the train, I’m gonna be so fuckin’ pissed,” Scout said, straightening his hat. “What if they got there already an’ they’re fuckin’ with all our shit?”

“The base and battlefield ’ere are far larger than at Teufort, and ’ave far superior security,” Spy said, taking a drag from his ever-present cigarette. “The battlefield is fair game, but there are bulk’eads at each barracks’ entrance, so the Reds should not be able to get in.” He held his hand out the window to let the wind take the ash from the tip of his cigarette. “We won’t need to worry about that ostie ‘Alarm-o-Tron’ nonsense any more, at least, with a proper security system in place.”

“Hey, I liked the Alarm-o-Tron. There was some fun shit on there,” Scout said, grinning. “‘The RED Spy is a woman!’ Fuckin’ classic.”

“Mmm, Rosso never ’as quite forgiven you for that, ’as ’e?” Spy said with a chuckle, and Sniper had to smile. That had been a good few days, after Engineer had finally given into Scout’s pestering and showed him how the enormous alert board in the Teufort base’s basement worked, even if Scout had eventually turned his Alarm-o-Tron antics on his teammates. Seeing the Reds losing their minds over the sporadic (and usually ridiculous) alerts blaring through their base (“The RED Sniper is about to explode!” was one of the BLU sharpshooter’s personal favourites) had provided better entertainment than they usually had in months.

“M’still not convinced the RED Pyro ain’t a fuckin’ vampire,” Scout said, a thoughtful frown crossing his face. “I mean, we never seen him out a’that suit durin’ the day, and he’s a bloodthirsty motherfucker, always usin’ his fuckin’ axe… Why else would the Alarm-o-Tron have ‘is a vampire’ on it if someone ain’t one?”

“Because RED ’n’ BLU are run by a buncha loons,” Sniper said, snorting and rolling his eyes. The camper bumped over a raised patch of asphalt, and he winced when something started rattling under the bonnet. He could see the road actually leading into the base now. One more turn and then a surprisingly straight stretch to the barbed-wire-topped fence surrounding the compound where they’d be spending the next God knows how long resuming their endless battles with the mercenaries from Reliable Excavation Demolition. He gave the dashboard a reassuring pat.

“Almost there, sweetheart,” he murmured, wincing again as another bump increased the violence of the rattle. “Not even another mile, y’can do it.”

“Adorable,” Spy said, raising an eyebrow. “Per’aps we can finally put the poor thing out of its misery once we arrive, if its valiant effort to get us the next few ’undred feet doesn’t do it for us.”

“Ah, blow it out yer ass, Spy, she’s fine,” Sniper said, hunching slightly over the steering wheel and adding under his breath, “Yer fine, yer fine, just a li’l further…”

Thankfully, despite the increasingly concerning sounds coming from the engine compartment, and Scout’s renewed complaints about the speed of Sniper’s driving with their destination “literally right fuckin’ there, man, come on”, the camper managed to make it past the fence and into the expansive courtyard at the rear of the BLU base before letting out a groaning wheeze and shuddering to a grateful stop. The relief in the sighs and groans of those in the back was almost palpable. Scout clambered over Spy and out the passenger door with a whoop, ignoring the Frenchman’s irate curses as elbows, knees, and cleats jabbed into him in the course of his scrambling passage.

[...]

Sniper saw the red dot on the wall half a second before Scout darted past him, and managed to catch the hem of the younger man’s t-shirt just before he passed out of reach. The echoing crack of a rifle shot accompanied Scout’s yelp as he was yanked backward, and a not insignificant hole appeared in the concrete wall where his head would have been. Spy raised an eyebrow at it, taking another puff off his smoke.

“It seems the Reds are already ’ere,” he said, and Scout started cursing, jerking his shirt out of Sniper’s grip and bolting to the window he’d almost been shot through. Sniper stepped up beside him with a sigh, looking out across the field at the RED base, as Scout started bellowing threats and swears at the top of his lungs.

The RED Sniper was making no attempt to hide himself; he stood in the window of the battlements directly across the field from theirs, rifle raised. The red dot of his sight returned, making Scout hit the deck with another yell as it passed over him, and Sniper crossed his arms over his chest when the little red light drifted there.

“Yeah, we see ya. Wanker.” There was another crack, and he felt the wind of the shot as it passed his cheek. He didn’t flinch.

“Fuckin’- He knows we ain’t fightin’ yet, right?” Scout said, peeking up over the windowsill.

“Of course he does. He’s just bein’ a bloody dipstick,” Sniper said, glowering when his RED counterpart waved, and offering a rude two-fingered gesture in return. He glanced at Spy, who was leaning against the wall beside the window. “Y’know he won’t actually shoot ya. Not yet.”

“While your trust in that filthy convict is encouraging, I’d rather avoid the risk,” Spy said, blowing a plume of smoke toward the window. Another bullet cut through it, making it curl into two distinct, swirling clouds. Spy rolled his eyes. “Ouais, I’ll stay ’ere, out of sight, merci beaucoup.”

Privacy

Second finished "Tales of Well" short (third chronologically). Still shorter than I'd like, but I'm happier with this one than "First Day", even if not much really happens.

Again, warning for unnecessary amounts of profanity, courtesy of Scout.

Summary: Scout was told to go get Pyro for dinner.

——

Privacy

“Yo firebug! S’dinner time! Getcha ass out here!”

Scout’s fist hammered out a staccato beat on Pyro’s door, and he leant against it waiting for an answer. His foot tapped impatiently, and he waited all of three seconds before he gave the door a few hard whacks with his palm.

“Pyro! C’mon, man, I ain’t standin’ here all fuckin’ night!” he yelled, more than loud enough to be heard through the flimsy wood panel. “It’s steak night, man, come the fuck on!”

He didn’t hear even the slightest rustle of movement coming from the other side of the door. He sighed and drummed his fingers.

He was torn. Dinner had started a couple minutes ago, long enough for Scout to get in one bite of mashed potatoes before Sniper had told him to go fetch Pyro. He’d argued, naturally—it wasn’t his fault if Pyro couldn’t get off his ass for steak night—but Sniper had given him that Look. The “do what I fuckin’ say or you will regret it” Look. Scout hated that Look. It was what had separated him from the delicious slab of beef that was now growing cold on his plate, if Demo or Soldier hadn’t pilfered it already.

However, in opposition to Sniper’s Look, Pyro had a very strict “stay the fuck out of my room or I will fry you like an ant under a magnifying glass” policy. The firestarter was serious about his privacy. As far as Scout knew, no one else had entered that room for even a second since Pyro had taken up residence, not even Spy. Scout was definitely curious—he’d spent more than a fair space of time since the move standing outside this door, trying to work up the nerve to go inside—but he wasn’t stupid, no matter what Medic all-too-frequently implied (or said outright). Satisfying his curiosity wasn’t worth getting barbequed.

But tonight, his steak was waiting for him. Pyro still hadn’t answered the door and the one bite of mashed potatoes he’d managed to scoop taunted Scout like a fading dream. Engie made the best steak and potatoes he’d ever tasted, and having only sampled one bite of one part of his meal, he was more than anxious to return to the table to finish stuffing his face. But he couldn’t go back without Pyro, or Sniper would be pissed. But Pyro wasn’t opening the door, and if he tried to go in to get him, he’d probably end up fried. He groaned in frustration and pounded his fist against the door.

“PYRO! Fuck man! I wanna go eat my fuckin’ steak!” He kicked the door and huffed. Fuck it, he thought. He took a deep breath, and gripped the doorknob. “I’m givin’ ya three seconds, then I’m comin’ to drag yer skinny ass out! One! Two! Threeee-eee… Whoa…”

Scout turned the knob and pushed. The door wasn’t locked—only Spy’s room had a lock, and that was because he’d bought and had it installed it himself—so it swung open easily. And revealed a brilliant sanctuary.

Plastic model planes hung from near-invisible strings pinned to the ceiling, which had been painted to look like a clear midday sky with a few wispy, scudding clouds. A globe-like fixture had been set over the overhead bulb, making it look like the Sun poking out to light the room. Large stretches of the walls were vibrantly painted with desert scenery—sand and broad red plateaus, hoodoos and prickly-looking cacti—and Scout saw a painted jackrabbit poking its head out from behind a tall wooden dresser pushed up against the wall.

Tall racks and shelves also scattered along the wall held a massive collection of sleeved records, cassette tapes, and CDs. A few smaller shelves held several well-worn paperback novels, some of which bore titles in what Scout thought was Spanish on their battered spines, and a huge number of magazines. A stereo cabinet sat next to a small cot in the corner, the former littered with discarded cassettes, pencils, scraps of paper, and a few near-empty water glasses that had yet to make their way back to the kitchen, while the latter was heaped with fluffy pillows and thick blankets. And Pyro.

It still shocked Scout to see Pyro out of his protective suit, even months after he’d first… encouraged the younger man to peel back the mask. He said he was only a few years younger than Scout, but he still looked too young for mercenary work. Without his suit, he was more scrawny than simply thin, and pale despite his Latino heritage. He needed a haircut—his shaggy black hair was almost to his shoulders, and his bangs flopped freely in front of his eyes—and his narrow frame made him seem far more adolescent than he claimed to be. The only thing that spoiled the effect somewhat was the livid burn scar covering his left cheek almost as far as his eye, and disappearing down under his t-shirt collar, reappearing from under his left sleeve to cover the back of his arm past the elbow; Scout didn’t want to imagine what had happened to cause a scar like that.

Pyro seemed content for the time being, though he hadn’t yet noticed Scout’s intrusion. He was stretched out on the cot, eyes closed and arms folded behind his head, a thick black cord connecting the massive headphones he was wearing to the stereo beside him. He was nodding his head and wiggling his feet in time to whatever he was listening to, and Scout heard the occasional hummed note float across the room. He also noticed that Pyro’s gear was piled in a heap at the end of the cot—flamethrower, axe, and fire-proof suit—occasionally being tapped by his bobbing feet.

Some part of Scout’s mind (a part that sounded suspiciously like Spy) told him to get out while he was still unscorched, but his curiosity won out over caution, as it so often did. He wandered over to a painted stretch of wall, admiring the detail in the desert scenery masking the grotty concrete. While he didn’t consider himself an “artist” by any means, Scout liked to draw and occasionally paint, and he could appreciate the subtle shading on the sand and cacti, and the curiously bright eyes of the rabbit that, he now saw, crouched behind a small patch of painted scrub hidden by the dresser.

Hasty shuffling from the corner drew Scout’s attention, and he straightened when he saw Pyro scrambling from the cot, fumbling the headphones off and staring with an expression not far from outright horror. Pyro didn’t speak—Scout had often wondered about Pyro’s silence on the rare occasions when he wasn’t wearing his mask—but he flapped his hands frantically at Scout, trying to shoo him toward the door. Emboldened by the lack of immediate violence, however, Scout ignored him and sauntered over to one of the racks of vinyl, flipping idly through. He recognized many of the bands and artists, but there were several others he didn’t know, many of which seemed to be in Spanish, like the books. He was impressed by what he was familiar with, though.

“Fuck, Py, this is amazing. Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Skynard, Floyd, Sabbath, Styx, Queen… Shit, is that fuckin’ Boston? I had no idea anyone else liked- Whoa!”

Scout whirled at a sudden flash of intense heat against his back, hands leaping away from the records as he spun. He found the gaping maw of a flamethrower only inches from his face, the pilot light flickering uncomfortably close to his chin. He staggered a few steps, tripping over a pile of what certainly smelled like dirty laundry even if had amalgamated into some sort of amorphous cotton blob, and he held his hands out defensively as he backed in what he hoped was the direction of the door.

Before him stood Pyro, lips pulled back to reveal his teeth in a feral snarl. He hissed, a purely animalistic sound. It might have been funny, the oversized weapon being supported by Pyro’s scrawny—if whipcord-muscled—arms, and him hissing and bristling like an irate cat. The small plumes of flame that fwoofed into and out of existence at the flamethrower’s muzzle killed any sense of hilarity, though.

“Whoa, Py, c’mon,” Scout said, bumping up against the wall and sliding toward the door with his hands raised in surrender. The flamethrower still followed him, way too close. “I-I just had t’come getcha for dinner. Y’weren’t answerin’ when I knocked so I just opened the door and- Aaah!”

A longer tongue of flame jetted out of the flamethrower, and Scout felt his eyebrows and the hairs on his arms singeing. He bolted for the door with a yelp, hearing Pyro growl. He made it into the hallway and the door slammed shut behind him, but he didn’t stop running until he barrelled into the kitchen. Incredulous and disapproving stares fixed on him from around the table, but he ignored them as he hastily slid back into his seat. Without a word, he started in on his steak.

He could feel Sniper’s Look, even if he didn’t look up to catch it. “Scout, we said t’go get Pyro.”

Scout shoved a piece of meat into his mouth and glowered at Sniper as he chewed. After the light roasting he’d just received, the Look wasn’t quite so intimidating. At least not compared to the current alternative to the punishment it promised.

“Fuck that,” he said. “I knocked and knocked and he wouldn’t answer, so I went in t’get him ’n’ he tried to fuckin’ toast me. Nuh uh, if he wants to eat, he can come out whenev’r the fuck he wants.”

Shocked silence held around the table. Aside from Scout, everyone had stopped eating, some with utensils still hovering over their plates. Heavy had frozen mid-chew, his cheeks comically puffed as he turned to stare at Scout. Engineer looked horrified, and also somewhat amazed.

“Y’went into Pyro’s room?” he said, setting his fork down carefully and lifting his goggles to scrutinize Scout without the impediment of their tinted lenses. Scout looked back, finally taking note of the unusual stillness and everyone’s attention on him. He shrank down in his chair somewhat.

“I had to,” he mumbled, “t’get Pyro to come out.” When no one said anything, he threw up his hands. “What should I have done? Ya told me t’go get him!”

The silence persisted. Scout scowled around the table before returning to his food. Everyone else’s eyes were either fixed on him or the kitchen doorway, waiting for the inevitable.

It came fairly soon after Scout had started eating again. Engie, Spy, Sniper, and Demo all watched as Pyro strode into the room, fully geared up, and stepped up behind Scout. The other watching eyes drifted up to him. Scout remained oblivious, shoveling in more gravy-smothered potatoes, until he was grabbed by the back of the neck by a rubber-gloved hand. He yelped and started to flail, but froze when a well-honed axe blade pressed against his throat. Pyro pushed him down until his face was nearly in his potatoes, never letting up on the axe head’s pressure, keeping it pressed in just hard enough to make sure that Scout felt nervous about swallowing.

Pyro leaned down slowly, tightening his grip and growling softly beside Scout’s ear. Scout whimpered, but cut off with a choke when Pyro pressed the axe blade in just a little bit harder.

Then it was pulled away, and Pyro released Scout with a light shove that sent his face straight into his meal. Scout sat up, sputtering and wiping away globs of potatoes and gravy, as Pyro wandered over to the dishes on the stove, loading up a plate for himself. He slung his axe over his shoulder and started back out of the kitchen.

He paused by Scout’s chair. Scout looked up at him, cowering, potato still clinging to his nose and bill of his cap. Pyro watched Scout cower for a moment, breaths hissing ominously through his mask’s filters, and delivered a swift, sharp smack to the back of the Bostonian’s head. It nearly sent him pitching into his plate again. Nodding to himself, Pyro left the kitchen without a backward glance, humming softly.

There was total silence for another few seconds after he’d gone before Medic also gave Scout a sharp swat. “Zhat is vhat you get for being a nosy little schwein. And you should count yourself lucky it vasn’t vorse.”

“Okay, again, what exactly was I s’posed t’fuckin’ do!”

“Just about anythin’s smarter than bustin’ in on someone who explicitly toldja t’stay the Hell out,” Engineer said, replacing his goggles with a sigh and picking up his fork again.

“Aye, we all knoo the wee firebug disnae like us in his space.”

“Da. Little Pyro enjoys privacy.”

“Would it’ve killed ya to try a little patience, mate, wait an extra minute for him to come to the door?”

Scout huffed and pushed his chair back, snatching up his plate. “Fuck you guys, I’m gonna go eat in my room.”

“As long as you leave Pyro alone, Scout.”

Scout didn’t pause, though he did throw back a light, “Fuck you Doc!” over his shoulder as he headed off down the hall.

Medic rolled his eyes and returned to his food, scowling, though a smile broke through his disgruntlement when Heavy gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. Demo engaged Soldier and Engie in a spirited, but friendly, debate about the strengths of Scottish whisky versus American whiskey once the speedster was out of sight, with Sniper throwing in his two cents if the conversation seemed to be devolving into an all-out argument. Order was always quick to reassert itself when the most rambunctious member of the team left the room.

Spy chuckled to himself and also pushed back from the table, gathering up his dishes and taking them to the sink. He’d finished eating quickly, as he did with every meal; he’d been in too many situations where food was scarce to shed the instinct easily in a non-civilian setting.

“Engineer, merci beaucoup. The meal was spectacular, as always,” he said, offering a small bow when Engie tipped his hardhat. “I believe I shall go ensure that Scout does not go out of ’is way to become char-broiled. Bonsoir, gentlemen.”

“Do not try too hard. Zhe boy could benefit from a sharply applied lesson or two,” Medic said, and Spy smirked as he lit a cigarette.

“Do not worry, Doctor, I truly only mean to stop ’im if ’e goes out of ’is way. ’Is usual reckless curiosity should offer the chance for lessons galore.”

First Day

The first finished short, though not the first chronologically. There's one more that comes before this one, but this was the first one I actually completed to some degree of satisfaction, and it's only the second one, so I figure it's not too far into the plot- and character-development to be posted. I might even end up expanding it, since it's pretty short, but, eh. I'll throw it up for now.

If anyone actually ends up reading through it, any critique is greatly appreciated; it's completely unbeta'd and I haven't posted any of my writing anywhere in years, so feedback is very, very good.

Also, warning for profanity and brief homophobic language. It's a short primarily about the Scouts, so there's no way the script's gonna be clean.

Summary: It's the new RED Scout's first day.

——

First Day

“Anyone get a good look at RED’s new Scout over the last few days?” Engineer asked, slipping the last shell into his shotgun and tucking the weapon into its loop on his belt. The BLU respawn room was quiet, and had been near silent before the question; they were always a fairly subdued bunch in the minutes before the buzzer. Sniper shrugged, digging a near miniscule crumb of dirt from under one of the tiny screws of his rifle’s scope.

“Younger’n ours, hard as that might be to believe,” he said, drawing a flipped bird from the young man in question and chuckles from the others. “Green as spring grass and jumpy as a toad on a hot rock. The Reds’ll probably break him before the fighting gets a chance.”

“Is it really all that surprisin’ if they do? Those guys are fuckin’ nuts,” Scout said as he finished wrapping his hands in their customary bandages and drew his heavy wooden baseball bat. “Lookin’ forward to bashin’ in some a’those psychos’ knees and heads today. Especially that fuckin’ Soldier,” he added in a low growl, swinging his bat in a whistling arc before him; Scout’s encounters with the particularly psychotic Red during the last fight had not gone well. Spy patted him on the shoulder and lit a cigarette.

“I’m sure you’ll get the chance, petit. When ’ave you ever known that ’elmeted madman to remain quietly on the rear lines?” he said. Sniper nodded, lighting a cigarette of his own and settling his rifle in his hands.

“Here’s hopin’, but don’t push too hard.” He looked around the room, catching each man’s eyes for a second as he pushed his aviators up the bridge of his nose. “Everyone keep your heads down today. We dunno what their new Scout’s capable of, and, small as he is, we don’t want him scoopin’ our case because we underestimate him. And their Engie seems to’ve taken a likin’ to the west alcove of their warehouse, second floor.” He looked meaningfully to Scout and Soldier, the latter of whom saluted sharply. “Don’t let it throw you. I wanna see low respawn numbers at the end of the day.”

Nods rippled around the room, and there was a chorus of rattling metal as weapons were hefted. The timer above the door ticked down, a high electronic beep marking each passing second. 16… 15… 14…

——

3… 2... 1…

The starting buzzer blared and the metal shutter rolled up, releasing a raging torrent of Reds. Scout jumped as a jet of flame washed harmlessly over him before Pyro charged past, howling behind his gas mask. Despite his very short training and the briefing on the train in, Scout still expected to feel his shirt burning off his back, but all he felt was the rough shove as Heavy pushed past him.

“Move, little boy-man!” he roared, and Scout jumped again, bolting out the open door and into chaos. He winced as one of Demo’s bombs exploded a few feet from him and one of Soldier’s rockets detonated not much further away. The Blues weren’t even in sight yet, but already Scout’s ears were filled with gunshots and explosions and battlecries. His teammates were bloodthirsty. He was beginning to realize that he was not prepared for this, not at all, but it was too fucking late to back out now.

He caught up to and passed Pyro as they exited the intel room, and saw flames gust out around him again—without feeling them—as he left the other man’s range. He heard muffled, guttural laughter behind him as he weaved his way through the warehouse, and clearer bursts of chuckling receded with the footsteps clattering up the ramps to the second floor. Pyro was messing with him, and the others were thoroughly enjoying it. Scout shook his head. He’d expected some hazing—he was the short, freckly, buck-toothed new kid; he’d have been surprised if people hadn’t fucked with him to some degree—but the apparent glee most of his teammates had taken in harassing him since his arrival unnerved him. He was honestly starting to look forward to encountering the enemy team.

The whizz of a bullet passing far too close to his head made him reconsider that thought as he sped out the wide warehouse doors. With a yelp, he dove behind a shipping container next to the train tracks, clutching his scattergun to his chest as his heart thundered.

Rockets started flying out the RED warehouse doors toward the train station in the centre of the field, and they were answered by a rocket barrage in return. Chipped concrete from their detonations pecked Scout’s cheek before he covered his head with an arm. He could feel warmth starting to trickle down from one of the more painful impact spots, and wiped his cheek, staring at the blood that came away on his fingers. The first blood he’d shed on the battlefield. He swallowed hard and peeked around the edge of the container.

Another whizz, followed by the pinging p-tew of a ricochet. Scout cursed and, questioning his sanity, he ran toward the moat instead of retreating back into cover. He wasn’t gonna just sit back and be a pussy for his whole first battle. He’d recognized from his training, short and disorganized as it had been, that the shots coming at him were sniper fire. He needed to get too close for the BLU Sniper to get a clear shot. To do that, he had to get over the moat.

There was a bridge a few yards away, but he didn’t want to be out in the open that long. It had to be straight over. No big: just ten or so feet of freezing, probably septic water. Right. Gritting his teeth, he took a deep breath and flung himself across the wide watery trench separating the RED base from the train station.

He grunted, his sneakers skidding on concrete, as he cleared the moat by at least six feet. He stumbled as he came to a stop and stared back at the distance he’d covered. Damn! Whatever RED had given him during his pre-deployment physical really did the fucking trick!

He hadn’t recovered enough to gather his bearings before something solid slammed into his gut, hard enough to double him up over it. He choked, eyes bulging at the sudden pain and breathlessness. He staggered back and stopped himself from going to his knees, if barely. He tried to raise his scattergun for a shot at his attacker, lifting his wide eyes to aim. This time he saw the heavy hardwood baseball bat coming at him. Straight toward his head.

He ducked with a hoarse yell, overbalancing and landing flat on his ass. He finally managed to lift both his gun and gaze to catch a glimpse of the enemy Scout’s blue-clad back whirling away from him with the momentum of his swing. For half a second, he could only stare at his enemy counterpart—the other man easily could have passed for one of his older brothers, in bad light—and that half-second was enough for the Blue to turn back, bat raised for another swing. Just in time for a load of scattershot to take him squarely in the chest.

He looked as shocked by the shot as Scout, finger still hovering over the trigger, felt. A hand rose to the gory mess of the BLU Scout’s front, absently fingering the bloody, pulverized meat and exposed edges of bone. Scout could only meet his opposite’s stunned stare with one of his own. Blood quickly stained the front of the Blue’s shirt, some dripping onto the concrete. He swayed, and blinked slowly, a glassy look coming into his eyes.

“You little fucker,” he mumbled, more incredulity than venom in his voice, and he toppled forward at Scout’s feet.

Scout’s eyes didn’t leave the corpse, and he didn’t move until, like a movie effect, the body started to fade. It grew steadily more transparent and then just disappeared, the blood fading with it, except for a few spatters on Scout’s shoes and pants. He scrambled to his feet, one arm folded over his aching gut, and frantically looked about him.

He saw Heavy emerge from the moat, his vest and shirt more than a little singed, and he saw the BLU Soldier explode into a shower of blood and meat chunks when one of Demo’s grenades hit him head on. His own team’s Soldier was coming his way, jogging along the edge of the moat, and Medic was taking swings at the BLU Demoman with his bonesaw and a maniacal, almost psychotic, grin on his face. Men were screaming, bullets and bombs were flying all around him… Scout swallowed hard. He had to keep moving, get into the BLU base, and grab their intel before he ended up getting blown away. He could take the time to process all of this once the battle was-

“Rule one of being a Scout, lapin.” He gasped as an arm wrapped around his neck from behind and something sharp jabbed lightly into his spine. “Do not stand still.”

The call of “Spy!” was still building in his throat when the knife slid home.

Then the cold white walls of the respawn room surrounded him and he stumbled, eyes goggling and hands shaking. Had he just… died? One of his hands flew around to his back, feeling for where the BLU Spy’s knife had entered, but there was no pain, no wound, not even a tear in his shirt. But he remembered feeling the cold steel splitting skin, the sharp dart of pain before he’d opened his eyes here.

He made it to the garbage can in the corner before he puked, but it was a very near thing. Yeah… he was definitely going to need some time to process this.

——

It had been a long day by the time the end-of-match siren blew. The Administrator loudly berated them all for failures, RED and BLU alike, but no one really paid her any mind. They were all too relieved to depart the field after hours of frenzy and pain for no reward. Still, despite the relief, the stalemate was painful. They had nothing really to gain from winning—a couple extra grand on their already exorbitant paycheques and a few congratulatory special supply vouchers—but losing was never a fun experience, and today they were all losers. Some were taking it harder than others.

“That little fucker!”

The BLU Scout growled, pitching his bat at the back wall of the respawn room as hard as he could. It rebounded a good four feet before bouncing a few more and slowly rolling to a stop at Spy’s feet. Spy picked up the weapon, and took a quick step back as Scout stomped across the patch of tile he’d just occupied.

They were the only ones left in the respawn room, the others having retreated deeper into the base to seek healing or relaxation as required. Spy had stayed behind when Scout did, wanting to make sure the younger man eventually did go to have his myriad bruises and cuts seen to once he’d worked through his anger. Knowing Scout, left alone, he’d fume and rant until he got tired or hungry, and leave the wounds festering until the next fight’s first respawn.

The young man’s headset had suffered the same fate as his bat in the course of his rage, though it had come to rest much closer to its original impact point against the wall, and he was in the process of wringing his hat in bruised-knuckled hands as if he blamed it for the embarrassments of the day. Spy had to pity him; there had been quite a few.

“That little shit! Six fuckin’ times! I died eighteen times today, and that…” Scout made inarticulate sounds of fury, strangling his hat more violently and then sending it flying into a bank of lockers. It hit with a resounding clang, echoed as Scout marched over to give the locker a hearty kick as well. “That fuckin’ shitbag cocksucker is gonna eat my fuckin’ bat tomorrow. Gonna shove it down his throat, out his ass, and fuckin’ floss him with it! Then I’ll shove my scattergun up his ass and blast away! Then shove my fuckin’ pistol up there and-”

“Scout, mon petit voyou, it was not that bad,” Spy said as he set the bat on one of the benches. He turned, meeting the younger man’s glare with a dry look of his own. “That look does not work on me. Stop it. You know I am right.” He lit a cigarette and took a seat next to the bat. “It was a long day, but we all ’ave days when our counterparts seem to single us out. Remember that week the ’Eavies were at each other’s throats?”

“This ain’t the same and you know it,” Scout said, shoving his hands into his pockets and giving the lockers another, more sullen kick. “It was his first fuckin’ fight, and I don’t even think he was tryin’ to run into me. I’d come ’round a corner and baby fucknuts is just standin’ there lookin’ clueless. Then he sees me and bam! I get one hit off, maybe two, then he blows me to shit!” He shoved his hands back through his hair, his anger returned in full force. “He blew my fuckin’ head off twice! That fuckin’… Rrrrgh! I’m gonna twist his head off that scrawny fuckin’ pencil neck!”

“Per’aps it was just beginner’s luck?” Spy suggested, shrugging and watching as Scout started to pace, shoulders hunched. “You are taking this too ’ard, petit. We all ’ave bad days, some worse than others. Today was bad for all of us, both sides. The new Scout threw everyone off.” He grunted and took a drag off his cigarette, puffing out as he grumbled, “’E certainly is speedier than expected, even for a Scout… and I don’t believe any of us anticipated that ’e’d adapt so quickly.”

Scout snorted and flopped down on the bench beside Spy, leaning forward with elbows on his knees; deep gouges packed with dirt and gravel were visible through a tear in the right knee of his pants. “Yeah, no kiddin’ there. Sniper was sayin’ how he almost didn’t make it up to the balcony in time to take his first shot at him. And you see how quick he got back across our moat after that one kill Demo got on him? I saw his bits fade out, and I was still pinned behind the train cars by their fuckin’ Soldier when he comes flyin’ back. He can move quick for havin’ such tiny legs.”

“’E is very small, isn’t ’e?” Spy said, chuckling, glad to see Scout calming down. “I wasn’t aware RED ’ad become so desperate as to start robbing the cradle to pad out their teams.”

“Really though!” Scout hooted, a grin splitting his face. “What is he, fuckin’ twelve? The Reds are gonna eat him alive.”

Spy smirked. “If their dégoûtant convict of a Sniper isn’t doing so already.”

“Augh, gross, Spy. I don’t wanna be thinkin’ a’that,” Scout said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Spy raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.

“So prudish, petit! I never would ’ave expected it.”

“Hey, I just ain’t no fuckin’ cocksucker.”

“Tsk, typical American vulgarity. There is nothing wrong with exploring the pleasures that come from a more… masculine touch.”

“Sure, yeah, of course you’d say that, ya fancy candy-ass froggy fa- Ow! The fuck was’at for?”

“Oh, would you look at that! Your knee is bleeding again! We should get you to Medic before you say something else that you regret.”

“Aw, what, did I hurt yer feelin’s? Big scary Spy doesn’t like bein’ called a fag- Ow! Fuck, fuck, fine, I’m shuttin’ up! Christ, talk about sensit- OW! Dammit!”

——

The RED Scout still hadn’t left the showers. Somewhere in the bowels of the base was a monstrous water heater, which meant the water jetting from the showerhead was still steaming after over an hour, and Scout’s blazing skin could have served as a team banner. He’d stopped really feeling the heat a while ago, not long after he’d finished scrubbing himself almost raw with the near-caustic soap RED provided. It had taken longer than he’d expected to clean off all the gore and grime that had caked him at the end of the battle; there had been a surprising amount of it.

By the time the ceasefire siren had blown, he’d been on one of his longest “living streaks”, which meant he was one of those still cut, bruised, and shot up at the end of the day. Medic had been there, freshly respawned himself only a few minutes before the siren, when Scout had tottered back into the base behind Soldier, who had been bellowing at the top of his lungs and gesturing violently with his own severed arm. The doctor had proved more eager to examine their injuries, as thoroughly and at as great length as possible, than to provide healing, so Scout had added a not-insubstantial amount of his own blood to his outer layer of grime before being given a lick of healing from the medigun, just enough to heal the worst of his injuries, and told the rest was unlikely to kill him before his next respawn.

The partial healing of the wounds had not removed the evidence of them, though, so Scout had been left with smears of dried and drying blood caked onto his skin even under his clothes. That, on top of all the sweat and dust. There had been clods of disgustingly reddish mud in his hair and under his nails, and he’d almost puked again when he’d found a chunk of… something lodged behind his ear. He didn’t want to know where, or who, it had come from, or how it had ended up there. He’d just flicked it down the wide drain and scrubbed himself as if his life depended on it.

Actual cleaning had only taken up fifteen, maybe twenty minutes of his shower, though. Since he’d set the soap back on its shelf, he’d stood, and then sat, in the stream of hot water, watching the droplets trail across his reddened skin and the gleaming white shower tiles. Some of the others had come and gone in that time, but they had paid him no mind, save for Heavy’s malicious chuckles over “little boy-man’s sensitive stomach”. Scout had ignored them in return, staring blankly beyond the tile walls and into his frenzied memories of the day.

What horrified and sickened him the most about everything, he thought, was how little everything he’d seen and done did horrify and sicken him. He’d killed people, repeatedly in some cases, and seen others die in more horrific ways than he’d thought possible. The BLU Scout kept showing up wherever he went, it seemed, and he couldn’t deny the intense triumph he’d felt each time he’d killed the other man, after that first stunned kill. And the burst of savage satisfaction after he’d crushed that stupid BLU Pyro’s mask right into his face, seeing blood squirt out around his bat, through the crumpled filters and shattered lenses…

Scout hugged his knees tighter, resting his forehead against them and watching the thin stream of water falling from the end of his nose. He hadn’t thought that he’d enjoy killing so much. He knew it wasn’t… real, not during a battle with respawn waiting to snatch them all back from the jaws of “true” death, but it was still killing. Someone didn’t survive having their head shot off, or exploding into chunks, or being literally cut in half by minigun fire. There had been a definite rush in watching blood and body parts fly, and it had only grown more intense when he was its cause. He’d been in fights back home, beaten some guys real bad (if not quite to RED and BLU standards), but the adrenaline rush of a good fight was nothing against the pure, animal satisfaction he got blowing away Blues.

He liked it, but it felt wrong. Especially after seeing how his teammates had responded to the battle. They had been vicious, some of them, most of them, animals more than men. Heavy had been horrifying, bellowing laughter as that massive gun tore the Blues to shreds, and Pyro had been… monstrous. An alien, pyromaniac beast with a voice like nothing human. Scout had even seen Engineer chuckling darkly over the mangled corpse of the BLU Spy, his wrench and gloves dripping blood.

He knew he hadn’t been much better, after his third or fourth death and respawn. By then, the cycle of kill, be killed, respawn, repeat had settled with him, and he’d gotten a second kill on his BLU counterpart without the same feeling of shocked horror that had stymied him after his first. Instead there’d been a heady rush of feral exhilaration, and, from the moment the Blue’s corpse had faded after that second encounter, he’d sought more of it with a desperation that scared him, now that he had a chance to look back. The BLU intel had always been his true goal, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he’d been reckless in choosing his paths to it, more interested in how many kills he could get before his next respawn than finding the safest route. It had resulted in more than a few deaths of his own.

He sighed, folding his hands over the back of his head. There was that, too. The deaths. Respawn was nothing short of miraculous, bringing them back in perfect shape even after being dismembered or pulped or whatever else might happen to them, but they still died. He’d died more than twenty times, according to the board in the respawn room at the end of the day. And dying hurt. Some of his deaths had been like the first, instant and near painless, but others…

The BLU Scout had seemed to take special pleasure in tormenting him, drawing out every death that he could. Despite only being responsible for five of Scout’s deaths, he’d broken his legs, shattered his hands, broken his back, and only seen fit to actually end Scout’s life when the flow of the battle drew him onward. At least he had ended it, though. Scout had seen Demo after an unfortunate run-in with the BLU Pyro, where the sloppy-drunk Irishman had been granted no such mercy. Scout felt his gorge rising and swallowed thickly.

Why had he gotten himself involved in all this? Yeah, the money was fucking astounding, but this was only his first battle and he’d already seen men burned alive and blown to smithereens, and been riddled with bullets and beaten painfully to death himself. Was six figures worth turning into the kind of lunatic he saw in Medic and Soldier and Pyro? Was it worth all the pain? What would Ma say? He shivered in spite of the hot water. She’d always talked about the “dangerous men” she’d known in her younger years, but how could she approve of a son who enjoyed killing so thoroughly?

Scout lifted his face and scrubbed his hands over it with a groan. He wasn’t built for thinking about this kind of shit. He realized for the first time just how wrinkly his toes and fingertips had become and grimaced. He hated wrinkling up; it was why he never took baths. He got to his feet with another groan, trying to rub the sleep out of his leg and ignore a deep ache still settled in his ribs, and turned off the taps.

In the sudden absence of hissing water, Scout heard the tak tak of bootheels on the tile and he looked up sharply. The room was still filled with thick steam—how long had he been showering?—but he could make out a lanky, hatted silhouette near the sinks at the other end of the room.

“Y’finally finished up in there, Speedy?” There was no mistaking Sniper’s throaty drawl. “Was startin’ t’worry ya might’ve melted.”

Scout snorted, smiling in spite of the melancholy that had kept him under the shower’s spray so long. “I know I’m pretty fuckin’ sweet, but I’m not made a’sugar, Snipes.”

Sniper’s chuckle was a low rumble through the slowly dissipating steam. Scout liked him. He and Engie were the only ones on the team who had treated him like, well, a teammate since his arrival a few days ago, and Sniper had gone out of his way to help show Scout around before his first “official” day. He’d even fed him his first night, when Demo and Pyro had thought it would be hilarious to incinerate his dinner.

Sniper had brought Scout, still nervous and more than a little put-out by the hazing, to his “nest” (a small room, barely bigger than a closet, at the top of a very tall ladder that offered a view all the way across the battlefield) and offered him a bowl of hearty rabbit stew. “Caught the li’l buggers just outside the fence,” Sniper had said with pride. Scout had been reluctant to try rabbit, thinking of the twitchy-nosed little bunnies he’d seen on his train ride in, but in the end he’d emptied three bowls over the course of a nearly two hour long chat. Sniper was quiet and more than a little intense, but Scout couldn’t help but feel comforted by his unflappable presence in the midst of the rest of the team’s madness.

A fluffy towel smacked Scout in the face and he caught it as it tumbled down toward his chest. Sniper was grinning at him. “Better dry off and cover up before ya shrivel any more, Squirt.”

“I ain’t shrivellin’,” Scout said, though he did cast a self-conscious glance downward before he started drying himself. “Yer the one who’s peepin’ on my junk, ya dirty old perv, so…”

“So what?”

Scout blinked and paused as he was wrapping the towel around his waist. He gaped at Sniper for a moment, who was now clearly visible past the last lingering wisps of fog. He didn’t have his aviators on, and there was a fierce, hungry gleam visible in his eyes even from across the room. It was almost enough to make Scout nervous. He shrugged and cleared his throat, feeling a flush spreading up his neck and cheeks.

Then Sniper laughed. “Oh, relax, kid. Christ, the look on yer face!” He crossed the room and clapped his arm around the boy’s bare shoulders. “Let’s getcha somethin’ t’eat and maybe y’can tell me a little about those dark clouds y’were lost in when I walked up, eh?”

Scout blinked again, and then a broad grin stole across his lips. Intense, but comforting. After today, that might be just what he needed. “That actually sounds awesome; I’m fuckin’ starved.”

...

Man, you made my whole f-[redacted]-g year just by existing...

That's why I love you, man 💖💕

— ⚰️👍

!WARNING!

!!PLS DO NOT DRAW ANYTHING BACK! NO FANARTS NO NO NO! PLS FOR ME DONT DO ART ART ART BACK !!

Anyways here are fanarts for these TF2 artists!!!

@fusemelt - tradesman,

@tacoshellc5458 - fish man fish fish,

@sad-boy3 - junitor (holy god i thought i lost ya forever! Btw sorry for naming ya wrong on this paper!)

@magpye-xio - amsel ludwig,

@ruthytwoshakes - glider,

@shyartistscorner - showman,

@the-treefort-au - woe (is this correct?),

@ranger-la-criatura - ranger,

@bucketofjaybirds-bucket-emporium - chemist,

@dumbhomestump - trower,

@thestrangelyalwaysconfused - priest/exorsist,

@insanityloss - nurses,

@tf2occontest lol just miss P. ,

@hachixb - Trickster,

@asleepingsunflower - beawler,

@officiallygrapesoda - broker

Love yaaa!!

Hey there good looking person. Are we having a great day? Bc if not i god i hope your day gets better bc you DESERVE IT!! MVA here is kiss and now go and have fun!!