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Shave and a Haircut Teaser/WIP

Some Trio (Scout/Pyro/Scout) hangouts, not long after Pyro and Red get together. Also, notes denoting the beginnings and endings of each of the ships in the shorts' timeline have now been added to the timeline/masterpost, so at least the important info is up even if (too damn many of) the WIPs aren't postable yet :P.

Summary: Soldier's in the void, so Red is able to come over for a visit with Scout and Pyro.

——

Shave and a Haircut [will be renamed]

[...]

“Honestly, it ain’t him bein’ old as balls, or bein’ a prissy French prick, that’s so bad,” Red said, bending backward until his palms were flat on the floor. With a grunt, he kicked his feet up into the air, and, after taking a second to balance himself, continued speaking as he made a slow circuit of the room walking on his hands. “It’s the smoking. It fuckin’ stinks, and kissin’ him’s gotta taste like lickin’ a fuckin’ ashtray.”

“’Kay, first off, like I already said a bazillion fuckin’ times, Spy ain’t that fuckin’ old,” Blue said, scowling. “Second, the smokin’ shit ain’t that bad. Y’get used to the smell, and I never noticed any kinda nasty taste when we’re kissin’.”

“You wouldn’t notice if it tasted like fuckin’ gasoline,” Red said, prodding Blue’s shoulder with his toe as he made his way by. “I had to smoke ’em back on fucky-respawn day, remember. They’re fuckin’ gross, and he’s always smokin’ ’em.”

“I used to smoke, years ago. Pretty much everyone does, back home,” Pyro said, shrugging when Red gave him a startled look. “You do get used to it. I started when I was a kid, but never really picked it back up after I got burned.” He chuckled, scratching his scarred cheek and said, almost to himself, “Eso fue una de las cosas buenas de estar en coma, supongo… Got to quit smoking without having to deal with the cravings or any of that shit.”

“Whoa, wait, gettin’ burned putcha in a fuckin’ coma?” Blue said, goggling. Red honestly thought it was kind of a miracle that he’d managed to pick that up, his grasp of Spanish being as non-existent as it was. “Like, the soap opera kinda coma, where you was, like, almost dead ’n’ shit? Fuck, dude! I mean, the scar’s pretty fuckin’ sick, but I had no idea it was that fuckin’ bad.”

[...]

“Ya look like a fuckin’ mopey teenager, dude,” Blue said. “I never thought I’d agree with Soldier on anything, but you need a fuckin’ haircut.”

Pyro glared at him, pushing his hair from his face. “Yeah, fuck no. I like it long, and plenty of famous dudes have long hair.”

“’Kay, here’s the deal, then,” Red said with a grin. “You get as famous as John Stamos or Patrick Swayze, or the guys from Zeppelin or Queen, then you can have long hair like they got.” He gathered Pyro’s hair behind his head in a loose tail and gave his face a considering look. “I think you’d look really good with yer hair short. Not, like, buzzed or nothin’, just trimmed back a bit. Maybe shave the sides and the back, leave ya a little bit in front and on top… get it outta yer eyes…”

Pyro blinked—he seemed uncertain, but pleased, as Red arranged and toyed with his hair—and he and Blue both jumped when Red popped suddenly to his feet.

“Alright, get a chair and some towels. I’ll be right back!”

And he was gone, in a blur of red and a pattering of footsteps. The two Blues exchanged a thoroughly confused look, Pyro appearing all the more so with his hair flopping freely back in front of his face. Blue held up his hands and shrugged when Pyro jerked a thumb at the door.

“Don’t look at me, dude,” he said, “he’s your fuckin’ boyfriend.”

Five minutes later, Pyro and Blue were facing each other in chairs borrowed from the kitchen, playing Bloody Knuckles as Red came jogging back into the room. Blue’s attention was immediately taken by the cardboard box Red had brought with him, allowing Pyro to crack him solidly with both hands, and he cursed, rubbing at his reddened knuckles. Red laughed as he set the box on Pyro’s bed.

“Bet I know who’s winnin’,” he said, and Blue glared at him.

“Blow me, assclown. Py’s got a wicked poker face, can never tell when he’s gonna fuckin’ move,” he said. Pyro dusted his knuckles off on his shirt with a smirk, and Blue flashed him the bird. “What’s in the fuckin’ box?”

“Haircut stuff,” Red said, drawing items from the box as he listed them: “Comb, scissors, Wrenches’ electric razor, a spray bottle.” He pointed the bottle at Pyro and blasted out a little puff of mist. “Yer gettin’ a haircut.”

Pyro’s smugness faded remarkably quickly. “¿Qué?”

“I’m gonna give ya a haircut, so I can see more a’yer pretty face.” Red grinned and held up the scissors. “And if ya try to fight me, I’ll shave ya bald.”

“Te asesinaría,” Pyro said, glowering and pushing his hair from his face; his bangs flopped back in front of his eyes the second his hand had passed.

“Then I’ll respawn, and you’ll still be fuckin’ bald,” Red said loftily. “Now sit still unless ya wanna be bald anyway by accident.”

He retrieved the towels Blue and Pyro had collected along with the chairs and settled them around Pyro’s shoulders, despite the attempts made to swat him away. Blue had turned his chair around to sit in it backwards, and he snorted as Pyro subsided into grumpily muttering acceptance of Red’s ministrations.

“He’s got ya there, dude. Ya’d looked pretty fucked as a cue ball,” he said. He gave Red a curious look. “Ya really know how to cut hair? Like, actual haircut style, not just shavin’ it off?”

“I used t’do it for my brothers sometimes, when cash was tight. They’d kick my ass if I made ’em look stupid,” Red said, drawing the comb through Pyro’s hair and spritzing with the spray bottle. “It’s not that hard, ’specially if yer just cuttin’ it short.”

“Not too short,” Pyro said, looking back over his shoulder. Red sighed and turned Pyro’s head back so he was facing straight on.

“Not too short, don’t worry,” he said. “Just enough that yer not gonna be fuckin’ dyin’ inside yer mask no more, and t’get it outta yer eyes. It’ll be good, I promise.”

Pyro hunched his shoulders, but stayed silent and still as Red started clipping with the scissors. Blue smirked, crossing his arms over the back of his chair.

“Man. Gymnastics, dancin’, and now fuckin’ haircuts? Ya’ve really just been a fuckin’ fag forever, huh?” he said, then yelped and jerked his chair sideways when Red threw the scissors at him. “Hey, no throwin’ sharp shit!”

“Quit bein’ an asshole and I won’t,” Red said, retrieving the scissors and waving them in Blue’s face on his way back to Pyro, who was chuckling softly. “Gymnastics and dancin’ have been fuckin’ awesome for me. Gymnastics means I got a leg up on yer clumsy ass out here, and dancin’ got me crazy laid back in school. And knowin’ how to cut hair is just plain useful.” He pointed at Pyro’s head. “Exhibit A.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s useful. It’s still gay as fuck,” Blue said, resettling his arms and resting his chin on them. “And there ain’t no way dancin’ got ya laid, not unless ya lived in that fuckin’ town from Footloose. Yer not a fuckin’ girl, despite all the evidence otherwise.”

Red wound up as if to throw the scissors again, but settled back to clipping when Blue flinched. Pyro snorted.

“You crazy, hombre? Dancing is sexy as fuck,” he said, brushing some hair off his shoulder. Red nodded, a grin sweeping back onto his face.

“Fuck yeah it is,” he said. “Two things are guaranteed t’drop any chick’s panties: a guy who can cook, and a guy who can dance. I-” He gestured to himself with both thumbs and a cocky smile. “-just so happen to be both.”

“And it works pretty well on guys, too,” Pyro said, tipping his head back with a smile of his own. Red gave a little giggle and kissed Pyro on the forehead before tipping his head forward. They both then gave Blue near-identical deadpan looks when he rolled his eyes and started making loud retching noises.

“Christ, you two are so fuckin’ adorable I wanna puke,” he said, giving them a disgusted look of his own. “Is this how it’s gonna be hangin’ out now? You two bein’ all lovey-dovey ’n’ gross? I mean, watchin’ Red be a pushy little man-wife is kinda fuckin’ hilarious, but- Fuck! I said no throwin’ shit!”

Red stuck his tongue out at him before continuing to trim away the hair around Pyro’s ear—he’d thrown the spray bottle, this time. He said, “If ya don’t like it, yer free to fuck off. You can hang with Py whenever ya want. I don’t live here, though, in case ya fuckin’ forgot. I’m makin’ the best a’my time over here without people tryin’ to murder me as I can.”

“Well, I still wanna hang out with you too,” Blue said, grudgingly, “even if yer like an annoyin’ little brother. Who’s gettin’ fucked by my best friend. Who’s kinda like an annoyin’, homicidal little brother.” He returned the middle fingers flashed at him by both Pyro and Red. “S’just weird havin’ you guys makin’ fuckin’ goo-goo eyes at each other all the time. Before it was just normal chillin’.”

“We only got together a week ago, pendejo,” Pyro said, crossing his eyes to watch as Red started trimming his bangs. “This is the first time all three of us have hung out together since.”

“But you guys’ve been all fuckin’ gay when we been fightin’ too,” Blue said, eyes rolling again. “Grab-assin’ ’n’ shit. I saw ya fuckin’ makin’ out in the back a’the intel room a few days ago. Hardhat was not happy, by the way.” He jabbed a finger at Pyro. “Fuckin’ RED Spy was on his ass all afternoon and no one had any idea where the fuck ya were. Yer lucky I didn’t say anythin’; Hardhat was ready t’fuckin’ beatcher ass, throwin’ shit and swearin’ and everythin’.”

Red and Pyro both winced; they all knew how much it took to get the usually placid Texan to start resorting to foul language to express himself. Pyro rubbed the back of his neck guiltily as Red got the razor from the box and fiddled with the head, looking sheepish.

“Okay, maybe we’ve been a little… enthusiastic…” Pyro said with an uneasy shrug.

“Can ya blame us? Y’know, young, horny, all that shit,” Red muttered, starting up the razor. Its soft buzzing provided accompaniment as he continued, “We should probably tone it down a bit, I guess. Durin’ fights, anyway.” He smirked at Blue as he started working on the left side of Pyro’s head. “We’re not fightin’ now, though, so yer just gonna hafta put up with us bein’ adorable, at least ’til the whole ‘new boyfriends’ thing wears off.”

Blue let out an annoyed grunt and Pyro chuckled. “Lo siento, hombre. The man-wife has spoken.”

“I can still shave ya bald, mi fuego.”

“No te atrevas, conejito.”

“Seriously, gonna fuckin’ hurl if you guys don’t knock it off,” Blue said, grimacing. “Don’t make me start spritzin’ ya; I’ll get the fuckin’ bottle.”

Red shook his head. “Christ, you don’t got a romantic bone in yer body, do ya? Why the fuck does Spy put up with yer ass?”

“Um, hello?” Blue leaned out to the side and gestured at himself. “You seein’ this? Aaaaalll a’this? You were definitely fuckin’ happy enough with it.”

Red rolled his eyes, and Pyro gave Blue a considering look. Then he shrugged. “Eh.”

Blue stared at Pyro for a few seconds, then exploded, “The fuck d’ya fuckin’ mean, ‘Eh’? You fuckin’ shittin’ me? You- Fuckin’- What?”

[...]

[...] “I mean, ya don’t act gay, most a’the time.”

“Y’obviously ain’t seen him checkin’ out yer ass,” Red said, filling a pot of water at the sink and putting it on the stove to boil. Blue sat down quickly, on the opposite side of the table from Pyro, and Pyro gave Red a sullen look.

“Thanks a lot, conejito,” he grumbled, and Red offered an apologetic shrug. To Blue, Pyro said, “What do you mean, I don’t ‘act gay’?”

“Y’know. Like, y’ain’t all flamin’ and shit,” Blue said, gesturing vaguely. Pyro raised an eyebrow at him; he’d taken a cheap plastic lighter from his pocket when he’d sat down and had been flicking it idly on and off since. Blue grunted. “Okay, bad choice a’words, but y’ain’t all, like, worried about yer clothes and how ya look, except for yer fuckin’ hair. And yer not all touchy-feely and sensitive and emotional ’n’ shit. If it weren’t for you and Bucky bein’ all couple-y, y’wouldn’t even know you was queer.”

“Yeah, ’cause I’m gay, not a fucking girl,” Pyro said, burning away a loose thread at the edge of one of his sleeves. “My dick didn’t drop off when I figured out I like dudes, pendejo.”

“Well, obviously,” Blue said, kicking his feet up on the table and tipping his chair back on its rear legs, “but still. Y’should act… different. It’s fuckin’ weird when ya act normal most a’the time, then get all gay whenever Red’s around.”

“I could start ‘being gay’ around you too, if it bugs you so much,” Pyro said, leaning forward across the table with a wicked, lewd grin, making Blue jerk with a look of panic on his face. Pyro and Red both laughed as Blue’s chair wobbled precariously and he frantically windmilled his arms to keep it from tipping any further back. Red shook his head and took a seat beside Pyro, while Blue got his chair settled back on all four legs and glared at his teammate.

“Y’seriously gotta chill, dude,” Red said; he’d brought over the cheese grater and the brick of cheese, and started grating as he spoke. “We wouldn’t fuck with ya so much if ya didn’t make it so fuckin’ easy.”

“Oh, yes you would,” Blue said, turning his glare on Red. “You guys like watchin’ me sweat. Just ’cause I got sicka jackin’ off and Spy was down to fuck, I can’t get you queers off my ass about it!”

“Only because you keep making such a big fucking deal out of it,” Pyro said, rolling his eyes and leaning back in his seat. “You fuck Spy, you suck his dick. So fucking what? I mean, you’ve got shitty taste, but that’s not news. Soldier’s the only one who’s an asshole about it, but do you really give a shit about him? Even Engie doesn’t mind so much, so long as you don’t shove it in his face.”

“Dude, I dunno how ya do shit back in fuckin’ Mexico-land-” Blue ignored it when Pyro kicked his chair. “-but where I come from, queers get their fuckin’ pussy asses beat, ya get me?” His eyes narrowed and his voice went grim. “I seen two dudes get jumped for gettin’ fuckin’ handsy with each other at the park once; shit got fuckin’ intense. Couldn’t even recognize ’em after people got done fuckin’ ’em up.”

“No one but Soldier’s like that here, though,” Pyro said, shaking his head. “I put up with so much shit back home after I got outed, but no one here cares.” He smiled. “It’s fucking awesome. No one getting on my ass about who I wanna fuck, it’s great.”

[...]

Tales of Sawmill Main Character Basics

Starring characters for “Tales of Sawmill”, a prequel series to “Tales of Well”! It takes place at Sawmill (duh) between 1983 and 1988 (aka: between the hiring of Team Garrison’s BLU Spy [Spy from “Tales of Well”] and the transfer to Teufort). It started out as my self-indulgent little TF2 shipping haven that was technically part of my “Tales” canon—just a place for fluff and smut for pairings that I want to write that aren’t present in “Tales of Well”—but then they guys just kept growing and growing, and now they’ve got their own little plotlines and dramas that are going to have to become actual fic at some point or else my head will explode.

It’s turning out to be a lot more… dramatic than “Tales of Well”, what little I’ve already got—I’ve mostly just got character details and plot bunnies for the primary pairs (and threesome) so far. The blurbs and ideas I do have ping pong between the fluffiest of fluffy feel-good smut, and moments that I don’t want to write because I just know they’re gonna make me cry. There’s actual, permanent character death planned, and I don’t wanna D: But I gotta, or, y’know, head explosion. Big mess. Don’t want to have to clean that up.

Just gonna put up some character basics for now, since I do want to keep my focus fixed on ToW and there’s not much actually written for Sawmill prose-wise yet. I like having these little blurbs up, though, for my own reference if nothing else (the info collected here is spread across about six Google Docs and trying to find specifics quickly can be… trying). There are a lot of characters, though. *quickly counts* Fourteen. There are fourteen characters… And they’re just the important ones so far; there are more that’re still cooking… (omfg I have a problem…) Almost all of them are BLU and there are lots of Scouts; I like BLU and Scouts, so sue me :P Not all of the characters are involved in pairings, but almost half of them are; relationships (romantic and otherwise) will be noted. Also, the Sawmill vets among the “Tales of Well” mercs are, obviously, also present in “Tales of Sawmill”; they’re included here if they have their own important storylines/pairings.

Long, long, loooooong character infodump under the cut! Enjoy!

——

Note: The mercs at Sawmill go by nicknames/“codenames”, rather than class names, since there are multiple members of almost every class at any one time.

Note 2: Bios are timed from the beginning of “Tales of Sawmill” (February 19, 1983). Characters will die/retire and be replaced throughout the course of the stories. Replacements will have their status noted in “Time w/ [BLU/RED]”. Italicized refers to significant in-timeline changes (including deaths and recruitments; usually mentioned in-story).

BLU - Team Stronghold

Chicken

Name: Christopher Thomas Clark Class: Scout Age: 21 Nationality: American (Pennsylvania [Philadelphia]) Time w/ BLU: 14 months Date of Death/Retirement: Dies August 3, 1986 [fatal respawn error: respawn and medigun healing become gradually less effective]

Height: 5’7 Hair: Red, growing-out buzz cut with fringe Eye Colour: Light brown Skin Tone: Pale Caucasian Build: Slim Scars: Knife wound (forehead, over left eye), gunshot wound (right hip), ring wound (nose, left side of bridge) Other Distinguishing Features: Crooked nose (broken and healed crooked)

Uniform Cosmetics: Wooden cross pendant around neck, Troublemaker’s Tossle Cap, Digit Divulger, Thermal Tracker, Blizzard Britches Favoured Weapon: Boston Basher, Bonk! when available

Relationships: Shades - romantic, sexual (secret); Stitch - friendship; Preacher - friendship; Stretch - friendship; Smoke - intense dislike

Named for his favourite game: chicken. He particularly likes playing it with sentries and Übered Heavies. He’s one of the only Scouts that it would be worthwhile for a Medic to Übercharge.

Violent sleeper. Kicks and punches in his sleep. Shades has pretty much gotten used to being used as a punching bag whenever he and Chicken share a bed.

Arachnophobic. Like, jump on a chair and scream until his boyfriend kills the eight-legged demon arachnophobic. Despite their relationship, he will avoid visiting Shades in the Snipers’ nest unless he can be assured that there are absolutely no spiders hiding out there.

Stitch(es)

Name: Spencer Allan Devaro Class: Scout Age: 19 Nationality: American (New York [Manhattan]) Time w/ BLU: 5 months Date of Death/Retirement: Retires September 19, 1987

Height: 5’9 Hair: Auburn, crew cut Eye Colour: Green Skin Tone: Caucasian Build: Thin Scars: Appendectomy, childhood/adolescent injuries (both knees), shrapnel wound (right forearm) Other Distinguishing Features: Freckles (across nose and cheeks)

Uniform Cosmetics: Triple Jumper Favoured Weapon: Pretty Boy’s Pocket Pistol

Relationships: Chicken - friendship; Smoke - friendship; Tats - friendship

[Former RP character repurposed for fic.]

Father, with a three year old daughter at home. He’s utterly devoted to her, and will gush about her to anyone who doesn’t tell him to shut up (think a younger, less tragic Maes Hughes from FMA).

Likes sewing and knitting in his spare time. He makes stuffed animals to send home to his daughter (and to give to the Pyros), and scarves, socks, and sweaters for his teammates.

Super friendly; honestly, probably too friendly for mercenary work. He hates having to hurt people and tries to avoid fighting if possible, instead focusing on match objectives. If forced into a confrontation, he’ll try his damnedest to score headshots to keep it as short and (relatively) painless as possible.

Tats

Name: Benjamin Alexander Creighan Class: Scout Age: 25 Nationality: American (Illinois [Chicago]) Time w/ BLU: Hired August 18, 1986 [replacing Chicken] Date of Death/Retirement: [Post-ToS] Medically discharged May 22, 1989 [permanent respawn error: loses left arm to the elbow]

Height: 6’2 Hair: Dirty blond, fade Eye Colour: Brown Skin Tone: Lightly tanned Caucasian Build: Slim, broad-shouldered and -chested, defined arms, defined legs, six-pack abs, defined pectorals Scars: N/A Other Distinguishing Features: Tattoo sleeve: spilled shot glass transitioning into stylized alleyways transitioning into running track, running silhouette at intervals (back of left hand and full left arm to shoulder [running track begins at elbow]), peacock feather tattoo (right wing of clavicle), wing tattoos (one on outside of each ankle, extending up and back onto calf), “Born to Run” tattoo (upper back, shoulder blade to shoulder blade), Scout class emblem tattoo (upper right arm), dog tags with red rubber silencers (left wing of clavicle) [after Chew’s death]

Uniform Cosmetics: Thrilling Tracksuit, Rotation Sensation, Hot Heels Favoured Weapon: Baby Face’s Blaster

Relationships: Chew - rivalry, sexual, romantic; Stitch - friendship; Mouse - friendship; Smoke - dislike

Fit. He’s not bulky, but he’s got more muscle and is far more toned than the majority of Scouts; he has washboard abs, and (if I may be crude for a moment) an ass you could bounce quarters off of. He works out religiously, at least an hour a day, and is very particular about what he eats (no junk food; he doesn’t even use Bonk when he starts getting it).

Former teenage alcoholic. His high school track coach helped him get sober and in shape, and he hasn’t touched a drop since. He also doesn’t smoke and hates being around anyone who is smoking (he spends a lot of time out of the base to keep away from the Spies).

Acts stand-offish and aloof, but is unfailingly loyal and devoted to anyone he considers a friend. He’s tough to get close to, but once he lets someone in, he’ll do anything for them and be there for them through anything.

Mouse

Name: Liam Elijah Forester Class: Scout Age: 22 Nationality: American (California [Long Beach]) Time w/ RED: Hired January 30, 1987 Date of Death/Retirement: [Post-ToS] Retires February 3, 1992 [Teufort transfer]

Height: 5’5 Hair: Blond, short, messy Eye Colour: Blue Skin Tone: Tanned Caucasian [grows paler as time goes on] Build: Slim Scars: Dual subcutaneous mastectomy, gunshot wound (neck, left side) Other Distinguishing Features: N/A

Uniform Cosmetics: Weight Room Warmer, Brooklyn Booties, California Cap Favoured Weapon: Atomizer

Relationships: Bear - romantic; Taube - romantic; Smoke - strong dislike, becomes hatred [after being outed]

Transmasc. Gets T shots from Taube, and has had top surgery, but not bottom. Isn’t out (at first), except to Taube and Bear.

Rokitansky’s (Taube’s pet dove) favourite person aside from Taube himself. He likes to sit on top of Mouse’s head whenever he visits the Infirmary, and Mouse is the only person who can get away with calling him “Rocky” in Taube’s hearing.

Misses California terribly. He hates the cold and wet at Sawmill (and the snow in the winter, like wtf is that shit), and being so far from the ocean just feels weird. He tends to stick close to Bear on colder days (Bear’s like a walking furnace), and he has a tape of wave sounds that he listens to to help him fall asleep.

Bear

Name: Matvei Nikolai Antonov Class: Heavy Age: 36 Nationality: Russian Time w/ BLU: Hired October 25, 1986 Date of Death/Retirement: N/A [Teufort transfer; Well transfer]

Height: 6’3 Hair: Bald Eye Colour: Light brown Skin Tone: Lightly-tanned Caucasian Build: Overweight, well-defined arms Scars: Bullet wound (upper right arm), bullet wound (right shoulder, front and back) Other Distinguishing Features: Perpetual five o’clock shadow

Uniform Cosmetics: Combat Slacks Favoured Weapon: Natascha

Relationships: Taube - romantic, sexual; Mouse - romantic

Quiet and intellectual; he and Taube play chess nightly and fully half of the literature in the Infirmary is Bear’s. Still more than willing to crack open a beer with the Engies and Snipers and shoot the shit, though, or down a fifth of vodka with the Scouts and start tossing them around (all in the name of fun, of course. Usually).

Big dude. His nickname is an apt description of him, at least physically. He’s definitely carrying more weight than he should (especially around his gut), but there’s a lot of muscle under the fat. He uses the Twins [Scouts, not listed] as dumbbells when they start annoying him.

Intensely protective of his teammates, especially Taube and Mouse. He takes the role of meat shield in battle seriously and gladly, and has a higher than average number of respawns for a Heavy as a result.

Smoke(stack)

Name: Leland Hugh Wilson Class: Engineer Age: 43 Nationality: American (Alabama [Mobile])  Time w/ BLU: 2 years, 3 months Date of Death/Retirement: Retires November 23, 1987

Height: 5’10 Hair: Dirty blond, high and tight, receding hairline Eye Colour: Brown Skin Tone: Tanned Caucasian (farmer’s tan) Build: Stocky, broad-shouldered and -chested Scars: Knife wound (upper back, left of spine), shrapnel wounds (left forearm, scattering of 7, 1 larger near elbow) Other Distinguishing Features: Skull smoking a cigarette tattoo (left ankle, outside)

Uniform Cosmetics: Blue camouflage bandana (tied around neck), Antarctic Researcher, Lawnmaker (Job version) Favoured Weapon: Southern Hospitality

Relationships: Chicken - hatred; Tats - intense dislike; Mouse - hatred [after learning he’s trans]; Bear - dislike; Taube - dislike; Spook - dislike

[Former RP character repurposed for fic.]

Bigoted asshole. Racist, sexist, and homophobic. Hates on principle anyone who isn’t a white American cisgendered heterosexual male, and he’s not afraid to use every nasty name in the book on someone who doesn’t fall into that category.

Smokes more than the Spies. He always has a cigarette unless he’s eating, sleeping, or showering. Chicken tried hiding his smokes once; Smoke made sure he never did again.

Fought in Vietnam as an engineer with the United States Marine Corps. The shrapnel scars in his left arm are from a grenade, and they go deep; his left hand is noticeably weaker than his right.

Hercules

Name: Evangelos Hadrian Levandakis Class: Engineer Age: 34 Nationality: Greek (Athens) Time w/ BLU: 2 years, 1 month Date of Death/Retirement: Dies July 12, 1985 [respawn failure after being killed during ceasefire by Convict]

Height: 6’2 Hair: Dark brown, crew cut, slight receding hairline Eye Colour: Dark blue Skin Tone: Olive Build: Well-muscled, broad-shouldered and -chested Scars: Machining accident (right hand, back) Other Distinguishing Features: Birthmark (back, right shoulder blade, roughly apple-sized)

Uniform Cosmetics: Builder’s Blueprints, Dogfighter, Winter Backup, Hazard Handler Favoured Weapon: N/A [see below]

Relationships: Spook - romantic, sexual

[Former RP character repurposed for fic.]

Hercules is as pacifistic as it is possible for a mercenary to be. He refuses to use conventional guns, even in defense of his own life, and prefers to avoid building sentires, focusing instead on teleporters and dispensers, unless his teammates really want more sentries down than Smoke can provide.

Former bodybuilder, and still in phenomenal shape. It’s all working muscle, too, not just for show—his strength is on par with most Heavies.

Loves to cook, especially Greek food. He makes special grocery orders for almost every supply day, and there’s usually a plate of dolmades, spanakopita, or tzatziki and pita wedges in the BLU kitchen for folks to snack on throughout the day during ceasefire.

Preacher

Name: Tobias Fredrik Lindberg Class: Medic Age: 59 Nationality: Swedish Time w/ BLU: 3 years, 1 month Date of Death/Retirement: Retires January 20, 1987

Height: 5’10 Hair: Greying brown Eye Colour: Blue Skin Tone: Pale Caucasian Build: Average, broad-shouldered Scars: N/A Other Distinguishing Features: N/A

Uniform Cosmetics: Golden cross pendant and chain around neck, Surgeon’s Side Satchel, Vicar’s Vestments, Field Practice Favoured Weapon: Crusader’s Crossbow

Relationships: Team Stronghold (entire) - officerial; Chicken - paternal

Team Stronghold’s leader until his retirement. Takes his position very seriously, and does his best to look after the mental and physical health of the team, sometimes to the detriment of his own.

Ordained priest. Is always willing to provide a confidential listening ear and moral or spiritual comfort or advice to the team. Chicken is a frequent partaker (he’s one of the only openly religious mercs), and Preacher will always make time for him.

Was an infantryman, then chaplain, with the Swedish Army during World War 2. He has excellent aim with his crossbow and can be a ferocious battle-Medic when the situation calls for it, though he definitely prefers healing to hurting.

Taube

Name: Luis Armin Huber Class: Medic Age: 51 Nationality: Austrian Time w/ BLU: Hired January 11, 1986 Date of Death/Retirement: N/A [Teufort transfer; Well transfer]

Height: 5’10 Hair: Grey Eye Colour: Blue Skin Tone: Pale Caucasian Build: Average, broad-shouldered and -chested Scars: N/A Other Distinguishing Features: N/A

Uniform Cosmetics: Medic’s Mountain Cap, Surgeon’s Stethoscope Favoured Weapon: Medi Gun

Relationships: Bear - romantic, sexual; Mouse - romantic

Brought Rokitansky (his pet turtle dove) from home and allows him free rein of the Infirmary unless there’s an actual procedure being performed. Loves all birds, but especially doves and corvids (crows, ravens, etc).

Initially attached himself to Bear because Bear provided good cover; Taube hates getting shot. Their relationship evolves very quickly, however. Taube is impressed by Bear’s intellect and strength, and theirs is one of the few long-lasting, truly loving relationships at Sawmill (and Teufort, and Well).

Has a quiet, but deep, love of woodworking, especially furniture-making and detail work. He built and carved his own desk in the Infirmary, as well as a pair of rocking chairs and Rokitansky’s cage (basically a 5’x2’ birdhouse with barred walls). He also builds a pigeon coop for the pigeons and doves that hang around Sawmill, where they can safely roost and get an easy meal.

Shades

Name: Noble Cedric Taylor Class: Sniper Age: 29 Nationality: Australian (New South Wales [Sydney]) Time w/ BLU: 2 years, 1 month Date of Death/Retirement: Goes MIA October 14, 1987

Height: 6’3 Hair: Dirty blond, growing out crew cut Eye Colour: Blue-grey Skin Tone: Tanned Caucasian Scars:  Respawn error: knife wound (“Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril), knife wound (neck, right side) Other Distinguishing Features: Short goatee

Uniform Cosmetics: Bare Necessities, Rugged Rags Favoured Weapon: Sniper Rifle

Relationships: Chicken - romantic, sexual (secret); Stretch - friendship

Suffers from severe depressive disorder, and is being provided medication by BLU. He doesn’t like taking it, though; he doesn’t want to put up with the side-effects. Preacher and Chicken frequently try to convince him to take it, with varying degrees of success.

Sunglasses are prescription, and he almost never takes them off. He’s badly near-sighted; he can barely see anything more than two feet away without his sunglasses.

Prefers to be alone. Practically lives in the Snipers’ nest, a large elevated hunter’s blind at the edge of the forest behind the BLU barracks, even during winter. He’s rarely seen around the base for more than a few minutes at a time, usually just long enough to shower or grab some food before he’s gone again.

Stretch

Name: Peter Michael Allen Class: Sniper Age: 28 Nationality: Australian (Northern Territory [primarily Outback]) Time w/ BLU: 18 months Date of Death/Retirement: N/A [Teufort transfer; Well transfer]

Height: 6’5 Hair: Dark brown, short mullet (chin length), long sideburns Eye Colour: Dark blue Skin Tone: Well-tanned Caucasian Build: Thin, broad-shouldered Scars: Dingo bite (right calf), respawn error: knife wound (“Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril), kukri wound (upper right abdomen), knife wound (back of neck, spine) Other Distinguishing Features: Perpetual five o’clock shadow

Uniform Cosmetics: Triggerman’s Tacticals, Conspicuous Camouflage, Itsy Bitsy Spyer (blue doll [after name exchange with Spook]) Favoured Weapon: Sniper Rifle

Relationships: Chicken - friendship; Hercules - friendship; Shades - friendship; Spook - friendship/heterosexual life partnership; Team Stronghold (entire) - officerial [after Preacher’s retirement]

More open to hanging out with the rest of the team than most Snipers, and spends most of his free time around base, even if he’s just cleaning his guns or reading. Easy to talk to, and on friendly terms with pretty much everyone on the team even if he doesn’t outright consider them friends. He cares for them all a great deal and does his best to look after them, both on and off the field, whether they realize (or want) it or not.

Loves wildlife in all its forms. He keeps peanuts, sunflower seeds, and other little snacks on him at all times to feed to the various birds, rodents, reptiles, and other creatures that fill the forest around Sawmill. He also loves spiders, and will go out of his way to avoid breaking webs that he finds and drop off little insect treats when he can.

Hates the overabundance of low door frames and archways around Sawmill. He frequently finds himself losing his hat during matches when it gets knocked off by a low door frame [he does eventually get a string to hold it on], and has smacked his forehead off of some of the shortest ones more often than he’d like to admit.

Spook(y)

Name: [REDACTED] Class: Spy Age: 31 Nationality: (Assumed) French Time w/ BLU: Hired February 19, 1983 Date of Death/Retirement: N/A [Teufort transfer; Well transfer]

Height: 5’8 Hair: Light brown, short side part, widow’s peak Eye Colour: Light grey Skin Tone: Pale Caucasian Build: Slender Scars: Gunshot wound (lower left abdomen), kukri wound (upper back, top of right shoulder blade to bottom left shoulder blade) Other Distinguishing Features: N/A

Uniform Cosmetics: Le Professionnel (turtleneck version) Favourite Weapon: Knife

Relationships: Convict - sexual, becomes hatred; Hercules - romantic, sexual; Stretch - friendship/heterosexual life partnership; Beau [RED Spy, not listed] - rivalry, romantic, sexual

Needs to know everything that is happening with absolutely everyone at all times. Will hoard his “intel” (on both teammates and opponents) as jealously as a squirrel hoarding nuts, and doesn’t consider himself above the occasional blackmail or manipulation if he feels a situation warrants it (usually when he really wants something from someone, or they really piss him off).

Does his best to keep himself immaculately clean and presentable at all times. He despises the amount of mud at Sawmill, and will take teleporters and rooftop pathways to move across the battlefield as often as humanly possible.

Very stealth focused, both during fights and ceasefire. Especially after he gets his Cloak and Dagger [about a year into his contract], he spends a great deal of his time around base cloaked; it gives him an unreasonable amount of pleasure to literally appear out of nowhere and scare the crap out of his teammates.

RED - Team Redoubt

Chew

Name: Kenneth Richard Green Class: Scout Age: 22 Nationality: English (Nottingham) Time w/ RED: Hired September 10, 1983 Date of Death/Retirement: Dies March 10, 1987 [fatal respawn error] 

Height: 5’8 Hair: Light brown, fade Eye Colour: Light brown Skin Tone: Pale Caucasian Build: Thin Scars: Gunshot wound (left lower abdomen) Other Distinguishing Features: Chipped right front tooth (upper)

Uniform Cosmetics: Rubber silencers on dog tags (alternates between red, black, and white), Crimbo Cap, Delinquent’s Down Vest Favoured Weapon: Cricket bat [speciality weapon]

Relationships: Tats - rivalry, sexual, romantic

Major oral fixation. Chews his nails, chews gum, chews his dog tags, chews anything. He started getting silencers for his tags after he chipped his tooth on them. He also smokes, more for the sensation and out of habit than for the nicotine.

The only non-American Scout, and frequently takes shit for it. He doesn’t take it lying down, though; he’s more than happy to prove that his cricket bat hits just as hard as any of the Yanks’ baseball bats, and that a cricket ball to the face hurts a Hell of a lot more than a baseball.

Insanely competitive. Will take anything that offers even the slightest hint of a challenge and turn it into a contest that he fully intends to win, even if he has absolutely no chance of doing so. Has been on the losing side of multiple drinking contests with the Demos, and even more sparring matches with the Heavies and Soldiers.

Convict

Name: Hollis Jacob Colling Class: Sniper Age: 23 Nationality: Australian Time w/ RED: Hired September 3, 1984 Date of Death/Retirement: N/A [Teufort transfer; Well transfer]

Height: 6’2 Hair: Brown, short, messy Eye Colour: Brown Skin Tone: Well-tanned Caucasian Build: Thin, broad-shouldered Scars: Respawn error: knife wound (“Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril), knife wound (back, right shoulder), knife wound (torso, left pectoral to navel) Other Distinguishing Features: N/A

Uniform Cosmetics: Villain’s Veil, Crocodile Smile, Brim-Full of Bullets  Favoured Weapon: Huntsman

Relationships: Spook - sexual, becomes hatred

Ruthless and violently cruel to both enemies and allies. He can be charismatically manipulative if there’s something he wants, but he prefers using violence and pain to get results whenever he can.

Spends most of his free time on his own, usually out in the forest around the base. He has his own nest (aside from the Snipers’ nest that “came with” the base), deeper in the forest, and he’s been known to violently repel anyone, friend or foe, who approaches it.

Hates being rejected or told “no”, and will hold a grudge ’til the end of time. A quick way to make it onto his hit list is to stand in direct opposition to him getting what he wants.

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.

The Other Side of the Fence Teaser/WIP

This ones gets a little angsty, though not too much is there yet. Takes place soon after the previous short (untitled as yet, but Scout is tortured by the RED Sniper; it's not nice), and Scout needs to take some time to process... everything.

Summary: Scout finds himself thinking too much while out for a run, and decides to go a little further afield, out past the fence.

——

The Other Side of the Fence

[...]

[...] He was used to putting up with a pretty ungodly amount of bullshit out here: between the fights themselves, the respawn errors, and the nutjobs and queers on both sides of the field, he was surprised he hadn’t gone completely batshit already.

It had just been… a lot, lately. A lot. He’d had two bad respawn errors in the past week, the worse of which had put him through phantom pains of every injury he’d received since arriving at Well. He wasn’t sure if it was feeling like his chest had exploded or like a shovel was splitting his skull that had made him realize what it was, aside from random, mind-numbing agony. After a while, he hadn’t really given a fuck. He’d just wanted it to stop.

And Spy had been there, at least for part of it. That just made everything a million times worse. Usually, it was common practice to politely ignore anyone caught in the throes of a bad error, unless there was an actual injury involved. It was humiliating, being seen heaving your guts out, or stumbling around like a moron, or screaming your lungs fucking raw from pain and writhing around like you were fucking possessed. When the last of the seemingly endless torment of the error had faded, though, and Scout’s brain had started working again, there Spy had been, rubbing his back and muttering that everything was alright like he was some kind of sick kid. Never mind that it had felt really nice, after going through that monumental crock of shit. It was still embarrassing as Hell, knowing Spy had been there watching him scream and flail and cry. Having anyone there would have sucked, but the fact that it had been Spy just made it so much fucking worse.

Then there was trying to work out that whole what-the-fuck of a situation… He wasn’t gay—he knew, deep down, he knew that he wasn’t, no matter how Red and Pyro kept getting on his ass about it—but everything with Spy felt so… relationship-y. Him moving into Spy’s room like they were fucking boyfriends or something, the little pet names, the whole notebook thing and making-up after. It wasn’t really any different from how he’d felt with—and about—the girls he’d actually considered girlfriends, rather than just quick fucks.

And Spy had finally told him his name. It still sent a little thrill through him, just knowing that he knew, but it felt intimate in a way he wasn’t sure about. He was curious about everyone else’s names too—it was hard not to be out here—and, yeah, he’d told Spy his name ages ago, but something about knowing Spy’s, with everything between them, and Spy’s general “Spy-ness”…

Spy hadn’t stopped with his name, either. Scout had learned more about the masked man in the past few weeks than he had in the entire preceding year. He was forty-two years old (fuck Red for being  right, but forty-two still wasn’t that old), allergic to bees, had a younger sister, hadn’t lost his virginity until he was nineteen, had been engaged twice, and had “had relations” with five other members of RED and BLU over the past eleven years, not including Scout himself. The current RED Sniper, “the convict”, was one of them.

The RED Sniper… Scout huffed as he vaulted a boulder, rather than run around, and tried to ignore the sick chills creeping down his spine, and the almost-there feeling of coarse rope around his wrists. Fuck the RED Sniper. He knew that that was what was really messing with him, even if he hated to give the fucker credit for getting to him so much. The guy was fucking insane, though. He hadn’t tried for anything below the belt when he’d grabbed Scout a few days ago, thank fucking Christ, but Scout knew the creep had been getting off on hurting him and seeing how freaked out being tied up made him. It was sick, and terrifying.

[...]

He leaned forward as far as he comfortably could. Christ, it really was a long way down from up here, wasn’t it? Heights had never really been a thing with him, even before he’d been able to double-jump, but he could see why they got to people. It was freaky, looking down and knowing that if he fell, he probably wouldn’t ever get up again. He nudged a pebble over the edge with his toe, watching its tumbling and surprisingly lengthy descent. Yeah, scratch that “probably”. He’d definitely be buzzard food if he fell from here. No respawn to snatch his corpse back and revive him, out here past the fence.

He shuffled forward slightly. A few more pebbles joined the one he’d dropped, a clattering rush that seemed far too loud in the otherwise silent desert. He closed his eyes when seeing them bouncing off the side and edges of the rock formation on their way to earth made his stomach clench in an odd way. He took in a long, deep breath and, slowly, he lifted his arms out to his sides. He didn’t open his eyes, but he could feel the edge in front of him. He carefully eased himself up on tiptoe, the light breeze pushing gently on him.

“Aiden. Please don’t.”

His heels thumped back down to the rock. He lowered his arms and let out his breath. “I wasn’t going to.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Honest, Baz. I wouldn’t.”

Spy—Sebastien—stepped up to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing his mask. “While I trust your ’onesty, voyou, I would greatly appreciate a few more steps between you and the open air, if you don’t mind?”

[...]

Dipping my toes back in the pool

Socially awkward intro time!

Ok, so I haven't been on tumblr for... a decade? Close to? God, I feel old... But I was in desperate need of some TF2 fanart after the seventh comic dropped, so I'm back. Created a new account since it feels suuuuper weird going back to my old one and I want a place to post my things in a more coherent and organized manner than my early-twenty-something self.

So yeah! Here we are! To start off, I'm planning on using this blog as a place to throw up the shorts from my (slowly) in-progress TF2 OC fanfic series "Tales of Well" (link to fanfiction.net copy), and any other info or thoughts about it that I feel like sharing. It might eventually transition into a world-building/story-posting blog for my original world (some vastly out-of-date posts on it being available on yet another blog I started around the same time as my first just for my writing), but I'm not sure yet. I've just been doing a lot of work on the shorts lately and want to throw as much of it out there as possible, even if it's not even remotely close to done yet.

If anyone out there stumbles across this and takes a look, welcome, thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

Little Moments: A Ticklish Situation Teaser/WIP

Another Little Moment that's mostly done, this one even more so than the others. Why are a few opening sentences so hard? D:

Summary: Pyro and Blue make a very important discovery about Freckles.

——

Little Moments: A Ticklish Situation

[...]

“Ozzie! Oz, save me! Oz!”

Sniper stopped in his tracks at the desperate, pleading cry behind him, and looked back into the rec room. He blinked slowly. Freckles, face bright pink and horrified, seemed to be trying to climb over one of the arms of the couch, his chest pulled up onto it and hands desperately clutching for anything he could use to pull himself further. Pyro and Scout were rather effectively preventing his escape attempt, though. Pyro was seated squarely on the small of Freckles’s back, one of the younger man’s legs bent in his hold so he could trap it under his arm, and Scout had the other leg by the ankle while sitting on the back of his knee. Freckles’s boots and socks had been haphazardly tossed in the vague direction of the rec room door; Sniper nudged the nearer of the discarded shoes with a toe.

He raised an eyebrow at his two teammates, who’d frozen guiltily in place at his appearance. 

“Interrogatin’ the enemy, then, are we?”

The shift in the three young men’s faces was priceless. Pyro and Scout shared a truly evil grin, and poor Freckles, who’d started to look hopeful when Sniper stopped in the doorway, now wore the expression of a man seeing salvation snatched away from right in front of his nose. His eyes went huge and he renewed his frantic escape attempts, panting curses when the two Blues atop him remained unmoved. Pyro, his grin almost feral in its intensity, drew a finger down the arch of the foot he had trapped, resulting in a panicked yelp. Scout firmed his hold on Freckles’s other ankle and turned his grin on Sniper.

“Exactly,” he said. “Interrogatin’ the enemy. Gotta torture him, figure out what he knows.”

“No no no no no-!”

Sniper shook his head, giving Freckles an apologetic smile, and pointed a warning finger at Scout.

“He pisses ’imself, you two are cleanin’ it up.”

And he continued on his way toward the kitchen, not fully able to contain his chuckles at the frantic shouts rising behind him.

“Nononono nooooo! Ozzie, come back, come baaack! Save meEEEEeeheeheehee! Fuck shit! AHHHhahahahahahaha!”

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.”

Anniversary Teaser/WIP

Summary: The Aussie and the Frenchman don't come to the little diner in town very often, but Dana always appreciates the break from backshift monotony that they provide.

——

Anniversary

[...]

The night shift, though, was when the Frenchman and the Aussie came in.

They were Dana’s favourite regulars, though “regulars” might have been a bit of a stretch: their visits were sporadic, and she’d only really seen them maybe seven or eight times since their first appearance almost a year back. They were some kind of contractors, part of the group working out of the old train depot in the desert, but while their fellows who frequented the town had garnered something of a… reputation in town, the Frenchman and the Aussie were never anything but friendly and courteous, if maybe a little aloof. They weren’t too hard on the eyes, either, which was always a pleasant treat during a long shift.

Their visits, infrequent as they were, followed a by-now familiar routine, so when the slightly janky glow of the dusty camper’s headlights pulled into the parking lot, Dana perked up from where she’d been leaning on the counter in a haze of stupefied boredom. The night so far had been even more quiet than usual, with not even the usual drunks staggering in. Any diversion would have been welcome, and this one was definitely more welcome than most.

She poured out two glasses of water, no ice, and two mugs of coffee from the good pot to the rumbling and squeaking of the camper rolling into its accustomed space. The engine chuffed to a halt, and she heard the muffled mutter of voices from outside as she set the drinks on a serving tray. The words burst into sudden clarity as the door swung open.

“-etter things to spend my money on.” The Aussie was the first to enter, holding the door open for his companion and tipping his wide-brimmed hat at Dana in greeting. “It still runs fine, and it’s not like I’ve got plans t’do any drag-racin’ out here.”

“It sounds like a wounded animal begging to be put out of its misery,” the Frenchman said, offering Dana a nod and small smile as he made his way to the booth in the smoking section with the least-scarred table, taking his usual seat in the bunkette with a view of the door. “Even the convict’s van doesn’t sound ’alf as bad, and it ’as made acquaintance with every ditch within twenty kilometres of the base. Even Engineer thinks it’s time to retire the poor beast, and ’e’s put as much work into keeping it alive as you.”

[...]

“Yer not worried ’bout Twinkle Toes gettin’ jealous?” the Aussie said, a smirk clear in his voice. The Frenchman snorted, and Dana returned to her place behind the counter just in time to see him rolling his eyes as he stirred three creamers and a sugar packet into his coffee.

“’Ardly. Even if ’e gets in that kind of mood, I only need ask ’oo it was that Wrenches punched in the face, and why, and ’e shuts up quickly enough.” He sipped his coffee and stirred in another half a sugar pack. He took a second sip, hummed in satisfaction, and set down his spoon.

There was a long moment of comfortable silence. The Aussie sipped his coffee and the Frenchman lit a cigarette. Dana was hanging the order ticket up for the kitchen when the Frenchman spoke again.

“’E told me ’is name, a few months ago. Not long after ’is… little tryst with the RED Scout.”

“No shit?” The Aussie blinked, his mug halfway to his lips. “How’d ya manage ta squeeze that out of him?”

“As if you could bear to ’ear the gory details, mon ami,” the Frenchman said with a chuckle, shaking his head. “I’ll ’ave you know, it was freely offered. Completely out of nowhere, and in French, no less. I’ll admit, I was surprised, and impressed.” He chuckled again, but Dana thought there was a sad quality to it. “It says a lot about us, non? A simple introduction is seen as the epitome of friendship, or romance.”

“Mm.” The Aussie took another sip of his coffee. “You tell ’im yours?”

Dana started wiping down the counter, keeping half an eye on the pair. She saw the Frenchman frown slightly, a more uncomfortable look than she had expected to see on his face. He took a sip of his own coffee, gazing into the mug for a long moment afterward.

“Non. Not yet,” he said, sighing as he set his mug back down. He took a drag from his cigarette and tapped ash off into the ashtray at the end of the table. The Aussie’s brow went up when his friend didn’t continue.

“He’s gonna start wonderin’ ’bout that, if ya don’t soon. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t started buggin’ ya for it already, if it’s been a few months. Y’know how he is,” he said.

The Frenchman shook his head. “Better than you do, ami. I just play the ‘I’m a Spy’ card if he starts trying to pry. There is still enough mystique in’erent in my profession to allow me to keep ’im in the dark when I wish.”

“Uh huh.” The Aussie’s eyebrow stayed up, disbelief as clear in those two syllables as it was on his face. “And keepin’ him in the dark is still yer plan? Can’t say that’s what I was expectin’.”

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow of his own. “Oh? ’Ow so?”

“Just thought y’were a li’l more open with them as got their hooks fixed in ya, based on past experience. Kid’s practically got ya wrapped ’round his little finger.” The Frenchman stiffened visibly, shooting the Aussie a dark look, and the Aussie smirked widely. “Mate, eleven years is a long bloody time. I can read ya like a book, fancy-arse Spy nonsense and all. We both know, if that scrawny mongrel says ‘jump’, you ask ‘how high?’” He laughed and poked the other man in the shoulder. “You really are smitten, aren’tcha? With Scout, of all the bloody people. Fuck me dead!”

“Oh, wipe the grin off your face, bushman,” the Frenchman said, smoothing his suit jacket where the Aussie had poked. “You are acting like a twittering ’igh school girl.”

“Oh, this is worth twitterin’ over if anythin’ is, mate.” The Aussie’s grin only grew and he leaned forward. “Yer blushin’!”

“Ta yeule! I am no such thing!”

“You are!” The Aussie laughed again, and, even from behind the counter, Dana could see the flush rising in the Frenchman’s cheeks. “Ha! Gremlin’s got you twisted up like one a’yer own bloody ties! Christ on a bike, how the Hell did that happen?”

“You think I do not also want to know? Esti de câlice de tabarnak!” the Frenchman said, rubbing at his temples. Dana thought she heard him growl as he tapped ash from his cigarette a little harder than necessary. “’E is not at all up to my usual standards. Everything about ’im should be utterly repellent! ’E is loud, and crass. Not only uneducated, but seemingly willfully ignorant as well. ’Opelessly juvenile. Thoughtless, careless, infuriatingly sure of ’imself especially when ’e ’as no reason to be. Uncultured, ’yperactive to the point of trying even my patience, stubborn, rude-”

“And…” The Aussie still wore a smirk. The Frenchman gave him a dry look.

“And…” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tabarnache… ’E is surprisingly sensitive, even kind, when ’e puts ’is mind to it. More selfless than ’e will ever admit, and more unsure than ’e lets on, to the point that it really is endearing, in a way. Startlingly naïve in surprising ways. Almost painfully eager to prove ’imself, and so determined.” A small smile twitched his lips before it grew into a nasty grin of his own. “’E’s incredible in bed, too.”

The Aussie’s smile collapsed into a sullen grimace. “Ahh, and y’just had ta bring that up…”

“Hon hon hon. I can tease too, bushman.” The Frenchman chuckled. “Though, I must admit, it is not nearly as easy as it used to be.”

“Eh, I’ve put up with yer poncy ass long enough; I’m almost used to yer bizzo by now, scary as that is t’think about.” The Aussie shrugged, smile returning. “Don’t mean I like hearin’ the bloody details, mind you, but I’m not gonna lose my head. Consentin’ adults, and all that.” The Aussie paused and narrowed his eyes. “Scout is consentin’, right?”

The Frenchman gave his friend another flat look, pointedly ashing his cigarette. “Do I look like the convict to you?”

“Well, sometimes. What with yer disguise kit an’ all.”

“’Ow ’ave I not murdered you yet?”

“You have. Nine times by my count. Wait, ten. Forgot last week.” Dana saw the Aussie kick the Frenchman in the shin, and fought back a laugh. She had no idea what they were talking about, but their easy camaraderie and banter was really sweet to see. “It wasn’t my fault he figured it out, by the way; ya had no call stabbin’ me.”

“Oh, please. You could not ’ave pointed it out more clearly if you’d been ’olding a map. Thanks to your thoughtful guidance, ’e ’as started referring to me as ‘Poutine’, on occasion, rather than just ‘French Fry’. I am still trying to decide whether it is worth killing  ’im over or not…”

The Aussie laughed again, a rich belly laugh that wasn’t interrupted by a kick to his own leg or the rude gesture the Frenchman directed at him when the kick drew no response.

“Order up.”

Dana turned to the kitchen window and saw the collection of steaming dishes on the ledge. She gathered them up on her serving tray, throwing Chuck a quick thanks, and brought them out the Aussie and Frenchman’s table. The Aussie was still chuckling behind a hand and the Frenchman was finishing off his cigarette a little too nonchalantly.

[...]

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.

[...]

Breakfast Teaser/WIP

The BLU team (except for Soldier) is pretty tolerant of Red/Freckles whenever he comes around to visit Pyro and Scout by this point. He's not nearly as much of a jackass as their own Scout, during ceasefire at least.

Summary: Freckles decides to thank the Blues for not shooting him on sight every time he drops by.

——

Breakfast (tent. title)

[...]

Freckles was not who [Sniper] expected to see, humming to himself as he shimmied and slid through the kitchen on bare feet, pulling dishes and utensils from various cabinets and drawers. The kid was wearing one of Pyro’s t-shirts (Sniper recognized it instantly as one of the ones Scout had defaced; that lurid shade of pink was certainly distinctive) and Sniper was fairly sure he was wearing a pair of Pyro’s sweatpants as well, the cuffs rolled up several times to keep from dragging on the floor. He’d assembled a fair collection of food on the counter: a mound of potatoes and two onions, already peeled; the brick of cheddar from the fridge; several peppers of various colours and sizes; two packs of breakfast sausages; and two cartons of eggs. Aside from the potatoes and cheese, Sniper knew that none of it had come from their actual supplies; they’d used up the last eggs a few days ago, and they hadn’t had any vegetables (aside from the potatoes, if they could even really be considered vegetables) shipped to them in longer than he liked to think about. Freckles must have made a grocery run on his own.

Sniper stayed just outside the doorway, far enough back for Freckles to not see him as he puttered around the kitchen, setting bowls and other dishes on the counter, and once checking the oven, opening the door a couple inches and nodding in satisfaction at whatever he found. Something seemed to be eluding him, though. After placing a spatula on the counter, he started searching more intently through cupboards and drawers, muttering to himself. Sniper had to stifle a laugh when, after a minute or so of hunting, he pulled a chair over to one of the counters and stood on it, so he could see onto the higher shelves. Freckles had such a big attitude, it was sometimes easy to forget just how short he really was. He saw what he wanted, apparently, because he cursed softly and started trying to get something from the top shelf that, even with the chair, he was hard-pressed to reach.

As Sniper watched, the chair started slowly skidding along the floor, scooting quarter-inch by quarter-inch further and further from the counter as Freckles tried desperately for whatever he was looking for on the top shelf. Freckles didn’t seem to notice: he was standing on tip-toe at the chair’s edge, his tongue poked between his teeth and eyes half-squinted shut as he tried to jam most of his arm into the cupboard. Sniper stepped forward just as the chair gave an almighty screech and shot back a few inches all at once.

“Wha- Huuk!”

Sniper caught Freckles by the collar of his shirt, keeping him from crashing full-on into the counter, and steadied him as he stumbled a step. Freckles’s eyes were wide when they locked onto him, and he froze with one hand rubbing at where his shirt had dug into his throat and the other gripping the counter. Sniper let go of the back of his shirt and looked down at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Somethin’ just outta your reach there, Freckles?” he said, not unkindly. For a second, Freckles only stared at him, wary as a rabbit under a coyote’s eye. Then, slowly, he straightened and gave a nervous little cough.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah,” he said, pointing to the shelf he’d been searching and dropping his eyes. “The cheese grater.”

Sniper walked over to the cabinet and looked in. He had to pop up onto the balls of his feet to catch sight of the grater, tucked toward the back of the top shelf, but he extracted it without stretching too much and held it out. Freckles took it with a mumbled word of thanks, but he didn’t look up. When Sniper didn’t move or say anything further, he backed up a slow step, then another and another, until his back bumped up against the countertop next to the stove.

“I’m, uh… I’m just makin’ breakfast,” he said, with a weak gesture at the food on the counter, “if that’s cool?”

Sniper smiled. As much as part of him wanted to tease, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Freckles really looked like the kid he was, standing there in too-big sweatpants, clutching the cheese grater and staring at his bare feet. Sniper had to admire his balls, too, for all his present nervousness. Spending the night at the enemy base and staying to make breakfast in the morning? Sniper wasn’t sure if he’d do the same, put in the kid’s shoes.

“No wukkas, mate. Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, pulling over the chair Freckles had been using as a step-stool and taking a seat at the table. He nodded at the heaps of food. “Feelin’ a bit peckish, eh?”

Freckles snorted and Sniper saw the beginnings of a relieved smile forming on his lips before he turned to the cutting board.

“It’s not all for me. I’m not that much of a pig ’less I’m totally baked off my ass. I, uh-” He shrugged and started grating the cheese into a large bowl. “I just figured I’d say thanks, y’know. For all you guys not murderin’ me whenever I come over. ’Cept Helmet-Dick, but he’s not here, so…” He stopped grating and looked over his shoulder. “There’s coffee, if ya want. The second pot’s got some a’Spy’s fancy hazelnut shit in it.”

“Stealin’ Spy’s coffee? That’s a bold move, mate,” Sniper said with a smirk. He got up and poured himself a cup of regular coffee, taking it back to his seat. Freckles flashed him a buck-toothed grin.

“Ah, I already steal his weed and his booze,” he said, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth. “Well, Blue steals it for me, but same difference. ’Sides, he can still get some, s’long as he gets up b’fore I drink it all.”

Sniper snorted out a laugh and took a sip of his coffee. It was good and strong. He hummed and leaned back in his seat, watching as Freckles finished with the cheese—the bowl was filled with a heaping mound of cheddar almost as tall again as it was—and started chopping the potatoes into roughly square chunks. His motions had the ease and speed of long practice, and when Sniper continued to stay silent, he started humming to himself again, just on the edge of hearing. Sniper thought he recognized a Beatles tune. Taking another thoughtful sip, Sniper popped his feet up to rest on one of the other empty chairs around the table, one ankle crossed over the other.

“Gotta say, yer one a’the last ones I woulda expected t’see in here first thing in the mornin’,” he said, startling Freckles into stillness. “You bein’ RED aside, I’ve been at this nonsense a dozen years, and I can count on one hand the Scouts I’ve known who’d willin’ly be outta bed before noon on a day off. And I can’t think of any who’d’ve cooked breakfast for the whole team. The whole enemy team, at that.”

He saw Freckles blink. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Well, Ma always told me to be a good houseguest.” He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I just never expected t’get- I guess it hasn’t really been a warm welcome, but, all things considered, the fact that none a’you guys have tried blowin’ me away just for bein’ here deserves some kinda ‘thank you’, right?”

“If it means a free, home-cooked meal, I’m not gonna disagree,” Sniper said with a smile, lifting his coffee cup to the boy in salute. Freckles shot him another brief grin before focusing back on the potatoes. “So, y’do this often?” Sniper said, nodding again to the food when Freckles looked back over his shoulder at him. “Cookin’. Most blokes out here can’t even cut a sandwich in half without cuttin’ themselves, or use any appliance but the microwave without settin’ the whole bloody place ablaze.”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, I like cookin’,” Freckles said, drawing an onion over to the cutting board and shoving the chopped potatoes into two large casserole dishes (Sniper hadn’t even known they had a single casserole dish, let alone two). “Ma worked a lotta nights, and it gets pretty borin’ just eatin’ McDonald’s and TV dinners, ya know? Chicks love it, too. I told Blue—yer Scout, I mean—but he don’t believe me: if you can dance ’n’ you can cook, you can drop any chick’s panties halfway to China without even tryin’.”

“Really?” Sniper said, surprised. “No offense, mate, but given yer track record since ya’ve been here…”

Freckles stopped chopping for a moment, and Sniper could see the back of his neck and tips of his ears flushing red. He cleared his throat and returned to the onion after giving himself a shake, his shoulders a little more hunched than before. The silence stretched, leaving Sniper’s prompt unanswered, and Sniper smiled a little.

“Look, no judgment, kid. I’ve been around Heavy and Medic for ages, and I saw more shit back at Sawmill than I ever wanna think about sober. Or drunk, for that matter. It’s just a surprise, that’s all,” he said. “Given how happy y’seemed with Wrenches and seem with Pyro, and how quick y’got to business once y’got here, I figured the sheilas just didn’t really get ya goin’.”

“Nah, nah, they totally do!” Freckles said quickly. “Chicks are awesome, man! I love boobs! S’just, uh…” He shuffled uncomfortably. “S’just… y’know…”

“Actually, I don’t,” Sniper said, a smile coming back to his lips. “Not even a little bit.”

“What, seriously?” Freckles stared at him. “Y’said it yerself, ya been doin’ this shit for-fuckin’-ever.” He scowled slightly and added, “And everyone loves to keep tellin’ me that the last RED Scout was the fuckin’ Teufort bicycle, throwin’ himself at everyone he could, fuckin’ twenty-four seven…”

“Never did learn t’ride a bike,” Sniper said musingly, recrossing his ankles more comfortably. “Wasn’t much use on walkabout; th’Outback’s too rough, ’less you’re willin’ to put in an ungodly amount a’work and carry an ungodly amount a’shit. Easier t’just run with a van.” He shook his head and huffed. “Last RED Scout was a loony little root rat. Ask anyone. Even if I was inclined t’ward blokes, I wouldn’ta stuck my business anywhere near that mess.”

“And Spy never tried for nothin’?” Freckles said, onion chopping entirely forgotten. “I find that kinda fuckin’ hard t’believe. Y’been on the same team with him for years, right? And he ain’t exactly… the straightest ruler in the drawer.”

Sniper snorted and said, “Oh, you better believe the damn frog bloody well tried. His first few months at Sawmill, he tried cozyin’ up to me and th’other Sniper on the team near every other day. Persistent git.” He shook his head and shrugged, taking another mouthful of coffee. “He gave it a rest after the piss jars, though.”

“Piss jars?”

“Yup,” Sniper said. “When y’find the perfect perch, y’don’t wanna miss the shot just ’cause ya gotta answer the call a’nature. By the time Shades and I got sick a’Spy’s pesterin’ ’n’ innuendos, between the two of us we musta had, eh, three or four dozen jars.” He chuckled, remembering the look on Spy’s face when the nest’s trapdoor had swung open, and he’d seen what came of pushing Snipers too far. “Never knew the frog could scream that high.”

Freckles stared at him for a few seconds more in stunned silence, but he was soon clutching his gut, guffawing loud enough to wake the entire base. Sniper sipped his coffee, watching as Freckles’s face grew more and more red and he had to grip the counter to keep himself upright. Tears followed soon after, and before long he was gasping between desperate, snorting “hee hee!”s. By the time he wound down, wiping his cheeks and still letting out the occasional breathless giggle, Sniper had finished off his coffee, poured himself a new cup, and returned to his chair with his feet kicked up again.

“Hoo. Hoooo. Holy shit, my sides hurt. Ah, fuck me, I can’t remember the last time I laughed so fuckin’ hard. Jesus.” Freckles turned back to the cutting board and resumed dicing the onions, his shoulders still quaking with mirth. “Fuckin’ piss jars… Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” He snickered again.

Then he froze. Sniper frowned as, stock still, Freckles sniffed at the air, like a dog. To Sniper’s shock, he turned sharply to his left, growling and hefting the knife in his hand as if he meant to use it on someone, rather than just the vegetables.

“Spy, I swear to God, if you get even a single fuckin’ flake of ash on the food, I’m shovin’ this knife straight up yer fuckin’ ass.”

Sniper blinked as Spy shimmered into view at the corner of the counter, one arm crossed over his chest and the other hand holding a cigarette to his lips. Sniper shook his head, impressed. There was another point to Freckles’s card. Sniper had been at this long enough that he could usually tell when Spy was coming and going, even cloaked, but the kid had caught him while Sniper hadn’t even had a clue.

Spy was giving Freckles a thoroughly unimpressed look, not at all swayed by the rather large chopping implement in his hand, despite the threat. He blew out a puff of smoke and deliberately ashed his cigarette into the sink.

“I am shaking in my wingtips,” he said drily, pushing the knife away with the tip of a finger. “You ’ave quite the nose, lapin.”

“And those things fuckin’ stink,” Freckles shot back, jabbing the knife at the cigarette before turning back to the cutting board with a huff. “It’s a miracle y’can sneak up on anyone at all. Ya really gotta smoke that shit in here while I’m cookin’?”

“I am a Spy; I always smoke,” Spy said, pouring himself some coffee—and giving Freckles a dark look when he smelled the hazelnut—before mixing in some cream and sugar and taking a seat across the table from Sniper. Freckles rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, but ya don’t hafta smoke here,” he said. “Y’could just fuck off and not be a total fuckin’ prick. Shockin’, I know, but it is an option.”

Sniper coughed out a brief laugh and Spy cut him a look before he said, in a too-sweet voice, “It is, but why bother when being a ‘total prick’ is so much more entertaining? Besides, I can’t ’elp but be a little suspicious of the RED Scout ’elping ’imself to our kitchen. You could be trying to poison us, for all I know.”

“For all you know. Right. Sneaky, back-stabbin’ fuck,” Freckles muttered, finishing chopping the onions and putting them into the casserole dishes with the potatoes. He jiggled the dishes a little so everything sat evenly, drizzled them with oil, salt, and pepper, and slid them into the oven. “Just stay outta the way, assface. And I meant it about the fuckin’ ash, too.”

He tossed an ashtray onto the table, and Spy glowered at him, very pointedly tapping ash into it. Sniper hid his growing smile behind another sip of coffee. As much as he considered Spy to be his best mate, it was still pretty damn funny, watching him being stood up to by the diminutive Red.

Spy took another drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke toward Freckles as he exhaled, and said, “Well, well. Someone ’as certainly grown a backbone lately. I can remember, not so long ago, that even being in the same room as one of us in our own base would ’ave ’ad you running like the little rabbit you are.”

“Yeah, but that was before I really got to know the guy y’let fuck ya,” Freckles said flippantly. He had leaned back against the counter and was cracking eggs with one hand into another large bowl held in the crook of his other arm. He gave Spy a mocking grin. “I mean, if ya let Blue up yer ass, how scary can ya be? I could kick his ass with my eyes closed and my hands tied.” He shrugged as he cracked another egg. “Besides, if ya fuck with me too much, I know Py’ll barbeque ya for me. He’s good like that.”

Another small chuckle escaped Sniper and he could only shrug as well when Spy leveled a glare at him. “Sorry, mate, but he’s got a point. Pyro’d slow-roast any of our asses if we mess around too far with his beau off the field, and you know it.”

Spy let out a huff and took a sip of coffee. “It would be just my luck that it is the pyromaniac ’oo despises me that decides to fraternize with the most easily ’arassed member of the enemy team…”

“I dunno ’bout easily harassed,” Sniper said, sharing a smile with Freckles. “Y’saw what he did to his own team when they kept pushin’ him.”

“Damn right,” Freckles said. He was viciously churning the eggs in the bowl with a fork, turning them a goopy golden yellow. “Just ’cause I’m short and freckly-”

“And buck-toothed,” Spy put in maliciously, “and young enough to be most of ours’ son.”

“-don’t mean I’m easy to push around,” Freckles finished, flicking a stray piece of onion at Spy. He set the bowl down on the counter and prepared a cup of coffee for himself—Spy’s coffee, with enough cream and sugar in it to disgust any true coffee drinker—as Sniper laughed and Spy wiped at the spot the onion had impacted his balaclava with a grimace of distaste. Freckles hopped up to sit on the counter beside the cooking supplies, swinging his legs slightly so his heels bumped out a light beat on the cabinets, and smiled at the two Blues. He swallowed a mouthful of his coffee and gestured with his mug.

“Even with Py outta the picture, I could still kick yer ass,” he said. “Bein’ nervous before was just ’cause I wasn’t sure how shit worked yet. I thought it was just ‘rahr rahr, kill the other team’ all the fuckin’ time, ceasefire or no. I mean, yer Soldier’s kind of a dick that way, but the rest a’ya ain’t so bad. Not bad enough for me t’be jumpin’ outta my skin every five seconds, anyway.”

“Ahh, we’re all old hands at this point,” Sniper said. “Except for Pyro and Scout, of course, and Soldier’s a… special case. The rest of us, though?” He flapped a hand. “For me, plain and simple, it’s not worth the effort if I’m not gettin’ paid for it, and you’re not doin’ anythin’ I’d wanna kill ya for. Most of the time, anyway.”

“It does feel like a waste of effort. Not that it takes very much, but still,” Spy grunted, returning Freckles’s stuck out tongue with a sneer of his own, ignoring Sniper’s returning amusement. “I ’ave better things to spend my time doing.”

“Yeah, ’cause smokin’ and drinkin’ and sneakin’ around watchin’ people are sooo important. Who would constantly invade our privacy and give us all fuckin’ cancer if we didn’t have you?” Freckles said, rolling his eyes and sipping more coffee. “Ya do gotta get Blue off, I guess. I mean, he’s already a total fuckin’ shithead. I don’t wanna know what he’s like when he’s pent up. That’s kinda important.”

“Rosso is right. You are a truly monumental pest,” Spy grumbled, giving Sniper’s chair a kick when he couldn’t keep his snickers contained. “What are you giggling at, bushman? Where is your espirit de corps? You should be defending my honour against this miserable RED interloper.”

“I make it a policy not t’piss off anyone makin’ me food, and this is good fun,” Sniper said, then paused. “Nah, hold on. Watchin’ ya bein’ taken down a peg is ‘good fun’; watchin’ Freckles do it to ya is bloody hilarious.”

“Ha!”

[...]