Alright, this is a sister story to It Gets Me Places. It's a Spy/Scout story from Scout's point-of-view, you don't need to have read It Gets Me Places first to read this, but that one's complete. This fic actually starts a few months before IGMP, because why the heck not.
Special thanks to Ilana for helping with pacing and making this chapter less dumb! Also, she drew the story cover because she's amazing.
Disclaimer: Team Fortress 2 belongs to Valve.
Okay, so me and the team were all drinking and spending all kinds of faggy bro time together. It ain't often that we're actually in one place when we're on leave in the city unless it's to sleep, leave, or dinner's on Engie. Christmas is a weird holiday like that, it makes people that are usually okay being nowhere near each other want to be all over the same space and each other and drink and be happy and shit.
We had our own little room in the bar—it's one of those fancier joints that has about three private rooms for parties and then a big bar room that isn't anywhere near as sleazy as the ones I usually hang out in. We didn't really want to bother the other people in the place by talking loudly about weapons and respawn and how much fucking blood got caught in Demo's moustache during that last battle—also, HQ was paying for it, so that's our signal to go all out.
All eyes were on Demo, Engineer had finally agreed to rig up some kind of siphoning system so that he could just stick a tube down in one of the kegs and let it drain into his open mouth. Bets were being taken on whether he could get the whole keg down—in the form of drinks that we weren't even paying for, it's really just another way to get sluiced. Y'know, "Bet you five shots he can't get it all down," and then, "I'll take that bet and raise you a bottle of Jack," and you just keep haggling on it until it looks like he's actually going to do it. That's when Engineer gets accused of helping him cheat. A couple of fistfights and broken chairs and glasses later and everyone's happily drinking themselves into a stupor again.
Just another night in paradise, man.
The third argument of the night was just getting started when I saw Spy snort and kind of hedge his way out. I was in the middle of getting another shot. I tipped our bartender—she's a real sweetheart for putting up with these assholes—and downed my drink before following him. Spy's a pretty cool guy, he's always getting the women, always saying all these smooth lines like he's all that and a pack of smokes. Whatever he was doing had to be awesome—more awesome than those other mooks fighting over something stupid, like whether Pyro's a girl just because it's been sipping fruity little cocktails through a straw all night.
He didn't even notice me following. If he had, he probably wouldn't have made a beeline for this blonde dude and leaned in close to talk right in his ear. Like so fucking close his lips brushed the other dude's skin a couple of times. That kind of threw me off, so I ducked behind one of the dividers that some of the booths in there had for privacy—like I said, ritzy joint. They had really nice hardwood floors, dividers between tables in some places; they served food that wasn't dripping with grease and didn't have at least one type of hair in it; the girls weren't dressed like complete sluts, but showed just enough to get a few extra bucks from the guy without his wife/girlfriend/one-night-stand getting offended. They also had a smoker's section and a non-smoker's section, which was really freaking weird, but that's where I had been expecting Spy to go.
They headed away from the direction of the smoker's section and I thought they might be going to the can when they just breezed right by it. They didn't even glance around, still being all Chatty-McFaggots like they were the best friends in the world. I was suddenly more interested in following incognito. Maybe they were just going outside for a smoke. That's when you can get some of the best conversation out of a guy. Share a cigarette with him, and out come the best fucking stories. They were probably just old bros wanting to share a smoke—talk about life in the past few months. We don't come to this place often enough, makes having friends really hard unless you like letters and using your phone minutes on 'em.
We passed some offices, a janitor's closet and a break room proclaiming: Employees Only.
Spy pulls out his cigarette case as the other guy opens the door for him. I like hanging around Spy when he smokes. The kind he buys are nice: foreign, spicy, masculine. Like I said, nice. You don't even have to smoke one and you'll like 'em.
I wasn't sure why he couldn't smoke in our private room—Soldier and Demo were. Hell, even Engie had lit up. Besides, I'm pretty sure his friend would be cool with getting a few free drinks. Who wouldn't?
I eyed his pal as the door swung closed. Well… maybe it was better he kept his friend away from the rest of the team. From the dress of the guy, I could tell he was a fancy pants like Spy. Solly and Demo make more jokes about exploding organs than farts on a good night- get them drunk and the scale tips a little more in the other direction.
I crept forward and eased the door open, hoping I could just slide into the conversation like usual.
Even though I'm not completely sure what my plan was in the first place, it doesn't really matter anymore.
There's no way that I'm exiting this door.
I thought that they were just bros. The kind that are super friendly with each other and are allowed to hang and hug and do all that other faggy shit that only people who've known each other for years do.
This is totally fucking different.
Bros don't pin other bros to the wall and let Bro A's hands grab ass (with his unlit cigarette still between his index and middle fingers) while Bro B's are on the wall and his mask and his shoulders and just can't seem to figure out where they want to settle. Bros don't push up against each other with their lips locked together and their tongues occasionally flashing in the dim-ass lighting of the alleyway. It's like they don't have to breathe, and it makes me a little weak in the knees to see this kind of… I don't know. Skill? Want? Need?
No matter how you slice it, Spy and this dude are not the right kind of bros.
As soon as it clicks in my mind, I retreat through the door and scramble back, just in case they heard the door close. Once I'm safe and leaning against the door of that Janitor closet I saw, I just kind of sit there, stare at the ceiling and trying to piece together what I just saw.
Spy's a fag.
Not the kind of affectionate-insult fag that I call everyone, but a seriously serious fag. The kind that puts on makeup and dresses and has romantic dinners and bubble baths and drinks wine—not like the whole bottle straight from the neck, but just a glass to get in the mood before fucking dudes.
I always kind of suspected it, but shit, I didn't want it to be true or know about it if it was, Goddamn.
How can I work with a guy like that? Knowing that he's probably watching my ass when I run out the door first and he's turning invisible and being creepy.
I know he doesn't shower with the rest of us, but now I wonder if he just sits there, cloaked and waiting for us to like start rubbing dicks or something. Jesus fucking Christ, I can't fucking believe this.
A glance around the closet sets off a bit of claustrophobia. I have to get out of here, I want to go drink and bust some dude's skull against the floor. Y'know, manly stuff that's totally not gay.
I stand up and peek out of my closet before walking out and running a hand through my hair. Coast's clear, so I skedaddle before I run the risk of actually getting caught.
Once I'm back in the main barroom, I take a look around and puff out my chest with new confidence from the adrenaline rush of getting away with something. I don't really want to get completely shit-faced anymore, I might start talking shit and give myself away. I've heard things about Spy, about the kinds of shit he's done to guys who pissed him off. Not going down that road. Nope.
I go back for just another scotch before ducking out again. After seeing that faggy fest of faggotry, I gotta make sure none of that gay shit rubbed off on me.
As I look around the bar, I notice a lot more homo-signals than usual. Like girls being too close so they can talk to each other, 'cause it's kind of loud and guys drunkenly leaning on each other because they're having a blast being out on the town.
I scope out an oblivious babe sitting at a corner table. Girls don't come to bars alone not to get picked up, right? She's gotta be a nine and a half, maybe even a ten—I can't tell how tall she is from the way she's leaning forward to sip at her straw.
I pause halfway to her table, realizing that I have no plan whatsoever.
Okay, so Spy has a girl like every time we get out of the base (seriously, fucking homos and their dickery. Save some for the straights, you assholes.). What does he do?
He acts French. Duh.
"Ah, Ma-dame-oi-sell, may I buy your next drink, onhonhon?" that totally sounds like Spy. She's smiling; I give myself a pat on the back before moving forward. "So what's your—?"
All of a sudden, a hand clamps down on my shoulder and I'm slung around to face a really angry, strangely handsome asshole with a tattoo on his neck and a really mean face.
"Dude, sorry, but I got this one." I'm cocky. Mostly because this girl is insanely hot, and also because I'm totally boning for her—which means I'm not turning gay. Thank fucking God. "I mean... if you smiled, you'd probably have a chance with her, but, as it is, she's mine. Sorry du—"
A fist kind of cuts me off, but the only thing I like more than kissing girls is punching dudes in the face.
I take the hit like a pro and bounce back up onto my feet. Even after having a battle, like half of the team can hit harder than that. This guy's gonna hit the ground in about two minutes.
I let a second punch glance past me, and jump up and over his head, almost knocking my fucking skull against a rafter. When I land, I kick back and catch the back of one of his knees while twisting to give my elbow some speed when it connects with the side of his head. It doesn't put him down, but he's dazed enough for me to get some room between us so that I can move around properly. The rest of the bar seems to have realized what's happening and scatters in my wake.
I hate fighting in enclosed spaces. There's less room to dodge and weave. Like I almost found out before, the ceiling is low enough that I can't really jump around like an idiot, but as long as I have strafing room, I think I can manage.
He stumbles back to his feet and just glares at me as I bounce on the balls of mine from about ten feet away. Maybe he's rethinking his decision, and I smirk to egg him on.
"C'mon, man, ain't got all night. You just cut in front of that pretty girl to get a piece of this, now come 'n' get it, faggy Mc- whoop!" he interrupts me again—it's a really bad, unattractive habit if you ask me—this time by charging at me and trying to grab hold so that I'll stay still for more than a few seconds.
No dice.
I'm used to fighting guys that move faster and hit harder on a normal basis. This guy just moves like he's used to hitting the gym a lot. I know for a fact that half of Soldier and Demo's muscle mass is from brawling—usually with each other. Maybe I shouldn't fault this asshat for not getting in fights a lot; maybe it means that he's a real stand-up guy.
Too bad he's standing up right here, though—for him, of course.
I slug him across the jaw when I get an opening, and duck and weave when he tries to give me a nice, swift right, right, left. Any other guy and he might have gotten a hit in.
My legs flex, but before I can jump up and fuck this guy in the face with my fists, a huge-ass hand grabs me. There's a whirl of motion behind and around me as the guy tries to charge forward and gets Demoman and Soldier on either side of him, hauling him back by his arms. I can tell Heavy's the one with a grip on me, because his hands are fucking huge and his grip is always tight enough to leave a goddamned bruise.
His hand shifts from my shoulder to the back of my neck, and I get shoved in the direction of the rest of the team. Medic catches my upper arm, and I fight him a bit. I'm not a fucking little kid.
I open my mouth to tell him so when his other hand probes a cut in my lip and, instead of saying, "hey, Medic, fuck you, I'm not a fucking kid!" All that comes out is, "bitchfuckdamn, you sonofafuckinghorseradishcunt !"
"Don't talk ill of the dead, Scout." Medic's voice is sinister, as always. He might slur a bit, but Doc can hold his liquor like a total pro. His grip on my arm doesn't let up at all as he drags me out the closest exit—the back door—and the owner starts to yell at everyone to settle down and get out and whatever.
Fucking drama queen.
Medic drags me a little ways before shoving me. I catch myself against the wall and take a glimpse down the rest of the alleyway. It's the same one Spy and his boyfriend had been in earlier. I can't really tell where exactly they'd been humping all over each other, but some of the crap on the ground looks scuffled. Medic's yelling at me in crappy English because he's just so pissed or whatever. I kind of skirt around where they might have been, and head back to the motel the team's staying at, ignoring Medic for the most part.
Everyone will probably find another bar to go to, and they'll start over on their Christmas celebrations without me.
Whatever.
I kick a can around and try not to poke at the split in my lip, or the swelling in my jaw.
I wonder what happened after I left. I mean, Spy doesn't seem like the kind of guy willing to bone or be boned in an alley. I kind of thought he was a little more classy than that. Maybe they didn't actually bone there, though. I mean, they weren't there just now. How long does it take fags to bone, anyway?
No, fuck you, I didn't think that. Shitfuckdamn—whatever.
I try and clear my mind, but all I can see is Spy pushing the blonde dude away and giving him that asshole of a smirk he's got. It was really weird that the blonde guy was the one shoving Spy against the wall—I always kind of took Spy for a control freak. I see Spy walking down the alley, straightening his suit while the other guy hovers, trying to hedge his way back in to get at those lips again.
They're almost at the street when he pushes Spy against the wall. He's tugging at his jacket and mask, trying to get Spy to be as into the kiss as he is—
Dude, seriously, what the hell.
This shit is weird, and there's no way I'm healthy and thinking about this kind of craptastic faggy romance faggot shit. I can't get this goddamned door open because my key won't turn. My fist and shoulder and jaw hurt, and I have a million hour train ride tomorrow back to Boston. Shit, I'm tired.
I don't want to think anymore. Maybe if I fall asleep, I can leave all this gay shit behind. Wake up tomorrow like it never happened. That'd be nice.
I glance up at the room number of the door I'm at and sigh, slamming my forehead against the hard wood. "Mother fucking…" I take a nice deep breath, straighten and take two steps to the right to open my actual room.
I leave my pants on the floor and crawl into bed, ignoring the pain of my split lip and sore body.
When I fall asleep, it's easy and I don't even think about how gay Spy is.
It's over, it's gotta be.
I can just move on like it never happened.
Right?
Right.
Totally, Scout. Totally.