Disclaimer: Team Fortress 2 is the intellectual property of Valve (I think?). Used for non-profit, entertainment purpose only.
It's a Pleasure to Burn
"Brassiere"
For Dell Conagher, Teufort's resident Engineer, practicality and problem solving usually resulted in the harsh necessity of a few mundane chores.
Like laundry.
There was something decidedly mind numbing about scrubbing the oil stains out of his clothes, yet scrub them he must, or else risk smelling like an outhouse on a tuna boat. Not that his standards on these matters were kept by the other Mercs of R.E.D team. Their Soldier, in particular, only showered when it happened to rain –which, in the Badlands, meant never-, and their Demoman perpetually smelled of soured alcohol. But Dell liked to consider himself a man of class, and as such he tended to cycle out his soiled cover-alls during the lulls in fighting and made a point of doing all his washing at every stand-still.
He drew the line at washing anyone else's bloomers, however.
Adding a scoopful of powered soap to the steaming water in the tub, Dell secured his washboard and plunged the first red button-up shirt into the concentrate. He swirled it into the bubbles, rubbing the fabric against the suds then attacking it with the board until the loosened oils created a filmy coating atop the water's grey surface. Then he wrung the garment out and started on the next one.
An hour and a half passed this way with Dell up to his elbows in the soapy wash, stubbornly plunging and scrubbing and starting over with the next pair of socks until his bundle of once dirty clothing was now a slop of soggy-but-clean stuff. He piled them onto his arms and shuffled outdoors where the RED's kept their clothesline, careful not to drop anything on the dirty floors or bump into a wall since the towering stack made it kind of hard to see. He maneuvered masterfully and was quickly stepping out their fort's back door into the high walled courtyard which served as a drying station. Six wire lines crisscrossed, suspending a sparse collection of articles between them. In one shaded corner hung one of the Doc's fancy labcoats next to an undershirt so long and narrow it must've belonged to their Scout. Dell briefly spared them a glance, mentally dismissing th-WAIT.
-What?
Dell blinked once, then stripped off his goggles and rubbed furiously at his eyes. He must be seeing things, since there no way someone would'a strung up what looked like a-
"-Tarnation!" He swore. They did it! Some cow-lickin' vagabond actually did it! His eyes were fine- obviously- and some jack-mule grass-sucker had gone and hung up a lady's brassiere on the clothesline!
He sniffed in outrage. It was a nice brassiere too!
Well, that was plain ol' crass, he thought, shaking his head contemptuously and pining up his own wet clothes on the line. He tried not to be distracted by the lacy-black cups swaying prettily to his left. If one of the guys wanted to bed down in the muck, well then that was their prerogative, but Dell was a gentleman and he wouldn't stoop so low.
Well, maybe just a tiny peek.
Besides being a gentleman he was, after all, a Texas Stud… Sort'a.
Peering shyly over both shoulders and confirming that he was indeed all alone in the courtyard, Dell took a hesitant, tip-toeing step towards the Lady's bra. And then another. And then, he made a run for it.
He skidded to a stop right before his nose could brush against the black silk and lace. If he breathed in the fabric's sweet aroma it was entirely coincidental.
Goggles off, he peered at the decidedly female contraption with its thin strappy bits and lacey fringe. The label on the clasp read: 32C.
Dell blinked. Hot damn! Was that measured in ounces?! As a collective weight or for each individual boob? Dell's tongue was beginning to feel thick and heavy, and he may have been salivating a little bit. He caught his lower lip between his teeth and reached out a tentative, shaking hand to caress the inky black cups, imagining the two-pounder breasts it took to fill their 32oz weight restriction and letting his eyes flutter as the visual reveled itself beneath closed lids.
Darn if he wasn't going straight to hell for this.
He sighed. It was better to quit while he was ahead… and while he still had a head. Who could say what any one of his psycho team-mates would do if he was caught fondling their Erm… Lady piece. Dell left the brassiere to sway in the breeze and solemnly dragged his feet back to base and back to reality.
He bumped shoulders with Pyro as he rounded the corner into the wreck room, muttering a distracted apology to which the firebug ignored. All the rest of the guys were inside lounging in various stages of activity. Their Sniper was quietly eating a Sandwich on one end of the sofa while the Demoman occupied the other side, presumably in one of his drunken stupors. The Solider, Heavy, Scout, and Medic were engaged in a heated looking game of cards while the Spy hovered over their shoulders, making tsk noises when they drew unfavorable cards. Dell gazed at the rather peaceful scene and smiled, quite surprised to find almost the entire gang co-existing in the same room. And no blood!
Shucks, maybe he ought to try his hand at the next round of cards.
…Or, maybe be the one to disrupt the kumbayas.
Dell smirked. This was really going to be an extra serving of fun.
He cleared his throat loudly and six pairs of eyes swung around on him. He kept their attention with a mischievous grin and flash of pearly white teeth.
"Ahem," he coughed, faux embarrassment. "Whoever's black brassiere that is hanging out on the clothes line might wanna' bring it in. Reckon the sun's gonna' bleach it out if it sits there too long."
Six pairs of eyes widened in disbelief. Six mouths dropped. And Dell's grin stretched even wider.
"Some broad's got her bra hangin' up outside?" The Scout's voice cracked. Dell nodded, and the boy leapt to his feet, dashing out the wreck room and yelling "I'ma take a look!" over his shoulder. A pin dropped before the other five were each scrambling from their seats in chase, everyone but the Demoman who was still drooling obliviously on the sofa.
Dell jogged behind the wild pack of sexually-deprived men, hooting with unrestrained laughter as they spilled out onto the courtyard. Scout had his bat out and was prodding at the limply hanging clothes, searching for the black brassiere that had been hanging up mere moments before.
"Hey what the f*** man! Where's the bra?" He demanded, glaring accusingly at Dell.
Dell chuckled. "It was hangin' up right over there." He said, pointing to the spot. But the brassiere was not, in fact, hung up anymore. Dell frowned with confusion and wondered how it could have disappeared in the short moment it'd taken for him to find it and then expose it to the other guys. Did one of the them make a quick grab and run? He counted, just in case and found them all accounted for and that no one, not even the Spy was attempting to sneak off with the bra behind their back.
It was simply… gone.
"Huh, well ain't that a mystery." Dell said, ignoring the way Scout was scowling at him and the dejected sag of the other men's shoulders.
"Aw that's messed up, man!" Scout grumbled. "Prob'ly wasn't even a bra here to begin with."
Dell shrugged. "Sorry guys, I don't know what happened. Didn't mean to get your hopes up."
"Yeah what'eva. I'm outta here."
"Me too."
"Heavy's disappointed."
Dell stood ponderously in place as the courtyard emptied of its deflated occupants. He was certain there'd been a brassiere. He hadn't made it up, had he?
Naw' course not! It'd definitely been there, but then who-?
He mentally crossed off each Merc he thought capable of setting the bra out in the first place, until all who was left on his list was… Pyro?
He considered the implications seriously for a moment, before shaking his head a dismissing the weird musings completely.
Pyro. Ha!
What a silly idea.
Drabble One posted 7/6/2013
1,378 words