Author's Note: WOO! Chapter Two! Things are coming right along and (hopefully) the plot is coming together, slowly but surely. Thanks for all those loving souls who came by, and an especially huge thanks to the super talented ChaosandMayhem for reviewing.
Disclamer: You all know the drill. I don't own these guys.
Chapter one
"There is something wrong with that kid," Soldier rumbled, watching from under his helmet as Scout somewhat dragged himself across the dirt pit that served as the courtyard for the RED facilities.
"Hmmmm?" Beside him, an already slightly inebriated Demoman sat on an abandoned crate, a six-pack of beers between them. "Wossat, boyo?"
Soldier snorted and pushed his helmet back on his head. "Well there is. Lookit him. He's sulking. More than usual, anyway." He gestured with his cigar to the skinny, short figure practically dragging itself across to the main building.
The dark-skinned man watched, but simply snorted at his drinking company and leaned back against the supply shed, tipping the remainder of his beer into his mouth in one swallow. "So? Jus' means 'e's been pesterin' somewone an' they've given 'im th' boot. Y'ken how he gits on cease-fires. As fidgety as a cod-fish, tha'un."
Sol shook his head and puffed on his cigar. "It's something else. I can feel it in my shovel."
Demo snorted again, and replaced his empty bottle with a full one. "Sure."
"It is!" the blocky veteran snapped, the straps on his helmet twitching. "He's been sneaking around, have you noticed? Barely here at night anymore."
The Scot, still disbelieving anything was wrong with Scout save for him being loud and generally grating on the nerves, popped the cap from his beer and laughed. "Ye soun' like a worried Auntie, Sol."
Under his helmet, Soldier's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched suspiciously as Scout paused by the door and kicked it, loudly, before disappearing inside. Absently, he reached out and took the beer Demoman had just opened for himself. Completely oblivious to the other man's angry stare, he took a pull. "I smell treason. Or worse, a Spy!" A growl rumbled deep in his chest and Demo braced himself for a night's worth of ranting about non-existent spies and funny-acting Bostonians. He cuffed the Soldier's head, causing his helmet to slide all the way down to his nose. "Ah, shaddup, ya rabid ol' watchdog. Yon boyo's no spy, ye ken? Yer jus' as fidgety as him!"
The helmet was flicked back up with an automatic gesture. "If that's the case, tell me when the last time you heard him whine about being bored was."
He opened his mouth to reply, his grin wide. But then it faded. Solider, not always known for his observation skills, had identified a very strange thing indeed. Scout, not complaining about having nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon. That was downright strange. Maybe there was something wrong with him.
...
They had been drunk. Impressively, spectacularly drunk. The kind of drunk that only happens not when you sit down to get good and plastered, but the other kind. The kind that happens when long, rambling talks are being had, and no one actually pays attention to just how much alcohol they've been consuming. It was the kind of drinking that led to thoughts being formed, questions posed, and plans made.
Plans and questions that were understandably not on Soldier's mind when he woke to the solid, simple agony of a hangover. His head pounded with mortar fire, his stomach rolled, and his back was screaming from having fallen asleep sitting up. With a groan, he made to clutch at his head, and somehow, he lost his balance. He slid to the side, ending up in a fetal position on the concrete floor...concrete. Not the softish, acrid dust that covered everything left outside more than an hour. Braving the painful light of day, he inched one eye open, and blearily identified the brown and grey...thing in front of him as the plywood and cinder-block television stand. Engineer was always meaning to fix the original, but that particular project got left by the wayside. Huh.
Slowly, painfully, and rather like his father's curmudgeonly old farm truck, Soldier's brain got to working again. The gears inside his head shrieked, caught briefly, and then meshed and started grinding their way along to thought. If there was the television stand, then there would be a television on it. And if there was a television, then they were in the rec room. Somehow or another, they had ended up in there. He couldn't quite remember what transpired after the Scot had made that third six-pack appear, They probably hadn't walked here themselves.
Content to lie on the cold floor and beg his hangover away, Soldier was not expecting a loud groan from the area vaguely behind him. The noise sounded like nails dragging along a mile-long chalk board to his pounding head. Privately, he wondered if he was getting too old for this type of thing. Outwardly, he did anything he could to stop the awful racket, which included pressing his hands solidly to his ears and kicking out with his left leg. There was a change in pitch from the groan, from agonized to agonized and pissed off, and he heard Demoman swearing in a nearly continuous grumble.
There was some shuffling and groaning, and then it was blissfully, wonderfully quiet again. He could hear Demo's breathing even out, and realized that he was sleeping. He too was starting to get a little tired, the headache less, and happily let himself doze off on the rec room floor.
It lasted all of perhaps ten minutes before the door burst open like the crack of doom, swinging on it's rusted hinges. Footsteps. Then one supple-soled sneaker came out and prodded Soldier on his elbow. Soldier decided to ignore it, and after a moment there came another, harder, prod. The older man growled and tucked himself tighter to defend his slumber. There was a pause, and then someone started to laugh. It was a high-pitched, snort-punctuated cackle that could only come from one person.
This time, when the prod came it was much harder and accompanied by the question, "Hey. Hahaha. Hey, youse alive down thea, Solly?"
Soldier growled again, "Goddamnit Scout!" His hand shot out, but the boy danced nimbly out of reach, still laughing. "Shut up, Private! Yer killin' me!" The agony was slightly les agonizing this time, and he ventured to open one eye and glare at the subject of last night's heavy debate.
"Shouddn'a drank so much, old man," came the reply, and once more, the toe of a shoe came out and poked lightly at his fingers. He was quicker, but still Scout hopped back, laughing.
By that time Demoman had woken again, to the sound of his drinking buddy's torment. Blindly, he felt for his flask, which was nowhere in reach. "Ach! Away w'ye, beastie," he groused, half sitting up. The sharp-faced young man was half-squatting, just out of arms reach with the flask dangling from his fingers. "Lookin' fa this, pal?"
Demo made to lunge, but Scout stood, smirked, and set the flask on the card table. "There ya go. Nice an' safe up thea, huh?"
He grinned down at the pair of them, hands on his hips, and Demo couldn't place what it was, but Scout looked different. Off, somehow. Well, not that it mattered right then. That wee little beast had taken his flask and didn't seem inclined to give it back. In fact, he was poking at the scree of papers that always ended up on the table, not really paying much attention to the two hung over men on the floor, but muttering to himself. As Demoman glared at him, willing him to return the silver bottle of salvation, the kid found what he was looking for, folded it up, and tucked it in his back pocket.
He turned to go, and the Scot glared harder and cast about for something to throw, if need be. "Give tha' back," he demanded.
Scout grinned. "Ah…no. Sorry, man." His smile abruptly died when Soldier's helmet sliced past him, and he jumped to avoid it. "Shit! Jeeez-us, ya an angry drunk!" It was his turn to glare at the smirking Cyclops. Scowling now, Scout swatted the flask off the table. "Fine. Whatever. I got places ta be, anyway. …Friggin' damn hung over bastahds in the damn rec room…"
His muttering and the loud stomping of his feet disappeared down the corridor, and a slip of paper fluttered down through the air. Demo chuckled to himself and took a healthy pull of the Scumby's inside, and felt immediately better. "Liddle brat," he mumbled, moving to sit up properly. He froze, then, his muddled brain finally registering why Scout had looked so odd. The little demon had been wearing proper slacks and an honest-to-God tie. He groaned, wondering what in the hell was going on with that kid.
...
Nearly an hour later Soldier had woken up again, and noticed exactly what Demo – by this time freshly showered and slumped over a cup of coffee in the mess hall—had. That when the brat had tormented them earlier he had worn proper clothes, and not his usual half-assed baseball uniform type thing. It made the man stagger upright grab his helmet from where it had been behind the couch, and rush out to find his co-conspirator. And coffee. And perhaps some aspirin. But mostly Demoman.
Enough was known about the Scottish man for Soldier to check the mess first, and upon clapping eyes on him, started to flail inarticulately about the morning. "Scout… maggot… tie-wea—"
"Aye…I ken, laddie," Demoman interrupted him, cutting him off neatly and watching him slump in frustration. He pushed out a chair with his foot, and Soldier settled into it. "That kid is up to somethin'," he grumbled. "Probably a damn spy."
Something occurred to Demoman as he stared into the dregs of his coffee cup. Something that made him feel stupid for not thinking about before. It would explain the odd behavior, the way he was disappearing every night, hell it would even explain the damn tie. And, he added mentally, the reason the kid had gone to Sunday service, as the paper he'd dropped on his way out that morning proved. He smirked, then chuckled, then laughed gruffly.
"Scout's no spy, laddie. He's got a girl."
A/N: TAADAA! Hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to review on your way out!
