It's been a week, and I'm still trying to balance myself between being annoying and being too annoying. It's a fucking science.
If I'm too bad, Spy will leave, but if it's not enough, he'll just ignore me and that's even worse. When I get it just right, though?
Oh, man, it's great, and the best part of all is that I don't get bored of it. At all.
I mean, usually I'll run out of material, or steam or something and have to pull back or take a break or… something with the other guys. You can only make so many fat jokes around Heavy before getting fed up with yourself, and it's really fucking hard to stay out of Nazi territory around Medic—one bad experience with that, and you don't do it again. Ever.
With Spy, it's different, though. He can be doing something as mundane as making waffles and I've got something to say about it. There's no limits with him, nothing I can't touch.
It's fucking magic.
I started out real small, arguing with him over table conversation the night that I finished the last of my pop. It was over something stupid and small-talky, like where Spy thought the best food was, since he's probably had way more travelling than any of us. He talked about New York, Philly and Kentucky like they were the food havens of America.
"Pft. I ain't ever been to Kenfucky, but I know that New York and Phila-fucking-delphia don't have jack-shit on Boston's chowder." I snorted, tossing a pea at him across the table.
Spy rolled his eyes toward me and gave me this huge sigh like he wasn't taking me seriously. It's easy to piss someone off when it seems like just talking will get you there. "Oh? I do not particularly like chowder. Crème-based soups are not to my palate."
"Palate? The fuck are you talking about?" I made a face at him, and Spy turned to face me across the table instead of facing Engie. "That some kind of fag word for—"
"Perhaps we should set up a children's table in the corner. I am neither your teacher, parent, nor babysitter. If you cannot keep up in an adult conversation, then do not butt into them like an impudent—"
"Lemme guess, some fancy word for kid? or a French word that could mean fuck knows what?" I snorted and tossed another pea at him.
His mouth twisted in irritation as he batted the pea away from where it had bounced down next to his sleeve. "Will you really go to any length in order to have the last word?"
That just begged for an innuendo, "ew, man. Fucking gross! I don't know about you, but I get my last words all on my own." I nudged Pyro with my elbow and snickered, "length, get it, Py?"
Spy just scoffed and tapped his watch to phase out. His chair moved, and we could hear the click of his heels as he left.
I dunno what I expected, but that was the first time that Spy ran away from me. After that, I kind of started to figure out how to balance it out. Like I said, science.
I'm finally giving him a break today, though. I can't keep riding him, what if he gets burned out and stops reacting and it's not fun anymore?
I reorganize all my cards and put them back into their protective sleeves. Looking through a few of my old skin mags doesn't even help. I don't see anything that really tickles my fancy there, so that leaves me a few choices in my room and then a million choices outside.
Where Spy is.
I could always run, but I pulled a muscle yesterday hurdling the enemy fuckwad Scout, so Medic told me to take it easy for a few days or make myself respawn. Soldier offered to help me with the respawning part, but I respectfully told him where he could shove that shotgun he was fingering.
Maybe make a sandwich and then I'll feel like doing… something other than finding Spy and making fun of his accent or the way he dresses or his (probably) ugly as shit face under the mask, or… y'know. Just something else.
Spy spends a lot of time in his room, but I can hear the TV on my way to the kitchen. I glance in and see the top half of a masked head over the top of the couch. Grinning, I continue on to make a sandwich and then tiptoe in to stand behind the couch for a bit. I won't be hurting anything if I just stand here, thinking about all the shit I could do or say.
He's watching a movie in French. It looks really lame, but it has a pretty dame in it. I don't think Spy has used his super Spy-senses to notice I'm there, and I'm getting tired of standing, so I just kind of vault over the back of the couch and plop down with my feet in his lap. At least I was careful not to kick him in the back of the head. My hamstring twinges, and I hold my sandwich in my mouth while I readjust so that it's not screaming bloody murder at me. I hate pulled muscles. I wish someone on base would massage it for me, but Medic told me I would do better to just call someone from town that gets paid by the hour.
He's kind of a dick like that.
"Scout, get your feet off of me. Actually, no—Scout, go away." Spy doesn't even look at me, just pushes at my feet while his eyes stay focused on the screen. Apparently he's really into the movie.
"What are they saying?" I ask, picking up a word here and there, but: "A blah in the blah, if blah blah, is a blah laugh. It's true. There's a blah…" doesn't really… y'know, work in an entertaining sense.
"They're telling you to get the fuck out." He glances at me, and I see his jaw clench.
"Well, at least my socks are clean." I keep my feet right where they are, and take a bite of my sandwich. I brush some crumbs on my shirt off onto the floor. He makes a disgusted noise and finally turns from the TV to glare at me.
"Get your feet off of me before I remove them from you." His tone is supposed to scare me, but for some reason it just gets my blood pumping.
I grin and shift so that my feet are farther in his lap. "Hey, hey, I you think mean 'for' me, right? Doncha know English?"
"No." His hand reaches into his jacket and his knife clickety-clacks into the open. "From… as in no longer attached."
"Okay, okay… Jeez!" I finally draw my legs back enough that they're not in his lap, and part my knees so I can still see him. "So what're the fags on the TV sayin'?"
"I've been meaning to ask you—what happened to our agreement?" He's annoyed, but he doesn't really seem pissed about me using the word "fag," which is kind of weird, because fags usually find it offensive. Come to think of it, every other time I used it last week, I was also saying something else that he might have been pissed off at too. Dammit, I totally thought that "fag" was an instant-piss-off for Spy.
"Pft," I sit up and stretch forward to put my sandwich on the coffee table. "I thought Spies didn't trust anyone." I lean back and watch him turn back to the TV. "That's why you wear these, right?" I lean over and pop the edge of his mask with my index finger.
I can't help but notice as I lean closer that he smells good. I can't really place what it is about the brief whiff that I like, but it's just… really nice. Probably just 'cause it's expensive as shit cologne.
His hand snaps up and grips my wrist hard, and he finally turns from the TV again to stare me straight in the eye.
"Do not ever touch my mask again, boy. I wanted to be left alone for a reason. Please, for the last time, go away." His voice is firm, but it doesn't make me want to leave. I just wanna keep him talking, even as his hand tightens painfully around my wrist.
"Why are you being so bitchy? You got a man period or something going?"
"No, I simply do not like you, and wish to be left alone to my movie."
I give him a pout for that stinger and try to yank my arm away. No dice. "Huh. What's it about?"
He finally lets my wrist go and starts talking in really fast French. I think it's impossible for him to sound angry when he's speaking it. I eventually give up on him saying anything I can understand and put up my hands defensively. "Whoa whoa whoa, I took French in school, but I didn't take French. I was just in it for the chicks."
"And how did that work for you?" He rolls his eyes and turns back to the TV again.
"Better than it worked for this one guy I knew—his name was Rickie, he was a grade A asshole."
"Hmm… that's a boy named in your file." I think he finally realizes right here that I won't go away unless I get some conversation.
"Aw, man, did I just break contract? I was doing so fucking well…" I sigh and lean over to scoop up my sandwich.
"No, it's okay to name the dead. That's why his name wasn't marked out in your file. While it wouldn't have meant anything to most people reading it, least of all myself."
I just sit there for a moment, munching and nodding in thought.
"Yeah, dude had it coming though, let me tell you—"
"I'd really prefer that you didn—"
"There was this one kid named Jaime—"
"Scout, I am not above removing your tongue." He grits out, and I decide I might have overstepped a bit. I take a bite of sandwich to try and backtrack back into the happy-talking-Spy realm instead of I-will-stab-whatever-part-of-you-is-annoying-me-Spy.
He clears his throat after a bit of an uncomfortable silence and I look at him as he sighs and shrugs. "I didn't read it very thoroughly. You read one Scout's background, you've read them all." He smiles craftily and turns his head to look me in the eye. "Hooligans and hoodlums, the lot of you."
"Hey, hey, I'm not just some Scout, man." I toss my sandwich back down on the table and get ready to tell him just who the fuck he's dealing with. "I'm the best damn Scout you've ever seen. You want someone to run fast? You don't call me. You want someone to run really fucking fast? Then you call me." He scoffs, but I keep going, moving my hands while I talk, trying to get him to understand something. I'm not here because I killed a guy. I'm here because I killed a guy and because I was on Track and Field scholarships to one of the best private schools in the fucking country. They just let me into Baseball because I kicked ass in that too, and that worked out fine for me. That's what I'd been aiming for all along. "You want a fucker to jump? Pft, lots of guys can jump pretty high with a little athletics training—look at all of you mooks." I motion to him and then toward the door. I notice Pyro leaning on the doorjamb and watching us, but I've finally got Spy's attention, so I'm not going to give it up. "Me?" My index fingers flick toward my face, "I'm built for fucking flight, man. You want a chump that can swing a bat? I've been swinging one my whole damn life. Sometimes at heads, mostly at baseballs, and occasionally a kneecap is mixed in. Point is, no one can do my job better than me. No one."
"Fascinating… did you run from the police when they arrested you for murdering your own classmate?"
He catches me kind of off guard, but I shrug it off and thumb my nose as I settle back down. If they've got anything in my file about Rickie, that bit would have to be in there. "Nah, that'd just be trouble for my Ma." I shift around and put my feet back up in Spy's lap again when my hammy starts to tense up again. He shoves them off and onto the coffee table. Right into the middle of my sandwich.
"Do it again, and my knife will sever your Achilles tendon."
"Dunno what that is, but it sounds important." I pout and move my feet off my sandwich. " Achilles was a pretty awesome guy, though."
"You have seen the films, then?" I can feel him rolling his eyes at me as I lean forward to examine the squished remains of my sandwich.
"Nah," I finally pick it up and give it another look over before taking a bite. He grunts in disgust, and I take another one to make my point. "I read a lot of books in prison." I tell him through a mouthful of sandwich. "They were alright, some were kinda hard to get into, but they were better than staring at the wall or trying to bulk up using the cell as a gym, y'know?" Bulking would just fuck up my running. I can only do so much cardio before I get bored, and they only allowed us an hour of yard time.
"No, I don't, I have never had the misfortune of getting caught."
"Hey, I didn't 'get caught,' I like… gave myself up. There's a difference."
"Of course there is…" He sighs and stands and I glance over to see the credits rolling. "It's all yours. Don't follow me if you want to keep your little feet in working order."
"Hey, hey, they're not little."
He just chuckles as he disappears through the door.
I smile a little and take a deep breath to yell after him, "I totally got the last word—a chuckle doesn't count!"
As I sit there alone, a guy comes on the TV and starts talking in English about how great French cinema is and how it really took huge steps during blah blah blah… I sigh and eat the rest of my sandwich as another movie comes on. The spot where Spy was sitting is warm against my shoulders, and I rest my head on the armrest. Just now, I felt a little closer to Spy, kind of like I'm not just being a bratty nuisance anymore. Like just now he might have liked me being here, just a little bit. Besides the whole threatening to remove my legs thing, anyway. I mean, I know without a doubt that I've been nothing but a brat for the past few weeks, but he just seriously let me sit here and talk.
It was… really cool of him. Y'know?
As the opening credits finish, I remember the reason I never learned anything in French class. The characters have barely said ten words before my eyes start to get heavy, and my sandwich drops to the carpet as I fall fast asleep.
:::::
I don't know what wakes me up, but it isn't the hand on my shoulder. Maybe it was the change in the air—the scent of smoke that I'm starting to get familiar with. I know what I'll see before I even open my eyes. Unamused blue eyes set in pale skin and surrounded by the thin fabric of Spy's mask.
"Shit…" I croak, feeling like I've just woken up after only a few minutes of sleep. "What the fuck, man?" I whine and yawn at the same time, wanting to go back to sleep, clutching at a dream I might or might not have been having.
"If you would like to sleep, do so in your own room. Pyro has been keeping the rest of the team out of here for hours."
"Mn…" I groan and sit up, noticing that there's a blanket over me. "Hours?"
He just nods and takes a draw on his cigarette. "Might I suggest you move to your own room? Again."
"Yeah… okay…" My feet barely miss the rest of my sandwich, and I wonder if I should pick it up or not before I notice the disapproving look Spy is giving me. I scoop it up and he doesn't really give an approving nod, but it's better than the feeling that he'll get pissy if I don't pick it up.
He's probably being a dick because Pyro's been playing guard dog while I sleep.
I pat Py's head on my way out of the common room. It says something and I give it a thumbs up before hearing the squeak of its boots as it runs into the common room. Curses and taunts follow me down the hall as the rest of the guys file into the room to watch TV or play cards, but I feel too out of it to really make some good comebacks.
Fuck.
I collapse on my bed and pull my covers up, staring at the ceiling.
I can't sleep now that I've got that nap in, and I turn my head to look at the pictures of Zoe and I on my bedside table.
In one of them she's kissing my cheek, and another she's shoving my face away when I tried to get a peck on the lips. Women.
Even though there's a lot of hubris on that thought, I'm still smiling like an idiot. God, if all that shit hadn't gone down, we might be married or something dumb right now. I don't know how I'd have afforded a ring. Maybe just given her something fake until I made it someplace.
Could have been in the 'Leagues with two years of college under me. Could have been starting my third year and changed my plans from being a pro ball player to doing something like being a physical trainer, or lawyer, or… or… something.
Fuck.
I kick off my covers and grab my shoes, almost all in the same movement. I can't stay still, I have to move.
So I leave the base and take off running.
The muscle in my injured leg hurts like a bitch, but I ignore it and keep going. Eventually, the sharp pulling fades to just a dull ache, and I can deal with it.
I don't know how many laps I get in, but by the time I finally sit down and turn the water faucet on, the sky looks like a fucking rainbow in the west, dark blue fades through the motions until the pink and reds following the sun end the cycle. It's the kind of thing I'd watch through bars and wish Rickie had never existed.
I lie down with my head under the faucet, holding my breath. I turn my face to the side when my lungs can't take it anymore, but my face is still hot as shit from running around in the fucking desert. I gasp for breath, trying not to drown myself in the process, and the water cuts off when I choke on accident.
"Boy, I know you ain't too bright, but there's easier ways to take care of a pulled muscle."
I turn my head to look up at Engie, and my hair squelches in the mud. "Wasn't tryin' to." I tell him, sitting up and shaking my head. I hear him curse when water and mud get slung at him, and his left hand hits the back of my head. Mainly because if he'd used his right, I probably would have gone through respawn, and that shit's hard enough when you're expecting to die.
"Well, get up and get washed. Dinner'll be ready soon." He offers his hand and I take it, levering myself up and then falling back down again when my leg gives out.
"Well, thanks for trying, Hardhat." I grumble, waving my hand at his offer of help again and taking a deep breath. "This is what I get for not listening to Medic—go ahead and respawn me." I keep my eyes down, watching my fingers fumble with each other.
He sighs, and I hear the button on his pistol holster click open. My heart races with the anticipation of it, and then there's some pain, but he's too close to miss anything vital, and gives me a quick death.