It's true, romance is dead. Scout watches it get shot through the head and the heart.
It's only getting hotter and the fights are only getting nastier, and who knows what the Intel contains, but when Scout got cornered by a Spy bearing a rose, and a smirk that he recognised, he never even realised the BLU's knew.
He didn't even see the knife, and yet, the dead BLU Spy has the weapon outstretched, the rose in his other hand. He folds, pathetically, and slumps onto the ground without so much as a groan.
Scout hears somebody tutting. "My dear american," Spy says, with a charming smile. He emerges at Scout's back, and holds him close. "You are so naïve,"
-
Scout has never felt ashamed of what he does. He says he likes his choices fine. Of course he does.
He never considered them as sins.
The BLU Scout has shorter, darker hair. Looks meaner, thinner, starved, but hungry for all the wrong things anyway. But goddamn, he's strong, and Scout is pretty sure his left leg has been broken by the twitch of an aluminium bat. He's held up against the wall by his throat. The world shimmers, but he can breathe for the most part.
What he can't tolerate is the hot breath in his ear. Sounds just like his Id, incarnate and fierce and strong –Jesus, stronger than Scout ever imagined.
"C'mon, sweetheart," The BLU croons like a serpent-charmer. The threat of his gun is present, but his words confuse Scout's memory of the Salient: of what his enemy is really after. The blood is running thick down his leg. Shards of bone are cracked like marble at the ankle, and every now and then he has to put weight on it not to choke. "I heard you liked all of this,"
The assumption is almost as repugnant as the BLU Scout himself: Scout sees everything he doesn't want to and rears back against the wood. He has nowhere to go. "Get fuck-" With a dull malice, the BLU Scout strokes the compound fracture with the tip of his bat and grins.
"You wanna know what else I heard?" He grins. "Only thing easier than dyin' is you." The BLU Scout decides as he tears through his lower lip with a menacing geniality. But he's doing a fine job of holding Scout in place, taking him on a waltz of hypocrisy. "Least, that's what they say,"
Right now, Scout would rather die than call out for anybody. He always thought is deadly sin was pride.
He's assaulted once more with a smile he knows a little too well. "An' they say mothers prefer doctors, an' lawyers." A laugh. "But other than that, he's clean-lookin' and respectable-lookin', and I heard you got a real appreciation for a natural man,"
Scout spits at him. He doesn't have to listen to this. "I said, blow me-"
BLU Scout swings hard with intent and the world becomes even shinier. He can taste iron and the mistake creeping up his throat. By the neck, he's dragged back to standing.
"'Sept I heard you fucked 'em all," BLU Scout drinks in every displeasure, as if it serves as his only purpose. The smell of fear, and blood seems to thrill him more than Scout's sins of the flesh ever could. "Heard you ain't even fussy. When they get lonely or homesick,they come callin', but don't come near you after-"
Scout remembers Medic's face, closed to everything. He thinks about Sniper –about the word 'fine' and feels that burn n his chest that feels like betrayal -feels Spy's touch become cold and mocking. It chokes him harder than the fist closed around his throat.
He thrusts forward with a great surge of energy and catches BLU Scout on the temple with his brow. It hurts like a bitch, and everything greys for a minute, slowing in the other direction. Even though he can't see, he can hear the swearing, and he tries to feel around for a the bat, or a pistol: anything but his hands.
The gun is cold and he drops it once, before scrambling on his stomach towards it. The BLU is fierce and incredibly angry. The boy's nose is broken, and he comes at Scout with such malice, like every breath is a personal offence: it's scary.
Scout fires wildly. He misses the first two shots, but manages to get enough shots into the kid's chest that he chokes, and drops, and doesn't get up.
The room is smoky and smells like gunshot, nerves and treachery. He scrawls over to the far wall and takes in deep breaths. It's not usually this nasty. He isn't usually kept alive that long. The adrenaline from the pain and from so many near-misses, even for today, make Scout feel very nervous, and very light-headed.
That would have been fine –normal, even, if the BLU Scout hadn't pulled that line. 'Mothers prefer doctors and lawyers'. He thinks about his own mother, and then about himself. What is he?
The blood runs lukewarm on the ground. He's a muse, a passion of the pistol. He is everything BLU Scout of accused him of, and worse: he's a liar. How can he face Medic like this? Without explanation or reason, without anything to his name. How can he face any of them?
Scout knows that respawn will have the enemy Scout on him with renewed hatred. He reloads the pistol and leans hard against the wall.
He's never really felt ashamed of himself. Even when he doesn't like his choices, he sticks with them, because nobody ever got punished for lust, right? He aligns the pistol on his temple and sighs. Maybe he's a sinner, but the water will wash it all away, and tomorrow morning, he will resurrect himself in every little death another man enjoys.
Scout dies with a smile on his face.
-
The day wears on. Evening comes with the disappointment of failure.
It's a taste Scout isn't too familiar with, and one he doesn't like. At times like these, it would be easy, he thinks, to go on a witch hunt, and blame any one member of the team for the failure, but there's a surprising, and almost begrudging sense of solidarity among them.
The first time Scout ever got caught with another member of the team, Soldier had said 'they might be faggots, but they're RED faggots, and that's all I'm instructed to care about'. It remains, to the day, one of the nicest and most powerful gestures Scout has seen.
The showers run in complete silence. Every mercenary is, to different degrees, worn down. Sniper has spider-web cuts all over him, most likely from the enemy spy. Even Heavy is sporting some kind of bruise, despite how difficult it is to get near him. They're superficial, and respawn usually cleans them off the next day, but it adds to the feel of resignation. There are no speeches or discussions, or even vague acknowledgements of the fight at all, really.
Scout is damn glad for it.
And he knows he shouldn't pay anything BLU any mind at all, for they'd only mean to use him, but the more he thinks on it, the more true it is. And when he dries off in the locker room, already stung-stained with disappointment over the day, he can feel them watching him. It isn't with a want, or a fondness. He dresses fast and tries to pay it no mind.
At the back of his locker, that just catches his eyes before he swings it shut, is something small and bright. Scout isn't the tallest member of the team, but he isn't the smallest, either. H climbs to his toes and reaches in, fumbling until he pulls out a packet of cigarettes –and nice ones, too, with a single red ribbon around them.
He mumbles, "Asshole," but his breathing is saying something different that he hopes nobody can hear. Scout isn't the sort of boy you get presents for, but then again, he never made to buy anybody flowers, so he can't complain. The surprise makes him blush a little. The first time he met Spy, the man was arrogant and aloof and chose his words a little too carefully, and Scout had said he would pity the fool that fell for him.
But Scout doesn't feel pity. It's something else: like a mixture of complacency and concern. Why is it always a mixture?
Still, Scout doesn't linger. Being melancholy and pensive and quiet gets old very quickly, and it's not his time or speed. His worry is having Medic confront him in front of them all. Scout doesn't like secrets, he isn't supposed to, but now he has to. Even in his mind, no decision has been reached. Not really. Half of him is still waiting for them to turn around and laugh at his fears –to tell him this has all been a joke, and he can go back to living his life.
He leaves the locker room with an unlit cigarette between his lips. He doesn't want to think. He just wants to smoke. They get moved around enough, to all different kinds of places, and Scout would blush to think about complaining, but if he doesn't get out from under the eyes of his teammates occasionally, Scout knows he'll go crazier than a shithouse rat.
Lost in concentration, he doesn't resister the voice in his ear until it's very loud. A gentle hand is on his arm.
"You going my way?" He turns, still half-dazed, and sees Sniper, in just a white vest. His face is healthy with colour and open. He looks right through Scout and at something else, which has apparent worth. Scout's mouth opens, and then closes. "Want a light?"
Scout makes a noise of approval. He finds it a little ironic that in the mornings everybody mobs spy for a half-second of flame, when Pyro is stalking about with what is, essentially, a giant lighter. Though, Scout would like to think he's a little smarter than to put his face near it. It hits him once more that if his decision if final, and he wants to –well, if he wants to do anything for this kid, he probably shouldn't smoke, or drink.
Sniper looks too good to refuse tonight.
They walk out to the overhang in moderate silence, and Scout sees two posts and some hastily-erected tape standing there like some kind of safety net. It's a nice gesture, but there's something also nasty underlying in it. Still not speaking, he looks out at the vastness of nothing and sighs. The sooner they get moved to another outpost, the better. It's too hot here, and there's too much of his own blood lying around.
Sniper looks conflicted. He pulls a face, and takes the cigarette from his mouth. All he says is, "Are you angry with me?" In this quiet voice. And usually, Scout doesn't mind that Sniper can be like this, but he's tired and he doesn't have the patience for this puppy-dog bullshit today.
So Scout sighs sharply and says. "Well, you oughtta know if you did somethin' wrong,"
Sniper stands straighter, physically affected by Scout's words. He thinks too much. He is too much. "You're angry with me, because of Spy," he spits the words like another man's poison, but his method of expressing care towards Scout is so much more toxic.
Scout tips his ash on to the wood. "I don't hafta listen to this," He says, eyes cast downward.
Sniper is staring hard at him. "I didn't have to do that –hell, I didn't want t-"
"I never asked for your freakin' help, okay!?" Scout whirls on his, his eyes like warnings because he's tired, and he's sick of having to wade through every conversation they have waist-deep in sniper's 'good intent', and his best intentions and want for something more. He looks at Scout like he sees something more, and it's sweet, but it's superstition. In his eyes, Scout is a false god, by no doing of his own.
He crushes the cigarette on the wall and grimaces. "I ain't a kid. Believe it or not, I can handle Spy jus' fine,"
Sniper is faster, and isn't hurt as easily as Scout thought. The man is so used to being alone, and he's seen more of the world, experienced more of the world. Scout shouldn't mean a thing to him, it should be trivial, superfluous, irrelevant-...
"I have no trouble believing that," Sniper says. "You're a prize wanker-" Scout gives him a bemused look. "You are. And it's not hard to believe that I might be a little-..." Aloof? Infuriating? Scout puts one arm akimbo and tried to look as unfeeling as possible.
"A little?" he's a little slow, for want of prompting. Sniper rolls his eyes, and maybe he's embarrassed about something. Probably of Scout: but that's okay.
In a tiny voice. "Jealous."
Scout explodes into graceless and abrasive laughter. He thinks about cheap wine, and fucking Spy against a wall, the side of a door, rough and unceremonious in his satin sheets. Little he knows, but his assumptions are enormous. It's unfair to laugh, and he does right himself eventually, trying to suppress the curl of his smile.
Sniper throws the corpse of his own cigarette at Scout's feet and looks very despondent. "Wanker," He mutters, and even laugh Scout is still laughing, just a little, he makes his way over to Sniper, and puts his arms around him. He allows himself whatever pleasures comes from the moment, none like what he's used to, but something different. Scout feels warmer, and comforted. Less world-weary, all of a sudden.
"Y'know," Scout says, because he's always saying something. "When I first came here, I was kinda creeped out by you,"
Sniper isn't too impressed with the quality of conversation.
"What?" Scout shoots him a look. "I mean, you never spoke to anybody an' you'd lived in the yardback-"
"Outback,"
"Whatever," The boy rolls his eyes. "I mean, you threw jars of piss at people. What was I supposed to think?"
It hits Scout he should probably, even implicitly, say something about the situation they're in. He loves denial as much as the next guy, but Scout's fully aware that he can bury his head in the sand for the nest nine months and hope nobody else will notice. Just this morning, Scout passed a mirror and thought he was looking a little less starved.
Sniper chuckles. He rubs the top of Scout's back, between his shoulderblades. "Do you still think that I'm a scary aborigine that's a million years old?" It gets a laugh, but Scout sees through the translucency of the jest and what he sees makes him sad.
"Naw, man." He mumbles into Sniper's shoulder. "I think you're really handsome an' shit."
He swallows.
"I figured for a long time you'd be married. Y'know-" It's so difficult to vocalise. Part of Scout wants to hand him a scientific ecumenist and ask for his signature but he can't, so he has to dance around lexis and semantics. "House, babies, the whole thing."
He feels the shoulder he's leaning against rise and fall. "I've been tellin' people 'someday' for too long now,"
Scout shrugs. "Well, ya never know."
And suddenly he doesn't feel very warm at all.
-
After another week and a half of losses and artful evasion, Scout resigns to see Medic.
This is only after being chased down, quite literally. Scout could feel those eyes on him at every meal, every coinciding respawn, every shower. Now, Medic is pretty intimidating as it is, but he's even harder to hide from. No corner of the battlefield is safe from him –hell, no scrap of Teufort is not under his tyranny. He has torn cigarettes from between Scout's pretty lips more than once.
And even though Medic famously said it wasn't his decision, he seems to be calling the shots.
He sits, once more with his precious papers, and a drink of the stiff sort, as Scout stands in front of his desk, like a scolded child. He feels in his pocket for the gift packet of cigarettes, a sweet gesture from Spy, who picks his moments. He fumbles for one and puts it between his lips, boredly.
Before he can even snap the zippo lighter on, Medic clears his throat. "If you light that, I can guarantee you a watschen."
Now, Scout doesn't know what a wastchen is, but he knows well enough when Medic is being playful, and when he wouldn't hesitate to grab Scout by the collar and deliver the mother of all watschens. So he slips the lighter back into his pocket and perches himself on the edge of the desk. This has been a long time coming.
Scout jams his fists into his pockets and rocks a little. "I thought you'd be happy about this, Doc. I thought you wanted kids and-"
Medic takes another nip of whatever he's drinking, still half-reading. He shakes his head.
"If you have made this decision based on what you think will please me, I beg you to reconsider." Now, the role of lord and master does suit Medic in a way, but Scout doesn't much like being talked to like this. In his head, there were streamers and music and smiles. It was supposed to be like a ticker-tape parade, but instead, he's in a dark office, being ordered about. He swings his legs and shrugs. Medic gives him a hard look and sighs.
"This is important." He says, slowly, as if Scout is somehow struggling to understand his native language. "It will undoubtedly affect you for the rest of your life." A small, tight smile. "I think you can afford to be selfish."
Scout is still waiting to be convinced. Ma convinced him to signing up for RED, Spy convinced him into sex, he was convinced by so many things just to be here. This isn't the first decision Scout wants to make, and to be honest, one he thought he'd never have to. What if there's a wrong answer? How can he distinguish between the two?
He looks at Medic, helplessly, fearfully. He wants to be set free of all of this.
"Why didn't you come, before?" The question is asked in a gentle, but certain voice. "Something must have changed your mind."
He can't say. For the first time, Scout is at a genuine loss for words. He doesn't want to be alone. Never. It's his worst fear, but it sounds childish even to him, so to have to declare it aloud would confirm Scout's fears that he really is shallow, and worthless and embarrassing. He's scared that his enemy knows him better than he does: and he would rather crawl to Medic's bones than sleep alone.
So he shrugs, again, and Medic takes another drink. Like clockwork.
After a while, Medic breaks the silence. "I have a proposal,"
Scout is certain it isn't the kind of proposal he's thinking of. If he says that, Medic will laugh at him, so he just nods, mutely. Palms exposed. He makes a point of it.
"Like a versuch –trial, for you." He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. Without them, he looks very different. Maybe that's because Scout can't divorce them from Medic as a whole. He looks so much more...normal. Like he's lost part of himself in losing them. He has wonderful eyes. "I will give you a full examination, and give you all of the information you require on continuing with this pregnancy." He nods to himself. "I will do this for four weeks."
Scout looks at him hard. "An' then?"
"Then you must decide." He says. Scout's whole body tenses up. He swallows hard and looks at his shoes. It's real, all of a sudden. This abstract, implausible concept has physical presence. It made Scout sick for weeks, and yet, he feels obliged, or that he has some kind of duty. There's no help from anywhere; he'll go to hell before he breathes a word of this to Spy, and Sniper is too savvy to believe anything Scout says in honest.
He nods without saying a word, because if he were to speak right now, he'd choke, and sound even more pathetic than he looks.
He feels a warm hand on his shoulder, and Medic is actually smiling to him, holding sympathy out like a lifeline. "I should give you a watschen now for getting into all of this mess, spatz,"
He doesn't give Scout a watschen. He shouts at him, when Scout tries to light just one cigarette, but lets the boy have the solitary smoke without the raising of any hand.
When the moment have passed, and enough reality has been digested, he takes charge once more. Scout doesn't mind: he doesn't think he's stable enough right now to be calling any shots, regardless of what side of the gun he stands on. He's nervous, though, for whatever reason. At first, Scout figures he's being silly. At least, until medic gives him that winning smile and flicks the end of a needle gently.
"I only have to give you three vaccines," He promises. When it's said like that, it might as well be a beach holiday to the tropics. But, of course, one of those doesn't usually involve this much complaining or difficulty. Scout shakes his head.
"But I ain't sick,"
Medic rolls his eyes like he's heard it all before. Not that he hasn't, but it's still a little insensitive. "That's not why we administer vaccines," he says, plainly. "And it's not for you,"
Scout gives him a nervous glance and stammers a little. "How are you going to get to-"
It's stressful enough to have to listen to Scout. He sighs, and allows himself a small snigger. "Perhaps we could leave the science to me." He says. "Please, smoke up if it will quiet you,"
At first, the questions are endearing. This late into the evening, with the day Medic has had, this stops pretty quickly. The boy lounges on the examination table, yawning slightly, staring unhelpfully as Medic wheels in heavy machines that he didn't think he'd be touching again so soon.
"What's that?" He continues about his work, now assembling them, making sure not to overload any sockets, making sure he still remembers how everything works. Scout's voice is crisp as thunder when he speaks up. "What's that?" He sounds a little more determined now.
Medic grumbles. "Ultrasound."
Scout blinks at him. "Does it hurt?"
Well, at least his heart's in it. The evening must be transitioning to morning, and he hasn't gotten much rest. Their losses will only keep increasing. He takes a bottle of water-based gel, aware of how little of anything he has. "Not a bit, spatz,"
"An' what does it do?" Scout laughs, nervously. "I do trust you, Doc, but I ain't never done anything like this before." he is scared. That must be the first moment Medic actually realises it, and Scout forgives him for spending a life misunderstand people.
Scout knows people are more complicated than Medic's silly little microbes, but he keeps quiet. They're both tired enough.
The great machine whirs into life. The sound scares Scout some more. The promise of no pain doesn't put him entirely at ease, but it's the best he can do. He tries to relax, because that might affect something, and he doesn't want to annoy Medic anymore.
"Could you remove your shirt, bitte?" He complies without a word, propped up on his palms, looking at Medic like he'd follow him into oblivion.
Scout has always liked the way he looks. He has captivated the older gentlemen using them, and so many blushing girls and red-faced boys. Scout likes his choices, sometimes, and he likes his body. Now if the first time he doesn't. He feels a little bit like a prisoner, now, because Medic isn't looking at him with desire, but with something Scout wholeheartedly rejects as a concept.
He says nothing when Medic places a large, soft palm on his abdomen and nods, always taking notes. The change is pretty slight, and it's not obvious to those who don't see Scout's body so often. But he notices the slight swell. He supposes it's only going to get worse.
Then comes the cold. Scout's whole body curls in, and he shivers. "Dammnit, Doc, you could have warned me," He says, bitterly, trying once more to relax. "What the hell is this stuff?"
Medic tuts, and picks up what really can only be described as a paint-roller in appearance. A little smaller, and not covered in some obscene colour for the shed in the back garden. He's very reluctant to have all of these mystery substances and pieces of equipment on him at once, but Medic seems to know what he's going, and Scout trusts that enough.
A series of vague, monochrome etchings appear on a small screen nearest Medic, and he seems to use that as a reference in his movements. Scout squints his way to an aneurysm uselessly, unsure of what he's seeing. The shapes become more and more defined, over seconds, and then he leans back, staggered completely.
He lifts a hand. "Is that-"
It's the second time he has ever seen Medic smile like that, completely swung open, unguarded in his joy. "Ja," With his other hand, naked of it's usual glove, he points. "Developed limbs," He says, very quietly. "It looks good,"
Scout isn't sure what he's looking form. There is a vaguely human shape that's stopping him from breathing. It actually exists. It's actually real. That doesn't seem right.
Medic hasn't even met his eyes yet, so caught by whatever this is. Clearly, it's becoming hard for him to separate his own feelings on the matter now they're looking at it. He refers to a book for just a second and then glances fleetingly at Scout. "You're further along than I anticipated. Welcome to your second trimester,"
Scout blinks. He puts another cigarette between his lips. He needs one. He can feel every cell in his body begging for the release of one. "What does that mean?"
Medic waves a hand to him. It's more complicated than smoking now, anyway. "To you? Not much," Scout watches him think of a way to explain it. Scout always likes being the youngest, and not having to know this, and not having to hear about it. It's ladystuff, it's irrelevant.
He wishes he'd paid better attention in biology.
"We use stages to determine where you're at. Much like a calendar,"
Scout narrows his eyes. "Okay." He says. "What does that mean to me?"
"Morning sickness should have cleared up," He says, curtly. He pulls away from Scout for a moment. He blinks and Scout misses his eyes. "You should have more energy. Decreased need for urination. Increased appetite." He turns away from the page. "No cause for alarm,"
Really, he should have seen this coming. Maybe, in the distant future, the attention he was craving, some of that honest love, will be his. But Scout has this nasty suspicion that every conversation he has for the next -however long- will be about this baby, and not him at all. For Christ's sake, Medic hasn't even noticed the unlit cigarette yet.
Medic leans over, and lets the whirring of the great machine die into nothing. Off in the distance, generators hum, but for just a second, they are both silent, caught staring at eachother, and it says more than vocal chords can, even when they're resonating together. Goddamn, Medic's heartbeat sounds like 'say yes'.
What the hell is Scout supposed to say?
He goes to stagger back to his empty bed, and consider the crisis he has found himself in the middle of. Ma was always a good woman for a crisis, but Scout isn't even good. He leans heavy on the wall out on the overhang and smokes under the stars, hoping that the wing will tear through the wood and he'll land on an ocean of nails, so that he doesn't have to make any difficult decisions.
He feels a blanket being draped around him, and the arms around his shoulders are fond and friendly. "It appears we meet like this far too often," Spy says, affectionately. "What 'as you suffering?"
Scout leans against him and sighs. His stomach feels like a washing-machine. He doesn't realise that his lies are political statements. "Am I a slut?"
The question hangs from Scot's heart with worry and honesty. Spy gives it consideration. He cares.
Hooking an arm around Scout. Spy shrugs. "Whatever you 'are, cheri," he says, "Tonight, you belong to me."