It had been eight days since the incident between Soldier and Scout—and the last time he had talked to Spy—but surely the latter of the two hadn't been counting. The boy tried to repress the feeling of missing him, but he had started to become desperate. He considered getting drunk once again to make up an excuse and give himself some liquid courage in order to speak to the man, but the thought of liquor brought that familiar feeling of nausea these days.
Spy surely didn't miss him, he was almost positive. But what if he did? The idea of him even being a fleeting thought in Spy's mind made Scout's heart jump. How could he become so attached already? Did the man's act of helping him puke his guts up as he hugged the toilet really leave that much of a mark on him?
The answer was no—this was not the way Scout's admiration for Spy had begun. He didn't really know Spy, but it was the way the man carried himself with such genuine finesse. Not so much aloofness, but he had an air of sensibility and professionalism. Scout was almost jealous of these attributes, since he was known as the loudmouth of the team, always having a snarky comment or something to brag about. It wasn't his fault—it was just in his nature. Growing up with three older brothers made him strive to be better than everyone at what he was good at. Of course, being part of a team of assassins wasn't something to be all that proud of, but it was this or prison.
Running is what he did best, including dodging the law. Scout had done things in the past that him and his family aren't too proud of, so that's how he ended up here. The proposition had come to him on a morning jog through a seedy part of his hometown in Boston; it was in the form of a colorful blue and red flyer tacked on a wooden post. Said flyer promised a good sum of money and a free train ticket to the unknown destination of where he would be headed—it was the perfect escape. Scout ripped off one of the numbers dangling from the bottom of the advertisement and sprinted home, calling immediately. The next thing he knew, he was on a train into the desert, naïve in every sense of the word as to what was to come.
Spy had been staring into his mirror above the bathroom sink for what seemed like hours. These days, free time away from battle had become quite tedious without the drama that Scout usually brought. Since the vomiting incident at the table, the man had only seen Scout in passing with either a "good morning" or "good evening". For some reason, however, the boy could not escape his thoughts. It nearly frightened him how seeing that smug grin from a mile away could brighten his week.
Pull yourself together, Julien! He ripped off his mask and slapped himself hard on the cheek. What was he doing? Standing in his bathroom, dress shirt unbuttoned, tie hanging loosely around his neck, slapping himself in the face to what—hope that the strange and foreign attraction to this young obnoxious boy just flies out of his brain upon his hand's impact? This is not how a Spy should behave, let alone look.
"I need a cigarette," he groaned. With one last look at his disheveled appearance, Julien returned to his bedroom to shed his clothes and lie in bed to prepare for a sleepless night. As soon as he retrieved a cigarette from its case and lit the end, a knock sounded from his door. A loud, dramatic sigh escaped his lips as he turned his head toward the clock: 11:35pm.
"Who is it? Actually no, go away," Spy stated flatly. He was in no mood to talk to anyone with so many thoughts clouding his mind.
"Oh, uh, ok then—night," replied a very distinct voice: it was Scout. A lump instantly formed in Julien's throat at the realization, hurriedly telling the younger man he could enter as he stood up and put out his barely smoked cigarette. Only then did he notice that he was only wearing his boxers but it was too late—Scout slowly poked his head in with a strangely meek smile on his face.
"Hey uh, I jus' wanted to say thanks again for that shit ya did for me last week," the boy said as he timidly entered the room and clicked the door shut. Scout looked at the man up and down, his face turning a shade of pink at the man's attire—or lack thereof. His eyes snapped right back at the mask-less face of his comrade. Wait—mask-less? Green eyes grew wide at the strange sight. He never thought that Spy was a blonde considering his dark brown eyes, let alone having almost shoulder-length hair. The man's face was all defined bone structure and clean-shaven. He was more handsome than Scout could have ever pictured.
"What, is zere somezing on my—" Julien touched his cheek and realized his mask wasn't on. Fear suddenly flooded his eyes as he pivoted his heels and began frantically searching for it.
"It's awright, man, ya secrets safe with me. What, I'm gonna tell our team how good—I mean, what ya look like?" That was too close.
After the fruitless attempt to find his balaclava, Julien sighed and turned back towards his younger teammate, "I guess zis isn't the worst that could 'appen." Why was he being so careless? If it was anyone else, he would have hid in the bathroom and demanded that the visitor leave at once.
An awkward silence filled the room as the men stood in front of each other, both suddenly finding a great interest in their feet.
Of course, it was Scout who broke the silence. "So uh yeah, I guess that's all I had ta say…" The young man's voice was small and trailed off as he turned and left the room with a goodnight.
Spy slumped onto his bed and palmed his face. "Well zat could've gone smoother," he mumbled to himself when he was sure that Scout had closed the door and was on his way to his room. Flopping onto his bed, Julien decided it was best to just swim in his thoughts by staring at the ceiling until sleep would hopefully take over.
