(Alternate title: Scouts cooking show)

Sorry for the two week wait! School's really been giving out homework so it's been a bit difficult to write. I also wanted to take a break because I wrote a really long one too. So, congrats and here's a new chapter! Enjoy!


Chapter 9: Dime-A-Dozen Backstabbing Scumbag

Scout stabbed an egg with his fork, the sharp metal cutting into the gooey yolk. "Scout," Sniper began, sipping on his coffee. "Yeah?" he replied as he shoved the piece of food into his mouth. "You're going to 'ave to go to the Teufort market today. It's yer turn to cook next week." The bostonian stopped mid chew with a cock of an eyebrow. "But, doesn't Pyro, Solly, Demo, and Doc still have ta go?" he queried, swallowing the substance in his mouth. "It's in an order. Soldier was the first one to go, so it's yer turn next time, son," Engineer informed while he took a mouthful of beans.

It was Sunday, two days from the narrow escape of Gray Gravel Co. Scout leaned back in his chair, placing his feet on the table and taking a big yawn. "How do I get there?" he asked while he scratched at his face. "Feet off the table, boy," Engineer reminded before continuing," We all have our different ways to get to the town of Teufort. It's a ten minute drive, but it's thirty if ya walk. Ya probably don't even want to run either, sun's as hot as a if a jackrabbit ran the heat of hell. I can take ya today, as a sort of payback for yer help." The bostonian nodded and snarfed down a piece of bacon. "So, when are we goin' ta go?" "Get prepared, we're taking Betsy out in an hour." "Betsy?" "My truck."

An hour later, Scout swung his hands around, tapping his foot on the ground nonchalantly. Engineer came to a stagger next to him, digging his gloved hand into his pocket. They were at the entrance to the base where Sniper's van was parked followed with an unfamiliar, expensive, and well cleaned sportscar set off to the far right. Engineer's truck was battered and rusted, but depending on how tidy the inside looked, he really took care of "her." "Buckle up," the texan instructed while he slipped on his own seatbelt and then turned the key. The bostonian remained sitting, not bothering to put on his seatbelt due to his "coolness." "I said, 'buckle up,' son." "Yeah, I know. I don't need a seat belt, though." After a brief argument and a minor tussle, the runner was wearing his strap and they were rattling down the dusty road.

Scout pouted as he watched the notorious and completely fascinating scenery fly by. There was nothing except reddish orange and dead plants that dotted the sparse landscape. A few moments later, he groaned loudly," Are we there, yet?" Engineer's fingers on the wheel tightened with annoyance," It's been thirty seconds. I said we will get there in ten minutes, not one." The bostonian sulked by the window, placing his cheek into his palm. The time snailed by when finally, he grumbled again," Are we there, yet?" The texan sighed, hands pressed into his face, "Yes, we are here."

"Awesome!" Scout exclaimed, unbuckling his seatbelt and kicking open the door. He landed on the caked parched dirt, eyes taking in the large wooden building with a rickety sign over it that read "Teufort Supermarket." People idled in and out, nonchalantly going on with their daily lives while the two mercs headed inside. Engineer removed a shopping cart from a stack of them pushed in a corner. He flicked up his hard hat and turned to his coworker. "So, what do ya want to get?" he queried, glancing around the store. "Um…" The speedster raised his head in thought, before noticing a kid sitting in a cart. "Oh, hell yeah! I want to try that!" Climbing into the cart, he folded his knees into the body and sat there with a wide grin.

Engineer couldn't help but smiling softly at the sight of Scout. It reminded him of his family back in Bee Cave. Sighing, he pushed forward into the various aisles. "Okay, um… if I remember… oh, yeah! Some chicken, buttermilk, flour, butter, potatoes, milk, vegetable oil, salt… and pepper!" Scout listed off from the top of his head. The two carted off to the meat products where they got chicken and beef. Then they took the other ingredients and plopped them into the cart. "Anything else?" the texan asked after they had what they needed. "Hmm… ice cream! Man, I haven't had ice cream in forever!" the bostonian chuckled, pointing his finger toward the ice products aisle. Scout browsed through the rows of flavors before grabbing one with a label that read "Birthday Cake Flavored" on the side.

They checked out the items and loaded in into the truck, placing it under Scout's seat. The runner reached to the control panel of the vehicle and begun changing the radio stations. His lip stretched into a disappointed frown when he found that there were no channels talking about baseball. Instead, he settled on some music that included drums, flute, trumpets, and trombones. "Ya listen to instrumental music, string-bean?" Engineer questioned with disbelief, his eyebrow raised. "No! It's just dat this is all dat's good- I mean… uh… I don't listen to dat old sh*t!" the bostonian hotly defended, his words laced with a blubber at the end. "Listening to instrumental music ain't old, son. Plenty of people younger than ya like it. I happen to listen to jazz and blues a lot on ceasefire days," the other adult pointed out with his elbow comfortably resting on the window ledge of the car. "Really…? My brothers used ta say it was old and girly all da time…" "Nah. Yer brothers are as wrong as a freezing hell." There was silence for a bit with the runner staring outside the window, lost in thought. "Engie?" "Yes?" "Thanks." "No problem."

It was a day later and after work. Scout was standing in the kitchen, his hands on his hips while he stared at a cutting board. He cooked plenty of times when his Ma was too tired to do anything, and he remembered some of the things to do. He hadn't cooked for the team this morning, because he woke up late, but his co workers didn't seem that angry. A fat defrosted chicken sat there in front of him, as if waiting to be cooked. Grabbing a knife from the cupboard, he began to slice up the meat into pieces, severing the parts such as the wings and legs neatly. Shoveling some flour into a bag, he poured out the buttermilk into a large bowl. He then dipped the pieces of chicken into the liquid and then plopped them into the flour. Shaking the sealed bag, the bostonian watched as the meat became well coated. He dug them out and waited for a while, letting the flour get a paste-like appearance. As it was doing that, he took a skillet and covered the bottom with vegetable oil, allowing the heat to go up. Slipping the coated chicken into the pan, he fried them with a faint air of experience. The smell of smoke entered his nose while he flipped the food over, peppering it with spices; then finished up with it. Placing them into a large plate, he went on to making the mashed potatoes.

An hour had passed when the mercs filled into the dining room, sniffing experimentally at the air. "Didn't expect ye knew how to cook," Demoman said as he sat at his place at the table. Everyone had empty plates and in the middle were two big bowls with fried chicken plus mash potatoes topped with gravy. "Yeah, I can! Just 'cause I'm younger than ya doesn't mean I can't cook," Scout informed heatedly as he retied his bandages around his hand (which he took off when cooking). "Your food is, at least, significantly better zhan zhe cyclops," Medic praised, his fork stabbing into some chicken. Surprisingly, Spy was there, twitching at the sight of the food. "Too greasy for my tastes," he muttered under his breath as he took a spoonful of mash potatoes. The dinner passed and everyone had cleaned their plates (including Spy) with a few compliments to the chef. It wasn't very delicious, but it was alright. For dessert, they had scoops of ice cream and the bostonian had reluctantly washed the dishes.

Scout was kicked back in the lounge, sketching in his drawing pad which he managed to find in his closet. He was unsure how he lost it at first, but he pushed the feeling away and went for the relaxing sound of a pencil scratching on paper. He had attempted to go for realism, but it didn't look too good. It was alright, but it didn't seem as if it would pop out of the page and attack you. Rustling the pages, the runner scratched at the nape of his neck. "Herr Scout?" a voice said from the doorway. The younger male turned his head to see Medic there, holding a clipboard in his hand. "Yeah, doc?" the bostonian replied, attention turning back to his paper. "Can you get Spy to come to zhe medical bay? I don't have zhe chance to go get him myself because I usually can't find him and I'm busy today." The smaller adult grumbled, closing his sketchbook and standing up. He didn't want to look for the dime-a-dozen backstabbing scumbag, but if it meant that Spy had the chance to get a needle plunged into him, than he was onboard with it. "Alright, fine." "Danke."

Scout headed to the sleeping headquarters and managed to locate Spy's room. He knocked at the door, foot tapping on the ground. He swore he heard shifting in the room, but nobody opened the door. Tapping on it again, he received the same answer as before. He tried the doorknob and was surprised to find it unlocked. Pushing it open, he entered into a spacious room. This was completely unlike his own room. It had a fine velvet carpet stretching over a wooden floor. To the right there was a fireplace with a picture framed over it and bookshelves lined the walls. A globe stood in the corner followed with a large plush chair and nightstand. There were multiple other furniture, such as a coat rack, lamps, a table, a couch, and a bar-looking thing with a panel of buttons. There seemed to be no one inside.

Scratching his head, Scout looked around. It seemed as if Spy had went all lengths to make his room very fine. It was as if this one place was in an entirely different building. He approached the nightstand next to the couch. On it was a framed picture. A very familiar framed picture. It depicted Scout's mom smiling widely next to her eight children. It was the very same picture that the bostonian had lost a few weeks ago. There was a decloaking noise behind him and a smell of smoke permeated the room. "Why… do ya have this?" he asked quietly, holding onto the edges item with an iron grip. He didn't turn around. There came no reply. "Why do ya have this!?" he said again, except louder and more forcibly. Silence.

Scout finally turned around a jabbed a finger into Spy's chest. "Why do ya have this!?" he demanded, emphasizing each word as loud as he could. There seemed to be a glint of something strange and unknown in the frenchman's eyes, fear, but it disappeared so quickly that he was sure that he just imagined it. Instead, the other man smiled like a cat would to a mouse. "It's because I like to see you suffer," he relished in amusement, that snarky grin on his face. "You like ta see me suffer?! I'll give ya somethin' to suffer 'bout!" the bostonian hissed as he launched forward. His fingers locked around the other's throat, but he was thrown off quickly. "Je suis désolé," the frenchie muttered while he blocked a punch. He kicked forward, the heel of his shoe catching the younger male's chin before the runner kneeled onto the ground in pain. He took this opportunity to send a sharp punch right to the cheek. Scout recovered and rose up again, placing a well aimed blow straight to the stomach and then to the face. The cigarette that Spy was smoking was knocked out from his mouth and then fell to the ground where the runner had managed to step on it. The older man's stormy eyes narrowed and then he struck forward, sending the runner plummeting backwards. Lithe as a cat, he jabbed his hands with sharp experienced hits, right in the chest. The bostonian managed to get a few more hits in, but was immediately overpowered by a rather hard punch right to the face. He fell to the ground, sporting a black eye. Clutching at it, he gritted his teeth and rose up. His face and body was peppered with bruises that were varying shades of red, black, and purple, with a bleeding lip. He snatched his picture of his family and stormed off, out of the frenchman's room. "Medic wants you in the medical bay," were the last words that were spoken by Scout to Spy for a long while.

When Scout was out of the hallway, Spy shut the door of his room with a sigh. Collapsing onto his vermillion colored chair, he took a deep breath, the inhale coming out as a stutter. "Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait?" the frenchman murmured, gloved hands covering his face.