(AN: i always mean to update sooner but 5000 words is alot. reviews have been super-helpful in not only motivating me to write but to write better. you're amazing and i love you. expect a few typos because my word processor died. i love you. )

"You pissed at me?"

The rifle is getting more attention than Scout is. Hands are curving up and down the long barrel, cleaning it with the same fastidious as one disarms a bomb. And the silence twitches like fire. Napalm quiet, with Scout standing there, feeling useless and wrong and guilty. That's new.

"What I got to be pissed about?" Sniper mutters. Doesn't look at him. Doesn't even act as if Scout is standing there, ready and willing for a punishment that never comes. The squeak of the oil is so loud against the silence that is feels like an assault. "You can say what you like."

Scout leans heavy on the door. "I knew you'd be pissed."

More silence. The hand moving to clean to barrel halts, for just a second, and Scout can hear so many things that just aren't being said in a single sigh of frustration. "Nobody said that." He murmurs.

"I said it." Scout swallows. He's nervous. "I said it 'cause you are pissed, but you don't want to say nothin' about it." A pause, in which Scout holds himself very still. Has the nerve to accuse, but none left to move. "It's only gonna get worse, y'know."

"Ain't you got somewhere to be, kid?" The suggestion in his voice is as hard and obvious as a bullet in the back of an innocent man. It hurts. So Scout nods, and he turns to go.

On the walk back to base, he thinks a lot about Sniper. About how he wants to melt on the man's inner thighs. About how Sniper's body is like a temple, but Scout has burned so many scriptures that when he looks in the mirror all he sees is smoke. He is a dream: they are a nightmare. They are paint on a slick canvas, and sure, Scout knows it would take everything for them to stick, but if they did they'd be a masterpiece.

Scout is shackled to his own insecurities by 'fine', by and 'friends', and by every amiable smile that should be a kiss. It might hurt, but Sniper is nothing, if not honest.

He avoids the rest of them like the plague.

It takes everything Scout has to go to see Medic.

It takes walking halfway down there nearly four times, approximately seven cigarettes in quick succession of eachother, biting the nails of all the his left hand's fingers and his pocket knife slipped into his trousers to actually go.

Scout doesn't have any expectations. Simply because he doesn't know what to expect.

Well, the office is just as dark and cold as usual, if not a little messier. Medic's birds are everywhere, and are the first to notice his entry. The last one to note is their master, who is only prompted out of his readings by Scout clearing his throat. That's all he does, and Medic can read the situation right away. Scout is lucid as a floodlight.

Feeling perhaps bold, Medic ignores the previous instructions and looks right at Scout. "You look well." He says, striving to sound as objective as possible. He places whatever he was writing on further up the desk and folds his hands in his lap like he's going to stand up. Scout halts him with a hand.

"Don't get up," He says. "Just-..." he blinks a couple of times and tries to get his thoughts in order. After fighting with himself so much over simply coming here, he feels like he's forgotten his primary motivation. Robbed of it from the pressure of just having to speak. Not that Scout would ever admit it, but he's still a little afraid, even just a little. To see a man usually so pleasant and patient with him turn as he did –eyes wide with hatred, mouth hanging open in maniacal delight- is something Scout wishes never to see again.

But even worse than that, Scout did that. He drew the very worst out of a good man. It's his fault. The observed distance he's keeping between himself and Medic speaks of that. Even safe, his hands are shaking a little. He scrubs his face.

"What did you tell them?" he stuffs his hands into his pockets. The small knife is cold, but comforting. As Medic takes two steps to file away papers, he takes two steps backwards, and prays it goes unnoticed. "Don't play stupid, doc, they'd light up their pitchforks by now if you hadn't said anythin'." At that, Medic turns on his heel, and looks at Scout so plainly that whatever he's saying must bear a great weight.

"I told them what I had to to keep you safe." It's nice. But Scout doesn't believe it,. He swallows. He narrows his eyes.

"I don't need protectin'. I can look after myself just fine." It would all be a lot more convincing if he wasn't halfway across the room. A mere ship on Medic's horizon. Then man is taller and stronger and Scout will forget his mother's name before he forgets the feel of hands clamped around his neck. "What do they think is going on?"

Medic swallows. He appears, not slid, but shaking. And Scout realises that his very being here is making the man nervous. "I said something about a research project. About you being indispensable to RED."

"Thankyou." Scout mumbles.

"It was my responsibility." he says, just as quietly. They meet eyes, for just two seconds, and Scout looks away. What the hell is Medic trying to tell him when he looks like that? Maybe it's paranoia, and lack of sleep and the cold realisation that Sniper doesn't really want him and doesn't love him and it's all Scout's fault. Maybe that's why he's in this mood.

Medic breaks the silence, thankfully, with a polite nod. "Would you like something to drink? Caffeine might help to stimulate your blood pressure."

Very purposefully, Scout manages to take a few steps closer to the desk. He's nervous, and his palms are –not sweaty, but moist. Is he safe? Has the conflict been settled? Medic is unreadable, and his feelings on the matter are a mystery, as usual.

All Scout says is, "Sure."

As Medic moves into his office, he speaks over his shoulder. "Is coffee acceptable?"

Truth be told, he doesn't often drink it. Most of the energy he gets is from the raw sugar found in cheap drinks, but on the occasion he has it. Like when he goes home, so that Ma will think he is sophisticated. Spy likes hazelnut, and vanilla, and that figures. Sniper will have nutmeg, if anything, and Medic just likes a little sugar, plain and simple. Scout has made them all a solitary cup now and then on the rare occasion he would ever stay the night.

After a while, Scout's feet start to ache, and he manages to convince himself to take a seat, feeling very much like a schoolboy. Volumes are on the desk, along with a copy of 'To Kill A Mockingbird' and other legal documents. He thinks about English class, about never being able to articulate his thoughts and how even now, that fault haunts him. Soon after, Medic comes to him with a two mugs and a pot, and sits on the other side of the desk.

"Is it decaff, or regular?" Scout asks. It's not as if he'll sleep either way.

Medic remains looking at the floor. "It's just regular."

"No flavours? Hazelnut or vanilla?"

As if somehow personally offended, Medic clonks down the pot furiously. "Why can't Sugar be enough?" He says, foully. As soon as he lets out a breath, the anger falls right off of his face and he sighs, filling his own cup up and taking off his spectacles. He puts in three sugars and stirs with a lax wrist, and leaves Scout's plain or the boy to flavour as he wishes. "It's hot," He warns, as he passes the cup over.

Scout flinches a mile at Medic's movements, unconsciously, and it sobers them both immediately. And yet, very carefully, neither of them mention it. Despite the burn to his mouth, Scout drinks in the hopes it will alleviate the awkwardness.

"You really do look well." Medic tells him, in a quiet voice. He evades it.

"I still feel shitty, though." Bitterly, he laughs. His tongue is burning. "An' if, by 'well', you mean fuckin' swollen, then sure." He doesn't take any sugar in his drink, and stares into it, thoughtfully. It's awkward and he's still afraid that Medic will say something stupid and thoughtful and real. Scout didn't come here to feel things. He promised himself that wouldn't happen.

"I did warn you, dummkopf." Medic says, and despite himself Scout can feel this smile creeping over his features. He likes this part of Medic, that seems so harmless and sweet and sincere. He could fall in love with this part of Medic, had he not experienced the cruel and bitter and starved half.

But all Scout says is, "Takes one to know one," even though he doesn't know what 'dummkopf' means. Medic laughs, this kind of smile that breaks his resolve and he looks down for just a second like he does when he's received a compliment he doesn't agree with.

"But the difference is, I will admit to being a fool." He says. Scout can feel himself relaxing into the chair, into the situation and even Medic's presence.

"You've had more practise than I had. S'cheatin'." Another laugh. Medic takes a drink and it makes his lip go all dark. They fall short of conversation once more. "Yeah, I changed my mind again." He sighs. That's what Medic was asking in a glance, and this way he doesn't have to hear it outright. "I was so ready, an' I had the gun in mind hand an' everythin'. But I-..." his throat dries up. "An' my brother Danny, he wants a kid. I figured that was the best solution, y'know."

Medic does not do well to hide his alarm in the erratic stirring of his coffee. "Did you tell h-"

Scout throws up his hands. "No, I didn't tell him! What the hell I look like, a sieve?" he sighs. "Far as I'm concerned, this entire thing's on a need-to-know basis, an' Ma and Danny don't need to know."

They fall into silence again. Scout keeps a watchful eye on how much he has left to drink and tries to calculate how long it will take, because as soon as he has finished, he can leave. It's not that he dislikes Medic, but that Medic is primarily a doctor, and he will always end up bringing the conversation back to Scout's health, and his pregnancy. Scout misses the sex, and the carelessness. He misses feeling young again.

"You ain't the man I met two years ago." Scout says suddenly, without any indication in his voice to give a complimentary or critical edge. Maybe it's Scout who has changed. Maybe his fears were right, and this whole thing has changed him.

But Medic smiles, and says, "It's not age that does it."

"No?" Scout frowns.

Medic gives him a tired smile. "It's mileage." He says, and then halts firmly. "What did you come here to see, Scout?"

"I, uh-" He shuts his eyes as if it will relieve some of the embarrassment of being so covert all of a sudden. He hates it when Medic sets everything plain, because his life with Spy is lived through metaphor and allusions and double-entendre. Even with Sniper, he's more implicit when he speaks. Asking for everything plain is almost too intimate.

Scout swallows. "I jus' figured, y'know, that if I was gonna be givin' Danny a kid, I should, uh-...I should at least know if it's healthy and stuff." His face is all red. Red like he's ashamed of his intentions, so unused to presenting them. Medic understands. Some days, all he can claim to be is 'good intent', trailing around a battlefield with his desire to help misaligned with the arrogant independence of others.

He picks his stethoscope off of his desk and loops it around his shoulders.

How does Scout keep finding himself in Spy's bed? Did he jump, did he fall, or was he pushed?

In this instance, Scout would love to believed he has been pushed. He can believe anything he wants, though, it doesn't wash the scent of Spy's skin and foreign flowers from him. They're in Spy's room, naturally. It's nicer, well-kept, painted and furnished. Somehow, it looks bigger. As with Medic, there are so few personal details that the anonymity of the place is jarring. The opulence of it could have Scout believing he's in a hotel room.

There's something deliciously depraved about that.

It's not always sex. They indulge in a nice variety of activities. It suits them both, as Scout has had an unapologetic and early exposure to sex and is open to most things, where Spy likes to refine everything he does. They're both willing for practise. It means different things to both of them, but what does that matter? It's mutually satisfying, and afterwards, Scout gets to smoke, he gets to speak with a freedom that some men go their whole lives without.

And now Scout is laying over-the-covers, with his jersey on, listening to Spy dressing.

"You ever worried that somebody's gonna walk in here?" he asks, turning onto his side and watching the other man with lazy eyes. What a fantastic spine Spy has. What a fantastic everything.

Spy waves a hand carelessly. "You mean one of yours?" (As if Scout could ever possess just one of his lovers.) "Act as if we were taking a nap together." he laughs.

"Wit' your doors locked?"

Spy laughs again. He turns around and leans to give Scout a long and deep kiss, before shuffling off of the bed to button his shirt. "From what I've observed of your other relationships, my impression is that neither of them would do anything."

Scout sits up a little and rolls his eyes. "That's flatterin'."

Too quickly, Spy is leaning to rub his shoulders with these devious, practised hands and the voice in Scout's ear is like liquid sunshine. "Scout, ma belle, they know nothing would be gained from a conflict."

He laughs, this time. "Has it occurred to you that Medic is in love with me?" Yes, he knows. Maybe that's not very fair, but he's always been like this. Love doesn't mean there are obligations involved. Medic could hate him; but it's not Scout's problem.

Spy lets out a dark chuckle. "I got the feelin' you're gonna say something' awful." Scout says, smirking.

"Not at all," He is assured. "Only, boys like you are often under the impression that men are more in love with them than they really are." It's nasty, but it's true, and spy speaks as if he knows it too well. Was he a boy, like Scout,l when Sniper left him? It's just a speculation, but from that jaded look in his eyes, it's one closer to the mark. Scout does a button that rests beneath his adam's apple and shrugs.

"I wouldn't delude myself into thinkin' you was in love with me for a second." he jokes, but stares up at Spy for confirmation.

"Then you are a wise boy after all."

Spy kisses him on the nose, all sweet and innocent, which is highly unlike him, and adjusts his collar. He's very beautiful. Scout only wishes he saw the man's face more often. With a smile, Spy walks across the room and picks up his tie, draping it around his neck. It isn't love, but Jesus, Scout could get used to it. He finished his cigarette and stares at the ceiling for five solid minutes before he speaks.

"It's a girl."

"Come again?"

Scout doesn't look at Spy because he doesn't think he has the stamina to. "This kid's a girl." He says, quietly. "Somebody else might as well know."

Spy nods, and he looks a little paler. It doesn't register with Scout until later that what might be troubling Spy is the image of a little girl with Scout's face and his genes wandering through the earth sometime soon. That doesn't sit right with him at all, but he manages a smile. "Congratulations, I suppose."

Scout barks out a laugh. "Yeah, lucky me." He says. But there's no laugh from Spy, no visible reaction at all to observe. He gives Scout a sure smile and another packet of Egyptian cigarettes 'for his time'. It isn't until later, when Scout is washing the sins from his hands that he remembers how Spy's hands were shaking.

See, what surprises him more than anything is how the team start to treat him on the field.

Scout had been sure they would patronise him, tell him he wasn't quick or fast or accurate enough, so it was better to call it a day and still have some dignity. He was so sure that they would resent him for it. Men like Soldier don't exercise restraint or sympathy when it comes at the cost of victory. And yet-...

And yet, Scout has an entire team behind him.

It's not something he even considered. But out on the field, it's impossible to ignore. Even as he's going out for the first intelligence run, which is now much more of a jog, he notices the sentry set-up that's further out than usual, and he notices the red dot of Sniper's rifle never strays too far from him, as if marking the spot.

What sticks with him most is being halfway to the intelligence, literally down the corridor from the suitcase, and hearing the sharp march of an enemy Soldier. Scout freezes and sticks himself to the wall. He clamps a hand over his mouth to mute his breathing and stays very, very still, as if cloaked.

He can smell burning though, and it's really bothering him. Not just the kind of burning from a zippo lighter, but something nastier. A grander combustion, and as the back of the BLU Soldier makes itself present right in front of Scout. he wonders if he'll be fast enough to shoot and run without being seen.

As he reaches for his gun, he freezes stock-still. The mutter in his ear is like a full-scale orchestra, and even though it's just on his left side it;'s as if Administration is screaming at him: 'we have taken the enemy intelligence'.

BLU Soldier whips around and might raise a hand, or do something. Like, actually killing Scout,. but his eyes go wide and he makes a very high keening sound. Black blood pours from his lips and he slumps forwards before coming to rest as a heap on the ground. Pyro is the only thing behind him, with a raised axe that's as bloody as the BLU. He nods to Scout, and mumbled.

"Brrdhh, tmmghhr." Which, naturally, means virtually nothing to Scout.

He leans hard on the wall and lets out an enormous breath. "Jesus," he mutters, "Thanks, man."

Around the corner, Spy emerges with the Intelligence. He is no worse for wear at all, and Scout can imagine him having slipped down here of virtually no consequence. His smile is warm and patient. The cigarette between his lips is unlit and he nods to Pyro in good nature. "Would you?" And the masked man obliges him with a swift ignition. Scout gets given the briefcase. "Will you take it?"

Scout shakes his head. "Not a chance. BLU's got in in for me." But he doesn't let go of it. They're speaking very quietly, aware that the BLU Soldier will return with a vengeance that goes beyond colour. Spy takes the words in, and takes out his cigarettes case, before giving Scout a once-over. In a second, they're identical.

"Haste, mon lapin," He says, and then departs with a speed that Scout used to laugh at but now misses. What is he, if he isn't fast? Has he been gutted of everything worthwhile in his sleep, one night? It doesn't bear thinking about when Spy is already gone and Pyro is nudging him urgently. So Scout doesn't ask questions and puts the Intel on his back.

They go as swiftly as they came. And after what feels like a national history of defeats, they pull it together. In the locker room, there's not a complaint heard. The only place Soldier isn't fully insane is the battlefield, but even at Base, he can only use smug proverbs of victory. Before he starts to get undressed, even Demo claps him on the back with a half-sober grin and mutters something about 'quality play from yer, lad'.

It's nice. Too nice. Scout didn't even do anything. and instead of heading down to dinner feeling proud of himself, or even good, he ends up standing in front of the mirror when everybody else has left the locker room, staring at himself. Sure, he does look well. Better than he has done in a long time. His hair is thicker than it's ever been, and wont stop glowing. There's colour in his face, high into his cheeks like he's seen the kindness of a foreign sun.

Maybe he should be paralysed by that. By the support of everybody else, and yet, he stands there completely paralysed by his own uselessness.

The pin-up girl on the calendar appears to be laughing at him. Scout has a birthday coming up. And it's only going to get worse.

-

Scout doesn't sleep for a week after he goes to see Medic.

Every single night, he wakes horrified, sweating furiously under his covers with the scream of a girl in his ears. It's real and it's scaring him to death and he's suffering so badly that he actually passes out at dinner once, and on the sofa in the Rec room. The rest of them notice, by which time Scout considers murdering everybody else, or himself. He thinks hard about begging a lobotomy out of Medic, just to quiet the screaming.

He hears the terror in quiet moments, and it's so terrifying and utterly paralysing that he catches Medic between lovers on a thursday afternoon because sleep deprivation is a form of torture and he does this to himself, you know.

When Medic sees him, the man softens. Melts like butter. Scout never really notices the effects he has on people, but goddamn. "I'm afraid I can still only offer you sugar." He says, with this little smile that's just as soft. Scout leans heavy in the doorframe as if he's about to be bowled over.

"I'm not here for coffee, Doc." He says. Lifts a hand to his and realises that he's going to sound ridiculous and foolish and pathetic. None of that softness disappears, though, and if he's going to do this, better now than to Spy and have the man laugh at him. "I jus'...I ain't sleepin' much lately."

Unfortunately, what he fears most is what he hears. "I can't prescribe you anything, Scout." Medic sounds awfully remorseful. that's the last thing Scout needs. It won't stop the screaming in his ears, and the errant little kicks that reminds him every damn day. It's not going to keep that quiet. "Sleeplessness is usually a later symptom, but it can happen earlier."

Scout cannot bear it. "Doc." He pleads, his voice pinched, as if trapped under the weight of his anxieties. "Doc, I need your help. Please." And he never asks twice, never says please. How can he be refused.

But medic just gives him those sad-eyes and another bullshit excuse. "I do wish there was more I could do, but there isn't. It's normal to be apprehensive at this stage." Normal. How dare he use that word? How dare he have it slip out of his mouth like a stuttering apology, past the same lips Scout has dared to kiss?

Scout chokes. "Normal." He echoes, bleakly, and then stares at the floor. "Is it-..." Jesus, he might actually break. It's so had to speak. To actually say it. All that time Scout had thought he was something fierce, completely washed away in a single glancing blow. "Is it normal to hear her scream?"

Medic's eyes just get sader.

"In the shower. At dinner. At night. Is that app-ree-hen-sieve enough for ya? Izat normal?" He swallows, and Medic doesn't say anything, which is good, because he won't hear it. Scout closes his eyes and says. "Do you want to sleep with me?"

Medic is thrown by that. He blinks, slowly, and takes off his spectacles as if trying to visually focus in on an object. But Scout's words are plain and crisp. He can read the boy just fine. The man swallows and just says, "Did I hear you correctly, liebe?"

"Sure," Scout says, folding his arms. He makes no motion to move from the doorframe. "That way, when I wake up in a cold sweat, under the covers, hearin' her scream -you can tell me it's 'normal'. S'just nerves, that's all."

"I wanna get drunk."

"What?"

Would you believe that these kind of thoughts are what wake Sniper up in the smallest hours of the morning. He turns over two see a pair of shining, intense eyes that belong to the boy lying next to him. Being pregnant has made Scout cuddlier, sure, and that is largely a good thing. But he also had the nasty habit of kicking Sniper in the shins if he's being kept up by the same sensation. And, sure as the sun rises, he can feel the kid's toes digging in to an already-forming bruise.

"I said," Scout yawns. "I wanna get drunk. Like, real paralytic." He sounds awfully serious. How can he even access his cognitive faculties this early? Sniper groans, and paws at his night stand blindly until the lamp clicks and flickers into life. It burns his eyes, but shuts Scout up, who groans dramatically and throws a pillow over his face. "Aw, you dick."

"You wanna get drunk, I'll let ya." Sniper stares at him. The kid's face is till behind the pillow, so he tears it away, grumbling. "I wanna sleep, ya shit. Y'gonna let me?" When he finally winds, he can see Scout's face in the light. It is white from the light but a dark purple under his eyes. With a hand, he takes the kid's face and grumbles some more. "You ain't been sleepin'?"

"I can't," Scout says, despondently. "Lemme go, man, you got dirty-ass hands." It makes Sniper chuckle, and he keeps to the boy's request and sighs, lying back onto his side and staring at him.

"You scared?" He asks him, gesturing to Scout's stomach. Scout is never without a shirt because of it, and he's running out of shirts.

"No," Scout scoffs.

"You lyin'?"

Quieter, more resigned: "Yeah."

So Sniper tries to reassure him with a wavering smile, and he sighs. "You know I was pissed when ya told everybody. But it's happened now. Jus' like this kid's happening now." Scout looks at the ceiling like he's conflicted. he's too young to be looking like that.

In an even quieter voice, he says, "S'a girl, y'know."

That knocks the wind right out of Sniper. He swallows, and tries to hide his initial shock with a straight face. "That so?" He says, striving for a breezy tone.

"Yeah," Scout says. "Medic told me an' all." He looks hesitantly at his partner for conformation, and nods, slightly.

"Y'got names picked out, then?" It sounds as if he's joking, but really, he's fishing. Sniper tries to act uninterested, but it's hard to not be. Half of his genetic code could already be invested, so the stakes are naturally high. Scout laughs.

"O'course. Always prepared, I am."

Sniper snorts. "You aren't prepared for wakin' up, most days. Great procrastinator's what you are." Them, softer. "What y'callin her, then?"

Scout smiles, serenely. "Moira. After my Ma."

"S'nice." He says, woodenly. "She gonna be a Mundy or a Janvier or-"

"Fuck off." Scout cackles. "None of you's gonna get a look in. I'm the one doin' all the work." When he settles, he looks at Sniper again, all serious, and says. "Moira Weiss. That sound good?"

The anxiety in the kid's voice is clear. He switches the lamp off and settles back down once more. "Sounds like it's gonna happen anyway, kid."

Eventually, Scout falls asleep, and he doesn't stir or fuss or rouse. He stays good and sleeping until the morning. The same cannot be said for Sniper, who remains staring at the wall for his own private eternity. His mouth is dry with the word 'Moira' and he keeps thinking how funny it all is. How proud his mother would be. How ashamed his father would be.

And how uncertain he is about how the hell to feel.