Hmmm, for a bit of a shorter chapter(for me, at least), I sure did spend a while writing it. I blame work. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I did writing it. For those who like listening to songs, I think the song Flowers and Jars by The Hunts is a good lyrical fit for this chapter. It's also very pretty. Now, go, and be free to read.


"So… "Gang. Green."?" the words dragged when Scout sounded them out.

"Yes."

"It'z aaaaa… really nasty disease."

"Yes."

"And it works, like, super fast at killin' people's skin."

"In a nutshell, yeah," Sniper nodded. The runner narrowed his eyes and stuck out his lower lip in thought. He stayed like that long enough for Sniper to start tapping his foot to hurry along whatever slow thoughts Scout managed to conjure up. Soon, the Bostonian slumped forward, shivering.

"So… I could…" Scout started, sitting at the edge of the bed with his head hanging low. He stopped. The runner seemed to not have the strength to finish his thought, whether physically or mentally.

"Die, yeah." Sniper finished, "this is, this is serious if we don't do something."

"Like what?" The runner barely raised his head to meet the marksman's gaze. He was still shivering, slurring his words, but was mostly still functioning. Not like he would remain like that, though. Sniper stole a glance at his companion's arm, still unwrapped.

The stitches had been ripped out when the runner had caught Sniper and kept him from falling in Sawmill, leaving Scout's muscle, and whatever little amount of skin had grown back, to reopen, exposed to the elements. It was discolored, growing a deep red, and gleaned like burnt skin. Honestly, it was a downright miracle that Scout only just started to develop Gangrene after being underground for so long, a place full of moisture and bacteria.

"...Oi'm going to be honest with you," he started, speaking slow in order for the runner to understand the severity of the situation, "right now there are only three routes we can take that Oi can think of, and… and none of them are very good."

"Oh." Scout uttered, hanging his head again.

"Yeah. The best option Oi can think of is to try and find ya a hospital so they can take care of-"

"No."

"Whot?" Sniper paused, looking at Scout in disbelief, "sorry, did Oi jus' hear you say you didn't want to get professional medical help to save your life?"

"No… not hospitals," Scout mumbled, rubbing his arm.

"Whoi not!?"

"Don't t-trust them, trust doctors, I don't trust 'em… not in, in a bed, not there."

"It's the best option we can take, Scout! The others are too dangerous-"

"What a-are da other options?" Sniper sighed through his nose, and looked away.

"...There are only three options on the table Oi can think of," he began, "first being we get to driving and find you a hospital, the best option, might Oi add. Second being we go back to the bases, and Oi try and find either a Medigun or some Medkits in the RED base."

"A Medigun won't do. It's a red, not blue. Wouldn't work on us."

"Well that jus' adds to the reasons not to go back, that one's got too many risks."

"What's da…" Scout tried to say, but he was overcome with a wave of shivers, and rested his forehead on his palm, eyes closed. Sniper swallowed.

"...the last is that Oi try and fix ya up moiself. And… and there's only one way Oi know how, and Oi'd rather not… not let it come to that, if Oi can help it." He finished. Had Scout heard him, the runner made no indication. Just sitting, hunched, trembling. "You need a hospital, Scout."

"Don't wa… want a f-freakin' doc. St-stickin' tubes an, and needles." Scout whined. Sniper resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Whoi do you have such an aversion to seeing a doctor?"

"Cause docs… don't, don't give a crap. They just. Just put ya on a bed. Let ya waste… and da tubes and needles. I.. not any feedin' tubes."

"Oi honestly don't think that you'd need a feeding tube unless you were comatose," Sniper deadpanned, "and unless we get going, that's becoming a higher and higher possibility."

"C-Can't you jus… please?"

"Trust me, Scout, when Oi say you do not want me taking care of this."

"W-Why not!?" Scout whined.

"Because while Oi might be a professional, Oi'm not a medical one."

"Neither's Medic," Scout argued, "he ain't- he ain't got a medical license."

"He did once, and that's still one more than me." The runner slumped, holding a sour expression.

"Man, if da doc-c was… was still h-ere, I'd feel freakin' incredible. And I'd have my hand back."

"You'd also probably have a horse liver implanted in ya as well."

"Nah, not this time, Doc owes me, l-like, a huge favor. Like, super- super biggg favor."

"For whot?"

"Wwwweeellll, it sorta involved d-da RED Pyro, a box of tacks, and this super weird coked up bear-"

"Okay, we're getting off topic and running out of time," Sniper interrupted, "Oi'm finding you a hospital."

"Hey, wait, I said I ain't, ain't wantin' a freakin'-"

"Oi don't care what you say you want, Oi'm going to get to driving and you are going to stay there and try not to die off. End of." He finished and turned towards the door, ignoring the protests and attempts to argue behind him. Sniper stepped out from the camper and towards the driver's seat, already loathing the journey ahead. Then he heard the camper door slam open and a hard thump followed by a very loud "s**t!".

Snapping his head around, Sniper spotted and then grit his teeth at the sight of Scout struggling to stand up from the pavement.

"Oi told you to stay in the van!"

"No hospitals," grumbled Scout, rubbing at his now scraped chin, "ain't goin' there!"

"You little mongrel, Oi am not going to deal with this!" Sniper marched over and grabbed Scout by the shirt and ripped him to his feet. He made to argue, to tell Scout how stupid his little fear of needles was, when he caught Scout's gaze.

"...please, dude, c-can't we justtt stay, let y-ya do it here?" the runner whimpered, shivering from the cold. The frustration Sniper felt melted away as he let go of Scout's shirt, setting the runner down.

"...c'mon, get back inside," Sniper mumbled, herding Scout back into the camper, "and… look, whoi do you… whot's the main thing you have against this idea. Because it has to be a good one, otherwise Oi'm driving."

Scout sat back on the edge of the cot, looking down at his hand and stump.

"...I don't. Wanna go out, with… It's, it'zz not freakin' doctors, man, justtt. I wanna be with someone. Just in case, y'know, cause they don't… docs don't care bout nothin' but gettin' paid an- and…"

"Now that isn't true," Sniper knelt down to Scout's level, "you know that isn't true, they care about people, if they didn't, then they wouldn't try saving blokes."

"N-Not dat, they don't let people in ta see, see their people, even if them people issss… isn't livin' much l-longer. I-If they don't work, I don't, then I'll j-just beee left there. A-And nobody's gonna be let in, and I'll just f-freakin' go out on a scratchy old armchair dat they call a bed. Alone…"

"...you're scared of dying alone?" Scout hung his head, and nodded. Sniper chewed his cheek in thought, tapping his fingers along the bed's edge.

"You'd have a far greater chance of dying here than in a hospital, Scout," he said, "Whot I'd have to do is… is not going to be a walk in the bloody park. And if you go septic, there's nothing Oi'm going to be able to do for you. You will die from that." He took Scout's shoulders, staring Scout down.

"That means your family will never see you again, and everything you've been dreaming of doing will never happen. Do you still want me to handle this? Even after knowing that?"

Scout didn't respond, looking away, gnawing on his lip.

Don't leave me to handle it.

Scout narrowed his eyes, rubbing his shirt in thought.

Don't give me this responsibility.

Scout looked back, meeting Sniper's gaze.

Please don't make me do this.

He grabbed Sniper's arm.

"Yeah. Yeah, I ssstill want ya doin' it."

"You're sure? Mate, Oi'm not joking, this is way too risky-"

"Listen," Scout interrupted, squeezing Sniper wrist, "if I'm goin', it's gonna be… in this stupid camper van, with your stupid self, not in a stupider hospital bed without your stupid self, capeesh?" The runner's eyes were firm, clear from the feverish clouds from before, leaving no room for argument. They then softened. "Please, dude, won'tttt hold it against ya if I go ta s**t, but I wanna stay here." Sniper didn't respond right away. Instead, he sighed, looking away and tapping the bed some more. He then slumped forwards.

"One more time, you're certain you want to do this?"

"Yeah."

"...fine," Sniper got to his feet and looked towards his kukri, "give me forty minutes."


"A-Are we havin' a, like, a-a piñata par…party or somethin'?" Scout asked as Sniper tightened the blindfold over his eyes.

"No, it's… not that."

"Uhhhhhhhhizit… a… it'z gotta be a piñata, man, wh-wh at else is da blindfold for?" Keeping him calm. Sure, Scout wasn't a bird, and this had the possibility of just making things worse, but…

"Can't tell ya."

"Ohhh, it'z a surprise party! Bet it is! Are da others, did-did they, get ya ta do this? I knew they were plannin' somethin'! Dat's why ya guys n-never went ta, ya my birthdays, cause, cause ya were plannin' this, right?"

"...let's jus' get ya ready, awright?" Sniper mumbled, checking to make sure the blindfold was secure along with the cloth tied tightly over Scout's upper arm. He pulled at the tourniquet. "Does this hurt at all?"

"N-Nah, ain't feelin' a ttthing!"

"Right, okay, Oi'm jus' checking before we do this."

"Yeah, sure, then party time!" Scout's expression lit up into an enthusiastic grin, biting his lip to keep himself from smiling too much, and wiggling happily from his seat. The marksman looked away.

"Can you walk?" At that, Scout scoffed.

"Can I walk, he sayss," Scout smirked, hoisting himself to stand, "Iss a whale a fish?"

"N-No?"

"It'z not?" The runner's face fell followed swiftly by himself once his legs buckled under him. Sniper caught him before he hit the ground, wincing at the strain it put on his ribs.

"They're mammals." Sniper explained, pulling Scout to his feet. The runner shook, swaying and confused. His hand was cold.

"But… they swim? A-And live underwater! Ho… how?"

"They don't have gills, like Hippos, and Crocs."

"And Croc-o-diles ain't mammals." Scout stated.

"Yeah, they aren't mammals."

"Man, how do ya know so freakin'... sso freakin' much, man? How's, how, why're ya so smart?"

"Oi'm really not," Sniper said, "Now can you walk or no?" Scout was quiet, head hanging.

"...can't see." He mumbled, gripping Sniper's shirt with a trembling fist. The marksman sighed.

"Oi'll guide you, but Oi need to know if you can walk." He explained, watching his companion sway gently. "Can you walk or not?"

Again, Scout was quiet. Silent, and unmoving. Then, he took a heavy step. Then he stumbled forward, and collapsed into Sniper when his legs buckled again.

"'M tired," his small voice seeped through the fabric of the marksman's shirt, "C-Could we do this… da party, tell da others, tomorrow, okay? It feels weird. I-I… ssuper tired, in my legs. Feelss too weird." Scout trailed off, slipping further down. Further and further till he sat on the ground, resting his head against Sniper's leg. Even through the fabric he could feel the heat.

Sniper gingerly crouched down.

"Can't let ya fall asleep jus' yet, mate."

"Five minutes?" Scout murmured, "O-Or a… any caff? Any?"

"No."

"Aw… aw man." The marksman looked at the runner, at the shivering, at the pale skin, so thin that it looked like even the tiniest pinch would be enough to tear it. He swallowed.

"Woah, woahwoah, w-whaddaya doin'?" Scout stuttered as he was lifted up from the floor and into Sniper's arms.

"Carrying you because you can't walk," Sniper grunted, arranging the runner to find the easiest way of carrying him without straining himself. He settled for a bridal carry. Scout was very light, more like a paperweight than a hard hitting mercenary.

"It'z so sstupid, I-I hafta walk- run, it'z my job, can't not run, walk!"

"...you're… c'mon, it's best to jus' get this over with." He mumbled, opening the door after letting go of the runner's legs. Once open, he swept Scout up again, and made his way outside, mindful of his companion's twinges of discomfort.

The chill air ruffled the pair's hair as the marksman hadn't bothered taking his hat. There was a lull in the rain, leaving the air clear and sky a deep grey. Evening was falling by the time Sniper had gotten everything ready. In the forty minutes the marksman had taken, he'd found a stump with a flat surface, sharpened his knife and disinfected it, found a blowtorch in the toolbox they'd taken from Engineer's workshop, and then had taken the remaining minutes to simply… build up enough… nerves.

"W-Wow, it'z cold out here," Scout mumbled, trying to look around despite the blindfold, "where're we goin'?"

"Somewhere." Sniper replied.

"What kinda… party h-happens outside? …wait… is it a weddin'? Who'z gettin' married? Is it, it Engie?"

"No."

"Wait a ssec, i-it ain't us, right?"

"No."

"Oh good," Scout smiled in relief, letting his head rest on Sniper's shoulder, "cau-se dude," he tried patting said shoulder and ended up patting Sniper's chest, "I like ya, you're cccool, but one, you're a guy, and two, I-I'm taken. A-And even if ya were a chick, you wouldn't… be a-a good lookin' one."

"Rude."

"Sorry, just da truthhh of… cause you're a cool guy. Not a cool, cool girl… yeah, it'z…" the runner was overcome with a bout of shivers and fell silent, curling inward to preserve body heat.

Sniper didn't say a word, as if the silence in the real world would calm his own racing thoughts. The walk wasn't too long from the van, it was only about two minutes. But it felt far longer. Whether it was his arms growing tired and warm from carrying Scout, the thick ferns slowing his walk, the limp he had from trying to keep his ribcage from cracking more, or the knowledge of what was going to happen once he reached their destination weighing heavily on his mind, it didn't matter. It didn't matter.

They'd reached the stump all the same.

"Hey, where'ss, where'd ya goin'?" Scout asked as Sniper carefully set him down near the stump, next to the blowtorch and kukri.

"Oi'm right here, not going anywhere." Sniper replied, once again checking the runner's blindfold and tourniquet. Both were tight, and tied with a knot that couldn't be undone without two hands, so if anything went awry, or if Scout couldn't stay calm, then he wouldn't be able to take them off. He grabbed his knife and the blowtorch. A light click followed by a hiss of gas as Sniper ran the blue flame over the blade one last time, burning away dirt and bacteria clinging to the steel.

"...Okay," Scout mumbled, ignoring when Sniper finally took hold of his arm and laid it on the damp surface, "okay, you… you stay. Stayin'."

"That's right."

He should make sure that Scout wouldn't be able to squirm away. Tying him to the ground might work, but he'd have to go and grab a rope. The runner might just be too weak to move anyway. Sniper looked down at Scout, who was humming a tune he didn't recognize. His arms and legs were incredibly thin. He wouldn't be able to move for long if he was able to get loose.

…how had he gotten so slim under Sniper's watch?

No. He couldn't think about that right now. He had to, he had to focus. If he wasn't able to pull this off quickly, it could devolve even faster into something he might not be able to control. Hard, fast, a single chop is all it would take.

Don't get distracted.

"Why'ss it so quiet?" Scout asked as Sniper took hold of his arm in a tight grip, just above the joint, and pulled it taunt, "are… they hide? Hidden?"

Either below the elbow or right before where the bicep connected would be best. Sniper lined up his blade.

"'Re we lost? D-Did we g… where are. Are we?"

He tightened his grip, causing the arm's owner to flinch, to stutter out a protest. It wasn't the first time he'd done this, it wasn't too far off from carving a deer. It would be fine. It will be fine.

Focus.

"-an we g-go back-"

Don't get distracted.

"-old out h-here, wet to-"

Zone him out.

"-ey, can y… hear-"

He wanted this, Scout chose this option. One clean strike is all it would take, just don't mess it up. Sniper raised his blade, eyes locked on target.

"Snipes?"

Focus.

"Ssnipah?"

Don't you want him to survive?

"Mick?"

Sniper took a breath,

And swung.

The first chop went halfway through the bone, getting stuck in the marrow. As he wrenched the blade out from the limb, a horrid noise erupted to his left, sending a nearby flock of birds to take to the skies. Something pawed at his arm, pulling at his shirt. The surface of the tree stump was growing a shining ruby red and started to drip off the side. That was fine, expected. The tourniquet was working, that was just the blood still left in the limb. Sniper swung again.

Through the bone and into the wood, getting stuck once again. So it took two chops. That was better than three. Didn't exert himself too much since his ribs were still just as pained as before. And the cuts were clean, tendons and muscles weren't so uneven, bone fragments were small, and the cracks were thin. All in all, a success. So then why was there screaming?

Wait, no.

There was no screaming. His hand was empty and slick with crimson. Warm too, though it was quickly growing cold. Looking over, Sniper spotted the now amputated arm's owner.

He had ripped himself from Sniper's grasp, curled up in the dew covered ferns, some even sporting that brilliant red now dripping from their leaves. The bleeding appendage was held close to his chest, staining his front, and the hand he still had was planted over his mouth in a white knuckled grip, shaking with every breath.

No. No, that wasn't shaking. He wasn't shaking. Scout was seizing up.

"Aw h*ll," Sniper uttered before dropping the kukri and finding himself at Scout's side, "you're awright, it's fine, you'll live." He'd tried placing a hand on the runner's shoulder, only for Scout to scurry away, pleading.

"No more!" He croaked, falling to his side from his left arm's shorter length. Sniper grabbed his wrist, and flinched at the panic lacing Scout's words. "No more! Not again, please not again!"

"It's fine, Scout, you're fine!" The runner wasn't listening, he was still squirming around, pleading to be let go. And just as quickly as it began, Scout's outburst died out along with his energy as Sniper pulled him close.

"You'll be fine, jus' one more thing, it'll be fine," he assured. Scout still tried to pull himself out from Sniper's arms.

"Nono, please," the Bostonian whimpered, unable to keep his head up and letting it drop on Sniper's shoulder, "'M-M promise, promise I'll be quiet, not again! Please!"

"It'll be over before ya know it,"

"No it won't, it'll j-just keep goin'!"

"Scout, it's jus' one more thing," Sniper said, pulling the runner into a tighter hold and grabbing his bleeding stump, "Oi promise." Scout kept pleading, even when Sniper gave all the reassurances in the world, the runner just kept begging to be let go. When he reached over and grabbed the blowtorch, Scout kept begging. When he lit the flame and that hiss filled the air, Scout kept begging. Pawing at his arms, whimpering promises that he'd keep quiet if Sniper just let him go.

The marksman paused, looking down at his trembling companion. The runner's hair stuck to his forehead, and his chest rose and fell with short, shallow breaths. Scout no longer had the energy to do anything but talk in small, feeble sentences.

"Let me go…" the words were making Sniper's grip loosen.

No. He couldn't. Not yet.

He tightened his hold on the arm, earning a new bout of pleas, and wrapped a leg around Scout's waist, keeping him locked in place. The runner's back was now flat against his chest, unable to worm out of his arms. And that little want, growing more audible the longer Scout cried to let the boy go, was beaten into the background.

Sniper needed to focus.

"Sorry, mate," He said over Scout's constant wave of pleas, "this is going to hurt. A lot."

"No!"

"It's for your own good," the blue flame was brought closer to the dripping arm when Scout whimpered something that made Sniper pause, if only for a moment.

"I don't wanna be turned into a monster…"

Silence followed, neither man having the energy to say anything more. Then Sniper steeled his mind, and the smell of burning skin filled the air.


The empty darkness of the camper's interior stood watch, waiting silently for its owner to arrive. Five minutes, then ten passed with nothing but the encroaching sound of light raindrops. Then, the door's handle jiggled, and was opened.

Sniper pushed the door aside with his shoulder, arms full from the unconscious teammate he was carrying. Shuffling into the camper, the marksman made his way over to the small bed and, as gently as he could muster, laid the runner on cushions. He stepped away, then stumbled backwards and met the counter with his spine, leaning on it like a crutch.

He never, never, wanted to hear someone scream like that again. The cauterization was not just one more thing, it… the screams. He thought he'd be more prepared for them. It had to happen to keep Scout from bleeding out, it just… why did the kid have to cry out for his family? Sniper knew why, but just… why?

Running a hand down his face, Sniper heaved a heavy sigh. Then snatched his hand away in disgust. His hands were coated in blood, now his face was too. And shirt. Scout was covered in blood too. Right, he needed to get them cleaned up, needed to get Scout bandaged, needed to make sure the kid would wake up, needed to do all of it, all of it. So much needs to be done right now.

The marksman made to grab some bandages before spotting his crimson palms. Okay, he should get cleaned up first, using blood stained bandages would be counterproductive. The small sink's water was cold, and it felt like forever passed before Sniper was able to wash Scout's blood away from his hands and face. Some little stains remained but those were of no consequence. Now, he needed to change out of these clothes.

Ugh, they were already stiff.

Getting himself into some new clothes seemed to take a long time too. He was running out of clean ones which meant he needed to clean some. He was also running out of energy and patience for life. Just one more thing he needed to do soon. Brushing down the shirt he'd slipped on, Sniper looked over at his small companion.

Scout was still asleep, and still had the blindfold on. He should take that off. Maybe he shouldn't have put it on at all. Limping over to the runner's side, Sniper took the younger man's shoulders and leaned him against the wall. Then, taking care not to pull Scout's hair, Sniper untied the blindfold. It fell away, damp. His eyes were closed, slightly puffy and surrounded with dark circles. A moment passed before Sniper placed his hand on the side of the runner's neck.

Yeah, Scout was still alive. Sporting a nasty fever, but alive. Sniper drew back, chest lighter than before, and narrowed his eyes on the runner's arm. He needed to wrap that up now, then he'd have to change Scout's shirt. He stood and searched for the first aid kits he had stored away. His eyes and hands worked to get the supplies, and his ears listened for any movement, any sound that might hint towards Scout waking. Nothing happened when he found a first aid kit, and turning back towards Scout showed that the kid was still fast asleep. Good, then he'd wouldn't hinder Sniper while he worked on patching Scout up.

Taking hold of the runner's arm, Sniper quietly sighed, then began to disinfect it. The skin now felt rough and charred beneath the cloth he was using, but it was better than being cold and wet from Gangrene. Once he was sure it was disinfected enough, Sniper wrapped some clean bandages around Scout's arm. It now barely went past his elbow since the marksman decided against removing the joint, but it was still much shorter than before, and the rest of the infected limb was out in the ferns, wasting away. He might go back and try burning it if some animal hasn't come around and eaten it by the time Sniper's finished.

Now, about that shirt…

He grabbed the rims and started to shimmy Scout out from it. Ugh, it was already stiff and cold. The boy needed a clean one, having one this stained wouldn't do him any good. Now he could either get him one of his own or one of Sniper's if the runner's clothes were too dirt-

…s…

…scars…

Scars, old and new. Thin white ones rising up from the skin, thick red ones scabbed and long. Crisscrossing over the multi-colored bruises peppering Scout's stomach, creating a mosaic of yellows, purples, and red.

W… Where, where-when, when did he get these why didn't Scout say anything to him how long had- These hadn't been there when he- at Sawmill, they weren't there, sure he had some bruises along his midriff but nothing like- and what had caused- in the cave, down there, the fall? O-Or wa- or the- Landfall, but these- the forest, after he'd ran Scout off did the runner get caught in thorn- but some were new, only a few days old, where would he- what could make such lengthy cuts?

And the bruises, much older, much larger, mostly a soft shade of yellow or greenish purple- couldn't have been made anytime soon, what had, what was…

Before,

What was Scout…

What was Scout doing before with his

Sniper lifted his eyes towards the empty hook on the wall. He hadn't brought it with him, just like the blowtorch, he wanted to make sure Scout was brought in first. It was still lying close to that blood covered stump, coated in the runner's…

A deep, creeping frost settled in the marksman's chest that grew as he looked at Scout, eyes sharp and wide, as if seeing the runner for the first time.

The cold grew at the scars. The cold grew at the bruises. The cold grew at the skeletal frame. Cold had lined every inch of his body, making it impossible to move. Impossible to look away from the runner and what he'd become.

Scout had left after Sniper did, after they argued, after Scout thought that, after he misconstrued Sniper's words, after- after Scout thought that Sniper didn't ca… didn't, didn't care…

Had h…

…had he caused…

The thought was swiftly and violently shoved to the side as Sniper shot to his feet, letting the blood covered shirt fall from his hands. Bandages, those were what he needed. Not the thousand questions flooding his already exhausted mind. Questions that Scout couldn't answer. Questions Sniper didn't know if he wanted answered. So bandages were grabbed, along with disinfectant, as Sniper sat back down at his young companion's side. With haste, he began to wipe down the ugly scars like they were simply a stubborn stain that needed removing. But they weren't, and soon the marksman was wrapping the runner's stomach up, keeping the cuts from prying eyes, including his own.

He. Couldn't. Worry, about this right now, those weren't fatal. The fever was more important, making sure Scout wouldn't go septic was the most important. How would he do that? One sure fire way was in the camper, shoved into a corner, currently worth nothing more than a paperweight.

Sniper narrowed his eyes at the lifeless Medigun, leaning on the wall, waiting.


6:45. That was the time his watch's face read. It might be 6:45 actually, Sniper had no way of knowing, nor did he have the time to check the time. But it had gotten darker, and not just because he was working by candlelight to keep the overhead lights from hurting some eyes.

On the floor in front of him lay the disassembled parts and body of the Medigun. To his side, next to his knee, rested the open and emptied special toolbox he'd grabbed from Engie's workshop. Its tools were scattered about in an organized chaos that only made sense to the marksman.

So far, despite the many, many minutes of work, there seemed to be no progress made. Sniper had taken the healing weapon apart, careful as to not lose any little screws and parts, searching for any faulty wire, broken thingamajigs, busted up whatsits, or literally anything for a hint as to how to fix the d*mned machine. But of course, it wasn't that simple, it never was when it came to their luck.

Their luck. A soft ruffle of fabric came from his right, and Sniper silently groaned in anticipation.

"Harvey?" the little voice murmured for the seventh time since he sat down.

"Yeah," Sniper said, exhaustion clinging to every movement he made, "whot's up?"

"Wh… where's Ma?"

"Out, she'll be back soon, try to get some sleep," was the same answer he gave each time Scout was awake enough to talk. He was simply too tired to bother correcting someone who would forget five minutes later.

He knew it had to have been at least an hour since he started. An hour in which Scout wasn't showing any signs of getting better. In fact, he seemed to only be getting worse the longer Sniper worked on the Medigun.

"...It…'s cold." Sighing, Sniper turned towards Scout, who was watching him work through hooded, delirious eyes. The runner was curled up under a pile of blankets, the quilt, and one of Sniper's team shirts. Rain cloud blue eyes, red rimmed and confused, contrasted the ghost white skin Scout was sporting that glistened with a cold sweat.

"...Sorry to hear that," Sniper replied, "but there's not much more Oi can do to help with that right now." Scout made an incoherent jumble of words before falling silent once more, most likely slipping into another fever induced sleep. Sniper turned back towards the Medigun, reassembling it for the third time.

Perhaps if he disconnected this wire and replaced it with this-

Wait, hadn't he already tried this option? The blue wire or the little green wire? There was also this little compartment in the core, and the heavy barrel that could be unlatched-

Sniper jumped at the sudden weight that found itself nestling into his side, causing his ribs to start thumping. Whipping his head around, the marksman could only just keep from cursing in annoyance at Scout, who had slipped his way off the bed and at Sniper's side.

"You need to be resting," he said, turning back towards the Medigun. Now, if Scout didn't distract him from this like every other time, then he should be able to fix this correctly-

"'M ttthirst-y…" Sniper put down what looked to be an engine of sorts with a less than gentle force.

"Can you wait jus' a little more, Oi'm almost done." He asked, looking back at Scout who was resting his head on Sniper's shoulder.

"O-Okay."

"'Ppreciate it." In silence he worked, tired hands covered in little nicks from the machine and spots of old oil. Scout sat and watched, his shallow breathing being to only noise besides the Medigun's reassembly. Soon the runner fell even quieter from falling asleep, shivering slightly. The time passed and gradually the Medigun began to resemble its original form rather than a pile of bits and pieces. And when the final screw was put back in place, Sniper took a breath, and held it as he took hold of the power switch and flicked it.

The Medigun remained dormant. Sniper turned it on and off in rapid succession. Nothing.

"Piece of s**t!" Scout snapped awake as the sound of a wrench hitting the door rang through the small camper.

"WH- What's, we're under at-attack!" The runner stammered, eyes wide and scared. Sniper slumped over, head in his hands.

"No. No, Scout, we're not under attack. Oi jus' chucked something, it's fine." The marksman said. He shouldn't have done that, just… it was just so frustrating putting together this useless hunk of metal bits! Running his hands through his hair, Sniper took a deep breath, calming his fraying nerves.

"We a… aren't under attackkk?" Scout's voice was a whisper. He shook his head.

"No, Scout, we aren't under attack."

"Oh, oh g-good, t-then tell… tell them all, when we g-get… ta tell d-da guys, tell Mi…"

Scout's head lolled forwards and he dropped, forcing Sniper to catch him by his shoulders. The runner mumbled words that slurred and tied together like knots.

"Oi'll tell them later, let's get you into the bed," he said, making to stand when Scout slipped out from his hands and towards the ground. But it wasn't by accident, the runner wasn't collapsing. He was just curling up on the floor and-

Sniper instantly stiffened when the runner placed his head on the marksman's lap. And he stiffened more when Scout, instead of getting off him, just nestled closer. Keeping his hands up, and staring at Scout with wide eyes, unable to move or even think from the contact.

…Scout wasn't going to hurt him, this was fine, the runner couldn't even lift his head anymore let alone a weapon. It was fine, his heart was racing for absolutely no good reason. Besides, Scout was incoherent, he probably wasn't even aware of what he was doing, because if he was, there was no way the kid would do something this chummy with anyone let alone another guy. Let alone Sniper.

Little by little Sniper forced himself to calm down, to make his pulse stop racing like he was in immediate danger, and just accept the fact that Scout was going to be using him as a pillow for a while longer.

He finally lowered his arms with a breath, and hesitantly, rested a hand on Scout's shoulder. The heat under his palm was near uncomfortable.

Sniper needed to get Scout's fever down.

"'Scuse me, Bilby, need ya to move," the runner whined at the light shakes.

"Don't wanna."

"Scout, up please." Scout responded by gripping Sniper's pant leg with a less than firm grip. And Sniper responded by simply lifting Scout up and back onto the bed.

Instantly the runner began to shiver, eyes closed tight and curled into a little feverish ball. A heavy jacket was wrapped around his shoulders followed by blankets and a quilt. He started to mumble something when Sniper placed a cold cloth on his forehead.

"Didn't thin… anythin' wazz gonna happen. Tho-ught… tellin' him no… not… ta shoot was da good th… told h-him not ta shoot, and he… didn't… why'd it go… bad?..." The runner's words trailed off as he was overcome with both shivers and sleep.

Sniper stepped away and sat back down, pulling the Medigun closer once again, filing everything else away for another time. He couldn't worry about that itching feeling Scout's words brought, or anything else besides the fever and the Medigun.

He couldn't.

He just couldn't…


It was far too quiet.

Scout was far too warm.

The Medigun just wouldn't work…

Nothing, nothing was working, he should have just ignored Scout's wishes, done what needed to be done, should have found a hospital, should have focused on either fixing that d*mned machine or lowering that d*mned fever. Not both, he couldn't focus on both and yet he tried and look how that turned out!-

And now, because now, his hands just wouldn't. Stop. Shaking!

Night had fallen. Of course it had. Rain was also falling. Of course it was.

Why did Sniper agree to try and help Scout himself? Of course it hadn't worked, of course he couldn't keep Scout awake, of course-

Why did he expect something different?

He had no idea how much time had passed when Scout finally stopped talking, stopped moving, stopped having any energy to do anything besides breathing and making the smallest of murmurs. He didn't know how long he worked on that blasted machine that covered his hands in small cuts and black stains of oil and metal dust. He didn't know how long it was since he stopped, since he doused the candlelight.

It was far too quiet.

Sniper sat on the edge of the small cot, watching over the runner, waiting like a vulture. The fever never went down. He hadn't woken up in a good long while, hadn't tossed and turned for even longer.

Perhaps he had gone septic.

Perhaps it was too late to do anything more.

He just didn't know, and now he was sitting here, waiting for something.

Something like Scout suddenly waking up, bouncing around and making snarky remarks at Sniper's expense like he should be. To sit up, and insult him about his sudden softness, like he should be. To begin rambling about his many brothers, his great feats of prowess, his affection towards Miss Pauling, like he should be. To just grin and make a quip that he probably thought was incredibly clever about surviving such an awful experience, that a little sepsis was nothing to him after surviving rockets, bullets, and flames. Like he should be.

Or…

You know…

Something like Scout's heart stopping.

In which case Sniper would then have a body to bury, and the kid's family would never know what had happened to their youngest. Waiting for a man, hardly more than a boy, that would never call again, never come home.

Welcome to the life of a mercenary, Scout.

The runner's chest was only slightly rising up and down, just slightly. Sniper didn't have a shovel to dig a grave. He didn't want to have to make one without. Or even to ditch the body in the middle of the wilderness, or a river. There were many practical reasons why Sniper wanted Scout alive, feelings aside.

Non-existent feelings anyway.

If Scout didn't survive… well then, that was just… it was just… that was how it was going to be. Simple as. It wasn't a good… but if…

For Sniper's sake, Scout had to survive.

But he wouldn't. The runner was already a husk, there was nothing left to fight the infection with. It was just a waiting game that Sniper was playing.

He didn't want to play it.

Why was he there, at the Bostonian's side, if Scout didn't even know he was? Courtesy's sake, probably. Because it's "the right thing to do". The "proper thing". A societal standard.

It was completely impractical.

It was a worthless gesture to a man who had no hope of surviving to appreciate it.

Sniper stood.

The soft light of the night sifted through the closed blinds above the bed, casting deep shadows in the camper. The Medigun was set aside, as useless as ever. Silently, Sniper made his way towards the door and took the handle in his still shaking hand.

…he…

He couldn't be here when Scout slipped away.

He couldn't.

He just couldn't.

The door handle was turned.

"Mick?…" The words were quieter than a whisper, "...where're y…"

Sniper turned back and met Scout's eyes. The runner was awake. He was shaking, hair sticking to his forehead, using his elbows to hold himself up, and looking at the marksman. Although most of his face was hidden by shadow, Sniper could make out the muddled nervousness in Scout's eyes.

"...outside," he replied, voice raspy and taunt, "jus' for a while."

"Plea…se don't…" Scout's head fell, "don't go…" Sniper swallowed, chest tightening.

"Oi'll be right back."

"Mick…"

"Oi'll be back, Scout."

"Promise?..." the runner's voice wavered as his arms finally buckled and dropped him back onto the bed. Sniper didn't respond. "Please? Plea…se promise?" He took a step back. "Please…"

"Oi'll be back soon." was what left his lips as he pulled away from the hand reaching out.

"Don't… Mick, please…"

He opened the door, and stepped out into the cold night. After shutting the door with a soft click, Sniper took a breath, and fell back against the van's wall. He slid down, coming to a stop on the small steps, and hiding his face in his trembling hands.

Then, he growled in anger followed by a string of vile curses aimed towards himself.

What kind of person does this!? What kind of person does this!? A coward, that's what! Scout wanted Sniper to take care of him so that this wouldn't happen! So that he'd have at least one person by his side in case everything went to s**t, and what was Sniper doing!? What did he choose to do? What did that say about him, huh?

The sharpshooter snatched his hands away to run them through his hair, pulling it. They were still shaking, they just wouldn't stop shaking.

No, he couldn't just- just-

It's better this way. A little voice tried to reason in the back of his mind. You knew it would end up like this if you kept getting close, you're saving yourself from something worse, it's only natural.

Worse in what way, those feelings- he- he already developed them, and now they were coming back full swing.

You're getting them out of the way, this is good, you're doing the right thing. You didn't grieve for the others, there's no reason to be so distressed over just some scout.

…the others were, he didn't know if they were dead now or not! A-And it was much easier to just, just brush aside those, when he thought they died. They hadn't, they hadn't gotten as close as, not, and they could still be alive…

He's just a scout, an annoying one too, it's better this wa-

Jay was not just a scout. He was Scout.

Scout still left you to die, he did horrible things to you, are you just going to let that slide? He's no different than everyone else, and now he's dying, he's leaving you all alone again, right after getting you to care about him. He's no different than everyone else.

…Everyone else didn't come back to save his life…

The voice didn't respond.

Every, everyone else didn't trek for over a day and hitchhike just to apologize for saying horrible things. Is he still no different? Still, no response.

Did everyone else agree to follow him into Sawmill even when they knew it was a bad idea and wanted to stay but went to make sure Sniper would have some backup? D-Did everyone else teach him how to split an apple in half with his bare hands? Did everyone else catch him when he nearly fell to his death, did everyone else use all the medkits on him even when they needed some, did everyone else stay hopeful and optimistic while stuck in a cave to keep him from giving up?

Did everyone else willingly let themselves get struck with lightning just to keep Sniper alive!?

No, they didn't.

And what was Sniper doing to return the favor?

He sighed, rubbing his tired eyes, when he noticed something. His hands still shook, still trembled in the cold and rain. But they were also caked in small cuts that only cut the utmost layer of skin, doing no real damage, mechanical grease and metal dust.

And underneath that, all of that, in the lines of his palms and beneath his nails, was Scout's blood.

This was his fault. Scout's condition was his fault. The runner's death would be on his hands.

He was such a ****ing coward.

The light patter of the rain fell on his shoulders, on his head, sending little shivers through his muscles. Besides that, there was nothing. Just the small plip, plip, plips.

Sniper sat in silence, clasping his hands together to keep them still.

Plip, plip, plip.

Wasn't it strange how the quiet was a stranger now? Something he found comfort in all his life now felt foreign. It was still nice, he still loved it.

Plip, plip, plip.

But it wouldn't feel twice as nice if that silence would be permanent. Some noise was needed to balance it, to make the silence and isolation something to look forward to. Some talking, some rambles, someone who didn't know when to stay quiet.

Plip, plip, plip.

And besides, those stories were quite entertaining, not nearly as annoying as the others complained. And they were good background noise, like the rain.

Plip, plip, plip.

Sniper would miss that noise. He'd miss it terribly.

He would miss Scout.

The mental confession made Sniper want to bitterly laugh, yell, and kick something all at once. He would miss Scout. It was pointless to keep pretending otherwise, once the runner was gone, he would be alone again. Like every other time.

Sniper would miss Scout.

And Scout was dying alone.

Or already had.

That thought caused the marksman to stand, and turn back towards the van. He stood, staring, the rain peppering his clothes and skin. Then he grabbed the door and opened it.

It was dark. The only light being a soft dim gray coming in through the shutters. And it was quiet. No noise besides the tin tap dance of the rain on the roof.

Sniper felt his heart drop when he spotted the runner's motionless hand hanging off the side of the bed. From the angle he stood, he couldn't see the rest of his companion. Just his hand.

The marksman forced himself to move, walking forward as if he were held down by lead weights. And then, he could finally see Scout. Finally see the runner's face.

There were tear streaks.

Carefully, Sniper knelt by the side of the cot, hand hovering over his teammate. Then, with reluctance, place it at the crook of Scout's jaw.

Warm skin met his own,

Along with a pulse. It was weak, so very weak, but it was a pulse.

Scout was still hanging on.

The runner was gently rolled onto his back and had his head tilted back, making it as easy for him to breathe as possible. After, the marksman took hold of Scout's hand, and placed his other upon the younger's chest, feeling the soft rise and fall. If at any point Scout stopped breathing, Sniper would know instantly. He swallowed.

"Oi came back, like Oi said Oi would," Sniper began, voice rough, "shouldn't have left at all. Realize that now. Oi never should have left ya like this, it wasn't right. Oi shouldn't have given up so quickly on ya. Don't… Don't know how ya do it," he rubbed the back of Scout's hand with his thumb, "how ya don't give up. How ya stay so bloody stubborn. Probably because you usually turn out to be right. Like about our team. Oi think they might be alive. Don't know for certain, or if it was even them. But Oi think the lads might still be alive. So you were right all along. And Oi'm sorry Oi didn't tell you before now." Sniper paused, looking down. A moment passed, then he took in a breath and continued.

"You jus' don't know when to quit. When to quit talking. When to quit fighting. When to back down… Oi hope you still don't. Cause most blokes in your shoes would probably throw in the towel by now. Call it quits. Say there's no chance of surviving this so whoi bother. Well, Oi think you have quite a lot to bother for. And Oi think you can survive this. Oi hope you do.

"Oi… do care about ya, lad. Tried not to, didn't work out so well, if at all. Like Oi said, you don't know when to quit. Suppose that extends into getting on moi good side. So. Ya got what ya wanted, me to care. And it would be pretty rude for you to pull a fast one on me right after Oi get attached."

He continued to talk to the unconscious runner, softly, refusing to let the emotion building in his chest be brought out. When Sniper ran out of encouragement to say, reasons why Scout should wake up, he spoke about his life. About his parents, about the times he searched for dinosaurs in the outback as a kid, about all the family pets he had growing up, about the times he'd chased the larger Australian children off by hurling sharp stones at them, each one hitting their mark. He spoke about jobs, about hits gone right, hits gone wrong, hits gone very wrong and the scars that came with them. Spoke about the time he spent with the team, what he liked about it, what things their teammates did that annoyed him to no end(especially Spy). And then it circled back to what he liked about Scout, and why he didn't want the runner to die.

When Sniper finally had nothing left to say, and once his voice gave out after so long of talking nonstop, he rested his head on the cushions, holding Scout's hand in an unbreakable grip. As he slipped into an unwilling slumber, one single phrase played on repeat in his mind. Like a prayer, or a broken record, a constant, quiet plea to someone who couldn't answer. And it continued through the deepest layers of sleep.

Please don't die.

Please.

Over and over, repeated throughout the night, only simmering down when, through the subconscious, Sniper felt Scout's hand take hold of his own.