Sniper was very much surprised to see that Scout's affectionate disposition had not dissipated upon morning. His story must have struck something within the Bostonian, he concluded in instantaneous alertness as he awoke to find Scout snuggled against him. He could do nothing but smirk at the sleeping young man, whose arms locked around his body, the limbs twisted around him with the durability of thickened vines, complaisant and yet very gentle.

The same brisk leisure and lively intimacy was present even as the two continued on their wayward trek, Lawrence not complaining at all as the drive of the day reaches its first hour in duration. It had taken a day or two for Jack to block out the incessant tapping and banging against the dashboard with which Scout had preoccupied himself their first day of travel—and the Australian finds that even with his third glance of shock at the stationary Scout he still can only just barely believe the sight to be true.

Eyes lightly narrowed and cast to the side as he watches the road pass out the window with a soft smile, Scout drums the tips of his fingers inaudibly against the passenger door, seemingly content with the day as it seemed to be unfolding, the current situation, and most surprisingly of all, Sniper himself.

It could be argued that Jack's newly developed distaste for silence and the lack of any sort of conversational stimulation stems from the influence of Lawrence himself. Two years ago Sniper never would have been so unnerved by the thought of silence—especially not any sort of silence from someone for whom it was physically impossible to shut up. Sniper never would have surrounded himself with such rowdy, immature, opinionated and fundamentally obnoxious company to begin with!

Each glance the older man steals of the Bostonian is accompanied by the attempt to start a bit of discussion with him, his mouth agape for seconds at a time. His inability to find the words doesn't surprise him, as Sniper never really was one to initiate any sort of pointless chit chat.

'I s'pose I could jus' ask 'im what it is that's got 'im so smiley over there'

But Sniper can do nothing but smile in return as their eyes meet, Scout's beam only growing in its brevity—and most of all in its sincerity.

"Wot's got ya so sweet all o'sudden, eh?" Sniper jokes, giving his shoulder a light and friendly shove. "Over here smilin', not sayin' a word, not bitchin' about bein' on the road, or where we're goin'..."

"I dunno, I just figured, well, all the dudes you've been datin' have been total pricks, I guess, and, I dunno—I guess I just felt kinda bad, like you got all these memories and I'm just another one o'them,"

"Oi, s'not your fault, love, you ain't gotta be on your best behaviour jus' 'cause o'what happened all those years ago,"

Scout chews a bit on his lip, shrugging lightly.

"I mean, I dunno, I've said some pretty terrible shit, and I'm not always the sweetest to you, ya know? You do a lot for me, wombat, and I just don't feel like I tell ya enough,"

"Tell me what?" Sniper asks in the height of his light curiosity, his smile almost mockingly wide as he awaits Scout's answer.

"Aw, come on,I ain't really gotta say it, do I?! It ain't like you don't already know!"

"Say what?!"

"That I—nah, fuck it, dude; fuck you, fuck this whole conversation! Now listen up, I'm tired of sittin' around, I'm hungry, I wish you'd quit ignorin' me, 'n' how much longer we got 'til we get to wherever the hell it is we're even goin'..."

"I wasn't ignorin' ya, I was jus' takin' advantage of the silence. Now how long you been holdin' all this in, love? I know it musta been killin' ya t'stay quiet this whole time," Sniper smirks.

"All mornin', now drive faster before I bail outta this thing 'cause I'm bored to death!"

"That's my Lawrence,"

"So then you want me to be a dick?!"

"'S what I love about ya, gremlin; sure as hell don't remember fallin' for Lawrence the Good Boy 'nd Sweetheart Extraordinaire,"

"Prolly like gettin' pushed down the stairs and called a bitch, too; you might wanna get yourself checked out, dude,"

"Oi now, that's not funny!"

"I don't hear ya sayin' no—!"

"Well then 'no'; no, I don't. 'Nd I've got the experience o'bein' thrown down stairs 'nd beat t'my last breath t'confirm the choice, too..."

"I'm just kiddin', Jack, you ain't gotta tear up or nothin'"

Sniper shakes his head, turning his attention back onto the road and silence being a responsible driver called for.

"For real, though, I was just kiddin'—domestic abuse ain't funny,"

Scout perks up as the man scoffs and shakes his head disbelievingly, mumbling gravely.

"What?" Lawrence leans toward the driver's seat, clutching onto Jack's arm.

"Whaaat—?!"

"OI, 'RE YOU FUCKIN' NUTS?!" Jack roars as Lawrence shakes the man's bicep, the steering wheel and van itself swerving violently, the screech of tires skidding across the muggy road deafening for the few seconds Sniper loses control of the automobile.

"YOU TRYIN' T'GET US KILLED, YA LITTLE SHIT?!" he spits, Scout furrowing his brow angrily, though refusing to dignify Sniper's scolding with any words of his own.

"Nothin'!" Jack growls in response to Scout's original question, a few tense seconds passing between them. "I didn't say anythin'—now—I'm startin' to regret ever talkin' to ya—"

"THEN MAYBE I JUST WON'T SAY SHIT THEN!"

"Like you could—"

"Watch me, you fuckin' dick,"

"Y'want me to watch you or the road, so we don't bloody die?!"

The two share a heated glare before Sniper breaks it, starting the van and driving once more. Even in Lawrence's stubborn anger he still can't help but spend the next noiseless ten minutes casting quick glances at the Australian in hopes to catch Jack looking at him in return. Like a provoked animal the young man sits up in his seat, mouth wide as Sniper reaches a hand in his direction. Lawrence's excitement subsides as the fingers he'd expected to wrap against his own hand curl around the dial of the radio instead.

He narrows his eyes, sticking out his tongue at the older man, slightly peeved that Sniper shows no signs of dwelling on the bickering at all, unlike himself. The Australian's slightly aged face is completely neutral as he hums along with the tune that hums its own way out of the radio—Scout always despised the old people music the man frequently enjoyed on longer car rides they'd taken together. Jack claimed it was the music of his childhood, but boring old jazz, Scout felt, seemed almost like counterproductive listening for someone trying to revive the days of the youth.

That and Scout hated love songs.

'The object of my affection, can change my complexion, from white to a rosy red…'

Lawrence kicks his legs impatiently, his eyes darting about the dashboard of the van spastically.

'Anytime he holds my hand, and tells me that he's mine…'

"Man, fuck this gay ass shit! Over here listenin' to this shit like a girl!"

"Oi, at least I don't fuck like one,"

"WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN—?!"

"'Nd at least I know whether or not I want to fuck one,"

"Hey, Jack, that was uncalled for!" Scout whines, roaring moodily as all Sniper can produce in return is an innocent shrug.

"Seriously, I thought we were over that," Scout pouts, eying Sniper sheepishly. "I never shoulda told your ass..."

"I never woulda asked if you hadn't made cummin' on my face while I sleep a nightly thing!"

Lawrence's back slams against his seat once more, the young man lost in a fuming, moody slump.

"You turnin' five or twenty five this year, mate?! You're actin' like a child, 'nd I suggest not dishin' 'em if ya can't take 'em!"

"Maybe you could try not bein' a dick for once and just leave me alone!"

"Wait, what?" Sniper chuckles, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head at Scout's pouting figure.

"You're always makin' fun of me for bein' a fag, well maybe that shit ain't funny to me!"

'But it's alright t'make fun o'me for the same reason…' Sniper snaps internally, sighing heavily and placing his eyes on the road once more.

And so a whole hour passes by, not a word being spoken. It isn't until Sniper dares a brief look in Scout's direction that he realizes he'd actually fallen asleep, curled in lazy slumber. Sniper lets out a solitary, brief laugh as he realizes the distaste and irritation still plague the expression he graces even in slumber.

'S best to let him sleep.'

-

And it isn't until the sky is a royal violet and the sun begins its dissension when Scout finally stirs, finding himself stretched in the passenger seat, Sniper's vest draped around his shoulders.

Albeit with no actual Sniper besides him.

Shadows cast themselves like weightless tarp about the dashboard, the keys in the ignition, though their stationary dangle implies Jack had abandoned the van quite some time ago. He stretches, rubbing his blurred vision clear, gripping the vest and surveying the driver's seat of the van in order to make doubly sure the Australian truly resided elsewhere.

Lawrence opens the passenger door, his feet touching lightly against the damp earth, head spinning as his groggy state still drugs his equilibrium. The air is damp and musty and yet almost misty, frozen and very cool. Each drop of vapor settles into his pores, clinging in dewey beads in his hair.

It doesn't take long to find Sniper kneeling on the ground, face stained with dirt and moisture, engaged with the back left tire. The Bostonian can't help but make a mental note of Jack's shiver, the red shirt he always donned under the vest clutching to his body in rainy, humid adhesion. His teeth clack and the chill that slashes at his flesh and assuredly gusts through the Australian's lungs numb the whole of his physical self, his fingers white and blunt in their frozen movement.

"H—hey, catch—" Scout pipes up quietly, approaching him and kneeling beside him, tossing Sniper his vest.

"Thanks, love," Sniper grumbles, though Scout's brow furrows as he sees for certain that the dry garment still does nothing against his mild hypothermia—though it was ridiculous of him to assume the vest would act as instantaneous rejuvenation.

"Hey, you see the radiator's smokin', right?" Lawrence clears his throat, Sniper's breath shaking as he nods, swallowing his discomfort and flashing him a small, unconvincing smile. "'S nothin', she always does that if you're parkin' after a day's drive," Sniper grunts, tightening the tire and hoisting himself from the ground, his motions heavy, for his numb limbs restrict him to bumbling tiredly about.

"Got a flat tire a ways back—ended up hoppin' down the road for nearly a half a kilometer—was worried the bumpin' was gonna wake ya,"

"You're freezin' out here, Jack…why didn't you wake me up and ask me to help you? You coulda been done already!"

"You were sleepin', love, I didn't wanna bother y'over somethin' I can handle myself,"

Scout shakes his head, yawning and stretching, catching Jack's eye as he smiles, a sympathetic glint welled in his eyes as he silently wills an apology to Scout for their argument earlier.

"Nah..." is all Lawrence can come up with in response, standing with his arms at his sides, mouth parted slightly as he remains undecided as to whether or not he wishes to verbally accept the man's apology. Regardless, Jack lets his back slide against the camper, cigarette in between his lips, sunglasses dangling so low Lawrence can see the whole of his eyes. "You sure we're gonna be alright? Just sittin' on the side of the road like this?" Scout asks warily, seating himself next to Sniper and craning his head to face him.

"Figured I could use the fresh air," Sniper shrugs, lips curled around the cigarette, smoke billowing from his nostrils. "'Course I can let ya in the camper if y'wanna lay down,"

"It ain't about me, you just look like an icicle! My teacher from high school once told us about this reaaallly cold stuff—liquid nitrogen—"

"Aye,"

"You look like you bathed in the shit,"

"Really? Do I look that awful?"

"Not awful, but you look like you're gonna come down with a cold or something, soakin' wet and shiverin' like that—smokin' cigarettes when your lungs are all cold like that probably don't help none, either…"

"I don't plan on finishin' it, Doc," Sniper chuckles, his voice dashed with a hint of affectionate condescension on Scout's behalf.

"Smoke inside at least?"

"I hate smokin' in the van, I don't like the place where I sleep t'smell like stale nicotine weeks after I actually lit the bloody thing,"

"I hope you don't expect me to take care of you when your ass is hackin' about, dude,"

The young man smirks, wondering silently whether the older man truly felt these conditions and the hazards they proposed his health to be a fair trade off for a fresh scent within the camper. Scout reaches for the cigarettes in the Australian's breast pocket, taking one in between his bandaged fingers for himself.

"Oi…!"

"Come on, just let me have one! I swear I ain't smoked since you told me not to—ow…" Scout yelps as Sniper reluctantly throws the young man the lighter, Lawrence igniting the end and taking in a particularly rewarding drag, eyes lidded as he too falls against the metal. "'S not like you can sit here and talk about health…"

"'S just ashame t'see a little thing like you get caught up in such a terrible habit,"

"A little thing like me?" Scout repeats with a raised eyebrow.

"You're not gonna be able t'run or capture anythin' if y'keep poisonin' your lungs with stuff like this,"

"'N' you?"

"Heh—my life ain't dependent on my ability to run, love,"

"Yeah, you run a thousand miles away 'nd shoot from where no one can get ya like a bitch!"

"Hey, whatever works, mate!"

Scout puts up no resistance to the man draping an (albeit devastatingly cold and damp) arm around his shoulder, pressing the end of his dying cigarette to the brightly lit one Scout still enjoys.

"Y'look nice 'nd rested,"

"How long was I out for?"

"Mhn—the whole afternoon, at least,"

"Jeeze..."

"It was quiet—was nice at first, but around four or five I thought about wakin' you up, I missed your company,"

"Now you're just bullshitin'"

"No! I mean it, love!"

"Well you must be bi polar or somethin', 'cause one second you can't stand it and then the next you say you can't live without it,"

"Oi, I never went that far, now,"

Both men look down at Scout's abdomen as a drawn out rumble rolls out from within Scout's neglected stomach in a captivating crescendo. "Ya hungry?" Sniper asks sarcastically and Scout wrinkles his nose before shrugging. "Figured I'd just wait 'til we got wherever it was we were goin' before eatin'," Scout's expression softens dully as it hits him that he has no idea just where it is they were headed in actuality.

"Well there's not a lot left t'eat in the camper, we should prolly hit a grocery store at some point,"

"Where are we headed, anyway?" Scout asks curiously, Sniper simply pushing his glasses so they settle once more on the bridge of his nose.

Jack pretends to take a bad inhale of his cigarette, the man in no rush to admit to the Bostonian that he had plans to take him back to his home city. Of course this had not exactly been within the realm of the Australian's original plans—hiking in the Northwest had very much been the shining attraction of his leave.

The change of destination stemmed from his initial decision to make a stop at a pay phone at one of the many rest stops along the way to the Pacific some three days ago. The car sickness and cramping in Sniper's leg dictated an unforeseen break in their wayward expedition. Scout was getting antsy, thus the brisk air and open space had done them both some good.

Willing himself not to vomit, the man gave the hyperactive Bostonian any piece of silver change he found within the confines of his pocket, hoping it would get him off his back and leave him time alone with deeply channeled breaths and nurtured nerves.

He'd gone through three cigarettes by the time he realized Scout was even dancing about the payphone, scratching his chin and debating internally with the dynamic question (as well as its answers) of whether or not he really would give Ma a short ring. It wasn't until Jack had coaxed and calmed the jittering Lawrence that Scout slid the dimes into their designated slot. Though regardless of Sniper's supportive words and calming gestures, Scout still stood confronted by the landline, the blank dial tone the auditory trail back home. And it terrified him.

It had taken five whole minutes of calm reassurance from Sniper for the young man to actually dial his own number, though he could still sense that Lawrence's paranoia of Luc answering the phone still coursed within him—by Scout's straight back and the way his molars grinded against his bottom row of teeth in their idled wait.

Sniper had intended to give his friend the privacy he deserved, sauntering back to the van, engaged with the fourth cigarette of the break.

It still came as no surprise to the Australian that no amount of aimless distance would muffle the sounds of Scout's longing tone and the sorrowful sway of his pleading words; Scout was just loud as it was, but Sniper was blessed with the gift of fully functioning senses—he couldn't miss Scout's parted, strained brow and wavering voice begging for the comfort of his home, brothers and mother even if he wanted to. The anguish and disappointment in his's homesick demeanour was simply too far gone beyond anything Jack was capable of ignoring.

He needed to be with them, by them, them being the only ones beside himself Scout gave any sort of damn about. In that moment Sniper had to wonder if he wasn't being rather generous in that regard, associating himself with title of being "Damn giving" worthy in Lawrence's eyes.

It tore him to shreds, ambling his way back over to the lively boy and his hasty chat, hands submerged in his pockets and head craned to the gravel of the makeshift parking lot. He tried not to catch the dialogue, or hear the choke in his love's voice as he asked a million and one of the inanest of questions that had to Scout a million and one meanings.

The hand Sniper ran through the young man's hair and behind his ear had done the job to silently inform him that he'd run out of quarters and was probably racking up a fortune to her phone bill as well. With pursed lips and a cracked, "Love you too, Ma," Scout had been forced to cut it short, and never before had Sniper felt more villainous in his life.

Scout, in a hastened attempt to hide his frustration, had asked Sniper whether he wanted to call his own family in a hushed, quickened voice. After Sniper answered with the negative, Scout hadn't spoken another word that day, and instead sat with his head against the cold glass of his rolled up window. It was then that he knew that in order to make it to Boston from Montana, he'd have to drive at least another two or three days straight, with as few stops as possible—thankfully they still had a week in their favour.

Sniper knew in addition to the logistics of the sudden trip that the only way to make sure they arrived without a hitch in the historical city would be to make sure Scout had no idea they were actually headed there. Scout would definitely protest the drive—Luc's presence would certainly sour Scout's agreement to the homeward visit, but Sniper figured that if he stayed in the van with Sniper and spent time with everyone outside of the Frenchman, conflict wouldn't escalate between them.

"Heeeelllloooo," Lawrence prods Sniper in the temple, dragging the Australian straight out of his retrospective.

"I asked where're we goin'?!"

"East," Sniper grunts.

"Seriously?! We're turnin' around after that whole drive?! I thought you wanted to go West?"

"You said you hated the outdoors,"

"I—I didn't mean—you ain't gotta change shit around, just—just for me..."

"Already have by lettin' ya tag along in the first place, mate,"

"So then what are we gonna do in the East, huh? I can't think o'what we'd be doin' that we wouldn't be doin' out West,"

"Maybe see the city,"

"The city?"

Sniper nods, crushing the cigarette under his heel and standing from the ground, Scout rising instantaneously, as if their actions were conjoined exactly, a direct mirror of each other.

"Answer me!"

"Y'ain't gonna get nowhere with answers with that tone o'yours!"

"So what, you're just gonna ditch me on the side of the road again?!" Scout snaps, Sniper ignoring him and walking into the camper.

"Whatcha goin' in there, for?! I thought you didn't like bein' in the camper and on the side of the road!"

"I'm changin', ya nosy mutant! Wait outside 'nd make sure no one creeps by the van,"

Scout scoffs, arms folded as he looks left and right, the route absolutely blank and empty as it was before. He nearly charges after the dry Sniper minutes later as he emerges in fresh new clothes from the camper, giving Scout a playful slap on the shoulder as he revs up the van, gesturing for Scout to hop in as well.

"Look at you, now you're soakin' wet," Sniper grumbles, his hand hooking behind Scout's neck, the other still clamped on the steering wheel.

"Drippin' all over the seat..."

"I ain't even drippin'!"

"Then why is there a giant wet spot where your arse is?!"

"'Cause you're a giant fag,"

"Funny, so're you!"

"Uh, no!"

"So what happens if we combine? Do we get some sort o'special power?"

Scout grumbles, Sniper's idle fingers still trailing gently along his neck and rubbing affectionately along his shoulder. "Yeah, like you don't like it!" Lawrence spits, hunching his shoulders instinctively as the tips of Sniper's fingers graze along the nape of his neck. "Over here touchin' me..." Scout adds, jumping slightly as turning his head to face the Australian connects their gazes—Sniper's utterly primal.

"How 'bout I pull over 'nd show ya just how much I do..."

The question itself is pointless, for Jack has already parked the van and unbuckled himself from his seat, his legs sprawled about as he leans in closer to Scout.

"Nope—"

"But for whatever reason you've got quite an erection formin' down there..."

"Prolly your stupid fuckin' accent,"

"Must be, 'nd it gets y'screamin' out for me t'fuck you harder in less than no time, love," Sniper whispers, the two further showing how easy it is to relapse into the scathing waltz the two'd learned to love the last two years.

"Fuck you..." Scout growls softly through narrowed eyes, their lids dropping lower as Sniper chuckles deeply. "Mnh, how I wish you would, love..." Scout gasps darkly in a quick breath as Sniper's fingers twirl across his cheek, as well as running a slow hand across the young man's thigh.

"Then maybe we could get to the end o'this cravin' o'yours; figure out whether or not ya really do still have feelin's for the dames—or if it's jus' your body playin' tricks on ya,"

Sniper grins, pulling Scout gently onto his lap.

"What's some stupid ol' girl gonna give ya that I can't, eh?" Sniper whispers in Scout's ear, letting his lips kiss a trail along its edge. "Those don't look like the eyes of a bloke that wants a lady, love..." Jack teases the Bostonian he holds, Scout putting up no protest against the deep kiss they share seconds later. The kiss itself, Lawrence notes, is pleasurable as always—Sniper's soft but dominant lips and their puckering suction against his own is always a sensation to behold. Their clammy, rain spoiled flesh and the slippery friction of their clothing however serves as a mood killing contrast to the heat Sniper attempts to create between them—the heat Scout tries to maintain.

Somehow in the instance it all feels so foreign, each of Sniper's gentle smacks augmented distastefully as Scout's heart begins to trace. Wanting out, Scout writhes underneath his dominant frame, the stroking and affectionate kissing the young man normally loves filling him with a myriad of contrarily oriented emotions. It all just felt so…off.

Maybe it was the uncomfortable position, the cramped confines of the van, Sniper's lusty enthusiasm, their cooled skin and its sickly slide, robbing them of warmth and energy. Their lukewarm breaths fan hazily over their faces, contaminating the already stuffy and still air. Who knew what it was—Scout just wanted out.

Still, he hooks his arms around Sniper's neck, the man drawing in his legs and slipping his own arms around Scout's waist, their lips brushing against each others' in hungry aggression. Lawrence moans into the kiss as his tongue catches briefly in Sniper's teeth, and finally, Scout gives; he pulls back from Jack's snare. Thin threads of saliva connect the tips of their tongues as their kiss finally breaks, the young man pushing Sniper from off him just lightly.

"You feel disgustin', dude, go take a shower," Lawrence snaps, wiping his mouth.

"Disgustin'?!"

"Yeah, like a wet fuckin' raccoon or somethin'—"

"My hair's the only thing that's still wet! 'S you who's all soggy!"

"Well then maybe I just ain't in the fuckin' mood," Scout spits, growing irritated with Sniper's bumbling, apologetic mumbling.

"I thought you were likin' it?!" the Australian grunts, and a highly awkward silence plays out between them as Scout scoffs, glaring moodily out the window.

"Well sorry, love, I—I didn't know..."

After a quiet collective of minutes pass, Scout feels the rumble of the camper beneath him, the scent of gasoline strong, the engine loud in the wake of wordless air. Sniper was certainly hurt and whatever else, but Scout couldn't be bothered to care.

He'd always liked to claim these sorts of things didn't bother him—that though he was a man of monogamous intimacy, he was still a man at his core. Rose coloured eyes, serenades, the proclamation of feelings and the thought of them stirring in his love making was far from Sniper's ideal sex life. It felt good and that was it—or so it was until the recent thought of Scout finding him repulsive brought a quiet worry to his face and posture.

Scout on the other hand hated the confrontation of the self insecurity of any sort wrought upon his conscious; the initial hurdle of finding Sniper attractive had been one thing. Accepting it for what it was had been something different entirely. To sit here now after the trauma of both events—and the realization and acceptance of those events—retracting the declaration of eternal love, attraction, and admiration of his Sniper, his hero—all in the name of coincidentally nameless women with pretty faces.

He didn't mean to imply Sniper was disgusting—though thoughts of kissing other men hadn't exactly meant what they used since dating Sniper in Scout's mind.

'Sorry, Snipes…'

Scout wanted to hurl, but he knew that doing so would either irritate Sniper more (what with vomiting in the van would involve stopping to clean up the mess) or involve opening his mouth—and opening his mouth meant he'd have to actuallyutter a word at the silent, calm but fuming Australian, or that the bile he traps in his intestines would find its way out.

Lawrence swallows heavily, only just now realizing the low resonance of whatever old big band Jack was listening to this time had been working as a mediator for conversation this whole time. "Y'got your ID on ya, love?" Sniper asks suddenly, his voice eerily high, as if he were trying to manually steer it into a cheerful pitch.

Scout raises an eyebrow, nodding slowly nonetheless. The Australian mumbles something but doesn't seem too bothered about making it intelligible, so Scout simply accepts the grunts for what they are and doesn't press for a translation. He must have expected Scout to ask why, though Scout does not give him the pleasure of confirmation of his suspicions. Sniper also shows no signs of divulging any further details—Scout simply lies his boggy head on the cool glass of the window instead.