If ever a previously spoken word had gone on to offend the flattened mattress upon which Scout had come to know as his and Sniper's "bed", the phonemes were certainly retracted; the planete boxspring, less than accommodating for someone with standards higher than those of a Bushman or a young man bred in the innercity, meant to face squalor in the eye and accept poverty as his own. The faded linens, bleached and washed out after many cycles of laundry, still prove to possess a comfort to them like a swarthy older man still staggered about with charm. The pillow, beatened by months of Scout's head rolling across it in restless sleep. All in all topped with the particular musk the Australian lent to his own place of rest; the fabrics and cushions marinated in the earthy spice of the man, packed with an unmistakable presence lingering in the fibers of the fabric as if drenched heavily with the brown, weighted cologne of a rich man.

And yet still Scout snores, mouth agape and wholly content as his arms disregard the meaning of his joints, the acrobatics of his twisted limbs allowing him to hold tighter onto the Sniper's scent dominated pillow. Then again who was to say the cotton of the faux down was still bound to Sniper's genetics; strands of Scout's hair stuck to the case here and there like brown whiskers, and he'd drooled pools of slobber to the point Sniper labeled the pillow once belonging to himself 'Lawrence's' with a repugnance that suggested he did not want it back. It didn't matter; the already awake and active (though not necessarilydressed, the Australian still wearing only his boxers and white undershirt) Sniper seemed to have to different plans. Plans that held little regard for Scout and his oasis of pleasant sleep amongst the parched hoodoos of spring induced allergies and Sniper's legs kicking the poor Bostonian onto the floor unknowingly in his sleep.

Sniper's wristwatch chirrups, one monotone "beep" signaling that highnoon has approached; not that Jack needed the automated drone. The sunlight that trails in through the small window, filtered a carnation pink due to its passing through the dark red curtains Sniper has primly tacked up, is indication enough. The rose coloured rays hit Scout's body and distort against his mass as if the young man were some sort of unknowing sundial. The very same half naked Scout who lies face down against the bed does not seem so willing to give up sleep without some sort of fight, though the young man was never one to relinquish anything Sniper sought from him so easily in the first place. Not even as Sniper aims his foot so it both disturbs the bed and lifts the mattress off the camper floor, the bottom left corner temporarily airborne. Scout's moan is more of a muffled whine, long and drawn out, like a creaking door grunting as a weakish wind blows it open.

"Get up,"

"Fuck you,"

"Mornin'," Sniper smirks with raised eyebrows, Scout's yell absolutely bloodcurdling as the Australian wrenches the sheets and untangles them from his body. Sniper, though clearly still shaking off sleep the way he drowsily rubs his fist against his lidded eyes, is not too asleep to not be able to dodge an early morning baseball aimed for his body, Scout having kept many around in the camper for whatever reason—presumably to throw at him.

"I see you're in a right peachy mood," Sniper smirks, catching the fast ball nonchalantly with his left hand.

"Fuck off, prick,"

"OI! Who the Bloody Hell d'you think you are, tellin' me t'fuck off when you're sleepin' in my bed?! Remember who bought you those baseballs t'begin with?!"

"It ain't like you ever play with me…"

"Well sorry if I can't find the time t'play baseball with the enemy Scout in the middle of a war,"

"But you got plenty of time to fuckin' wake me up and kick me outta bed when I'm sleepin'…"

"You'd prolly jus' cry if I beat ya at baseball anyway…"

"Fuck you,"

"'S that all you got for insults love?! Gettin' rises outta ya used t'be way more fun…"

"I can't think o'shit when some punk ass Australian's kickin' the bed and makin' me get up!"

"Yup; gotta get up at the crackin' hour o'noon, how dare I, mean ole Jack—"

"Fuck you, you are mean!"

"You've been asleep for nearly twelve bloody hours—!"

"Yeah, still, maybe I wanted to sleep another twelve hours—"

"Not t'day you aren't," Sniper smirks, twirling the sheets in his arms before throwing them in the wicker hamper, which overflows, laundry spewing from the disheveled lid like bubbling saliva over frothed lips; the sight of their dirty wash was certainly as pleasant. "Any other day I'd let ya sleep 'til four 'nd keep me up all night, but we got plans today,"

"We?"

"Yup,"

Scout sucks the air with which he meant to ask "what kind of plans?!" hastily through his sealed lips, sitting up and eyeing the Australian curiously nonetheless. Sniper grins; he'd piqued Scout's interest by withholding from him the more interesting details. A whole two minutes go by in which Scout wills himself not to give into his own curiosity like Jack assuredly wanted him to. Instead he settles with watching the older man go about the sleeping room (not that there was much room to it) and collect their clothing, the man clearly waiting for Scout to explode before long. They exchange glances briefly; Sniper's chipper eyes round with a pleasant patience about them, though clearly demonstrating that he would not elaborate unless asked specifically. Scout twiddles his thumbs and even picks up yet another loose baseball near the edge of the bed, though this one is not homed for the purposes of Anti-Jack violence, thus he simply tosses it in his hands.

"Jus' go 'head 'nd ask, Lawr—"

"What kind of plans?!" the young man spits as if containing the words for so long had caused a combustible pressure against his lips.

"Funny you should ask, Lawrence!" Sniper beams, Scout placing his feet against the floor, cracking his lower back unabashedly. Sniper gives him a brief kiss before heading toward the kitchenette.

"'Cause I ain't gonna tella ya,"

"Aw, fuck you, Jack!" Scout growls, unable to resist tailing the Australian.

"Yup, twelve fifteen," Sniper sighs somewhat whimsically, bringing his wrist eye level. "Rise 'nd shine, gremlin, we got a big day ahead of us!"

"Yeah, yeah, you got up like, ten fuckin' minutes before me…"

"Every minute counts when y'got a day as big as the one we've got!"

"Seriously, I'm just gonna ignore you until you tell me what the fuck's got you shittin' rainbows," Scout snaps, folding his arms and leaning his bare back against the cool metal counter.

"Right; lessie how long that'll last, hm?"

"Seriously, Jack, I don't like that smile…"

"Half a second; 's that a new record o'yours?!"

"Ugh, would you please just tell me what the fuck is goin' on, Jack?!"

"Sure thing, love, after breakfast; or lunch. Dunno if you can really call any meal after twelve noon breakfast—"

"I dunno if you can call dust flakes a meal, wombat—we ain't got shit in here no more…"

"What? I thought we stopped by the grocery a day ago…"

"Yeah, either we didn't or we bought ten dollars worth o'fuckin' dust—"

"Well, sorry love, I—" Sniper gives the empty cupboard a look over before sighing sympathetically, closing the varnished doors and bringing a hand to wrap around Scout's neck affectionately. "I thought we'd gotten somethin' before leavin' Boston…"

"Yeah well, clearly we didn't…"

"Ah, bucker up, now, gremlin, I'd never let y'starve…"

"Sometimes I gotta wonder, when you get pissed, you look like you wanna do things to me…"

"I don't need t'be pissed t'wanna do things to ya…" Sniper chuckles, pulling Scout against him seductively.

"Not those type of things, the things that just give ya the feelin' you ain't gonna be around much longer…"

"Well, now ain't one o'those times for one o'those things; so whaddaya say, love? We've got some stuff in here—look, we got some real nice cracked wheat bread your mum packed, some dried dates, some vegemite—"

"Alright gramps, you got anything other than laxatives 'nd healthy shit?!"

"Hey now, vegemite's good! Every real Aussie's got a jar or two in their cupboard, 's a favourite back home!"

"What is it?!"

"Y'act like y'can't read the jar—"

"Concentrated….yeast extract?! Jack, what the fuck—"

"It's good—"

"What's it taste like, Jack—"

"…Good…."

"Concentrated yeast extract and fuckin' dates—I oughta call the cops on ya for abusin' me—"

"Hey, both're perfectly delicious foods! 'Nd honestly, jus' spread a little bit o'vegemite over toast, I swear you'd like it!"

"Does it come out brown like that?!"

"I'm not answerin' your question 'til y'actually try it—"

"Fuck you, fuck your nasty ass prunes and your bread fungus!"

"Well 'scuse me for tryin' t'find a nice little meal t'settle ya,"

"Dried prunes, Snipes—dried prunes and fuckin' fungus—"

"Whatever—I'm gonna make myself a nice vegemite toast 'nd you're gonna see me chowin' down 'nd you're gonna wanna bite—"

"Nah, we got some strawberries in the mini fridge, and some bananas, and an orange—I'll just eat that instead,"

"'Lright —what're you lookin' at me like that for, y'don't expect me t'cut the fruit for ya?!"

"It would be nice," Scout grins, kissing the grumbling Australian on the cheek. "I'll be waitin' outside in the sunshine, alright—"

"You'ven't got on a thing 'cept your undies, Lawrence!"

"Who cares?! It ain't like anyone's anywhere close for fuckin' miles! Plus maybe I'm tryin' to tan,"

"Bullshit, you're a little white Irish boy, y'burn,"

"Hey! I get dark!"

"Paper white isn't dark t'normal people, love…"

"Nah, for real, my arms are golden brown!"

Sniper just chuckles, handing Scout the plate of sliced fruit the Australian had prepared for him within the last two minutes.

"'Lright, go on, I'll set up the little patio table…" Sniper grumbles, referring to the circular, folded plastic table tucked away neatly behind the armchair in the sitting room. He sighs, Scout actually headed outside in nothing but his underwear, his body sleek with what Sniper assumes must be sunscreen.

'Figures little bugger wouldn't want me seein' 'im basically admittin' that he really does burn'

But when Sniper comes out, also having discarded his shirt to follow Scout's trend of pretty much naked tanning, he finds the young man isn't lying; already his front bakes a rich, olive brown, though not so dark he becomes more brown than golden. Jack frowns slightly, though he decides not to comment (he'd learned from Scout to acknowledge having been shown wrong by not acknowledging it at all for the sake of pride).

"Come sit under the umbrella, love, I set it up for you…"

"Alright, just makin' sure my back tans as nicely as my front," Scout sticks his tongue out at the Australian before plopping into his plastic white chair, the armrests sharp along the edges. The plastic actually bends with his body as he twists and kicks his legs about.

"Eat up, love…" Sniper mumbles dotingly, handing Scout his plate.

"Yeah, thanks!"

Sniper nods, chewing pleasantly on a bite of vegemite toast, the crunch of the crisped bread causing Scout to look up from his fruit assortment and grimace.

"What the fuck is that brown shit—?!"

"'S vegemite,"

"Dude, it fuckin' looks like you spread axel grease all over that,"

"You look like a bitch, I'd still spread ya,"

"Dude, that sounds so fuckin' wrong,"

"'S 'cause it is,"

"Seriously; what the fuck is that shit?!"

"'S vegemite!"

"Whatever, you just keep—"

"Try some,"

"NO!"

"Try some!"

"NO!"

"Try some—!"

Scout doesn't have a choice as the Australian shoves the half eaten slice of bread into his mouth, the young man shaking his head and spitting the soggy bread back on the plate.

"Tastes like jizz,"

"No it doesn't, you're bein' dramatic—got my toast all wet—"

"It's salty like jizz,"

"But it ain't,"

"It's nasty like jizz,"

"Then I don't get what you're wankin' about, you love it when I come in your little mouth," Sniper growls, chuckling softly as Scout accepts defeat and slams his back moodily against the white chair, going back to his fruit plate.

"You'd think you'd eat my jizz for breakfast right up,"

"You are so nasty, Jack…" Scout snaps, throwing a few orange seeds at the smirking Australian.

"Hmph—I'm not the little freak, 's you! Look at the way you're lovin' on that strawberry over there, your tongue's strokin' it, 'nd your lips're all puckered—bet you'd make your mum faint with a display like that,"

"You're prolly just jealous, wishin' it was your dick instead," Scout sneers, narrowing his eyes and keeping them fixed on the momentarily stunned Sniper as he savors the fruit in a fashion reminiscent of suggestive indulgences.

"Listen t'you, sayin' prolly, I think your mum was up t'somethin' when she said you're startin' t'sound a lot like me—but no, I'm not jealous, I've got my vegemite bread,"

"Says your boner—yeah, you can't hide that shit in just boxers, wombat," Scout grins haughtily through a mouthful of chewed fruit, the mush tumbling in a sick wet lush in between his teeth. Spit dyed a semi red from the juices dribbles from his lips, leaving a bit of a sticky residue to stain his cheeks and chin.

"Nah, don't hide it…" Scout growls, Sniper returning the young man's wanton disposition by spreading his arms, leaving his chest bare so that the Scout who nears him can crawl into the chair with ease, situating himself on his lap.

"I ain't ever gotta do much to turn you on as it is, Jack…"

"Piss off…"

"So…" Scout winks, bringing his lips to brush across the line of the man's jaw affectionately. "…You gonna tell me?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full love, 's rude…"

"You gonna tell me?!"

"Tell you what"

"About the plans!"

"Oh—yeah, those—"

"Yeah those, Tell me!"

"Dunno if I should—y'haven't said please,"

"Dude, your fuckin' hard on's like, pushin' me off your lap and on the ground—"

Sniper chuckles, but otherwise shows no signs of having heard the Scout who shifts to better hoist himself around the Australian.

"Why don't y'tell it off, love, I swear it won't bite…" Sniper teases, kissing the young man's neck, his hands digging into the flesh of Scout's sensitive back.

"N—nah…" he sighs, doing his best to maintain composure, for Sniper's hands against his back was always the easiest way to undo his resolve. "I ain't doin' shit to your nothin' 'til you tell me why we're wakin' up and you're gushin' over plans,"

"'Lright, 'lright, settle yourself, I'll tell ya…"

"Only 'cause you want your dick rubbed,"

"Or maybe I jus' wanna do somethin' nice for ya…"

"Yeah right—"

"No really, I was thinkin' since we've got a day t'spare with drivin', we could maybe hit St. Louis 'nd I jus' take you out for a nice meal 'nd, maybe go walkin' t'gether, see the city at night…"

"Since when do you wanna take me out in public—"

"Since it hit me I'm in love with someone as precious as you—aw look, you're smilin', love…" Sniper smirks at Scout's unabashed beam, Jack patting his cheek softly.

"No, but seriously—I was jus' thinkin' on some words Mum always used t'tell me…"

"So then I ain't precious—"

"You're my everythin', Lawrence, but everythin's a hell of a lot t'take out in public 'nd not expect t'fuck somethin' up—"

"So what did mum say—?"

"Well, my Mum was a real old fashioned dame; imagine she still is, assumin' nothin's changed; whenever Leslie evenmentioned a boy's name Mum was sendin' weddin' invites all 'cross Australia—got family on every coast—she had standards, Lawrence; she's the type that'll call ya a slob if y'put your elbows on the dinner table—but that's not the point; thing is, I'm jus' glad she ain't breathin' over my shoulder out here 'cause she'd have some words 'bout our relationship 'nd the way we go about…"

"'Cause we both got dicks?"

"No, 's not an issue for Mum—she's not beggin' the lesbian couple lookin' for a home t'move in next door, but she's nowherenear as intolerant 's Dad—"

"What about two dudes?"

"Hm—she didn't even know it could happen 'til she realized her son was in love with one—I swear, my parents—but, y'know, Mum jus' squicks at the idea o'sex 'nd datin' in general, 's a wonder how she ended up with two kids—prolly likes t'believe the stork brought her little babies or some such drivel…"

"Sounds like my Grandma—she freaks out if you say darn and called Ma a bad mother when we missed church one Sunday 'cause I was on the brink of death with Pneumonia,"

"I reckon Mum's a few years younger than your Gran, but 's jus' the generation, y'know? Leslie thought y'got pregnant byholdin' hands until she was seventeen years old—sex was jus' never talked about, imagine how I felt,"

"Jeeze,"

"Anyway—the only things she did say about datin' was that it was impolite for a bloke t'bed a partner without takin' 'em out t'dinner first,"

"Little too late for that then, huh? You owe me a lotta dinner, wombat,"

"Hey, you 'nd Mum can both know y'can always make up for lost time,"

"Yeah, but do we really gotta make it up when I was finally sleepin'?! Like better than I've slept in, like, a thousand years?! Seriously, Snipes, I was gone, and you wake me up for nothin',"

"Somethin' tells me you're exaggeratin' just a bit…"

"Yeah well, I exaggerate when I get fucked on an empty stomach,"

"Oi, y'weren't even thinkin' about dinners 'nd proper datin' etiquette until I mentioned it!"

"Maybe you shouldn't bring shit up then,"

"Y'didn't even know it was a thing,"

"Well maybe your Ma was onto somethin', you opened my eyes now I know you owe me a steak dinner,"

"I figured you'd wanna do somethin' real nice 'nd fancy like that—y'get used t'grey clumps as an excuse for food when you're at the 'Fort for too long, 'nd it sure isn't like I've got the camper stocked with the finest eats—"

"With your jizz toast,"

"Oi, any other time I got stuff you're sneakin' 'cross land mines at two in the mornin', knockin' on the door 'cause I'm the only one with salted potato crisps for miles around!"

"I'm desperate,"

"I'll say,"

"Look, all I'm sayin' is I haven't sat down and eaten at a restaurant in fuckin' years, since I got thrown in jail!"

"I can sympathise, love, 's no reason t'explain yourself! I haven't sat down at a real restaurant in a good while myself; apart from that I'd like t'take you out now I have the chance," Sniper grins, Scout reddening, though cautious with optimism.

"You mean like…on a date?"

"Well what else would it be, Lawrence?" the Australian chuckles. "I've been in love with ya for nearly three years 'nd I've never taken y'out, made you feel special…"

"That's real sweet of you, wombat…"

"I love you, y'know, 'nd I don't show it like I should…"

"Nah…that ain't true…"

"Thing is, I'm thinkin' if we're gonna make this a real nice night, we're pullin' all the stops; we're bathin', shavin', we're gonna smell good 'nd change our undies, use our indoor voices, not talk about blood 'nd how crazy Jane is, maybe wear some nice suits—"

"Whoa Jack, I'll bathe 'nd shit, but I ain't puttin' on no suit,"

"Well if I'm takin' you out t'some fancy places you're gonna look like y'have some class!"

"Right, class, says the freakin' Bushman who's just sittin' here with his boner pokin' me all over the place, eatin' jizz on toast and diggin' in his hairy belly button—"

"Oi, I plucked it yesterday…"

"Class says the dude livin' in a van with pee jars everywhere—"

"'Nd you wonder why people never break in, I'm sure the jar in the window lets 'em know I don't bugger around,"

"Class says the guy who accepts handjobs under the kitchen table when my Ma's makin' breakfast,"

"'Lright, 'lright! I'm not sayin' I'm classy, which's why I'm sayin' we need t'maybe put on a little bit of a show 'nd…not receiveor give handjobs under tables tonight,"

"I'll put on a show, but I ain't puttin' on no suit,"

"'Nd if y'want the steak dinner you're gonna need t'put on the suit,"

"Fuck you, fuck the suit,"

"'Lright, no dinner for you, then,"

"I'm gonna tell everyone you're a trashy ass boyfriend, fuckin' me every night and you haven't even taken me out on a real date,"

"I'm pretty sure savin' your life twelve thousand bloody times might be good enough! 'Nd we don't even fuck every night, you only jus' started havin' sex with me a couple weeks ago!"

"Uh yeah, uh, Jack…"

"What…?"

"I mean, I know it ain't sex, but—sometimes, when you were sleepin', and I was just, you know, spendin' the night with ya or whatever—I'd touch your dick—"

"What?!"

"Not every time, just—just sometimes!"

"I don't believe you…"

"Sorry, Jack, I just—I told ya I wanted ya—"

"So you fondled me in my sleep?!"

"You liked it though!"

"How, I was asleep!"

"You would—you would roll over, and—and mumble and you'd come every time!"

"Jesus, Lawrence," Sniper sighs, plucking Scout off his lap and standing up to collapse the table. "I don't care how many jarate jars're in the window, 'least I don't touch people in their sleep—"

"Yeah, well, all I'm sayin' is I ain't wearin' your fuckin' suit,"

"I'm tryin' t'do somethin' sweet for you; I wanna take you out, let ya eat somethin' real nice, show you the city, take you out 'nd have a good time, 'nd you're standin' here sayin' fuck you because maybe I want us t'look nice?! I mean, honestly, Scout, I've spent the last three years tryin' t'murder you 'nd I swear we've buggered everywhere but in a right bedroom—"

"Nah, we did it in my bedroom in Boston, remember?"

"Oh—true…"

"My bed was squeakin'…"

"I guess what I'm tryin' t'say is, I wanna be a real gentleman to ya tonight; not just some crazed gunman on the enemy team you've somehow developed feelin's for, but—like a pair actually fit for human society,"

"Whatever Jack, I ain't puttin' on no suit,"

"Why're you so against it, Lawrence, tell me—"

"It ain't that I'm against it, it's just that I fuckin' hate dressin' up and I don't know why you're actin' like we gotta if we have to go out!"

"'S jus' what people do, Scout, it ain't my rule—"

"Then how come you're makin' it a rule for me?!" Lawrence snaps, Sniper shaking his head as he collapses the umbrella and table, walking with bowed knees as his slowly dying hardon proves to impede his otherwise weightless step.

"Anyone else would love the idea o'getting' spruced up 'nd bein' treated t'dinner by their—boyfriend, ugh—a steak dinner in the city, no less—"

"Yeah well, I ain't anyone else, I'm Lawrence, and I fuckin' hate suits—I'm surprised you even have the fuckin' money to take me anywhere to begin with,"

"In case you've forgotten, I get a monthly paycheck for tryin' t'kill ya…"

"Tryin',"

"Oi—I could 'nd you know it—you're lucky I'm in love with ya, y'little shit," Sniper growls, Scout sticking his tongue out defiantly at the exasperated man.

"Seriously, Lawrence, d'you give your Mum this much trouble?"

"No, I do everything she says, 'cause she don't make me put on shit I don't wanna,"

"Y'sound like a tot that doesn't wanna take a bath or somethin'…" Sniper spits, tucking the patio set behind the lounge chair, and Scout can tell by the shortness of his words that he finds his childlike defiance and attitude anything but endearing. Still, the young man settles with maintaining the immature charade, balling his fists and watching the Australian clean up their miniature picnic from the corner of his eye, both men caught up in determined silence.

It did seem rather spoiled on his end, Scout muses, proof of his introspection manifesting itself in the form of a short, weary sigh. Here Jack was, altering his plans yet again for the Bostonian's entertainment. The bastardization of Sniper's intentions to camp in the mountains has become what Scout'd heard the man call a "Lawrencepalooza" under his breath, and the more rational side of the young man's thought process unable to dispute Sniper's claim in its truthfulness.

"Hey, Jack…" Scout begins, bringing his eyes to the man's full height, hesitating just slightly as the man flashes his grey eyes on him briefly. They're fogged with a distinct coldness, piercing and reprimanding in his quiet and otherwise internalized displeasure at the Scout's attitude.

Scout was used to an irritated Sniper; the two argued more than enough, so that anyone spending the day with them the first time wouldn't believe either of them when they said they were together, a lie of massive proportions. Scout was used to getting a rise out of Jack, out of challenging him, provoking him, battling and antagonizing him. Their first encounter had been heated, with threats of death thrown about as casually as one would throw a wave to a friendly stranger. On any normal day the barrels of their guns were rooted onto the other as if magnetized, as if polarity were a concept conceived solely for the two; Scout was used to conflict between them.

Still, the familiarity of their heated dynamic was the near literal excitement that ignited them both to step up to the other and the competition they brought with them. Both were ready to accept the other's challenge and best it at the very least. Sniper however abandons pride completely, the fire absent from his person, frowning quietly as he bustles about. It wasn't an egotistical squabble this time, the Australian was actually hurt. And therein lied the difference between then and this time.

He hated seeing the man like this. As much as he found his mouth running ahead to assure the older of the two of them that he didn't give a shit, as scathingly as possible.

"Jack, listen…" Scout clears his throat, stepping into the camper and closing the door behind him. "I—I really wanna go out with you tonight, really—it's really sweet of you, not just 'cause I want dinner but because, you know, I really wanna be with you—I just hate suits, and I just ain't gonna wear one."

-

"I dunno what you were doin' all that belly achin' for before, love—y'look absolutely stunnin'…" Sniper sighs at the Bostonian scowling at his reflection, patting the royal blue dresscoat so it hugs his breast.

"I look like a fuckin' Mormon…" Scout spits, narrowing his eyes at himself. He couldn't quite place his finger on it; perhaps it was the flannel material, the notched lapel, the light blue dress shirt he dons underneath the jacket itself, the buttoned collar crowned with a tie in the middle, the silk also a dark blue. Scout could distinctly remember the way the doorbell would ring incessantly on a random Sunday morning, how the burden of answering it was placed unspokenly upon him.

He could remember looking the young men up and down, in their suits very similar to his now, with only two buttons to the dresscoat, black however in hue. He could remember their waxed haircuts and their soft smiles, the sleek black dress shoes that appeared more and more expensive the longer he looked at them. Those men, cutting into his weekend sleep, Scout had never forgotten them. As he'd yawned and accepted whomever they wanted him to on those occasions in hopes it would speed things along, he silently gave the visitors a silent look and vowed, no matter what, that he would never look like a tool as they had.

Fifteen years later, however, Scout can only say he let the young man of his past down.

"I look like I should be handin' out pamphlets on Joseph Smith or somethin'," Scout spits, Jack however smiling and resting his chin on Scout's shoulder as he hugs him from behind.

"Y'look like a babe, 's more like it…"

"Yeah, well I don't feel like no babe, wombat—I feel grody as fuck, actually, which is what you said you didn't want…"

"'S 'cause you haven't bathed yet,"

"'S 'cause your ass was takin' forever in there,"

"A man's gotta shave…"

"You shaved, like, yesterday…"

"Grows back right quick on me,"

"Still, you shouldn't take forty five minutes shavin', prolly took all the hot water, asshole…"

"Oi now, 's only five, we've got all night…"

"Yeah, which reminds me," Scout smirks with finality at his reflection as he concludes that the cut and colour really doescompliment his frame.

"You plannin' on rollin' into town in this thing? I feel like it ain't gonna look right, two dudes hot as us just strollin' out of an old ass peemobile,"

"The peemobile ain't gonna be sittin' at the table with us," Sniper grumbles, clearly indignant about referring to his daughter of a van as something so derogatory.

"Still, it wouldn't surprise me if no one ain't in a rush to valet park it—catch," Scout beams, tossing the man who now faces the mirror his jacket, dress shirt, and tie, the Bostonian half naked save his form fitting dress pants, though the young man wastes no time in undoing the brown belt that holds them against his waist.

"Don't wrinkle it, now—"

"Hey, I ain't wrinklin' nothin', 's your responsibility now…"

"What're you doin', anyway…?"

"Showerin', I just wanted to try it on, make sure it still fit before goin' through the effort of bathin',"

"Good Lord, I'm afraid I really am rubbin' off on ya…"

"You rub off alright—"

"Dirty, Lawrence," Sniper growls, Scout pressing himself against the man and taking a whiff of his thick brown hair. "Damn straight, bet your ass can't wait to get me all dirty—Smells good, all spicy 'nd shit…"

"Washed it—'nd later, what d'you think the dinner's about…"

"I thought you were just takin' me out to be a good boyfriend…"

"Well—technically,"

"Or are you just tryin' to make our sex kosher?"

"Kosher? It'll never be kosher, Larry…" Sniper chuckles, slipping on black dresspants, tucking his white dress shirt into the waist.

"The fuck? 'S a nice suit, Snipes, where'd you get that from?"

"Italy—'s Armani,"

"Italy?! When the fuck were you in Italy?"

"Four years ago—had a hit out there…"

"It looks brand new, though…"

"Might as well be—can't exactly think of a time I last needed a suit at 2Fort,"

"Never thought I'd see the day when Jack was in an Armani suit; I thought you hated designer shit,"

"I do,"

"So then why are you wearin' it?!"

"I'm pullin' all the stops for you, love—I'm tellin' ya, y'look damn near edible in that thing, Luc'd prolly be proud over how good you look,"

"Uh, he'd prolly get decked in the fuckin' mouth is more like it—I don't look nothin' like him," Scout snaps, though saying he did certainly wouldn't be anywhere within the realm of an insult; the Frenchman donned only the nicest suits, and even when missions called for his mask it did not take much to tell that underneath the neoprene balaclava resided an indisputably handsome profile.

"'Lright, 'lright, forget I said anythin'—now go bathe already, I don't want it t'get too late."

-

"Alright, now wombat," Scout begins with an air of seriousness, as if he were segueing from a particularly funny joke. His dark brown dress shoes (a few sizes too big for him as he had to borrow them from Sniper though the cut of his flattering slacks mask the discrepancy with ease) hoisted onto the dusty dashboard of the camper van that currently sits in late night, St. Louis traffic.

"Damn it, she really overheats when we jus' stop 'nd go like this—sorry love? You were sayin'?"

Scout takes a drag from the lit cigarette he pincers delicately in between the tips of his index and middle fingers, flicking the ash at the greyed ashtray that sit next to the bobblehead Scout was sure was permanently melted onto the top of the glove compartment. The window is cracked so the smoke does not soak into the fabric of their suits, however Sniper still seems put off by the young man's decision despite the cigarette he too smokes.

"Nothin' really, just that I got some rules," Scout mumbles, his chin nearly pressed against his chest in his slump.

"'Lright…" Sniper raises an eyebrow, his eyes still focused on the stop and go traffic however. "Shoot."

"First and foremost, nothin' on the menu is too expensive,"

"Hey, now! Who said I was payin'?!""

"Seriously Snipes?! Seriously?! You didn't know the boyfriend was s'posed to pick up the check?!"

"You're a boyfriend too, Lawrence—!"

"Yeah, but—but—"

"Y'ain't a bloody girl, love, you can pay for your own bloody meal!"

Sniper laughs darkly at Scout's blatantly agape mouth, the small orange flame on the end of the cigarette in his hand the only light save the streetlights overhead. He extends a hand to brush through Scout's combed hair and across his cheek, his face still fixed on the road.

"Only kiddin', 'course I'm pickin' it up—but don't try t'act cute by orderin' the most expensive thing jus' 'cause y'can; get what y'want whether it's expensive or not, but don't make the expensive thing what y'want…"

"That don't make no sense,"

"It makes plenty o'sense, 's jus' that you haven't got any,"

"Hey, Fu—I mean, screw you, Snipes," Scout swallows, the two agreeing not to swear for the duration of the outing (Sniper didn't hold it to be very gentlemanly, despite expletives being a very integral part of their speech patterns).

"Well, whatever—second rule: we can only hold hands, and kisses ain't allowed to be deep or longer than three seconds 'til I'm dined and in the back of the camper ready for bed,"

"What the—.heck—'s that s'posed t'mean?!"

"Well, your Ma's right; you shouldn't be tongue kissin' nobody if you ain't fed 'em yet, so it only makes sense you ain't allowed to touch me 'til you do,"

"Wasn't like I was plannin' on buggerin' on the dinner table…"

"Yeah well, you never know what people are plannin' when they're acceptin' hand jobs under the kitchen table when Ma's makin' breakfast…"

"Y'keep bringin' it up like it wasn't your idea; next thing I knew your hand was playin' with my zipper 'nd tuggin' on Jack Junior 'nd so I let y'play around 'til your heart was content,"

"Uhhh, I'm pretty sure you were the one bein' all content, my hand was sticky for hours, it was soaked in your—"

"'Kay, love! No messin' around 'til the date's over—I can do that,"

"Alright, and the next rule,"

"Wossat…"

"I'm your darlin',"

"The bloody Heck's that mean, Lawrence," Sniper sighs, Scout crushing the butt of his cigarette into the ash tray and looking about at Downtown St. Louis.

"It means I'm your everything," Scout grins, Sniper smiling himself in return; he'd say something along the lines of y'already are if he were willing to take of the risk of reducing the two to vomiting shells of the dapper men they are now. The novelty of them being so clean and fresh and the distinct lack of blood, sweat or come on their persons was all too much of a rarity worth spoiling on behalf of maudlin words.

"So how d'you feel 'bout jazz?"

"'S'alright I guess; I know you like that quiet, slow stuff…"

"S good music is what it really is, love,"

"Why? You know a place?"

"I've toured the whole US, love—St. Louis is an old friend o'mine,"

"I was wonderin' how you knew your way around here so well—you haven't even looked at a map,"

"Y'learn t'get around without one when y'drive alone, y'can't drive 'nd read a map at the same time, right? Anyway, I know this real nice restaurant, they've got some great food, great atmosphere—nice 'nd smooth, quiet, relaxed…"

"How relaxed can a dude be in one of these things?! Seriously, I dunno how Luc does it…"

"He's a professional, love—we're jus' killers,"

Jack takes a particularly sharp turn down a smaller boulevard that causes the tires to squeal for a split second and Scout's frame to veer to the left, making the young man wish he had put on his seatbelt as Sniper had advised. The Australian seems to be on the same train of thought, for he shoots Scout a look to suggest that he too wishes Scout weren't so voluntarily reckless. Lawrence catches a deep whiff of the strong cologne the man had sprayed before setting off, tangy, subtle, yet sharp and somewhat overbearing nonetheless. He sprayed very little on himself, but it was certainly enough.

"You know my grandpa used to smell like that stuff you're wearin'; even at his dang funeral he was sprayed with it,"

"Cute, corpse talk before dinner—though no offense 'gainst your late Gramps 'nd his tastes in cologne, but somethin' tells me they wouldn't have sent 'im to the grave smellin' like Isse Miyake,"

"Dude you always said you hated designer cologne, why do you have a whole bottle of it on top of your carton of cigarettes back there?!"

"I hate it, but every man's gotta present himself nice at some point, y'know? 'S just a standard; 's not the designer label I hate 's much as it is the people that place so much worth on it,"

"Yeah, but you're totally fuelin' it by buyin' it 'nd wearin' the suit 'nd sprayin' the stuff,"

"I guess, but that's jus' life; maybe if I were fourteen I'd walk around, refusin' t'brush my teeth 'nd go t'school 'nd scream some drivel 'bout anarchy 'nd fuelin' the system, but as y'get older y'realise that things are the way they are,"

"You know you're a real bad hippie, Jack,"

"Hippie?! Where in the world did y'get the idea I was a hippie?!"

"You smoke, you're all into philosophy 'nd free speech 'nd stuff, you freakin' love animals and even refused to hunt 'em when you were out in the Bush,"

"I only killed for protection, 's true—spent nice amounts o'time in different parts so I got t'know the ecosystems pretty well, so if I saw one group was really scrappin' on another, I'd take a few o'the aggressors out if it balanced the wildlife a bit; funny though, y'can't get me t'hurt an animal, but I put bullets in peoples' brains for a livin', 'nd that doesn't sound quite like it lines up with the hippie ideals," Sniper explains as he takes the keys out of the ignition, the van cooling as they finally stop in a sparsely occupied parking lot.

"Besides, I'm not all that big into free love,"

"What do you mean?" Scout asks, wide eyed and curious as Sniper opens the door and gives him a hand in stepping out of the van; he'd always loved listening to Sniper and his views of life and the world. Jack appeared so knowledgeable, and presented himself so matter of factly as if his thoughts were honed and chiseled through labourious experience, as if each opinion were crafted through a string of hard earned lessons. Anyone else and Scout would say they were talking out of their asses.

"I'm not sharin' ya with a bunch o'smelly, braless wankers; I love you 'nd you only. I'm all about lovin' your fellow man or whatever, but not orgies with 'em—keep up with me love, 's gettin' dark 'nd shady people come out," Sniper mumbles, pulling the young man to him and walking faster.

"You act like I don't kill people, Snipes,"

"I'd rather we get through t'night without havin' t'put our jobs into practice,"

"So then why're we walkin'? How far away is it?"

"Didn't wanna pay for valet parkin',"

"You cheap a—a—aaaa—butt—motherfu—fudgecake,"

"Y'had a point, y'can't take an Aussie camper van 'nd jus' hand the keys t'the parker while wearin an Armani suit with a straight face, specially not with the overheated engine, shoddy muffler, 'nd leakin' coolant…"

"You should listen to me more often," Scout smirks, taking the Australian's large hand into his.

"Listen t'you more often…"

"I listen to me,"

"'Nd look at where it's got you, in love with a madman, followin' 'im down a dark alley in the middle o'the night in a city y'know nothin' about…"

"So where're we goin'? What kinda place is this?" Scout asks with rising hesitation at Sniper's mumbled comment.

"You'll see…"

Scout is rather shocked at the lack of guards outside of the moderately towering parallelogram of a brick building Sniper eventually slows their walk in front of. He'd expected lines of people spewing from every direction of the street stumbling over their own feet in an attempt to stampede their way through golden doors, or spotlights to streak through the warm spring air and freckle the clear night sky with opaque ovals, their beams intense in their casting shine against the stratusphere.

Instead, he stands before the same brick building, equally as unimpressive now as it was twenty seconds ago. The red calligraphy of the fluorescent sign forms the words "The Pageant", which Scout presumes is the name of the restaurant proper. Though the lights don't flicker, Scout can hear the ionized vapor and its insipid speaking buzz coursing throughout the glass tube, resisting a strange but rather comforting urge to touch the assuredly warm sign. Perhaps this isn't the place, Scout nods, satisfying his desire to busy his hands by brushing one against the cold mortar in between each brick, his finger wriggling against the uneven air pockets. Perhaps Sniper was simply standing here to collect his thoughts and remember where the location of the grandiose lounge was truly to be found. Scout's theory is negated, Sniper gripping the brass handle without any of the hesitation the Bostonian appears to possess. Leading him through another set of double doors, the sight that awaits the young man surprises him.