Days, silent, bold, intently hotter in execution than those previous, pass calmly and quickly enough. The very same days Lawrence couldn't help but notice to be comparatively quiet as opposed to the jumbled mayhem at Gravel Pit a week ago. Scout found himself waking earlier than the entirety of his battalion on this particular morning, the clock in the infirmary having read 6:19 AM. The cot like bed showed no pretense of wanting to provide Lawrence with a pleasant night's sleep, thus he settled that slipping from the cotton covers and sitting against the hardbacked chair in the breezy cafeteria would prove to be much more accommodating in any case. Though Lawrence rather liked the mess hall in the gleam of the early morning, actually finding tranquility in silence for the first time in his speech dominated life.
Bright pink sunlight, left behind from the impending sunrise, shines through the paneled windows spaced evenly along the back wall, the grayish blue paint job radiating with a vivacity the fluorescent lights hanging from the wall had never once provided. Without Jane or any of the others in the dining hall at that, Scout relishes in the joy of not having to consult someone for seconds, opening up the window with a rush of freedom as he helps himself to another bowl of lightly sugared corn flakes. Without anyone around to enforce the rule of rationing the sugar packets (a metallic sign bolted to the wall serving as a friendly reminder), he found himself free of a guilty conscious as he grabs three, a luxurious handful.
His chair screeches across the dark green linoleum floor, the cool metal of the legs rusted over, the beige paint chipping away to reveal the chilling steel masked just below the artificial colouring. It was the most consecutive amount of time Lawrence had spent in the base without hearing Jane shriek over the Gravel Pit incident; apart from the man's hysterical and seemingly never ending tirades, nothing else had developed from it other than depletion of their resources and a substantial though hardly crippling blow to BLU's war effort. Though the men had gone into battle underprepared and lacking in ammunition (and with a sick Scout), they'd couldn't claim any casualities or other such severe losses, Scout having been able to alert his comrades of his safety shortly before the team's capitulation to RED, orchestrated by the young man's stepfather in an attempt to buy him some time to find to his comrades. Heinrich had returned, shocked from negotiation and the apparent loss of Lawrence, only to look them all in the face and see a wearily grinning Bostonian before him.
Jane had been less than enthusiastic toward the doctor's decision to either submit to RED's surrender or refuse to heal any further, blaming Scout for the catastrophe that had arisen from his daring stunt. Had Heinrich not intervened, claiming it bad for his health, the Bostonian would have been subjected to an entire evening's worth of push ups as punishment, the Soldier willing to oversee that Lawrence conducted the exercises without pause from sun down until morning had the German not deemed it cruel and counter productive.
Regardless, Lawrence hardly slept the following night, the scratchy cot of the infirmary hardly supporting any notion of sleep that may or may not have formulated in the back of Scout's weary mind. He worried that word of his being alive would only complicate things, despite Luc's insistence that this was not the case. RED would check the killfeed anyway to see the young man had not actually parished and would attribute it to him simply having escaped, he explained. As long as Gravel Pit remained their territory and the battle for it was temporarily over, the status of his life on that particular day became a mere hiccup of a memory in all of their tired minds.
The stress of that day had not helped his condition regardless, the after effects of the vaccination having shut the young man down and truly confined him to a bed in the infirmary for a good two days straight. Heinrich had warned him sternly about being careful, now he is healthy enough to not only keep food down, but to also walk to the dining hall himself to eat; after all, it was his first day out of bed, and his first in which he seemed to show any definite improvement. Thus came his permission to eat breakfast alone, otherwise Jane would have certainly lost his mind even further if he knew someone was snooping about the base without direct orders from himself. And for the first time in his life, Scout cherishes his seclusion.
He takes his bowl and saunters to the window, drawing lazy shapes in the condensation with his index finger before sliding it upward, a gust of chilly, dewey air flying in through the gap. The young man looks out for miles about the grounds, remarking silently how one could see Heinrich on the other side of the courtyard through the light fog that flutters about, rising off the surface of a small rivine that flows in between the bases themselves. The medibay's steel partition appears lifted, the older German's grunts of "Ach!" and other such German phrases echoing softly up to Scout, who watches him.
Heinrich gives the birds on his forearm a light jumpstart as they dart into the sky, easily mistakable for furry bullets, swift in their flight. He watches them fade into the transitioning sky, waving at them in their growing distance; Medic knew they would return, they always did. Their weekly hunts never spanned over the duration of the early morning, by noon they were back in bay as per usual. The German man, despite having never been as prideful of his nationality and heritage as those of his generation were infamous for being, upheld the German Standard with pride, a natural lover of error free routine and punctualty.
"Doc!" Scout cries weakly though loudly, his voice still recovering from infection. He sticks his hand out a window, waving the German down, who places his hands on his hips, and even in their distance Scout knows he's scowling.
"Scout, shut ze vindow, you vill only make yourself even more ill! I did not let you out of ze medibay to open vindows and valk around vizout sveaters!"
Scout sighs before giving the German a thumbs up and doing as told. He brushes his hand against the film of liquid blurring the otherwise spotess panes of glass, the surface smudging and squeaking, leaving behind soft streaks as the displaced water dries. He smiles softly as he presses his nose against the cool exterior, his eyes focusing slowly on the German man as he slips inside the bay, the partition sliding back down to the ground with a heavy clash.
He opens the window again, though not before tugging the pull over above his head and wrapping the wool scarf Heinrich had given to him around his neck. He looked rather silly, so bundled up in the middle of March, though the nip in the wind as it skids through the large, buzzing base suggests the notion is perhaps not as foolish as he thinks. His fingers numb, the exposed tips not as lucky as the rest of the fingers, tucked away in the sleeve of the dark blue knit curled around the scalding mug of tea he had prepared himself (though not before pouring in another few packets of sugar). Drawing his knees to his chest, he narrows his eyes and marvels silently at how they naturally waver their gaze unto the exterior of RED's base a good mile away. His eyes always seemed to draw themselves onto the usual van parked behind it, a habit of his refined throughout the last couple of years of friendship he'd shared with the Australian to whom the mobile home belonged.
His eyes steal another sweep of RED's quiet base, darting back and forth in sync with the rotation of the beeping sattelites on the building's roof. 'There you are…' Scout grumbles to himself, and he can't help but smile softly at the sight of Jack, who sits hunched underneath his prized apple tree, digging near its roots and tending to it delicately. Already he began the upkeeping, even if it wasn't due to bloom until June. With Jane, Mikhail and Heinrich in the man's office, leaning over maps and scrutinizing alternate routes and constructing yet more plans to launch an eventual offensive on Gravel Pit, it left the day free of battle. It would take at least another two for the Administrator to approve the offense. There wasn't a free day the Bostonian had missed with the Australian in a longer amount of time, the man having been firm in his resolve to exclude the Scout from his life the last time he had attempted to make small talk with him before lying ill in the infirmary.
'Still, it ain't like I can't thank him for what he did last week'.
Scout smiles at Sniper, who takes a few steps back to admire his blooming tree with what he can only imagine is that wide grin of his Lawrence knew better than anyone else.
'S all I gotta do, is go and thank him; I ain't gotta stay to chat and I ain't gotta make it a for real thing Just somethin' quick, to tell him thanks' Scout nods, wrapping the scarf around his neck and weaving it so it covers all but his eyes and the top of his head for maximum warmth. It would be brief. It would be something, but it would be brief.
-
Pyrus Malus was the only Latin phrase Lawrence had ever bothered to commit to memory. To his credit the young man had optioned for Ancient Greek in high school, yet even then the words of old he'd been required to memorize and decipher had hardly any true subsantial place in Scout's recollection. It was from the outdated Roman tongue which Sniper had derived the name of Mallory for his child of a tree, a triplet to Majorie, the van, and Matilda, his rifle. She was fully grown, and stood to seventeen feet in height, producing the common red apple and of the semi dwarf variety. Bearing sweet fruit, Scout could easily attribute Jack's youngest daughter to some of his best summer memories, particularly the ones in which the two had sat underneath her branches, curled together and laughing quietly in the middle of the night, careful not to give themselves away.
He remembers distinctly the way his mother had attempted to plant fruit bearing trees of her own during the height of his childhood poverty. His maternal grandmother, who resided with her husband a good fifteen minutes outside of Boston proper by train, had a small plot of land upon which the elderly woman maintained various crops, flowers and trees. Julie had plucked the seeds from Lawrence's applecore, tucking them into her pocket and selecting a patch of her own to sow it. Lawrence remembers watching the seed sprout and grow to a rather impressive entity, though Julie had unknowingly waited to plant the seeds during the same time in which her mother's senility had staggered, thus the tree, along with the rest of his grandmother's vegetation, had been brutally neglected and therefore whithered to nothing by time fall had rolled around.
Jack had always joked that when it was their time to grow old together, he left it up to Scout to take care of Mallory should his mind be unable to properly process the responsibility, as a whole twelve years lied between them. He smiles up at the majesty of the plant as he approaches it, hands in his trouser pockets, the scarf wrapped around his throat and chin fluttering in the cool morning wind as it picks up, piercing subtly at his flesh. Thankful that he took Heinrich's advice and had slipped on the dark blue sweater before setting out to the man bent down and digging at the roots of his tree, Scout smiles as his eyes look up, taking in each light green bud tipped on the snaking branches as individual entities of their own.
"You think she'll bloom soon?" Scout asks the man quietly, careful to step over the small mounds of moist dirt Jack had overturned with his discarded spade. A pair of shears also rest against the trunk, a pile of snipped veins of branches suggesting Jack had been pruning it as well.
"In about a month; same time 's every year…" Jack mumbles, not even bothering to look up from the small indent he'd formed to dignify Scout with the whole of his attention, or to even assure himself it was Scout asking in the first place—not that he didn't know Scout's voice better than anyone else's. "…round when the bees start showin' up; they pollinate the flowers 'nd then the flowers become the fruit…" Jack explains, Lawrence's favourite time of year always having been the same one in which the light pink blossoms sprouted and fluttered to the ground in weightless simplicity; it all seemed so natural, the petals nothing but, yet in the end their descension to the ground was so orchestrated, their biological make up and purpose beyond his control or perception.
"I see you're feelin' better."
Jack's statement neither hints at nor denies the fact pleases or lightens him of any worry, leaving Lawrence with no cue as to whether or not he should keep speaking or turn around and head back to his base. Instead he nods slowly, despite the fact Sniper cannot see the physical act with his back turned to the Bostonian, Lawrence licking at his wind dried lips and tugging his knit tighter against his body. "Y-yeah, Doc always takes good care of me…" Lawrence adds, Jack silent for a whole minute and a half, Lawrence as frozen as the Australian is still.
"He told me once I was like the son he never had,"
"Isn't that somethin'," Jack spits, Lawrence's semi hopeful stare in the older man's direction sloping to resemble crestfallen disappointment instead. Lawrence tucks his bicep into the grip of his other hand, holding it nervously and casting his eyes to the corrugated roots of Mallory, the source of the tree's nutrition spiraling so passionately into the earth the young man actually senses a hint of sea sickness welling in the bottom of his stomach. As he looks at Sniper's cold, stand offish frame, however, he wonders if perhaps his illness didn't stem from another source…
"So what d'you want," Jack grunts, the spade in his hand penetrating the ground at regulatory intervals.
"I-I just kinda realized I never really thanked you for Gravel Pit…" Scout coughs, taking a step backwards as Sniper rises to his feet, brushing off his knees, looking over his shoulder to eye Scout critically. "There're a lot o'things you've never really thanked me for," Jack snaps, taking a small bag of fertilizer into his hands and placing it into a wicker basket Scout only just now notices.
"'Nd quite frankly if this is your attempt t'try to get me t'take you back, pleadin' for ya on my knees-"
"This ain't an attempt at nothin' but thankin' you for savin' my life, Jack," Scout growls, coming to regret ever having wanted to speak to the man at all. "Like you always do. That's it,"
"Have y'thanked your stepdad yet? I feel like he's jus' as responsible for your breathin' right now's me,"
"I-I'll get around to it," Lawrence snaps, digging his foot into the ground absentmindedly. "Look, this ain't about him, though, this is between you and me," Scout states, watching the man as he collects the rest of his supplies, Jack sparing only a seconds' worth of a glance to eye him back. "Luc's fine, he's always fine, he knows how to talk himself outta shit. It's you that was at risk, Jack, sneakin' in armed buildings and keepin' me in your nest,"
Scout has no real idea where he means to go with his recap, but he awaits Sniper's response quietly nonetheless.
"Not to mention sneakin' me back; it took a lot of guts,"
"Hmph-y'say all this like I wasn't there," Jack chuckles coldly. Surprised, Scout swallows heavily as Sniper, who holds the basket to his chest, doesn't cut the conversation short to head back to the van. Regardless, Lawrence himself had heard enough; he gives the Australian a look up and down before turning on his heel, a few steps put between them before Jack clears his throat. "'Nd you're welcome," he adds, Scout rolling his eyes shortly.
"Well I can tell you don't want me around and I know Doc would give me shit if he knew I was outside and not restin', 'specially 'cause I'm talkin' to you,"
"Go get your rest, Lawrence…" Jack advises calmly. "'S no need for you t'be riskin' your neck for me anymore,"
"So then it's okay for you to risk yours for me?" Lawrence questions with a sincerity that actually takes the man aback. "'Cause I think you mighta risked way more than your neck back there, wombat,"
"'S not the same,"
"It ain't ever the same, Jack," Scout huffs before he continues his walk toward the base. "No matter how I try, it just don't matter to you, you always gotta be the exception,"
"Oi, don't-don't put it like that, now," Jack whispers, actually striding toward the Bostonian to place a hand on his wool clad shoulder. "I-sorry," he clears his throat, his thumb twisting in the frayed fabric, admiring the checkered print of the warm black shawl wrapped around him.
"I ain't tryin' to get you to take me back, or wanna be my friend," Lawrence spits, cleary unremediable in his irritation. "I was just comin' to say thank you, and I did,"
"Lawrence, c'mon now!" Jack growls, holding the young man back gently. "I-I know I was a little snippy, but…" his voice falters, Scout's glare more than enough of an indication Lawrence had no further desire to hear any of it. "You're right-I'm not bein' fair-you're welcome,"
"Why'd you save me, Jack?! Why did you even fuckin' bother if you don't love me no more?!"
"Just 'cause I don't love ya anymore that doesn't mean I can't still care!"
"So then you admit it, you don't love me!"
"Scout, please-"
"It was just that easy, huh? You go from me bein' your world to denyin' me like I was nothin',"
"Lawrence, you've pushed me so far!"
"Obviously it wasn't far enough, 'cause whether you like it or not, your ass was on a serious as fuck fence last week. I dunno why you even bother; why not just let me fuckin' die if you don't love me?!"
"It doesn't mean I don't care about you, Lawrence!" Jack roars, Scout jumping as the man tosses his basket, the heavy instruments within it clashing at cluttering noisily overtop Sniper's own weighted voice. "Y'know what?! You're right," Sniper snaps, laughing softly and never once breaking their gaze. "Maybe it is me with the bloody issue,"
"I-I ain't ever said you had an issue-"
"Seems like no matter what y'do t'me I'm always first t'keep y'safe; 's a bloody joke, right?! I'm puttin' myself in this position,"
"Jack…"
"Maybe I'm jus' askin' for the abuse, then eh? 'S me that can't-"
"Jack, look, I just came out to tell you thanks; nothin' else," Scout explains dryly, bending down to hand the man his basket, Jack nodding slowly, eyes closed.
"Right; thank you, Lawrence. I appreciate it 'nd you're welcome,"
"Kay then…" Scout responds carefully, nodding out of slow understanding. "I'm gonna go back to the base, Jack…" he whispers. "Good luck with the tree this year,"
"Yeah, go get your rest, now…" Jack nods, gesturing for him to head back. "'Nd try t'stay outta trouble now, okay? I can't keep savin' ya every mission we have…"
"You say that every time, Jack…" Lawrence sighs, though the young man can't help but smile just a little.
"Hmph-s'pose I should know by now the warnin' doesn't mean much,"
"Nah, it really doesn't',"
"Well y'fucked up big time last week; 'nd I made sure your Doc knew I wasn't too pleased with his carelessness, too,"
"Yeah, I heard," Lawrence groans, noticing that the two now walk side by side, engaged in a slow yet substantial tango toward what Scout assumes is the van. He keeps silent, certainly not minding their promising step. "He said he heard knockin' on the bay's door and your ass was just standin' there, glarin' and cookin' up a lecture,"
"I had words for him, I did,"
"Yeah, I was drugged up, so I missed it, I guess,"
"Funny, the whole reason I yelled at 'im was 'cause you were drugged up t'begin with!"
"I wish I hadn't missed it, you both nag like fuckin' pros,"
"Injectin' random mystery concoctions into a sick bloke's jus' low,"
"I wonder who won-"
"I did, 'cause he knew I was in the right!"
"Funny, Doc said you were just callin' him weird ass Australian names,"
"You'd think you'd be just as ticked, Scout, considerin' in one second he managed t'turn y'into a test subject 'nd sacrifice for a bloody dispenser at once!"
"You almost sound like the thought of Little Larry bein' tossed about so carelessly is a bad thing!"
"Come off it," Jack snaps, Lawrence reddening behind his scarf and giving Jack a fleeting glance.
"I wasn't just a sacrifice though, I mean it's kinda my job to do that sort of shit,"
"What shit, die over a box o'metal?! If I'd known I woulda yelled at your Doc a long time ago,"
"Nah, just to, you know, cap and steal shit, scout the area…"
"Well your comrades were pushin' you about while you were unhealthy, 'nd tossin' ya into enemy territory over a dispenser!"
"You just can't get over it!"
"No I can't, 'nd I dunno how you're not more outraged!" Jack spits, opening the camper door and stepping inside, Lawrence noting with a powerful lurch in his stomach the crushed and vandalized exterior still remains unremedied.
"Maybe 'cause I know them, they wouldn't have done it if they thought I was really in danger," Scout explains, Jack placing the basket near the door and raising his eyebrows disbelievingly at the young man who curls into the armchair, pulling at the cloth around his neck.
"Right, 'cause you passin' out under the effects of a mystery injection in a rigged, humoungus warehouse 's nowhere close t'bein' really in danger," Jack snaps, tossing Lawrence his trophy belt and headed back toward the cramped kitchenette. "Silly me,"
"Come on, Jack, you're lookin' too deep into it,"
"I'd be a little more inclined t'let it go if I didn't have t'get involved,"
"But you didn't, you chose to; Luc too,"
"So then there isn't a problem with two REDs lookin' out for ya better than your comrades?!"
"Look, Doc knew nothin' was gonna happen to me-and you got BLU to surrender outta the whole thing, so it worked out for RED anyway!"
"Right, he knew 'cause he knew I would be lookin' out for ya, huh?"
Lawrence shifts in the chair, the young man refusing to confirm the Australian's theory with words.
"Well tell him t'quit bankin' on me, we're not t'gether anymore," Jack spits, Lawrence having to wonder however, the man bringing him the same fruit plate he prepared for Scout in the mornings as per usual.
"That don't mean nothin' though; that don't mean we can't still care,"
"Well don't tell him that,"
"So then you do?"
"Pfft-jus' eat your fruit, Lawrence,"
"Thanks-you always got fresher stuff than in the cafeteria,"
"'Course I do,"
"Yeah, I ate some of the cereal-that odd ass cornflake shit I swear Jane orders in bulk from the 1930's, it tastes so fuckin' stale…"
Jack laughs, shaking his head heavily.
"I dunno, it's my first time actually eatin' there in forever, it makes me realize how good I had it here, eatin' in the camper with you…" Larry says hopefully; perhaps he would take everything back and say he never has to spend another day away from him again. Scout always was the dreamer of them both.
"Well then savour your little slices then, Scout, 'cause they're your last ones I'll be makin' ya…" Jack sighs, Lawrence's widened eyes and lips curled in optimism falterting as his musings from seconds before are negated. "'Nd I mean it. You andyour Doc need t'quit actin' like we're still lovey dovey,"
"Dude, chill, I'm just eatin' orange slices in your van," Lawrence huffs, juice dribbling down his chin. "It's not like I'm in your bed gettin' naked,"
"Hmph-I s'pose I really did lead y'back, eh?"
"Looks like it,"
"'S jus' a habit; well when you're done I'll take y'back t'your base, I imagine Jane'll be wakin' up for roll call soon,"
"Nah, we're off today,"
"What?"
"Yeah, Jane, Mikhail, and Doc are planning for anoth-I mean, you know, doin' what they do…"
"Riiiiighhtt…"
"Forget what I said, I didn't say nothin'" Scout mumbles quickly, reddening over the fact he'd come particularly close to divulging company secrets.
"Well, er, seems awfully odd he's not conductin' roll call,"
"It's a free day, we can get up as late as we want and even go off bounds and into Teufort City if we've got transportation, his orders,"
"Oh?"
"Yeah,"
"Well then why not go out into the city with your Doc then, Scout?! Sounds better than stayin' holed up in your ex boyfriend's broken down van on a lovely spring afternoon,"
"Have you ever gone on an excursion with a middle aged German doctor, Jack?!"
Scout questions with tired hysteria, Jack laughing before shaking his head no.
"Plus I was already in town with him today, funny story,"
"What? Why?!"
"None of your business,"
"Ooo-touchy,"
"Nothin' you'd find interesting,"
"I suppose I don't have t'pretend t'care now we're not t'gether,"
"Naw, I guess you don't,"
"still, 's you getting' up early in the mornin' 'nd actually movin' t'get somewhere; musta been important,"
"Well yeah, the Sox're playin' tonight, and doc said I could listen to the game on the radio in the bay, and so I bought some snacks and stuff so we could eat and cheer 'em on without havin' to deal with those nasty ass cornflakes…"
"Could?!"
"He's busy and he said he was gonna be tired, so he canceled,"
"Aw, I'm sorry, Lawrence,"
"It's whatever…"
"Well look, if you've got the day free you can listen to the game here, 'lright?"
"Really?!"
"Yeah; consider it our last hangout,"
"Our last one, huh…" Scout begins, and with the sudden knowledge that this was their "last" time together, that each fiber of the maroon shag seems so much more complex and diverse, so rich and vast under the scrutinous eye of their finite companionship. The dark grey walls, which he had always complained were so bare and hardly fought to keep the winter chill strictly outside of its barriers, appear warmer and more welcoming than ever before; even without the help of the thirty degree increase in temperature. Instead of a rigid slate Scout notices them to be painted a forest green, rich and healthy in hue and vibrant in their dynamic. The beat up recliner he sits upon, with the faded, dusty fabric and the small holes spotted throughout the chair's back and armrest, no longer serves to annoy the young man with the way his limbs would constantly catch unexpectedly in the gaps in the material like a fly buzzing drunkenly into a spider's silken lair. Instead he hooks the tips of his fingers into them, embedding them into the worn plush, silently rooting his place in the Australian's van, in the Australian's life, and finally, in the Australian's heart.
"Well I've gotta draw the line at some point," Jack tisks matter of factly, tossing a small carton of leftout bullets into a small chest where he typically kept the supplies of his firearm. Lawrence blanches; his mouth parting slightly as he mentally contemplates the notion of what he considered to be their unconditional love and how easily negated it appeared to be, how easily severed their sewn romance was. It was him himself who drew the line when he first brought the stone to smash the man's eldest daughter, Scout reasons, his eyes narrowing coldly, his hands fidgeting with themselves in nervous, delicate strokes. The line was drawn as soon as he'd shouted at the Australian in the company of strangers; it had been crossed when he'd jumped and nearly died in his bewilderment.
He couldn't blame Jack for wanting him out of his life, who refrains from crawling into the recliner with Lawrence in order to place him on his lap. Sniper finds a comfortable spot on the floor, settling without complaint. That he even allows the young man to sit before him at all without the wrinkled brow and indignant aire about him is a vast improvement compared to just after the incident a week and a half ago. Though it was true the two had exchanged words stemming only from the Gravel Pit affair as well as those of today, Scout, the dreamer, cannot help but pretend that somehow, the line would end up erased and drawn anew.
Jack sighs, taking the plate from Lawrence's hand and bussing it into the compact kitchenette. "Figure we might 's well get our goodbyes 'nd farewells out on a good note,"
"Goodbyes?" Scout asks in quiet wonder, Jack twirling his fingers in the carpet, pulling up strands of lint and bunching them together absentmindedly with the tips of his fingers.
"Well, I'd rather you got used t'havin' me outta your life,"
"Look, Jack, I can understand if you don't want us to be together or around each other no more, but you can't just erase me from your life!" Scout explains evenly. "And I can't erase you from mine…"
"'S not erasin', 's puttin' a stop t'all this,"
"All what?"
"The visits, the romance, the friendship, the savin'; it was a mistake, Lawrence, 's always been a mistake,"
"I know I fucked up, Jack, I know I did," Scout begins through strained teeth, eyes on the ceiling. "But no matter what, I kinda hope you'd still look back on on everything and not wanna forget it…"
"I'll never forget it, Lawrence; I couldn't, 'nd I wouldn't, either, but that doesn't mean 's gonna carry on the way we remember it. I made the mistake o'lettin' you get close t'me, o'getting' close t'you; 's gotten to the point where even your damn doctor's countin' on me t'put myself on the line for you, you're relyin' on me t'give you my all durin' missions, 'nd there's no way 's gonna go on like this if I'm endin' it with you,"
"But still, Jack, you can't just take it all back,"
"'S not gonna go on like this, either!"
"Well whether you like it or not Jack, it's kinda gonna!" Scout explains heatedly, though careful not to rise in temper; both men appear tense, bated, quick to respond to the other, though, thankfully, civil. "Think about it, I know your ass was sittin' up there still pissed off as fuck that day, Jack; I know you watched me slip into that warehouse and you weren't gonna do nothin' to try to get me out,"
Sniper grumbles.
"You were probably tryin' not to do nothin' when you saw Tavish riggin' that shit, too; you tried forgettin' me, lettin' me go-"
"I'm not jus' gonna let you die, Scout,"
"I ain't never said that you would, and that's exactly what I mean; no matter how far removed you try to become from me, you ain't never gonna be completely gone, 'cause you still care," Scout explains softly, the man grumbling further. "'S why you've got me here now, and you're even gonna listen to the game with me; you can hate my guts, but you're still gonna care,"
"I've always hated your bloody guts; 'nd you're here 'cause I want our last "moments" t'gether t'be good ones at least; better than the van, or that night. I want us t'have nice closure-not because I care, but because I'm an adult man, 'nd I've been through enough hurt in my life t'hold a grudge,"
"So then it's for your own piece of mind?" Scout mumbles. "And not 'cause of…nothin' else?"
Jack says nothing further, and neither does Lawrence; he couldn't have spoken even if he wanted to.
-
Jack's wrist was typically the crutch of time. Upon it glimmered a usual masculine timepiece, curled and strapped to his wrists by a loose and warm smelling leather band, large enough in its width to keep the small tattoo of a chameleon Sniper'd had on the underside for nearly two decades covered. Just as typical as his time telling appendage, was once the certainty that Lawrence always woke up to find the Australian's strong arm around his frame, coiled and strung so tightly and possessively about his lithe figure that anyone observing their romantic dynamic from the outside would have called it a biological prison.
With the man's embrace, however, Lawrence's awakenings were promised two things when sleeping with the Australian; a soft kiss on the corner of his lips, and a cursory sweep of his eyes over the surface of the watch, and enlightenment of the current hour.
Lawrence's eyes part, and he yawns and stretches his body lazily before curling back up and bringing his knees to his chest, each conscious second only drawing attention to the glaring void that was the disregard for their usual intimate routine. Jack's embrace, this time around, is wholly nonexistent. Even as Scout's eyes widen with a growing sense of visibility he finds his head cranes upon his neck, stretching in an attempt to find a wallclock of sorts in an effort to maintain at least some hint of normalcy.
Rubbing his balled fists against his weighted eyes, the young man grunts from confusion as a gusty, drawn out yawn whistles softly between his soft lips. The lyrical strumming of a tuned instrument, quiet, calm, and yet with a vividly traceable volume, is to hear from Jack's bedroom, the beacon of the bedside lamp Lawrence knew so well shimmering from underneath the door as the only light source, obscured by the maroon shade placed overtop the bulb. Scout reaches an arm out and flicks on the smaller, matching lamp resting next to the recliner on the floor (Sniper had no room for a side table), climbing from the chair slowly and careful not to put too much weight in his step, pressing an equally gentle ear against the door.
The notes are lune like, light and brisk, calming and gentle, perfect for a young man only just now waking up.
"…slopin' thru' the Bush, elopin' thru' the moor, heraldin' along the way, o'th' faces that you'll know 'nd the bonds that start t'grow, oh the place I'll return someday!"
'Is he really singin' in there?!' Lawrence asks himself quietly, a small smile curling upon his lips devilishly as a small hiccup of a laugh stifles itself behind his hand. He pushes the bedroom door open slightly, and thin wisps of both cigarette and incense smoke slithers out in billowing, noxious spirals as if Scout had released a gaseous curse from a well lit, musical tomb. Waving his hand in front of his nose and face, Lawrence grimaces before poking his head through the small crevice he'd formed by pushing the door from its frame.
His eyes shoot open quickly at the sight that meets him; Jack, who lies lazily with his back flat against the mattress, keeps his right leg elevated so it forms a bit of a pyramid at his knees, the bottom of his foot flat against the bed as well. He smiles loftily with his head embedded in the comfort of his pillow, his long, thin fingers entwined with the silver nylon of the ever elusive strings, plucking a small, jaunty reel absentmindedly.
"…uh…"
The Australian slowly parts his concealed eyes, his pupils dilating quickly as they focus in on the frame of the young man who observes him.
"Jack?"
The man grumbles pleasantly, attempting to make a more concrete motion, though not before nearly sending the small glass Lawrence just now notices rests atop the comforter to tumble and seep into the throw rug. A brown liquid of a thin consistency swishes against the confines of the clear drinking utensil, Jack's quiet laughter accompanied by the tangy hint of warm scotch in his hot breath.
"'Ello, I see you've woken up,"
Lawrence nods, taking in the sights of the room, and the empty, overturned liquor bottle that had rolled its way over to the man's disheveled chest, whose top lies open, its contents muddied and disorganized, exposed and showcased in its discombobulated splendor. "Yeah, was about to ask you what time it is…" Scout mumbles from the corner of his mouth, noticing that within the small box resides various books containing sheet music and strings, record sleeves peppering the collection with colour here and there, gracing the musical trove with their Hawaiian motifs.
"Oh, 'nd who's that callin', out t'me, who owns this voice so grand 'nd free, who's that callin', outt'meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-" Jack continues, shutting his eyes and bringing his fingers to strum in pleasant accompaniment against the ukulele again. Picking up the discarded watch on the bedside table, Lawrence flips it to a legible angle and deciphers the time to be exactly 6:37 pm, the Red Sox scheduled to play in exactly forty minutes' time.
He steals another look at the delightfully tipsy man, whose unbuttoned slacks slip lazily from his hips, exposing his toned and hairy midrift. His naked feet twitch sporadically, Sniper himself most likely unaware of the ticks in his drunkness. Near the kicking limbs are crumpled, yellow pieces of notebook paper, the holes punched along the left side, spaced oddly in the middle in such a manner that suggests to the Bostonian that they were Australian scraps. Each thrust of his heel crushes and bends the paper, which Scout bends over to smooth out and read, Jack's recognisible scrawl of hieroglyphics and thoughly incomprehensible and illegible scratches and squiggles jumping out to instantly claim them as his.
Lawrence attempts squinting, though he'd experienced the older man's handwriting enough to know all efforts to undersand the Australian's butchering of the written word were beyond futile; they were delusive.
"…what's this, Jack?" Lawrence asks calmly, the man scratching at the thin wife beater he wears, the fabric dragged along his collarbone under the command of his fingers.
"Lyrics-t'a song I've been workin' on,"
"A song?" Larry asks quietly from genuine surprise; he'd never known Jack was a songwriter. "I didn't know you wrote, and I didn't know you played the uku-whatsit, either,"
"'S 'cause with you constantly around I never had time t'practice; now I've got a bit o'time I finally have a chance t'bust 'er out 'nd get my fingers goin',"
"And what's her name?"
"Maisy," Jack grunts, strumming a soft g chord before his gruff though not at all unpleasant voice pipes the lyrics he composed as a sweet ode to her name.
"You sound good, Jack," Scout whispers, smiling softly at the man and his cradled embrace around the instrument.
"Y'should hear me when I haven't been drinkin' Tavish's stuff…sound a lot…" Jack yawns, his fingers still strumming lively chords in his silence. "Better."
"I'm sure you do, Jack…" Scout smiles, leaning against the wall. "I just wish you had told me you played, you know, at some point durin' a whole three year friendship…"
"Every man's allowed 'is secrets, now…"
"So you write songs, too?"
"Yeah, little ones…"
"'Bout what? Cute boys?"
"Ugh-'bout all sorts o'things," Jack grumbles, waving a hand of dismissal. "Not silly love songs about dopey boys,"
"Naw, 'course not, it ain't your style…"
"I'd rather sing about animals, or hikin' through the Outback,"
"'Cause you're an old, borin' fart," Scout snaps, the Australian rolling his eyes.
"What kind of an Aussie would I be if I didn't write an ode t'my own home?!"
"And you ain't got no problems not writin' an ode to me…" Lawrence mumbles, sitting on the edge of the man's bed and reaching out for the instrument.
"Can I try?"
"Sure, but God help ya if y'break 'er…"
"I won't," Larry whispers, taking Maisy into his hands, adjusting his limbs in wild entanglement and bringing her to rest awkwardly upon his knee, tucking her underneath his bicep. "Ahem-Jaaaaaaaaaaaack, is a poopbutt, Jaaaaaaaaaaaaack, is a bumpkin-"
"Oi now, wot?!" the man raises an eyebrow, sitting up pointedly.
"He's a gooooooooooooberr-"
"The bloody Hell's a bumpkin-?!"
But Lawrence cannot respond, the young man toppling over from powerful laughter. "Your face-!"
"Poopbutt, real mature, Scout…" Jack sighs, taking the ukulele back, Lawrence wiping his eyes.
"Come on, you gotta admit it was funny,"
Jack scoffs.
"Why don't ya-I dunno-go set up the radio 'nd go listen t'your game…"
"I thought you was gonna listen with me?"
"Well-no-" Jack chuckles, the young man simply crestfallen.
"Aw Jack, please-?!"
"Why d'you need me, they're your team!"
"I thought you liked them too…" Lawrence explains softly, eyes pointedly fixed the floor. "…I thought you cared and thought they were cool…"
"Ugh, fine, since y'look like you're about ready t'cry,"
"I ain't," Lawrence sighs softly, the young man honest in his claim, though he won't deny it too adamantly if his fake tears resut in Jack by his side during the game. "I bought some chips, and some pretzels,"
"Y'bought ten pounds o'salt, 's more like; ;s not healthy, Scout…"
"Says the guy who just drank a whole bottle of liquor by himself!"
"Hey, it makes the days easier…" Jack shrugs, shutting his eyes and leaning back to sing again.
"…There was once a little ducklin', swimmin' in the sea, a fine little ducklin' 'bout as ducky as can be, swimmin' to th'shore, right o'er t'me, jumped into my hands, right excited t'see me-"
"Nah, I'm the one the ducklings wanna see," Lawrence explains moodily, the young man's love for baby ducks knowing no bounds.
"He tumbles t'the ground, 'nd walks upon th'land, peepin' at my heels, away from me oh he can't staaaannndd…." Jack strums, Lawrence folding his arms and awaiting the closing lines to the song. "….t'be."
-
"Now I dunno if you remember-"
"Uhuh-"
"But Ray Culp, maaaaaan-" Lawrence swoons, the wildly cheering crowd muffled by the radio's quality. "That save just now was all him…" Lawrence explains, digging his greasy fingers to crinkle in the bag of plain chips whose colours also happen to mirror those of the Sox.
"I remember-but I doubt your Doc would,"
"Nah, I've always listened to game in the medibay!" Scout jumps, wide eyed and alert as he explains his fandom history, his cheeks stuffed with decomposing potato skins. "You ain't got no idea how proud a dude can feel when he gets a boring oldGerman to start hatin' the fuckin' Yankees after a couple months…"
"Guess y'jus' rubbed off on 'im…"
"I swear I was cryin' when we was listenin' to the game and the Yankees caught the ball and Doc like, made that German noise and went "Kahm Ahn, Yaynkeez!"
Lawrence booms in his best imitation of a German accent, the older man chuckling softly, smiling at his attempt.
"'S actually pretty good,"
"I've been workin' on it,"
"So then what d'you do, jus' sit in the medibay with the radio, 'nd Doc works around ya?"
"The Medibay is huge, Jack, you ain't even ever been in there; when you brought me to that one, it was just the medical supply in the basement, he had to take me to a whole 'nother wing to get me to the actual bay,"
"Oi…"
"So there's plenty of room; I sit on a table he ain't usin', play with Taco and Porkchop-Doc has doves-I even got 'em chirpin' when they get a home run! Seriously, last game they were tied, right? And it's the bottom of the ninth, and the Sox knock it outta the park, and the birds start goin' crazy when everyone on the radio got crazy,"
"Oh?"
"Yeah," Lawrence nods, leaning forward intensely to catch the words of the announcer. "Aw shit, Ray's battin'!"
"Your man, eh?"
"You saw him yourself, there ain't no one in the whole League who can stop Ray-COME ON, YOU CAN DO IT!"
"My ears," Jack chuckles, handing the young man the bowl of pretzels he reaches out for. "Watch it now, you're gettin' crumbs everywhere…."
"I'll clean 'em tomorrow-"
"Tomorrow?! Your arse isn't spendin' the night, mate-"
"Yeah, but-the Sox…" Scout gulps. "They're playin' again tomorrow…"
"Well you're gonna have t'rip on the Yankees with Doc, 'cause you're not comin' 'round after this…"
"What?! But-but-!"
"No's no, Scout…"
"But-"
"I'm tired, and I have t'go into Teufort early tomorrow; gonna take the van t'a mechanic 'nd see how much it'll cost t'get her fixed…"
"Jack…"
"She was leakin' coolant yesterday, too. She's got all sorts o'problems 'nd I'd like t'spend a day tryin' t'get her taken care of. If it's nothin' too difficult, I can try to afford it,"
"I'm sorry, Jack…"
"'S whatever, jus' listen to your game…" Jack sighs, hoisting himself from the recliner, Scout instantly taking advantage of his vacated spot and stretching himself comfortably. "Where're you goin', Jack…?"
"Jus' goin' t'pour myself another glass…"
"Naw Jack-naw," Lawrence protests, tugging on the man's wrist and keeping the man near him. "You don't need no more to drink…"
"…Suppose you're right, I don't wanna drink up all my booze too quickly…"
"I just hope you haven't been doin' nothin' hard…" Scout whispers, referring to the man's tendency to resort to serious drugs in the midst of a depression; it had been hard for the young man to stomach the first time he'd dealt with the washed out Australian two years ago, who could hardly even string sentences together after an entire weekend of substance abuse.
"No, no-I've-I've gotten better with that," he explains sheepishly, and the two are silent as the radio host commentates calmly on the events of the game, nothing of interest truly transpiring as Jack and Lawrence attempt to avoid the other's eye.
"Jack?" Lawrence begins softly after a few minutes of strained silence, shifting in the recliner and dragging his finger across the corduroy fabric loosely.
"Yeah? 'S wrong?"
"Nothin', uh…"
"Yeah?"
"I was just wonderin' if you…"
"Yeah, 's wrong?"
"Do you think anyone could ever love me the way you did?"
Jack sighs, darting his eyes to the floor before closing them wearily.
"Now Lawrence…what kind o'question's that?!"
"I just wanna know, if you think you think I got a chance at havin' someone love me again or not…"
"Right, 'nd does that someone happen t'be me?"
Lawrence blanches, but keeps his silence, though it is through his contrated tension, and the way he rubs his teeth against his chapping lips that Sniper senses Lawrence means the affirmative of his question.
"Listen, Scout, you're a handsome, sweet boy who really means well, you're funny, 'nd can really bring a bloke who sees no point in life back t'his senses, 'nd put a right big smile on his face. You can bring someone a lot o'joy if that's what you're wantin'. You're smart, 'nd brave, carin'-holdin' you in my arms was sometimes the only thing I could look forward to at the end of the day…" Jack explains, the young man not even reacting as the Sox earn the fourth home run of the night, the crowd's excitement seeping through the outdated radio in waves of cheerful excitement. "…I reckon you'll have no problem findin' the right one, whether they're a man or woman,"
"Or you?" Lawrence asks quietly, Jack sighing as his hand curls nervously in his hair. "Look, Lawrence, you'll always be special t'me…" Jack begins, avoiding the young man's attentive eye. "But…y'have t'understand, you're just not good for me. You hurt me too much, 'nd what we had jus' couldn't compensate. 'nd honestly,I don't think we're meant t'be t'gether as anythin' more than two friendly adversaries-but that doesn't mean it wasn't worth the shot,"
"So then, I guess you're never gonna fall in love with me again, huh…" Scout mumbles, curling against the chair and letting his eyes fall shut.
"Oh Lawrence, c'mon, don't get down, now; 's jus' enjoy the game…" Jack awkwardly attempts to steer the already shattered mood of the young man back into his usual, chipper Sox mode, but even as Ray comes up to the plate to bat yet again, he demonstrates a mood much too devastated to clearly be remedied by even his favourite player.
Lawrence sputters as yet more axel grease comes flowing from a hose the young man had only learned existed by trial and error. The torrent of liquid springs at least four feet in the air due to the release of pressure subjecting it to a subdued state, splotching his face and staining it black and a sickly sludge of brown. The oils mingle consistency, the falling rain that had long since soaked his body and clothes causing the mixture to adhere atop his flesh like a waxy film, with an eerie, unearth buoyancy. He smelled like oil, rusted automobiles, and Scout spits and moans as he found he even swallowed the poisonous cocotion, the rainwater that dribbles over his lips tasting distinctly of motor oil.
Regardless, the young man's slippery, clumsy fingers grip tightly onto the meticulously small and specific wrench, his fingers sore and frozen from the cool rain and awkward angle that forces the blood to sink to the tips, the repetitive motions causing Lawrence to suffer from what he presumes to be a particularly aching case of carpal tunnel.
He'd been at his attempted repair since the game ended four hours ago, Jack having fallen asleep by the seventh inning. It was the opportunity he had been looking for, the young man having swept the heavy brown bag unknowningly (to the Australian) filled with car parts he'd purchased in the city that day, the particular makes and models having cost the young Lawrence a good couple hundred by time it was all said and done.
Paul had said on the phone the repairs were easy enough. And even despite the clear connection and the accurately transcribed directions Lawrence obtained via the phone call from his professional mechanic of a brother, he still finds himself screwing up. Swearing loudly as he contemplates tossing the small headlight bulb he now fiddles with, Lawrence groans from all his aches and worries and frustration as the radiator leaks at a much more rapid rate than before, the sopping mud drenched a tarish, filthy black, clumps of unidentified solidity now seeping into and staining Lawrence's filthy slacks and Heinrich's knit.
He could cry.
"FUCK IT!" Scout roars, slamming the wrench to the ground, a bubbling sense of overwhelming helplessness creeping in his nerves like impending fever. Rain pours into the complex workings of the engine, and his bottom lip trembles as it all becomes more confusing the longer he tries to make sense of it, holding up the soaked diagram of the engine he'd traced based on his brother's description the ink running and streaking the paper with illegible lines of blue and purple.
"Jack'll just hate me for fuckin' with his van even more,"
He pivots in an attempt to unscrew one cap while keeping his elbow in place to manually cap another leaking hose, yelping however as the spilled fluids cause him to lose his footing, sending him toppling into the sludge. Lawrence takes a look at the whole of himself, now completely drenched in the excretion of the camper van, numbed by the freezing rain and hopeless dread.
"Lawrence!" Jack wails, and the young man's head shoots up to find Jack standing in the parted entrance to the camper, dry and warm and, based upon the expression of pure shock upon his face, alarmed over something or other. "Lawrence, y'little bugger, I've been lookin' for you the last five minutes!" Jack roars, giving the conditions outside of the van no thought as he stalks aggressively toward the young man, his own clothing instantly shaded darker, richer hues, soaked himself as per the wishes of the heavy pour. "What in the Bloody Hell's wrong with you, standin' out here?! You're sick 'nd barely clothed, y'look like you've been rollin' around in the mud! What in the world're you doin' out here?!" Jack pleads, though he pulls his foot back carefully, almost stepping upon a metal rod meant to be sandwiched somewhere in the engine of the van-though where exactly Scout had long since given up on trying to figure out.
"Lawrence…" Jack whispers, taking the parts into his hands and giving the guilty young man a gentle look over. "Lawrence, where did you get these?"
"Teufort," he whispers shamefully, his voice hardly a whispered cloak.
"Bloody Hell, I guess you were tryin' t'change the oil-?!"
"I-I wanted to fix everything I broke…"
"Why would y'wait until a Stormy night, Lawrence?!"
"Sorry…"
"Why didn't you just tell me, Scout?!"
"I wanted it to be a surprise…"
"Look at you, you're covered in filth 'nd you're only gonna make yourself worse after the whole week o'rest y'needed," Jack sighs, plugging up the leaking hose appropriately and shutting the hood of the engine. "Look at you…" he whispers again, bringing a hand brush the sopping hair from the young man's eyes, his thumb catching the oily grime off Lawrence's profile, exposing cool, bloodless flesh underneath.
"Okay, no more fix-it-up-Scout for the night; y'need t'take a shower right now…" Jack growls, bringing him carefully into his arms so as to prevent himself from getting dirty as well. "C'mon, now…" Jack whispers, untying Lawrence's cleats, gagging as he does so, leaving them to drip near the door. He assists the young man in undressing, Scout too frozen and dazed to do so by himself.
"Yeesh…" Jack grimaces, grabbing a bag from off the floor and letting the unsalvageable slacks and sweater tumble into it unceremoniously.
"Let's get you a shower runnin'-I reckon your Doc won't be too pleased about his sweater…"
"He knits them all the time, he won't care…" Lawrence explains shamefully, turning the dial to hot and holding out his fingers to test the water. "I don't wanna use all your water, though…"
"'S alright, I can just grab a jug or two from the base in the mornin'; 's no problem…" Jack whispers guiding the young man under the shower head. "Take your time, Larry…" he whispers, shaking his head softly as he brings his hands to smooth across Lawrence's skin, and claw at his hair with spicy shampoo. "'S not that big a deal, we're at the base now, 's not like we're in the wilderness,"
Jack turns the dial after a few more minutes of sudsing the Bostonian, grabbing the towel from off the hook, the man draping it around Scout's frame and edging carefully from out of the cramped bathroom, hardly big enough for even one person.
"What in the world were you thinkin'…" Jack scoffs softly, tossing Lawrence a dry t-shirt and lowering him into the recliner, a comforter following the t-shirt as well. "Y'can hardly even move, you're so frozen…"
"I just wanted to fix your van, Jack…"
"I know, Larry, 'nd thank you-but you should've let the idea go for at least tonight when y'saw the lightnin' 'nd rain, 'specially with you bein' sick…"
"I know…"
"Look, there's no reason t'act so ashamed, I'm not cross…" Jack sighs, pulling a level and allowing the chair to lean back, Lawrence able to stretch with the added length. "…Just worried." Jack tucks a pillow under his head, the young man's weary eyes watching the man as he walks about the room, producing a battery powered space heater and pointing the warm air onto Scout directly. "I can't play Doc again, not this week,"
"I know, I'll leave in the mornin'…"
"No, we'll fix 'er up t'gether in the sunshine, love…" Jack mumbles, turning off the lamp and patting Scout's slowly warming cheek. "Why were you out there without a clue?!"
"I just want you to love me, Jack…" Lawrence mumbles, the older man stoically quiet. " I wanted you to know how far I'll go for you…"
"…Well, now's not the time, love," Jack smiles softly, curling the blanket around the young man, letting a hand curl affectionately around Scout's cheek. "How about in the mornin'?" he asks, and Lawrence nods, yawning widely, and the easiest sleep he'd known in a long time washes over him in no time at all, the Australian placing a gentle kiss atop his head; he already knew.