"Normal people don't just forget their own fuckin' birthdays, wombat," Scout scoffs at the chuckling man, whose mouth twitches slightly. His eyebrow cocks in a responsive arch as if a retort lies on the tip of his tongue.
"I never said I forgot it." indeed one does. He swipes a broad palmed hand to fan through the thick strands of his dark hair; He says nothing else, however.
"I mean, when the Hell were you plannin' on tellin' me your birthday was next week?!" Lawrence snaps with a scathing, bitter repugnance, the bitterness of his words traceable along the sharp edge his relentless tongue commands. "Well - considerin' you've have a whole three years t'figure out my birthday, I gotta say you're at fault too," Jack explains in defeated weariness before hoisting himself off the edge of the edge of the brick wall upon which they sit.
"Yeah well, it ain't like you left me clues or nothin', with the way you'd always act like a secretive dick every time I asked,"
"Maybe y'just weren't goin' about askin' the right way," Sniper grumbles, careful to avoid the young man's eye.
"Maybe you're placin' way too much fuckin' mystique around a goddamn birthday-"
"Look, why does it even matter, Lawrence?!" Jack snaps, turning sharply on his heel and aiming at Scout a sharp, narrow eyed glare, complete with piercing eyes to suggest he no longer found the young man's persistence anything other than borderline infuriating. "Y'never made a big deal outta not knowin' the last two years..."
"Yeah well, maybe those other years we weren't together; maybe this year I gotta be different about it 'cause we'redifferent; after everythin' that happened in St. Louis last month, and maybe I'm tryin' to show you how much I care; you ever think about that, Jack?"
Sniper grumbles once - that he does so guiltily, he does not inform the defensive Lawrence who still sits with his rear plastered against the cool, dusty wall, donning a humourless expression himself. "I know I ain't got a lot of datin' experience, but I guess I didn't know it was such an offensive thing for a dude to wanna know his own boyfriend's birthday,"
"'Lright, I get it," Jack snaps quietly, raising a defeated, heavy hand. "I hear ya."
"Sometimes it don't seem like you do, like I gotta say shit over and over again before you really take me seriously,"
"See?! This is what I didn't want t'happen!"
"What?!"
"I didn't want my bloody birthday turnin' into a huge deal! I've never made a fuss about my birthday; never. My parents weren't big on 'em, I was never big on 'em, 'nd now that we're t'gether you're over here tryin' t'celebrate 'nd all that mess-"
"Right, figures I try to do somethin' nice and you take it and find a way to make it this evil thing; typical Jack,"
"'Nd you're turnin' me into the villain 'cause maybe I just want y'to bloody drop it! 'S my goddamn birthday, 'nd if I want y'to leave it be without the question fanfare, I've the right!"
"Why are you so against me even knowin', Jack?! 'Cause you're older than you actually say you are?!"
"N-no-"
"You're what, thirty somethin'?!"
"It doesn't matter,"
"Ok, forty somethin'-"
"Right, make me feel that much better, why don't ya-"
"So you are,"
"No, but the fact that y'think I could pass for forty somethin' hurts a tad,"
"Well maybe if you'd get the fuckin' stick out your goddamn ass, I wouldn't have to fuckin' guess,"
"Maybe I wouldn't have a stick shoved up there if y'weren't so bloody nosy!"
"Look, fuck it, I ain't dealin' with it then, Jack," Scout snaps, letting himself slip from the wall, wiping chalky residue from his belted waist. "I wanted to try to get you to open up, you know? Maybe I figured 'cause you and I are actually, I dunno, inlove or somethin', we could can the mystery bullshit. I thought maybe 'cause I've fuckin' felt you inside of me I could have the courtesy of knowin' your goddamn birthday. But I ain't tryin' to deal with this cryptic shit either. You don't wanna say,fine; forget I fuckin' asked,"
"...Larry..."
"Forget I asked, Jack!" Scout snaps heavily, his heart giving a sudden weighted thump that jumps to the center of his warm throat as he feels the Australian pull him back gently, his sweaty hand wrapped lightly around his own. "No, you're right..." the man sighs unevenly, curling his lips in a nervous twist. It is out of caution that Scout says nothing, his expression locked stoically, and somewhat rigid. "Sorry. I'm bein' an arse,"
Sniper snickers after a few moments' time of silence. Lawrence's eyes glow with a devilish glint the man only notices after observing the silent Bostonian acutely.
"...What..."
"Nothin', just surprised I'd ever hear you admit that you're a weird butthole," Scout pouts, trying not to grin as the man tousles his hair affectionately.
"I'll admit it; doesn't change that I am,"
"Nah,"
"'Nd it prolly never will,"
"Whatever, just tell me your damn birthday,"
"April 17th, ok?! Now drop it," Jack chuckles, lighting a cigarette that now dangles, pincered in between his thin lips.
"April 17th..."
"What?!"
"What year?!"
"19, er-"
"Yeah?!"
"1931..."
"Damn, Jack..." Lawrence chuckles, using his embraced hand with Jack's to tug the older man along, the two setting on a moderate stroll out of the sight of either base. "Thirty seven, huh..." he whispers, Sniper nodding curtly.
"Aye."
"'S not so old,"
"So?" he chuckles, small gusts of smoke billowing from the depths of his long nose. "Look-" Sniper inclines his head downward, Lawrence standing on tiptoe, his face straining from concentration as he tries to spot that which the man attempts to show him.
"Y'see 'em?"
"See what?"
"The-the hairs," he whispers. Hardly at all, Scout notes, his eyes swiveling slowly over the three individual silver hairs that pock his otherwise rich, youthful, chocolate brown amassment of healthy hair upon his head. "That ain't nothin', Jack, come on; my dad was younger than you when he started baldin'..."
"I've got more grey in the beard when I let it grow out..."
"So you didn't want me to know your birthday 'cause you're almost forty,"
"Don't put like that!" Jack barks, Lawrence shrugging innocently. "I mean, 's jus' a stupid day. Sure, 's nice when you're eight 'nd nine 'nd still pickin' your nose t'have a day where you're the most special snowflake in all the world, but c'mon, 's jus' thirty seven, 's jus' a number..."
"Yeah, but it's your thirty seventh, Jack," Scout sighs, resting a hand on Sniper's wrist.
"'Nd ten years ago it was my twenty seventh; was actually the first birthday'o mine out here, 'nd absolutely nothin's changed since then..." Sniper explains, exhaling deeply. "I mean, y'know, got a little bit'o hair on the chest, can tolerate tomatoes 'nd my allergy t'hazlenuts's isn't's bad as it used t'be," Sniper attempts to joke, his expression faltering into one of disapproval after a second or two of contemplative silence.
"Bloody Hell, Lawrence, you're goin' t'get me a ruddy present now, ain't ya—"
"Hell yeah, I am! I owe ya after, you know,—St. Louis..."
"Well anythin' ya get me is goin' straight in the rubbish bin!"
"WHAT—?!"
"So don't even bother, love!"
"Seriously?!"
"I mean it; ya gift wrap it'n I'll burn the bloody thing, too—"
"Seriously, you're a fuckin' asshole!"
"Now come on, love, that's a little unfair! A real arsehole wouldn't give ya the heads up, now would'e?!"
"Jack, you're fuckin' sick—"
"I just don't want anyone—'specially you—goin' outta their way t'make a big deal outta my bloody birthday when I can't even be bothered t'give a right shit!"
"You ain't gonna need to, 'cause I'ma give the biggest shit for the both of us!"
"Good Lord, mate..."
"Seriously! Shit's gonna be so big you ain't gonna need t'shit again for another ten years!" Scout beams, Sniper patting the eager young man affectionately on the cheek.
"Lovely imagery, Scout..."
"Look, I dunno how you fuckin' kangaroo humpers do it Down Under, but this is America, and in America, we celebrate our fuckin' birthdays,"
"Been spendin' a bit o'time with your Soldier, have you? Anyway I'm familiar with how apeshit you Yanks go over birthdays, been livin' in the good ole US of A longer than you've been allowed to legally drink in'er,"
"Then you should know it's fuckin' rude to burn a dude's present,"
"Listen, love, you're too sweet, y'really are, 'n it warms my blackened ole heart t'see ya so excited over me'n my birthday, but please don't do anythin' outrageous; gimmie a nice little smooch maybe, 's'all I'll need..."
"No can do, dingo," Lawrence snaps, Sniper's weary smile of resignation not going unnoticed by the Bostonian.
"Look, I got it-tomorrow, we got a mission at Dustbowl,"
"Aye,"
"And here's how it's gonna fuckin' go; I challenge you to one of them duels - nah, don't laugh, asshole - I challenge your ass to a duel, and if I win, I get to give you a gift,"
Jack mumbles.
"Party, cake and all. And you ain't gonna say shit about it," Lawrence sneers, looking the older man firmly in the eye.
"'Lright then, Mongrel; I accept. If you really think y'can beat a vet at his own game, y'can throw me a bloody party," Sniper concedes, nodding reluctantly. "But I'm not gonna tell ya if I like it or not'n as soon as it's outta the packagin' it's hittin' the shredder,"
"Fine! You and me tomorrow. You win, I won't do shit. If I do, you're gettin' a damn party you asshole," Scout nods, turning around in their steady walk, Sniper lifting his arms to curl his hands around the runner's hips. "Y'goin' already?"
"Well yeah, gotta get shoppin'!" Scout explains, Sniper chuckling dismissively as he too gives the distant fort of RED a weary glance. Scout balances on tip toe so as to give himself the inches necessary to meet the lips of the soon-to-be birthday enthusiast, who eagerly traps Scout in an intimate loop of romantic paralysis.
"One gift—" Sniper reminds him tersely in between kisses.
"Nah, I'm gettin' you as many as I fuckin' want if I win!"
"Nothin' over ten buckaroos—"
Kiss.
"Nine ninety nine, dickhead!"
"God Help ya if you're as dumb as I think ya are 'nd y'make me somethin'—"
And another.
"How 'bout love, dingo? You think about that?"
"Hm; 'course,"
And Sniper turns his head to capture his lips from another angle, his voice low and rugged as the insinuation of birthday sex excites him more than he'd prefer.
"A bloody party-"
"Like your sorry ass even has friends to invite!"
Scout yelps as a cool hand feels its way up the back of his cotton blue shirt, the thin material draping over Sniper's arm as his hand travels along the crease of Scout's defined spine. "You're cleanin' it all up, tho'."
The fit of the fluorescent yellow gloves strain against his hands and wrists. The rubber clings against his flesh, as if the malleable rubber sought to sabotage his circulation. The intense strong hold could almost suggest a life long feud raged between Scout and the disposable gloves; As they had.
Scout could hardly say the moisture that collects on the inside of the miry lining conjures any sort of pleasant memories that didn't spawn from some sort of bitterness. His pout is a professional scowl only the baby brother of the family could muster after years of practice. The six year old Scout who'd been forced to bed at eight pm sharp could do nothing against the stern Julie and her tear-resistant exterior. No matter how long and hard he wailed, begging to hear the Sox play to the end on the radio, his tactics of cry, scream, repeat, maybe smash something tapered in success after the first implementation. Thus scowling was all he could do to effectively alert his mother that he was in a "bad mood".
Julie, who worked the morning and afternoon shifts at the grocery store during the week, always had a note on the fridge detailing each job she wanted done and who was assigned to what.
'I thought I was done with this June Cleaver shit.'
The gritty prickle of the hand covers cause the hair of his forearms to stand on end. The static shocks are the result of a phenomena Scout can't say he cares to puzzle out. Scout can hardly say Jane had much going on in the ways of organizing and maintaining a proper cleaning budget. The fact that there were even gloves at all was a marvel, in all reality, even if the tips of the fingers were completely blackened with who knew how many years of tidying assignments. Not to mention the gloves themselves were a good four sizes too small for his hands. Scout knew to count his blessings.
He wasn't quite sure the ferocity of his bared teeth did much to sway Jane in his ultimate decision that Scout was to stay behind this mission. "This base has not been tidied in nearly three weeks, would you let Sun Tzu walk into this base without shoes on, because I would not dare, son! No sir—"
'Yeah right, 's been longer than three weeks…'
"—Sun Tzu would not even put a foot on one tile! He would be so disgusted by the condition of your barracks that he would not even have the time to wonder how he was transported some two thousand years into the future—!"
'He don't have no business in my fuckin' barrack no way…'
"—And we would not let our guest leave with 2Fort dirt on his heels!" the man had informed Scout in snippets interrupted by his own internal commentary that morning at breakfast. The overcoat to his uniform still unbuttoned, the hour of the morning perhaps doing much to quash any energy dressing himself that he'd rather keep reserved for the fight that was to come.
The same fight the Bostonian had presumed he too would be taking part in. Only he could capture, it wasn't as if his position (especially a Scout of his recognized talent) were easily interchangeable, in favour of housework no less.
"Seeing as an attempted preliminary strike against the REDs down at Badlands would not only open up a new strategic front on its own but also free up the base from threat of invasion for an undisclosed period of hours, it gives us the chance to make it spic and span, for when Sun Tzu may arrive, do you understand that?!"
Scout understood the English his commanding officer spoke well enough—making sense of it all was the taxing part. The young man was hardly even a mercenary of three years and even he could see the fundamental flaw in leaving their main asset of reconnaissance and commandeering behind to dust a few light fixtures. It seemed peculiar to the Bostonian that a veteran of three wars couldn't see a blatant discrepancy between his battle plans and those of the youngest and newest member of his battalion—Scout's battle plan being Take the fuckin' Scout with you if you're gonna be cappin'. It may not have had the ring of a military genius, but it was logical all the same.
Still, a Jane without his breakfast was not a Jane to dispute. Behind what little of the man's sleep lidded eyes Scout could actually see, he could sense finality in his orders directly proportionate to his weariness; Finality made only visually concrete when the man placed a dark green bucket at Scout's feet, the edges of which appeared crusted, whitened with mold and mildew. An equally frightening mop sits within the bucket, dyed sepia with ancient dirt. The fabric dreads clump together from an eternity sitting damp and improperly wrung out, congealed within itself.
'Can't you get someone else to do this shit?!' Scout curses internally as he drops his head just slightly to look the bucket and its innards head on. The bitter, worn and filthy smell of rancid, stagnant water instantly floods Scout's nostrils and causes him to lose his appetite, his jaw slowing its chomping of the cold, hardened cluster of grits he'd been attempting for the last ten minutes to swallow.
"You've done me proud, Scout, however together with the Engineer we have constructed a battle plan Sun Tzu himself would crap his own armour over!"
'Somethin' tells me Rick don't have nothin' to do with this plan of yours, 'nd that he prolly don't want no credit, either…'
"And when he arrives from the Engineer's time travelling device he will walk across the whole entire base to find me in my barracks and he will comment on my superior tactics as well as the spotlessness of the building!" Jane growls, lifting his helmet to point one beady blue eye in Scout's direction.
'How many times you plannin' on bringin' up this Sun Tzu dude…'
"Uh, Soldier, I don't mean to question your tactics or your sanity or nothin'—"
"And you will not either, you hippie! Especially not in front of Sun Tzu—!"
"But uh, Badlands was the place on the map we had labeled with five depots points to cap if we wanted to seize it, right?!"
"Yessir!"
"So uh, maybe you should get like, I dunno, Dmitri or someone to stay here and clean? Sounds like a lotta cappin', and uh, I'm really the only class that can do that—"
"You never get anywhere if you don't take risks, son," is all Jane grunts in response, and as Scout raises his eyebrows, the nausea dissipating to the point where he may once again resume cautious chewing of the solidified cornmeal that sticks to the bottom of his metal bowl like claimingly edible igneous.
'I'm pretty sure leavin' your only Scout behind to clean the toilet over some dead ass Chinese dude is why you ain't actually gettin' nowhere…'
"Yeah, but—but Soldier—"
"Do not but me!"
"I—I kinda challenged their Sniper to a duel, and—"
"RED's Sniper, huh? That man is a crackpot shot, only two of my men have dared to challenge him to a duel and neither survived by the end of the day. I will tell you now it was a foolish idea to draw his dot onto you, no matter how fast you run,"
"Yeah, but if I don't show up he'll think I chickened out, I can't just stay back—!"
"You will, and that is an order! You are about as thin as my pinky anyway, kid! Stay back and eat a few sandwiches, gain some weight to those bones!"
'Yeah, maybe I'd eat more if you didn't have shit for food, Jane' Scout rolls his eyes as the broad shouldered American hoists himself to his feet like a wise old dog after a long day's nap. An actual sandwich hadn't been on the menu in months, much to both his and Mikhail's severe disappointment; at least not one whose "bread" didn't chip teeth or unsettle stomachs. With brown edges turned black, the whites of the rolls yellow and grey with what Soldier described as "experience", but what Scout knew better to discern as "old and left out in some nasty ass warehouse in who knew the fuck where". Or one whose cutlets weren't rancid and speckled with green and fuzzed over as if dropped in a sea of assorted feathers gathered about from questionable animals. Not to mention the condiments were all low fat.
As a shrill whistle blows, the chirrup signaling to the mercenaries that it was time to bus the plates, and dismiss the rumbles of their digestive systems for those of war instead. Scout can only watch his comrades as they toss their plates of slop into a rusted sink at the other end of the mess hall. Jane gives him a nod as if to confirm his dreadful pondering of whether or not the dishes were his to wash as well.
The Soldier had been talking about Sun Tzu's revival and his ascension from the basement for as long as Scout had been with BLU. The more Scout thinks about it (whilst keeping a keen eye on the dishes he washes, making sure he leaves behind no scraps of food on the rusted cutlery), it seemed Jane was always shouting about the Engineer's time machine and how this time, this time, the hours and hours the team had put into the mandatory Chinese Lessons he'd forced them all into would actually be put into practice.
"Bèn zhēn" Scout hisses mockingly under his breath, maintaining a natural and admirably believable Chinese accent all the while. His stomach constricts, as if his entrails had gone completely rigid, aligned and clogged with intricate knots.
'Jack's gonna think I backed out…'
"Dammit!" Scout actually swears aloud, chucking the plate back into grey water of the sink, the water itself thoroughly nontransparent, though he dares to stick a nice portion of his forearm into the sludge nonetheless…
'He's gonna think I chickened out…'
Yet again his insides cramp, Lawrence temporarily nonplussed by just how the Australian would react to his absence on the battlefield. He knew the man well enough to assume that he would never hear the end of it, first and foremost. They'd each played the role of dominated and dominator often enough over the course of their three year rivalry, but an actual duel, a pre-designated challenge of skill and wit…
'He's gonna see I ain't there and think I fuckin' ditched like a bitch,'
Yet again his stomach stiffens. With this particular pang of discomfort comes the rising of bilge, Scout burping queasily as an acidic hiccup opens speculation (both mentally and in the form of nearly dissolving his esophagus) as to whether or not his indigestion is food related as opposed to nerves. It wasn't as if the image of the red faced Australian, completely incapacitated with his deep laughter that almost wheezed its way out of him the longer the point of humour had him going, went to help settle it.
'Don't bother sendin' me the card, love! Thirty seven's nothin' but a number, eh?
"Fuck it," Scout spits, eyes narrowed with calm anger, angling the bucket so it rests under the faucet, rustic water splashing with dull, blunt thumps against the moldy plastic. He scowls as the fibers of the mop expand as the warm water loosens their browned, unified mass, the locks of the mop head submerged, wriggling in the murky cleaning water like gradiented worms.
-
It had taken Scout a whole nine hours without pauses to clean the entirety of the base save the Medibay. Whether it was an injured, barely living Scout being rushed to the basement, or a particularly jovial Scout with hands in his pockets and all his blood inside of his body - he'd always been fit to notice the cluttered look of the infirmary. Machines, tools, stretchers, surgical instruments all strewn about in a way that seemed oddly disheveled and chaotic for the meticulously particular German doctor.
Heinrich truly was a double sided coin, Scout had come to notice; the infirmary was always sanitized, white, brightly lit and accommodating for the road to recovery, though the Medibay, the operating room proper, was some sort of cross between a steel factory and an evil scientist's garage. All sorts of beeping instruments, all tinted iron grey or olive green, littered and surrounded every thinkable surface. Some machines even stacked upon each other. Blood soaked and streaked the walls and floors, evidence of half finished projects (most of them highly disturbing in nature) sat discarded in the corner, jarred and stored away carefully.
The instruments themselves synced in eerie rhythms of all sorts, with the sounds of flocking doves and the soft vibrato of their purls. Heinrich had a certain affinity for all sixteen of his doves. They were gentle and curious, though each had a disposition to them, so both he and Medic could easily tell the difference between them all. Despite caring dearly for the man and his birds, Scout cannot say he greets the final room of the base with anything other than sheer animosity.
"Figures," Scout spits under his breath, taking a look about the Medibay. He's rather glad the lighting is so dim, thus masking the magnitude of his cleaning tasks. "Yeesh, it's even messier than it was last time I was down here…" Scout grumbles. He brushes his hands across a whirring contraption, metallic dust caking his glove and mingling with the wet exterior.
He drops the bucket to the linoleum floor; the liquid swishes sickly, spilling over the edge and leaving a white residue where the moisture works to dissolve the layer of dirt it washed away. "Where would I rather be," Scout sighs, raising his head to look the ceiling head on, the ancient light fixture rusted completely. "On the field fightin' Jack or in here playin' housewife in a German's doctor's office?"
Any other place one would have labeled the young man insane for talking to empty air. The Bostonian smiles dully as a few of the doves not occupied with sleep flutter down to meet the familiar face, chirping deeply as if with their calls they meant to answer his question.
"You guys makin' all this mess?!" he teases, sighing as bird droppings litter the room unceremoniously in Heinrich's battle caused absence. "Which one o'ya is the shit machine?!" He pulls the gloves off his forearms, cupping a pudgy bird in the palms of his hands, kissing its yellow beak. "Doc ain't gonna be too happy with you guys."
Scout lets him flutter away toward a perch higher up, letting the mop suction itself to the ground. He pushes it about in lazy strokes about the linoleum floor. Trying not to lose his breakfast, he watches the coal coloured water spread about, the wet dreads of the mop brushing over puddles of dried blood over and over until they finally disintegrate.
"It don't make no sense to me, Taco," Scout whispers out of the corner of his mouth to a dove who takes rest on his shoulder. "You'd think a Medic like Doc would take better care of his fuckin' surgery hidey hole,"
"What's he doin' in here, huh? Fuckin'—dismemberin' shit or somethin'?!" the young man shares a smirk with Taco, who blinks his black eyes before nibbling on his ear.
"It ain't like you'd tell me anyway, I know he has y'all bound to secrecy…"
"Lawrence!" Medic's weary voice croaks as he shuts the iron door, the addressed jumping as the fatigued man moves to join his comrade in the center of the room. He swears as he lifts a boot, nearly slipping on the mopped floor.
"Vat are you doing in here?! And vere have you been all day?! And vy is ze floor vet?!" his comrade heaves as he catches his breath, removing his glasses from the bridge of his nose and taking a seat on the recently cleaned metallic stretcher.
"You alright, Doc? You ain't lookin' too good…"
"I am fine Junge, save for ze fact zat I lost my mind looking for you all day today on ze field!"
"Nah Doc, I'm here," Scout grins sadly, gesturing about the darkened room. "Just cleanin'."
"I see zat, vat in ze vorld do you mean by zis, Lawrence?! Vhy are you mopping ze Medibay ven ve can barely get you to clean your own barrack?! Ze whole base looks like a palace in comparison to zis morning!"
"Yeah, about that, I'll explain, but first you tell me how the battle went,"
"Vat battle," Heinrich spits darkly, tossing his coat aside and walking carefully to a birdfeeder, pouring more seed into the wooden hut. "It vas more akin to a slaughter,"
"What?! N—no one got killed, right Doc?"
"No, zank Goodness; zough I must say I spent ze whole day looking for you, vorried zat you had been killed—I did not know you vere staying behind, and ven I asked, ze Soldier mentioned you vere still here, but it's Jane, you cannot trust him completely," he adds darkly, organizing the room to his liking. "He is so aloof it is best to assume ze opposite of vat he says…"
"He'll get ya fuckin' killed 'cause he's so damn oblivious—seriously, Doc, your hair's fuckin' smolderin', don't seem to me like he went into battle today with very good plans,"
"Ha! I know, I say it every time, Lawrence, every time! But I svear to you, zere is no vay he can top how reckless his commands vere today—"
"Jeeze, if I had a nickel…"
"He had me Über ze Spy, Lawrence—"
"Ooo," Scout flinches. "Dmitri? He had you Kritz the dude?!"
"And ven Mikhail ran out of bullets he said it vould be a vaste to restock—"
"Fuckin' Jane, where is Mikhail, 's he alright?"
"Yes, yes, of course, he is fine, zey are simply upstairs eating…"
"Jeeze, sounds like shit went down, Doc…"
"Yes it did, but may you please tell me vy I do not hear from you all day only to find you cleaning my offices?!"
"It's a long story Doc—where's Porkchop?!" Scout asks quickly, scanning the ceiling above for the grey spotted dove.
"I zought I told you not to call him zat, Scout," Heinrich spits, imitating a dove call seconds later.
"What? Porkchop? 'S wrong with Porkchop? I like it,"
"It is a stupid name!"
"Archimedes ain't no better, 'least Porkchop makes sense," Scout smirks.
"It doesn't make sense at all!"
"You don't name pets after people, Doc, you name people after people,"
"Yet somehow you have a people name,"
"Prometheus is Taco,"
"Vat terrible names! Zey are bad and you should feel bad!"
"Bet you he'd like Taco better, though,"
"Ha! It is too bad ze experiment me and Rick have going is not ready! Ve vould ask Promezeus himself! Togezer viz ze Engineer I zink ve may have found a vay to understand animals,"
"What is it with you guys 'nd draggin' poor Rick into your crazy ass plans?! Jane was sayin' earlier he built a time machine for Sun Tzu just over in his lab and that he wanted the whole place clean for his arrival,"
"Oh, is zat vhy you vere not zere today at Badlands? I must say zat is a very silly reason, Scout,"
"Hey, it ain't like I'm disagreein' with ya," the young man pouts, letting a bird (whom Scout named Hot Dog) rest on his bare finger. "You guys prolly didn't even make it to the first damn point,"
"You are correct, ve did not,"
"You guys need me out there!" Scout boasts with the ever familiar haughtiness that came with the conversation of the battlefield. "I even had business to take care of out there! I challenged Jack to a duel, right?"
"Oo, Lawrence, I must say zat vas a risky choice. Ze man is an admirable shot; he never misses," Medic marks quietly, Scout turning his head as Heinrich takes what looks to be a set of human knee caps onto his desk and poking at them with a scalpel.
"It ain't like he shoots to kill me, you knew that before I did,"
"Hmph—vell draw him out zat vay and he may have no choice, if ze Administrator is vatching,"
"Yeah, well - Jack's birthday is comin' up, right?" Scout begins quietly, his stomach lurching painfully at the memory of the upcoming date. "And he hates birthdays. Dunno, why, just know he does. And - and so I said that if I won the duel today, he had to deal with me throwin' him a party and shit. But since I was stuck here, cleanin', I lost by default. I can't do shit,"
"I - I see," Heinrich begins.
"But I wanna go out shoppin' anyway - but, I'm gonna need a ride, and, well, you're the only one on base with a car that could get me out there…"
"No, Junge, I absolutely do not zink so-"
"C'mon, Doc, you're the only one who can help me out with this!" Scout actually finds himself pleading at the back of the German man, whose hunched shoulders lock from either aggravation at the Scout's persistence or deep concentration on his scientific happenings; Scout couldn't tell which was the source of the tense anatomy, to be quite honest.
Heinrich turns around, forced to confront the young man, whose desperate eyes lie directly on him. He exhales in a finality of forfeit, placing a gloved hand on a surgical table upon which many sharpened tools of questionable purposes lie. A silence flutters about, sprinkling Scout with the realisation that this is the first time in his whole three years of service in which he'd heard natural pulsation of the Medibay, void of screaming.
"Scout, I zink it is most unvise of a plan, especially if ze man is not partial to birzhdays as you claim. You lost your bet fair and square,"
"Fair and square?! I had to stay behind!" Scout pouts, Medic pinching the bridge of his nose and scrawling on a clipboard so as to divert his attention from Scout.
"How old vill he be?"
"He'll be turnin' thirty seven, Doc,"
"Zhirty seven?! Vhy Scout, I zink he is old enough so zat a big deal mustn't be made on behalf of his birzhday,"
"Maybe to you, Chucklenuts, but he does so much for me, ya know?! The least I could do is get him somethin' nice for his damn birthday," Scout grumbles, Heinrich sparing not a moment in uttering his rebuttal.
"But if ze Sniper does not like birthdays as you claim, zhen surely one vould zink getting him a gift vould do more to irritate him zan make him happy!"
"YOU just don't feel like gettin' your fuckin' car outta the warehouse'n takin' me into town, fuckin' lazy ass!"
"Apart from zat, Junge, do you not zink it vould be hard getting approval from Jane to leave ze base?! He vould vant to investigate everyzing about such a proposal! He may even vant to accompany us!"
"I don't give a shit if Jane crawls up my ass for a week! It ain't like I'ma get'im a fuckin' card that says, 'Hey thanks for bein' my boyfriend, enemy Sniper!' 'n make Jane sign it! You know what?! Whatever, Doc," Scout snaps tiredly, tucking his hands in the front pockets of his dark grey trousers, casting a sour look to the side, eyes rooted at his feet.
"I'm sorry, Junge, I am simply doing vat I feel is best," Heinrich sighs, Scout kicking at the tiles of the floor with the toes of his cleat.
"Vhy don't you ask ze Engineer for some of his construction paper? I'm sure your Sniper vould be just as content viz a card; Mikhail has some glitter paints if you need zem, he likes to make crafts in his quiet time..."
"I said he was turnin' thirty seven, Doc, not seven," Scout rolls his eyes, turning without another word and exiting the medibay with a distinct air of crushed feelings, Heinrich can't help but shake away.
-
"Scout, if you are going to preheat ze oven, zen start mixing ze ingredients!" Heinrich barks, tittering about and taking the large ceramic bowl into his hands, beating its contents into a confectionery paste.
"Ve vant zis to take as little time as possible, Jane vill certainly vant a piece if he knows zere is cake being baked!"
"Calm down, Doc!" Scout snaps as he wrenches the bowl from the towering German, who takes a rag from the sink and wipes down the counters, flour and drying egg sticking to their surfaces.
"You have melted chocolate in your hair, Junge, how in ze vorld did you manage zis mess?!"
Scout grins, flipping the bowl upside down and so the cake mix plops unceremoniously into the spring form pan.
"You vill need to give it a good hour to bake, an hour to cool, and a period for icing ze cake,"
"Or we just take it outta the damn oven when it's finished, put some sprinkles on it, and give it to the wombat; he's just gonna burn it anyway, Doc," Scout tisks, Heinrich shaking his head disbelievingly.
"You two are unbelievably strange! Vhy bozer if he vill only destroy your gifts?!"
Though Medic simply massages his temples upon taking a look at the lean Scout covered head to toe in multiple coats of flour, and decides not to wait on the answer to the intriguing question.
"And ve do not need ze oven at six hundred degrees!" Heinrich barks, Scout shrugging innocently.
"You said you wanted the cake to bake faster, Doc, pick a story'n stick with it, man!"
"Scout, maybe you should just go vait somevhere else vhile I take care of ze rest—"
"There's no way I'm lettin' you put all the effort into Jack's birthday present!"
And Medic has to chuckle at how humourous it would be if he'd been the one to make the RED Sniper the cake.
"No, Junge, ze cake does not go in ze broiler..."
Heinrich takes the pan from Scout's hands, placing it with ease into the blazing oven and closing the contraption, clasping his ungloved hands together.
"So now what?!"
"Vell, I suggest ve vait! Ze kitchen is locked down, and ze others seem to really be engaged in vatever it is zat is going on downstairs, so it gives anozher hour of seclusion," Heinrich nods, Scout plopping heavily in a chair next to the table.
"Thanks for your help, Doc..."
"Ach, of course, Scout..." Heinrich responds tenderly, clasping him upon his shoulder.
"I know, how it is. Hiding your love bozh because it is an infringement upon your loyalty, but also because ze masses find youfilthy..."
"I wasn't no fag 'til I met Jack," Scout huffs, Heinrich emitting a soft mumble of attentiveness.
"But tell me, Scout, iz ze altering of your sexuality not vorzh it in ze end?! Vould you razher have your Sniper or ze ability to say you like vomen vhen you clearly do not?!"
"I mean - I dunno, it's just fuckin' weird. It's like - I love Jack for Jack, not 'cause he got a dick. But I can't never show him when I'm supposed to be killin' him,"
"Trust me, Scout, ze days in vhich I assisted ze Russian soldiers, zey felt neverending, as if I vould forever be forced to accept my defection, to hide myself for multiple reasons! Zough vhen ve surrendered, it no longer mattered; it vas over—sure, love betveen two men vas and still is a concept of much belittling, but as time vent on, everyzhing vas easier to accept for myself, even vhen and vhere ozhers vould not,"
"...Yeah," Scout nods quietly, eyes pointed at his feet.
"You two're just so romantic," Scout sighs, Heinrich raising his eyebrows."Or at least when I'm around..."
"Vell, I know you have been making an effort to be more intimate wizh your Sniper..."
"Yeah, 'nd he—he's actually opening up t'me, a lot! I wasn't expectin' it, not after St. Louis...but it's been great, Doc. The last month, we've been really close. Jack gave me a second chance, after all that shit. I can tell neither of us are regrettin' it,"
"Vell zat is vonderful! I honestly didn't zink you two vould be able to recover from ze experience,"
"Somethin' changed, Doc—he's still a fuckin' dick, but he still got softer, warmer, 'nd I try not t'be too stubborn—that don't mean I'm his bitch, though!" Scout quickly adds, Heinrich however smirking, deciding against mentioning that the Bostonian currently sat cook book in hand with an apron around his waist, gushing out his feelings on Sniper's behalf.
"Ze zought never crossed my mind..." Heinrich assures him.
"I mean, y'know, I've been thinkin' 'bout marriage with'im lately,"
"Vhat?! But you two—your relationship is so young!"
"I ain't said I bought the damn ring, Doc, but it's like every time I got a free moment I just gotta shut my eyes, 'nd all I can think about is bein' with him, on a ranch somewhere in the Lucky Country, just the two'o us—none of this RED or BLU shit, noLuc, 'n no Jane always needin' t'know everything...
Like, I even think about the wedding, Doc—everything would be golden, 'n Ma would be'n tears, my bros would be cheerin' me down to the altar—'nd he'd just be waitin' there for me..."
"Hopefully he vould spare ze hat on his own special day!" Heinrich sighs, obviously amused by the dreaming Scout who sits across from him.
"Well, yeah, both of us would—'nd he wouldn't wear his glasses, either, so I could see those grey eyes'o his—'nd as I come marchin' down, he gets this wide ass smile on his face, and we're just standin' there'nd we say our vows and all that gay shit, 'nd Doc, he'd kiss me and he'd never let go," Scout trails off, drawing his knees to his chest.
"Some girly ass shit, Doc, 'n that's what he said by 'he'd ruin me'; I ain't who I used t'be, ya know?! Wakin' up kinda hurt 'cause I ain't married t'that piss throwin' bastard...it's fuckin' stupid, but I can't help how I feel!" Scout scoffs.
"You really vant to marry him?"
"I wanna be with him forever—! But don't tell'im I told ya this shit, alright?! He made fun o'me earlier when I told him about it—I mean, I love him, Deutschbag, everything about 'im! I wonder if he feels the same way 'bout me, like would he-he—do ya think he would ever propose to me, Doc?!" Scout asks with a hysterical hopefulness, and Heinrich shifts in his chair as he dwells upon how to answer.
"I do not know him very vell, or even at all save vhat you have told me and a few 'choice encounters'—Mikhail and I have been togezher for tventy years, and I am still vaiting for him to get on his knee—zough out here ve must keep our mission on ze line, othervise ve are doomed for failure,"
"Typical German response,"
"Vell, Scout, it is after all vhy romances in the midst of var are prohibited! You become much too caught up in all zis! Vhen vas ze last time you made a lunge for ze intel zat vasn't completely tainted by ze Sniper in some vay?! Ve are forever at a stalemate because neizher side is pushing ze ozher!"
"Yeah..."
"Ze cake is almost finished, Junge," Heinrich responds softly, running a sympathetic hand through Scout's cropped hair.
-
Scout shifts with a load moan, cracking his back and tailbone, his hiding spot behind the bedside cupboard proving to be highly uncomfortable after a good hour. The van, empty and completely black in its vacancy, causes Scout's eyes to constantly have to readjust with each movement he makes, hoping to God Sniper would appear soon so he could surprise the man with his gifts.
The lights and cheering from the base, Scout presumes, must be correlated to the celebration of the RED marksman's birthday, thus it only made sense for the man to be in there rather than hocked away in his van for a change.
He must have dozed off, Scout concludes as he jumps, startled out of slumber as the van door closes, the warm chuckle of Sniper emanating from the van's sitting room; he must've had a good time with his comrades, despite his dickish refusal toadmit it.
"Y'in here, Lawrence?!" Sniper calls, and Scout curls himself tighter, hiding himself with a curling smile on his face.
"Guess not," Sniper grumbles, and somewhere in the depths of a van a telephone can be heard, and the shuffling of feet as Sniper heads to answer it.
Pressing his ear against the wall, Scout means to steal a listen, the tired, systematic responses of his friend seeping through the foundation.
"...Oi, got plans—y'know, with a little friend'o mine—'course I got friends, Mum—! Yes, Mum, he's - he's just a friend. No, not one o'those types o'friends......" Jack explains quietly to his mother, scratching behind his neck. "Mum, stop cryin', it's not that serious!" Sniper laughs into the phone, and Scout smiles softly at the sound of the muffled questioning of the Australian's mother.
"'Course I'm glad y'called, Mum. 'S nice t'know y'still care t'talk to me, eh..." Sniper, and Scout inches his way into the sitting room, the silhouette of his Sniper spilling along the walls and floor.
"'s right sweet of'er, tell'er if I don't get the card I'm thankful anyway—" but Sniper gasps as Scout wraps his arms around the lanky frame from behind, resting a head on his shoulder.
"Your Ma ain't the only one who has to wish ya a happy birthday, wombat," Scout's grin so devilish Sniper can hear it in his voice, the older man so caught up in the feel of Scout's frame that he misses a straight thirty seconds of his mother's dialogue.
"Look, Mum, gotta go..." Sniper attempts to keep his breath even as Scout kisses his neck gently, his hand curling along his abdomen.
"Remember when I said I had plans? Right—thanks for the birthday wishes—tell Leslie I love 'er, 'nd tell Dad I lo—say hey— if he doesn't pretend he doesn't know me. Love y'too, Mum," and in a split second of aggressive inquisition Sniper drops the phone onto the cradle before turning around and wrangling the chuckling Bostonian.
"Gets ya every time," Scout sighs, Sniper growling and meeting Scout's disapproving scowl.
"Oi! Nice o'you t'finally show your face, eh?"
"Pff,"
"Noticed y'weren't anywhere t'be found after challengin' me to a duel,"
"Don't even start, Jack, it was Jane's fault," Scout growls, inching closer toward the man, who eyes the wall clock on the floor. 11:53 pm. "I ain't afraid of you; we both know that," Scout sneers.
"Too bad - our conditions were y'win, y'throw me a party," Jack begins hastily.
"Don't matter, I ain't never one to listen to the rules no way," Scout snaps, tossing the man a small white box, Sniper frowning slightly as his eyes adjust to read the word "laxatives", Sniper narrowing his eyes and chucking them at the hysterical young man who clutches his sides in whooping laughter.
"Nice one, y'bloody mutant," Sniper shakes his head, smirking nonetheless.
"I remember my Gramps havin' problems usin' the shitter when he was in his eighties, figured I'd save ya couple bucks and a few uncomfortable nights yourself—"
"I swear t'God, Lawrence Fitzpatrick..."
"Maybe I shouldn't give ya your second one, you'll beat me t'death with it!" and Scout tosses him a dull grey cane, Sniper slowly raising his gaze to meet Scout's with a raised eyebrow.
"Where in the Hell did ya buy this shit?!"
"I ain't tellin' ya! No returns, slugger!" Scout wags his finger, reminding himself internally to thank Heinrich for letting him pick the Medibay as his own personal gift shop.
"Now when you throw your hip out there, you got some support!"
"Cute!"
"Cake's waitin' for ya in the kitchen—"
"Ya baked me a bloody cake—?!"
"Yeah, it's chocolate with strawberry jam in between the layers and you're gonna eat it, you dick,"
"Alright, alright, don't kill me, now!"
"Yeah, and it smells good as Hell, too!"
"Can't believe you, makin' cakes like a bloody housewife—"
"And that ain't all, y'still got another gift!"
"What is it, diapers?! A hover round?!"
"You really are gettin' blind, Jack!" Scout chuckles, grabbing Sniper's hands and running them down his own body.
"Holy Dooley, love," Sniper whispers as he turns red, biting down on his lower lip as even the slight tug of his fingers threatens to loosen the intricate wrappings of the ribbon around his body.
"I think you get the picture," Scout chuckles at Sniper's dumbfounded stare, the man curling his fingers against the ribbon that wraps itself around the otherwise naked body of his Scout.
"'s hot, gremlin," Sniper nods, running his hands along the entirety of Scout's body, his fingers twirling in the bow that twists itself against his back. "I'll give it to ya. 'S pretty damn hot,"
"You gonna throw me in the shredder, mate?" Scout asks quietly in the best imitation of his accent he can muster, Sniper sighing gently at the feel of Scout's hand trailing into his trousers, quickly finding the hardness that begins to form itself inside them.
"Fuck, Lawrence, I'll shred ya alright—"
"Hopefully you ain't too old t'get me off, wombat," Scout warns, pushing the Australian so he falls against his mattress, Scout crawling on top of him seconds later.
"Bugger me, love..." Sniper sighs from disbelief, Scout however winking and tugging on the man's vest.
"That was kinda the plan, chucklenuts," Scout laughs before placing a soft kiss upon his Sniper's mouth, Sniper instantly grabbing hold of the ribbon and weaving it from the Bostonian's flesh.
So maybe his thirty seventh won't be such a bad one after all.