Privacy

"Yo firebug! S'dinner time! Getcha ass out here!"

Scout's fist hammered out a staccato beat on Pyro's door, and he leant against it waiting for an answer. His foot tapped impatiently, and he waited all of three seconds before he gave the door a few hard whacks with his palm.

"Pyro! C'mon, man, I ain't standin' here all fuckin' night!" he yelled, more than loud enough to be heard through the flimsy wood panel. "It's steak night, man, come the fuck on!"

He didn't hear even the slightest rustle of movement coming from the other side of the door. He sighed and drummed his fingers.

He was torn. Dinner had started a couple minutes ago, long enough for Scout to get in one bite of mashed potatoes before Sniper had told him to go fetch Pyro. He'd argued, naturally - it wasn't his fault if Pyro couldn't get off his ass for steak night - but Sniper had given him that Look. The "do what I fuckin' say or you will regret it" Look. Scout hated that Look. It was what had separated him from the delicious slab of beef that was now growing cold on his plate, if Demo or Soldier hadn't pilfered it already.

However, in opposition to Sniper's Look, Pyro had a very strict "stay the fuck out of my room or I will fry you like an ant under a magnifying glass" policy. The firestarter was serious about his privacy. As far as Scout knew, no one else had entered that room for even a second since Pyro had taken up residence, not even Spy. Scout was definitely curious - he'd spent more than a fair space of time since the move standing outside this door, trying to work up the nerve to go inside - but he wasn't stupid, no matter what Medic all-too-frequently implied (or said outright). Satisfying his curiosity wasn't worth getting barbequed.

But tonight, his steak was waiting for him. Pyro still hadn't answered the door and the one bite of mashed potatoes he'd managed to scoop taunted Scout like a fading dream. Engie made the best steak and potatoes he'd ever tasted, and having only sampled one bite of one part of his meal, he was more than anxious to return to the table to finish stuffing his face. But he couldn't go back without Pyro, or Sniper would be pissed. But Pyro wasn't opening the door, and if he tried to go in to get him, he'd probably end up fried. He groaned in frustration and pounded his fist against the door.

"PYRO! Fuck man! I wanna go eat my fuckin' steak!" He kicked the door and huffed. Fuck it, he thought. He took a deep breath, and gripped the doorknob. "I'm givin' ya three seconds, then I'm comin' to drag yer skinny ass out! One! Two! Threeee-eee-eee… Whoa…"

Scout turned the knob and pushed. The door wasn't locked - only Spy's room had a lock, and that was because he'd bought and installed it himself - so it swung open easily. And revealed a brilliant sanctuary.

Plastic model planes hung from near-invisible strings pinned to the ceiling, which had been painted to look like a clear midday sky with a few wispy, scudding clouds. A globe-like fixture had been set over the overhead bulb, making it look like the Sun poking out to light the room. Large stretches of the walls were vibrantly painted with desert scenery - sand and broad red plateaus, hoodoos and prickly-looking cacti - and Scout saw a painted jackrabbit poking its head out from behind a tall wooden dresser pushed up against the wall.

Tall racks and shelves also scattered along the wall held a massive collection of sleeved records and cassette tapes. A few smaller shelves held several well-worn paperback novels, some of which bore titles in what Scout thought was Spanish on their battered spines. A stereo cabinet sat next to a small cot in the corner, the former littered with discarded cassettes, pencils, scraps of paper, and a few near-empty water glasses that had yet to make their way back to the kitchen, while the latter was heaped with fluffy pillows and thick blankets. And Pyro.

It still shocked Scout to see the firebug out of his protective suit, even months after he'd first… encouraged the younger man to peel back the mask. He said he was only a few years younger than Scout, but he still looked too young to be working for BLU without his parents' permission. Without his suit, he was more scrawny than simply thin, and pale despite obvious Latin-American heritage. He needed a haircut - his shaggy black hair was almost to his shoulders, and his bangs flopped freely in front of his eyes - and his narrow frame made him seem child-like. The only thing that spoiled the effect somewhat was the livid burn scar covering his left cheek almost as far as his eye, and disappearing down under his t-shirt collar, reappearing from under his left sleeve to cover the back of his arm past the elbow; Scout didn't want to imagine what had happened to cause a scar like that.

Pyro seemed content for the time being, though he hadn't yet noticed Scout's intrusion. He was stretched out on the cot, eyes closed and arms folded behind his head, a thick black cord connecting the massive headphones he was wearing to the stereo beside him. He was nodding his head and wiggling his feet in time to whatever he was listening to, and Scout heard the occasional hummed note float across the room. He also noticed that Pyro's gear was piled in a heap at the end of the cot - flamethrower, axe, and fire-proof suit - occasionally being tapped by his bobbing feet.

Some part of Scout's mind (a part that sounded suspiciously like Spy) told him to get out while he was still unscorched, but his curiosity won out over caution, as it so often did. He wandered over to a painted stretch of wall, admiring the detail in the desert scenery masking the grotty concrete. While he didn't consider himself an "artist" by any means, Scout liked to draw and occasionally paint, and he could appreciate the subtle shading on the sand and cacti, and the curiously bright eyes of the rabbit that, he now saw, crouched behind a small patch of painted scrub hidden by the dresser.

Hasty shuffling from the corner drew Scout's attention, and he straightened when he saw Pyro scrambling from the cot, fumbling off the headphones and staring with an expression not far from outright horror. Pyro didn't speak - Scout had often wondered about Pyro's silence when on the rare occasions when he wasn't wearing his mask - but he flapped his hands frantically at Scout, trying to shoo him toward the door. Emboldened by the lack of immediate violence, though, Scout ignored him and sauntered over to one of the racks of vinyl, flipping idly through. He recognized many of the bands and artists, but there were several others he didn't know, many of which seemed to be in Spanish, like the books. He was impressed by what he was familiar with, though.

"Fuck, Py, this is amazing. Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Sabbath, Trooper, the Stones, Styx, Queen… Is that fuckin' Boston? Shit, I had no idea anyone else liked- Whoa!"

Scout whirled at a sudden flash of heat against his back, hands leaping away from the records as he spun. He found the gaping maw of a flamethrower only inches from his face, the pilot light flickering uncomfortably close to his chin. He staggered a few steps, tripping over a pile of what certainly smelled like dirty laundry even if had amalgamated into some sort of amorphous cotton blob, and he held his hands out defensively as he backed in what he hoped was the direction of the door.

Before him stood Pyro, lips pulled back to reveal his teeth in a feral snarl. He hissed, a purely animalistic sound. It might have been funny, the oversized weapon being supported by Pyro's scrawny - if whipcord-muscled - arms, and him hissing and bristling like an irate cat. The small plumes of flame that fwoofed into and out of existence at the weapon's muzzle killed any sense of hilarity, though.

"Whoa, Py, c'mon," Scout said, bumping up against the wall and sliding toward the door with his hands raised in surrender. The flamethrower still followed him, way too close. "I-I just had t'come getcha for dinner. Y'weren't answerin' when I knocked so I opened the door and- Aaah!"

A longer tongue of flame jetted out of the flamethrower, and Scout felt his eyebrows and the hairs on his arms singeing. He bolted for the door with a yelp, hearing Pyro growl. He made it into the hallway and the door slammed shut behind him, but he didn't stop running until he barrelled into the kitchen. Incredulous and disapproving stares fixed on him from around the table, but he ignored them as he hastily slid back into his seat. Without a word, he started in on his steak.

He could feel Sniper's Look even if he didn't look up to catch it. "Scout, we said t'go get Pyro."

Scout shoved a piece of meat into his mouth and glowered at Sniper as he chewed. After the light roasting he'd just received, the Look wasn't quite so intimidating. At least not compared to the current alternative to the punishment it promised.

"Fuck that," he said. "I knocked and knocked and he wouldn't answer, so I went in to get him and he tried t'fuckin' toast me. Nuh uh, if he wants to eat, he can come out whenev'r the fuck he wants."

Shocked silence held around the table. Aside from Scout, everyone had stopped eating, some with utensils still hovering over their plates. Heavy had frozen mid-chew, his cheeks puffed as he turned to stare at Scout. Engineer looked horrified, and also somewhat amazed.

"You went into Pyro's room?" he said, setting his fork down carefully and lifting his goggles to scrutinize Scout without the impediment of their tinted lenses. Scout looked back, finally taking note of the unusual stillness and everyone's attention on him, and he shrank down in his chair somewhat.

"I had to," he mumbled, "t'get Pyro to come out." When no one said anything, he threw up his hands. "What should I have done? Y'told me to go get him!"

The silence persisted. Scout scowled around the table before returning to his food. Everyone else's eyes were either fixed on him or the kitchen doorway, waiting for the inevitable.

It came fairly soon after Scout had started eating again. Engie, Spy, Sniper, and Demo all watched as Pyro strode into the room, fully geared up, and stepped up behind Scout. The other watching eyes drifted up to him. Scout remained oblivious, shoveling in more gravy-smothered potatoes, until he was grabbed by the back of the neck by a rubber-gloved hand. He yelped and started to flail, but froze when a well-honed axe blade pressed against his throat. Pyro pushed him down until his face was nearly in his potatoes, never letting up on the axe head's pressure, keeping it pressed in just hard enough to make sure Scout felt nervous about swallowing.

The firebug leaned down, tightening his grip and growling lowly beside Scout's ear. Scout whimpered, but cut off with a choke when Pyro pressed the axe blade in just a little bit harder.

Then it was pulled away, and Pyro released Scout with a light shove that sent his face straight into his meal. Scout sat up, spluttering and wiping away globs of potatoes and gravy, as Pyro wandered over to the dishes on the stove, loading up a plate for himself. He slung his axe over his shoulder and started back out of the kitchen.

He paused by Scout's chair. Scout looked up at him, cowering, potato still clinging to his nose and bill of his cap. Pyro watched Scout cower for a moment, breaths hissing ominously through his mask's filters, and delivered a swift, sharp smack to the back of the Bostonian's head. It nearly sent him pitching into his plate again. Nodding to himself, Pyro left the kitchen without a backward glance, humming softly.

There was total silence for another few seconds after he'd gone before Medic also gave Scout a sharp swat. "And zhat is vhat you get for being a nosy little schwein. And you should count yourself lucky it vasn't vorse."

"Okay, again, what exactly was I supposed t'fuckin' do!"

"Just about anythin's smarter than bustin' in on someone who explicitly toldja t'stay the Hell out," Engineer said, replacing his goggles with a sigh and picking up his fork again.

"Aye, we all knoo the wee firebug disnae like us in his space."

"Da. Little Pyro enjoys privacy."

"Would it've killed ya to try a little patience, mate, wait an extra minute for him to come to the door?"

Scout huffed and pushed his chair back, snatching up his plate. "Fuck you guys, I'm gonna go eat in my room."

"As long as you leave Pyro alone, Scout."

Scout didn't pause, though he did throw back a light, "Fuck you Doc!" over his shoulder as he headed off down the hall.

Medic rolled his eyes and returned to his food, scowling, though a smile broke through his disgruntlement when Heavy gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. Demo engaged Soldier and Engie in a spirited, but friendly, debate about the strengths of Scottish whisky versus American whiskey once the speedster was out of sight, with Sniper throwing in his two cents if the conversation seemed to be devolving into an all-out argument. Order was always quick to reassert itself when the most rambunctious member of the team left the room.

Spy chuckled to himself and also pushed back from the table, gathering up his dishes and taking them to the sink. He'd finished eating quickly, as he did with every meal; he'd been in too many situations where food was scarce to shed the instinct easily in a non-civilian setting.

"Engineer, merci beaucoup. The meal was spectacular, as always," he said, offering a small bow when Engie tipped his hardhat. "I believe I shall go ensure that Scout does not go out of 'is way to become char-broiled. Bonsoir, gentlemen."

"Do not try too hard. Zhe boy could benefit from a sharply applied lesson or two," Medic said, and Spy smirked as he lit a cigarette.

"Do not worry, Doctor, I truly only mean to stop 'im if 'e goes out of 'is way. 'Is usual recklessness should offer the chance for lessons galore."