Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jeremy left Medic’s office with a lump in his throat that was unfortunately not an Adam’s Apple. He'd been called a moron his entire life, but this… Yeah, maybe this was what was finally gonna make him believe it.

Jeremy could almost hear his Ma’s voice in his head. How many times had she told him not to make the same mistake she did? Ma would look so seriously at him as she spoke, hands cupping his chubby little cheeks. “I love you kids desperately,” she would say “But raising all of you alone has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Don’t be like me, honey. Wait until you’re all grown up and marry a nice fella who’ll stick around. Make a home, then maybe think about having one or two kids of your own.” She’d pat his cheeks twice and smooth down the front of his pinafore, and then he was off to cause trouble somewhere. Jeremy’s brothers all got a variation of the ‘don’t become a teenage parent’ talk, but this one was just for him. It wasn’t until he was a little older and his body started changing that she explained why.

Jeremy couldn’t even take solace from the fact that he’d made it well into adulthood before getting himself knocked up. Somehow at 27 years old, he’d found himself in a situation worse than his mother had feared. Jeremy was a mercenary. He killed every day. Dammit, he died every day! Multiple times! He was barely one year into a five-year contract, and he didn’t think Mann Co would take kindly to him bailing on it.

No, Jeremy couldn’t raise a kid, and he definitely couldn’t just have it and abandon it somewhere. Not even with his Ma. Especially not with his ma. He couldn’t just dump a baby on her doorstep after she spent her whole life raising him and his seven brothers. And what would that make Jeremy? Worse than his father. Someone who could carry a child for nine months and still abandon it. Someone who would leave a baby fatherless and motherless.

But what Medic had suggested? It turned his stomach.

Could he do it? Medic had said it would be painless and quick. They would just tamper with the respawn machine and then the next time he went through he’d come out “vizhout fetus”. His body would just go back to the way it was before any of this happened. Somehow that idea seemed worse than a normal abortion; the idea of simply removing it from existence, as if it wasn’t even there in the first place… It felt wrong somehow. Maybe it was latent Catholic guilt, but it seemed right that there should be some ordeal to go through. Just passing through Respawn didn’t feel like suffering enough.

Jeremy didn’t notice where his feet were taking him until they landed on the rickety foldaway stairs leading up to Mick’s door.

Panic was lightning behind his eyes. Mick! He knew he had to tell him. Mick deserved to know. Jeremy would want to know if the roles were reversed. He had to tell him. He had to-

The door opened, startling Jeremy. He looked up.

Mick leant against the doorway, one forearm disappearing above the frame. He was dressed in his usual off-work outfit of jeans and a wifebeater, and the bottom hem of the singlet had ridden up when he lifted his arm. Mick was smiling at him now. The man was hatless and without his shooting glasses, and Jeremy guessed from the chaos of his hair that he’d been napping. Mick looked soft and rumpled, so different to the consummate professional Jeremy saw on the field. It made Jeremy want to kiss him. To see just how rumpled the man could get.

“Feelin’ better?” The Australian asked.

“Wha-?”

“Are ya feelin’ better? Did Doc fix whatever’s been bothering ya all week?”

“Oh, uh… yeah. Much better. All fixed. You know me, pal, I always bounce right back!” It didn’t sound like a lie. Jeremy was good at lying; the trick was just to believe it.

Mick just nodded. “Good.” He said and stepped back from the door.

Jeremy took that as an invitation to enter and flung himself up onto Mick’s bunk, sinking into the soft mattress with a sigh. This wasn’t an unusual course of action for him. Contrary to popular belief, Jeremy did not have infinite energy reserves, and the copious amounts of Bonk! he consumed always resulted in a nasty late-afternoon crash. He spent most evenings napping on the camper’s loft bed, more often than not with the bushman curled around him.

Said bushman followed him now, actually taking the time to use the ladder. “You stole my warm spot.” He grumbled as he settled behind the runner.

Jeremy’s response was muscle memory: “You snooze you lose, pal”. He shifted over to share the warmth, nonetheless. After a moment, Mick settled in against him.

…

“Do ya ever think about the future?”

The question pulled Mick out of half-slumber.

No. Yes.

He settled on “Not really.”

Truthfully, Mick tried his best not to. He’d survived this long by adapting to circumstance. Planning a week ahead at most was always enough to keep him alive.

So when he caught his mind conjuring images of sleepy mornings on the veranda of his parents’ old house with a cup of coffee and a hand in his, he shut it down. And when he started to wonder how the lines might form, day by day, around the smiling eyes of a certain someone, he locked those thoughts away. Mick refused to entertain them.

“Oh.” Jeremy sounded disappointed, but it was difficult to tell with the runner’s face turned away and half-swallowed by a pillow.

Mick didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to know. “Do you?” He asked, unbidden.

It was quiet for a few moments.

“Sometimes.” Jeremy’s voice was small and… tight? It felt wrong to hear him so restrained. “I mean we can’t work for Mann forever, right? We already got canned once.”

Mick refused to notice how his own arms pulled the man tighter against his chest. If he had allowed himself to in that moment, he would have thought about that time after the Mann Brothers died and the team scattered to the ends of the Earth. He and Jeremy had already been sleeping together for a while at that point, but Mick hadn’t realised just how much he’d miss the bugger when he was gone. He’d already been thinking about writing a letter – hell, Mick was tempted to turn around and board a plane to Boston - when he finally reached his family home.

Well, finding your parents’ rotting bodies has a way of beating the romance right out of ya.

“I dunno, man. I love battin’ skulls, but there’s only so many times I can turn the same nine guys’ brains to mush before I start gettin’ bored.” Another pause, and Jeremy’s next words started off quieter than Mick thought he’d ever heard him speak. “And Ma’s been asking when I’m gonna go back home and settle down.”

Mick swallowed. He saw a glimpse of it then, the life where he followed Jeremy to Boston. No, just outside of it. Somewhere rural enough for Mick to breathe, but close enough for Jeremy to see his family often. A small house bordering the woods, with a place for his van and plenty of land for Jeremy to run. They’d get a dog, and maybe a pet sheep to remind him of home, and…

Mick ground his teeth against the daydream. There wouldn’t be a house, or a dog, or a bloody life with Jeremy. One of these days Mick would scrape together the resolve to let him go - or maybe their contracts would end and do it for him - and Jeremy would go live his life far away from here. Without Mick.

And it would be fine. Mick would go on living day by day, week by week, making only enough plans to muddle through, and he’d be content with the knowledge that he wasn’t holding anyone back.

And then one day Jeremy would die, and Mick wouldn’t even know. He wouldn’t have to watch the light leave his eyes again. He wouldn’t have to mourn.

No, Mick would not let himself imagine a future with Jeremy. He wouldn’t make plans. Because building a life with him? That was just fucking asking to have to bury someone else.

Mick wouldn’t- couldn’t - bury anyone else.

A snore cut through his reverie; somewhere along the line, Jeremy had fallen asleep.

“Tired little bugger.” A small smile appeared on Mick’s face, even as the tiny thread of panic in his chest jerked painfully. It’d been growing more and more taut over the year since the team had reunited, and somewhere in the parts of his mind he kept shadowed, he knew why.

Mick refused to acknowledge it.

So, he fell asleep holding the man he loved, succeeding – somehow - in not realising how much he loved him.

Chapter Text

Three weeks. Jeremy had three weeks before he started to ‘show’; That’s what the doc had said, at least. Well, he’d actually said that most people started to show then. Same thing, right? Jeremy plunged his hands into his hoodie’s front pockets only to pull them out right away; his stomach felt… different already. He thought back to the image of himself in the mirror that morning, shirt rolled up to his armpits and his belly…

Nope! Not thinkin’ bout that. Jeremy yanked his mind back to the problem at hand. He had three weeks before the secret was out. Three weeks to figure out what he was going to do, and then do it. It was as simple as that.

It stopped seeming so simple pretty much immediately.

Jeremy stared down the barrel of Teufort’s only public payphone and tried to work up the nerve to dial his Ma’s number. He’d tried twice before, only to slam the handset back into its cradle before reaching the last digit.

Third time’s the charm.

Jeremy quickly dialed the number and closed his eyes. He waited three rings before his courage failed him. The handset’s swift journey home was interrupted by his Ma’s voice.

“Doyle residence, you’ve got Gracie.”

Jeremy froze with the handset an inch away from its rest.

“Hello-oo, anybody there? You called me, ya know.”

He brought the mouthpiece closer. “Uh, hi Ma.”

“Jeremy! I thought you were one of those Sullivan kids trying to prank me again. Did I tell ya I made ‘em clean your brother’s car top to bottom? That’ll teach ‘em not to throw eggs! Did a real good job of it too, I musta scared the livin’ daylights out of ‘em. Oh! Did ya hear about Mrs. Jenkins? I heard…”

The only person Jeremy had ever met who could out-talk him was his mother. Most of the time, he loved having someone who could keep up. He lived for his Sunday calls, in part because he could have a conversation where he didn’t feel like he was talking to himself most of the time.

Today though, he was too bogged down in dread to keep up. “Ma, I need to talk to ya ‘bout somethin’ important. You gotta promise not to be mad at me, though. Do ya promise not to be mad at me?”

“Should I be mad at you? What did ya do, Jer?” Gracie gave the same long-suffering sigh she always did when one of her boys got into trouble. She never quite managed to hide the affection in it, despite her best efforts. “Do ya need bailin’ out again, cause-”

“Ma, please just promise.”

Gracie must have registered the uncertainty in his voice because her next words were softer. Slower. “I promise. Cross my heart n’ hope to die. What’s goin’ on, hon?”

“I’m uh-” He swallowed. Please don’t be mad at me. “I’m uh… pregnant?”

All Jeremy could hear for a moment was the faint buzzing of the phone line, and then: “Is that a question or a statement, Jer?”

“Wha-?”

Her voice was terrifyingly even. “Are ya telling me or are ya asking me?”

“Oh, uh, telling. The Doc says I’m seven-” Jeremy took a second to do the math. “I guess nine now. Nine weeks along.”

A sigh, then in a sympathetic tone. “Ya must really be feeling it now then, huh hon?”

“Yeah.” Jeremy breathed relief through the word. Suddenly all the complaints he’d been holding on to for the last week spilled out. “I’m so frickin’ sick all the time and I constantly need to pee. Like, constantly, Ma. Every five minutes, at least. And I’m cryin’ over nothin’. Yesterday I almost cried over dropping a bag of chips and… oh god, it's happening again.” He swiped violently at his eyes, trying to stop the tears from escaping down his cheeks. “Why am I so frickin’ stupid?”

“Oh honey, you’re not stupid! You’re just full of weird hormones, and I’d bet ya haven’t slept a full night for a while, huh?” At Jeremy’s hum of assent, she continued. “I was exactly the same with my first. Your brother didn’t make it easy on me! I was so sick the doctor had to put me on these awful pills. And then when he started movin’! That kid would not stay still for a minute! But in the end, I got Robbie out of it, and I wouldn’t trade ‘im for the world. Wouldn’t trade any o’ you kids.”

Silence filled the line for a few seconds. The smile that had grown on Jeremy’s face as she spoke slowly began to fade. The next words from him came in a whisper. “What do I do, Ma?”

“I can’t tell ya that, Jerbear.”

Jeremy sighed. “I thought ya might say that.”

“Listen, you got options now, hon. Ones I didn’t have at your age. I won’t lie and say I wouldn’t love to have another grandbaby runnin’ around, but what I want more is for my baby boy to be happy. Ya got that?”

Jeremy swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Good. Don’t let that fella of yours tell ya what to do about this either, alright? It’s your body.”

That was a can of worms Jeremy refused to even touch right now. “I won’t, Ma.”

“Attaboy. Now, I gotta go pick up your nephew. Lil’ Sammy’s on the honour roll, did I tell ya that? Anyway, I promised we’d go get ice cream today to celebrate. Do ya wanna call me back in like an hour?”

Jeremy felt a stab of homesickness and… something else. Something he didn’t want to think about too much. “That’s okay, Ma. I’m pretty tired. Give Sam an extra scoop for me, okay?”

Gracie gave a laugh that wasn’t too dissimilar to her youngest son’s. “Your brother might kill ya for that. He’s gotta get that kid to sleep tonight.”

“Pfft. He can try but ya know he’ll never catch me.” Jeremy gave a watery grin and a laugh that surprised him. “Besides, he can’t kill a pregnant guy. There are laws against that kinda stuff!”

“There’s my Jer!” He heard his Ma smiling through the phone. “Remember hon, whatever happens you can always come home.”

“You’re really not mad at me, then?” The words slipped from his throat before he could stop them.

“Well, I’m not gonna disown ya or anythin’ if that’s what you’re worried about.” Gracie paused for a moment. “Ya know, I always thought I would be mad, but right now I just wish I could give ya a hug. Besides, I bet you’re probably mad enough for the both of us.”

“Yeah, I could really do with a hug right now.” Jeremy felt a pang of loneliness, even as some of the burden he’d been carrying fell from his shoulders. “Thank you, Ma. You’re the best. I love you.”

“I love you too, Jer. Always.”

…

What he was doing was wrong - even Spy knew that - but it had been weeks of this absurdité. Spy had spotted Scout dart off in the middle of battle to expel the contents of his stomach too many times. He’d watched the bags under the runner’s eyes grow darker day by day. Merde, he’d even noticed a case of Bonk! left undisturbed for days in the Mess’s fridge.

Non. It was no use speculating. There was something wrong with his son, and Spy had to find out what it was. So he waited. He bided his time for the perfect moment to strike and when he spotted Jeremy heading toward town on a Sunday afternoon, Spy didn’t hesitate; He flicked open his Spytron and slipped into the guise of his son.

Thin light shone weakly through the infirmary doors’ circular windows, signaling the doctor was in. Spy had never managed to shake the feeling that they were two monstrous eyes peering at him, as foolish as that notion was. He hated this place, but he’d seen Scout headed here more times in the past week than he had in all of the previous years combined, and Spy knew that this was the best place to find answers.

Medic only looked up briefly when he entered, flicking his eyes back to whatever gory experiment he was working on. “Ah, Herr Scout! I do hope zhis time you have made a decision, ja?” The German seemed annoyed, voice dripping with especially false cheer.

Spy jumped up on the examination table in one swift motion, ignoring the twinge of pain in his knees that told him he wasn’t so young anymore. “Uh not yet, Doc. I dunno what ta choose. Could we go ovah da options again?”

Medic looked at him then, eyes narrowing as he pushed his glasses further up his nose. A sigh escaped him. “One moment, Herr Scout.”

Spy watched as the German wandered over to rifle through a cabinet. “Now where did I leave it? Not zhere. Nein..” He worked his way through three drawers before finally: “Ah-ha! Zhere it is.”

“What’s dat you got- AH!” Spy howled at the wickedly large needle that had quite suddenly become one with the palm of his hand. “C’est quoi ce bordel?” [What the fuck! Literally: What is this mess? Even more literally: What is this brothel?] Spy looked up to see the business end of a crossbow aimed at his head.

“RED or BLU?” Medic demanded.

“Quoi-”

“RED or BLU? I suppose I vould find out if I killed you right now, but zen I’d have to leave my lab to find out vhy you are here. I’m a busy man, Herr Spy, so just spit it out.”

Slowly, Spy used his good hand to retrieve the disguise kit from his pocket. “RED.” He said, as the image of Scout dissolved into smoke around him. “I am on your team, see?”

Medic sniffed. “I have never been entirely convinced of zhat.” He lowered his crossbow, nonetheless. “I assume you are here about Herr Scout?”

Spy considered lying, but the glint in the good doctor’s eye told him it would be fruitless. “Oui.”

“Wunderbar! I’ve prepared a brief for you.” Medic flung a manilla folder into the Frenchman’s lap. Spy scrambled to keep it from sliding off.

“You were expecting me?”

“Of course! I had assumed you vould be here much earlier, to be honest.” Medic turned his attention to the syringe still lodged in Spy’s palm. In one swift motion, he tore it out.

Spy’s accompanying cry was in anger as well as pain. “Why the fuck did you stab me then?”

“Zhat vas just for fun! No dangerous untested pharmaceuticals here!” His gleeful chuckle was far from reassuring. “Now, out! I’m busy! Raus! Raus!”

Spy didn’t question that as he slid off the examination table. He’d worked in intelligence long enough to know when it was better not to know. There was one thing, however, he couldn’t help but ask.

Smoke engulfed him for a moment, before the visage of Scout once again replaced his own. With that uncouth Boston twist, Spy asked: “Outta interest, Doc, what gave me away?”

“Oh zhat?” Medic let out a terrifying giggle, eyes on the place where the Bostonian’s usual red t-shirt was tucked into the waist of his baseball knickers. “Your image of him is out of date. Did you not zhink Herr Scout has put on a little… veight, recently?”

Chapter Text

Jeremy didn’t know how anything could fit in there with all that dread in the pit of his stomach. Then again his gag reflex was still trying its hardest to return everything he ate, so maybe there was space in there after all.

If he was honest, Jeremy wasn’t sure where his anxiety ended and the morning sickness began. He had vomited once or twice in his life out of sheer nervousness, and, well, the last few weeks hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park. It wasn’t exactly that he thought Mick was going to react badly. The truth was Jeremy had no clue how he would take it. Like zero frickin’ idea. Having a kid was definitely not something they’d ever spoken about. They hadn’t talked about any of that important stuff. Jeremy talked Mick’s ear off, “yubbin’” about everything from the weather to the meaning of life to Tom Jones’ latest album, but he never dared bring up anything serious.

That’s how it had always been for them, ever since they returned to RED and their fooling around became… whatever it was now. They bought their groceries together and cooked their meals together and shared the camper’s tiny bed. Mick had held Jeremy when he wept, and Jeremy had wiped tears of laughter from Mick’s eyes, and they’d definitely had more than their fair share of stupid petty fights. They did all the things that couples do, and yet they’d never even stopped to talk about where exactly they were going with it. Mick never brought it up and something dark and desperate inside of Jeremy told him not to be greedy, so he just took whatever he could and didn’t dare ask for anything more.

And it was good, most of the time. Jeremy knew Mick cared about him, even if the Australian never said so. Mick just wasn’t a talker like he was, that was all. Ma always said, “actions speak louder than words”, and the way Mick held him had to mean something, right? For the most part Jeremy was content with that, with letting the warmth of Mick’s arms distract him from the voice in his head that whispered how fragile this was. How one day it’d fall apart.

Until something came along that they had to talk about. Something that was busy growing tiny fingernails right now, according to Medic at least.

Jeremy knocked on the camper door on a Friday evening with an oversized order of tacos in his arms and a six-pack of beer on the ground by his feet. They were for Mick, of course. Even under normal circumstances, Jeremy hardly ever drank the stuff; he preferred his alcohol flavorless and mixed with soda. Of course, he couldn’t even drink his Bonk! un-spiked nowadays. That once-delicious radiation smell turned his stomach, and his attempts to pinch his nose and drink it only resulted in Cherry Fission flavoured vomit. Jeremy pulled a bottle of water out of his back pocket and took a consolation sip.

“Do they make clear Bonk! now, or are ya actually drinkin’ water for once?” Mick had appeared beside him, key in hand. His lopsided grin showed off one of those sharp canines and for the first time in days Jeremy felt something other than dread or nausea roiling in his gut.

“Hey, I drink water!” Jeremy protested, willing away the warmth that had risen to his cheeks. “Sometimes.”

Mick laughed at that, causing Jeremy to blush harder. Mick had the best laugh; It was deep and rough like tree bark scraping together, and it overtook him completely. Jeremy enjoyed that the most. He loved to hear Mick lose control, if only for a few precious seconds before the joke started to wear thin.

Mick unlocked the door and the two settled side-by-side in the dinette to eat their meal. Jeremy rehearsed in his head as they ate, going through a dozen different ways of starting the conversation in quick succession. If Mick noticed his silence, he didn’t say anything. He just watched the tiny black-and-white TV that murmured softly from its home on the counter. Soon – too soon, Jeremy thought – dinner was over, and it was time.

Well, here goes nothin’.

Jeremy took a deep breath, affected a carefree attitude, and began. “Hey Mickey, I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout what I’m gonna do when our contracts are up… Might move back to Boston for a while, spend summa that quality time with the family. I got like twelve nieces n’ nephews now, it’s crazy! Maybe move outta the city after that n’ settle down…”

Mick went rigid. “Mate…”

“There are tons of great woods around in Mass. My brothers took me campin’ a couple times, so I know. The Appaloosian Trail even runs through there, I think.”

“Mate.”

“Anyway, I was thinking w-” He caught himself before he said we. “A little house out there might be nice. It’s not too far from Ma n’ everyone n’ there’s a lotta room out there for me to run and stuff. Maybe get a dog-”

“Jeremy, stop!” Mick’s voice cracked through the air like thunder. It seemed to startle even him, because he made an effort to soften his tone.  “I dunno why ya wanna talk about this. It’s got nothin’ to do with me.”

Jeremy flinched. He tried to look into Mick’s eyes, but the sniper had taken to staring fixedly into the darkness outside their window. “I- I mean I just thought that ya might… wanna come with me? After alla this, I mean.”

Mick’s voice was cool and even. “Why would I do that?”

Jeremy felt like he’d been plunged into ice-water. He tried to breath in but the muscles in his chest had constricted. It hurt. God, it hurt. Seconds passed and Jeremy was finally able to draw in a jagged breath; it felt like fire, like breathing in the BLU pyro’s flames. A sound came out of him he couldn’t name, somewhere between a sob and a growl. He felt stupid. He felt naïve.

And then the heat in his throat melted into his brain and all Jeremy felt was rage. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” He flung himself to his feet. “I’m so fucking sick of this game, Mick!”

Mick looked up, startled. Jeremy thought he saw something strange in his eyes, but Mick flicked his gaze away before he could figure out what it was. “I dunno what you’re talking about, mate.” Mick said on an exhale. “What game?”

“The game where ya pretend we’re not together and I pretend I’m cool with it!”

“We’re not-”

“There it is again!” Jeremy threw his hands into the air, narrowly missing the camper’s smoke-stained ceiling. “What would you call it then? We kiss. We fuck. I basically live in your frickin’ van, man! I have a drawer in here n’ half a closet n’ everythin’!”

“Only cause ya keep leaving your stuff here-”

“And ya let me! You don’t let the other guys even breathe near ya most days, but ya let me crawl up into your loft with you every frickin’ night!” Jeremy’s voice was hoarse, tears flying from his eyes in sheets. “Ya bought me a fuckin’ mini-fridge just for my Bonk!, Mick! How am I supposed to intwerp- interpat… read into that?”

Mick swallowed. Twice. Jeremy watched his throat working. “Mate, I…”

“Stop calling me that!” Jeremy was too angry to care how squeaky those words came out. “I’m not your fuckin’ mate.”

Mick said nothing. Jeremy rolled his eyes and turned away. For a few moments, the camper was silent. The alarm clock beside Mick’s bed ticked down the seconds, and Jeremy opened and closed his fists to the rhythm. Slowly, the fight in him ebbed away.

“I can’t do this anymore, Mick.” Jeremy half-whispered. “I can’t keep waiting around hopin’ you’ll figure out what the fuck you want. I’ve got… other stuff to worry about now.” He bit his lip, hoping desperately Mick wouldn’t ask what he was talking about.

“Then don’t.”

Jeremy snapped around. He didn’t know what he had expected Mick to say. Maybe he thought the marksman would take him in his arms and apologise, say he’d do anything to keep him. Maybe he thought Mick would kiss him until Jeremy forgot his own name. Maybe he pictured something the love interest in one of his Ma’s old romance novels would do.

Jeremy didn’t expect those two words. He certainly didn’t expect what was said next.

“Don’t, Jeremy.” The Australian’s voice lowered to a crackle. “Don’t wait for me. Go find some sheila who'll hold hands with ya n’ pick daisies n’ make a list o’ baby names for your future kids because that sure as hell ain't ever gonna be me.”

Mick didn’t know - couldn’t have known - how much that last line would hurt him. Jeremy knew that, but it didn’t keep the despair from closing in. Dreams he didn’t know he had burst into shrapnel in his head.

“I don’t want some sheila,” Jeremy muttered, fighting a bitter sob. “I want you, Mick. I frickin’ love you.”

…

“I don’t love you.”

The bones in his fingers screamed liar; Mick clenched his fists to keep from reaching out. Christ, he wanted to reach out. Mick felt the planes of Jeremy’s face ghost across his fingertips. He knew, instinctually, how it would feel to smooth away the hurt that twisted the runner’s features, to wipe away those brimming tears. Mick felt Jeremy’s heartbeat echo in his palms.

He closed his eyes. The dark part of him - the part that wanted him to hurt and keep hurting - finally allowed Mick to see: He did love Jeremy. A shuddering, scrambling, bruising kind of love, like the last words choked out by a dying man. The kind that echoed in your head and in your chest and didn’t bloody stop for the rest of your life.

Distantly, Mick heard his own barking laugh. It was soon shot through by the sound of the camper’s door slamming open.

When he opened his eyes, Jeremy was gone.

Chapter Text

Mick met the dawn smoking a cigarette on the back steps of RED base.

He’d gone after Jeremy, of course, once his legs had started working again. To what end exactly, he didn’t know. Didn’t even question. His brain had packed it in some time after Jeremy had left and Mick had just started walking in the cold night air. Instinct drove his steps, drawing him toward the place where he’d feel most safe, where he could find comfort. And so, each stride brought him closer to Jeremy.

But then he’d stepped foot on the back porch and something cruel and visceral had ripped through him. He was there again, at that house on Adelaide Street, stepping onto the veranda and noticing for the first time that something was wrong. A part of him had known, back then, what he’d find when he walked through that familiar door. He knew well the stench of rotting bodies, and he recognised the black clouds of blowflies hanging in the air.

This time, Mick didn’t go in. Couldn’t go in. He knew – rationally he knew – that he wouldn’t find his dead parents in the RED base’s back corridor. They were thousands of miles away, laying where he’d buried them. Mick knew this, he did.

But caught somewhere unsteady between his fight and flight response, Mick wavered. His hands shook. In fact, all of him shook. He felt like his body might crumble under the weight of the New Mexico night breeze. Mick’s brain was skipping like a record; garbled thoughts died before they could fully manifest. All that made it through the noise were two words, echoing ad infinitum: not again.

Not again.

Not again.

He stopped on that front step, and that was where he stayed.

By the time Mick heard the familiar sound of an Invis Watch decloaking, he was more or less fully recovered. He didn’t ask how long Spy had been there, sitting on that step beside him on a bloody hanky of all things to protect his precious suit. He didn’t say anything.

“I suppose it’s true that children marry their parents.” Spy said around a soon-to-be-lit cigarette. “I had hoped at least that Jeremy would have the sense to choose someone more like his mother.”

“I don’t like what you’re insinuatin’, snake,” Mick growled. It sounded more pathetic than fierce, like a wounded kitten. “You n’ I are nothin’ alike, and Je- Scout n’ I aren’t married. Never will be.”

“Où est un fusil de chasse quand on en a besoin?.” [Where's a shotgun when you need one?]

“Wot?”

Spy just sighed, “I want you to look at something.” He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a cigarette case. It wasn’t the one that housed his spy kit; this one was silver and engraved with swirling feather-like patterns that glinted even in the dim light. Spy flicked it open, revealing a stack of photographs on one side and a few expensive looking cigarettes on the other. He slipped out the photographs and handed them to Mick. “These stay between us, oui?”

Mick mumbled an agreement, studying the first photograph. It was of a woman, dark-haired and pretty with an upturned nose. Her hands rested lovingly over her pregnant belly, grinning widely at the camera. Mick had seen her image before, framed and placed at Jeremy’s bedside, but even if he hadn’t, he would have recognised her from that smile. Her son had an almost identical one, and Mick knew it well. “She looks like Jeremy,” He murmured, before chuckling just a little. “Or I s’pose Jeremy looks like her.”

Spy only hummed impatiently, hands outstretched as if waiting to snatch back his secrets. The man clearly did not enjoy being so exposed, and Mick would be lying if he said he didn’t want to savor that discomfort just a smidge. There was a part of him that was impressed, though, especially when he saw the next photo.

Mick knew Spy was Jeremy’s father – how could he not? – but he’d never expected the Frenchman would admit to it, even indirectly. And yet here Mick was, staring at a foxed and care-worn photograph of Spy standing proudly beside his lover, with their infant child in his arms.

A photograph where Spy was maskless. Mick studied his face, puzzling out the little bits of Jeremy he could see in width of Spy’s nose and the shape of his brow. And the ears. Jeremy had definitely inherited Spy’s ears.

“Don’t look so surprised, Bushman. There is still a face under this mask.” Spy stubbed out the butt end of his cigarette and took out another. “Quite a handsome one, I might add.”

Mick snorted, eyes still on the picture. He turned it over and was rewarded with a year (’46) and a line of text, written in a small, neat hand.

Jean, Gracie et…

The last name was crossed out, and beneath it had been written: Jérémy.

Mick moved on to the next photograph, and the next. Images of Jeremy as an infant, then a toddler, being held by his mother or aloft precariously between seven boys. Jeremy looking furious in the frilliest dress Mick had ever seen. Jeremy a blur on stubby toddler legs. Jeremy holding up a drawing and flashing tiny baby teeth.

And then, abruptly, the images changed. The photos charting the next few decades were candid, taken from afar and sometimes blurry. Jeremy trotting into a school with a backpack almost as big as him, his mother wiping tears from her eyes. Jeremy in a baseball uniform grinning wildly as he reaches home plate. Jeremy behind the wheel of a car, his mother looking panicked in the passenger seat. Jeremy, fist raised, jumping quite literally into a fight.

The final image was familiar. It took a moment, but Mick soon recognised it as the same photo that was taped to the wall of his camper, or a copy of it at least. It was a team photograph, taken right after their first victory on the battlefield all those years ago, and as far as Mick knew they all had a copy. Many of the mercs still sported injuries and torn, bloody clothing, but all faced the camera with pride. In the full photograph, Mick remembered, the father and son had stood to the left, but this copy had been cropped to centre them. Jeremy stood just behind and to the right of Spy, his left hand raised at the elbow with two fingers extended as if to hold an invisible cigarette. His right hand was held at chest height, palm up as if holding an open cigarette case. It was an uncannily accurate impression of Spy, who stood in that exact pose just in front of him, and by the look on Jeremy’s face, he knew it.

Mick had seen the photo countless times, but it was only now with the rest of the noise cut away that he noticed the way Spy’s head was tilted just slightly to the right, eyes on the runner. And was there a hint of fondness there, in that self-satisfied smirk?

For the first time - and somewhat reluctantly - Mick thought about how lonely Spy’s life must be. Mick was private, yes, but Spy took solitude to a whole new level. He lived his life faceless, nameless, and often literally invisible, haunting the halls of RED base like a self-important ghost. What was it like to live like that? Unliked and unloved, keeping pictures of the son you refuse to talk to in the breast pocket of your ludicrously expensive suit. How did it feel to hold the only image of you and your son taken this side of 1960, knowing you had to cut it out of a staff photograph?

It didn’t take long, however, for Mick to remember he didn’t give a fuck.

“Why are ya showing me this, Spook? Do ya want me to feel sorry for ya? Cause I’m not. Ya bloody well deserve it, ya prick.”

“Perhaps,” Spy said, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “But I am not here for me, Bushman. If comfort was what I desired, I’m sure I could find more… refined company from which to extract it. Non. I am here for my son and, if you can believe it, for you as well.”

Mick scoffed. “I doubt that.”

Spy rolled his eyes. “Let me be clear, Bushman,” He spat the moniker with some degree of force. “I do not like you. Nor do I like this affaire de coeur you have been engaged in with my son.”

“Well I’ve got good news for ya, Spook…”

“But - mon dieu! - I am telling you to stay with him.”

It took several moments for Mick to successfully make his mouth work. “Wot?”

“Don’t make me say it again, jar man.” Spy shuddered, which Mick thought was a bit much.

“But why?”

Spy took a drag from his cigarette, then another. Mick had already resolved to repeat his question when the Frenchman finally spoke. “Because, you crétin, you are about to make a terrible mistake – the same one I made thirty years ago - and despite what you might think I am not entirely heartless.” Spy brushed a thumb against his lip, silver curls of smoke still leaking from his cigarette. “I know about the pregnancy.”

“Pregnancy? What the bloody hell are ya talkin’ about?”

“Now is not the time to play the fool, Bushman,” Spy hissed. “You impregnated my son, do not give me any more reason to-”

Mick laughed at that, much to Spy’s fury. ‘Jer is not pregnant, Spook. Where the hell’d ya get that from?”

“Do you really think you can lie to me? I heard your argument last night!”

“I dunno what ya heard, but Jer didn’t say anythin’ about a pregnancy. There’s no way he is, anyway. I don’t even think he can-” Mick’s voice shriveled up and died in his throat.

“Oh merde.” Spy brought the palms of his hands to his forehead. “Il ne sait vraiment pas.” [Oh shit. He really doesn't know].

Mick didn’t hear him; panic had filled his ears with raw noise. His brain flitted from image to image at a blinding speed, barely lingering long enough to send a bolt of terror through him for each one.

Jeremy fleeing the battlefield, hand clasped over his mouth.

Jeremy choosing water over Bonk!.

Jeremy opting to wear looser and looser clothes.

Mick felt ill. He staggered to his feet, hands clasped together beneath his nose as if in prayer. The urge to flee shot down Mick’s legs, and he rocked unsteadily on his heels.

New pictures – daydreams - filtered through, ones he’d fought so hard to quash for so long: a little house in the woods, a home, a life. And now, in the centre of it, a child.

“No…” He whispered to no-one in particular.

Will it have Jeremy’s eyes?

“No!” Mick lurched into motion. He had to get away. He had to-

A gloved hand gripped his shoulder. “Arrêt- Wait!” Mick halted his flight, but didn’t turn back, so Spy stepped around to face him. “Ils ne te quittent pas! You cannot get away from it!”

Mick made to side-step him, but Spy seized both of his shoulders in a death grip. His eyes were wide and molten, teeth bared in some kind of sneer. “Listen to me, Mundy!” He hissed. “When you leave a child, they don’t leave you. They stay with you. Always.” With that last word, Spy seemed to almost deflate. His hands fell from Mick’s shoulders.

Mick took the opportunity to flee.

Chapter Text

Jeremy woke with one singular conviction: Mick was wrong. He was lying, or he was mistaken, or there was some strange reason why Mick would say those words to Jeremy. It couldn’t be because they were true. That was ridiculous.

Mick had to love him. They’d been through too much together. He knew Mick too well. Jeremy couldn’t be wrong. Mick loved him. He did.

So when he looked outside to see empty desert where Mick’s van had been, he didn’t panic. Nor did he, when none of his teammates seemed to know where the marksman had gone. Even when he learned that Mick had taken a week of leave without telling him, Jeremy had successfully managed to stay not-panicking.

Jeremy could wait a week. He just had to wait seven days, and then Mick would be back to apologise. Maybe he’d come back with a ring or something. Maybe he was at Jeremy’s Ma’s house right now asking for her blessing.

Yeah, that sounded right. Mick was all polite and old-fashioned and stuff. That was totally something he would do. Jeremy didn’t want to ruin the surprise. He could be patient. He would be patient.

And Jeremy tried.

To their credit, his teammates did their best to help. It seemed they had all decided the optimal strategy was to distract Jeremy from his thoughts, and so they’d each found ways to keep him occupied outside of battle. Jeremy had lost count of the number of tea parties Pyro had thrown for him, or jobs Engie had really needed his help with that required suspiciously little effort but suspiciously long periods of time. He’d played round after round of cards with Demo and Solly and spent enough time helping with Medic’s doves that he could identify them all by name. Heavy had even taught him his coveted sandwich recipe, something that Jeremy had been asking about for years. The secret, it turned out, was that the sandwich contained no ham at all; instead, the meat was something Heavy called “Doctor’s Sausage”, specially imported from Russia.

That was the only thing that had managed to make Jeremy laugh all week.

Days seven and eight came and went, however, with no sign of Mick. Jeremy decided that he was just running late. Maybe his flight was delayed, or his van broke down. Those kinds of things happened every day. Mick would be back tomorrow; Jeremy was sure of it.

Day nine was agony. There was no battle scheduled, and the long hours wore on Jeremy’s nerves. By nine o’clock his brain was full to bursting, riddled with thoughts too sharp and quick to comprehend. It was a mercy, perhaps, that the hurricane in his head kept them from sinking in, but it was exhausting. And it was loud. So loud it hurt.

Jeremy sought out the one person who might be noisy enough to drown it out.

Soldier wasn’t being particularly loud when he found him, much to Jeremy’s dismay. The man was settled on the couch in the rec room, carefully stitching a white star the size of a baseball onto a mass of blue fabric and humming that jaunty little song they play at graduations. Solly quickly put him to work cutting stars out of white canvas and – much to Jeremy’s relief – launched into a very long and very loud lecture about some military guy from ancient Greece who had the bright idea to actually run at the enemy.

Jeremy definitely made more than fifty stars, but Solly never told him to stop. The two were silent for some time, focused as they were on their respective tasks. It was strangely calming, folding the little circles of fabric just right so he could make a star shape with only one cut.

After a while though, Jeremy’s thoughts wandered back to Mick. The quiet reminded him of lazy afternoons spent together in the camper, no sound between them but the quiet click clack of Mick’s knitting needles and the scraping of Jeremy’s pencils on paper. He’d look over from time to time and see Mick staring off into nothing, brows drawn together like storm clouds. Jeremy had long wondered what Mick was thinking about when he zoned out like that, but he was always too chicken to ask.

He tried not to think about how he might never get to.

“Where are ya, Mick?” Jeremy sighed to himself.

 “YOU SHOULD ASK SPY.”

“Wha-?” Jeremy dropped the scissors; He had almost forgotten Solly was there. “Why?”

“HE’S A SPY, THAT MAGGOT KNOWS EVERYTHING!” Soldier broke his thread with his teeth before continuing. “ALSO, I SAW HIM TALKING TO SNIPER BEFORE HE LEFT.”

“What the fuck, Solly? Why are ya only now bringin’ this up? Wait-” Jeremy shot to his feet. “Before? Like right frickin’ before?”

“AFFIRMATIVE. AT APPROXIMATELY 0600 HOURS I SAW SNIPER TALKING WITH SPY ON THE PORCH BEHIND THE BASE. AFTERWARDS, HE ENTERED HIS VEHICLE AND DROVE AWAY. UNAUTHORISED. IT WAS A DISGRACE! HE IS A DESERTER AND IF HE RETURNS, HE WILL BE SHOT! NO! A BULLET IS TOO GOOD FOR-”

Jeremy didn’t stay to hear the rest of Soldier’s rant.

“Spy!” Jeremy beat against the door with the side of his fist. “Open up! I know you’re in there!”

 “Go away, Jérémy.”

“No! Not until ya tell me what ya said to Mick! I know ya spoke to him last week. What the fuck did ya say?”

A moment passed and Jeremy swung his fist forward again. It connected with nothing.

Spy regarded him from the doorway with one eyebrow raised. He was dressed impeccably as always, but Jeremy thought he gave off an impression of dishevelment somehow. Maybe it was in the skin around his eyes more than in the drape of his suit. Maybe he was just getting old.

“Mon fils,” Spy said, as he often did. Jeremy had long ago decided it was an insult.

The runner shoved his way into Spy’s smoking room. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d been there, but it had certainly made an impression. Jeremy hated every square inch of it, gaudy and haunted-house-ish as it was. He hadn’t grown up poor exactly, but there were enough lean months littered throughout his childhood that this kind of brash display of wealth always pissed him off. That spark of anger only stoked the bonfire in his chest. Pyro would be so proud. “Did ya tell ‘im to leave? God, did you frickin’ pay him or somethin’?” Jeremy snatched the lapels of that precious ten-thousand-dollar suit. “Did ya hurt him? I swear to God I will fuckin’ end ya if you did.”

Jeremy was sick of surprises.  It felt like it’d been one earth-shattering revelation after another lately, and he was frickin’ over it. So of course, Spy had one more for him. It wasn’t even anything he said or did that knocked Jeremy off kilter: It was the pity in his eyes.

“He is unharmed.” The Frenchman spoke in a monotone, words slow and controlled. “But I owe you an apology nonetheless.” Spy took four precise steps toward his chair and sat in it. One gloved hand twitched toward the side table where his cigarettes lay, but he did not reach for them.

Jeremy did not move, but his eyes tracked Spy’s path across the room. All that fire had turned to brittle glass.

“I did speak to your copain,” Spy practically hissed that last word, but the spite seemed to leave him as quickly as it had arrived. “I had overheard part of your argument and thought to intervene. I did not realise you hadn’t told him about your… situation, and for that I am truly sorry.”

Bile rose in Jeremy’s throat. “Ya told him? Ya knew somehow and you fuckin’… How did ya know? Oh god you told him. He knows. He knows and he left.” He shook his head wildly, as if to loosen the tangle of thoughts there. Jeremy’s gaze caught again on the Frenchman, held upright and still in his velvet armchair. “He’s not coming back, is he?”

Spy just looked at him with those pitying eyes.

‘I’m gonna be sick, I-” Whatever Jeremy was about to say was lost in a tide of stench and vomit. He dropped to his knees heaving bile and tears and wheezing gasps into Spy’s fancy silk rug. Rage and shame and despair played tag in the cockles of his heart.

Eventually the flood petered out and Jeremy became aware of a hand rubbing circles into his back. Another began to tug him gently upright by the shoulder. It was unbearable; Jeremy swiped at it blindly. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me!”

He lurched haphazardly toward the door and wrenched it open, only to find the hall beyond crowded with six concerned mercenaries. Jeremy steadfastly avoided their eyes, even as he felt the weight of their gaze on him. Mercifully, no-one spoke.

Jeremy staggered forward, and the crowd parted. Hands reached out as if to touch him but stayed suspended in mid-air. He heard an intake of breath from someone, as if they were preparing to say something, and Jeremy felt every muscle in his body pull taut. His brain filled in the empty space.

Left all alone again. Poor unlovable little Jeremy. He can’t even get anyone to stand him, let alone love him.

He took three steps backwards, head shaking again from side to side.

Look at that pathetic little whore, all knocked up and getting fatter by the day. Won’t be able to run for much longer, and then what’ll he be good for? Nothing!

Jeremy was weeping again, great gasping sobs that shook his entire body.

He was really starting to think he could be a parent too. What kid would want him as a father? It’d beg for him to leave.

His teammates’ gaze felt like molten lead. Jeremy was embarrassed to be seen like this, fresh from the mess he’d made on Spy’s floor.

He was embarrassed to be so exposed, to have so clearly displayed the weakness he’d been hiding away for so long.

Hell, he was embarrassed to be seen at all.

So Jeremy did the one thing he did best: he ran.

And his feet beat a steady rhythm to the Respawn Machine.

Chapter Text

When the sound of distant gunfire told him that the team was in a battle, Mick wasn’t perturbed. Their contracts meant that any weekday and up to four weekend days per calendar year were fair game for a fight to be scheduled, so Mick had been aware he might return in the middle of one. He’d factored that possibility into his plans.

Mick stepped out of the cab of his campervan and set off for Resupply. He’d simply wait outside Respawn until Jeremy came through, or until the game was over, whichever came first. Mick was a patient man - it was part of what made him a good sniper - and besides, God knew he probably needed the time to practice what he was going to say.

What he found at Respawn, Mick could never have prepared for.

“A man’s life is at stake goddamn it! We need a ceasefire! Now!” Engie was elbow-deep in the guts of the respawn machine, shouting into a radio handset pressed between his ear and shoulder. “Don’t you put me on hold, son. No listen here, you-” Engie suddenly snatched the radio out of the crook of his neck and hurled it into the floor. “Son of a bitch!”

The handset clattered across the ground until it knocked against the toe of Mick’s boot. The abrupt stop must have caught the Texan’s attention because he looked up.

Engineer didn’t bother with pleasantries when he saw Mick, he just explained that something was wrong. That someone had tampered with Respawn, damaged a save and triggered a security lockdown. That Jeremy couldn’t respawn.

The knowledge made Mick’s bones lock tight, sent his stomach roiling.

Jeremy was in danger.

Jeremy might die.

Mick’s heart beat a frantic tattoo, his brain in chorus: Not again. Not again. Not again. The truce Mick had made with his brain while he was gone was suddenly nothing but rubble and ash. His van was parked right outside the front entrance; the keys burnt a hole in his pocket. It would be so simple to just leave again, to get in his van and drive until the base faded into hazy distance. Until New Mexico was just a shape on a map that might have meant something to him once.

And if Jeremy died out there, Mick wouldn’t have to know.

His hand slipped into his pocket. Mick’s fingers grazed his keys, but he also felt something else. Something smooth and cubic, and so, so special.

And then he was tearing open his locker and grabbing his rifle.

Mick’s lungs burned from more than just the exertion and he thanked God the old mate had seen fit to give him long legs. He loped along, stopping only long enough to quick scope anyone who threatened to halt his advance. A glimmer of blue here, the quiet sound of a minigun revving there. Mick reacted on instinct, relying thoughtlessly on skills honed by long hours of practice. It was easy this way, lost in the physicality of it all, not to think about the terror. It was there, though, thrumming quietly underneath, waiting to overwhelm him if only he paid it too much mind.

A shadow flitted across his vision, and Mick looked to his left, ready to fire.

“Sniper! Vhat are you doing here?” It was Medic. Behind him stood Heavy.

“Where’s Jeremy?” Mick barked.

“He vent ahead, like alvays! Wass ist-”

“Respawn! Its broken. His... his file is corrupted. Engie said...” Mick couldn’t finish. He swallowed pathetically against the bile rising in his throat, hoping that Medic would see the terror in his eyes and understand.

Medic’s shock turned sour.  “Mein gott, he…”

For a moment despair clouded them both. It was paralysing, killing all sound and movement but the desperate gasps still erupting from deep in Mick’s chest.

It was Heavy who broke the spell. His large hand landed on Mick’s shoulder. “We will find him,” he said simply before turning to Medic. “Come, Doktor.”

Heavy started off first, but Mick quickly overtook him as they charged down the long corridor, looking for any sign of the runner. Mick barely registered their presence behind him, intent as he was on finding Jeremy. Their low voices barely filtered through his ears as they spoke through their comms. Somewhere along the way Soldier and Demo filed in behind them. Then Engineer. Mick didn’t ask about respawn, the simple shake of the Texan’s head was enough to tell him what he needed to know

They reached the end of the hallway and someone’s hand on his shoulder pushed Mick to the right. He bounded down a flight of stairs to the sound of venting flames, praying whatever pyro he was running towards was on his team.

Red. Thank fuck.

Pyro gestured wildly when they saw him, whatever they were saying made more unintelligible than usual by the panic in their tone. Mick got the message, though: Go left.

Gunfire erupted from behind him as he turned, but Mick didn’t stop to look.

Jeremy was crumpled in the corner like a wet rag. He looked terrible, pale and drawn with crimson seeping through various spots onto his uniform. His eyes were glazed, and for one terrible moment Mick thought he was too late.

But then Jeremy blinked and a string of swears fell out of his mouth.

Mick dropped to his knees beside him. “Christ, you scared me, Jer.’

“I scared you?” Jeremy scoffed. “I thought I was frickin’ dead again for a second there.”

Mick didn’t reply, focusing instead on assessing Jeremy’s injuries. He took the runner’s head in shaking hands, tilting it as gently as he could from side to side looking for any sign of trauma. Satisfied, Mick unzipped Jeremy’s jacket and lowered his gaze to his neck and then shoulders. A wound bloomed from the skin of Jeremy’s clavicle like a morbid rosette, so close to the vulnerable flesh of his throat that Mick swallowed a gasp. It was from a shotgun, he would guess from the tiny pellets embedded in Jeremy’s flesh, but it wasn’t deep, and the flow of blood had already slowed to a dribble.

Mick’s eyes skimmed unseeing over Jeremy’s abdomen, opting to inspect the runner’s limbs instead. Jeremy’s arms were untouched, apart from a few small cuts and bruises, but his legs weren’t so lucky. Mick quickly lost count of just how many bullet holes there were, punched into the flesh of Jeremy’s legs. He traced the bloody constellations with wide eyes to where they ended at mid-thigh.

And then finally Mick ran out of places to examine, and he had no choice but to look at it. His gaze crawled upwards at a snail’s pace, slowly revealing Jeremy’s stomach inch by inch.

It was unharmed. They were unharmed.

Mick let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His attention caught on the subtle rounding of Jeremy’s belly, just beginning to smooth the fabric of his t-shirt.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Mick let out a startled half-laugh; only Jeremy would crack a joke like that at a time like this. He looked up, half-expecting to see the runner’s usual cheesy grin. Instead, he was met with anger.

Mick shouldn’t have expected anything else - didn’t deserve anything else, honestly – but there was something so incongruous about the look on Jeremy’s face. It felt wrong somehow, like scrawling a shopping list on a priceless work of art.

Jeremy’s mouth wasn’t made for that scowl, it was made for teasing and cursing and grinning a mile wide. His button nose was supposed to scrunch in laughter, not disgust. And his eyes…

The fury in Jeremy’s eyes was a molten thing, hot and shifting, but the crease in his brow was all sadness. Mick remembered wanting to smooth it out the last time they spoke; now he coaxed it flat it with shaky thumbs, palms placed gingerly against Jeremy’s temples.

I’m sorry, Mick thought. I’m so bloody sorry. But try as he might, they wouldn’t turn into real words.

And then Jeremy, true to form, spoke first. “Ya came back,” He whispered. The magma in his eyes cooled to glittering blue gemstone.

Mick’s chest ached. “I -”

It was at precisely that moment that Medic shoved Mick out of the way.

Chapter Text

Seven days earlier…

Mick watched the sun rise from the steps of yet another porch and hoped this wasn’t going to become a habit. At least this time he had managed to catch a few hours of sleep, even if it was while sprawled haphazardly over the veranda's unforgiving wooden steps. Mick yawned and stretched, diligently ignoring the pain that sparked at various points along his poor mistreated spine.

It was beautiful here. Mick had almost forgotten how the morning sunlight flared bronze over yellow ochre and red stone. He listened to the sound of magpies warbling in the paperbark trees and watched a line of shadow as it retreated across the yard. Eventually, it surrendered completely to the coming day, and the only shadows left were behind him. Mick turned.

The house on Adelaide Street had a wide veranda, tin roof hung low to keep the sun out. When Mick was young it was a sanctuary; He’d spent countless hours there, waiting out the hottest part of the day while learning new knitting patterns with his mum. Now it stood empty and dark, the shade once so comfortable turned entirely to gloom.

The front door creaked back and forth in the morning breeze. Chips of wood and mangled lock still littered the floor from when they’d kicked it in. Mick hadn’t thought there was much point in repairing it. If he was honest, he’d been resigned to let the house fall to ruin. Half of his home was dead and gone, anyway, it had seemed only right he should leave the house to rot with them.

Bracken crackled underfoot as Mick stepped on to the veranda proper. It was the furthest he’d gone since he left to find his birth parents. Further than he’d ever intended to venture again.

Mick trudged onwards. His feet followed steadily a path, even as everything in him reeled backwards. Mick felt taut as a rubber band, shaking with energy. His bones yearned to release the tension, to snap away, to launch himself as far from here as possible.

And still Mick strode forward, through that door and into the stale air of a house that had once smelled like home. It looked less decrepit than he imagined it. In his dreams, Mick saw it crumbling to pieces, furniture decomposing like bodies on blood-slicked floors.

But the house looked almost normal. Sure, dust coated everything in a downy coat, and the curtains had been eaten away at the bottom. Dust and debris obscured large swathes of the hardwood floors, and the kitchen stunk to high hell, but the bones were there, strong as ever. The house was unbowed.

Mick was furious.

How dare this house live on. Didn’t it know its occupants were dead? It shouldn’t have been habitable. It should’ve been falling apart at the seams. Mick should have found it rotting, and then it would have been so easy to rot too, to lay down on a bed of wilting domesticity and decompose alongside it.

But the house on Adelaide Street hadn’t obliged.

The sound of the television meeting the ground wasn’t nearly loud enough. Nor was the thud of a bookshelf crashing home, or the clatter of pictures struck off of the wall. The crystal vase on the sideboard, the family china in the hutch, even the kitchen window – none of it was enough. Nothing abated the fire behind his eyes, or the way his breath hitched and hands quaked. Mick screamed, and it cracked in half.

Then the world reduced to nothing.

Two days, Mick spent in a haze.  He operated on pure instinct, mind blank and body stiff. Time lost all meaning. He salvaged canned spaghetti and baked beans from the cupboard when he was hungry and slept where and when the urge arose. The steady rise and fall of the Aussie sun might as well have been in code for all the sense it made to him.

When he came back to himself, Mick was tucked into an armchair in the living room clutching an old throw blanket to his chin. It had been his father’s chair for as long as Mick could remember, and no-one else was allowed to sit in it save for in very special circumstances; he’d only ever been allowed on his birthday, and when the world became too much.

Mick didn’t remember sitting on that chair, nor did he remember draping that blanket over himself, though he knew – rationally – that he must have. But as he sat there watching the sunlight paint dust floating in the air, he swore he could feel his parents perched on each sofa arm the way they had done when he was little and afraid, and they wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. And if he closed his eyes, Mick could almost imagine it was his father who’d sat him on his prized throne, and his mother who’d drawn the old blanket to his chin once again.

Mick wept. For the first time since his parents died, he let his sorrow loose.

In the end, when the quaking subsided and the great pool of grief in his chest was finally siphoned away, he found that the pieces of his heart had finally fallen back into place.

And there was Jeremy, scrawled on every waterlogged inch of his heart as if Medic had torn it out of his chest handed the bugger a pen.

Jer and his wicked grin and summer-sky eyes. Jer, for whom everything was a race, but who always slowed down just for Mick.

Jer and the little promise growing inside him that Mick had left him to raise alone.

He was a right bloody fool.

Chapter Text

Jeremy hadn’t been afraid – at least on the battlefield - for a very long time.

Dying and respawning had long since become a part of everyday life, and yeah occasionally he would feel a jolt of panic at the sight of an oncoming rocket, or suppress a shiver coaxed forth by the reflection of flames in dark, staring glass. But actual honest-to-god mortal fear? The kind that punches you in the throat, that rattles your bones, that has you praying to your God – no, any God – please save me, please let me live?

That kind of fear? Jeremy had almost forgotten what it was like.

He was brutally reminded when Medic’s head exploded into a fine red mist.

The medigun shut off with a ka-thunk, and Jeremy fought the urge to scream. Pain blossomed again through wounds that had barely begun to heal. Blood trickled thick like sap from the breaks in his skin.

Mick scrambled across to snatch up the medigun and started desperately trying to power it on again. Jeremy knew it was no use. He knew Mick did too. All of their equipment was locked to their authorised user; the device simply wouldn’t work for anyone else.

“Well, that sucks.” Jeremy tried to sound irreverent, but by the look on Mick’s face – and the faces of the other mercs who’d slowly filled the room around them – he hadn’t succeeded. “Stop lookin’ at me like that! It’s not like I ain’t been dead before.”

Silence.

Jeremy wanted to laugh, but it stuck like peanut butter in the back of his throat.

There was a woosh then, and Spy slunk into existence. He dropped to his knees, hand outstretched. “Mon fils-”

“Nope!” Jeremy cut in. Déjà vu hit him like a runaway payload cart. “Not doin’ that again, nuh-uh! Someone help me up.” His blood fizzed with resolve, jaw locked tight and jutting. Mick shuffled closer and Jeremy gripped at his shoulders, trying ineffectively to haul himself upwards, until Mick took pity on him and lifted him gently to his feet.

Jeremy stood shakily, managing to weather the razor-sharp jolts of pain up his legs. “Alright, we just gotta get our asses back to respawn and have the doc fix me up. No problem!”

“And how exactly do you expect to do that in your condition?” Spy scoffed.

A spark of light drew everyone’s attention to a teleporter that had just sputtered to life in an overlooked corner of the room. “Well, boys,” Engineer grinned above it, teeth glinting in the red glow. “I reckon this here contraption might be of some help.”

“Yeah! Way to go, pally!” Jeremy shrugged off the support of Mick’s arms made for the teleporter. “Let’s do thi-”

It turned out you needed more than willpower to walk; namely legs that weren’t currently doing a stellar impression of Swiss cheese. Something gave way in his left knee, and Jeremy barely avoided kissing the ground by clutching onto Mick’s shirt.

“Okay, new plan!” He wheezed. “Mickey, pick me up. You’re gonna be my legs.”

…

The world that materialised around them at the other end of the teleporter was the interior of a wooden shack.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Mick hissed, as his eyes caught on the view outside of their shelter.

The good news was that they were much closer to Resupply; he could even see the rolling doors from here, shining like a beacon in the New Mexico sun.

The bad news? There was at least five hundred yards of bare, open desert between them and safety.

Jeremy dropped his head against Mick’s neck and groaned. “We’re screwed.”

Mick rested a cheek against Jeremy’s hatless head, his hold tightening into a proper embrace. The runner fisted his hands in Mick’s shirt.

“Jer, I-”

“Don’t,” Jeremy interjected, voice sharp and brittle as glass. “If I’m gonna…” – he broke off, head shaking– “just let me have this.”

Mick had to clench his jaw to keep from screaming, but he acquiesced. He brought one shaking palm up to cup the back of Jeremy’s neck. I love you, he thought. Mick hoped, half-mad and desperate, that it might reach him somehow. That it might cross the space between their minds. That Jeremy might understand. He willed it. By the time Engineer appeared again in a halo of crimson sparks, Mick thought that maybe, maybe he might have succeeded.

“I’m sorry, boys, those BLU sons-of-bitches were on me like a duck on a June bug. This was as close as I could get,” Engie said when he’d finished becoming corporeal again. “Don’t ya fret now, though. The fellas are right behind me, and I got a plan to get ya to Respawn safe and sound.”

One by one the rest of the surviving team – sans Pyro and Demo, who had stayed behind to run interference - arrived in the little shed. By the time the last merc had stepped off the teleporter, a concrete plan had been formed and Mick felt a fragile sprig of hope bloom in his chest.

Spy slipped away first, off to take the enemy sniper out of commission.

Then, “LEAVE NO MAN BEHIND, YOU GOT THAT MAGGOT?” The deep, jarring boom of a rocket rang out and Soldier was off.

Sasha whirled to life beside them as Jeremy spoke, “Ya better not let me die, Mickey. I swear to God I’ll haunt ya if you do.”

Mick pressed a half-weak smile to Jeremy’s hair. “Never.”

Somewhere far off in the distance was the scream of a man who’d just received a knife in his back.

“Good luck, comrade,” a gruff voice intoned. “Protect leetle scout.”

And then Heavy started shooting, and it was time to run.

…

The ground below them was not moving quick enough, and Jeremy fought the urge to complain about it. No-one was as fast as Jeremy, especially when they were carrying a whole other person with them, and he knew Mick was trying his best. It just didn’t feel fair to pick on the marksman for being slow.

Fortunately, Jeremy had about a million other things to complain about instead.

“So did you go to some weird country without telephones, or did ya just think I wasn’t worth a call?” Jeremy kept his gaze levelled squarely over Mick’s shoulder. “I mean, I get it. We’re not together or nothin’ - ya made that pretty clear - but ya couldn’t even send a postcard? I mail my second cousin twice removed a nice postcard every time I go on vacation, and I never even met the lady! Am I not even second cousin twice removed levels of important?”

Mick cleared his throat to speak but Jeremy barreled onwards. “And nobody had any freakin’ clue where you went neither. What if somethin’ happened to ya? How was I s’posed to know if ya got eaten by a bear or somethin’ if ya weren't gonna write and tell me about it?” Jeremy aimed his scattergun and nailed the enemy scout right in his face.

“Crikey!” Mick barked. He stumbled a few steps before righting himself. “Warn a bloke before you discharge a firearm right next to his ear!”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Oh, like how you warned me ya were gonna disappear for two weeks!”

“That’s not…”

Another two shots in quick succession sent the enemy soldier back to respawn. Jeremy levelled his gun at an approaching pyro and pulled the trigger.

Click.

“God freakin’ damn it!” He hissed as he awkwardly snaked his hand between his and Mick’s bodies to feel for his pistol. A streak of blue flame erupted from the encroaching figure and Jeremy screeched. “Left! Move left!”

Mick staggered sideways.

“My left!”

Mick sidestepped just in time to avoid a flare, which struck ground and fizzled out a few feet ahead of them. Unfortunately, the movement jostled Jeremy’s hand; His pistol dropped to the ground, only narrowly missing Mick’s running feet.

And then another flare started on its journey toward them. “Right – no, your right this time. Shit, shit!” Another near miss, this one even closer than the last.  

And then another.

And another.

And with every flare, the pyro was getting closer.

…

Mick barely felt it at first; it was just a subtle warmth against his back, like sunshine on a summer day. He barely had time to register it before Jeremy was hissing unintelligibly in his ear and tucking his face into Mick’s shoulder. Jeremy’s arms retreated from their hold at Mick’s nape, and the marksman glimpsed red and wicked yellow and black.

And then Mick was burning. The warmth on his back turned to blinding, blistering heat. He choked on a scream.

The door was now just metres away. Mick could see the nicks and dents that marred its surface. He was so close. Just seconds away from safety. A few strides short of a life he’d taken so long to admit that he wanted.

Too long.

Because Mick had never been a runner - not like Jeremy - and he could feel the muscles in his back starting to melt away.

The door to resupply might as well have been on the moon.

They weren’t going to make it.

Chapter Text

Heat.

Heat and flame and pain-pain-pain.

Mick stumbled onwards, light flickering at the edges of his vision. His hands spasmed where they gripped at the flesh and fabric of Jeremy’s huddled form. The sound of Mick’s screaming filtered in and out of his own hearing.

Distantly, he felt cool fingers against his cheek. Mick’s eyes struggled to focus as he looked down at Jeremy’s face. The runner was speaking; Mick could not hear. He focused all his concentration, stared intently at Jeremy’s lips.

… love … you, he thought – he hoped – he read in the movement.

“I love you.” Mick prayed the words would escape his throat. “I love you.”

Jeremy was dropping. Mick’s flesh and bone was giving way. The door was so close now, just a few steps. Mick steeled his melting sinew - willed his failing body to listen, to move – and did the only thing he could.

He threw.

---

Jeremy hit the ground hard. He hit the ground and rolled.

Sparks flew across his vision as Jeremy’s temple kissed the dirt, darkness quickly encroaching in its aftermath. His right arm snapped, hand tearing violently away from where it was cradling his belly, and he had the strange feeling that his right foot might be facing the wrong way. Jeremy was a loose constellation of pinprick pain, radiating through his body like acid in his veins, but he was moving.

Still, mercifully, he was moving.

Jeremy rolled until hard-packed dirt gave way to smooth, cold concrete. Until the bruising sun gave way to cold, clinical fluorescent light. Until hands grabbed at him and dragged Jeremy further into the safety of Resupply.

“Junge!” Medic cried. “Mein gott! You’re alive!”

Jeremy scraped together enough energy to smile as red light engulfed him. Lungs that had been stunned to a standstill fluttered back to life. He took one stuttering breath, then another. “Come on, have ya met me?” Jeremy wheezed. “I’m freakin’ awesome. Death ain’t nothin’.”

Medic eyed Jeremy with suspicion, as if he saw right through the man. Jeremy looked away, chest still heaving. It was silent for a few long seconds.

“I see the bushman’s penchant for running away has proven useful for once,” Spy sneered as he emerged from Respawn. It was every bit as arrogant as usual, but there was a molten softness in his eyes that Jeremy refused to think about. Screw that.

“Get outta here, Spy!” Jeremy hissed instead. “Mickey came back for me, which is more than I can say about-”

Jeremy shot up into a seated position, horror dawning on his face. He twisted with a pained groan to look back the way he’d come. “Mick,” he said, almost to himself. “Did he-”

“He vill return shortly.” Medic rolled his eyes. “Unlike some idioten, Herr Sniper has not sabotaged his only means of resurrection.”

“He did quoi-?”

As if to support Medic’s assertion, the doors to the respawn chamber opened with a hiss and Mick rushed out. He looked about the room frantically until his eyes finally landed on Jeremy. He made a beeline directly to where the runner still sat crumpled on the floor.

“Jer,” Mick whispered, as he dropped to his knees beside Jeremy. He looked good. Whole and hale in a way Jeremy wished he could boast for himself right now. But more importantly, he was alive - they were both alive - and Jeremy was just so goddamn happy about it that he kissed him.

---

Jeremy was alive. Jeremy was alive and safe and kissing Mick.

But I still haven’t-

The thought died in the warmth of Jeremy’s kiss. The hurried tangle of teeth and tongues quickly gave way to something soft and languorous, as if they were re-learning the contours of each other’s mouths. Jeremy’s hands were fisted in Mick’s shirt while Mick’s splayed across the runner’s back, pulling him ever closer. Mick hummed a low growl. Jeremy pulled back just enough to take a few frantic breaths and then froze.

“Hey, wait a second,” He shoved Mick away. “I’m still mad at you!”

Mick just stared at him, rumpled and panting and wild-eyed with confusion.

“Ya left me, Mick!” Jeremy scrambled up on unsteady feet, shaking with anger. “Ya left without even sayin’ a fuckin’ word!”.

Mick got to his feet, hands outstretched placatingly. “Jer, I’m-”

“You freakin’ asshole!” Jeremy stalked back and forth across the tile floor. “Ma always warned me about guys like you! You rat bastard!” He pointed one accusing finger at Mick “I- You-” Jeremy let out a growl of frustration and flung himself at the Mick, fists raised and swinging. He landed one good punch, then two, but soon enough wild keening sobs started to overtake his curses, and Jeremy’s blows turned to weak, half-hearted thumping against Mick’s chest. “Ya left me!” He wailed. “Ya left me all alone, Mickey!”

Mick pulled the runner against him, trapping Jeremy’s hands between them. He made low comforting noises as he held him; it was all he could think to do. “I know, I know I left. It was bloody stupid. I was bloody stupid. I just-” Mick’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry, love. I’m so bloody sorry.”

Jeremy stepped backwards abruptly, tearing himself from Mick’s arms, but he didn’t leave. Instead, he just stood there, eyes fixed intently on the marksman’s face as if trying to figure him out. Mick swallowed and took the silent cue to continue.

“You were right, Jer. We were together, and it was good, and I threw it all away like a right bloody wanker.” Mick didn’t dare touch Jeremy again, though he desperately wanted to; His hands hovered uselessly in the air between them. “I do love you, Jeremy. I always did, even when I was too much of a coward to admit it.”

“You do?” Jeremy asked, voice small and paper-thin.

‘I really bloody do,” Mick replied. He met Jeremy’s eyes as he said it, gaze steady and sure. He hoped it was enough to convince him, to maybe ease some of the pain that he had caused. “But I know I hurt ya, Jer, so I understand if it’s too late-”

Mick was cut off by Jeremy’s lips slamming against his own. The kiss this time was bruising, anger and bitterness mingling with relief and joy and the desperate need to be close to each other. It was chaotic, their teeth and tongues clashing, lips pressed hard against lips. Jeremy gripped the hair at the nape of Mick’s neck. Mick clung hard to Jeremy’s shoulder blades. One of them let out a long, low moan, and neither of them could tell who it was.

And then Mick darted back with a “Gah! He bloody kicked me!”

“This is a place of work, not your filthy van.” Spy sneered, entirely unapologetic, before turning his baleful eye on Jeremy. “Besides, I for one would like to know what the good doctor meant when he said you sabotaged your own respawn.”

Mick’s gaze shot back to Jeremy. “You did this?” He asked, equal parts confusion and disbelief. “Why would ya…” He trailed off, expression darkening in realisation. “Did you… Were you trying to off yourself?”

“No!” Jeremy grabbed Mick’s hands, voice pleading as he blurted, “No. I- I’m pregnant. I know that Spy spilled the beans, but I figured I oughta tell you that myself. I’m pregnant, Mickey, and the doc said that respawn could, ya know, get rid of it.” Jeremy’s voice broke, but he continued his rushed patter.  “I thought if it was gone, then maybe we could go back to normal. That maybe…” Jeremy shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. The point is, I changed my mind. I tried to put it back the way it was, but I guess I screwed it all up somehow.”

“Imbécile !” Spy bellowed as he launched himself towards them. “Sais-tu ce que ta mère me ferait si- [Do you know what your mother would do to me if-]”

Both men startled, having forgotten entirely that the Frenchman was there. Luckily, Heavy had arrived sometime during the discussion and was able to – with surprising speed – tackle Spy into a bear hug. They watched as Spy was towed out of the room, cursing in French and stabbing ineffectually at the Russian’s forearms. A few shell-shocked moments lingered in their wake.

“I’m keeping it,” Jeremy said so unexpectedly that Mick’s head snapped back to him at lightning speed. The runner’s gaze was filled with resolve, though his hands shook. “I’m keeping the baby, Mick.”

For a few seconds, panic coursed like electricity through Mick’s veins. His legs twitched, as if readying to bolt. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this! How was he supposed to-

But then Mick looked again into Jeremy’s eyes and realised just how close the shade was to the walls of his childhood bedroom, or the heat-hazy summer sky he’d left behind in Oz. And he remembered why he left those comforts, why he’d travelled back halfway across the world. Why he’d come home.

“I hoped so,” Mick said. “I really bloody hoped so.”