Chapter Text
It’s stupid, the pickle he’s gotten himself into.
The other team’s Soldier had caught a glimpse of him through the open windows of a building and fired off a couple of rockets, more as a warning than actually trying for a kill. Scout had been overconfident in his own ability to dodge, and underestimated the ability of the Soldier to aim.
One of the rockets had went through the open window, and Scout had almost jumped into it. He managed to dodge away at the last second.
Not fast enough. The first rocket hit the wall near his right arm and blew it to smithereens. The second had crashed into the roof, bringing it down and trapping his torso under a block of concrete. White hot pain seared through his mind first, from his right side. It was like someone had set him on fire - a sensation he knew all too well. But with fire, at least, there was often sweet release soon, either in the form of death, or an air-blast from their Pyro, or Sniper’s…liquid. This was relentless.
“Fuck!” he screams, and pants with pain, the expression lessening his pain a little. No one replies, except for a slight echo of his voice. The corridor is sickeningly silent. The rest of the battle was probably carrying on somewhere much closer to the point; this area was not a well-travelled one. Scout was usually the only one to take this longer passage - his speed meant it didn’t take him too much longer, and the advantages he’d get from flanking were too great to ignore.
Goddamnit. Why did they have to make the walls of these places so blast resistant, but not the roofs? Scout thinks of having a word with Miss Pauling about that, but it joins the bottom of the very long list titled ‘Things to talk to Miss Pauling about’. Instead, he chances a look at his arm and immediately regrets it. Red. Red and pain. Chunks of flesh and muscle, and maybe even bone. It makes him feel sick. His closes his eyes and hisses out a few more swear words, the chant calming him a little. The pain is still in the forefront of his mind, but he’s starting to think around it. Scout’s breathing shifts from his frantic panting, until he’s almost desperately gulping in air. Each exhale is a struggle against the weight on his chest, each inhale only crushes him more.
It doesn’t feel right, as the warm liquid seeps into the rest of his clothing, putting him in weird state in between burning hot and shivering cold. Christ, he really was unlucky, wasn’t he? He couldn’t have gotten a quick, nearly painless death, one that would’ve sent him straight to Respawn. He had to have gotten trapped between a rock and a floor, slowly bleeding out. It could take hours. The thought makes him shudder, and he quickly pushes it out of his mind to make space for more pain.
In scenarios like these, the mercenaries were usually trained to just bring their own weapons to their head and let Respawn take care of them. But Scout’s dominant arm was fucked, and besides, all his guns were trapped with his torso beneath the rubble. He wasn’t going to bash his own head in with a bat, either. He can’t even reach the button on his headset to radio the rest of the team, to yell out for help or Medic - although he’s not sure even the Doc would see a point in helping him now.
So, he’s just going to have to lie there and wait. Wait until either someone finds him, or he bleeds out. The former seems pretty unlikely. So, regardless of how horrifying the thought is, the latter it is.
He lets out a groan, long and low. The adrenaline pumping through his veins has numbed the white-hot pain from his arm a little, but now his whole body has shifted into a dull ache. It’s like he’s being ground to a paste slowly, squished like a bug beneath the concrete.
How long did it take to bleed out, anyway? He’s sure Medic has talked about it before, but it’s not like he’d ever voluntarily listen to the man’s disturbing fascinations with body parts. What if he didn’t bleed out before the day ended? He could lay there until Respawn ended, and then he could die. Maybe the day would end, and no one would come looking for him and he’d be there all night, whimpering and burning with pain.
Panic sets in again, and his breathing turns shallow.
“Guys? Help!” A whisper is all he can manage. It barely even cuts through the heavy silence. His head pounds. The pain builds up inside it, throbbing, until the pressure is nearly unbearable.
It’s awful how still everything is. It’s awful how still he’s forced to be, with the rock trapping his body. There’s a reason he’s always running, always fidgeting, always, always moving. His arm is screaming at him. He screams back, but the sound dies within his throat. It’s silent and still, and all he can feel is his breath. In and out, in and out. Why is he even trying to calm himself? He’s going to die. He needs to die.
And yet his body was so stubborn that it was holding on. Damnit. It was his speciality: being slippery and annoying and generally an unkillable little brat, but now it was proving to be the bane of his existence. Rather, that it was keeping his existence going.
“I’m dying,” he whispers, pleading to nothing. “I’m dying. Please.”
It hurts, but it’s becoming a dull ache rather than the sharp burning. The pain fills his mind, but it’s beginning to feel like an old friend. Or rather, an old enemy: one that’s been watching over him since the day he was born, ready to strike at any opportunity. Slowly, he breathes out, and lets the pain wash over him.
He’s holding on but he doesn’t want to. He wants to die. Dimly, his brain tries to register that thought, but it doesn’t hold, and instead flows through his head like water from a sieve.
His breathing’s loud. But not loud enough that he can’t hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching. Scout tries to twist his head to see who’s coming, but he can’t. His neck aches. His head aches. He slowly blinks and the world spins a little. The tapping noise is slowly getting louder and louder. Maybe it’s a member of the other team who’ll finally finish him off. God, he hopes it’s not the other Medic - he’d be in for a fate worse than death then.
It’s getting closer. He breathes in and the rush of the air doesn’t help his dizziness. The tapping sound stops, and Scout feels some sort of presence hanging over him. He blinks again and tries to focus on whatever it could be, but everything’s getting blurry. Through the moisture in his eyes the figure looms, dark and gangly limbs. He blinks again and gives up. Maybe it’s a member of his team, but they’re unusually quiet. A member of the other team would surely have killed him already by now - all the frontline mercs were so trigger happy that a flash of the other team’s colours would cause a firing of whatever weapon they had in hand. Scout wishes it wasn’t so quiet. He wishes they’d say something, but the room has no answer except two sets of breaths: both quick.
There’s a renewed pressure against his head. He barely notices. It’s like someone’s putting a stone to his head, or something else hard. That’s all he knows: rocks and pain. A rustle of cloth, and a gloved hand is put up to cover his eyes. The leather feels nice and rough against his skin. He nuzzles his face up to the new sensation. It distracts him from the burning in his arm. It feels almost familiar. Who did he know that wore leather gloves, again?
He can’t see anymore. That should be bad, right? Or maybe he’s finally dying for good. Strange that there’s no light at the end of the tunnel. Scout feels very alone.
“Je suis désolé, mon petit lapin.”
The pain inside his skull finally explodes in a solid wave. It all rushes out, and he’s gone.
---
A minute later, he wakes up in a clean, white-tiled room, and nothing hurts anymore.
Nothing hurts anymore. His body has been stitched back together. Even his clothes have had all traces of blood neatly removed. Scout’s head spins and he bends over and gags, but nothing comes out. Each trip to Respawn is definitely disorienting, but this was his worst one yet.
This can’t be real. The automated door slides open, and he runs into the field. Outside, the battle continues. He can hear Heavy’s cries and Demo’s drunken shouts, the sound of shots and rockets being fired and explosions that crash without him ending up under anything.
He sucks a deep breath into his lungs. It doesn’t hurt.
He’s whole again.
Scout laughs out loud. Engie and Pyro, who are watching their nest nearby, look at him curiously.
“Y’alright, son?” the Texan drawls. Pyro tilts their head.
Scout runs his hand up and down his right arm. It’s whole again. There’s no sign of the trauma it endured just fifteen minutes ago. Respawn truly was amazing. It should’ve been considered the 10th member of the team, but Medic was loathe to give up his title as the miracle worker.
“Yeah, yeah, all good!” He lets out a relieved sigh. Never has he appreciated the dusty, stale air of Teufort so much.
“’Fraid Respawn wasn’t gonna work?”
“Well, nah. I dunno.” He looks around. Pyro comes over and squeezes his arm too, a curious look somehow evident through their mask. The sensation makes him tense up a little, but his arm’s feeling the rubbery-ness of the firebug’s gloves all too well, so it’s still there. It’s real.
“Bad trip?” Engie raises an eyebrow and doesn’t let up his line of questioning. Scout shrugs.
“I mean, sorta.”
“Well, are y’feeling fit to fight, son?”
“Of course, man!” Scout says, but he doesn’t move. Pyro pats his shoulder and mumbles something barely audible. He breathes in and out, and the air feels good moving through him. Engie gives him another glance but turns back to his work quickly enough. Pyro, too, runs back towards the Texan, lightly burning the air in hopes of catching a cloaked Spy off guard. Scout watches the two scurry around like ants, and he almost manages a smile.
He’s back here again. He’s not trapped under a cave-in hoping to die, and it feels so good.
His newfound joy and relief at the miracle of life are interrupted by the hiss of the automatic roller doors opening and the stomping boots of one very loud American.
“Back to WORK, MAGGOT!” Soldier yells, popping out of Respawn and immediately running off without a pause. Scout nearly drops his bat on his foot at the sound.
“R-right!” He considers snapping back, but his head’s still spinning a little, so he decides to let it go. He casts one final glance at Engie and Pyro. The two are working too hard to notice him. Scout considers saying goodbye, but he runs off instead.
---
It may not look much like it, but when Scout’s running, he’s thinking.
If his legs are moving, his brain is too. Simple. It’s weird to a lot of other people, he knows, but it’s the only way he can get his mind clear enough to spit out any sort of thought.
And by God, he sure does a lot of running on the battlefield. So, the events of earlier just circle around in his brain.
The leather gloves and weird accent (what was he even saying in that language of his?) meant it could only be one person: Spy. But what the hell was Spy doing there? Sure, maybe there was some advantage in him taking an alternate route if the guy was disguised. But he definitely wasn’t. And anyway, he was coming from the BLU side. That meant he had to run all the way across the place to get to Scout.
How did he even know Scout was there? And, more importantly, why did he do that?
Well, not that he didn’t appreciate it. He got the quick death he wanted and an end to his suffering. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking. Why Spy? Why did he come and find Scout? Surely it wasn’t just to give him the sweet release of death - he’d have more important things to do than that. Plus, the man never missed an opportunity to complain about Scout back at base. They were a team, so Scout was pretty sure Spy wouldn’t actually harm him (although, if Respawn wasn’t turned off after hours, Scout was certain he’d have been killed a few times already). But anything short of that line? Spy had made it no secret that he found Scout “extremely annoying”, “an utter imbecile”, and about fifty other insulting remarks that he remembered for some reason. And yet, Spy wasted an unknown amount of time coming and finding him.
Why? The man wasn’t known for being kind - far from it. Still…
An alarm blares throughout the field, signalling the day’s end, and giving everyone permission to pack up and go back to base to have dinner, go to bed, and do it all again tomorrow. The Administrator is unusually quiet, but that’s probably because it all ended in a stalemate today, like it usually does. Scout stops in his tracks and starts dragging his feet back the way he came. He usually loves the sound of the alarm; it means he’s off the clock and can go back to base and do basically whatever he wants, but today it means he has to stop running.
Well, he doesn’t have to. But it means there’s no more reason for him to keep running. He dawdles on his way back to base, taking back routes and weaving through destroyed buildings, still wondering. Would it be weird to bring it up? Probably, but it was nice of Spy. It wasn’t like he wanted Spy to think he was ungrateful by asking why he would do such a thing.
When he gets to the prep room, it’s mostly empty. It’s not uncommon for Scout to be first back to base, given how fast he runs, but seeing how Heavy is already leaving the room, it seems he was the last one to arrive.
“Took ya long enough, mate.” Sniper greets him with a nod. “We were getting a little worried here.”
“Sorry, pally,” Scout replies. “Just kinda wanted to get a few more laps in.” It’s half the truth, at least.
“Dunno how you don’t get sick of running around all day.”
“Well, it is his special skill which he was hired for, is it not? Unlike the rest of us, who were hired for our ability as killers.” There in the corner, with the ever-sharp tongue, is his target.
“Nice comment about running away coming from you of all people, mate.” Sniper grins.
“Yeah, since ya always stabbin’ people in tha’ back and vanishing.”
Spy rolls his eyes and shoots a glare at Sniper, who takes it as his opportunity to let out a quiet chuckle and exit. Scout suddenly remembers that he’s meant to be being nice to Spy. He approaches the man, who doesn’t even raise his head at Scout’s approach.
“Uh, I just wanted to say thanks. About earlier.”
Spy seems to look him up and down, as if he’s checking over the boy for some flaw or imperfection. Scout rubs his right arm. It’s still there.
“Mmm.” The other man takes out a cigarette and avoids saying anything else, in lieu of placing the stick of tobacco and nicotine between his lips.
“How’dja know I was gone?”
Spy shrugs. “We play mostly the same game. Sneak behind their lines. Cause trouble. Often you run past me without realising. I merely noticed it seemed to be much quieter, as you did not seem to be shouting or chattering your head off.”
“Why…why did you come find me?”
The man pauses for a second, and Scout thinks he sees a frown beginning to form on his face, but Spy quickly switches back to his usual, smirking self. “Do you think it will really do well for us to be down a team member? Or do you just trust so wholeheartedly in my ability to carry the team that you think I could fill two roles at once?”
Scout rolls his eyes at the man. “Fine. Whatever. Thanks anyway.”
“De rien.”
The Frenchman strides out of the prep room without another word, and Scout is left to stare.
Well, whatever.
He hangs up his headset on the hook inside his locker and slams the door shut. The sound is too loud in the empty storeroom, and Scout takes it as his cue to leave as well.
Still, he can’t stop thinking about it. Why? Why Spy?
---
The muffled sound of the guitar strumming means that Engie’s finished his work, and so it’s safe to disturb him. Scout knocks on the door. It isn’t something he’d usually do - he’d normally just barge in, but the conversation he’s about to have isn’t something he’d usually do either.
“Come right on in.”
He opens the door and Engie’s tweaking the tuning pegs on his guitar, plucking each string, and nodding to himself. As soon as he sees his guest, though, he places the guitar on the table instead.
“Well, what can I do for you?”
“Hey, uh, Engie. I jus’ wanted to talk ‘bout something.”
“Right. Well, chatter away. I’ve got the time.”
Engie’s always been the unofficial team father - or maybe that’s what Scout feels, considering he’s the youngest of the group. The Texan has always been a dad figure, taking both Scout and Pyro under his wing, and giving them life lessons when he sees fit.
It’s nice. Not that Scout would ever, ever, admit it, but it’s nice really knowing there’s someone looking out for him. Of course, there’s his Ma, but she’s back in Boston and got seven other sons to worry about too. Here, it sometimes feels like there’s a couple of the guys on the team who keep an eye out for him.
Which means, obviously, that he has free rein to complain to Engie about whatever’s bothering him on any given day. But before he can start running his mouth off, Scout notices something on the workbench.
“What’s that?” It’s a stupid question. One look at the thing tells him it’s his headset. The one he wears to every battle, which he uses to radio in to the team with intel and updates. Engie turns around and raises his eyebrows like he doesn’t know what he’s just been working on.
“Oh right, your radio. I fixed it up so it’s voice activated. Next time you’re in a sticky situation you don’t gotta press any buttons. Jus’ gotta holler.”
Scout looks at the tiny piece of black plastic and wires. The microphone seems a little bigger and blockier, and there’s a red light blinking on the side.
“When didja get my headset?”
Engie opens his mouth too quickly, and then shuts it even faster.
“Well, uh, a lil’ birdie brought it over.”
Even Scout can see through that.
“Yeah freakin’ right. Who’s been touching my stuff?”
Engie’s face falls, in that way it does when he sees Scout do something stupid, like when he mixed random beakers in Demo’s lab and almost blew himself up or when he had that competition with Pyro to see who could scare more members of the team in a single day. Except, for once, Scout’s not being stupid.
“Well. Spy did. Told me, uh, not to tell you ‘bout it. Sorry, son. I don’t like lying t’you, but I figured I should do the man a favour.”
Scout’s eyes widen and his mouth moves faster than his brain. “See, man, that’s exactly what I wanted ‘ta talk ‘ta ya about. Spy. Like, y’know today how I was acting real weird after one of those Respawns?”
“Uh-huh.” The drawled reply is slow and measured, almost like a warning. Scout doesn’t notice.
“Like, I got in a real bad place. I was trapped under rocks and shit, but I was still alive, and I couldn’t off myself or nuthin’. So, I was just lying there waiting to die.”
He rubs his right arm. It’s still there. He continues.
“But then I heard footsteps and his weird accent and he was there. And I guess he must’ve shot me ‘cause I just woke up a bit later at Respawn.”
Engie shrugs, and it’s too casual. “It’s something you’d do for a teammate. Hell, if I’d have known, I’d have ran straight to ya. Same goes for Pyro, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, but this is Spy we’re talkin’ about, man! Guy who spends half his time complainin’ bout whatever I’m doing? Calling me a freakin’ idiot or stupid or stuff like that? Why’d he go all the way ‘cross the field for me?”
The heavy silence resonates around the room. Scout lets out a heavy sigh, and flops down onto a chair. For once, Engie doesn’t complain about how rough Scout is being with his tools, and instead watches Scout without a sound. The boy’s brain still spins, and he looks up to the ceiling, searching for some sort of answer. It only shows his own distorted reflection, half smudged and blurry in the not so clear metal.
At last, Engie gently offers something. “Maybe the man’s not as soulless as you want him to be, son.”
Scout scoffs. “I don’t want him to be soulless. He just is.”
The older man brushes the strings of his guitar nearly absentmindedly and avoids giving a response. Scout sighs again.
“Look, I don’t know, man. I just…I don’t even know why I’m so twisted in knots ‘bout it. I guess I should be grateful that he helped me. It just feels…freakin’ weird, okay?”
“You’re still young, son,” Engie replies, taking off his welding goggles and looking straight at Scout. “When you get older, you’ll realise not everyone is as straightforward as you or me.”
“I’m not a kid!” He can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. But he isn’t a kid, he’s nearly 25, for God’s sake. “I didn’t ask to get put on a team with a buncha geriatrics.”
Engie simply smiles at the comment and holds out the radio as a sort of peace offering.
“Hope ya get some use out of it, ‘specially after today.”
“Thanks, pal.” Scout takes his headset. The piece of plastic feels too light, too fragile in his fingers, almost nothing like something that could save his life. “And, uh, thanks for talkin’ with me, too.”
“That’s alright.” Engie picks up his guitar again, fingers already moving silently and mechanically across the strings. “Get some sleep, now.”
Scout nods and backs out of the room. On the way back to his room, he whistles lightly, and the sound reverberates around the metal corridors, comforting rather than lonely.
Well, that talk really ended up being about nothing. But he found out again that Spy was doing something for him - and trying to go behind his back to do it, too.
Scout sighs. The man is confusing as hell. But God help him, Scout’s gonna figure Spy out one day.