Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He had to leave Fortress at some point.

That was just the truth. You work a job, you quit it. It was inevitable. They all would eventually.

Years ago, he wouldn't have thought it possible to feel connected to the place.

Years ago, he would've never expected this… thing with Scout. How could he have? They'd been coworkers for six years already, and had never been any more than cordial with each other. Why would coming back be any different?

But it was. How couldn't it be?

He wasn't driven by much at the time Pauling came back for him. After all, he buried his parents' bloated corpses.
He knew whoever took the shot was told to leave the bodies. TFI doesn't leave evidence unless they want you to see it.

What comes after that?

Apparently, the discovery that he was adopted.
From then on, he survived solely on his curiosity; his need to know what happened. After all, that was the only chapter left incomplete. once he knew, the book would end.
He could finally shut it.

Then the choice was taken from his hands. He died.

Then he watched Scout die.

After that… things were different.

Saying yes to the forever war was a decision made for his parents. His real, non-biological parents. He didn't trust himself to stay alive without near-constant surveillance, and if they really were watching from above…
Well, they'd be disappointed by his job choice, but that was better than the scolding he'd get if he offed himself at 32.
So he rejoined the team. They all did. To some extent, he would bet they all realized they need each other. Who can empathize with a killer but a killer themselves?

And all of a sudden, Scout was in his crosshairs. Constantly. Trying for something with him.
It was perplexing. He thought he must’ve been looking for relief; for someone who could help bear the impossible burden of death.
But Mick was gone. He didn't remember— or perhaps he never knew— how to feel.
Of course, Scout wasn't the type to shy away from a potential challenge. So began his quest: trying to teach emotion to Frankenstein’s monster. Medic could revive his corporeal form, but what was he other than pieces of flesh, stuck together by electricity?

Scout cared like no one but his parents ever had. It didn't seem possible. It was like being looked directly in the eyes— terrifying, yet it filled him with some warm, unsteady reassurance. He saw Mick.
How? How was he was capable of untangling years of trauma Mick had written off as a part of himself now untouchable? How did he seem to know more about Mick than he had ever been sure of himself?

And one thing led to another, he supposed. Scout became Jeremy.

This thing with him— it'd been lovely, unexpectedly so. Lovely, but at the end of the day, an office relationship.

The thing was, he knew Jeremy. Jeremy, who’s stuck at TFI for another four years. Whose first gay kiss was stolen by Mick. Who rolled into bed with him one day and never asked what the two of them would become. It was probably temporary in his mind, right?
He knew it would eventually end. right?

It had been two years already, the time having passed surprisingly fast. Now his contract was almost up, ready to be renewed.

He really had been considering what it might be like to stay. Stay with the team; stay with him a bit longer.

Then it happened, and his lens on life shattered.

Chapter Text

Here were a couple facts about or related to Mick Mundy:

1. He was a transsexual. He took testosterone injections bimonthly.

2. He lived in Australia until age 18.

3. Australian birth rates were incredibly, if not worryingly, low due to the high levels of Australium that naturally occurred throughout the country.

4. Somehow, the natural occurrence of this mineral(?) upped testosterone levels across the board.

With facts come inferences, logically and naturally. So Mick inferred.

And was so very wrong.

Scout had been out drinking with the guys that night, which Mick had taken a rain check on. Scout was good about that— giving him his space, understanding that things could be a little too much sometimes.

This was worse than usual, though. Mick had been, as Scout would say, “out of wack” recently. Usually Scout used that to refer to the days he'd spend under the covers, or the days he couldn't bring himself to eat, or the ones where he had sudden onset spells of dizziness every hour. However, this was a longer-scale issue. He’d been feeling mysteriously off-kilter for werks, so sue his hypochondriac nature for just checking, right?

He bought one and did it right there in the RV bathroom, parked in the servo lot.
Mick couldn't imagine anything more humiliating or horrifying than holding it up to the light, staring at those little lines.
Positive.
He doubled over and puked into the sink.

That's when it started. The wondering.
Laying on Medic’s hospice bed, getting a post operation look-over, he pondered what the bloody hell he was doing.
Why was he still here?
Well, he knew why, but… should that be enough to keep him?
He was thoroughly spooked by the whole experience. He had been through far worse, obviously, but it still wasn't exactly a casual procedure to take part in.
He hated the way it made his body feel. Dysphoria, dusty and cobwebbed after years of work, was yanked from its box in the attic and slammed in his lap.
He thought about his mom. He felt guilty. It didn't change anything.
He thought about both his parents. He really didn't know much about it: the road they took to domestic living. When did they move in together? What determined the job they'd work for the rest of their lives? How did they know they'd found the right person?

Not for the first time, he considered what it would be like to really, truly leave behind Oz. It made him feel like a wilted weed ripped from his place in the soil.
Growing up on Aboriginal land was an experience so starkly different from anything he'd seen in the US. His parents had a fair amount of modern technology in their home like most of his neighbors, but they took great advantage of the land and its resources, continuing centuries of tradition. It secured in him a craving for nature that he’d end up feeling starved of for years.
He left home young and dumb, pursuing the money his parents never had, sending back to them as much as possible. They’d never been at any critical risk of poverty, but the government support was abysmal in his community. There was upkeep to be done.
Now that his parents were gone, and he was far beyond financially secure, maybe it was time to reestablish his roots.
He missed the smell of the ocean.

Going home didn't mean camping alone in the middle of nowhere like the other mercs loved to joke. It meant opening up new paths to something different. Maybe he’d fix up his parents’ home. Maybe he'd wander the country in a fancy camper before settling down. He could swim, He could fish, he could cook. Maybe take up hunting or knitting as a side hustle, as if he needed the money.
This was like retirement. 30 years early, perhaps, but he'd always been a laid back guy. He enjoyed slow, quiet living.
Unlike some people he knew, who thrived on music, sounds, lights, people. Who belonged in bright, lively cities in perpetual states of change.
Unlike Jeremy.
That was just it, wasn't it? They craved— they needed— different lives. It wouldn't work. couldn't.
It couldn't work.
And so he needed to leave. Now. Before…
Before he got too attached.
Before he couldn't let go.

He began repeating the mantra in his mind: shaving in the mirror, looking down his scope, talking with Scout in his camper. I have to go back; I have to go home. As if he was sure of himself in any way. As if he wasn't scared out of his mind.

He still hadn't told Jeremy any of it.
He didn't even know about the test. The surgery.
He probably wasn't even aware Mick’s contract was so close to expiring.

They were both full-grown adults, he reasoned weakly. If it was Jeremy who was ready to leave, of course Mick wouldn't stop him. It was his right. He could do whatever he pleased.
Why, then, was this so hard to think about?
Jeremy was his friend. He would always be his friend. They could call whenever, no problem. They could keep in touch.

He had to go home.
He just had to.

Chapter Text

It got harder to touch him.

A pulse of guilt ran through him with each casual brush of Jeremy’s fingers. Scout’s fingers, he corrected himself, time and time again as the clock ticked down. This arrangement was temporary, and his real name suddenly felt far too intimate, weighing on Mick’s tongue.

A month more. That was it, and he’d be going home, for good this time. He wouldn’t be lured away again with the promise of answers. Answers weren’t something he concerned himself with anymore.
It wasn’t that questions didn’t remain. Glaring, hard to ignore stains.
His personhood remained nebulous. That was something he noticed, meeting back up with the team, surrounded by strong personalities. There were crisp, dark lines defining each and every one of them, none bolder than Scout. Being around him made Mick feel scattered.
But there was absolutely nothing to feel once he got home again. A tree in the woods, all that.
Just one month more of airbrushed madness.

The thing was: Scout would find out no matter what. There would be a team-wide announcement maybe two weeks out, and god knew every emotion the guy felt on the matter would be publicly aired through his expression, let alone if he opened his mouth…
It would be best to handle in private. Lest their goings-on become a public spectacle.
It was immature, what he was doing. He was cognizant of that much. It was childish to put it off and off and off, to wait until the last second. But he was nervous.
Nervous to confront him. Nervous of his reaction.
And why should he be? He was justified in his desires, it was his bloody life, and he was plenty old enough to make decisions on his own, thank you very much.
Nothing the obstinate Scout said could change his mind, and why should it? He would just have to be realistic and polite. Thanks for the critique, mate, end of story. Then they’d get on with life. Easy.

—

I’m running out of time.
It was the type of thought that flashed across his mind whenever it pleased, whether he was lining up a shot, picking at supper with his head down, or smoking on the van’s roof.
When it struck, it sent a frigid feeling coursing through him, chased by a heavy, syrupy guilt. like jumping into a pool just to run back to the hot tub. Fear, then the sticky heat of dread.
There were loose ends to be tied up. Well, calling Scout a loose end felt cruel, even for him. It wasn’t as if he was sealing any envelopes, here— he just needed to muster up a mite of courage and be honest with the bloke.
The longer he waited, the worse it would get. And he knew that! But there he was anyway, dragging it out like one of his cigarettes, letting the consequences mount.
Any day now, he would find an opportunity.

—

“But why?”
He fiddled with Scout’s belt unhurriedly. “I want to.”
He laughed, and his breath hit Mick’s face. Mint. “Man, no you don’t. What do you need? You break a record again? I swear, if it was the new Springsteen one…”
Mick sighed. “Can’t a guy give a blowie without being lambasted?”
“At…” Scout snatched his wrist to glance at his watch’s face. “2 p.m.? On our good lord’s Sunday? I don’t think so, pal.”
“I can’t just want to?”
He scoffed. “No one wants ta.”
“You certainly seem to enjoy it,” he muttered.
Scout swatted at him. “Hey!”
“Hey yourself.” The corner of his mouth twitched up as he started pulling at Scout’s shirt, still tucked into his trousers.
Suddenly, Scout was gone, weaseling out of his place pinned against the camper door in one fluid motion. He took a deliberate step back. “Hey, uhhh, something’s going on wit’ you.”
Shit. He was already a rubbish liar, but Scout could sniff out strange behavior like a bloodhound. Or like a person with average emotional literacy.
“And why is that?” he asked, trying to keep the tension from seeping into his voice.
“You're bein’ real fuckin’ weird, man. You’ve been, like, ambushing me just to do shit for me.”
“I can’t—”
“No, you can’t. Because we don’t. Like, we went to the taqueria last Friday, which you know is my favorite, then you did my laundry for whatever reason when I was puttin’ it off, and now this? I’m like a dog that’s getting to do a bunch of fun stuff right before it’s put down.”
Mick huffed out a breath— not quite a laugh, but uncensored disbelief at how ridiculous, yet correct, Scout was in his convictions.
He… he really had been laying it on thick, hadn’t he? It wasn’t something he had even considered. It seemed his subconscious mind had more of a conscience than his conscious one.
Well. He had to tell the truth eventually. May as well be now.
He closed his eyes. Took a breath.
“Look. My current contract ends in a month. I don't think I’ll start up a new one.”

Sticky, sticky silence.

“You're leaving.”
“I'm just… not renewing my contact.”
“So you're leaving.”
“I'm retiring.”
“At thirty.”
He didn’t want to play this game. “Yes, Scout.”

Scout stared.

Mick sighed. “I'm just tired.” Not a lie.
Scout’s face seemed to register something Bad, and fear flitted across it, his eyebrows drawing together.
“Not of you,” Mick quickly corrected. “You’re the best thing here,” he said, and surprised himself, because yeah, he was right. Scout was the best thing. He made a rare attempt at direct eye contact, and it hurt bad. Scout’s big dumb blue eyes made him look so unguarded, so clear and honest, incapable of deceit. Mick felt like shit.
Scout’s expression, which faltered at his compliment, was schooled back into an accusatory glower. “You.. where would you even go?”
“Home.”
“Thought it was… thought it wasn't there no more.”
“She don't look great, but she's still a house.” He tried to smile. “‘Sides, got plenty of time to fix her up, eh? Retired and all.”
Scout was not smiling.

“I just thought… where did all this come from? You seemed like you were doing… well.” His voice was quiet, saying that, like it was too sensitive to mention Mick’s wellbeing. His shoes scuffed against the linoleum floor, fidgeting, fidgeting.

“Been thinking ‘bout this for a while.” Not true. “Since we first got rehired.” Another lie.
Mick had no plans. How do you prepare a life you don't care to live? There wasn't really a future; never was. There was just survival. How he would feed himself, where the money would come from.
Some people would be impressed. They’d say he's present, living in the moment. That wasn't true. It was more that he was blind six feet ahead of himself with no way to clear the fog.

Scout wasn’t satiated. “But you’ve never mentioned it.”
“Didn’t seem important.”
“Really. Really? Not important. ‘Cause you’ve been acting so much like yourself, lately.” His voice dripped sarcasm.
Mick bit the inside of his cheek. “You know how I get.”
“I do,” he bit back, his tone accusatory. Like he was catching Mick in a lie.
The telltale pinpricks of adrenaline crawled through him with gangly claws, pooling in his hands, catalyzing a shaky tremor. Another thing Scout would pick up on. Another tell.
A tell whose shriek echoed off the walls as he stood there, unable to vocalize.
In a way, he forced Scout to initiate.
“I’m going on a run.” A hand knocked his arm aside thoughtlessly, pushing down the handle on the front door, which swung open and hit the metal exterior of the camper with a bang.
He watched silently as Scout broke into a jog that became a sprint, the door swinging subtly in his tumultuous wake.

—

One week later, Mick hadn’t learned his lesson. (Read: damage control.)

He had never liked the post-battle locker room. Everyone was far too rowdy, apparently feeling no need to keep their voices at a tenable level, slamming doors and tracking mud all over the place. Mud that was mysteriously gone each morning, and he had no clue who was cleaning that. It was unnerving, in a distant, manageable way.
That day was no different from any other, with Mick sat on the bench in front of his locker, slowly and meticulously disassembling his rifle. Not apart of his normal routine, however, was Demo coming up behind him, making no small amount of noise, clapping his hand on Mick’s shoulder.
“Poker tonight, feartie? Or are ya not pony enough to play with the big boys?”
He heard Soldier chuckle to his right. The pair of them, along with Engineer and occasionally Scout, got together Thursday nights for a game.
Team activities had only gotten more exhausting recently, and the thought of attending made him wince. “Sorry, mate. Not seeing it in the cards this week.”
“Aye, come on! You said you’d join soon!”
“Did he, now?”
Demo, a blur in his peripheral, shifted. “What was that, lad?
Mick turned to follow his gaze, landing on a peeved Scout.
The fuck was he doing. He shut his gun’s case, moving to stand; preparing for a storm.
“I’m just surprised he let you guys know that. Scout sucked in a breath forcefully; a prickly hiss.
“It seems like these days he just… doesn’t know what to say.” He gave a toothy grimace, sticking Mick with a pointed look at he slammed his locker shut.
“This feels off-topic,” Demo muttered, seemingly dejected that he hadn’t succeeded in grilling Mick hard enough.
The bang of the locker door was all it took; everyone was looking their way. “What seems to be the problem, here?” Engie said slowly.
“Are you gonna say it, or should I?” His eyes flicked to see Scout, arms crossed, shifting his weight from foot to foot impatiently. “You want me to do this? ‘Cause I can do it.”
The room seemed to stop breathing, bracing for what would come next.
Mick said nothing.
“Speak.”
“Make your point, lad!”
“Will someone please explain this nonsense!?”
Scout scoffed. “Sniper’s leaving.”

A beat.

Soldier— of course— cracked first. “He is WHAT?”
“Yeah, he’s leaving! In, uh, three weeks, is it?” As if he didn’t know. As if he had to think about it.
Mick glared at the dusty tile, face burning; mad at Scout for never knowing when to keep his stupid mouth shut, mad at himself for thinking this would go any other way.
He was really hoping for an Irish goodbye, but it seemed he was doomed to an Aussie one.
Engie addressed him directly. “Son, is he telling the truth?”
(Muffled, from Scout: “You think I’d lie?”)
Mick cleared his throat, but the words didn’t come any easier. “He’s. Yeah. Yes.”
“Why?” from Demo. “What?” from Heavy. “Where to?” from Medic. Noises of indignation from Pyro and Soldier.
This. This was exactly what he didn’t want, and Scout knew it, and was trying to get under his skin. Their immaturities were a match made in heaven.

Spy watched from the corner, unperturbed. He despised that cunt.

—

He proceeded to explain himself to six shocked mercs, all while having daggers stared into him by one pissy Scout. It turned out that “I’d fancy going home” was an answer that satisfied most of the team.

Not the whole team.

The next day before battle, he entered the locker room to find Medic looming at the doorway. Yes, Medic was shorter than him, and yet his presence was akin to the gathering of clouds before a storm. Sinister was a brand he wore proudly.
“Herr Sniper, a word?”
Here we go, he thought to himself.

And there he went, voluntarily entering Medic’s infirmary post-battle. Either a screw had fallen out of his head mid-skirmish or he’d gone soft in his latter days.

Whatever it was Medic was working on as he gingerly pushed open the door, he’d prefer to never find out. The smell hit him first. It peppered the walls, a smattering on the ceiling, leading his eyes to a roiling mass on the instrument table. The color was anything but sanguine, which only proved to unsettle him further.
The only infirmed person in this room was Medic.
“Sniper, is that you? Sit, sit!” He didn’t bother to pause his work as Mick entered and hesitantly made his way to one of the only unsoiled pieces of furniture in the room.
“You always drag your feet in here like a convict on death row.”
Mick rolled his eyes. “Would you fancy I skip?”
Medic turned towards him then, eyes alight. “Ah, a bit of the old Sniper fire! I like to see it again.”
He said nothing as he sat, hoping Medic would take it as a cue to get on with whatever he wanted to bug him about. To his mild surprise, it worked.
"Earlier, you said your contract is soon to expire?” (Scout said that, Mick griped to himself.) “Well, coincidentally, so is mine. Upon returning, it seems we both took the conservative route. I was unsure if the company we hired back into would be nearly as reliable as before, seeing how two of our three lovely bosses met their unfortunate ends.
“However, in the past two years I've gained the assurance I was looking for. It seemed to me that you did too. But now—” he threw his gloved hands up in the air, further splattering biotic matter— “this.”
“This.”
“Yes, this odd thing where you sense danger and take off running. I thought you were quite happy here."
“That's not the issue.”
“Then, humor me. What exactly is?”
Less than a minute had passed, and Mick was already fed up. He fidgeted with his watch band.
"Maybe I don't want to live out the rest of my life like this,” he mumbled, nearing a growl.
“‘This’ being the part where you condemn men to their deaths every day, or the part where you have a stable job and supportive community?”
Sometimes he really hated this bastard.
“This isn't my world. As much as you'd like to play god and lay stake on my life, you don’t own me, this company doesn’t own me, and I don’t owe anything to you or anyone else here due to nostalgia or sunk costs.”
Medic observed him for a moment, seeming more curious than affected. The bloke loved to prance about like he got his degree in psychotherapy, as if his day job wasn’t disassembling and reassembling meat.
“Is it because of the operation?”
Mick bristled. “Pardon?”
“Are you acting like this because of the abortion. It’s a simple question, but I’m sure you have a complex answer. It’s certainly a phenomenon worth examining. I’d like to understand what exactly the persisting fear is here.”
“I believe you’re misunderstanding how severely you are overstepping my already too lenient boundaries.”
He paused, cocking his head as if feigning social ineptitude. Mick noted the extent to which he resembled one of his doves.
Medic sighed, leaning back against the table (which, despite being wheeled, had long been bolted to the floor). “You’re right. It’s not my place, but I worry about you. Would you at least consider that perhaps it could be? I take it you’ve consulted no one before deciding to quit your job and fly to the other side of the world, ja?”
“You make it sound like a bloody prison break. I’m just going home.” He felt like a broken record.
“You’re not hearing me. Hold on,” he said, seeing Mick's mouth open in protest.
“I am sure you know, deep down, just how unhealthy this is.” He sighed. “I really cannot deal with you solitary folk. Has the boy really not cleared up any of your acute emotional congestion?"
Mick furrowed his brows. “...Scout?"
"Yes, Scout," he snorted, like suggesting anything else would be preposterous. “Look, I understand that this has all been incredibly hard on you, and that it is not a subject you enjoy breaching, but perhaps it would be healthy for you to discuss your operation with someone. Not perhaps. It would be, Mick, and the fact that you are not is worrying at the least.”
He shuddered at Medic’s use of his real name. It felt like unfair leverage; forced nostalgia.
He couldn’t keep himself from biting. “‘Worrying?’ What, you think I'm primed to off meself?”
“I think you're about to drive a rift in an important relationship simply because you are terrified of communication.”
“This isn't because of… ah, behind, chef.” He pointed, and Medic whipped around to see his prized project crawling off the instrument table.
“Again? Scheisse..” Mick watched as he grabbed the blunt side of some forceps and started bludgeoning. “Don’t think you’re off the hook—” he grunted in frustration— “because of this!” The thing twitched and slowed, and he sighed, facing Mick again. “Please, do continue.”
“For the last time, I’m not leaving because of the surgery— I’m leaving because I did some thinking ‘bout what I need.”
“And what is that? What is out there that cannot be found here?”
“Oi, I dunno— my hometown? My parents? Peace and bloody quiet?”
Now Medic just seemed… sad.
Mick sighed, exhausted and ready to claim his hollow victory. “May I be excused?” he asked, already moving to stand.
He made it to the door before Medic spoke again. “One thing.”
His fingers faltered on the handle as he turned to face him.
“Keep in touch.” He must’ve noticed Mick’s expression of uneasiness, because he relented: “If not with us, at least with Scout.”
“Already planned on it… What’s your angle here? Why is this so important to you?”
“There is not much around here that keeps myself and the wife entertained, you know.”
He pushed down the handle.
“Oh, obviously that's not why, dummkopf… Please, do me a favor and wrap it around your thick skull that I'm capable of caring about you and your future.”
“...Suppose so.” He paused. “Good evening, Medic.”
“Gute nacht, herr Sniper. And good luck.”

—

Medic’s audacity never ceased to amaze him. They got along fairly well, but the man was far too willing to poke into others’ business.
Why did everyone seem to think they knew some huge open secret about Mick’s life apparently invisible to himself? What were they seeing that he didn't? Acting like fortunetellers, the lot of them.
He cared about all his friends, no doubt, but there were more people in the world than just them. There was more than this company; this war; Teufort. There had to be.

He humored Medic’s suggestion for a fleeting moment: Scout knowing the truth.
Pandora’s box of deadly endings instantly crowded his mind. The things he would do to Mick if he knew— they were hard to predict. Would he run off and tell everyone? Would he get violent?
Would he... want it?
He realized that he really didn’t know much about Scout’s plan for the future. He was already 27, but he’d always seemed like the type that would become a father. Truthfully, both of them were getting somewhat up there in age. If he really wanted something like that, he should’ve already left Fortress in pursuit of a suitable mate to settle down with.
Settling down. What an abstract concept.
He hadn't given it much thought, the topic being enough to make his stomach squirm, but he didn't need to. Pregnancy or not, Mick couldn’t be a dad. In one hundred lives, in one thousand timelines, he wouldn’t once succeed.
So what, then, was keeping Scout? It couldn’t be money. From his reaction to Mick’s departure, it seemed pretty clear his contract wasn’t due for a good while— or if it was, he had already had plans to renew.
Was it that he truly failed to think ahead?
Maybe if Mick left, he would follow. Maybe he just needed a little push to get his life together; put things in perspective.
In a way, he could do good. help Scout; help himself.
They would still be friends. He'd fix up the busted old phone, something he never bothered doing the last time he went home.

Maybe then he could fall asleep at night knowing the both of them were better off. Maybe the guilt that bealed on his skin each night like dewdrops on grass would let up and he wouldn’t wake sweaty and feverish with his heart pounding. Maybe it would no longer feel like living on borrowed time just to breathe in his presence, chronically aware that Scout was stooping to new lows simply by occupying his space.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

He closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and screamed as loud as he could.
The sound split open the night air, bouncing back off the canyon.

Look, it happened like this:
People left his life.
That was it. No one ever explained why.
It had happened slowly; over time. It had happened in an instant.
He gradually began to understand it as The Way Things Were. And there was no point in questioning something when that was just The Way It Was.
It taught him that he was doing something wrong, or that he was wrong, some part of him. It was immutable. It would happen again, and then again. Simple. It was his job to get used to it.

He hadn’t yet.

The moon was missing from its rightful place in the sky. For the last month, it had slipped away slowly, shrunk to a sliver; now Scout’s memory was his only map up the rocky bluffs and to the precipice.

He used to come here often. It was a place he could be as Scout as he wanted without anyone finding out. Breakdowns, carousing, noisemaking: these were the highs and lows that were just too childish to fit in among his peers, and he resented them more the older he got. It wasn’t as if his team wasn’t batshit insane most of the time— it was more that their emotions came out properly, through manly crap like drinking and rage and destruction.

He was a frequent enough visitor of this sequestered little spot that he had set up a dusty old lawn chair for longer getaways. Recently, though, his hideout had sorta changed. There was a chair set up elsewhere just for him.

But.

Well.

That was then. This was now. This was real life.

That morning he had the joy of getting up before dawn to experience what was probably the worst car ride of his life. He was sat next to Snipes on the four hour drive to the airport. It was awkward and it sucked.
It was a not-so-subtle reminder of the previous three weeks: no fun and no sex. Just a lot of sitting around, waiting for it to happen. “It” being Sniper’s departure, which continued to be shrouded in mystery. Not fun, cool mystery— stupid, hair-tearingly-confusing mystery.

He didn't even help Sniper pack. He would’ve, for the record, if he was asked. But instead he had the luxury of finding out at 4 a.m. that the guy had stuffed full one singular ratty old suitcase and the rest of his possessions were falling into Scout’s hands by default. It was like his uncle who lived in a trailer park had died and he was passed down the estate. Thanks for nothing, dude.

The contents of the place were as worn and stale as the man who once owned them. Sniper wasn't exactly a nostalgic guy, more the type to use and abuse the same tired essentials until they absolutely had to be replaced. Tattered civvies, dusty records, rusted cans.. the only new things he'd ever bought were books.

And, oh joy, Scout got to clean it all up. He wished he’d been spared the perceived kindness. Typically TFI would dispose of personal objects as quickly as possible, lest a person be memorialized— memories were dangerous, but mementos were fatal— so when Pauling gave him the weekend, he knew she was trying to do him a solid, but brother, fill the thing with gasoline and throw in a match.
The RV was nothing more than a standing reminder of, hey, remember that guy you spent the last two years with? Well, maybe he never actually cared. At all, really. And maybe he never thought or felt either because anyone would assume as much if they saw his generic-ass storage closet of a home.

“Didn’t seem important.”
That. That was the last thing Sniper said to him on the matter. After he pulled his little running away stunt— yeah, yeah, real mature— they just… didn’t bring it up again.

Truthfully, he wasn’t innocent here. He had this nasty habit of playing at normalcy when he felt anything but. That's what you do when you're dealt a hand like him, though. Smile through the pain. Smile through weeks without breakfast and winters of unpaid heating bills.
Look, he just wanted him and Snipes to be, well, good. Chill, on the same page, whatever. So he tried. He tried to initiate but got nothing back. He put on his Scout face and tried to cheer him up; nada. The silence was so painful he just started turning on the TV and leaving it that way. Even records felt too emotional; too real. He swore he would start sinking into the old slow songs Sniper played. Maybe they were both too old for cheering up or feeling fine. Maybe he was outgrowing optimism, or maybe it was leeched out of him.
Was this easy for Sniper? If it wasn’t for the big stink he had made of withholding the news, maybe he’d think so.
Scout wasn't stupid. He had known something was up for weeks, and he knew Sniper didn’t know he knew. It was embarrassingly obvious. And he felt like a fucking pussy, because this guy hadn’t even cared he existed two years ago, and now here Scout was thinking about him; them. He had never ever thought about Sniper, and that was the beauty of the whole thing. Time passage. Reality TV. Cheap junk food.
Cheaper sex. Handies.

The airport was even worse than the drive.

“Here's my.. er...” Sniper shuffled through his pants pocket for a moment before pulling out a small strip of paper. Scout watched his hand shake as he held it out. He took it.
“‘S my number. The home phone. She’s broken, but give me a week or two, she’ll be right as rain.”
“Oh, okay. That’s, uh.. thanks.” He shoved it in his pocket, plastering on a grin.
Sniper shifted nervously. “Er. Weren't sure you'd want it.”
“Really?” Like it wasn't the most obvious thing in the world that Scout would be calling.
“I'm 19 hours ahead, mind.”
“Psh, whatever. I’ll bug you whenever I want, so you better be ready for that. You gotta wait up for me and shit.” In the corner of his eye, a family walked by with young kids. “Uh— stuff. Yeah.”
Sniper did his classic slight smile and nervous glance away. They were both quiet for a moment.

“Scout?”

The sound of his name snapped his eyes right to Sniper’s. Typically they were hidden by his shooting glasses, but he was wearing some generic reading ones that day. Probably something about not looking like a trained assassin in public, but in the moment, fleetingly, it felt like it was for him.

He spoke.

“Look after yourself.”

He didn't know quite why, but in that moment, those words made him despise Sniper more than anything in the world.
“Sure,” he spat. “Whatever you wish, princess.”
He felt only a little bad when he saw the shock on his face, only for a second, quickly schooled back to his stupid emotionless front.
Scout hated him. He hated him so much.
He clutched the paper so hard on the ride back to the base that it became difficult to decipher.
Sniper's number. The ink wouldn't wash off his palm for three days.
They had stared at each other and that was it. He looked like he had something more to say, but he seemed to swallow it, turning back towards the team, giving a half-hearted wave. Everyone shouted their goodbyes as obnoxiously as possible, and Scout stood there, stood there, feeling a string stretch between them, feeling it thin and snap.
And that was it.

He couldn’t stop himself from shrieking like he was trying to get Sniper to fucking hear it on the other side of the world. His voice ripped from his throat and he reveled in the buzz of his lungs. It echoed back, mocking him.

—

Killing people felt so good.
He kinda forgot what his job was. It was like, he did it every day, so at some point it became normal. Which was probably for the best, because he was a total pussy when it started; big-time. He’d done some damage before, but he’d never shot a guy in the head with a gun or anything, alright? It was freaky, but he got used to it.
Then Sniper left, and there was a lot less to do around the base, it seemed. Work came back into focus, and he didn’t know if he should be worried about this, but cracking skulls fucking rocked. Oh man. He was running around taking potshots most of the time, focused on the objective, but when he got to use his bat… fuck, was it good.
The crunch of bone made his mouth water. He imagined Sniper was there, watching through his scope, horrified by his blatant lack of professionalism. He imagined him pulling Scout aside after the match, wondering if something was wrong. Was there anything he could do to help, he’d ask? And then he’d put his hand on Scout’s hip, and…
His heart pounded out his chest as he yanked the temperature dial to the right for what felt like the dozenth time since Sniper left.
Damn it. He pushed open the shower curtain, reaching for his towel.
The worst part was, he should’ve expected this. Fooling around at work wasn’t exactly a forever food or anything.
It wasn't easy to imagine much of anything at TFI, though. Life wasn’t an ink-stippled timeline of moments as much as one smudgy charcoal line, where looking to the past or future was essentially peering into a mirror. Scout anticipated sameness. Tomorrow he’d wake up at 6 a.m., just like yesterday and today and every moment going forward until the days were so far away they blurred and tumbled over the horizon line.

Opening his bedroom door, he was greeted by the few choice items he salvaged from Sniper’s van, dumped unceremoniously on the floor: his records and player, some of Scout’s snacks that he’d taken to stashing over there, the last of his weed, and his books. What a mess. It didn't help that his drawing supplies were strewn haphazardly across every possible flat surface— pencils, pens, markers; multiple half-finished sketchbooks.
It all looked like some physical manifestation of regret, and even more so a reminder of just what an odd dude Sniper was. Of course he tried to make friends with a coworker he’d never given a second glance in six years, and of course the guy turned out to be some deviant freak.

Hooking up with Sniper was so weird. Like, he’d seen transvestites before, back home, but he didn’t know women also wanted to be men. He super didn’t know that they could actually become them? The thing about Sniper was he was mega manly. Wiry, veiny, hair freaking everywhere.. everything Scout could only dream of. It was kinda embarrassing.
The only thing was his pussy. Which, honestly, was kinda a relief when they started. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of sucking a guy off, but he was real comfortable with girls and all that.
But, actually, Sniper kinda did have a dick? It was a whole weird confusing phenomenon that he still didn’t understand. Maybe it was an Australian thing.
Did all Australian women have girl dicks?
He should ask Medic about that.

Honestly, it was hard not to think about sex— which, yes, embarrassing— but this was the longest dry spell he had gone through in over a year, which was maybe also additionally embarrassing.
But could you blame him? He was young and healthy! He had a regular routine and suddenly they quit cold-turkey and he wasn’t prepared for that.

And maybe it also hurt a little to see someone every day and suddenly have them be gone. Maybe when he stopped thinking about sex, there was another hurt, the type that hung around and left him sulking after dinner, aimless.
He lost a friend. Sniper wasn’t just some guy he knew. He was his friend.

Now Scout had time that needed filling and that wasn’t something he ever really thought would be an issue. Yeah, he was drawing, watching TV, but he underestimated how much time him and Sniper had just spent talking, or the time he had spent talking and Sniper had listening.
Well, maybe that was unfair— it wasn't just him throwing words at a brick wall. Sniper always had something thoughtful to say because he listened listened, the real kind, and sometimes he'd even tell his own stories. That was Scout’s favorite. He clutched onto every little scrap of information like they would flutter away in the wind and there would be nothing left of Sniper at all. It seemed a little ridiculous in the past, but now he couldn't help but think maybe he wasn't so wrong after all.
For a while back there he could’ve sworn Snipes was relaxing around him, and all he could think was god fucking finally. He was earning the tiniest little morsels of detail about his life and somehow just knowing Sniper preferred apricots to peaches or folded dog-ears into his magazines was the most rewarding shit in his day.

But at some point things had changed again. Sniper saw his shadow and retreated back into his groundhog hole.

Less talking, less stories. Less social time with the group; less campfires, less cooking. More smoke that hung around the van and made Scout cough and more muttered ‘sorry’s.

When exactly was that? When did the retreat begin? It was long before the stage of nervous appeasement that had cropped up the last few weeks before his departure.

And it sucked, ‘cause, despite the assumptions of the team, despite Scout’s incessant teasing, Sniper used to be fun.

Fun Sniper did silly voices when he read books. Fun Sniper mocked stupid gameshows and locals and politicians on the radio. He smiled. He laughed. He seemed to wear a perpetual smirk when Scout was around. Nobody else really noticed, but he did.

Scout craved warm cheap beer. He craved rooftops and constellations.
(The sky was boring and the nights were cold and drinking sucked shit and he was a goddamn hypocrite.)

—

“You know that girl I’ve been seeing?”
She laughed. “Of course— you never shut up about her, after all.”
His face heated. “Ma.”

Snipes and him might not’ve talked their shit out after that fated day, but Scout would’ve gone crazy if no one got to hear about it. He sure was lucky it had gone down on a Sunday.
Every weekend— no exceptions!— he called home. After their scuffle, he couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty leaving the camper to go gossip to his very alive mother, but what could a guy do. Couldn’t bring the Sniper’s dead parents back, that was for sure.

“Aw, Jer, I’m just making fun. It’s very sweet. How’s she doing?”
“Well. He, uh, she’s actually— she’s moving.” It felt different saying it out loud, somehow.
Her tone shifted instantly. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”
He felt…
“I mean, it’s, like. Whatever, I guess.”
The line was quiet for a moment. He shifted the phone to his other ear.
When she spoke, it was slow and gentle. “It doesn’t have to be whatever. It’s been, what, a little over a year now? That’s not easy to walk away from.”
“Yeah, I— wait, really?” He’d been boning this guy for a year?
“Time sure flies, doesn’t it?”
“I guess it... It really does.” More like stops, or stalls, or doesn’t exist in the slightest, but close enough.
“When’s she going?”
“In, like, less than a month. She said I could call and junk, but…”
“But it’s not the same.”
He sighed. “Yeah, nah.”
“Well, where's she off to? New job? Family?”
“Uhh,” he said. “Well. Good question.”
A pause.
“You don’t know?”
“She’s so cryptic! She’s going back to her hometown, but... It just don’t add up.” He fiddled with the phone cord. “It was really sudden.”
“Is there a reason you two haven’t had a conversation about this?”
“Iunno. She doesn’t really like to talk about herself all that much. And when she told me, she was like, ‘yeah, not a big fricken’ deal, whatever.’ So, whatever, right? If she’s gonna treat it like it’s nothing, guess it’s nothing,” he snarked.
“Oh, I’m sure that's not true. She seemed like such a nice girl. Real good for ya.”
Really? What the heck had he been telling her? “I guess,” he acquiesced, uncertain.
“Well, forget what she said for a tick. What do you think?”
He hesitated. What did he think?

Two years ago, the earth shattered. Then it came back together again, as if it never happened; as if they never died, as if work never ceased.

it drove him nuts how pleased everyone was to thoughts-and-prayers their way back into the ‘killing people is a super fun cool game for money’ shtick. and maybe it was because the older guys had all faced mortal consequence before, and Scout was being a little baby like usual, but his first death back on the field was worse than his first-ever day at TFI. by a landslide. He found himself wondering if anyone else felt that sudden grand piano’s worth of consciousness fall directly onto their unsuspecting face. And he just so happened to see Sniper first, just so happened to find him lingering in the locker room that day, so, fuck it, he asked.

The two of them fell into one another. It was funny, because he never got the answer he was looking for. But he got something else, which was someone who didn’t get it but still got it, yanno, and suddenly Snipes was a real human being and not just a weird shadowy creature who slunk around his place of work doing the occasional load of laundry and stealing coffee stirrers from the kitchen.

They fell into each other. They went from pleasantries to spending practically every day breathing each other’s air. They were friends in a manner so instant Scout wondered what he’d missed out on the past eight (!) years by not just stopping by the van and saying ‘sup.

It was hard to even recall exactly when the lines began to blur. He was sure it was one of those nights Sniper convinced him to pop an edible because they ‘wouldn't wreck his lungs’ and he ‘just wanted to know if Scout was even capable of slowing down.’ But things sped up, motion-blurred, brain outside of body and heart outside of chest, and even reflecting on it felt like a breach of some important code in which things were meant to be permanently out of focus.

So, two years ago, Sniper came into his life. Sniper and him were pals.
Sniper left without rhyme or reason.
And all he got were some dusty old books and a goddamn novelty mug.
What did he think?
“I think… it kinda hurts.”
He said it and he realized it.
Not that he hadn't been very consciously pissed— pissed at Sniper’s flippancy, pissed at getting up early, pissed at hauling junk— but this was more than annoyance; more than anger. It was…
Hurt. It hurt.

“Oh, honey,” she cooed.
Okay, with a response like that he suddenly felt kinda stupid and that maybe he was overreacting because Sniper and him weren’t anything to ‘oh you poor thing’ over. They were more of a ‘damn that sucks pass me another beer’ sorta deal.
And his hesitance probably showed, because Ma kept talking. “Well, I’m glad you're acknowledging those feelings. It’s good to let yourself hurt.”
“Dunno about good.”
“Jeremy, you gotta feel at some point! You know what happens when you leave all that bottled up— you end up doing something you regret.”
Maybe screaming his lungs out on the edge of a cliff was an advanced emotional technique, actually. “I guess.”
“Look, when people leave, it’s.. don't go calling me dramatic like your brothers, but it’s some of the hardest feelings you'll ever have to process. You ask yourself why they did it, and if they ever even considered you, and how it would make you feel, and you wonder if that's love, when someone does what would keep you the safest even if it doesn't make you the happiest… Oh, I’m getting all caught up in my feelings again, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, uh. Dunno if it's like all that, Ma.” He laughed awkwardly.
“Well, you know what I’m getting at. And don't go writing me off so quick,” she chastised. “How long have you been able to count on her just being there? When ya lose that, well, it ain’t easy. Just like when all you boys moved out and left your poor old ma all alone.”
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Maaa… Half of us live, like, ten minutes from you…”
“But not my youngest son! On his own way out west…”
“I’m twenty-seven. I’ll be fine.”
She scoffed. “Hey, I get to worry about you as long as I live; that’s my right as your mother.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, taking the opportunity to reroute the conversation. “So, uh, how’s the new baby?”
She gasped excitedly. Bingo. “Oh my goodness, you need to hear what she did the other day. So—”
As she launched into the latest family news, he found himself letting go tension he hadn’t realized he was holding onto.

—

“I dunno, Scout. I think that’s the point.”
He stretched his arms up to the ceiling, parsing the bumpy texture of the vinyl. “Like, open ending or whatever, I get it, but don’t you want an answer? If he’s crazy or not?”
T-minus three months until Sniper’s departure, the two of them were crammed together on the lofted bed of the RV, dining on the food for thought that was their latest completed novel. Sniper, of course, had read it out loud.
“Then I’d have to start wondering if we’re crazy, too.”
Scout snorted. “It feels weird to say we got PTSD. Too real.” He paused. “I’d totally believe that you hallucinate aliens, though.”
“And I’d bet being trapped in a zoo with a beautiful naked lady for alien viewing pleasure is your weekly wet dream.”
“More like being trapped with you is my weekly waking nightmare.”
“Oh, piss off. You’d be bored to death without me.”

The memory was one night of many, an occasion turned tradition. It made Scout realize something truly wild: he liked reading. Well, he liked books. They weren’t all snoozefests from the 1600s like school made him think. Actually, they were a lot like movies, if movies were filled with big confusing words that Sniper had to stop to explain to him halfway through every page.
He did learn, though, to his own surprise. The same way he kept Sniper’s book collection, a messy mismatched stack next to his nightstand, he kept his vocabulary too. Sniper was gone, but his words remained, defining the world around Scout without his permission. Even if he never saw him again, never thought about the guy for one more second, he couldn’t get rid of him. Some physical amount of space in his brain belonged to Sniper and there wasn't a single thing he could do about it.

Hurt. He kept thinking about it. He hung up the call that day and went to his room to draw but got all introspective and shit instead, because apparently Sniper was capable of hurting him by quitting his day job. It felt like at some point Scout had given him too much power and he wasn't exactly sure when. The thought was some sort of major upset, like if your favorite player left the team they’d been on for years. You’d be all like, damn, I knew they could do that, but I just didn't think it would be so soon, and it would feel like a betrayal even though it's just show biz.

When he announced his departure, they were halfway through Watership Down. After that day, Sniper had never taken it off the shelf again.
And with him gone, Hazel’s gaze from atop the tower of books felt piercing. Scout didn’t think he’d be able to get through it alone. It wasn’t for a lack of passion— the words on the page just wouldn’t stay still. It was like trying to read a bowl of alphabet soup.

Another story doomed to an uncertain ending, he thought. And then he thought again and realized how fucking melodramatic he was being, but actually really truly screw Sniper though.

Yet he knew the coming weekend he'd pick up that phone and dial his dumb number.
He wouldn't dare miss it, and maybe that was the worst part— knowing his misgivings would melt away the second the line went through.