Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Running.

It’s always been running for him. For some it’s simple things like reading, for others it’s the thrill of near death, but for Scout? Running. It always gave him the adrenaline that nothing has ever given him. It was and has always been running.

But running wasn't always the best idea. Or, at least the adrenaline wasn't. Sure, it let him get more kills in the battlefield, sprint just a little faster, do more acrobatics, dodge a missile flying directly toward his face, but sometimes, it made him do.. Very stupid things. Sometimes those things had a much later effect in his life.

2 years ago, 1968.

He didn’t really know what to expect when he got that phone call. The woman on the other line was speaking so fast, even he could barely understand it, only getting a few words like ‘Scout’ and war. But boredom, a bit of curiosity, and of course, adrenaline, got the best of him, and he agreed to help in what he assumed was a petty war between brothers. Why was he needed? Who knew? But he was craving something new anyways, so he figured.. Why not? 

He didn't know what he signed up for.

Flying over to Mexico into a random desert felt kinda weird, a little difficult too, especially with having to part from his family. But with the promise of money, he figured it’d be worth it in the end. I mean, just 5 years plus a couple months of holiday every year’d probably be okay right?

3 days later

Waking up in the foreign dorm inside what the woman called their ‘base’ after a 6 hour flight where he could barely move (aka. his nightmare), he took in the surroundings of his room. He didn’t really get a chance yesterday, he was too busy running his legs off ‘cause of the pent up energy from the flight. It was pretty small, he thought. Couldn’t be bigger than 10 sq ft. Growing up with 7 older brothers, though, cramped rooms weren't new to him. There was a desk and chair under his loft bed, a cabinet, a couple drawers and a closet for hanging stuff. Pretty average room, he’d say. It was fairly similar to his old room, with him having to bunk up as a child, so the tall bed wasn’t a hassle to get used to either. 

One thing he wasn't used to though was how barren the room felt. He only brought a few things with him, most of them were just essentials. At least 2 weeks worth of clothes (if you wear an outfit twice in a row at least), a few handkerchiefs, and a few personal belongings like his baseball cap, dog tags, a notebook & pen, and like 2 pairs of sneakers. Scout didn't bring anything to spice up the dorm, especially because he didn't know what to expect when he accepted that contract. Man, I really should’a brought my Tom Jones posters. Ooh, or my vinyls… He stared up at the empty wall looming over him. Over everything.

Looking closer though, Scout noticed how abandoned the room actually looked. The windows were all foggy, the floors look like they haven't been cleaned in ages, the dust from the desk alone brought a cough out from him. With nothing better to do, he got a hanky from his duffelbag and started wiping.

The next day

Whoo boy was the first day a mess. Orientation and training and stuff was normal. He was given the title ‘Scout’ as his code name (probably for his speed). He knew this was about war but never in his life did he ever imagine himself holding a gun, let alone multiple. He didn’t know what was good so he got a sawed-off shotgun and a pistol. He played baseball with his brothers a lot as a kid, so he figured that’d work for his melee. Going over to pick up the metal bat in the corner, old memories of his brothers flooded his mind. 

Shaking them away, he walked over to the gate to the ‘battlefield’, and saw the other mercenaries for the first time. A veteran, a- woah he’s big, a construction worker? A guy in a gas mask, damn that’s a lot of bombs- is that a doctor? Ski-mask guy, and.. Cowboy. Huh. Weird batch of people. 

He didn’t want to be alone for the 5 years he had to be there, so he wanted to get to know the other people in this dump. Looking around, the mercenaries already seemed to be talking amongst themselves, and he didn’t know exactly how to enter the conversation. He spotted the tall cowboy-looking guy alone in a corner holding a sniper rifle and decided that was the best place to start. Time seemed to slow down for some reason when he was walking over.

“Hey! You, uh.. Ya new here too?” …Silence. Scout mostly relied on eyes and facial expressions for conversation, so the yellow aviators the tall guy was wearing were not helping. Took the man a couple seconds and a bit of Scout fidgeting with his dog tags uncomfortably to realize the shorter guy in front of him was talking to him. “Oh, uh.. Me? Y-yeah. Sorry, mate.” 

Thank God he wasn’t ignoring me, Scout thought. “Ah cool, just thought I’d ask. Not much of a talker eh?” Was that fine to say? He leaned against the locker next to him, attempting to look relaxed. “I’m Scout. My.. codename, at least. You?” The tall guy shifted a little. “Sniper.” 

Looking at the g- Sniper a little more, he noticed he was a little thin. He had a hat on, like some sort of cowboy hat. A bit of stubble, brown sideburns, he looked way older than him. His accent sounded familiar. Australian? “Ooh, good aim, huh? Impressive.”

Sniper only hummed in agreement.

How am I supposed to talk to this guy??

Just.. talk I guess?

“Man, I never thought I’d hold a gun before. You seem to know your way around one though, ya got a history wid’ em?”

“Mm. Grew up in the outskirts of Australia, used ta’ hunt for food wit’ my dad. Mum ha’ed it.”

“Oh huntin’ huh? Never did stuff like that. I did baseball with my brothas when I was a kid though. That’s why I got a bat,” He lifted his melee up as if to show it off. “I just know my way around it, y’know?” Scout started to ramble a little before he noticed Sniper kinda spacing out. I'm talking too much aren't I? Ah shoot.

“Uh, anyways, I just wanted to get ta know the people here, ya know? Figured I’d start wid’ u. Friends?” He lifted his hand up for a fist bump. please say yes please say yes please say ye-

“Sure.” Sniper hit his fist lightly.

Yes!

“Alright cool!”

The sounds of an old lady yelling “10 seconds before the match” filled the locker room. 

“Oop- time to go I guess. Hey, good luck out there snipes!” Wait, nicknames already? Is that too soon? Should I have said that? Before he could start overthinking again, Scout walked away.

Present

Getting ready to go into the match like always, Scout does his daily routine. Wrapped his hands with grip tape, tightened his shoelaces, got his weapons, rolled up his red sleeves, and ran to his closest friend there, Sniper. 

“Yo Snipes, what’s up?” He punched him lightly on the shoulder. Sniper's shoulders seemed to tense up a little, then went limp as he realized who it was.

“Ay mate.”

“Ya ready for the match today? Heard it was payload.”

“Eh, We’ll be awright mate, we’re used to it, yea?”

“Couldn’t’a said it betta’ myself, pal.”

The administrator’s voice rang through the hallways calling the 10 second mark.

“Alright, let’s go stop this thing!”

This was his favorite part of matches. Or, favorite component of it at least. Running. Oh it felt so good. Running, jumping, flipping around, the adrenaline was incredible. He was getting kills left and right. 1, 4, 7, 13, the number just got higher and higher. And deaths? He was way too fast for that.

This round felt so, so good. Way, way better than usual. I mean, he's good all the time, of course, but today felt different. Wayy different. Usually, he'd be at least twenty deaths in by that point, but today? Today, he felt untouchable.

The BLU's had barely gotten 5 kills on him by this point, but him? He was at upwards of twenty, maybe thirty kills already. I'm just too damn good at this, eh?

The BLUs were pushing, but they were still at the first checkpoint and there were only five minutes left, so it didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the rush of killing. It wasn’t lethal anyway, respawn'll take them and they’d be back to normal in less than a minute, so all it was to Scout was entertainment. And boy did he love it.

He lined himself up and shot at the BLUs while breezing past the narrow opening. He barely noticed anyone else, the air breezing past him as he ran and jumped were too distracting. Scout decided he would go and flank them just to piss them off, so he looked around and saw a flank route to his left.

He ran toward it, shooting toward a particularly annoying Pyro from the enemy team to make them think he was just switching positions, then entered the flank route. Peeking behind a wall, he saw all the BLUs fighting his team, too distracted to hear the muffled footsteps on their right. No wonder Spy loved flanking. Holding back a chuckle, Scout aimed his sawed-off shotgun, put his finger on the trigger an-

Squelch.

His legs gave out.

Thud.

He felt the rough sand attack his exposed arm, a pain he's gotten accustomed to by now.

What happened?

Taking a shaky breath, the familiar yet sharp scent of coins and metal assaulted his nose. 

Blood. 

Is it mine? 

He looked down. Warm, red liquid was slowly spreading under him, painting the red sand, staining his red shirt with another shade. A bad one.

He found himself on the floor.

Stabbed.

Backstabbed.

Crap.

Scout knew the sensation of being backstabbed all too well. It’s usually instantaneous. Maybe a slight burning in your spine, but you lose consciousness almost instantly. This was different though. 

He was still conscious, wasn’t he? 

He could still hear everything. He could still see everything. He could hear faint footsteps slowly fading into the background. He could see blue trousers running away. He could hear a far away “finally.” He could hear the distant sounds of his and his enemy’s teams fighting. He could see the BLU team through the corridor's opening, running and shooting.

This was unusual. 

This wasn’t good.

He tried to lift his arm up. 

Something felt off.

He knows how, he's done it so many times. It's never ever felt like this before.

He looked down at himself.

It wouldn't budge.

He saw and felt it wouldn't budge. 

He tried again. The same outcome. 

He tried again. It flinched a little.

He tried again. The same outcome.

He tried again. But to no avail. 

He could barely move.

Scout tried thinking.. But his head was too crowded with clouds to form any thoughts. The runner couldn't run anymore.

He couldn’t do anything but wait.

Alone.

Sniper’s point of view, after the match.

Good match, he thought. Getting down from his nest and meeting up with the rest of the mercs, he half expected Scout to either start talking to him or the other people. But the loud voice of the Bostonian was absent that day. He greeted me before the match started, right? Where is he?

Reluctantly, the sharpshooter went up to the self-appointed leader, Soldier.

“Hey solly, ‘ave you seen Scout? Bugger’s missin’.”

“HELLO SNIPER!”

The volume almost made Sniper double over.

Soldier looked around a little. “Now that you mention it, I lost sight of Scout when he entered a flank route.”

“‘E stopped appearin’ in the kil’' feed too, lad,” Demo said, overhearing their conversation.

“Well where is ‘e ‘en?” He practically yelled. The sharpshooter's knuckles turned white as he felt something warm drip onto his fingertips.

The German spoke. “Iz he perhaps still on zhe battlefield..?”

He bit his cheek. Everyone looked toward the doctor.

“Is.. Is ‘at possible?”

Silence followed.

Silence.

Silence he wasn't used to anymore. Everything seemed to freeze. No one dared to speak, or look away, or even move.

Sniper was used to this. He was used to staying still, it was his job for hell's sake.

Then why did this stillness feel so… off?

His senses seemed to betray him.

The violent scents of gunpowder and sand and distant smells of blood ambushed his nostrils. The sight of all of his acquaintances, just stared in disbelief, unmoving. The rays of sunlight gleamed off the floor, stabbing his eyes despite his aviators. The faint taste of coins burnt in his mouth. The clothes touched his body, ever so slightly shifting from the calm wind. 

It was too much. 

And all he heard was silence.

Silence. 

Memories of the nonsense the missing Bostonian filled the room up with echoed in his mind. That first day. 

He remembered how awkward it was. 

Not memories. Feelings. Feelings of the warmth and light the runner seemed to emanate were no longer here.

Feelings of the emptiness that was present before he arrived in this hellhole came crawling back, and sent chills up his spine.

His chest tightened.

The only one who bothered to talk to him on their first day, the only one who seemed to care about him, the only one he truly deeply cares about. 

He’s gone.

No. No, no he can’t be.

He can’t be.

His stomach dropped.

With panic slowly crawling in, he thought. 

He thought about the possibilities. Scout could be out there. He could just be lost and he’s okay. He could just be late. He could be fine.

But Scout could actually be missing.

Scout could be injured. He could be gone. He could be dead.

Laughter echoes through his mind.

He could be dead.

His mouth ran dry.

No. He can’t be. He isn’t. He’s somewhere out there, we just have to find him, and everything will be fine.

Everything'll be fine.

Desperately shaking away the terrifying dread, he decided.

He released his hand and felt something sticky. He looked down and saw red paint. Staining his palm, his fingertips.

He’ll deal with that later.

For now, he had to do something.

“Well if ‘at’s the case let’s go look for the wanker!”

A couple of murmurs of agreement were shared before everyone rushed out into the field once again.

“SCOUT? SCOUT WHERE ARE YA!?”

Everyone was looking. Where? They were running blindly. Screams of the youngest team member’s name echoed through the battlefield, frantic footsteps and shuffling heard for miles. 

“Soldier, where did ya say ya saw ‘im last?”

“It was right here!”

Soldier led him to the place where they were holding ground. The bushman looked around for the flank route that the veteran had mentioned earlier, and a certain entrance on the left caught his eye.

Running into the hallway, he heard faint breathing. His footsteps, or well, his noises, have always been quieter than normal, so picking up small sounds wasn’t much of a challenge for him. He turned the corner and- aw, piss.

“SCOUT!”

There he was. Lying on his side on the red sand. Staring up at him weakly. 

Not moving.

“H-hey..”

Sniper ran out for a bit to call for his team, then returned to scout, kneeling at his side. 

“Scout, ya mongrel, whot happened!?”

“Stupid BLU… Backstabbed me.”

Sniper noticed his strained voice. God it broke his heart. Seeing Scout bleeding out like this, so vulnerable, so pale, he must have been here alone for so long. Just the thought of it brought his stomach to his feet. 

His teammates rushed into the passageway one by one as murmurs of confusion and concern arose.

“Vhere is he?”

All eyes were on them.

Silence.

Scout's eyes closed.

Chapter Text

Scout's point of view, time unknown.

Everything was sore. He could barely feel his arms and legs, the odd sensation in his lower back made him so unstable, his cranium felt like it was crushed open.. He felt like he weighed 200 tons. Damn this sucks.

He heard distant beeps of what he assumed was a med machine. Smells of hand alcohol only added to the fog in his head. Slowly, Scout opened his eyes and took in the sight of vents and pipes above him. The dim light on his left threatened to blind his eyes shut. That damn light…

The medbay. Why am I in the medbay?

What happened to me? I remember seeing someone.. I think it was Snipes. Was I bleeding? I was. It was ‘cause of… did a spy backstab me? Yeah, yeah that's what happened. And then.. oh, right. Something went wrong. 

… 

Why? 

Scout shifted his gaze around, slowly processing the infirmary's design, and saw 2 familiar faces. Medic, who was working on something on a table in the corner, and sitting next to himself, Sniper. Sleeping on a chair. 

Sniper looked rough. Dark circles formed under his eyes, weird posture from the cramped chair that he was sitting on, messy hair.. The works. 

He recalled Sniper's voice talking while he was asleep. He didn't quite remember what he said, but it sounded frantic, maybe panicked. That was weird. He's almost never seen Sniper panic.

Right, he was sleeping. Weird, he still felt really restless. The speedster assumed he just passed out from.. Maybe blood loss. He realized he didn't even know what time it was.

He should probably call someone. 

“Sni-..” cough. Wow. His voice sounded so weak. He hated it. 

He cleared his throat and tried again. 

“S-..snipes? Doc?”

Medic's face snapped toward the runner's eyes as his eyes widened.

“Mein freund! You're awake!”

The German swiftly walked toward him, tapping Sniper on the shoulder with the back of his hand. The bushman jumped in response, he looked around a bit before they locked eyes with each other.

“Scout! Oh crikey..” Sniper let out a sigh of relief. That familiar Australian accent seemed to ground him a bit. He could see Sniper's eyes blink furiously, a bead of liquid forming under his eyes.

“Alive and kickin’... I think. What's up? Ya good?”

“Yeah mate, ‘am- I’m fine.  Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

Medic interrupted, “How are you feeling?” 

“Uh.. A little sore, like, everywhere, my head frickin’ hurts a lot.”

Scout wanted to get up. He lifted his forearm and-

“Agh!-”

Sharp pains shot through his elbow, he let gravity take his forearm like dead weight. Sniper flinched at the noise.

“Crap.. Hey doc, what happened anyway?”

Medic's eyes seemed to soften. “Herr Scout, you.. You have been in a coma. For ten days.”

“Te- wha- sorry, ten days?? No way- A-are ya serious!?”

“Unfortunately so. You see, Zhe enemy Spy got a razher unlucky backstab. It missed zhe usual lethal spot and caused you to not die immediately, vhich led to.. vell… zhat.” The German vaguely gestured toward his elbow. “I did some tests vhile you vere unconscious, and.. I have found zhat you have developed some form of paralysis."

His brows furrowed. “Uh... parawhat?”

The doctor hummed. “Paralysis is vhere you lose zhe ability to move. But you're not fully paralyzed, it's just zhat your muscles seem to have, vell how should I say… Deteriorated.”

Scout and Sniper sat there, lied down in the injured speedster’s case, looking at Medic like he was a ghost.

“I noticed zhat your muscles seem to be much veaker, or, less in volume I should say. Und, joints rely heavily on muscles to support movement like bending or rotating them. Vizhout adequate support, joints become unstable, causing pain or soreness, or even slowness vhen moving.”

Silence.

Scout started to take the hint. His heart began running.

“Long story short, I know zhis vill be difficult for you to hear, mein freund, but… zhe condition you have developed vill make you… more or less immobile for quite some time.”

Scout stared. Eyes wide, mouth open. 

After who knows how long, he finally got the courage to break the silence.

“Wait, but- so I'm just.. What, I can’t move properly? How about matches?”

“Thankfully,” The Australian’s voice got a little jump out of Scout. “Today's th’second t’last before smissmas holiday. And, ‘cause of the injury, Administrator called a 2 week cease fire when yew were downed.”

“‘Kay cool, but- w-what about me? What am I- what am I supposed to do, nothing??”

“Vell… essentially, no, but yes. I have tried healing you vizh zhe medigun but.. it only healed zhe stab. I speculate it von’t heal zhis condition because it's not technically injured. I believe zhe medigun only heals superficial, amputation, und burn vounds. But, zhe medigun unfortunately does not recognize deterioration as a vound. Zhough, I'm still not sure.”

Scout could feel tears form in his eyes. He fought the urge to grab his dog tags.

He suddenly became aware of the cold metal surrounding his neck.

“Wait.. no. No, no no nonono th- this can’t be happenin’ I-it can’t be, you’re- you're jokin’ right? Tell me you’re jokin.”

Medic looked at him with sympathy, deciding to stay silent.

He could feel the liquid in his eyes, blurring his vision, threatening to fall. He shouldn’t cry. He couldn’t cry. Yes, he was terrified. Yes, he was at a loss for words. Yes, he didn't know what to do. Who would? But he was a grown man. A man with a job in war. He was too tough, too strong to cry.

His pride wouldn't let him. It couldn't.

“Please.”

And yet, it did.

Scout couldn’t fight it anymore. Beads of tears glided down his cheek. He felt so pathetic. I can’t be immobile, I’m the runner, the fast one, I’m born to move, I can’t just stop. He could hear heavy breathing far away. This can’t be happening, this is some sick joke, or- or a dream, this isn’t real, it can’t be it can’t be it CAN’T be-

His train of thought was interrupted as he snapped back to reality from a hand touching his. 

Looking to his right, he saw Sniper. Looking at him with so much sympathy. And pity. He felt so useless. He felt weak. He was weak. He hated it.

He realized soon enough that the heavy breathing was his own.

Squeezing Sniper’s hand as much as he could like a lifeline, Scout closed his eyes and took deep breaths, trying to ground himself by turning his focus to his senses. He felt the rough, calloused skin he was desperately holding on to. He heard the quiet beeping of the medical machine. He smelled the faint scent of alcohol. He saw the dim light shining weakly through his screwed shut eyelids.

Slowly, his tears subsided.

Taking a final deep breath, Scout opened his eyes. He saw the 2 men watching, patiently waiting for him to calm down. He released Sniper’s hand from his death grip, but the bushman didn’t budge. He was thankful.

“S-sorry. Lost it for a bit, heh.”

“S’awright mate.”

Comfortable silence loomed over them for a couple more seconds.

“Vell, now zhat you are calmer, let's address zhe ozher problem. I informed zhe Administrator, and she let us stay in zhe base zhroughout Smissmass. Heavy, Demo, Engie, and Spy vill take zheir leave soon, so zhat leaves five of us to spend your recovery time vizh. I vill be busy trying to find a quick fix, so perhaps you could choose Pyro or Soldier?”

“Uh.. Well Mumbles'll probably light me on fire, Soldier's insane, so uh, I’d rather choose Snipes. S’that.. alright?”

He looked at Sniper.

The man shifted a little bit in his seat.

“Yeah, o'course.”

“Very vell, zhen. You vill probably need to stay in zhe medbay for a couple days. You're stable, vut I vish to still monitor your condition for at least three days. In zhe meantime, try to move around a little. Maybe lifting your arms or rotating your wrists? Any movement at zhis point vill do vonders.”

Feeling his jaw unclench, he muttered a reply. “Uh, alright. Oh, and by da way, thanks Doc. For like, everythin’ that's happened, ya know?”

“I’m just doing my job, mein freund. Now, I vill take my leave to let you two figure out your emotions. Bis bald.” He walked away, leaving the two alone, and Sniper retracted his hand.

After a moment, Scout broke the silence, like always.

“Hey, Snipes?” The Aussie looked at him. “Thanks. For uh, earlier.”

“S’no problem, mate.”

“How did ya know that would help, tho?”

Sniper laid back on his seat. “Err.. Used t'have loads of panic attacks as an ankle biter,” Scout saw him twiddling his thumbs. “An’.. my mum found small touches helped me calm down. Figured I'd try the same wi’ you.”

Scout thought for a bit. “Y-yeah, that makes sense.”

A pause. Neither knew what to say.

Scout remembered, “Oh wait, what time is it?” 

Sniper looked at his watch. “Er.. Dinner w's about half an hour ago, ya just missed it. Why, ya hungry?”

“Uh..”

As if on cue, the runner's stomach audibly grumbled.

They stared at each other awkwardly, holding back giggles.

“Awright, well that settles it. Uh.. dunno if ya can eat solid food right now, so i'll just get some water fo’ ya. ‘ll be roight back.”

Scout's stomach sank as the bushman slowly got up, popping joints echoing through the medbay.

“You're- you’re leavin?”

Sniper noticed the hint of fear in Scout's eyes. 

“Oh. ‘ll only be gone for a minute, don't worry roo. ‘sides, Medic's ovah there somewhere, so you can yell for him if som'ing happens, aye?”

The Bostonian's brows furrowed slightly.

“Uh, yeah.. I-I guess so. Right.”

Why am I this scared? It's just a minute, I won't die.

“..Awright. ‘ll be back.”

With a gentle pat given to Scout's hair, the Aussie left the room.

Scout was left lying there, in the empty medbay. Alone with his thoughts, alone with his senses, alone with himself. 

Alone.

..Alone.

With the newly created silence, he could practically hear his heart through his chest. He could feel how cold the medbay bed was. He couldn't see anyone. Just the vast, emptiness of the room.

He felt uneasy.

The only sound filling his ears was the beeping of the medical machine, despite it being muffled over the sound of his heartbeat.

It felt like he was floating.

Or falling.

Or drowning.

Drowning in the silence that Sniper left behind.

His vision distorted.

How long has it been? It's been over a minute, hasn't it?

What if something happened?

What if something happens?

What should I do?

What can I do??

He felt his shoulders tense up despite sore protest. 

He was sinking further.

Desperate to ground himself again, he clutched onto the metal bed, taking deep shaky breaths, digging his fingers into the smooth surface. His chest felt just about ready to implode. 

It’s fine you're fine everything's fine it'll be over soon he'll be back soon he'll be back soon

Seriously, HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN!?

Suddenly, the door opened.

Scout’s head shot sideways, sharing eye contact with the sharpshooter for who knows how long. 

Scout's whole body seemed to relax again.

Sniper's point of view, 2 minutes earlier

The sharpshooter closed the door, and bolted for the kitchen. He wanted to move as quick as possible. He's seen- no, felt that look in Scout's eyes before.

He knows that feeling all too well.

Memories began flooding his mind.

21 years ago, 1949

“A-am I holdin’ it right?”

His dad had just taught him how to kill a snake with a drop-point knife, despite his mom's protests.

“Yeah, ‘course,” His dad said, not even sparing a glance toward his direction. “Now, y'see ‘at beauty roight ‘ere?” The man crouching beside him pointed loosely toward the python about 2 feet away. “You're gonna go an’ hunt it.”

His dad gave him a gentle push toward the reptile. “Go on t'en! You go’ this, rememba whot I taught ya!”

“O-okay.”

Walking forward slowly with trembling legs, the ankle biter gripped the knife in front of him, knuckles practically white.

The python noticed him inching closer, and it leaned its head down.

With a shaky breath, he tried to remember all the techniques his dad taught him. All he could recall however was “cut its head off.” He didn’t remember any of the tricks. 

His hands shivered.

Now about one foot away, panic started settling in.

He didn't know what to do.

His instincts froze.

He couldn’t think.

As a last ditch attempt, the kid turned around, eyes filled with fear staring at the old man behind him.

“Dad, what do I-”

Hisss…

His body jerked back at the sudden sharp sting in his forearm. His eyes shut closed.

He heard screams. Loud screams.

Something was closing around his arm.

His back hit the floor.

Something enclosed his whole forearm and squeezed, tightly.

He tried pulling away, pulling whatever it was off maybe, but each tug sent shocks of pain through his arm. 

Too tightly.

He felt something cold and wet gliding down his face. His arm had a similar, warm sensation. 

Oh. The screams were his own.

Slice.

Heavy breathing. He could barely hear anything else over the sound of it.

Muffled thump sounds echoed through his chest.

Feeling the tension and pressure lifted off his forearm, he slumped back onto the burning sandstone.

He heard muffled yelling.

He opened his eyes.

Two figures fought with the sun glare for a place in his vision.

One was saying something.

He blinked furiously and tried to focus on his hearing.

After a bit, he could barely make out a word. His name was being called.

He heard a muffled “mate” being screamed at him. 

His arm still hurt. He looked down.

It had a huge gash across it.

It was drenched in red.

It was blood.

It was his blood.

The kid looked over the red-soaked limb, next to his right leg was the python. Beheaded.

That python. 

That's what caused this.

He started stumbling back, trembling at the sight of the reptile that caused so much hurt.

More yelling.

More liquid running down his cheek.

More red dripping out of his arm.

More heavy breathing.

More pounding in his chest.

More, more, more, more.

He wanted it to stop. 

He wanted everything to stop.

He just wanted it to stop.

Suddenly, he felt something. Something soft, Something warm.

Something holding his hand.

Something welcoming, something patient.

Something, someone, that was there for him. 

He looked at it. It was his mother's hand.

His mum's face looked at him softly. Not glaring. Not pressuring. Just looking. Patiently waiting, patiently helping him calm down.

And it did.

His heavy, rapid breathing finally seemed to slowly, but surely, subside.

His heartbeat finally began to slow down.

And he finally seemed to calm down. 

He sat up. And collapsed once more, this time into his mothers lap.

They shared a moment of silence together.

Everything somehow felt fine.

2 minutes before the present.

Snapping out of the painful memories, he was back on track.

Sniper ran to the community kitchen as fast as he could, despite getting a little lost. He looked for the glasses a little, and filled one up with water. He tried taking as little time as possible, he knew how bad being alone feels when you're that vulnerable.

He knows it too well. 

Finishing up, he headed back to the medbay, glass of water in hand.

Sniper realized he took a little longer than he thought he would. 

He turned the doorknob.

“Sorry mate, couldn't find the...”

Opening the door more, he took in the sight of Scout breaking down.

The runner's eyes turned as quick as light.

Their eyes met.

He saw the man on the metal bed visibly go limp.

“...you okay, roo?”

Chapter Text

Scout's point of view

Sigh.

“Sorry, roo. Lost track o'time.”

Sniper slowly approached the runner, now breathing slowly in relief.

“I-it's okay. Just.. Overreacted a lil. Sorry.”

The bushman sat down quietly on the chair to his right. “No worries, mate. I ge’ it.”

Silence.

He tried to find words to fill it, but none came out.

…

“Er, ah don't think y'can sit yet, so.. Do y'want ‘is now?”

“Uh, yea kinda.”

“Awright, uh.. Just-”

Sniper got up from where he sat, water in hand. Scout felt a hand support the back of his head.

“What da-? Oh.”

His head was lifted up- ow ow ow my neck ow- and forward by the calloused palm.

“This awright?”

“Y-yeah.”

"Kay, just uh, tap the bed when y’good.”

The cup was gently brought to the Bostonian's lips, slowly tilting down as water poured into Scout’s mouth.

After a few seconds, fingernails hitting metal echoed through the room. The glass was lifted off.

“Thanks.”

“S'no problem.”

A small clink sounded to his right.

Silence. Neither comfortable nor awkward.

Just silence.

“Medbays're so damn quiet.” He rubbed his fingers together.

“...Want me t’ turn on th’telly?”

He let out a quiet groan. “You have no idea how much I’m cravin’ noise right now. I wouldn't even mind if you started yappin’ about dat dang rifle again.” He tried, and failed, to hold back chuckles.

“Oi. ‘At rifle's a beaut.”

“Yeah? Well so's a microwave when it dings. ‘Least I get sum food out of it.”

Sniper let out a laugh. It was low, and quiet.

“Who' eva y'say mate.”

More silence.

“Wow, dis'll be the next 3 days, huh?”

“Could be worse, mate. ‘Least it aint four.”

Scout chuckled.

Silence.

He moved his gaze back up to the pipes on the ceiling.

The runner felt restlessness and pent-up energy hit him slowly.

He was a little torn.

Everything felt ever so slightly uncomfortable. His limbs felt.. weirdly numb… or itchy.

Like something was crawling under his skin. Like he could move them but no blood was going through. Or too much, maybe. He wasn't entirely sure. 

But at the same time, he wanted to move so bad. He wanted to get up and feel the breeze of running again. 

He wanted to do something. He wanted to run, or sprint, or jump, or flip, or walk, or stand, or sit, or move, or even just get a sandwich or something.

Dis sucks..

He started thinking about how the hell this happened.

If dat Spy hadn’t stabbed me wrong, I woulda been just fine.

If my brain didn't tell me to take dat dumb flank route, I probably wouldn'ta even been stabbed.

If I hadn't stayed still, maybe I coulda dodged it.

If I'd just taken dat shot sooner…

Whateva.

Oh, right. Doc told me ta move my wrists or somethin’. I should probably try dat.

He tried to move his finger. It lifted with just a trace of soreness.

He tried to move his arm. 

“Ah-”

A sharp pain shot through his elbow.

Dammit.

He didn’t want this to be like earlier. He hated earlier. He wanted to move something without soreness and pain, or at least less.

So he tried.

Like, really tried.

All of his attention, all his focus was moved to this one task.

He tried again. The same outcome.

“Ow-”

He paused.

He tried again. The same outcome.

“Agh-!”

He paused.

Finally, he tried again, but this time, slower. Calmer.

His forearm was slowly moving, slowly turning up. Painfully slowly for the speedster, but he'd take mental over physical right now.

He made it about halfway up from the bed with his hand pointed up before he stopped, and moved it back down. Still painfully slowly.

Sure it still hurt, but it was way way less painful than earlie-

Then he realized.

It was less painful to move.

It was less painful to move.

It was less painful to move!!

“Snipes! It didn't hurt!!”

Scout heard a weird noise of metal against tile before he looked at the sharpshooter's direction.

The man in question looked a little stiff and wide-eyed.

“Whot? Whot didn't?”

“My- my arm, I moved it and it didn’t hurt!- Well, as much I guess, it- it didn’t hurt as bad!”

“Who- that? ‘at's barely even anythin.”

“Ey, still counts, don't it?”

“Eh..”

“C’mon, I'm basically fixed. Let's go runnin’!!”

“Yer gonna be insufferable aren'tcha?”

“Eh, you're stuck with me now you'll get used to it.”

“Awready am.”

The two shared a moment of chuckling.

Scout moved his arm up and down a few more times, moving his hand a little faster, inching a little closer to his shoulder each time, albeit with a bit (a lot) of wincing.

After a little pause he hopped into trying the same motions with his left arm.

With the adrenaline of progress though, he failed to remember to move it as slow as he did with the first one.

“ow-” He sighed.

Shuffling.

“ack-” He winced.

“Mate.”

“ngh‐” His eyes closed.

“Mate.”

Scout looked up at him.

“Whot're ya doin’?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m just- ah-” He winced. “Tryin’ ta move my arm. Doc said to. Why?”

“Y'don't have t’ push yerself, roo. Take yer time.”

“Yeah? Well what if I don’ wanna?”

A beat.

“Well, suit y’self. It'll hurt more ‘at way, though.”

Scout paused his ‘exercise’.

Well… hm. Damnit. I don't want that.

He really, really didn’t want to slow down. But, he didn't want to hurt anymore either.

...Finee.

Reluctantly, he slowed his movements.

Sniper was right. It did hurt less. But it was soo painfullyyy slow for the runner.

And, though he’d never admit it, it did help.

After a while of just moving his forearms and his wrists, he was pretty satisfied with the range of motion he managed to achieve. He let his arm get gently taken by gravity, and he once again felt the freezing metal touch his wrist.

It was sore, sure, but what wasn't at that point?

“Ey, how long was I doin’ dat?”

“Whot- Oh, er… I dunno mate, like… Uh…” He checked his watch. “Twenty, 30 minutes maybe?”

“Huh?? 30 minutes for dat!?”

“...Yeah. Migh've been more ‘onestly.”

“...”

He couldn't believe it. 

He spent 30 entire minutes trying to move, only for it to still hurt after, and he spent 30 minutes for that??

“30 minutes.”

“Yep.”

Oh boy. 

Today's gonna be a long day…

Some time later

Scout had been doing the same slow movements for the past two hours— or at least he thinks it's been two hours— with only strong dull pain to keep him company and the occasional sharp shock in his joint to interrupt him.

Just moving his forearms. Up.. and down… and up… and down… and up… and down… and… and up…

uuuggGGGGHHHHHHH my brain feels like MUSHHH

That distant beeping, that faint smell, that thin pipe, that buzzing light, that square vent, that quiet snoring, that cracked tile, he's been staring up for so long it's all been laser engraved into his mi-

Wait, snorin'?

He looked to his right.

Sniper was slouched down on the small chair, hat over his face, shades rested on his lap, head tilted up.

Snipes is asleep.

How long has he been asleep?

Scout stopped moving to listen to Sniper’s faint snores.

It didn’t sound familiar at all.

As a kid, he was forced to share a room with... the second youngest of his family. His brother's snoring was loud, like really loud, like race car tires screeching or… like a big dog growling or something. He had to race to fall asleep first or else those snores would separate him and his precious rest.

Sniper’s snores were different, though. It was quiet, low, faint. He probably wouldn’t have been able to hear it if it wasn’t for the underwhelming silence that filled the room. It almost sounded like… like a coffee machine like 13 feet away. Or like that weird noise a leather couch makes whenever someone sits or moves on it.

It sounded so foreign.

Yet so calm.

He sort of wanted to wake Sniper up, maybe make a joke or poke fun at him, or, y’know... Talk.

But the peaceful sound the sharpshooter was bearing was… too sweet. Too calm, too nice to take away.

He didn’t want to take that away.

So he just lied there. Accompanied by the same old vents, same old beeps, same old metal, same old same old. 

And, that new sound of Sniper’s, radiating warmth from his right.

It was nice.

He slowly took in the buzzing again. The buzzing. The beeping. The metal. He could barely even process the new senses, let alone the fact he fell asleep.

ughh where am I

His mouth involuntarily opened as he took a long, loud yawn, followed by a deep sigh.

He opened his eyes. The pipes.

oh. right.

He looked around a little to greet his friend good morning. He expected he’d be on the right like always, so he turned his gaze around-

A small empty chair.

An empty chair.

Empty?

Wait what? Where is he?

“Uh, Snipes?” His voice was hoarse and groggy.

Silence.

“Snipes??” He said a bit louder.

Silence.

His eyes started darting around the room.

“Hello!?”

Silence.

He could feel that pit in his stomach again. Again.

No not again, not agai-

Creeaakkk.

His eyes shot toward the source of the noise.

A lanky figure stood in the doorframe.

He’s back, he’s back..

His eyes closed. Footsteps grew closer.

He’s here.

“Aye mate.” Sniper walked in quietly, a plate in hand. It looked like it was toast and… and scrambled eggs. At least he thought it was. He was too far away to gauge it properly.

“Hey Snipes! How’s it uh.. How’s it goin?”

“Jus’ got brekkie. Sorry if I took long..”

“Oh nah nah it's totally- It’s- I’m fine, It's okay.”

Scout looked away, cheeks warm. He released the death grip he didn’t even know he was holding from the metal bed under him. He was fairly certain his face was red.

“...Awright.”

Observation: Day 1

Scout lied there in silence, only accompanied by the warmth that the sharpshooter seemed to emanate, and the occasional clinking of ceramic.

“mmph- Roight, ‘at reminds me. ya hungry, roo?”

“I- Oh, uh.. N.. No, I don't think so.”

“Y’sure? Y'haven't eaten anythin’ in like 2 weeks.”

“Mhm, yeah I’m sure. It’s kinda weird actually,” He lifted his right arm up slowly to gesture around. “I dunno, I’d kinda expect someone who slept in for like 10 days to be pretty hung-”

He noticed a thin tube, seemingly following his hand's movements.

“huh?”

Pulling his hand closer to inspect it, a small strip of medical tape on the back caught his eye-

oh. oh crap.

“Wait- wait is this- did Medic- did he put dis in while I was out?”

“Oh, ‘at? Yeah it’s an.. Uh-”

“An IV, ye- yeah I know- I-I don’t- I don’t wa- wait uh-” He pushed his hand away. Or tried to.

“Mate it just gave y’nutrients or whotever when yew were out, it’s-”

“Yeah- Yeah I know what it does I just- I- I can’t- I can’t- ”

He felt his inhale hitch. He started breathing a little faster.

“Scout- Scout yer alright, just breathe- wai- slow down-”

He heard scraping metal.

“Wait- wait can you like- like call Medic or sum’ please I just need ta- I need this t’-”

Memories… No, not memories. Feelings. Sensations. Discomfort where there shouldn’t be. It flooded his mind.

He felt something well up in his eyes.

And suddenly he was 7 again.

18 years ago, 1952.

Surrounded by his brothers, surrounded by the loud yet gentle chatter, surrounded by everyone, everything.

He was sitting in the dining room, eating breakfast. Eggs on toast.

And something felt off.

He felt weak. He was used to feeling weak, but this was different, this was weird.

His head started getting hazy, his hunger started taking a toll.

He felt light. He felt tired. He felt empty.

His heartbeat started picking up speed.

He felt small.

“Ma..?”

The chatter died down a bit.

“Yes, honey?”

He struggled to hold on to his breath a little before speaking.

“M-... Ma I think- I-...”

He felt too light. His grip on consciousness slowly faded. 

The kid's cheek met the hardwood floor. Faint ringing. Panicked yelling. Metallic clattering. It was all muffled.

He felt strong arms embrace him. It was warm. 

Everything was happening so fast. Too fast, even for him. 

The rushing breeze ran across his face, every move of the people surrounding him sounded frantic.

The yelling was calling to someone.. It was a woman’s voice. 

A car engine roared in his ear. He couldn’t make anyone out in his dazed state.

She might’ve been calling his name… or his brothers… he couldn’t really make it out.

The gentle hands supporting his back and thighs slowly lowered him onto a soft surface. It was fluffy.

Something rubbery enclosed his index finger. There was a little hole on it, the edge of the indent grazed his fingertip. 

He felt a couple of hands on him. One was holding his left hand. One was rubbing his hair. One- well not a hand. A couple of fingers rested on the back of his right hand. He thought he could hear some sort of.. Reassurance?

Something along the lines of… “It’s gonna be okay..” or.. Something.

Where am I?

Quiet voices sounded from below him. Something about… Hyper… Thigh…? Something he didn’t care enough about to try and comprehend.

Another hand wrapped entirely around his arm. It squeezed him gently.

Someone whispered in his ear. Something.. Something like ‘It’ll be over soon’ and ‘it’s okay.’

Wait, what’s happeni-

“AAAAAAAHHH!!-”

Something sharp breached his skin. The back of his right hand was screaming in pain.

Pain.

Pain.

It wasn’t sharp. It was thin, not sharp. It was trying to push though his hand.

Cold liquid poured out of his eyes, adding to the blurriness of his vision.

“NO NO PLEASE MAKE IT STOP”

He pulled his arm away, only for a hand to hold his wrist down. Another hand grabbed his right one tightly. Too tightly.

He was too weak for this. He couldn’t pull away, he couldn’t even move his hands, the ones holding it wouldn’t let him.

More liquid released from his eyes. It glided down his cheek, tracing his face.

That thin.. thing tried again. It pushed through the skin of his hand.

He heard a voice, a loud one. It was desperate. Screaming. Sobbing.

That voice was loud enough to break through the daze muffling his ears.

“WAIT STOP- STOP NO GET AWAY,” it cried.

That thing pushed into his hand deep. He was certain it hit something important ‘cause another, stronger, sharper pain shot through his whole hand, spreading out to his forearm.

He squeezed the hand grabbing his left one.

He could barely make out the whispering in his ear over the sounds of that blaring, screaming voice.

His breathing was uneven, his breath hitching with sobs every so often.

Slowly, that sting lessened and lessened, and finally, finally, the sharp pain in his hand subsided.

He felt weak.

The hand on his head continued to pet his hair.

The hands squeezing his, and the hand on his wrist loosened, instead holding him and caressing his skin gently. 

The fingers laying on his hand lifted up.

He felt a peck on his forehead.

He felt something sticky press over the spot on his right.

His own hands were shaking.

He choked on his breath as sobs continued flowing out.

The liquid on his eyes slowed. Still pouring, but slower.

He let his death grip go.

Time seemed to stop.

Present

He was 7 again. No no this can't be happening i gotta get this off I have to

“Mate, Sco- Scout breathe-”

“You- you don’t understand I- please get medic take dis thing outta me please ple-” A sob cut him off.

“Awright, I will I will, just breathe- MEDIC! MEDIC C'MERE! It's okay bun, it’s okay.”

He felt like something was pushing his chest down. Crushing it slowly, squeezing his lungs. His stomach fell fast to his knees.

He shut his eyes.

A loud slam sounded somewhere to his left, followed by a familiar, muffled German accent, yelling, “Vhat? Vhat's wrong??”

“The- th'bloody IV, remove it, the- bloke's havin’ a fit over it!”

“Zhe IV? But-”

“Just do it!”

Distant footsteps grew louder, clacked faster, drew closer. 

“Yes, yes, fine! Vait!”

A couple of fingers rested on the back of his right hand.

The sting of tape being pulled off infested his skin.

Silence.

“Zhere, zhere it’s out, it's out!”

His eyes shot open. 

He raised his arm way too quickly, and took a peek at the back of his shivering hand.

Nothing but clear skin.

Nothing there.

He let out a shaky breath as relief washed over him. 

His eyes let out the familiar cold liquid, it welled up in his eyelids.

He let his head and arm fall limp, his hand was met with the feeling of skin instead of metal.

It was a hand.

The two hands intertwined.

And he just breathed.

Chapter Text

Later

His face felt warm. His cheeks, his eyes, his nose, his ears, his neck, his chest. He was sure his whole face was cherry red.

The two had been silent for about an hour. Scout had just been lying down, uncharacteristically unmoving. His forearm had been buried into his eyes the moment he came back to his senses earlier.

Neither of the two had the courage to break the silence.

…

Eventually, Sniper had to.

“So er… Y'awright?”

“Mmm.”

“You uh… How're ya feelin?”

“...Embarrassed.” His voice had barely come out.

“Why?”

“I keep… keep breakin’ down ‘n front of ya.”

“Oh. S'awright.”

“No it’s not.”

“...Why?”

“Cus, I'm a grown man, Snipes. Grown men don't cry. Not in front of someone else a’least.”

“No worries, roo.”

He paused.

“Still embarrassin’.”

“Don't worry too much about it, mate.”

He grumbled something before going silent again.

The silence prevailed for maybe a minute. Until of course, curiosity had to kill the cat.

“Er… If y'don't mind me askin’... Why're y'so spooked wiv IVs?”

“Um… Well dat's uh…” The runner moved the arm on his face down to his chest, and he tugged at the cold metal tags wrapped around his neck. He refused to engage in eye contact.

Sigh.

“When I was… I think seven.. I got sick, like- like real sick, y'know? Somethin’ like uh… Like somethin’ to do wid my thyroid or.. whatevah dat was.”

“Mm.”

“Well uh… I think my- my metabolism spiked or somethin’ and… And like.. I lost like a ton a' weight. I think I passed out, and.. I woke up- well kinda, in- in da hospital. Everythin’ was happenin’ so fast, and like… It was so chaotic, and terrifyin’, and I remember dey stuck dat thing in my hand, and- and it hurt so much.”

He paused.

“I-I dunno it- it kinda sounds stupid now dat im sayin’ it out loud-”

“Nah, nah I get it. Had somethin’ like ‘at happen t’ me.”

“...Really?”

“Er.. Well sort of. Me dad taught me t’ kill a snake when I was an ankle biter, might’ve been… 8? Made me try it on a bloody python. Failed real bad, an’ it bit me real hard. Still go’ th’ scar right ‘ere.”

After a beat, Scout finally looked in Sniper’s direction. The sharpshooter had his forearm up, and right in the middle was a scarred gash, and a really long scar shaped like a bite.

“Oh.”

“Yea. Couldn’t look at a python without freakin’ out for… Least a couple years. Only go’ over it when me dad forced me t’ face one again.”

“Thats-… That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry ya had to go through dat.”

“Nah, ‘s fine.”

They shared a moment of silence. It was comfortable this time.

“Hey, uh.. Thanks, by da way. F'not judging me.”

“Least I can do. S'okay t'cry bun.”

“Heh, not what my brothas taught me. Dey kept teasin’ me about cryin’ over a lil scratch I got a while back. Got to me so bad I just… My- my body kinda refuses ta cry whenever anyone's around now. ‘Cept for you, apparently. Sorry, I- I didn't want ya ta see me like dat.”

“S'awright. Don't mind.”

A small grin crept onto Scout's lips.

Silence. 

Comfortable silence.

Up… And down… And up… And down…

He had been doing the same exercises for… maybe half an hour. Sniper had just been silently reading a book next to him, occasionally glancing over.

With the absence of the IV fluid, he felt himself getting a little hungry.

Thud.

The sensation of cold metal hit his hand again.

“Snipes?”

“Whot?”

“M’hungry.”

“...Y’want me t’ grab ya brekkie?”

“Yeah.”

“Awright," Metal scraped against tile. “I’ll be back.”

“..Okay.”

The door creaked.. And shut closed.

Silence.

He really didn’t want to freak out like last time over just a few minutes of being alone.

So he took a different approach.

1.. 2.. 3.. 4.. 5..

He had to distract himself. So he just counted the seconds.

Deep breaths echoed through the room.

Rubbing his dog tags made a small clinking and scraping noise, so he fidgeted with them as much as he could.

He could hear little metal tapping sounds coming from his hand.

…

221.. 222.. 223.. 224.. 225.. 22-

Creakk… 

“Aye.”

“Hi Snipes.”

He stopped tapping the bed.

“Er.. Just go’ th’ same as mine.” Y'can eat lyin’ down roight?”

“Eh, yeah probably.”

“Awright, wait.”

Sniper put the plate down onto his stomach. It was warm against the fabric on his skin.

Hm. Fabric.

This isn’t my uniform.

Wait, is this a new shir-?

His train of thought was interrupted by a hand lifting his head, and part of his shoulders up. It was gently put down against a soft, fluffy…

“Ya found a pillow? Where'd ya find a pillow in da medbay?”

“I dunno, it was on one o’ th’ other beds.”

“And medic didn't think'a givin’ me one? Rude,” he smirked.

They shared a chuckle.

“Hey by da way- did'ja change my clothes or sum? While- while I was out, I mean?”

“Er.. Might've done.”

The bushman looked down. Why is he looking dow- is his face red?

“Oh.”

He felt his own cheeks heat up a bit.

“...So-sorry.”

“Nonono it’s- it's okay, just- just caught me off guard is all.”

He picked the fork up from his stomach.

…

“So uh… You ok?”

“Whot?”

“I dunno, you kinda seemed really freaked out when I woke up.”

“Oh, ‘at- ‘at’s just uh.. I was jus’ worried ‘bout ya.”

“...Kay.”

He looked down at the plate on his stomach. Eggs on toast.

…

“Thanks f’ bein’ here.” He turned away.

“No worries, bun.”

“No, really,” he scraped the eggs off into one of the edges of the plate. “You’ve been here like.. since I woke up. Thanks fo’ not leavin’ me alone.”

“Mm. Ya.. Y’don’t like eggs?”

He froze.

“Uh, just.. Don’t feel like it t’day.”

“...Awright.”

He took a bite. It was just toast and butter, but it felt nice to eat something after.. ten days of nothing but IV fluid.

Small clink sounds echoed through the room. 

…

With the plate half empty, he picked it up and passed it to the sharpshooter. “Ey, you can have dis.”

“Uh.. Really?” Sniper took the plate of eggs slowly. “Y'haven't eaten much.”

“Yeah sure.”

“Awright.”

He wasn't full. He could still feel that void in his stomach. But he'd take anything over eating those.

The Aussie put the plate down onto the table next to him, then went back to reading his book.

“Ey what book‘s dat?”

“Er.. 1984.”

“What's it about?"

“Its… ‘Bout unfairness of th'world or whotnot.”

“Oh. Do you uh… Can ya read it t’me?”

“I’m like… Halfway done wiv’it.”

“Don't care.”

“Y'sure?”

“Yeah, ‘m bored outta my mind ovah here.”

“Crikey- awright. Uh.. 'Ere. ‘Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen.’” He listened intently, his feet wagging a little. “‘It was safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away…’”

“-Well yeah, sure, but like aim don’t matter as much as ya think it does.”

“Bloody ‘ell, roo, it’s a gun. Th’whole point of a gun is t’ aim an’ fire, y’-”

“I got a scattergun, Snipes, It really don’t matter much ta me-”

“I get ‘at but y’could get ‘lot more kills if y’take y’damn time f’once and aim.”

“But that’s borinnn’…”

"Betta than missin’ out on a kill cus’ o’ sloppy a-”

The door burst open, taking the two men by surprise. Both of them jumped and looked toward the entrance of the medbay.

“HELLO SCOUT!!”

He blinked.

All the other mercenaries, minus Spy, flooded into the room. All of them??

“Woah, yo, guys what’s up?”

Incoherent mumbles came from the back of the crowd.

“We heard tiny man got injured. We check on Scout before leave.”

“Y'alright lad??”

“Aww hey! Yeah I'm-” He noticed Sniper tense up and back up a little. He raised his eyebro-

“We heard ya dinnae’ paralyzed yeself or whit‐”

“Fellas, fellas! Give the boy some space! So yeah, uh, us three are heading out for Smissmas, so we decided to check in before we leave," Engie mentioned.

“Ohh no wonder, thanks a ton!” He heard scraping metal on tile. Is Snipes-? The guys? ...Hm. “Hey uh, where's- where’s Spy?”

A deep voice from the left answered, “Spy insisted on not coming.”

“Really..? Well, wouldn't wanna see his frickin’ face anyways.” He turned his gaze away.

…

The Texan broke the pause, “So, how’s your condition, son?”

“Oh, ‘m totally fine hardhat! Here, lookadis!” He lifted his arm up, but it sent shocks of dull pain to his elbow again, making the runner inhale sharply. "Uh.. Kinda, I guess.”

“Well. How bad did Doc say it is?”

“Uhm.. Well, that's-” He rubbed the edges of his fingers together. “... He said I’d be immobile for a while. I'll get better by the end a'smissmas though, trust me!”

“Uh.. Okay, then. Oh, excuse us, we gotta go in.. About an hour, so you rest up now, ‘kay?”

“Get well soon, leetle Scout-”

“Aye, give ‘em hell lad!!”

“Okay, bye bye! Have a safe trip guys!”

Numerous ‘bye’s sounded from the door, before fading out. Only the firebug and veteran remained.

“Say, I heard uh… you guys are stayin’ here wid me through smissmas?”

More incoherent mumbles.

“Yes, we will! Actually, I should really send postcards to my friends. But I'll skip this year for YOU, MAGGOT! SO GET WELL SOON!!”

Pyro nodded aggressively.

“O-okay, Solly, I'll try.” He chuckled.

“Good! We are leaving the medbay now!”

“Okay, buh bye!”

The door creaked open, then shut closed with a click and a thud.

Silence.

“Snipes?”

“M-mhm?”

“Y'okay?”

“...Yeah.”

“Sure?”

“M'fine.”

“...Okay.”

He could hear the shakiness in the sharpshooter's voice. Why's he scared o'the team? It's just people

I mean… He must have a reason for it I guess.

I don't wanna push him.

Silence.

It's been a solid half hour since either of them said anything. Sniper was just reading a book beside him and he had  been ‘exercising' the whole time. 

It was pretty dang boring.

He looked to his right to check up on his friend. His eyes were practically closed.

“Sleepy?”

The sharpshooter flinched.

“...Didn't have me coffee ‘is mornin’.”

“Oh, y'mean dat black express-o that's bitter as heck as far as I know?”

“It's an espresso, mate.”

“Why d'ya drink dat stuff anyway? Tastes like crap.”

“Why do yew drink ‘at soda poison?”

“Hey, Bonk's pretty good, alright?”

“Don't believe ‘at one bit, roo.”

He paused.

“...Bonk and Crit-a-Cola is… the only thing that my body takes time digesting.”

Sniper hummed.

“Cus o'dat incident from… uh… when I was seven, I never really got my metabolism back to normal. Like, yeah it slowed down a little, but it’s still fast as hell, like- as fast as I am.” He chuckled.

“Why d'ya exercise ev'ry mornin’ ‘en?”

“I'm.. I’m a pretty active guy, I guess. I mean, even before dat, I always had ta be fast. My bros wouldn'ta let me live if I wasn’t. ‘Sides, I like runnin’.”

“Hm.”

“..Hey, ya changed da subject!”

The bushman let out a low chuckle. “Might’ve done.”

“Seriously man, dat black poison is bitter as hell.”

“‘At radioactive waste’s sweet as hell.”

Scout opened his mouth to argue back, but… “Eh, fair point.” He exhaled a laugh, and the curves of his mouth pointed upward.

He looked back toward the ceiling, and they continued existing together. Sniper with his book, Scout with his exercises.

Accompanied by the familiar, comfortable silence.

“In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy.” The runner got bored, and asked Sniper to read 1984 to him again. 

“People were leaping up and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the maddening blea-”

SLAM

The door opened loudly once again, to two silhouettes. There was more metal scraping from the sharpshooter.

“HELLO SCOUT AND SNIPER!” The blaring yell that came from the American echoed loudly through the whole room. Incoherent mumbles followed.

“Oh, hey Solly!” 

“Hi.”

“We have made lunch for you three!”

“Wow, is that-”

He was interrupted by really loud footsteps rapidly approaching. A warm– ow OW CRAP ITS HOT–  plate was placed onto his stomach. He winced and made an effort to lift it off immediately.

“Th- Thanks guys.”

“Oh, right. MEDIC!!!”

Distant clacking grew louder.

Thud!

“Vhat now?”

“We've brought food!”

Pyro waved aggressively at the doctor.

“Oh. Danke, Herr Soldier, but I am quite busy at zhe moment. Just… Here.”

The footsteps advanced from the speedsters left to his right. He looked over and saw Soldier giving Medic a plate. There was a muttered “Danke” from the doctor.

More footsteps. Clacking from the right, stomping from the left.

“We are gonna eat in the kitchen, goodbye Scout!”

“Bye Bucket, bye Mumbles! Thanks for the-” He was interrupted again by the door thudding closed.

“...Food. Okay, then.” He set the plate down onto the bed next to his leg. He could feel the heat from the… Chicken? On his leg. It kinda stinged.

Faint clinking sounded from his right.

He wagged his feet a little.

…

The clinking stopped.

“Y’not gonna eat, mate?”

“Uh… Nah, it’s still pretty hot. In a bit.”

“Y’haven’t eaten anything t'day ‘sides a piece o’toast, an’ ‘at was a couple hours ago. Y’not hungry?”

“...I am.”

“Eat, ‘en.”

“...It’s still hot.”

“So?”

Silence.

“That thing that happened when I was seven… made me really sensitive ta- ta heat, and fire. So… Yeah.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Nah, 's okay.”

…

He buried his arm in his eyes, and tried to ignore the underwhelming emptiness in his stomach. 

He was hungry. He could feel his stomach grumbling. He felt a bit lightheaded, actually. But that food was still hot. He really didn’t want to touch it. 

Not yet.

“Y'can have my plate if y'want, roo.”

“...Huh?”

“I think mine's a tad bit colder ‘an yours. y'can have it, if y'dont mind ‘at I olready ate a bit of it.”

“Y- you'd do that fo’me?”

“Course.”

…

He was a little hesitant. He already ate part of it, his saliva's already on the plate. But… I’m hungry as hell…

Dang it, I can't wait anymore.

“Th-thanks, Snipes.”

He heard ceramic clinking on the metal bed near his thigh, and a new… warm plate rested on his stomach.

“No worries mate.”

The clinking to his right started up once again.

He picked up the fork, and got a bit of the food-... It was cut. There were little bite-sized chicken bits scattered on one side of the plate on his stomach, the rest of the dish filled with rice.

He felt a trace of thankfulness.

He took a bite.

It was warm.

crunch

It was about 3pm, and usually time for Scout to get a snack, so he had to ask Sniper to get him some toast. The sharpshooter didn’t get anything for himself, and was still reading his book.

“...Hey Snipes.”

“Hm?”

“Have ya evah made toast in a microwave?”

“...Whot?”

“Hav- have ya eva-”

“Nah, I heard ya roo, just-... Toast in a microwave?”

“Yeah.”

“‘M not clinically insane, no. Why, d’yew?”

“Yea- C’mon, it’s a normal thing ta do!”

“Mate, it’s toast. Y’make toast in a toaster, It’s in th’name-”

“But it takes too long, it’s the same thing-!”

“No it’s not, ah don’t even think toast out of a bloody microwave is crispy!”

“Wha- who cares about crispiness, ‘s long as it don’t crumb up when I try to put a spread on it, I don’t care!”

“Whole point of toast is ‘at it’s crispy, not makin’ toast in a bloody toaster ruins the whole bloody point o’toast!”

“Oh, you’re one to talk, I see dat weird.. black thing ya keep in da cupboards. What da hell is dat anyway, void spread?”

“‘S called vegemite, mate. It’s pretty damn good, mind you.”

“Sure, sure! Blame the guy who makes toast in a microwave-”

“Still weird, bun.”

“But- Hey lemme finish! Blame me but eat some weird burnt butter as a snack!”

“C’mon, ‘t least ‘at’s normal, ‘saw me parents eat ‘at basically every mornin’. But wiv a microwave??”

“Yeah yeah, crispy dis, crispy dat! Next thing I know, Ya gonna tell me ya eat bacon crispy too.”

…

“Mate.”

“I- really!?”

“Okay, ‘at’s a matter of opinion-”

“Crispy bacon sucks!! It’s so hard to bite and it tastes like crap-!”

“Whot ‘f I like th’taste? Chewy bacon’s too strong, I like it duller-”

“But it’s so burnt, it’s terrible!”

“Hey, chewy’s fine, but I got no problem wiv biting crispy bacon.”

“Maybe you are clinically insane.”

“Who- Oi!”

They shared a laugh, and the argument went on…

And on…

And on.

For 3 whole minutes straight.

later

Mann I’m bored…

He’d continued doing those exercises of his, and also tried moving his legs. He had a bit of trouble with that.

It's been… 3 hours since dinner. At least he thought so. Should be about 9 pm right now, he figured.

Without brain stimulation, he felt like he was melting into the metal under him.

He glanced to his right again. Sniper was busy reading that book.

He turned his gaze back to the ceiling.

…

Dammit. I miss it already.

He wanted to do things. A lot of things.

He wanted to get food. He wanted to call his family. He wanted to talk to someone. He wanted to move.

But right now, the most important thing?

He wanted to run.

He wanted to run so bad.

It was an addiction. That breeze flying past his face, that feeling of being the fastest man alive, that rush of adrenaline. That damn rush of adrenaline.

He loved that rush. Maybe too much.

He woke up before the sun did just to feel that rush.

He wanted to just get up and run.

He really did.

Two days and I already miss it this much.

Dammit.

…

Adrenaline...

Adrenaline pushed him to do a lot of things.

It pushed him to play baseball. It pushed him to eat a crap ton of eggs. It pushed him to run that fast. It pushed him to take this contract in the first place. It pushed him to learn to flip and double-jump. It pushed him to… To take that flank route. It pushed him to go alone to that corridor. It pushed him to be completely open. It pushed him to just let that Spy stab him. It pushed him to be in this place, this bed, this situation.

He pushed his body to get that adrenaline. It’s him. He’s the cause.

Dis is my fault.

It’s my fault.

If only I wasn’t addicted to that damn adrenaline, maybe I’d still be out dere.

If only I wasn’t addicted to that rush, maybe I wouldn’t have to deal wid dis.

If only I wasn’t.. I wasn’t like dis… I wouldn’t be in dis stupid mess.

It’s all my fault.

…

Dammit.

Thoughts kept running laps around his mind. Taunting him. Tormenting him. Blaming him. 

He was trapped in this darkness. This swamp that he created. Too scared, too weak to call for help.

He couldn’t.

He was sure it was late. Late enough for him to be sleepy. And he was.

But he couldn’t drift off, not yet. Those thoughts were still there. Still repeating, still mind numbingly existing. Still overwhelming.

If you weren’t like dis, you wouldn’t be lyin’ down doin’ nothin right now.  You’d be runnin’ around, or livin’ life normally. Instead, you’re here, desperately tryin’ to even move your arm without it hurtin’. You’re pathetic. You’re sick.

It’s a pity, really.

You’re. So. Wea-

“Can’t sleep, roo?”

The sudden noise almost made him jump.

“...”

“..Y’awright?”

“Just thinkin’ ‘bout stuff.”

A beat.

“Thoughts keepin’ y’up?”

“...Yeah.”

“It’s ten pm, mate.”

“Ten?”

“Ten.”

How long was I stuck in my head for?

“...Dang.”

Silence.

“Jit… Jit try an’ calm down, okay? Y’need rest.”

He felt a warm hand rest on his palm. He almost pulled away.

“I’m here, awright?”

That hand wrapped around his own. The warmth from the man’s skin… It somehow grounded the runner. His fists relaxed. His shoulders untensed.

Those thoughts slowly faded into the background.

He lied there, staring up at the ceiling for a few more minutes. Only this time, his head was clear.

And soon enough… His eyes fluttered closed. His mind drifted away. And he finally dozed off.

Chapter Text

The breeze flying past his face was exhilarating. He was getting kills left and right, practically dominating the whole battlefield, the BLU’s had no chance against a powerhouse like him!

Everything was so fast, so fun, so thrilling.

There it was. That rush of adrenaline.

The wind hitting his face, the adrenaline flowing through his veins, the… Everything, it was all too little, yet too much, he couldn’t even comprehend anyone else’s existence over it.

Anyone else…

Wait, where is everyone?

He slowed his pace to a full stop, and looked around. Nothing but sand and building scraps surrounding him.

No one… but himself.

“Hello?”

…Silence.

His eyes darted around, looking for someone, anyone. But nobody was there.

He was alone.

Alone.

His chest tightened.

“Hello?!” He yelled a bit louder this time.

Nothing but silence.

Where is everyone??

He heard faint footsteps behind him. 

A spark of hope made home in his chest before-

Squelch.

His eyes widened.

He slowly turned around.

A blue figure stood in front of him. The figure was holding a knife near its stomach, covered in red liquid.

Red liquid.

He suddenly became hyperaware of everything. Of the rays of light boiling his skin, of the clothes grazing against his chest, of the scent of gunpowder attacking his nose. Of the dull pain in his back.

It was all... Too little, yet… Way too much.

He furrowed his eyebrows.

He looked down.

That same liquid puddled behind his feet. That same liquid dripped onto his hand. That same liquid… He felt it on his spine, his clothes. It was warm. Burning.

He stumbled backward. His heel caught a rock, making him fall back onto the burning gravel.

He hit the ground with a thud.

Cough. 

That same liquid went spraying out of his mouth. He felt it splatter around his lips.

He felt his stomach drop.

He heard footsteps fading away.

He was alone.

He choked on his breath.

A sharp pain shot through his back. It burnt, it hurt so bad, it felt so painful.

He heard breathing become slower and slower.

He felt weaker.

He felt lighter.

He felt colder…

Cold water poured down to his temples, breath hitching once or twice. 

He coughed again.

He woke up with a gasp.

Observation: Day 2

His eyes shot open.

His chest was rising and falling rapidly. His eyes were wet. His body felt warm. 

He was greeted by the sight of the vents. The sound of the beeping. The scent of the alcohol.

That faint snoring.

He looked to his right.  

The source of the noise was fast asleep. Hat over his face again, shades rested on his lap again, back slouched uncomfortably against the chair again.

…Then he remembered.

He lifted his chest and frantically felt around his spine.

It was dry.

It was whole.

It was normal.

A huge wave of relief washed over him.

He made a shaky sigh.

It's ok..

I'm ok.

…

After a few seconds, his breaths halted to a slow, steady rhythm.

He closed his eyes.

And took a breath.

Silence.

He never thought about how quiet it was when you wake up after a nightmare. 

Usually, when things like this happened, he'd get up immediately and opt for a run, sometimes without stretching, to try and forget about it.

Forget about the screams, the blood, the pain, all the things that come with war, really.

But not this time. He couldn't just walk it off like always.

He had to lie there and think about it. He had to lie there and hear the quiet. He just had to lie there. He couldn't really do much else.

Silence is so frickin’ quiet.

…

He looked toward the bushman again.

He realized that Sniper was in the same position as he was two days ago.

Why does he always sleep in dat pose?

..His little quirk, I guess.

Silence.

tick… tick… tick… Sniper's watch was making a little tick noise. 

He started tapping the metal under him in time with the ticks.

tap… tap… tap… tap… tap…

sigh.

He really didn't want to think about that dream. Anything, he could do anything but that.

…

Shuffling sounded to his right, and he looked toward the source of the noise.

Oh, Snipes's awake.

“Mmm…”

“Mornin’ Snipes!”

“...G'mornin’ roo.”

“You okay?”

“M'not a mornin’ person.”

“Ohh, ‘s dat why ya drink dat sad excuse for coffee every day?”

“Mhm.”

The sharpshooter took his hat off, quickly replacing it with the shades that were on his lap. He was squinting a lot.

“...Speaking of… Bun, do y'think y'd be awright if ah go an' get some? Might take a bit.”

“Uh- uh, yeah sure..!” Holy crap dat did not sound sure-

“Kay.”

He heard metal scraping against tile, followed by footsteps.

Step, step, step, step… creeaaak… thud.

…

Snipes sounded really tired.

It was true. The man’s voice was hoarse from sleep. His movements were slow, his speech was mumbled..

Not a mornin’ person, huh.

He looked back up to the ceiling, feet slowly wagging.

He blinked.

More silence.

He really wanted to fill it. It felt so empty.

Tapping's no good… My dog tags..? no, no. What about..

Oh!

He suddenly remembered the vinyls he had in his dorm. 

He was certain he'd memorized some of them.

“♪Hmm mm unusual…♪” 

Humming echoed through the infirmary. 

“♪Dada daa by anyone~♪”

He closed his eyes.

“♪It's not unusual ta have fun with anyone…♪”

He started bobbing his head to the beat.

“♪But when I see ya hanging about with anyone, it's not unusual ta see me cryyy… I wanna die~♪”

His eyes fluttered open for half a second to some sort of shuffling noise.

“♪It's not unusual t-♪”

A figure to his right.

He did a double-take and immediately halted.

Crap he's back-

They shared eye contact for a few seconds. It was.. Awkward, to say the least.

Sniper was just sitting there, holding his ‘#1 Sniper’ mug, so casually as if nothing happened.

He blinked.

“Since when were ya- ho- how long've ya been dere?”

“Bout a minute.” 

“...Huh.” He looked away and started rubbing his fingers together.

“Sorry, didn't mean t-”

“Nah i-it’s okay, just- just didn't hear ya come in is all, heh.”

“M'sorry.”

He stayed silent.

“...Y'voice's pretty good, roo. Ah like it.”

“Uh, t-thanks.”

His face started burning.

He'd never gotten a compliment before. Not like this, at least. He'd get the occasional “Good job!” from his ma whenever he'd show her his drawings, sure, but nothing ever past that.

‘Your voice is pretty good.’ ‘I like it.’

…

Usually, when they’d say stuff like that to each other, it was just a joke. It was lined with sarcasm, or hostility, or… Anything. Sniper just said it. So seriously. He didn’t know what to do with it.

It felt so personal.

So… Intimate? Intimate.

A little too intimate.

The silence returned.

He buried his arm in his eyes.

He heard a sip from his right.

“‘S it good?”

“Whot?”

“Da.. Da coffee.”

“Oh- uh, s'awright, a’guess.”

“Why do ya drink black coffee anyway? It's so bitta…” He moved his hand down to tug at his dog tags.

“Ah like bitter things.”

“Weirdo.”

Chuckles.

…

The situation felt awkward. Unusual.

He would usually start his mornings with brushing his teeth, then a run. a really, really long run.

But right now?

He was forced to lie down in a really uncomfortable metal bed.

He was forced to stay still basically 24/7.

He was forced to just stop.

His routine was shattered.

It felt really weird.

After a run, he'd usually take a cold shower, get dressed, then…

Breakfast.

His stomach grumbled.

Oh, right. 

“Hey.. Snipes?”

“Hm?” The sharpshooter took another sip, now visibly more awake.

“D’ya eat breakfast in the mornin’?”

“Er, I-... Sometimes.” Sniper looked to his left.

“Sometimes? Don't ya get hungry though?”

“Not- not really, no.” He noticed the bushman twiddling his thumbs.

“Hm.”

“Y'hungry?”

“...Kinda.”

“Y’scared t’ ask me to get food, roo?”

“...Kinda.”

Sniper chuckled. “Jit ask me next time, y’wanker. ’Ll be back, 'm sure bushfire cooked somethin’.”

“Tha- thanks.”

And as quickly as he came back, the bushman left again.

The door closed with a click.

Silence.

…

Time passed. Maybe a minute or two… Maybe 3.

He's takin’ his time, huh?

“♪...’S not unusual, to go out at any time…♪” His voice came out in a whisper. 

He put his arm over his eyes. “But when I see ya out and about it's such a crime…♪” The volume picked up a little.

“♪…’F you should eva wanna be loved by anyone.. ‘S not unusua-♪” He moved his arm off at the door opening loudly. Well, not loud loud, just… louder than he’s ever heard Sniper be.

“Oh, hey.”

The smell of butter slowly filled the room.

“Aye.” The plate was set on his stomach. “Solly made pikelets.”

“...Huh?”

“Er, pancakes. Sorry.” The sharpshooter handed him a fork.

“Oh. Thanks..” 

clink.

…

They stayed in silence for a while, only interrupted by soft clinking. Though, with food actually on his stomach, he felt… Hesitant? To actually eat it.

He didn't feel like eating. He was hungry, that empty void in his stomach was yelling at him. But he just didn't feel like eating.

clink.

“Y'awright, roo?”

“What?” Did my face give me away?

“Y'seem, er.. distant? Y'okay?”

“Um… Yeah, just.. Spaced out, I guess.” He looked to his right. uh oh.

Sniper looked… really puzzled. Like he was trying to solve a really hard riddle, or trying to figure out how to fix something. He was staring. At Scout.

“Whot's th'matter?”

“Nothing, I'm- I'm fine.”

“Mate. C'mon. I know ya betta 'an at.”

“I- it's just-” 

Staring.

Dammit.

He sighed. “I- I just don't… I don't like bein’ so useless, I guess. Like.. Like I can't even do anythin’ by myself ‘cept fo’ movin’ my arms.” He paused. “Dat- dat's it though, I’m okay, really.”

Silence.

The man hummed. “Don't worry mate. Y’one o'th’ fastest guys I know, bet you'll get betta in no time.”

“...Y'think so?”

“Course. Tell ya whot. Ah'll take care o'ya an’ do stuff f’ya, but if y'sure y'can do somethin’ y’self, tell me off, awright?”

A spark ignited in his chest. “Kay.” Auajhdhfgh thatsoundedwaytoohappy 

“Kay. Go eat now, bun.”

A smile crept onto his lips. He took a mouthful of pancakes.

Huh. 

It was a little burnt at the edges. It reminded him of his ma's pancakes. It reminded him of home.

Pretty good.

~

creaak.

“Herr Scout?”

“Oh, hi doc! Woah.. Ya good?”

Sniper waved.

“Yes, yes I know I look terrible, I just came to ask something. I have been monitoring your condition since you voke up, and you seem quite stable. I’d like to keep you here for one more day just in case, but I vant to know, vhere vill you be staying during your recovery?”

“Oh, dat’s uh… Hm. Good question actually.”

“He can stay in me van.”

Him and Medic looked toward the sharpshooter. Scout's mouth hung slightly agape.

“Your van? Really?”

“Yeah mate, why not? It’ll be easier t’watch ya ‘at way, too.”

“Huh.”

The thing about Sniper, he's refused everyone access to his camper. Really, everyone. Any time Soldier’s asked for weekly room monitors, any time Demo’s tried to break into his alcohol stash, he’s always, always refused. And he’s just.. Letting him in? Just like that?

“Okay zhen. I vill be back tomorrow to test an improved medigun, but, if zhat doesn't vork…” He paused. “I vill be here to tell you a recovery plan.”

“Uhm.. okay. By da way, Medic?”

“Ja?”

“Get some sleep afta dis okay? Ya look like ya haven’t hit a bed in a week.”

“A bit more zhan zhat, actually, but danke, Scout. Rest up now.”

“Kay, good luck!”

Clack clack clack… thud.

…

“So. I’m allowed in your van now?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Nah nothin’, just.. I dunno, you’ve neva let anyone else in.”

“‘M not close wiv anyone ‘sides you.”

“Maybe ‘cause someone doesn’t wanna talk to deir teammates.”

“Maybe cus the bluds're too bloody loud.

“Well... Eh, fair enough.” He paused. “What’s gonna happen if the medigun don’t work?”

“Er… Hm. ‘Ere was ‘at one time we ran outta ammo for a whole day, an’ ya turned it into a training session. Somehow before solly. A'd bet you’ll be okay.”

“...Ya think so?”

“Course. You’ll do fine.”

He grinned. 

~

“Gimme another!!”

“...Awright?”

Boredom striked the speedster yet again, and he somehow got the idea to toss little crumpled up papers into a trash can near the door.

whoosh- klunk, thud. Scout yelled, annoyed. He pouted.

whooosh.. thud. A gruff chuckle followed.

“Ugh, how?? You've gotta be cheatin’, admit it!”

“Told ya. Aim is important, roo.”

“But how? Ya haven’t missed one, and I've only gotten like 3 in, and we've been doin’ dis for like half an hour!!” 

“I'm jit good at me job, mate. Admit it.” He wasn't mad about Sniper getting every toss in. He was annoyed at how easy the guy did it.

Here he was, one eye closed, lining up his hand perfectly, and still missing most of his shots. While good old sharpshooter over here was slouched back, barely putting any effort into what he called a sad excuse of a throw, and still getting. Every. Single. Shot.

“...I ain't buyin’ it. Ya gotta be cheatin’.”

“Sorry mate, can't turn off a skill like mine.”

“Ugh. You sound like me.”

Chuckles.

whooosh.. thud.

Scout growled, brows furrowed. “Gimme another.” 

“Awright.”

whoosh- clack, thud. He yelled.

~

Silence. 

Soldier had brought the three some dinner– and a clock at his request– a couple hours back, and Scout felt himself getting drowsy again.

But he couldn't sleep. Of course he couldn't, how would he with those thoughts running endlessly in his mind.

Those memories, those sensations. That emptiness. He wanted to forget it. A lot. But no, that's too easy, of course he couldn't.

He lied awake, eyes fixed on that pipe, ears fixed on that buzz, nose fixed on that alcohol. Mind fixed on that thought.

He just wanted to sleep.

…

How did I get to sleep yesterday?

He tried to recall how he managed to drift off in the first place. He was sleepy, sure, but he's sleepy now too, so that's not it. He guessed the pillow helped a bit, but that's a constant already.

What was different?

He thought it was some sort of sensation he had that was absent then. Some sort of warmth, some sort of comfort, some sort of-

Oh. Oh, right.

He was holding Sniper's hand.

It did help somehow. A lot. The feeling of having someone there, having their attention, having his hand intertwined with another, it was comforting beyond belief.

He kinda wanted that again.

But no, no, it's too embarrassing. Asking another guy– his best friend, no less– to hold his hand just so he can fall asleep? That's pathetic, embarrassing, he was fairly certain Sniper'd laugh at him for even bringing the idea up.

Fairly certain.

Just fairly.

…

He hesitated for a moment.

“S…Snipes?”

“Yeah?” Their eyes met.

“Can you, uh…” He looked away, clutching at his dog tags. “Could you, do- do you mind, like..” He made a grabbing motion with his right hand.

The bushman seemed to have taken the hint– thank God– and he heard an exhaled laugh, followed by  metallic scraping.

Then, a hand. A rough, calloused, scarred hand that was big enough to cover his whole fist. It rubbed gently at the back of his palm.

He was made aware of the tense in his shoulders as they fell limp onto the metal.

Warmth.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

He drifted off surprisingly easily.

~

Tacos.

Every Saturday, he and Sniper would have lunch, or a picnic, or coffee, or a drink together. 

The two were sitting on a picnic blanket under an umbrella, one they brought in case the sun was too hot for the runner, which it always was, enjoying tacos that he made himself. He was pretty proud of them. 

They were laughing and talking and eating as usual, when he felt a sensation in his leg. He wasn't certain what it was, he just knew he felt something-

He jolted awake to aching in his calf.

Ow, ow? Ow! OW WHAT DA-?!

it ached, it cramped, it hurt a lot.

He grasped the metal to his left and clamped his mouth and eyes shut. His head hit the bed as the cramping continued. 

It still ached, a lot. He gritted his teeth.

OW OW OW CRAP WHAT IS DIS- OW!

The pain continued and continued and continued, not letting up at all. Only about half a minute in did he feel it start to fade… and fade.. ‘till the sensation halted completely.

He let everything fall down carefully onto the cold bed as he released his death grip and a breath he was apparently holding.

His whole body went limp at the lack of sensation.

Silence.

What da hell was dat?!

He was left confused. He assumed it was some sort of ache? Maybe it cramped, or… He wasn't sure.

Well, whatever it was, he didn't give a crap about it anymore. What drew his attention more was the warmth that remained on his hand.

He looked to his right, and was met by the sight of the sharpshooter's fingers still over his own. His hand was a little damp, ptobably from the skin touching it.

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 2:33. Two thirty-three. He fell asleep at ten.

Sniper had been holding his hand for well over four hours.

Four. Hours.

And more importantly, the bushman's eyes were still… Wait, was it? He couldn't tell behind the aviators covering them.

But Sniper usually slept with his hat on his face, not still fixed on his head. So, was he asleep or not?

He wasn't sure.

He didn't wanna run the risk of waking him prematurely and ruining his sleep. But then again, he didn't wanna be alone right then.

Agh, what to do…

He settled on twisting his hand up to face the one covering his, slowly so as to not startle the limb's owner. It was still a bit moist, but it felt nice.

Really nice.

A sudden voice snapped him back to reality.

“Y'awake, roo?”

“Um- uh, yeah.”

“Whot happened?”

“I-I think my leg, like… Cramped? It hurt.”

“Y'awright?” The hand on his squeezed ever so slightly tighter.

“Mhm. Why're you up?”

“Er.. Couldn't sleep.” He looked left.

“Hm.”

…

He found himself wide awake. As much as he wanted to just go back to sleep, his eyes were fully open.

He didn't know what to do.

Usually, when he woke up in the middle of the night, he'd do what he always did.

Run.

Either to tucker himself out enough to fall asleep again, or just to outright forget whatever woke him up.

But not this time.

It didn't help that he was having trouble sleeping for some reason.

It didn't help that he had so much pent up energy.

It didn't help that he hadn't had his fill of adrenaline in two weeks.

The only thing that did help was Medic and… Sniper.

Sniper's done a lot for him, actually.

He's been and stayed with him since he woke up, hell, he gave the runner access to his van. And he's so.. Gentle with him. Like sure, he'd expect him to be patient and still and careful. He's a sniper. But he kills people for a living. And he's probably killed a lot of people even before this job. And even still, he's so careful around him.

He's never seen this side of the sharpshooter before.

And it was a little embarrassing ‘cause he liked it.

He'd kill himself before admitting it out loud but he liked it. He liked how gentle, how caring, how understanding he was.

Sniper was just kinda there. And it surprised him how much it actually helped.

Speaking of, the bushman must have noticed him spacing out again, ‘cause he felt a thumb glide over the back of his hand. He relaxed a bit at that.

“Y’okay?”

“Yea- yeah, just.. Thinkin’.”

“Hm. Git back t'sleep, bun. Y'need some rest.”

“...Can't.”

“Can't?”

“Mm.”

“Can ah help?” The deadshot squeezed his hand again. Rubbed the back of his palm ever so slightly.

“I… I think ya doin’ a lotta helpin’ already.”

An exhale left Sniper's lips. He felt the hand retract, much to his disappointment, before it immediately left when the two hands locked together.

“Yer okay, mate. Don't worry.”

Those simple words somehow got him to relax more.

…

“...Y’know? You’re really good at dis, like… mom thing.”

“...Whot?”

“I- no wait, dat’s- dat came out wrong, I- uh…”

“’M not even gonna try an’ ask.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

It would be a while ‘till he actually felt sleepy again. But a while turned to a bit. Then a bit turned to a second. And a second turned to…

Oh. He fell asleep.

~

He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking at.

He’d woken up and eaten breakfast about 3 hours ago, and Medic had come in about.. 2 minutes ago with some news about, well… Whatever the hell he was holding.

“You- you made dat?”

“Yes. It took a week.”

“I- wow.” Medic wore a proud grin while holding some sort of contraption. It was still the medigun, sure, but it had a lot more parts welded and attached and wired on. Like, a lot. It barely looked like the original medigun. “And dat’s… s’pposed ta help me?”

“Vell.. I’m honestly not totally sure it vill work. But it vill at least help.. I think.”

“You.. you think...?”

“...I think.”

“...’Kay. C’mon, do it den!”

“Yes, yes, have patience, Scout.”

He heard the familiar trilling as the medigun started up, pointing directly toward his chest. He didn’t know why but he felt.. Scared? He shut his eyes.

Trilling... Whirring… Whooshing… Whooshing… 

Silence.

He didn’t feel any different.

He opened his eyes.

“...Did it work?” Scout questioned.

“Try moving your arm.”

He slowly lifted up his ha—

“Ow-!” A sharp pain in his elbow.

Disappointment welled up in his chest. He sighed and sunk back into the bed under him.

Silence.

“Vell. Zhat didn’t vork, but don’t worry, Junge. I have a recovery plan for you.”

Medic went on to talk about a bunch of stuff that he didn't really understand, but it boiled down to ‘exercise often, try to move, have rest days.. yada yada.’

The doctor told Scout that he was dismissed, brought a wheelchair and a folded piece of paper to the sharpshooter, and ran off to another door near the back of the medbay. The runner hoped it had a bed.

Silence.

“So.. Y'wanna go now, or later?”

“Uh. Can we go now? I.. don't like hospitals.”

“Kay.” 

Shuffling. Metal clinking.

“Er.. I'm jit gonna…” He felt a hand slide under his back and thighs.

“Huh–?”

His balance was completely thrown out the window as he was lifted off the bed and hit the bushman's chest. 

“Ow ow ow–! Wa- wait!” He grabbed Sniper's shirt, surely crumpling it as his knuckles went white.

“Relax mate, won't drop ya.” The huntsman adjusted his grip and leaned back, making all of Scout's weight lie on his chest.

“Y- you betta frickin’ not, Snipes or so help me Ga- AAH-!” He shoved his hands in his face at the embarrassing as hell noises that came out of his stupid mouth.

“Y'have me word.” He felt himself slowly getting lowered, and his arms moved away as his ass hit a chair. Then his legs. Then his back.

He put his hands on his lap to fidget with the fabric of his shorts. Shorts? 

Oh. Sniper must have changed that too.

He looked down.

“Y'awright ‘ere?”

“Y- uh huh.”

“Kay.”

The huntsman moved behind him to grip the handles of the wheelchair.

“Bye, doc!”

…

The speedster hoped the silence was ‘cause Medic was resting..

“Let's go?”

“Uh- wait wait, uh… D'ya know where my cap is?”

“Yer hat?”

“Yup.”

“Think it's somewhere over ‘ere.”

“Can ya get it?”

“Sure.”

Footsteps trailed off… Somewhere?

Silence for a bit.

More footsteps.

Something was shoved around his head. “Ack-!”

“‘S ‘at it?”

“Uh.. I think so.”

“Kay. Ready?”

“Yeah.”

They made their way out of the medbay and into the main corridor, somehow maintaining complete silence.

"I feel like dat ain’t d’first time ya carried someone like dat,” He joked.

"Nah, it was. Mum used t' watch a lotta luv movies growin' up, she luved collectin’ CDs. Gave me sum movies f' ‘th'road, think ah still have ‘em in one o'th’boxes laying ‘round. Made me watch sum wiv ‘er, an' I saw 'at pose sometimes. Kinda jit tried based off whot I watched. "

“Oh. Yeah, dat- dat makes sense.”

A beat.

“So, love movies?”

“What ov it, ya bloody nark?” The bushman whacked him lightly in the head, followed by an abundance of ‘sorry's and giggles.

…

They made a quick stop in the runner's room to get some of his clothes before beelining toward the exit.

Once they made it out, Scout stared at the campervan in the distance.

“I know I already said dis, but I’m really surprised ya let me just stay wid ya, no questions asked.”

“An’ why wouldn't I?”

“I dunno, ya… Your van’s like, a you thing, like- like a personal space dat no one else can enta. I dunno, dat's how I see my room.”

“Y'let me in yer room tho, right?”

“Well dat's.. You're my best friend, so I trust ya. I know you wouldn't do anythin’ weird in dere so…”

“Mhm…?”

“Okay, I see ya point.” He smiled to himself.

They stopped about a foot away from the entrance of the camper, and Sniper let go of the wheelchair.

“Right ‘en. Welcome, roo.”

He opened the door.