#tf2library

[oddport-fiction]

Day 361: Concentration

Based on a “nibbles” prompt from @bloody-gore-whore. Have some Vegemite Sandvich!

Sniper didn’t have a lot in this world, but he got by. There was a beat up camper that served as both home and transportation. There was his trusty rifle, a more-or-less dependable machine gun, and the kukri that he’d picked up on a whim years ago. In a pinch there was also the old hunting bow stowed away in the back. He was a simple man with simple tastes who was perfectly happy to ignore the couple million American dollars generating interest a Swiss bank account.

Truth be told, he just didn’t care much for material things. He’d seen what possessions did to a man; twisting them with jealousy, desire, greed, and lust. Hell, even his current employer was happy to tear apart his own family for the privilege of being the sole owner of a damn gravel pit.

What held stock in Sniper’s world was standards. A man without standards was nothing. Principles you could live or die by, and if it happened to be the latter, at least you’d be dying with some bloody dignity. No one wanted to be the dead bloke in the history book who died for money. They wanted to be the one who died for something greater than that. Be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everyone you meet. Those had been the standards that Sniper had lived by for the majority of his mercenary career. They’d served him well.

Sniper held stock in a man’s skills, because holding yourself up on a principle when you had no way of backing it up wasn’t noble. It was bloody stupid. For an engineer, that skill was building. For a spy, it was sneaking. For a scout… Well, he wasn’t entirely sure, but it sure seemed to involve a lot of yelling and running about like a loon.

For a sniper, the skill was concentration. To be effective, a sniper had to be able to push away the chaos of the battlefield until all that was left was that little bit of world that he could see through his scope. Through the endless barrage of explosions, gunshots, and the constant threat of backstabs, a sniper had to be able to find a target and hold it until that split second when he had the perfect shot. Like all skills, concentration took practice. But unlike shooting, it was a difficult thing to practice alone. In order to block out distraction, there needed to be distraction. And when you lived in a secluded camper out in the New Mexico desert, distractions were somewhat hard to come by, and had to be created.

Which is what Heavy was intently doing right that very moment.

Sniper swallowed as he looked down the sights of his rifle. The image in the scope was difficult to track as the can seated on a distant rock somehow seemed to move around of its own accord. Or maybe it was that he was shaking a little than usual on account that a warm breath was ghosting across the back of his neck.

When he’d asked for a distraction, he’d honestly had that bloody minigun in mind. At four rounds a second, Sasha roared more than her master. A perfect distraction. What he hadn’t counted on was Heavy preferring a distraction of an entirely different kind. The feeling of someone so close was unnerving. Too much like the presence of a spy for his liking, which was undoubtedly why Heavy was doing it.

Shifting his stance, Sniper let his eyes close for a moment as he refocused. He listened to his heartbeat as it thudded a little faster than normal in his ears. Warmth behind him was danger, but he couldn’t let that distract him.

He nearly jumped when lips pressed down onto his skin.

The lips curled into a smile as they slowly made their way up his neck, and a Russian nose tickled his hair. Sniper’s hands tightened around his rifle, his trigger finger twitching as he held it away until he was ready to shoot. Of all days why’d he decide that today was the day to forgo his high-collared vest?

Breathing, focus on the breathing. He told himself as large hands settled on his waist. The hands had a feather light touch. Hardly enough to be any sort of hindrance, but certainly more than enough to let him know they were there. His pulse pounded as lips gave way to teeth that had started to gently scrape their way across his skin. The warm breath was back, causing his skin to prickle as light scrapes gave way to teasing bites along his neck. Suntanned skin was left momentarily pale as it was tenderly worried, inch by inch, as to not let a single bit of left unattended. It took everything he had to keep his form and not lean into that hot mouth as it crept over and took an earlobe between those ever more curious teeth.

Bloody fuckin’ hell.

A crack echoed across the desert as the can leaped into the air, spinning hard to the left with a fresh bullet hole in its side. Sniper lowered the rifle with a huff as he ejected the spent casing.

“Is not bad.” Heavy’s face was blandly non-committal as he crossed his arms over his chest, but amusement was evident in his voice.

“Not bad?” Sniper eyebrows almost disappeared under the brim of his hat. “Mate, you did everything but give me a bloody reach around!”

“Shot off center.” Heavy shrugged. “Need more work with distractions.”

“Is that so? Well, never let it be said that a Mundy was scared of a little hard work.” Sniper grinned as he jerked his thumb in the direction of the camper. “What say we turn in and you help me get a little desensitized?”

Heavy chuckled and shook his head, but fell into step behind Sniper all the same.

[oddport-fiction]

Day 358: It Ended with Candy

@scouthater! 

A follow up to It Started with Sandvich.

The desert air was hot and dry, with the sun beating down almost unmercifully. Thankfully the shade of the rocky outcrops that were littered around the RED base were an easy source of shade, and Scout munched happily on the uneaten half of the Sandvich that he’d swiped from the BLU Heavy. The lettuce was still crisp, the bread lightly toasted, and whatever kinda ham had been slapped in was a hell of a lot better than the mystery meat that showed up in their canteen week after week. Scout sighed happily. For a guy who probably grew up with beet soup, or whatever they ate in Russia, that Heavy made a damn good Sandvich.

Licking a dab of mayonnaise from his his fingers, Scout leaned back against the rock. His stomach was full, the sun was shining, and he didn’t have a damn thing to do until the next round of shooty-shooty-kill-the-BLUs. A grin crept across his face at the thought. Another chance to poke at the bear.

It was a bad idea. An awful idea. But Scout just couldn’t help himself. There was just something about the Heavy that kept dragging him back, day after day, and sometimes getting lunch out of the deal. Maybe it was those arms like friggin’ tree trunks, or the hands that had to be almost a foot from thumb to pinky. There was also that laugh that thundered across the field, echoing off the canyon walls until it could be heard even over the roar of that stupidly-called minigun. Of course, there was also that ass, and damn if he didn’t make a special trip back to base to “borrow” Spy’s spy camera that one time when it was so hot that Heavy wore those shorts*.

And on top of all that, the Heavy seemed like he kinda enjoyed their little scraps. After all, if he didn’t get something out of it, it would be kinda stupid do show up in the exact same place, at the exact same time every day just to get in a fight over a Sandvich (no matter how good). There’d been hints of a smile, brief little things that were quickly hidden under that stony Russian face the moment he realized that Scout was watching just a little too closely. Even better were the soft ones that lingered long after Heavy had thought he’d gone. It had seemed so wrong that such a freakin’ sweet smile could be on the face of a guy who could literally punch out all of someone’s blood, but damn if it didn’t make him feel all fuzzy inside when he saw it. Scout knew he’d fallen, and fallen hard. He just hadn’t planned on kissing Heavy. That idea had seemed to be up there with calling Soldier Canadian, or popping Balloonicorn.

Still, he kinda liked how it played out.

The Heavy’s lips had been softer than he’d expected. Not girly soft, but not harsh and sun-chapped either. As he’d kissed Heavy, he felt that big hand twist into his shirt, not even trembling as he’d held Scout aloft. His grin grew wider, and he pulled the bill of his cap down, because god help him if one of the others saw his face right now.

Oh yeah, there wasn’t any going back on this. Hopping to his feet, Scout settled into an unhurried jog back to the barracks. It was time he brought something to their little lunchtime game. It was only fair. After all, he had taken the big lug’s lunch.

Lunchtime.

Heavy sat on his usual crate at the usual time with his usual Sandvich in his hand. He contemplated it as he sat, wondering if it would be a step too far to perhaps introduce yet another meat. Perhaps bacon, or some of that prosciutto that Spy smuggled back into the country. Truly Sandvich was an amazing thing, but could it be even more amazing?

“Yo!”

The shout caught him off guard, but Heavy quickly turned and dropped into a fighting stance. A laugh bubbled up from above, and he looked up to see the RED Scout sitting on the fence, his feet dangling over the edge.

“Little Scout here to fight Heavy?” The wax paper wrapping the Sandvich crinkled in Heavy’s hand.

“As fun as that sounds, I got somethin’ else in mind.” Scout dropped from the fence onto the stacked crates, hopping down one and then another until he was only a few feet away from Heavy.

As Heavy straightened up, he saw something dangling from Scout’s mouth. Thin and straight, a white and red peppermint stick wiggled back and forth as Scout rolled it between his lips. Every so often there was a flick of pink as Scout’s tongue darted out in an almost obscene way to catch a little drop as the candy stick wilted in the summer heat.

Heavy hoped that same heat masked the flush that he felt spread over him. But as that fox like grin ticked up the edges of Scout’s mouth, he somehow doubted it.

Scout ambled over at an almost agonizingly slow pace, and it was only the slight ducking of his head that betrayed his own nerves. “Figured I owed you dessert.” Scout flipped the peppermint stick up as he stopped within an arm’s reach of Heavy. “What’dya say? Interested?”

For a moment Heavy said nothing, but then he put Sandvich down. One giant hand reached out and plucked the peppermint stick from Scout’s mouth and stuck the untouched end into his own. He let it roll around in his mouth, closing his eyes, and then shook his head.

“Nyet. Is not so good. Too sweet.”

Scout looked dumbfounded. “Not good? How do you not like a freakin’ candy cane? I mean, what does ‘too sweet’ even mean?”

With a speed that Scout couldn’t have imagined, Heavy’s hand shot out and grabbed Scout around the waist. In one single, fluid motion, he pulled Scout towards him, cupping one hand beneath as the other pulled the RED’s head in for a kiss.

There was a hint of peppermint in Scout’s mouth as Heavy’s tongue skirted his lips. “Much better.” Heavy murmured when they finally pull away. For once Scout was speechless, but there was still a grin plastered across his face.

This would be the start of something sweet.

* “Those Shorts”

[oddport-fiction]

Day 357: It Started with Sandvich

For Over-Enthusiastic Anon! Heavy Hitters!

Heavy sat on a crate outside the BLU compound. It was lunchtime and he had a sandwich in his hand, as has been his routine almost every day for the past six months. To the average American, it was nothing. A mere two pieces of white bread that held between it lettuce, tomatoes, Swiss cheese, and a few slices of both ham and bologna. A green pimento-stuffed olive garnished the top, skewered by a toothpick that would be plucked, used, and then tossed aside at the end of his meal.

To Heavy, it was a wonder. Such a thing would have been unthinkable when he was a child. Not the idea of a sandwich, but the actual having of it. With the exception of his brief time at university, food was usually a drab experience, used to nourish the body rather than excite the soul. When Engineer had made him one on his first day at 2Fort, it had been the start of something wonderful.

The first Sandvich.

Engineer had been amused by how taken he’d been by it. Even going so far as to call it the Sandvich Edible Device, with a gentle tease at Heavy’s accent. Heavy hadn’t minded. A little good natured ribbing was a good thing between comrades. It had been the moment he’d actually started to feel at home.

Since then, a Sandvich a day had been made.

But a Sandvich a day had not always been eaten.

Sharp blue eyes scanned the edge of the compound, looking for any hint of movement against the dry red earth. It shouldn’t be hard, the RED not so good at sneaking, and yet it still was a challenge. It hadn’t been from the first day, but certainly it was not soon after that the little man from the RED team had decided to make bothering Heavy’s lunch time was a good bit of fun.

Intelligence gathering had been the first thing Heavy had thought about when it started, but that idea had quickly been discarded as Scout never got past the gate. He’d hop in long enough to harass Heavy, and then go.

And sometimes take along Sandvich as a souvenir.

Time ticked by, and there was still no sign of Scout. Perhaps something had come up, or maybe he’d just become tired of this game. A part of Heavy hoped not. There was something endearing about the scrappy determination with which Scout tackled these fights. But his stomach growled, and lunch hour drew ever closer to an end. Heavy sighed, but decided that actually eating his lunch was the only thing left to do. Taking his first bite, Heavy closed his eyes for just a moment, savoring the taste of the cheese and ham as they blended together in stacked culinary perfection.

And that was all the distraction that Scout needed.

“BATTAH UP!”

With a yell, Scout launched himself down from the top of the crates and barreled into Heavy from behind. The weight of Scout completely geared up barely moved the giant an inch, so he twisted himself around, using the momentum to swing around to the big man’s front and yanking him off balance. Heavy barely had time to toss the Sandvich to the side before Scout’s feet planted against his chest and kicked off, sending both mercenaries flying in opposite directions.

Heavy stumbled back, crashing down on the crates as he struggled to retain his balance.

Scout had no such problem, landing almost elegantly on his toes a few feet away. “Ooooh, weren’t expectin’ that, where ya, big guy?” Scout flashed a shit eating grin as Heavy crawled back up.

“Little man is bothersome.” Heavy growled, but a grin of his own crawled across his face. He should have known better than to think the Scout would let him down. A large fist pounded into his palm. “Come and get Heavy, malen'kiy krolik.”

“Don’t you just say the sweetest damn things?”

“You talk too much.”

Scout laughed as he dropped into a crouch. “Then make me shut up.”

Heavy didn’t need to be told twice. With a yell, he charged forward, swinging wide as Scout nimbly ducked to the side. One punch, then another, all perfectly aimed to where Scout had been a mere second before.

“Come on, Big Red,” Scout taunted, “gimmie a challenge!”

With a frustrated grunt, Heavy changed tactics. Instead of another punch, he jerked his hand back and clipped Scout’s shoulder as the RED missed the sudden change in movement. With a yelp, Scout flailed back and Heavy surged forward, his shoulder connecting squarely and sending Scout down to the ground.

“Little man talk too much.” Heavy repeated the words as his shadow loomed over Scout as he lay sprawled on the ground. He reached down, grabbing him by his t-shirt and lifted him up to eye level, letting Scout’s feet dangle inches off the pavement.

“Yeah, well…” Scout wriggled a little in Heavy’s iron grip, “Guess maybe talkin’ ain’t gonna get me outta this, huh?”

“Nyet.”

“Then, how about this?”

Heavy stopped dead in his tracks, suddenly forgetting how to breathe as Scout’s fingers nearly dug into the back of his head and yanked him forward, smashing their lips together in the roughest kiss that he’d ever had. The coarse wrapps around his hands burned against his skin as Scout held tight, and when those lips pulled away Heavy just stood there with a shocked expression on his face.

By the time he’d come back to his senses, the RED was gone. Heavy turned just in time to see Scout up on the nearby boundary fence, one leg already over, with the Sandvich clenched between his teeth. A grin curled up at the corner of Scout’s mouth and he gave a little wave before disappearing behind the fence. Heavy didn’t run. There was no point. By the time he climbed the crates, the Scout would be long gone as would the Sandvich. But tomorrow, tomorrow would be different.

Except that it wouldn’t.

It be the same. Heavy sitting, with his Sandvich and waiting for Scout.

[oddport-fiction]

Day 356: A Loud and Quiet Love

For Fluffy Anon! Can you believe that I’ve never written a Bomb Voyage fic before?

Spy’s heartbeat thundered in his ears as he tore through the halls of the BLU base. The intelligence was clutched tightly in his hands and, not for the first time, did he curse the fact that he was utterly unable to close or disguise himself while the blasted thing was on him. And just where was Scout? The idiot was supposed to flank around and meet him just outside the intelligence room once the sentry had been disabled, but when he’d emerged with the briefcase in hand, there was no one in sight.

At least not until the BLU Soldier had showed up. And that was when he started running for his life.

“Hold still, you white-flag waving crouton!”

The Soldier’s shout was drowned out by the roar of the rocket blasting from the launcher. Spy barely had time to throw himself around a corner before feeling the heat of the explosion slam into his back. Slick leather shoes skidded across tile as Spy ran up the stairs and out into the courtyard, his one goal to reach the ground level exit of the base and make it across the covered bridge. If he could just make it there, surely he’d see someone else to whom he could pass the infernal briefcase off.

“Hey, Sollie! You got that shapeshiftin’ rat on the run!”

Spy cursed under his breath as he heard a Scout, but the wrong one. And of course one of the few REDs who could actually catch him had to be the one currently pulling ahead of the Soldier who was preparing another rocket. Another corner, and his goal was in sight. The doorway to the bridge, free and clear. He just needed a few more seconds…

“JUMP!”

Spy reacted to the voice out of instinct, barely even registering the spiny spheres that suddenly appeared before him. Clenching the briefcase’s handle in his grip, he hurdled them, just in time to catch them as they started flashing red. Then there was a sudden silence.

The force of the blast knocked him forward, and he threw his hands out in front of him and scrambled to keep from hitting the ground. Behind him he heard the crackling of burning wood and smelled the thick smoke that he knew would be coiling into the air, but he didn’t stop to look. Where there was one BLU, there were sure to be others. Not that he was terribly worried now. He had a one-eyed guardian angel looking out for him today.

The workshop was located on the very edge of the compound for a reason: Highly unstable substances had a tendency to make very large explosions if improperly handled. Mix that in with the fact that Engineer turned off the respawn system promptly after the match, and people suddenly decided that a shack filled with nitroglycerin and other potent accelerants was someplace to generally be avoided. And that meant a lot of lonely nights for the resident demolitions expert.

Demo set the bottle of rum, DeGroot’s finest, on the table a little harder than was generally prudent. He wasn’t drunk, not yet anyway, and that’s partially what had him on edge. He’d been tucked away for the better part of the afternoon, and far longer into the evening than he wanted. Bullets and shells were - with the exception of Heavy’s - almost a literal dime a dozen, and rockets were available in bulk from the Mann Co.–industrial complex. But explosives? Aye, they were something else entirely. Each sticky bomb was painstakingly crafted by hand. Each little point on their wee little shells polished and sharpened to ensure that they’d stay true for the moment of detonation.

In the past he’d not given it a second thought. He’d while away until the early hours of the morning to tinker with a detonation device, or the precise level of one compound or the next. But now he actually had a reason to not want to be here.

He muttered under his breath and reached for the bottle, but when his hand closed around nothing but air, he looked up in confusion. There, right in front of him, was the bottle just floating in mid air, slowly turning this way then that before a familiar silhouette shimmered into view.

“I do not know if I should be more concerned with the drinking on the job, or your taste in vintage.” Spy’s mouth curled into a smile as he looked down at the bemused bomber.

“And I’ll have ye know, that was bottled by Tulliver Habadash McGroot.” Demo waved a screwdriver at Spy, who pulled over a crate and sat himself down. “The Blind Brewer of Ullipool, who held thirty-two other jobs until the day he downed in the mash vat.”

“Such the family tradition.” Spy raised the bottle in a toast. “To Monsieur Tulliver Habadash McGroot, may his family grow and prosper.”

Spy tipped the bottle back and took a drink before returning it to the table. “Are you sure he bottled it, and he wasn’t in this particular one?”

“A wee bit strong for ye, eh?”

“I simply prefer a drink that does not attempt to bludgeon me into submission.”

Demo chuckled.

They sat in silence, but the mood in the small workshop had shifted. Spy’s presence seemed to lighten the air, and Demo’s shoulders weren’t quite to hunched. As he lingered, Spy’s fingers twitched towards his cigarettes, but he resisted the urge. Time and place. Time and place.

After a short while, Demo set down his tools and stretched his back. He set to work putting away the various odds and ends of the bomb-maker’s kit, and then turned back to Spy. “Ye know, I might have some ‘o that spoiled grape juice ye Frenchies are so keen on back in me room.”

“Is that so?” One finely arched eyebrow crept up under the mask. Spy got up and held out his elbow. “Then lead on, mon cher. Lead on.”

[oddport-fiction]

Day 355: Target Practice

For Nervous Anon! Some Speeding Bullet!

“Camper?” Sniper raised the brim of his slouch hat to peer up at the silhouetted shape in front of him. “You still mad that the RED Sniper pegged you right before time was called?”

Scout kicked at the dirt, sending a rock skipping into the rough underbrush at the edge of the campsite. “It’s cheap, man.

“Look, I know you’re pissed, but that’s what snipin’ is.”

“Pot shots?” Scout snorted. “Please. Freakin’ camper outta actually learn how to fight with a gun.”

Sniper pulled down his aviators and looked out over the lenses. “What, like that scattergun you lug around with you? All that wavin’ about you’re doing is fighting?”

Scout nodded “Up close and personal. Like a good fight oughta be.”

“So you can’t help but hit, more like. You miss someone with a load of buckshot from two feet, you deserve to wind up in respawn.” Sniper couldn’t hold back an amused chuckle, and barely held back from outright laughter when Scout shot him a scowl. “Snipin’s an art. Takes skill to ‘camp’.”

“How hard is that?” Scout scoffed as he held up two fingers like a gun. “You point it, aim it, fire it. Pow!” His wrist snapped in a mimicry of recoil. “Move on.”

There was a certain temptation to just let it go, and up until that last bit, that’s what Sniper had been inclined to do. He knew it was frustrating to get halfway across the field past a barrage of missiles, explosives, and fire, just to be sent right back to respawn by a single well-placed bullet. But there was an element of professional pride, even if he was roundabout defending the slipshod shooting of the RED Sniper. Besides, he wasn’t gonna let a young buck whose definition of “finesse” in combat included bludgeoning someone with a baseball bat. With a sigh, he pulled himself up from his camp chair and, in a single smooth motion, he grabbed his rifle, swung it to his shoulder and fired off a shot. The canyon echoed as the rifle cracked, and Scout watched as the brittle branch of a weathered dead tree was sent flying.

“Not hard at all, I guess.” Sniper turned as he ejected the spent shell casing and looked at the surprised expression on Scout’s face. He slipped a fresh round into the breach and locked it into place. “Show me how it’s done, Roo.”

“What?” Scout looked at the rifle. “Me?”

Sniper nodded as he held the gun out. “Yeah. Ain’t that hard, is it? I didn’t even bother to aim.”

For a minute Scout just looked at the rifle in Sniper’s hands as if it were going to jump out and bite him. Then, either out of pride or principle, he took it and felt the weight, sliding his hand on the stock until his hands were in roughly the same positions as Sniper’s had been. He planted his feet on the ground, his stance narrow as he pulled the stock to his shoulder and squinted down the iron sights. His hands were shaking and causing the muzzle to quiver at the end of the barrel. A small tremor that wouldn’t have meant anything with a scattergun, but for a rifle was enough to send the bullet careening off course. The weather wasn't overly warm, but he could see a small bead of sweat starting to form at Scout’s temple.

Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy, ran through Sniper’s head, but he held his tongue while Scout’s own peeked out between his lips. His first shots weren’t nearly as neat.

Still, he was trying.

With a brazenness and disregard for proper gun safety that came with dying several times in a given day, Sniper crept up behind Scout and slipped his hands on top as Scout stiffened underneath. “Don’t overreach. I’ve got longer arms than you.” He gently pulled Scout’s hand closer. A long leg tucked between Scout’s knees to urge his stance wider, directing his feet before using his own arms to pull him taller. “Don’t slouch. Stand up straight. Makes you stronger.” He murmured over Scout’s shoulder as he used whole body to carefully nudge him this way and that until he almost felt like the gun was back in his own hands. After a minute, he felt Scout relax in front of him, and when those blue eyes flicked back to look at him, he didn’t feel all that inclined to let go.

“Take a minute and breathe,” Sniper instructed quietly. “Get a handle on your own heartbeat.”

For once Scout was quiet. They stood there, front to back, as Scout slowly picked up the easy rise and fall of Sniper’s trained breaths into his own rhythm. The wind blew gently around them and the soft moan as it ran through the desert canyons was the only sound.

“Good, Roo.” Sniper leaned in just enough to let his breath ghost across Scout’s neck. “Now when you’re ready, exhale and fire.”

CRACK!

Sniper felt the rifle’s kick, but held both himself and Scout firm. Down the canyon he heard the ping of the bullet striking a rock, and pulled away to see a small dust cloud a few feet to the right of the tree.

“Not bad.”

“Not bad?” Scout exclaimed. “That’s it?”

Sniper grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “You did hit the general vicinity of the tree. I’ll give you that.”

“Pppph!” Scout stuck out his tongue as he handed the rifled back to Sniper.

“Think you might have some promise though.” Sniper continued as he ejected the casing. “You’ll just have to come back and practice some more.”

Scout did not blush. He totally, absolutely, positively did not blush at the look that Sniper was giving him over the rims of his glasses and the slip his voice made into a range just a little deeper that was totally on purpose. And he sure as hell didn’t get a goofy grin of his own as all thoughts about the indignity of respawn and RED campers faded away into nothing.

But he did certainly plan on another round of target practice.

[oddport-fiction]

Day 354: Pillow Letter

For anyone who needs a little Flashfire in their lives today.

The room was dark as Pyro slowly opened the door. This time they hadn’t broken the lock. They’d gotten a talking-to by Engineer about that last time, but at least he’d been nice enough to give them a key for the new one. He’d agreed that Scout probably wouldn’t mind.

Closing the door behind them, Pyro paused to let their eyes adjust to the dim light of the room. Once they took of their mask, the pale moonlight that ghosted in through the curtainless window was more than enough to make their way over to the bed. They sat down, bouncing a little on the flat mattress as they listened to the springs squeak underneath them. As the rusty creaking quieted, the only sound was Pyro’s slightly raspy breathing.

Scout had been gone for almost two weeks. It was Thanksgiving, so he’d gone home to Boston to visit his brothers and mom, leaving Pyro by themselves. Well, not really. Engineer was still here, as were Medic, Spy, Demo, Heavy, Sniper, and Soldier. But without Scout, 2Fort really did feel empty. They flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, playing back that conversation in their mind the same way they’d done each night since Scout had left.

“So I’m goin’ home for Thanksgiving.”

The words themselves had been casual, but Scout had blurted them out so quickly that Pyro recognized the nervousness behind them. They didn’t blame him for it, instead they blamed themselves for the way their arms suddenly tightened around him.

“Yeah?”

“Ma called the other day. Said it’d been too long since she’d had all of us there together.” Scout rolled over in bed, repositioning himself in their arms so that he could rest his chin on the top of their mask. “I gotta new niece - Ma’s first grandkid. She’s kinda makin’ a big deal about it.”

“Oh.” Pyro had mixed feelings about babies. They were cute, but they were messy. That’s why they liked puppies and kittens. Puppies and kittens didn’t spit up on everything and could learn how to use the bathroom properly.

“You can come if you want.” Scout’s hand landed lightly just under the hem of their nightshirt. “I bet you’d like Boston.”

Pyro smiled a little against Scout’s chest even as they felt the tightness gathering in their own. He wouldn’t offer if he didn’t want them there. They had enough faith in him to know that. Still...

“It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

He’d asked again. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” They squirmed as close to him as they could. “I hope you have a good time.”

They’d meant it. It was good to have family you wanted to see.

Sitting up, Pyro tugged off their boots and let them drop on the floor with a thud. They lay their gloves and mask on top and then finally unzipped their suit, leaving it in a heap at their feet and leaving them in just an old t-shirt and shorts. They pulled down the sheets and crawled underneath.

They had been thinking about it since Scout left, but had only just worked up the nerve to actually do it. Last week they’d just sat on the bed all night until Engie had found them there the next morning (and given them the talking to about the door), but as the days had passed, they’d missed Scout more and more. It was a silly thing, but they were comfortable here.

Scout’s scent lingered on the pillow and Pyro breathed deeply as they got the hints of soap and entirely unnecessary aftershave that Scout would slap on after his shower. Their own scent was there as well, smokey and with a hint of flamer fuel. Together they mixed together into something that Pyro could only call “home”. Home was Scout, here with them, together.

A lump formed in their throat, and they tried to push it back down. They didn’t want to cry over something so silly. It wasn’t like Scout was gone for good, just for a little while. In a few days Engie would pick him up at the bus depot and he’d come back, bringing his smile and laughter along with him. He’d hug them and pull them close, telling them that he missed them, and then tell him about everything back home. They just had to be patient.

But they missed him so much.

A sigh whispered out into the room as Pyro curled up and pulled the covers tight. As they did, a faint crinkle reached their ears. They paused and then slipped their hand under the pillow to find a folded piece of paper hidden there. Part of them wanted to pull it out right away, but what if it was something private? People didn’t put things that they wanted anyone else to read under their pillows after all. The nightstand. They’d put it there, and then put it back first thing in the morning. Scout wouldn’t have to know. Even if they did have to explain why his door had a new lock. They sat up just enough reach over to the nightstand and open its drawer. Then they grabbed the note and were about to drop it in when they noticed a word scribbled on it: PYRO.

It was for them? Pyro just lay still for a moment, and then opened up the note with shaky fingers.

Hey Mumbles,

They smiled at their nickname.

I figure you’ll make your way in here sooner or later. I’ll be home soon, because you know that I’m gonna miss you.

They giggled at Scout’s cleverness. The others didn’t think that he was all that bright, but Pyro knew better. When it came to the things Scout cared about, Scout knew more than just about anyone.

Love ya,

Scout

The tightness was still there, but now it was pushed back a bit by a warmth curling up inside. Pulling the pillow back, they wrapped their arms around it and held it close, the note still clutched in their hands.

Only a few more days.

[oddport-fiction]

Day 340: Heal Thyself

A request from Loner anon!

Sniper had to tell himself to breathe as he watched the thin trails of blood slowly circle the drain. He had no idea of how much blood he’d lost during the fighting, or how much more since the match ended. Right now he was lightheaded, so the obvious answer was “too much”. A pile of soiled bandages sat on the camper’s small counter, his soiled clothes lay in a heap on the floor. A small mirror hung just over the sink. Normally it was used for shaving. Today, it was being used for impromptu home surgery.

The Bowie knife shook in his hand as he touched the raw wound where the bullet had entered his shoulder. There was no exit wound, and he could feel the deformed lump of metal still inside. A sweet little parting gift from the RED Sniper before the two teams packed up to move bases in a few days.

He’d seen the sun glint off of the scope just a second too late, and found himself knocked to the floor just as time was called and match awarded to RED. Outside he’d heard the sounds of the Humiliation Round and waited for one of the victors to come storming into his nest to finish him off, but they never came. More time passed, and still nothing. He felt the growing patch of dampness crawling across his chest as blood slowly seeped into it. Eventually he heard a sharp crack in the distance and his heart sank.

Respawn had been deactivated.

“Shit.”

Taking a deep breath, Sniper had pulled himself up and took a minute to just breathe. Waiting wasn’t an option now. He had to move. Gathering his gear, he’d made the long descent from his nest. On the way he’d found a spare healthkit and stopped just long enough to cover the wound. Then he headed for the camper.

His shoulder twitched painfully under the light touch of his fingers, and a small voice in his head urged him to grab his walkie-talkie and call into base. It wasn’t too late, and Medic would be ready to go as soon as he reached the infirmary. 

And that, of course, was the problem. He hated the infirmary, hated being on base, and hated all the bloody noise. Right now, limping home from a match, he just wanted to curl up in his camper alone. Like a wounded animal, all he wanted the quiet and security of that little piece of the world that was his and his alone. His nest, his cave, his safety.

He was Australian, he’d grown up in the bush. He’d tended to himself before, and he would do it now. Or in just a few minutes, once the world stopped spinning. He... He just needed a rest.

The knife fell to the floor and the rest of the world went black.

“Sniper?”

From somewhere beyond the fog in his mind he heard the sound someone pounding against his door. Had he locked it when he’d returned? He couldn’t remember.

“Sniper!”

The voice was muffled but unmistakable, and he could feel the heavy jackbooted footsteps as they shook the floor. The floor? When had he gotten here?

“Dummkopf.”

Forcing his eyes to open, he looked up to see a familiar pair of glasses looking down at him, and behind them an exasperated expression. The camper was filled with the blue light of the Medi-gun and Sniper tried to wave him off. “I don’t need yer bloody hocus pocus…”

His words sounded odd in in his ears, slurred and thick, and feeling as if he had to pull them out one by one.

“You stubborn man.” Medic shook his head. “The Medi-gun would be much faster, but I suppose there is no arguing once you have set your mind to it.”

The next moment Sniper felt arms around him as Medic pulled him close. He heard a grunt, and then the world shifted as Medic carefully got to his feet with Sniper cradled as gently as possible. As they left the camper into the blinding afternoon sunlight, Sniper closed his eyes again, letting the darkness take him.

The soft sound of dove coos reached Sniper’s ears as he slowly woke up. While the room was dark, there was no mistaking where was; the antiseptic smell of the infirmary always caused his stomach to turn.

Suddenly, the curtains in front of him were pulled open and light flooded the space to reveal Medic standing in silhouette. The doctor approached the table and this time Sniper offered no resistance when he leaned in to inspect the wound. Neatly bandaged, and with only a residual soreness, Sniper knew that the doctor had already done his work the old fashioned way, free of any Australium-fueled healing beams. It was a more painful recovery, but there was something that just felt necessary about the pain when the body had the time to deal with it.

“You have been a troublesome patient, Herr Sniper.” Medic pulled away with a practiced look of patient affection that a parent might give a particularly obstinate child. “Again.”

If Sniper had more energy he might have felt embarrassed. No, this hadn’t been the first time that he’d been found on the floor of his camper by the doctor, and both of them knew that it wouldn’t be the last. And, in an odd sort of way, there was a comfort in that.

“Good to see you too, Doc.”

[oddport-fiction]

Day 339: A Visit to the Park

For Sporty Anon!

“Come on, Doc. You’ll have a great time! Trust me!”

“Trust me” were words that Medic had learned to be wary of when coming from Scout. Typically they preceded some highly ill-advised tomfoolery on the field that would wind up with the two of them waking up in respawn. Just because they now were in regard to something of a typically non-lethal nature didn’t put him any more at ease.

It didn’t help that they were in the middle of Boston. A bustling city filled with an excited crowd who all seemed to have come to some sort of hive mind agreement to raid their closets for any article of red clothing that they could find. Even Scout, who he’d rarely seen in anything other than his BLU uniform shirt, had on a red and white sweatshirt with SOX written across the front.

“You realize that in any other situation that color would result in a saw through your abdomen, don’t you?” Medic had questioned, his eyebrow raising when Scout had appeared with it on early that day.

Scout had given him a shrug and flashed him that smile that was likely the reason why he put up with half of the ridiculous ideas that Scout had pitched his way in the last few months. “What can I say. Sox fan for life.”

And it was that same smile that was the only thing keeping Medic from jabbing the scalpel in his coat pocket into the throat of the nearest member of the ever growing throng of people that descended on Fenway Park to make their way to the stand inside. It was opening night, and even Medic could feel the energy humming through the crowd. There were painted faces, signs tucked under arms, and already a distinct feeling that more than one of his soon to be seatmates was already well on the way to public inebriation.

This hadn’t been quite what he’d had in mind when Scout asked him to visit Boston during furlough.

Scout was bouncing on the balls of his feet as they inched their way closer to the turnstiles. He had their tickets in his hand, a small bundle under his arm, and grinned up at Medic as he let the natural pressure of the crowd press him closer for a quick squeeze of the hand. For a moment, Medic’s normal misanthropic mood shifted to one of affection, and managed a smile of his own that hopefully wasn’t too tense.

Things got better after they entered the park. The crowd started dispersing to their respective seats and Scout grabbed his hand to pull in up into the upper levels of the stands that overlooked third base.

“I thought seats closer to the actual field would be more desirable.” Medic turned to look over his shoulder as they climbed further up.

“They’re more expensive.” Scout gave him another shrug.

Medic rolled his eyes. “Scout, I know you send money back to your mother, but if you had told me…”

“Here we are!” Scout came to a stop at a pair of seats that were tucked far in the back, overlooking the entire field. He scooted in, dropping himself into his seat and waiting for Medic to follow suit. “Come on, Doc.” Scout tugged at his sleeve. “Settle in. They’ll be tossin’ out the first pitch soon.”

Medic sighed, but obliged. He had a basic understanding of the game to come, and he doubted he’d have too much trouble keeping up. The premise of the game was simple, and if things came down to it, he’d just go by Scout’s inability to conceal his own emotions as to how he should approach any questionable events. At the very least it was a pleasant, if uniquely American, view. The park was well maintained, and in the distance a large illuminated Citgo sign stood like an artificial star.

A cool breeze blew through the stands, and he shivered as he pulled his coat a little tighter around him. April in Boston was still cool, and in the shade of the stands he actually felt chilly. Not cold like winters back in Germany, but still the warmth of New Mexico had spoiled him.

Suddenly there was a thwap besides him and a large red blanket came down to rest over his lap. He looked over at Scout, whose grin had gotten only bigger as he tucked the edges in against the seat and pulled the blanket up to nearly his chin.

“Don’t worry.” Scout leaned over in his seat as he lay his hand on Medic’s knee underneath the blanket. “You know how many dates I’ve brought here? I know how to have a good time at the ballpark, Doc. Trust me.”