He's going to regret this.
Even in the throes of passion, when the world is salted with stars and his breathing sings song his lips don't even know the words to: he knows it's a mistake.
He graces the error, at least, by finishing up with a cry drowned in the boy's shoulder, his mind blurry, unable to see anything coherent but regret. See, the only thing easier than Scout is saying'yes'.
He thinks on his sins, hazy in the rosy afterglow. He never propositions, but only ever obliges. See, he's good; he only does what the boy asks of him, no questions asked, no eyebrows raised. Scout never complains, or says much of anything in moments like these. To him, this isn't new or special, it doesn't really mean anything.
But what a wonderful means to an end.
Scout says 'thanks' like it's a transaction after a long, breathy silence. When he musters the energy, the boy cleans himself off, and dresses in no hurry. With practise, too, easing his shirt on and rolling his shoulders. The agreement is silent, but the terms are very explicit.
"You can stay, y'know," Is all he says to Scout. What is he supposed to say? Scout has heard all of the lines, and from everybody. There isn't anything that will surprise him, aside from frank earnestness perhaps. They aren't there yet.
The boy finds the audacity to laugh, and he stretches, mewling. It's gorgeous. "Yeah, sure. I know." That's all he departs with. No kiss, no 'goodbye', not even a proposition to conclude the tryst they just enjoyed. The door closes behind it, and Scout leaves with all of his affections, leaving Sniper alone in his sheets.
He rolls onto his stomach and smokes three cigarettes in a row. Staring at the ceiling, he sighs.
Trashy rock-and-roll, loose morals, cheap liquor, fast breaths, no talk.
Sometimes it's like this.
But that's okay. Scout likes it fine like this: likes the feel of Spy's nails raking down his back, likes being told he's a slut, or something like that in french, italian, latin, whatever it is, it's nice. He likes his hair being pulled sometimes, likes to be fucked like a whore to a sailor, no sweet talk, and no kissing.
Sometimes this is all he needs, whining like a schoolboy, spanking, powerplay, finally in control and riding in long, drawn-out thrusts, shoving Spy down with the tips of his fingers, clawing him, throwing his head back and breaking his voice with the raw force of the sensation. Crucified Christ, Spy is always right there, and he hurts as much as he hungers for this: and it's like cliff-diving when he goes, drawing as much blood from Spy as he can, hissing in delight, back arched, toes curled, numbing in the lambency of his orgasm.
Affected by the sight, Spy follows him, unable to see Scout so unashamedly wanton, so unguarded and hedonistic -the little slut- and he grits his teeth as if not to let the boy win, bleeding his own orgasm completely dry of pleasure, too lust-addled to feel the sheer sting of Scout's nails, he has such useful, devious hands.
Sometimes Scout wants to stay here, like this, caught in the breath of another man, who wants him, who looks at him. Only in these moments does Scout ever get to feel rue pride, does he get to think 'I did all of that'. Spy is completely incapacitated, for just a moment, ignoring the blossoms of poppy-red blood on his torso.
They both have telltale marks that will be seen in the showers. Scout wants them all to see. He thinks, with a smirk, that they'll see because they look at him. They want him, all of him. And they can have him, too.
Still wordless, Spy sits himself up and lights a cigarette, one-handed. He offers one to Scout, still without words, because that isn't their deal. Whatever else goes on outside of this microcosm, of his bed, is irrelevant, and should the world come down, should Scout be dying at heart, he keeps it in.
Their agreement is strictly carnal. Symbiotic: neither party can complain. So Scout takes the cigarette.
He doesn't smoke very much, but sometimes Sniper offers him one in such good faith, it seems such a shame to say no. And he's told he has a pretty mouth, despite the noise, so the attraction of attention can't hurt. Scout's actually bad at smoking, which is ironic. He takes too much in, or not enough, or burns himself.
After a drag that feels long enough, Spy laughs at him.
"Take it slow, mon cher," Scout doesn't have the energy to be venomous. Satiated, he makes for his shirt and rests the cigarette in an ashtray while he dresses, not really desiring another go. Spy's eyes are on him the whole time, and his face is turned. Scout has his full attention, and his bare face, which is rare. A privilege.
When he turns back around to face Spy, now hastily dressed, the man is offering him a pack of french cigarettes. From the neat gold foil to the red casing, they don't look cheap. "Yours," Spy says, calmly. "For services rendered."
Two empty glasses on the nightstand. Half-dead cigarette, expensive smokes, french lover, paid in full.
Sometimes it's like this.
Other times, it goes something like this:
Silence. The hum of the generator, a small squeak of birdsong, footsteps on tile floor and the breathing of a man concentrating. Purposeful smashing of something glass. A curse in harsh german, almost always followed by the words "Verdammt, saukerl!"
That roughly translates into Scout breaking something.
And Scout, as he always does, makes an elaborate pantomime of innocence, with overly-auspicious 'sorrys' and insincere gestures. Sometimes, for good measure, he throws in an empty promise to replace said broken item/ruined paperwork/damaged equipment.
That always facilitates sex. It could be anything, an awkward rut, being thrown against a wall, fucking through the stars on Medic's desk.
But today is different. It starts with a whimper.
Before Scout is halfway into the infirmary, he sees a large hand wave him off in a non-committal gesture.
"I am working." Medic says, plainly, although it sounds more like 'vorking' because of his sharp native accent. "Go away," Of course, he doesn't really mean it. Not to Scout. And if he does, he's not allowed to today.
Scout keeps on walking towards the desk. He's cradling his wrist, unable to move it though the pain of a particularly nasty fall. Medic isn't looking at him yet, though, and it makes Scout a little angry. He's being upstaged by paperwork, and as if to ass insult to this injury, Medic still isn't looking at him.
With his good arm, Scout taps two fingers on the wood of the desk. "Doc," Is all he says.
Medic still doesn't look up. He waves a hand again, bare of it's usual residency in a glove. That one curled hair of his fringe is slipping further in front of his face because he still hasn't given Scout the courtesy of eye contact. "I said I am working." He says, again, just as stiff and plain. "Come back later, bitte."
Scout doesn't like breaking their usual format. He despises being ignored so much that with his left hand, he flattens a palm over the paper Medic is focusing hard on and makes a fist, reducing the paper to a bettered sheet of gibberish.
Without flinching, Medic brushes Scout's hand out of the way, coldly, and tries to ready the piece beneath it.
He knows how to pay this game a little too well.
Scout flattens his palm onto the other piece, furious, until he sees a glint of metal, and a scalpel is stabbed into the wood of the desk, between his fingers.
He retracts his hand faster than he's done anything in a while. But finally, he has Medic's attention.
The older man adjusts his glasses and looks very angry for a second. The muted thunder in his eyes disintegrates when he sees Scout's limp, purple wrist. His face is overcome with concern and worry. And Scout can't be angry, because he sees genuine care.
Now, he's all Medic can think about.
The older man tuts. "What have you done to yourself this time, spatz?"Even is voice is now the softer for speaking. Maybe this concern is only a product of the sex, or maybe the sex is a product of actual love: Scout can't establish causality, but his chest swells with pride to know he's wanted right now. He is cared about.
He is also in a great deal of pain. "I think it's broken."
Medic guides him to the examination table and Scout sits, like he did on his first day here. Only then, he was in just his underwear, grumbling at every fickle twitch the strange Medic made. He has grown to love these movements.
With skill, Medic undoes the wrappings of the boy's hand. The skin is red and purple and his hand is at an angle that should be excruciating. Scout is trembling, not just because of the injury, but if he were asked, he'd blame the temperature in the infirmary, not dissimilar to that of a morgue.
Without even flinching, Medic fixes a hard grasp around the wrist and straightens it. The agony comes in staccato bursts, and Scout actually cries out.
"Jesus!" He retracts his hand childishly, hating to break their routine, hating this lack of control. At last, with all things carnal, he knows where he stands. What are the implicit rules here? How does he know if he's broken one? "That's still tender, y'know." He mumbles, glaring up at Medic.
"Don't be such a baby about it," Medic scolds him, with the patience of a Saint. It must be said that his patience is by no means infinite, so Medic takes Scout's wrist again and straightens it once more, looking at him with level eyes.
"A baby," Scout says, resentfully.
"Ja," Medic is feeling around to get a better idea of the fracture. He could just heal it up now, and Scout could go and save them both the awkwardness. There are a million better things he could be doing right now. Hell, a million better people because Medic is-…
He's so pretty. And he knows so many words. His eyesight isn't too sharp but he should be able to see that Scout is too young, and flightly and fickle and impulsive and cold. He should be able to see that this isn't special. This is just part of a large chain.
And yet, Scout has never thought this way about Spy.
Lost in thought, he awakes from his reverie in a haze of pinkish convalescence, having his bones stitched together like arts and crafts to the older man. The pain dulls and then extinguishes completely, until movement is completely restored.
And now Medic is looking at him like he asked a question and Scout doesn't want to be rude so he just says, "What?" In a voice that sounds oafish and dumb.
"You have something else on your mind, yes?" Medic lops back around the room and sits at his desk again, a busy man. Not usually too busy though. They're never too busy. "I asked you how you broke it." He blinks. "Your wrist."
Scout scratches the nape of his neck, glad to have function of his good hand back. "I took a fall. Figured my hand could take it," There is a dangerous blues, or fondness, in the look he's being given. Scout nods. "You're busy. I should-"
He counts backwards from five as he goes towards to door. Gets to three, just about, before he's stopped, spun around and kissed furiously by Medic, and believe it, the man knows how to convince anyone. There is such latent passion and energy, and it surprises Scout every time, paralysed in one parts surprise at the passion, and two parts utter delight.
There's something about captivating the attention of the older man. One who should have seen it all, and done it all: one that still wants Scout.
The kiss deepens, and suddenly, there are hands and broad easy touches and he can feel the utter resignation of Medic's kiss, and this promise that his attentions will always be Scout's.
It's not usually like this, but Scout like it best when it is.
The light has turned from rosy to lilac. Scout is alone, just this once, and he likes the quiet fine for now. A radio to his left is just about picking up another cheap surf tune, and on the fence, three cans are perched.
He draws, exhaling slowly, and squeezes the trigger. The gun cracks with the shot and the recoil throws the butt of the rifle further into Scout' shoulder. By the time he has recovered from the shot, he looks up to see that he has missed.
"Aw, shit," He digs his heels into the dirt and watches the dust scatter. It's not his job to be precise, but it's good practise, and there's something pleasurable about destruction, even in the most innocuous way. Scout draws again and looks at the other can, it's colours near-glowing in the dark, cheap and nasty.
Scout lets out a small yelp of surprise, the gun cracking as his fingers tense, the shot trailing way over the can. That scared the hell out of him, and Scout isn't too easily scared. Catching the ends of his breath, Scout doubles over, placing a hand on his thundering heart.
"Christ." He gasps, still breathless, staring at the offending Sniper. "You might wanna warn a guy," Sniper keeps on towards him with his velvet tread, never making a noise. It eerie is what it is, likely from practise in Australia, during this whole other life that Scout sometimes gets a glimpse of. Never for long, though. Sniper is aloof by nature: he keeps himself very much to himself.
"Didn't mean to scare you," He says. Scout's happy enough to look at him. A cigarette is limp in his lips, his eyes are visible to the world but shaded by his hat and he looks a little like a cowboy kid. Scout either wants to be him or fuck him: he just can't decide. Sniper doesn't seem to care much for Scout's alarm beyond the risk of a smile. It's getting darker, and harder to see where exactly they stand. "Target practise?"
Scout shrugs. "It can't hurt," He says. "An' I figure I'll last a little longer if I'm not just caving people's skulls in, y'know?" Truth be told, Scout doesn't need the practise, eh actually needs the solace. He's had Spy between his legs for half the day and he's more than a little exhausted and ready to sleep. "I'm a little rusty though."
Sniper is courteous enough. He waits for the gun to be offered to him before he takes it, mumbling a gracious 'thank-you' as he draws. Now, Scout isn't much poetic at all, but watching Sniper shoot is like watching art. There's absoluteness to it, a gracious precision that never wavers. Even his mistakes have a good feeling about them, on the rare occasion that he makes one. Sniper exhales silently, his hand moving with conviction.
And he takes the shot.
One bullet pings through the bottom of the can, projecting it into the air while it somersaults wildly. Not two seconds of it being in the air is another shot fired, piercing the can again. It falls with two holes in to the dusty ground, and Scout is more than impressed. Sniper says nothing. He leans the gun down and turns back to Scout.
"The scope is about two millimetres to the left," Is all that's said. Scout grins, taking the gun with apprehension.
"Yeah, like I'm gonna be able to follow that." He says, cheerily. "I can' shoot anything further than ten metres, an'-"
Sniper blinks slowly, and scratches his neck. "S'why they gave you a shotgun," He explains. "You can't miss anything under ten metres with a shotgun," It could be a lie, or a hidden insult, but he would be the one to know. Whenever Sniper gives his opinion on something, Scout usually just accepts it as fact, and gets in with the world in it's altered state.
"I can hit further than ten metres, y'know." He insists, taking aim with the rifle. "Compared to the rest of those chuckleheads with shotguns, I'm actually pretty useful. Should have seen me yesterday, I was unstoppable." Before he can take the shot, Scout feels a strong, lean pair of arms fix around him, and guide his hands. Hot breath is in his ear and he can smell coffee, regret, and cologne fixed against the aroma of sharp, sweet sweat.
"Further up," Sniper informs him, in a very quiet voice not unlike gravel. He can see the luminous can through the scope, can read the damn ingredients, too. "Exhale slowly, and squeeze the trigger," It's the only thing that has made Scout nervous in a long time. He's afraid of failing and he needs a piss ad this breaks an implicit rule, somewhere. "What're you shaking for? Take the shot,"
"Right," Scout licks his lips, dryer than the dust. He levels his breathing and draws out a long breath, before giving the trigger an experimental squeeze. At first, nothing happens, so he squeezes again. The crack of the rifle jolts through the both of them, the sensation passed from Scout's shoulder to Sniper's torso. There is a metallic clang and Scout looks up, hopefully.
The bullet is buried in the fence. "Well," Sniper says, quietly. "You could have done worse. Try again,"
Scout thinks about making something up: that he has somewhere to be or somebody to do, but instead, he just stands there, foolishly, holding the rifle with such discontent. He just wants to be alone for a minute: he really is tired, more so than he has been for a very long time. He draws, for Sniper's sake, and takes aim.
"That's nice," he is instructed. "Exhale slowly-"
"I know." Scout says, petulantly. He has the can exactly in the crosshairs, his finger gracing the trigger just as he hears Sniper speak again.
"Is is- what is this? Us?" Scout freezes. He cannot bring himself to even squeeze the trigger, or think to move even another millimetre. Even his breathing feels tighter. It's rare that Sniper sounds so earnest, but Scout really doesn't know what to say in the slightest, so he just swallows. "Are you sleeping with Spy?"
"And Medic," He whimpers. That one seems to hit Sniper like a bullet in the back.
"Jesus Christ." He says, bitterly. "So this is just-"
"I know." Scout says, still staring at the can through the scope with utter terror in his eyes. "I know what you're gonna say, but if I didn't know what I was doing, I wouldn't do it. This is fun. We're both happy, right?" But he can feel Sniper's eyes burning into his back like a radar of hatred. He speaks up again. "It's the same with the others. I'm just not—y'know?"
Apparently, Sniper does not.
"If you really wanna take me out for dinner the next time we fuck, that's cool, and if you don't want to sleep with me anymore, that's cool too," Scout is still staring down the scope. He doesn't want to have to see Sniper right now. This is the part they ignore. Carnal, he realises suddenly, is the word for it. Nothing more. No commitment, no owing. "It's just sex. Is that-…okay?"
Slowly, Sniper manages a nod. His face is fixed in blank concentration, impenetrable to Scout of all people. "That's okay,"
Scout loosens off the shot, at long last, letting out an enormous, ragged breath as he pulls the trigger. He misses by a damn mile, watching the last offending can on the fence wink coyly at him, mocking him. Scout has the good nature enough to laugh, because he doesn't have the energy for pride right now.
He points the gun barrel towards the dirt. "Okay, so maybe I can't hit nothin' further than ten feet. I'm good enough with my shotgun."
Suddenly, Sniper is close once more, a hand on the boy's shoulder, his breath even more warm and tempting. "I know something else you're good at,"
Surely that should be someone.
With Spy, things are very different.
While Scout is changing in his own room, for once, he opens his window to let some air in. Since last night, he has had a terrible headache. Sleep has done nothing for it but make him feel somehow more fatigued. Sniper's bed is hard and narrow and sleeping in it has made the space between his shoulder sore.
He wanders back in from the en-suite, feeling and looking dreadful, gasping for a hot drink, and for more rest. The fighting will start up again soon, and he will have to use all of his energy then. That isn't to say he couldn't think of a much more creative way of spending his energy, over the course of just as many hours, until his body was completely drained, but those aren't the terms of his employment.
The room is smokier than before. Scout coughs, and swipes through the air with a palm. He gets the fright of his life when Spy appears from the nothingness of the smoky air, all smiles and readied wit, as if to do battle with Scout's lethargy: for once, he really isn't in the mood.
"You can get done for breakin' and enterin'. It's a felony, y'know." Scout says over his shoulder, throwing shirts onto his mattress. His head splits and the cigarette smoke is making him woozy. This isn't helping. Spy straightens and takes a drag on the cigarette that seems surgically attached to him.
"But I 'ave not broken anything. I 'ave entered is all, and this is not a crime." Spy gives him a look. "You enter things all the time," The man crosses the room and spins Scout by his arm until they're so close he can see every sunset in Spy's eyes. "It appears we 'aven't said good morning,"
Scout tears away. "No chance, pal. My head is splitting like a bitch," But Spy isn't letting up, and it's no longer endearing, not when Scout is in this mood. Now it's obnoxious and a hassle.
"You would like an aspirin?" He croons. Scout shakes him off.
"I'd like to be left alone, thanks," But he doesn't relent, and the smell of the cigarettes is overwhelming. Jesus, nobody can actually want him when he looks this bad, and he doesn't want anybody either. It doesn't make sense to him.
Spy's grip on his arm is hard, and Scout thinks about slugging him.
"Christ, you don't use the word 'no' in Europe?" Scout scrubs his face with his other hand and tugs away. "I said, get the hell off-"
There is an errant knock on the door. Saving Scout, and he promises he'll do whatever –and he does mean whatever, to his saviour as long as he survives the next hour, or even day without killing himself, or his teammates.
"Y'left your shotgun in the Rec room." Jesus is he glad to hear Sniper, the voice soft and honest. Most of the team don't get to hear him laugh, or talk with real passion, and Scout is almost embarrassed Spy should get to witness any care, "You okay?"
Scout is staring at Spy when he speaks. He feels very woozy. "Fine," He says, striving for a breezy tone. "I'll pick it up later," They both wait in the caught silence for his quiet footsteps to sink into silence before either of them speak. I mean, it's not secret, but there's some kind of betrayal in it, however deep that might be.
Scout isn't proud of himself. But pride has nothing to do with this.
Spy takes his hand, all theatrics, and kisses the back of it tenderly, blue eyes never leaving Scout's face. "Per'aps another time, then, cher?"
Maybe it's the heat or the humidity or the lack of breakfast, but Scout can't say anything. He shudders, twice, and then vomits all over Spy's hand.
Pride has nothing to do with it at all.
Pink convalescence and tea. That's how he comes to remember Medic's concern. He lays against him in Medic's bed and remains motionless. He's reading a sports almanac, as the television has lost reception in the Rec room. Medic is reading something in german. Maybe it isn't german, Scout doesn't know, but there are an awful lot of dots and lines where letters should have well been left alone. He's had the medigun on him for half an hour.
"I feel better already, doc," He insists. The transparency of the lie is abysmal. Medic tucks an arm around him and feels over his forehead with his other hand, the book laying to rest on the nightstand.
"You are a terrible liar," Medic is rarely this compassionate, though he always offers Scout his bed, and his arms. "And a dummkopf. You are running a fever,"
Ever catching Scout surprised, Medic kisses him again, more innocent and concerned. He looks very seriously at Scout. Most of the time, Medic makes him want to rip off his nose because he can be so cold and infuriating and blind, Scout swear he wants to tear if off-...except when he doesn't. Except when he wishes he had a better sense of smell to enjoy the scent of Medic's hair, he always hated the way shampoo smelled but not here.
Of course, the thing about loving Medic is that he is a Medic, and he can't help helping. Just as Scout thinks he could trick himself into staying, Medic is fixing something else. He takes Scout's temperature, sticking a glass rod under his tongue with a practised precision, taking his pulse.
"You are lucky tomorrow is a rest day," Is all he says. He lays back down and picks up his book again. The letters are large enough, but Medic is squinting away, even with his glasses on.
"You've got piss-poor eyesight, doc," He laughs.
"You have a smart mouth," Medic is quick to return the comment, with the smallest smile, unwilling to give anything away. Scout grins. He can play this game.
"Better than having a dumb mouth."
Medic waves a hand. "Quiet, saukerl, I'm trying to read," He isn't. He has made his way through the book on Scout's tortured moans alone, and the sight of his face, flushed with mercy and joy. Scout leans up so far he can hear Medic's heart. For that moment they are both alone with eachother, no talking or thought. Not even sex.
It's strange. Scout doesn't usually want anything more than to fuck, but it's different with Medic. Because sometimes they will fuck, against the wall or on the desk. But most of the time, Medic is tender, and it's not fucking at all but something deeper. They will face eachother, there might even be kissing, and afterwards Medic will offer him to stay the night, or by now, forever. Today, seeing Scout look so unwell, he insisted on sleep.
"Do you do this with the others, liebling?" Medic murmurs, eyes heavy with the desire to sleep. He leans over to switch off the medigun, seeing as it has done the bare minimum. The question strikes Scout as odd. He doesn't seem like the jealous type. He shouldn't be bothered by what goes on elsewhere. But they all are. All of them. He mewls, softly.
"Do what?" It's a tactless evasion and Medic is smarter than he is.
"This. Stay with them. Seek comfort from them," Medic doesn't look impatient, but this is clearly of some importance. He has never been one to speak without reason, or to waste words like Scout does.
"No," He says, quietly. "No, this is different,"
Further questions have been raised. He feels rough and wrong and Scout is supposed to fuck up and sleep around and stay up all night. He's built that way. This expectation that he will be good or different or loyal is supersticion: it's false hope and he despises it.
Scout sighs. "I'm really tired," He says, in his most pathetic voice. "We can talk about it in the morning,"
Medic accepts this. They fall asleep curled into eachother, and the question hands above them all night, waiting for an answer.
Scout is gone by morning.