Chapter Text
The second story of a decrepit barn was one of Sniper’s favorite places to set up a nest. Not only did it provide an excellent vantage point for the battle below via a conveniently broken window, but it also reminded him of home. The smell of dust and old hay really brought him back. Now all he needed was a few sheep running about and he’d be set.
He peered through his scope for all of about five seconds and then squeezed the trigger. Crack. Right between the eyes—the enemy Soldier flew backwards like he was in a spaghetti western, arms pinwheeling before he finally crumpled to the ground. The BLUs were really off their game today. It was so easy, Sniper almost felt bad for them.
Almost.
Suddenly, Sniper heard the barn door creak open and shuffling footsteps making their way inside. Whoever it was, they weren’t being very stealthy, and the uneven footsteps could mean they were injured. Probably a teammate in need of some help, then, but better safe than sorry. He slunk over to the edge of the hayloft, rifle at the ready—only to lower it a moment later as he spotted a familiar baseball cap and headset.
“Don’t shoot, Snipes,” Scout said, his voice ragged. He clutched at his abdomen with both hands, absolutely soaked in blood. “It’s just me.” He swayed on his feet.
“Shit,” Sniper said, throwing his rifle over his shoulder and scrambling to his feet. “I’ve got a medkit in my bag.”
“Oh, thank God,” Scout groaned, sinking to his knees.
Sniper hurried over to the comically large camping backpack he always toted with him and unzipped a side pocket, revealing a white metal box with Medic’s emblem stamped on the front. He grabbed it and flew down the stairs as fast as his boots could carry him.
His eyes flicked to the open barn door, which he knew he should close, to give them a bit more cover. But he couldn’t bring himself to run past Scout, whose eyes were fluttering, death close at hand. Sure, if Scout died, he’d just go through respawn, so the threat of permanent death was nonexistent. But the pain of being gutted, the pain he could alleviate with the medkit, was very real indeed. He decided to leave the barn door open and kneeled in front of Scout.
“Who got you?” Sniper asked, his hands surprisingly steady as he undid the latch on the medkit. Inside was a large syringe loaded with Medic’s special concoction, a marvel they all called “medical fluid.” Even though Sniper was a professional killer, he still got uneasy around needles. He pushed the fear to the back of his mind and readied the syringe, giving it a couple taps.
“BLU soldier,” Scout said breathily. “Motherfucker’s got a katana today.”
Sniper held his breath and jammed the needle into Scout’s bicep, trying not to watch too carefully as he squeezed the medical fluid into Scout’s arm. Instant relief smoothed Scout’s facial features as his wound started stitching itself back together, his disemboweled guts sliding back into his abdomen where they belonged. Even the blood on Scout’s clothes and hands disappeared.
Scout sighed happily, running his fingers across his now-intact stomach. There was still a huge gash in his shirt—if you don’t go through respawn, you have to deal with torn clothing—but Sniper was sure it was much preferable to the alternative. “Thanks, man.”
“No worries,” Sniper said. “But now you’re gonna—“
Scout retched, clapping a hand over his mouth. Medkits were incredible, but they did come with some side effects, namely dizzying nausea.
“—Vomit,” Sniper finished.
Scout took his hand away from his mouth and took in a deep breath. A bit of color began to return to his cheeks. “I’m good,” he said. He tried to stand up, but his legs wobbled and he fell to his knees again. “Okay, maybe I’m not that good.”
Sniper stood up and extended a hand. Scout took it, allowing Sniper to haul him to his feet. “I just need to like…sit down for a minute? Maybe drink some water? Got any water?”
***
A moment later, Scout lay sprawled on a pile of hay, the strap of Sniper’s canteen dangling from his hand. Sniper resumed his post at the window, but he couldn’t focus. He stared at Scout in his peripheral vision, contemplating saying the thing that was on his mind.
He shouldn’t say it. He didn’t want to be rude.
He had to say it.
“Heard you made out with Demoman at the Fourth of July party,” he drawled, staring out the window.
Scout shot up into a sitting position. “We did not make out,” Scout said, half-yelling. “We just kissed.”
Sniper raised a brow and gave Scout a pointed look. Not what I heard, he wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut.
“I was hammered, all right?” Scout said. “I’m not into him like that. I shouldn’t have—I just got caught up in the moment, y’know? We were both super drunk, and everybody was having such a great time, and there was all this energy around us, and I just—I kissed him.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Sniper asked. People did shit like that at parties all the time.
“Nothing’s wrong with it, I guess,” Scout said, his voice lowering to a more normal speaking tone. “I think Demo was kinda disappointed when we both sobered up and I told him I wasn’t attracted to him. He’s a good-looking guy, but he ain’t my type.”
And what is your type, exactly? Sniper wondered, but he didn’t dare say it aloud.
“And need I remind you that I did this in front of everybody,” Scout went on. “Now I can’t pretend to be straight anymore. I’m fully out of the closet, whether I want to be or not. I had to call my Ma and tell her before that asshole did it for me.” No need for Sniper to ask who that asshole was—he clearly meant his estranged father, Spy.
“And don’t get me started on my brothers,” he went on. “They haven’t stopped giving me shit since Ma told them, talking about how they knew I was gay all along, making fun of me for loving baseball because that’s the gayest sport.”
Baseball was a pretty gay sport, Sniper reasoned. Bunch of sweaty men in long socks, swinging bats around, slapping each other on the ass. Then again, all sports were a bit gay, if you really thought about it.
Scout paused in his ranting long enough to take a breath, and Sniper used the opportunity to say, “Your brothers, though…that’s just what brothers do, innit? Give you shit?”
“Oh, yeah,” Scout said, flapping a hand. “I can’t do anything without them ripping on me. I’m used to it.”
“But they’re…accepting?” Sniper asked.
“They’re pretty cool about it, all things considered. My grandma, though…” Scout grimaced. “She’s disappointed, I can tell. She keeps asking me when I’m gonna settle down with a nice girl, and all that. But, hey.” He shrugged. A pause, then he asked, “You got any brothers? Sisters?”
“Nope,” Sniper said. “Only child. Adopted.”
“Oh, yeah,” Scout replied, “I think you told me that one time. How’d your parents take it when you told ‘em, though? Can I ask?”
A slow smile spread across Sniper’s face. “Mum was a saint. She was sad she wasn’t gonna get any grandkids outta me, but she was supportive. Dad…” His smile faded. “He didn’t like it. Saw it as a sign of weakness, I think. He got over it, though.”
“Oh, my Ma’s got a hundred grandkids already, she doesn’t care about that,” Scout said. “And I don’t give a shit what Spy thinks.”
“He ain’t exactly the straightest person himself,” Sniper pointed out.
“No, he is not,” Scout said. “He’s got no room to talk. Not that I’d listen if he did talk.” He laughed. Sniper let out a chuff of amusement from his nostrils.
Scout stood up and dusted himself off. “Guess we better get back to work,” he said. He walked across the hayloft and handed Sniper his canteen back. But when Sniper went to grab it, Scout’s grip held firm. Sniper looked up at the man questioningly.
“I got an idea,” Scout said, grinning wickedly, his blue eyes sparkling in the afternoon sun coming through the window.
Sniper’s breath hitched. He was gorgeous.
“What’s that?” Sniper asked, hoping he sounded more nonchalant than he felt.
“Let’s go out together,” Scout said. “Just me and you.”
“You mean like a date?” Sniper said slowly.
“We don’t gotta put a label on it if you don’t wanna—“
“It’s a date,” Sniper blurted.
Scout’s grin grew even wider as he let go of the canteen. Sniper took it and laid it thoughtlessly in his lap. “Got any plans tomorrow night?” Scout asked.
Tomorrow night was laundry night.
Fuck that laundry.
“No,” Sniper replied.
“Great! It’s a date. But I asked you first, so I get to drive.” Scout turned on his heel to leave, and Sniper had to train his eyes on the ceiling to keep them off of Scout’s retreating ass.
“Oi,” Sniper called.
Scout stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“You said Demoman wasn’t your type,” Sniper said, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could think better of them. “What is your type?”
Scout shrugged. “I like ‘em tall.”
It was like he threw a glass of water in Sniper’s face. He likes tall men. I’m tall men.
And with that, Scout bounded down the stairs, leaving Sniper alone with his wild thoughts.
***
The alarm went off at precisely 7 o’clock in the morning. Sniper’s eyes snapped open like a bolt of lightning reanimating a corpse. He turned off the alarm with a twist of a knob as he sat up in bed.
He had exactly 12 hours to prepare for this date.
Sniper used to pride himself in his professionalism, his dedication to the craft. His work life and his personal life had never intersected, even going so far as to avoid any of the various office parties and outings because he didn’t want to risk forming friendships. But somehow, Scout had managed to crack open his defenses, putting him at ease with playful banter and general good-naturedness, like Sniper was some kind of wild horse waiting to be tamed. Scout had held out a carrot for him. And he had bitten that carrot. Hard.
He had attended Pyro’s birthday party, tabletop game nights, the Smissmass party, and he wished like hell he’d gone to the Fourth of July party. He was on speaking terms with all his coworkers, even Spy, and he dared to say he was making friends with some of them. His world was opening up.
And he hated to be dramatic, but it was mostly due to Scout pushing him just the teensiest bit out of his comfort zone. That was why Sniper was so eager to agree to the date. Out of his comfort zone? Yes. Worth it? Fuck yes.
That’s why tonight had to be flawless. He’d make sure of it.
He slid out of his bunk and headed for the kitchenette, where he promptly started making a pot of coffee. He needed to be caffeinated in order to function first thing in the morning, and on a day like this, he needed every bit of help he could get.
When the coffee was done, he popped some bread in the toaster. He poured his coffee into a mug, spread some jam on his toast, and sat at the little booth that served as his dining table.
Don’t think about it yet, he told himself as he sipped his coffee. Thinking about it would lead to worrying about it, and worrying about it would lead to panicking. He’d reserve his thoughts for the shower. He did his best thinking in there, anyway.
Once his breakfast was through, he went into the camper’s cramped bathroom and started showering. He was kneading the conditioner into his hair when a terrifying thought came to him.
What the fuck am I gonna wear?
Definitely not work clothes, which were about 70 percent of his wardrobe. He had tee shirts and jeans he wore on weekends, but that felt too informal. Maybe a wool sweater? No, it was boiling outside. Maybe he had a collared shirt in one of his drawers somewhere?
He rinsed his hair, toweled off, and slipped on his boxer briefs and undershirt. With his hair still damp, he began rummaging through his drawers.
Athletic shorts, crew socks, Jim Morrison tee shirt, Jim Morrison tee shirt, Jim Morrison tee shirt…how had he accumulated this many Jim Morrison tee shirts? He did find some fitted gray pants he’d worn to his Aunt Millie’s funeral back in Australia, but where was the black button-up that went with it? Even if he found it, he couldn’t wear funeral clothes on a date; Scout might not be able to tell, but Sniper would know the truth in his heart.
Damn. He never thought he’d get this far. He had nothing to wear.
Which left him with no other options. He was going to have to venture to the next town over and go to…
…the shopping mall.
Shopping malls were a relatively new thing, a bunch of department stores all set in one big building. He’d been there exactly once, when he’d needed a new winter coat, and it had been so crammed with people that he’d vowed to only shop through catalogues for the rest of his life. But there was no time to wait for something to come through the post, obviously.
“Fuck,” Sniper grumbled, raking a hand through his hair. Better rip off the bandaid now and get it over with. He threw on a tee shirt and jeans, put on his glasses, slicked the hair out of his eyes with some pomade, and made his way out of his camper and toward the base’s garage.
***
After a twenty-minute drive, Sniper found himself in the parking lot of the Threepoint City Mall. He parked as close as he could get to the front of the building, but he was still a hike away from the entrance; judging by all the cars here, the place was going to be packed.
This was miserable already.
He growled low in his throat and gripped the steering wheel. He just need another thirty seconds to gather himself—
There was a sharp knocking on his driver’s side window.
He flew into attack mode, unsheathing the combat knife he kept taped to the ceiling of the truck. He was about to force the door open and start slicing when he recognized the person on the other side.
“Miss Pauling?” he said, lowering his slicing arm. Relief flooded through him as he cranked the window down.
Miss Pauling wore a purple shift dress with a lavender ribbon tied around her neck, and had her black hair fashioned into a sensible bun. “Hi,” she said cheerily. She pointed a purple-painted fingernail at the combat knife in his hand. “Were you about to stab me with that?”
“Certainly thought about it,” Sniper replied, sliding the combat knife back into its ceiling-sheath. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He liked Miss Pauling, and would go so far as to consider her a friend, but when she tracked you down, that usually meant there was work to be done. Work that would force him to cancel his plans tonight.
“Oh, no, I’m not here on business,” she assured him. “Actually, I followed you here because I thought you could use my help.”
He eyed her with a touch of suspicion. “Help with what?”
“Finding an outfit for your hot date tonight,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. “Scout called me in literal tears last night because he couldn’t think of a place to take you. So when I saw you leaving the base at 8:30 in the morning, I assumed you were headed to the nearest shopping mall to buy something date-y to wear.”
Miss Pauling was here to help him shop. He didn’t know whether to be grateful for the assistance or annoyed because she thought him incapable of buying his own clothes.
“Well, I suppose having a second opinion would be nice,” Sniper said. Then he added, “Don’t you have something better to do on a Saturday, though?” It was common knowledge that Miss Pauling rarely got a day off; he didn’t want to force her to spend it with him.
“I cleared my schedule, don’t you worry about that,” Miss Pauling said. “I want this to go well for you—for you both, really. I think you two make a cute couple.”
There wasn’t anything about Sniper that he’d call “cute.” Scout? A hundred percent cute. Sniper, not so much.
“You’re just glad he’s not crushing on you anymore,” he said with a smirk.
“That might be part of it,” she said, biting back a smile herself. She made a come-hither gesture with her hand. “Out of the truck, mister. Let’s go shopping.”
When Sniper got out of the truck, Miss Pauling grabbed him by the hand and started tugging him toward the mall’s entrance. “Come on, boyfriend. We need to get you into some new clothes.”
“‘Boyfriend’?” he asked. He did not grip her hand, but he did allow her to guide him forward.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’re going to pretend we’re a couple while we’re in there. Trust me, it’ll make things easier.”
Sniper thought about it for a moment. She was probably right. “Is the hand-holding necessary?” he asked.
Miss Pauling rolled her eyes. She let go of his hand and linked her arm through his. “Is that better?”
“Somehow, yes,” he said, and the two of them made their way towards the mall’s automatic doors.
***
Both Sniper and Miss Pauling came out of the shopping mall laden with boxes and bags, all full of the latest in men’s fashion, or so Sniper had been told by the overly enthusiastic sales clerk. Miss Pauling had been right—it’d been much easier to pretend to be a couple than to go it alone.
“You said Scout called you last night?” Sniper asked as they loaded his new wardrobe into his truck. The bags went in the passenger’s seat, but the boxes would need to be put in the truck bed and tied down.
“Don’t tell him I told you that,” Miss Pauling said, frowning guiltily. “He’d die if he knew I told you he was crying.”
Sniper popped the latch of the tailgate with a practiced kick of his boot. “I’ll take it to my grave,” he said, loading the boxes into the truck.
“That doesn’t mean a whole lot in our kind of work,” Miss Pauling said, putting her load alongside Sniper’s.
“Or does it mean even more, since we don’t stay dead permanently?” he countered.
“Hm. Something to think about.”
A beat of silence passed between them as they leaned against the tailgate. Miss Pauling broke it by saying, “You really want to ask where you’re going tonight, don’t you?”
“Honestly, I was going to ask you,” he admitted. “That’s why I brought it up. But now that I think about it…I think Scout would want it to be a surprise.”
“But you hate surprises.”
“Well.” He shrugged. “Maybe this’ll be a good one.”
“It’s a good one,” Miss Pauling assured him. “The first part was Scout’s idea, but the second part was mine.”
Sniper cocked his head to the side. “There’s two parts, eh?”
“Have I said too much?”
“Nah,” Sniper said. He checked his watch. “Does my girlfriend wanna do lunch?”
Miss Pauling gave him an incredulous look. “You? Socializing? Voluntarily? Scout’s already rubbing off on you.”
Sniper smiled to himself. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”