Work Text:
“Keep still. The next wave will be here any moment now.” The Spy kept his gaze focused intently on the wound as he carefully closed it with the sharp bite of the needle. “We don’t have time to do this more than once.”
“Then hurry up,” came the halfhearted reply. More quietly the runner continued, muttering. “Wasn’t so bad to begin with. You were the one who wanted to fix it.”
The older man’s mouth was a line of deadpan irritation. “Your job is to collect the money that those machines drop. A crippled arm is not conducive to that end.”
From the corner of their armory, the Sniper chuckled quietly as he made the finishing alternations to his gun. The Australian seemed to find endless amusement in the relationship between the two men, the back-and-forth critiques and attempts to one-up the other. It might not have been so bad if he had not also happened to be the only one among the two factions of mercenaries to know their true connection to one another.
And he found out before I even did, the Scout thought, some bitterness surfacing. Maybe I am just dumb.
Glancing down again at the swiftly closing gash on his forearm, he dared to steal a quick look at the man tending his injury. Machine oil and flecks of blood dappled his clothing and masked face, sleepless lines beneath his eyes.
Both teams had been working day and night to hold off Gray’s robot forces, quickly forced to overcome their grudges and rivalries as they all took up arms against a single enemy. For a while it had been uncomfortable to work among former aggressors, but most of the men took it in stride and learned to at least depend on one another in the field of battle. They took shifts in various combinations of both groups, sometimes leaving them without certain roles—like a Medic, he thought irritably.
But more importantly to the Scout, this turn of events had put him in the interesting position to work alongside the man that had been missing from his life for so many years. Mending the incongruity between the untouchable figure in his head, and the exhausted, frighteningly human face he had found under that mask—it was every bit as difficult as he could have expected.
“Hey, where did’ya learn to do this anyway?” the former BLU began again, stubbornly ignoring the Sniper’s still-amused grin as he left for the battlefield.
The Spy was silent, his concentration remaining on his task.
“Ma used to fix us up when we got hurt—or in a fight.” His voice dropped as he added this. “Stitches even, a few times.”
Severing the suture, a thin bandage pressed against the remains of the wound. The whole process had been surprisingly gentle compared to the normally violent nature of their past interactions.
“She used to get so pissed at us, y’know, for gettin’ in so many fights. She'd say that our—ah. You. Used to get in ‘em a lot, before most of us were even born.”
His task completed, the Spy finally leveled his gaze with the younger man. Inwardly, he wanted to flinch back a bit at the intensity of those eyes, but hostility was the missing element in them.
“You used to hide it when y’got hurt, didn’t you.”
One eyebrow raised the slightest bit. “And what makes you say that?”
“’Cause I used to do the same thing.” The Scout smirked, shrugging. “Ma told me about that, too. Hell, I know a lot more about you than y’think, I bet.”
“Likewise.”
His expression was a guarded smirk, gloved hand grasping firmly at the Scout’s good arm as he helped him to his feet. “But you must save the sentimentality for later. There’s a three hour fight waiting for us out there. Don’t waste my efforts in mending your injuries.”
The Frenchman had turned to go, a trail of smoke following him, but the Scout knew better than to allow him an easy retreat from the conversation.
“Andy said you bought him a house.”
Stiffly the Spy halted his steps. He did not turn around.
“He says his girlfriend cried when she saw the place.” He chuckled, grabbing his headset from its place in the crate beside the door as he came to stand next to his father. His voice became more serious, as much as he was capable of at least.
“—they all wanna see you. Trust me, I know better than anyone."
Still the silence. He wondered if he was at all getting through—if his encouragement even meant anything in the first place. He looked out to the battlefield before pulling his hat back on, sighing.
"And it ain’t too late, no matter what you’re thinkin’.”
The Scout watched as the man brought his cigarette to his lips, the creases in his masked face deepening.
“So I’ve been told.”