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"Damn it," Scout muttered under his breath, fingers fumbling with the edge of the sweat-damp bandages wrapped tight around his chest. The mirror in his tiny room at the base reflected back a version of himself he didn’t want to see—his ribs aching, his breathing shallow from hours of compression. He winced as the fabric finally peeled away, the sudden rush of air into his lungs almost dizzying.
The marks left behind were angry red lines, the skin irritated from friction and pressure. He traced them lightly with his fingertips, then quickly looked away, disgusted with himself. He’d been doing it again, no proper binding, just whatever he could wrap tight enough to flatten himself out. It worked, mostly. Except when it didn’t. Like today, when he’d missed three shots in a row during their daily match agaisn't the blues because he couldn’t take a full breath.
Scout exhaled sharply, pressing his palms against the edge of the sink. The team hadn’t said anything outright, but he’d caught Sniper’s frown, Heavy’s raised eyebrow. They noticed. They always noticed when he screwed up. And now here he was, standing half-naked in his bathroom, staring at himself like some kind of goddamn science experiment gone wrong.
He reached for his shirt, pulling it on hastily, even though the fabric clung uncomfortably to his damp skin. Better than looking. Better than thinking about how every time he glanced down, he was reminded of what his body still was instead of what it should’ve been. What he *wasn’t*.
The bandages lay coiled on the floor like a discarded snake, and Scout didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see the spots of blood blooming rust-brown against the fabric where he’d rubbed himself raw. But his eyes kept dragging back to them anyway, like a tongue probing a sore tooth. His throat tightened. A hot, stupid pressure built behind his eyelids, and then, like some pathetic dam breaking, the tears came. He tried to choke them back, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, but it was no use.
He slid down the bathroom wall, knees drawn up to his chest, and let the sob rip out of him. It wasn’t just the pain. It was the fucking *evidence* of it, proof that his body would always betray him, no matter how hard he fought. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until colors burst behind his lids, as if he could shove the tears back in by force. "Fuckin’ baby," he muttered, voice cracking. "Real men don’t-" But he couldn’t finish the sentence. Real men didn’t *what*? Cry? Bleed? Exist wrong, like he did?
The thought slithered in, oily and familiar: *It’d be easier if you just weren’t here.* Not in a dramatic way, not like some dumb suicide note shit, just quiet, like stepping off a curb without looking. The team wouldn’t miss him much. They’d find another Scout. Someone faster, someone better, someone who didn’t have to wrap themselves up just to look in the goddamn mirror without wanting to punch it.
Scout's breath hitched as he forced himself back onto unsteady feet, the cold tiles of the bathroom floor biting into his bare soles. He swiped angrily at his face with the back of his hand, smearing tears across his cheek, but they kept coming anyway, relentless. His shirt, already halfway off, tangled around his elbows as he yanked it the rest of the way over his head and threw it into the corner, the fabric landing in a crumpled heap. The mirror was still there, still waiting, still *showing* him. He couldn’t look away.
His chest rose and fell too fast, his reflection blurring as his eyes welled up again. The shape of his body was all wrong—*wrong*—and no matter how many layers he wrapped around himself, how many bindings he tore his skin up with, it would never be right. He’d never be right. A choked noise escaped him, something between a sob and a laugh, bitter and raw. *a voice slithered through his head:* "You’re just playing dress-up, kid. Always gonna be a girl." His older brother had said it like it was a fact, like it was carved into stone somewhere that Scout would never be anything more than what he’d been born as. And fuck, maybe he was right.
Scout pressed his hands flat against the mirror, his fingers splayed, as if he could push through the glass and claw his way into a different skin. His reflection stared back, tears cutting tracks down his face, his mouth twisted into something ugly. He hated it. Hated the softness, hated the curves, hated how no amount of testosterone or wishing or praying could erase the parts of himself that felt like a betrayal. *Real men don’t look like this.* The thought came unbidden, and this time, he didn’t try to argue with it.
Scout’s fingers dug into his scalp, nails biting crescents into his skin as if he could claw the thoughts right out of his skull. A ragged cry tore from his throat, raw and desperate, before he staggered out of the bathroom, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow *thud*. The bedroom air was stale, thick with the scent of sweat and old laundry, but he barely noticed. He collapsed onto the mattress face-first, his body sinking into the springs with a groan. The pillow smelled like cheap shampoo and gunpowder, and he clutched it to his chest like it was the only thing holding him together. His shoulders shook with silent, furious sobs, his breath coming in jagged hitches that burned his throat.
A knock at the door made him freeze.
The knock came again, firmer this time. "Scout? You alright in there?" Engineer's voice was low, steady, but edged with something Scout couldn’t quite place. concern, maybe, or just the exhaustion of another sleepless night. Scout didn’t move, his face still buried in the pillow, fingers gripping the fabric so tight his knuckles ached. If he stayed quiet, maybe Engie would think he’d imagined the noise. Maybe he’d just go away.
"Scout?" Engineer’s voice was closer now, muffled through the door but unmistakably concerned. "Heard a noise. You ain’t bleedin’ out in there, are ya?" The attempt at a joke fell flat, the forced lightness doing nothing to hide the tension underneath. Scout squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face deeper into the pillow like he could disappear into it. His breath stuttered, wet and uneven, and he knew Engie could hear it.
"Go *away*," Scout snarled, but the words cracked in half, more plea than command. He didn’t sound angry—he sounded wrecked. The silence that followed was worse. He could practically *feel* Engineer hesitating on the other side of the door, turning the handle just enough to test if it was locked.
It wasn’t.
The door creaked open a fraction, then wider, spilling a wedge of yellow hallway light across the floor. Scout didn’t lift his head. "Didn’t say you could come in," he muttered, but there was no heat left in it. Engineer stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. The room was a mess, clothes strewn across the floor, a few empty cans of bonk rolled under the bed, the crumpled bandages peeking out from under the bathroom door. Engineer took it all in with a single glance, then focused on the huddled shape on the mattress. Scout's back turned on him, blood seeping from where it had been rubbed raw with the bandages.
Engineer didn’t flinch at the raw, jagged edges of Scout’s voice. He just stood there, hands loose at his sides, eyes tracing the angry red lines across Scout’s back, not with disgust, but with a familiarity that ran bone-deep. He knew those marks. Knew the way they stung, the way they *itched*, the way they never quite healed right if you didn’t give them air. Knew, too, the shame that coiled tight in your gut when someone else saw them.
Engineer didn’t say anything at first. He just moved, slow, deliberate, until he was crouching beside the bed, one calloused hand hovering over Scout’s shoulder before finally settling there, warm and solid. Scout flinched like he’d been burned. "Don’t-" he started, voice ragged, but Engineer cut him off, not with words, but by pressing his gloved robotic hand right between the angry red lines in the Bostonian's back.
"Breathe," Engineer murmured, his voice so quiet it was almost swallowed by the creak of the mattress. "Just breathe, kid." His thumb rubbed slow circles into Scout’s shoulder, steady as a metronome.
Scout twisted away, his face still half-buried in the pillow. "The *hell* do you think you’re doin’?" he spat, but the venom was weak, diluted by the way his breath hitched. "You-you see this shit an’-what, you gonna tell me how gross I am? How I’m some kinda freak?" His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms. "Go on, *say it*. Say I ain’t a real man. Bet you’re *dyin’* to-"
Engineer didn’t let him finish. He pulled Scout into a hug so sudden it knocked the air out of him, one arm wrapped tight around his shoulders, the other cradling the back of his head like something precious. Scout stiffened, his whole body locking up, but Engineer just held on, his chin resting on top of Scout’s messy hair. "Ain’t gonna say that," he said, voice rough but gentle. "’Cause it ain’t true."
Scout made a sound like a wounded animal, half-gasp, half-sob. He shoved at Engineer’s chest, but there was no real force behind it. "You don’t *know*," he choked out. "You don’t know what it’s like-"
"Yeah," Engineer said, simple as a fact. He leaned back just enough to meet Scout’s wild, tear-streaked gaze. His own eyes were dark with something old and weathered, the kind of understanding that didn’t come from guessing. "I do."
Scout’s breath caught in his throat, his fingers twitching against Engineer’s vest like he couldn’t decide whether to push him away or cling tighter. “You... what?” The words came out small, cracked open. Engineer didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, just kept holding him with that same unshakable steadiness, his calloused palm pressed firm between Scout’s shoulder blades.
“I said I know,” Engineer repeated, quieter this time. He shifted slightly, just enough to reach up and tug his glove off with his teeth, letting it drop to the floor before cupping Scout’s face with bare fingers. His thumb brushed away a tear, rough skin catching on wet lashes. “Ain’t gotta explain nothin’ to me, son. But I’m tellin’ you right now, you’re as real as it gets.”
Scout’s whole body shuddered, a sob ripping out of him like it had been waiting for permission. He buried his face in Engineer’s shoulder, fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt, holding on like he’d drown if he let go. Engineer didn’t say another word, just wrapped both arms around him and held tight, his chin resting on top of Scout’s head while the kid shook apart in his arms.
It wasn’t pretty. Scout cried like he fought, messy, loud, all elbows and hiccupping gasps, but Engineer didn’t let go, not even when Scout’s nails dug into his ribs or when his tears soaked through the fabric of his shirt. He just rocked them both gently, the way his mama used to do when he was small and the world felt too big, humming something tuneless under his breath until Scout’s sobs tapered off into shaky exhales.
Scout’s breathing finally evened out, though his face was still pressed into Engineer’s shoulder like he was afraid to look up. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, muffled against the fabric. "M’sorry. This is- god, this is *embarrassing*. Ain’t s’posed to be this much of a fuckin’ mess over nothin’." He tried to pull back, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand, but Engineer’s grip tightened just enough to keep him close.
"Ain’t nothin’," Engineer said, his voice steady. "And it sure as hell ain’t embarrassin’. You think I never sat in some godforsaken bathroom cryin’ my eyes out over the same damn thing?" His hand moved to ruffle Scout’s hair, rough but affectionate. "Hell, kid, I *invented* that particular brand of stupid."
Scout huffed a wet laugh, but it died quickly. "Yeah, but- you’re *you*. You’re... shit, Engie, you’re the real deal, a real man. Look at you." He gestured vaguely at Engineer’s broad shoulders, his calloused hands, the stubble-shadowed jaw. "You ain’t got nothin’ to prove. Me? I’m just... playin’ pretend. Always gonna be stuck like this." His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked away, jaw clenched.
Engineer sighed, long and slow, like he was weighing something heavy in his mind. Then, without a word, he reached for the straps of his overalls. Scout blinked, confused, as Engineer undid the clasps one by one, shrugging the fabric off his shoulders until it pooled around his waist. His undershirt followed, tossed aside with a quiet rustle.
Scout’s breath hitched.
There they were two neat, faded scars running parallel across Engineer’s chest, the kind that came from a surgeon’s careful hand. But beneath them, older, jagged, thin, angry lines where skin had split under pressure, where fabric had bitten too deep. Scout stared, his mouth dry.
"See that?" Engineer said, his voice rough but calm. "Real ain’t got nothin’ to do with scars, son. It’s what’s under ‘em that counts." He tapped his chest, right over his heart. "And what’s under here? Same as you. Same damn fight."
Scout’s hands shook. He reached out before he could stop himself, fingers hovering just above the oldest of the binding scars, the ones that looked like they’d hurt for years. "You... you *did* this?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
Engineer chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Hell, kid, I did worse. Used duct tape once. Don’t ever do that." He caught Scout’s wrist, gentle but firm, and pressed the kid’s palm flat against his chest. "Feel that? That’s a heartbeat. Same as yours. Same as any man’s."
Scout’s eyes burned. He wanted to pull away, wanted to curl into himself, but Engineer’s grip held him steady. "But you—you *pass*. You don’t gotta... ain’t nobody lookin’ at you and thinkin’-"
"Thinkin’ *what*?" Engineer interrupted, his voice sharpening for the first time. "That I ain’t me? That I’m playin’ dress-up?" He shook his head, exhaling hard through his nose. "Son, half the damn team thinks I’m some kinda machine hybrid. You think I care what folks *think*?" He tapped Scout’s temple. "It’s what *you* know that matters. Rest is just noise."
Scout swallowed hard. His fingers twitched against Engineer’s skin, tracing the raised lines like they were a map. "It still *hurts*," he admitted, so quiet it was almost lost in the space between them. "Feels like I’m never gonna... like I’m always gonna be stuck."
Engineer’s expression softened. "Yeah," he said simply. "Sometimes it does. But it gets better. *You* get better." He reached for his undershirt, pulling it back on with practiced ease before scooping up his overalls. "And you got me now. Ain’t gotta do it alone."
Scout managed a shaky smile, the weight in his chest lighter but not entirely gone. He swiped at his face one last time, sniffing hard. "Guess I look like hell, huh?" Engineer just snorted, nudging him lightly with his elbow. "Nah, you look like you lost a fight with a cactus and a bottle of whiskey. C’mon, let’s patch you up before them scratches get ideas."
Engineer stood, stretching his back with a quiet pop before heading for the door. "Stay put. Ain’t gonna fetch you if you bolt." Scout rolled his eyes but didn’t move, listening to the Texan’s boots thump down the hallway. The silence should’ve felt heavy, but instead, it was... different. Like the air after a storm, clean and quiet. Scout traced a finger over the edge of the mattress, his mind replaying Engineer’s scars, the proof that he wasn’t alone.
The door creaked open again, Engineer balancing a first-aid kit under one arm and a small cloth bag in the other. He nudged the door shut with his hip before dropping the supplies onto the bed.
Scout watched Engineer’s hands as they worked, the Texan’s fingers steady and sure as they uncapped the antiseptic. The smell of alcohol stung the air, sharp and clean, but Scout didn’t flinch when the cool liquid touched his raw skin—just clenched his jaw and focused on the way Engineer’s brow furrowed in concentration. It was easier than looking down at himself.
"Hold still," Engineer murmured, dabbing gently at the worst of the abrasions. "Ain’t gonna lie, this’ll sting like a bastard." He wasn’t wrong. The antiseptic burned, but Scout bit down on his bottom lip and bore it, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Engineer’s touch was clinical, efficient, but there was an undercurrent of care in the way he avoided pressing too hard, in the way his thumb brushed Scout’s shoulder after each swipe, like an apology.
Scout managed a watery grin as Engineer dabbed at the worst of the abrasions. "Ain't so bad," he muttered, though his knuckles were white where they gripped the sheets. Engineer just hummed, unconvinced, his brow furrowed in that particular way it got when he was calculating something. The antiseptic stung, but the pain felt distant compared to the warmth of Engineer’s palm steadying his shoulder.
"You're a terrible liar," Engineer said, but there was no bite to it. He capped the antiseptic and reached for the gauze, unwinding it with practiced efficiency. The roll made a soft, crinkling sound as he tore off a strip, the fibers catching briefly before giving way. "Gonna need you to hold this end," he instructed, pressing the edge against Scout’s ribs. Scout obeyed, his fingers brushing against Engineer’s as they worked in silence, the only sound the rustle of fabric and Scout’s slow, steadying breaths.
The last strip of gauze settled against Scout’s ribs with a final, reassuring pressure. Engineer leaned back, surveying his work with a critical eye before nodding. "There. Ain’t pretty, but it’ll hold." He wiped his hands on his thighs, leaving faint streaks of antiseptic on the denim. Scout exhaled, flexing his shoulders experimentally. The bandages were snug but not constricting—nothing like the desperate, suffocating tightness he’d wrapped himself in earlier.
Engineer didn’t move right away. He just sat there, one knee propped up on the mattress, fingers drumming absently against his overalls. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached for the cloth bag he’d brought in earlier. The fabric was worn soft at the edges, the drawstring frayed from years of use. "Got somethin’ for you," he said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.
Scout eyed the bag, curiosity flickering through the exhaustion. "Ain’t another lecture, is it?" he tried to joke, but it came out thin. Engineer shook his head, his mouth quirking at one corner as he loosened the drawstring. "Nah. Already gave you that." He reached inside, pulling out a folded bundle of fabric—black, sleek, neatly pressed. Scout’s breath caught when Engineer shook it out, the material rippling like liquid in the dim light.
It was a binder. A *real* one, the kind with reinforced seams and a breathable panel, not the ragged ace bandages Scout had been tearing his skin apart with. Scout’s fingers twitched in his lap, itching to touch it, to *hold* it, but he hesitated, his throat tight. "You... you *got* this? For me?" His voice cracked on the last word.
Engineer nodded, holding it out. "Had it stashed for a while. After i got my top surgery i ain't had much use for this thing so I kept it as a mememto. Figured you'll give it a better use now"
Scout took it gingerly, as if it might dissolve under his touch. The fabric was softer than he’d expected, the stitching even and precise. He ran his thumb along the hem, his chest aching with something he couldn’t name. "Ain’t cheap," he muttered, more to himself than to Engineer.
"Worth every penny," Engineer said simply. Then, before Scout could overthink it, he reached back into the bag and pulled out a small, dog-eared photograph. The edges were worn soft from handling, the colors faded with time. He held it between two fingers, studying it for a moment before passing it to Scout.
Scout turned the photo over in his hands, squinting at the faded image. The girl in the picture had a mess of blonde curls, round cheeks, and a smile that was somehow shy and defiant all at once. She wore a too-big flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hands shoved deep in the pockets like she was trying to make herself smaller. Scout frowned. "This your sister or somethin'?" he asked, glancing up at Engineer.
Engineer barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Nope. That’s me." He tapped the edge of the photo with one finger. "Nineteen years old, fresh outta the closet, and damn near suffocatin’ in my own skin." His voice was light, but there was something in the way his jaw tightened for just a second—like the memory still had teeth.
Scout’s breath hitched. He looked back at the photo, then up at Engineer, then back again, his brain scrambling to connect the dots. The girl’s eyes, *those* were Engineer’s, sharp and warm and knowing, even back then. The stubborn tilt of her chin, the way she stood like she was bracing for a fight. "No *way*," he breathed, his fingers tightening on the photo. "You-you looked like *that*?"
"Sure did," Engineer said, leaning back on his palms. "Took that picture the day I told my daddy. He wasn't too happy 'bout but my grandpa was worse, old man didn’t speak to me for three months after." He shrugged, like it didn’t matter, but the shadow in his eyes said otherwise. "Kept it to remind myself how far I’ve come. Hell, lookin’ at it now, I barely recognize her either."
Scout traced the edge of the photo, his throat tight. The girl in the picture was undeniably pretty in a soft, round-faced way, but there was something restless in her posture, like she was itching to shed her own skin. He could see it now—the way her shoulders hunched just like Engineer’s did when he was deep in thought, the same stubborn set to her mouth. "You... you were *smaller*," he blurted, then immediately winced. "Shit, I didn’t mean-"
Engineer just chuckled. "Ain’t wrong. Didn’t always look like I could bench-press a truck." He flexed his arm playfully, the fabric of his sleeve straining over his bicep. "Took years of eatin’ like a damn horse and liftin’ anything that wasn’t nailed down, not to mention the testosterone shots. But *that*-" he nodded at the photo, "-was where I started. Just some kid with a binder two sizes too tight and a pocketknife to cut her hair in the school bathroom."
Scout swallowed hard, his chest aching. He stared at the binder in his lap, then back at the photo, something hot and hopeful curling in his gut. "And now you’re... *you*," he said, gesturing vaguely at Engineer’s broad frame, the stubble, the easy confidence. "Like, *undeniably* you."
"Told ya," Engineer said, nudging Scout’s knee with his boot. "It gets better. You’ll get there." He reached over, tapping the binder with one calloused finger. "That’s step one. Fits you better than whatever the hell you were doin’ before." His voice softened. "And it won’t tear you up like those bandages did."
Scout’s fingers tightened around the binder, the fabric warm from Engineer’s grip. “Step one, huh?” he mumbled, rubbing his thumb over the seam. “What’s step two? Gotta pass a test or somethin’?”
Engineer snorted, leaning back on his hands. “Step two’s not wearin’ it so damn long you bruise your ribs. And washin’ it regular.. *unlike* some idiots I could name.” Probably refering to Soldier or Sniper, those two could wear the same shit stained clothes for weeks. “Step *three*’s whenever you’re ready, we go ask Medic to take a saw to those things you hate so much.”
Scout’s head snapped up. “*Medic*? Wait, hold up-” His eyes flicked to Engineer’s chest, then back to his face, disbelief sharp in his voice. “*Medic* did yours? That—that ain’t possible. That man’s a damn *war criminal* with a PhD in ‘oops’!”
Engineer’s grin was all teeth. “And yet here I am, nipple-deep in cowboy metaphors with a chest flatter than Demo’s liver after payday.” He tugged his shirt collar aside just enough to show the faint, precise scar under his collarbone. “Cleanest incision you ever saw. Man’s got hands like a damn *watchmaker* when he ain’t elbow-deep in baboon guts.”
Scout’s mouth worked silently for a second. “But- *why*? Ain’t no way you just... waltzed into his office askin’ for top surgery like it was a damn flu shot.”
Engineer chuckled, scratching at his stubble. “Kid, you ain’t lived till you’ve seen Medic’s face light up like a Christmas tree when somebody asks him to do somethin’ *legally* questionable. Walked into his office, said, ‘Doc, I’d like these gone,’ pointin’ at my chest like I was orderin’ off a damn menu. Man clapped his hands together like I’d just handed him a fresh corpse to play with.”
Scout stared, incredulous. “That’s *it*? No-no secret handshake, no blood oath, no gettin’ strapped to a table while he cackles about ‘pushing the boundaries of science’?”
“Nope,” Engineer said, popping the ‘p’. “Just signed a waiver sayin’ I wouldn’t sue if he accidentally gave me gills, shook on it, and woke up two hours later with a brand-new silhouette.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Turns out, ol’ Ludwig’s got a soft spot for queers. Said somethin’ ‘bout ‘sticking it to the establishment’ while he was preppin’ the IV. Man’s got *opinions* about gender-affirmin’ care bein’ gatekept.”
Scout’s fingers tightened around the binder in his lap. He’d seen Medic stitch a man’s intestines back in with dental floss and a prayer, but this? This was a side of the doctor he couldn’t square with the guy who once tried to convince Pyro they had a third lung. “So he just… *did it*? No fuss, no nothin’?”
Engineer shrugged. “Well. There *was* fuss. Just not the kind you’re thinkin’.” He grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Got two lectures—one on proper wound care, and one on the history of queer resistance in Weimar Germany. Heavy on the diagrams. Man’s got *slides*.”
A laugh punched out of Scout before he could stop it, startled and wet. The image of Medic, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, gesturing wildly at a chalkboard covered in bullet points about *gender theory* between surgical prep was so absurd it looped back to making sense. “Christ,” Scout muttered, rubbing his face. “Ain’t that just like him? Probably sterilized the scalpel while rantin’ about how him loosing his license over stealing some dude's skeleton was linked to that"
Engineer chuckled. “Yep. Called it ‘civil disobedience.’ Said somethin’ about how if the state wanted to complain, they could ‘try and stop him.’ Then he stuck the IV in my arm so fast I didn’t even feel it.” He flexed his fingers absently, like he was remembering the pinch. “Woke up with a chest flatter than a pancake and a cup of what he *swore* was coffee but tasted like engine grease.”
Scout huffed, shaking his head. His thumb traced the edge of the binder again, the fabric smooth under his touch. The idea that Medic, *Medic*, had just… *done it*, no questions asked, sat heavy in his chest. Not like a weight, but like something warm. “So what, I just… walk up to him and say ‘hey doc, chop chop’?”
“Pretty much.” Engineer leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Though I’d lead with ‘please.’ Man’s got a thing about manners.” He nudged the first-aid kit closed with his boot. “Point is, you got options. And you ain’t gotta figure ‘em out tonight.”
Scout swallowed hard. The binder in his lap suddenly felt like more than fabric—it was a *promise*. One he wasn’t sure he deserved yet. “Ain’t scared of the surgery,” he lied, voice rough. “Just… what if I wake up and it’s *worse*? What if I’m still… me, but with scars?”
Engineer exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, like he was letting the question sit between them before answering. Then, without a word, he reached out and flicked Scout’s forehead, just hard enough to sting. Scout yelped, batting his hand away. “Ow! The *hell*-?”
“You’re an *idiot*,” Engineer said, voice thick with affection. “You think I’d let you walk into somethin’ that’d make you feel worse? Hell, you think *Medic* would?” He shook his head, nudging the first-aid kit aside so he could scoot closer. “Scars ain’t nothin’ but proof you lived through somethin’. And *you*?” He poked Scout’s chest, right over his heart. “You’re gonna live through a whole lot more, son.”
Scout’s breath hitched. Engineer’s hand didn’t move, just stayed there, warm and solid, like an anchor.
Engineer’s voice softened. “You wanna know the *real* secret? Ain’t about the scars. It’s about waking up and *knowing* you’re finally home in your own skin.” He tapped Scout’s collarbone, just once. “That feelin’? That’s yours. No take-backs.”
Scout’s vision blurred. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his wrist, laughing wetly. “Fuck, man. You can’t just *say* shit like that.” His throat burned, but for once, it wasn’t from trying not to cry. “Ain’t fair.”
Engineer grinned, the crow’s feet at his eyes deepening. “What, you thought I was just gonna hand you a binder and peace out? Nah, kid. You’re stuck with me.” He reached out, ruffling Scout’s already-mussed hair. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t sleep in that thing.”
Scout ducked away, but his heart wasn’t in it. The weight in his chest had shifted, lighter now, like someone had pulled the plug on a sink full of dread. “Thanks,” he muttered, staring at his knees. The word felt too small, but it was all he had. “For… y’know. All of it.”
Engineer didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head with a satisfied groan. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just quiet, the kind that settled after a storm. Then, with a grunt, he pushed to his feet and grabbed the first-aid kit. “You’re welcome,” he said, like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just handed Scout a lifeline. "Now come on, put on a shirt and go to sleep, its too late for you to be up and about, got a match to win tomorrow"
Scout hesitated, fingers curling into the binder. “Engie?” The name came out quieter than he meant it to. Engineer paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
Scout swallowed. “You, uh. You really think I’ll get there? Like… like you?” He gestured vaguely at Engineer’s broad frame, the stubble, the easy way he carried himself.
Engineer’s expression softened. He didn’t answer with words—just turned fully around, stepped back, and pulled Scout into a hug so tight it lifted him half off the bed. Scout barely had time to wheeze before Engineer was setting him down again, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make his teeth rattle. “Kid,” he said, voice rough, “you’re already getting there.”
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Scout sitting there with a binder in his lap and a heart too full for his ribs.
Ribs that will finally be able to breath now.