Tales of Well

——

Lovers’ Quarrel

[...]

“Hola, mi fuego. ¿Cómo estás?”

Pyro didn’t look up from his magazine, grunting out a half-hearted, “Bien.”

When no further greeting or attention was forthcoming, Freckles pouted and took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“‘¿Cómo estás?’ ‘Estoy bien, ¿y tú?’ ‘Oh, I’m good. Just came over to spend some time with ya.’ ‘Genial. Toma asiento.’” He poked Pyro in the back of the head, drawing out a low growl and a dismissively flapped hand. “Christ, did Blue piss in yer fuckin’ cornflakes this mornin’ or what?”

“I don’t feel like hanging out, alright?” Pyro said, hunching further over his magazine when Freckles poked him again.

“What, ya fuckin’ serious?” He let out a growl of his own when Pyro didn’t respond. “Fuck! I’m startin’ to get fuckin’ sick a’this, ya know. I mean, I’m riskin’ my ass comin’ over here, between my psycho teammates and yer fuckin’ asshole Soldier, and half the time ya don’t even wanna talk, let alone do anythin’ else!”

“I like spending time alone,” Pyro said through gritted teeth. Freckles crossed his arms again, glowering at the back of Pyro’s head.

“Right, right, that’s why yer hangin’ out in the rec room with Spy, Tex, ’n’ Ozzie instead a’yer room. Totally alone,” he said, gesturing to the three men in question; Engie hid himself behind a blueprint at the sound of his nickname.

Pyro rubbed his eyes and muttered, “Al menos saben cómo cerrar sus malditas bocas…”

Sniper didn’t know what Pyro had said, but he was instantly on edge from Spy and Engie’s sharply indrawn breaths, and the dark look that rolled across Freckles’s face.

“The fuck did you just say?”

Pyro finally turned to look back at Freckles, scowling. “You heard me. I just want to relax on my own and read in fucking peace.”

“And you can’t do that with me here?”

“No, since you don’t ever shut the fuck up.”

Engie winced, and Sniper felt a sharp pang of pity for Freckles. The flash of hurt across his face was brief, but intense. It was replaced by another angry grimace, though, and Freckles threw up his hands.

“Ya know what, fine. Fuckin’ fine,” he said, turning to leave. Before he took a step, though, Sniper heard him venomously mutter, “Fuckin’ fag, only wants me around when he wants t’get up my ass…”

The crash of shattering glass made both Sniper and Engie jump, and Spy looked less than amused as he took in the mess of shards by the rec room doorway that had, until a second ago, been his ashtray. He didn’t dare say anything, though. Pyro was on his feet, a furious flush high in his cheeks and his hands in shaking fists at his sides. He looked ready to jump over the back of the couch and rip Freckles apart.

“Get the fuck out,” he hissed. Freckles hardly spared the shattered ashtray a glance before turning his glare back on Pyro.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m goin’,” he said, adding acidly, “Fuckin’ faggot.”

Engie quickly scrunched up against the arm of the couch as Pyro launched himself over the back with an enraged roar, but by the time he’d cleared the piece of furniture, Freckles was gone.

[...]

——

Sniper respawned with a blinding headache. Quite literally blinding. Moaning softly, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to convince the thick white fog over his vision to dissipate.

“Fuckin’ Hell…”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d respawned enough in a single match to have a respawn error this bad. A minor ache behind his eyes, maybe a touch of dizziness, that was what he was more accustomed to. Sticking to the back lines more often than not, he usually wasn’t enough of a target to rack up enough deaths for anything worse. Today, though…

“He’s been pickin’ on you too, huh?”

Blinking rapidly and squinting in the direction of the tired Texan drawl, Sniper could just barely make out Engineer, lying in the middle of the room with his hands folded over his stomach and legs sprawled. Sniper frowned, massaging his temples.

“Y’alright, Truckie?” he said, and Engie sighed.

“Yeah, yeah, m’fine.” He slapped one of his thighs. “Just waitin’ fer the feelin’ t’come back in my legs. Went down like a sack a’potatoes soon as I came back.” He let out another sigh, and Sniper’s slowly clearing vision let him catch the raised eyebrow directed at him. “Freckles is in a Helluva mood t’day, huh?”

Sniper nodded, closing his eyes; it helped ease the tense throbbing in his head, at least a little.

“Guess he’s not exactly pleased we were there t’see him an’ Py spittin’ at each other yesterday,” he said. He cracked one eye open to glance at the respawn board; it was still blurry, but he could make out what he wanted to see. Freckles was dominating him, Engie, and Spy, and as he watched, he saw Spy’s respawn counter tick on. Bleedin’ Hell…

“Py ain’t much better,” Engie said, twiddling his thumbs. “Couldn’t keep him around t’Spy-check for more’n a minute before he was runnin’ off ta torch the kid.” He sighed again. “Least it ain’t a deathmatch today. Wouldn’t wanna have both of ’em on our rears.”

Sniper grunted in agreement. It was bad enough getting his skull caved in by a bloody baseball bat a dozen-plus times in a day; being set ablaze just as much would’ve been a nightmare. He found a patch of wall to lean against, tipping his head back and crossing his arms over his chest. He’d just wait a few minutes, let the last of his headache pass and maybe (hopefully) give Freckles some time to cool down a touch. He wasn’t exactly eager to run out and get his head bashed again.

A faint whoosh filled the room. Sniper opened his eyes to see Spy stumbling over Engie’s still-useless legs as he made a hurried beeline for the trashcan in the corner, where he immediately dropped to his knees and began to vomit noisily. Engie made a soft sound of commiseration, and Sniper raised an eyebrow.

“Freckles?” Sniper asked. There was a vaguely affirmative-sounding groan from the corner, followed by another wrenching retch. Sniper sighed and laid his head back against the wall. “Might just hang out here a few minutes longer, if you blokes don’t mind the company.”

Engie’s only reply was a tired chuckle. Spy threw up again.

——

[...]

[...] Red rested his forehead against Pyro’s chest, hesitantly hugging him around the waist when he wasn’t immediately pushed away.

“M’sorry,” he mumbled. “I know I’m fuckin’… a lot sometimes… Say stupid shit… M’sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Pyro said, hugging him back. “I’m sorry, too. I’m…” He sighed, resting his head atop Red’s. “I’m kind of a dick.”

“‘Kind of’?” Red said. There was the slightest hint of amusement in his tone. “How many times did you set me on fire today?”

“Pretty sure it wasn’t as many times as you shot and batted me right in the nuts.”

Red laughed and tipped his head back to give Pyro a peck on the chin. “Alright, we’re both kinda dicks.” He gave Pyro a squeeze and laid his head back against his chest. “I love you. I really am sorry.”

“Me too,” Pyro said, resting his cheek back on the top of Red’s head. “Te amo, conejito.”

“Te amo,” Red said; Pyro could hear his smile. “So… make-up sex in the intel room?”

Pyro snorted. “We made up literally ten seconds ago.”

“That’s not a no,” Red said in a sing-song voice, grinning and grabbing Pyro’s hand.

——

Camping

[...]

“Why the fuck did I even agree to come?” Scout griped, kicking a rock toward the fence. “S’just gonna be you two bein’ all queer ’n’ shit while I fuckin’ sit there in the woods with my thumbs up my ass.”

Pyro tossed a pebble at him. “Rojo wouldn’t have invited you if he just wanted to fuck, pendejo; we can do that here on our own just fine. And where the fuck do you think there are any woods around here?”

“It’s fuckin’ campin’, dude,” Scout said. “Ya can’t go campin’ without fuckin’ woods. S’like, the rules’r some shit.”

Pyro stared at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable above his mask. Then he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a strikingly Medic-like show of exasperation.

“Cristo eres un pendejo…” he muttered. Scout rolled his eyes.

“English, dude,” he said. “Ya know I don’t speak fuckin’ Mexican.”

“Chinga tu madre cabrón. Es español, no ‘Mexican’,” Pyro said, glowering, and Scout threw up his hands.

“I don’t know what the fuck that means! Seriously, dude, fuck!”

Pyro threw another pebble at him. “You’re a fucking dumbass.”

[...]

“We could do Truth or Dare,” Red said, “or Never Have I Ever, or Would You Rather—”

“Aw golly gee! Maybe we can paint each other’s nails and braid our hair and tell each other about all the boys we like, too!” Blue said, propping his chin on his hands and giving Red a soppy look before rolling his eyes. “Are ya a fuckin’ twelve year old girl? Seriously, come on, dude.”

“Yer just scared we’re gonna dare ya to do somethin’ gay,” Red said. “We got booze, that makes it fun! If yer too much of a pussy, ya just end up shitfaced faster than us.”

“I ain’t a pussy, assfag— Ow!”

“I told you about that fucking word…”

“Fuck, dude, sorry, jeez! Ya don’t gotta keep hittin’ me…” Blue rubbed his arm where Pyro had slugged him. “But I ain’t fuckin’ scared. S’just fuckin’ slumber party shit, man. Ain’t enough tequila in the fuckin’ world t’make that fun.”

“Jesus, yer a buzzkill. I wanna get fuckin’ hammered! We’re playin’ Never Have I Ever,” Red said, pouring out three shots of tequila.

“You could just drink like a normal fuckin’ adult,” Blue grumbled, but he took the filled shot glass Red thrust at him. “Fuck, fine. Who’s goin’ firs—?”

“Never have I ever fucked a girl,” Pyro said, grinning. Red laughed, downing his shot without hesitation, and Blue gave his teammate a deadpan look before doing the same, grimacing at the burn of the alcohol. Tequila was okay, but scotch was better.

As Red refilled both their glasses, Blue said, “Alright, that’s how ya wanna play, fucknuts? Never have I ever taken it up th’ass.”

Pyro rolled his eyes, though his lips were still turned up in a small smile, and drank. Red was already filling his own glass again, sucking in a hard breath through his teeth; a healthy flush was building in a line across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. As Pyro took the tequila for his refill, Red leaned back and gestured at Blue with his shot.

“’Kay, ’kay. Let’s get us all on level footing: Never have I ever sucked dick,” he said. Pyro snorted, shot, and refilled, then held the bottle out to Blue. Blue didn’t take it, though, or drink right away. Instead, he gave Pyro a look of complete disbelief.

“Are ya fuckin’ serious?” he said. “How has he never sucked ya off? Y’been together for fuckin’ months!”

Pyro rolled his eyes again, and pushed the tequila at Blue. “I’m not just gonna shove my dick down his throat, cabrón. We do plenty of other shit. Now drink. We all know you’re a cocksucker.”

“So’re you, assface.” Blue glared, but he snatched the bottle and took his shot.

“I know I am, and I like it,” Pyro said. He waggled his eyebrows at Blue suggestively, making him jerk and curse as he slopped tequila over his hand.

[...]

Blue started to pass the bottle back to Red, but stopped when he saw the look on his face. Red’s eyes were strangely distant, and his lips were pressed tight together. Blue could see his throat bobbing as he swallowed repeatedly. Blue set the bottle back down and waved in Red’s direction.

“Yo, y’alright dude? Ya look like yer gonna—”

“I gotta puke,” Red mumbled, stumbling to his feet. Blue winced and Pyro frowned as Red staggered over behind a nearby boulder, and the next half a minute or so were dominated by the sounds of retching and heavy, liquid splattering. Blue swallowed hard—he hated hearing someone throw up, even if he couldn’t see it—and Pyro started getting to his feet, but he slowly settled back when Red reemerged, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He didn’t seem any the worse for wear; he was even smiling. He grabbed a beer from the cooler on his way back to his spot by the fire, cracking it open, gargling a mouthful, and spitting off into the darkness before he collapsed back into his earlier comfortable sprawl.

He turned his smile on Blue and Pyro as if he hadn’t just spent the last little bit heaving his guts out. “So, who’s next?”

Pyro reached over to give Red’s shoulder a squeeze, still frowning. “¿Estás bien, conejito?”

“Oh yeah, I’m fine!” Red said, his smile growing into another wide grin. “Puke and rally! I am the fuckin’ puke-and-rally king. Did it five times on prom night.” He pecked Pyro on the cheek. “M’all good. C’mon, let’s keep playin’! I’m pukey—shoulda eaten somethin’ earlier, I guess—but I’m not real drunk yet.”

“Alright, but we’re switchin’ to beer,” Blue said, stretching and snagging the cooler with the tips of his fingers. “I don’t wanna listen to ya barfin’ every fifteen minutes, fuckin’ lightweight. Let’s do somethin’ else, too,” he added, tossing a beer to Pyro and opening one for himself. “I’m gettin’ sick a’sayin’ ‘never have I ever’.”

“Truth or Dare?” Pyro suggested, flicking his bottle cap into the fire.

Blue yelped, “Fuck no!” at the same time Red whooped, “Fuck yeah! Me first!” He ignored Blue’s indignant squawks and said, with an absolutely shit-eating grin, “I double-dare you ’n’ Py t’make out.”

Blue threw up his hands. “I fuckin’ knew it! No! No Truth or Dare! That’s not even how ya fuckin’ play! Ya just wanna make me do fuckin’ gay shit so y’can watch me squirm! Well, fuck you!” He lifted his beer to take his punishment drinks. “I ain’t fuckin’—”

Pyro grabbed his wrist, forcing him to lower his beer before the bottle even touched his lips; Blue hadn’t seen him move from beside Red.

“Cállate pendejo.”

And he kissed Blue hard, full on the mouth, a hand at the back of his neck to keep him in place. And he did have to hold him in place. After half a second of stunned stillness, Blue’s hands were pushing on Pyro’s shoulders as he tried to pull back, spluttering inarticulately in alarm. Spy had almost always let him take the lead when they kissed (and in just about everything else physical) after their first, half-drunk hook-up.

Pyro wasn’t so accommodating. He kept a firm grip on the back of Blue’s neck, leaning in as Blue tried to lean back, until Blue hit the ground with a grunt. Pyro was half on top of him, still determinedly connected at the mouth. There was a pleasant lurch deep in Blue’s gut and his sputters faded as Pyro’s other hand slid up his arm and then down across his chest. Shivers raced across his scalp and down his spine when a smooth, wet tongue slid across his lips, demanding entrance.

He found his hands no longer pushing at Pyro’s shoulders as he parted his lips without a thought, a soft moan rumbling up from his chest when Pyro’s tongue darted forward to tangle with his. One hand had gripped Pyro’s upper arm, while the other found his hip, fingers plucking at his belt loops in an attempt to urge him closer. Pyro hummed into his mouth, one leg sliding in between his, thigh pressing not-so-gently into his groin, and he couldn’t stop the shudder that rolled through him. He tried pushing back a bit, trying to regain at least a little control of the situation, but Pyro growled softly and the hungry pressure against his mouth grew more fierce, shoving him down harder into the ground.

Something assertive stirred in Blue’s chest—he wasn’t gonna just lay here and fucking take this!—and he growled in return, nipping Pyro’s tongue and firming his hold on his belt loops. He gave a hard sideways yank, rolling, and he felt as well as heard Pyro’s yelp as their positions were reversed. He ground his leg down against Pyro’s crotch and sniggered when Pyro sucked in a hard breath. Pyro bit sharply at his lip in response, another low snarl rumbling out of him.

“Think you’re hot shit, pendejo?” he said, voice tight. Blue grunted and his hips jerked; Pyro’s hands had migrated to his ass. He tugged on Pyro’s belt loops and thrust against his hip in return.

“I know I am, motherfucker.”

He drove his tongue back into Pyro’s mouth, and shivered at the throaty moan Pyro let loose. He could feel a hot stiffness pressing into his thigh, and that oh-so-familiar tight heat building low in his gut in reply. He gripped Pyro’s hips and rocked his own in a steadily deepening rhythm. Every downward thrust sent lightning arcing through his gut and up his spine, and every slick meeting of tongues and clashing of lips had tingles racing across his skin. Pyro was growling persistently just on the edge of hearing, punctuating every roll of Blue’s hips with a hard squeeze to his ass, and Blue shoved his hands up under Pyro’s shirt, moaning at the feel of soft, feverishly warm skin and the taut musculature under his fingertips.

“Okay, okay! That’s enough!”

Blue yelped as he was yanked back by his shoulders and bodily shoved off of Pyro by Red, the sudden lack of warmth and pressure sending a full-body twitch through him. His lips were still tingling, and chills started to trickle down his spine, making goosebumps march across his shoulders and down his arms. He shuddered and glared over at Red, who was giving him a sour look in return. He was blushing furiously under his freckles, though, and Blue had a feeling it wasn’t just from the alcohol.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I dared ya t’make out, not hump ’n’ make a run for second base,” Red muttered, adjusting himself not nearly as surreptitiously as he thought. Blue flipped him the bird and adjusted his hat, settling it firmly back from where it had been knocked askew and trying his best to ignore the heat in his own face and groin.

“It’s not my fault yer fuckin’ boyfriend’s so fuckin’ handsy,” he said, “and pushy.”

“That wasn’t pushy,” Pyro said, grinning ferally and propping himself up on his elbows; if not for the slight hint of red on his cheekbones, one wouldn’t have known he’d spent the last minute or so dry-humping and playing tonsil hockey with Blue. “I wouldn’t have let you flip us if I wanted to be pushy.”

“Ya didn’t fuckin’ ‘let me’, asshole,” Blue said, “I rolled ya fair ’n’ square. Bite me.”

“Already did, pendejo,” Pyro said. When Blue gave him a confused look, he swiped at his lower lip with a thumb. Blue jerked at the sharp jolt of pain in the center of his lip when he did the same, and he stared at the smear of red that had been left on his thumb.

“Son of a bitch.” He turned his disbelieving stare on Pyro. “You vicious little shit!”

Pyro shrugged, still smug. “You’re the one who started playing rough.”

“Oh, that wasn’t rough, chucklefuck. I’ll show ya fuckin’ rough.”

“No ya fuckin’ won’t,” Red growled, throwing his arms around Pyro’s chest and tugging him back into his lap. Pyro let out a startled laugh, leaning comfortably back into his hold, and Red said, “That was the hottest shit I seen in a minute, but no one’s feelin’ up Pyro but me.”

“You dared us to make out!” Blue yelped. “And Py fuckin’ jumped me!”

“Y’weren’t supposed to get that into it,” Red said. He folded his hands over Pyro’s sternum and let his chin rest on top of Pyro’s head. Pyro snuggled back into him with a contented hum. “Yer usually such a bitch about the gay shit.”

“I’m fuckin’ halfway drunk, dumbass, and m’not a fuckin’ bitch. You assholes always just use that queer shit to fuck with me,” Blue said. “Fuckin’ gay-ass… Why d’my two best friends gotta be such fuckin’ fruitcakes?”

“You know you love us, hombre,” Pyro said, smirking. Blue glared at him.

“Blow me, asshole.”

“Maybe later, if you’re lucky.”

“Oh, fuck right off, dude.”

Pyro laughed, retrieving his beer and leaning back against Red. He gestured at Blue with his bottle before taking a sip, still grinning.

“You white boys are so cute when you blush,” he said.

——

A Breach of Trust

[...]

Notebooks. A lot of them. More than twenty, maybe even more than thirty. They were about as thick as his pinky, so maybe a couple hundred pages apiece. Each had a sleek black cover that looked like leather, and on each of their spines was a class emblem in either red or blue: wrenches, rifle crosshairs, fireballs, crosses, fists, a disproportionate number of winged shoes… Some had what looked like names on them as well, in white, maybe as many as half. He squinted to read them: Peter, Hollis, Beaumont, Tobias, Leland, Christopher, Spencer.

Aiden.

He had the slim black book out of the drawer before he’d even realized his hand had moved. The cover bore a blue Scout emblem, and that was his name—his name—written under it in sweeping white letters that had the distinctive, elegant look of Spy’s hand. His heart was thumping against his ribs, and his throat was tight when he tried to swallow. He traced his fingers over the emblem—it had been embossed, so he could feel the curves and edges of it—and licked his lips, taking a deep breath.

He opened the notebook.

Arrival Date: February 14, 1992. American (Boston). 22 years old. 5’11. Slim build; broad-shouldered. Light brown hair. Hazel eyes.

Scout frowned as he slowly and carefully read his way down the page. Even typed words were hard for him to get straight; reading handwriting was just plain headache inducing. This was about him, though; he wasn’t going to just give up on it. Why did Spy have this, these… notes? The first page seemed to be nothing but basic details—what he looked like, basic history, a couple less-than-flattering observations on his personality, what his numbers had been like back in his first days with BLU—so he flipped a few pages further.

… dragged me out of the moat after the RED Pyro forced me in. Maybe “dragged” is too strong a word; he was surprisingly considerate of my injuries, getting me back into our sewers. He even stayed to cover me until Engineer arrived to erect a dispenser, even after the RED Scout broke his arm. Scout remembered that day, not that long after he’d first arrived at Teufort, maybe only a couple months in. He’d seen Spy, suit aflame, dive into the moat, and he hadn’t even thought. He’d jumped in after him and brought him back into the BLU sewers, screaming for Hardhat to get his ass down here and set up a dispenser right fucking now. Then Red—old Red—had shown up… Scout shuddered, feeling a twinge in his right forearm. He’d beaten the dumbass’s skull in, even with just one hand, but not before he’d learned what a compound fracture felt like.

He flipped a few more pages, scanning a few sentences here and there. That was about the day Spy had found him crashed in the intel room after his first case of Bonk. There was the day he’d gotten the scar on his side. His stomach twisted when he saw that there were three whole pages dedicated to the day Doc had strapped him to the table in the Infirmary. He read a fair chunk of that, running his finger along the words despite the pressure building in his temples, surprised by the horror and fury he could feel in what Spy had written. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much fear on a man’s face… That miserable excuse for a doctor is lucky I did not murder him then and there… I don’t know if I will ever be able to get his screaming out of my head, or the way he looked at me when I refused to undo those damnable straps…

Scout swallowed again—his throat, if anything, had grown even tighter—and flipped further. [...] His heart gave a particularly hard ba-BUMP in his chest and he felt his cheeks getting hot when he found a very detailed description of the night he and Spy had first hooked up; he only read a couple sentences, but it was enough to make him hurriedly turn a few more pages before he started feeling any more of a reaction.

Then he saw his name again. In the middle of an otherwise blank page were four words: His name is Aiden.

[...]

“I think you should return to your own room,” Spy said, not turning from the desk. Scout opened his mouth, but slowly closed it again when he realized he had nothing to say. For once, there was no overpowering urge to spout angry denials and excuses. Something in the tense line of Spy’s shoulders, the way his head hung slightly between them in an un-Spy-like hunch… Scout knew he’d fucked up. He’d fucked up bad. He licked his lips and walked quickly to the door, a solid, unfamiliar lump of guilt pressing painfully on his stomach and lungs.

“Scout.”

He looked over his shoulder, hand on the doorknob. Spy still wasn’t looking at him. He had one of his notebooks open before him, hands flat on the desktop to either side of it.

“If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, or if I ever find that you ’ave gone through my things again…” He let out a slow breath; Scout saw his fingers twitch against the desk. “Regardless of whatever affection I ’old for you, I will make your dying slow, and painful. And permanent.”

——

Breakfast (tent. title)

[...]

Freckles was not who [Sniper] expected to see, humming to himself as he shimmied and slid through the kitchen on bare feet, pulling dishes and utensils from various cabinets and drawers. The kid was wearing one of Pyro’s t-shirts (Sniper recognized it instantly as one of the ones Scout had defaced; that lurid shade of pink was certainly distinctive) and Sniper was fairly sure he was wearing a pair of Pyro’s sweatpants as well, the cuffs rolled up several times to keep from dragging on the floor. He’d assembled a fair collection of food on the counter: a mound of potatoes and two onions, already peeled; the brick of cheddar from the fridge; several peppers of various colours and sizes; two packs of breakfast sausages; and two cartons of eggs. Aside from the potatoes and cheese, Sniper knew that none of it had come from their actual supplies; they’d used up the last eggs a few days ago, and they hadn’t had any vegetables (aside from the potatoes, if they could even really be considered vegetables) shipped to them in longer than he liked to think about. Freckles must have made a grocery run on his own.

Sniper stayed just outside the doorway, far enough back for Freckles to not see him as he puttered around the kitchen, setting bowls and other dishes on the counter, and once checking the oven, opening the door a couple inches and nodding in satisfaction at whatever he found. Something seemed to be eluding him, though. After placing a spatula on the counter, he started searching more intently through cupboards and drawers, muttering to himself. Sniper had to stifle a laugh when, after a minute or so of hunting, he pulled a chair over to one of the counters and stood on it, so he could see onto the higher shelves. Freckles had such a big attitude, it was sometimes easy to forget just how short he really was. He saw what he wanted, apparently, because he cursed softly and started trying to get something from the top shelf that, even with the chair, he was hard-pressed to reach.

As Sniper watched, the chair started slowly skidding along the floor, scooting quarter-inch by quarter-inch further and further from the counter as Freckles tried desperately for whatever he was looking for on the top shelf. Freckles didn’t seem to notice: he was standing on tip-toe at the chair’s edge, his tongue poked between his teeth and eyes half-squinted shut as he tried to jam most of his arm into the cupboard. Sniper stepped forward just as the chair gave an almighty screech and shot back a few inches all at once.

“Wha- Huuk!”

Sniper caught Freckles by the collar of his shirt, keeping him from crashing full-on into the counter, and steadied him as he stumbled a step. Freckles’s eyes were wide when they locked onto him, and he froze with one hand rubbing at where his shirt had dug into his throat and the other gripping the counter. Sniper let go of the back of his shirt and looked down at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Somethin’ just outta your reach there, Freckles?” he said, not unkindly. For a second, Freckles only stared at him, wary as a rabbit under a coyote’s eye. Then, slowly, he straightened and gave a nervous little cough.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah,” he said, pointing to the shelf he’d been searching and dropping his eyes. “The cheese grater.”

Sniper walked over to the cabinet and looked in. He had to pop up onto the balls of his feet to catch sight of the grater, tucked toward the back of the top shelf, but he extracted it without stretching too much and held it out. Freckles took it with a mumbled word of thanks, but he didn’t look up. When Sniper didn’t move or say anything further, he backed up a slow step, then another and another, until his back bumped up against the countertop next to the stove.

“I’m, uh… I’m just makin’ breakfast,” he said, with a weak gesture at the food on the counter, “if that’s cool?”

Sniper smiled. As much as part of him wanted to tease, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Freckles really looked like the kid he was, standing there in too-big sweatpants, clutching the cheese grater and staring at his bare feet. Sniper had to admire his balls, too, for all his present nervousness. Spending the night at the enemy base and staying to make breakfast in the morning? Sniper wasn’t sure if he’d do the same, put in the kid’s shoes.

“No wukkas, mate. Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, pulling over the chair Freckles had been using as a step-stool and taking a seat at the table. He nodded at the heaps of food. “Feelin’ a bit peckish, eh?”

Freckles snorted and Sniper saw the beginnings of a relieved smile forming on his lips before he turned to the cutting board.

“It’s not all for me. I’m not that much of a pig ’less I’m totally baked off my ass. I, uh-” He shrugged and started grating the cheese into a large bowl. “I just figured I’d say thanks, y’know. For all you guys not murderin’ me whenever I come over. ’Cept Helmet-Dick, but he’s not here, so…” He stopped grating and looked over his shoulder. “There’s coffee, if ya want. The second pot’s got some a’Spy’s fancy hazelnut shit in it.”

“Stealin’ Spy’s coffee? That’s a bold move, mate,” Sniper said with a smirk. He got up and poured himself a cup of regular coffee, taking it back to his seat. Freckles flashed him a buck-toothed grin.

“Ah, I already steal his weed and his booze,” he said, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth. “Well, Blue steals it for me, but same difference. ’Sides, he can still get some, s’long as he gets up b’fore I drink it all.”

Sniper snorted out a laugh and took a sip of his coffee. It was good and strong. He hummed and leaned back in his seat, watching as Freckles finished with the cheese—the bowl was filled with a heaping mound of cheddar almost as tall again as it was—and started chopping the potatoes into roughly square chunks. His motions had the ease and speed of long practice, and when Sniper continued to stay silent, he started humming to himself again, just on the edge of hearing. Sniper thought he recognized a Beatles tune. Taking another thoughtful sip, Sniper popped his feet up to rest on one of the other empty chairs around the table, one ankle crossed over the other.

“Gotta say, yer one a’the last ones I woulda expected t’see in here first thing in the mornin’,” he said, startling Freckles into stillness. “You bein’ RED aside, I’ve been at this nonsense a dozen years, and I can count on one hand the Scouts I’ve known who’d willin’ly be outta bed before noon on a day off. And I can’t think of any who’d’ve cooked breakfast for the whole team. The whole enemy team, at that.”

He saw Freckles blink. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Well, Ma always told me to be a good houseguest.” He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I just never expected t’get- I guess it hasn’t really been a warm welcome, but, all things considered, the fact that none a’you guys have tried blowin’ me away just for bein’ here deserves some kinda ‘thank you’, right?”

“If it means a free, home-cooked meal, I’m not gonna disagree,” Sniper said with a smile, lifting his coffee cup to the boy in salute. Freckles shot him another brief grin before focusing back on the potatoes. “So, y’do this often?” Sniper said, nodding again to the food when Freckles looked back over his shoulder at him. “Cookin’. Most blokes out here can’t even cut a sandwich in half without cuttin’ themselves, or use any appliance but the microwave without settin’ the whole bloody place ablaze.”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, I like cookin’,” Freckles said, drawing an onion over to the cutting board and shoving the chopped potatoes into two large casserole dishes (Sniper hadn’t even known they had a single casserole dish, let alone two). “Ma worked a lotta nights, and it gets pretty borin’ just eatin’ McDonald’s and TV dinners, ya know? Chicks love it, too. I told Blue—yer Scout, I mean—but he don’t believe me: if you can dance ’n’ you can cook, you can drop any chick’s panties halfway to China without even tryin’.”

“Really?” Sniper said, surprised. “No offense, mate, but given yer track record since ya’ve been here…”

Freckles stopped chopping for a moment, and Sniper could see the back of his neck and tips of his ears flushing red. He cleared his throat and returned to the onion after giving himself a shake, his shoulders a little more hunched than before. The silence stretched, leaving Sniper’s prompt unanswered, and Sniper smiled a little.

“Look, no judgment, kid. I’ve been around Heavy and Medic for ages, and I saw more shit back at Sawmill than I ever wanna think about sober. Or drunk, for that matter. It’s just a surprise, that’s all,” he said. “Given how happy y’seemed with Wrenches and seem with Pyro, and how quick y’got to business once y’got here, I figured the sheilas just didn’t really get ya goin’.”

“Nah, nah, they totally do!” Freckles said quickly. “Chicks are awesome, man! I love boobs! S’just, uh…” He shuffled uncomfortably. “S’just… y’know…”

“Actually, I don’t,” Sniper said, a smile coming back to his lips. “Not even a little bit.”

“What, seriously?” Freckles stared at him. “Y’said it yerself, ya been doin’ this shit for-fuckin’-ever.” He scowled slightly and added, “And everyone loves to keep tellin’ me that the last RED Scout was the fuckin’ Teufort bicycle, throwin’ himself at everyone he could, fuckin’ twenty-four seven…”

“Never did learn t’ride a bike,” Sniper said musingly, recrossing his ankles more comfortably. “Wasn’t much use on walkabout; th’Outback’s too rough, ’less you’re willin’ to put in an ungodly amount a’work and carry an ungodly amount a’shit. Easier t’just run with a van.” He shook his head and huffed. “Last RED Scout was a loony little root rat. Ask anyone. Even if I was inclined t’ward blokes, I wouldn’ta stuck my business anywhere near that mess.”

“And Spy never tried for nothin’?” Freckles said, onion chopping entirely forgotten. “I find that kinda fuckin’ hard t’believe. Y’been on the same team with him for years, right? And he ain’t exactly… the straightest ruler in the drawer.”

Sniper snorted and said, “Oh, you better believe the damn frog bloody well tried. His first few months at Sawmill, he tried cozyin’ up to me and th’other Sniper on the team near every other day. Persistent git.” He shook his head and shrugged, taking another mouthful of coffee. “He gave it a rest after the piss jars, though.”

“Piss jars?”

“Yup,” Sniper said. “When y’find the perfect perch, y’don’t wanna miss the shot just ’cause ya gotta answer the call a’nature. By the time Shades and I got sick a’Spy’s pesterin’ ’n’ innuendos, between the two of us we musta had, eh, three or four dozen jars.” He chuckled, remembering the look on Spy’s face when the nest’s trapdoor had swung open, and he’d seen what came of pushing Snipers too far. “Never knew the frog could scream that high.”

Freckles stared at him for a few seconds more in stunned silence, but he was soon clutching his gut, guffawing loud enough to wake the entire base. Sniper sipped his coffee, watching as Freckles’s face grew more and more red and he had to grip the counter to keep himself upright. Tears followed soon after, and before long he was gasping between desperate, snorting “hee hee!”s. By the time he wound down, wiping his cheeks and still letting out the occasional breathless giggle, Sniper had finished off his coffee, poured himself a new cup, and returned to his chair with his feet kicked up again.

“Hoo. Hoooo. Holy shit, my sides hurt. Ah, fuck me, I can’t remember the last time I laughed so fuckin’ hard. Jesus.” Freckles turned back to the cutting board and resumed dicing the onions, his shoulders still quaking with mirth. “Fuckin’ piss jars… Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” He snickered again.

Then he froze. Sniper frowned as, stock still, Freckles sniffed at the air, like a dog. To Sniper’s shock, he turned sharply to his left, growling and hefting the knife in his hand as if he meant to use it on someone, rather than just the vegetables.

“Spy, I swear to God, if you get even a single fuckin’ flake of ash on the food, I’m shovin’ this knife straight up yer fuckin’ ass.”

Sniper blinked as Spy shimmered into view at the corner of the counter, one arm crossed over his chest and the other hand holding a cigarette to his lips. Sniper shook his head, impressed. There was another point to Freckles’s card. Sniper had been at this long enough that he could usually tell when Spy was coming and going, even cloaked, but the kid had caught him while Sniper hadn’t even had a clue.

Spy was giving Freckles a thoroughly unimpressed look, not at all swayed by the rather large chopping implement in his hand, despite the threat. He blew out a puff of smoke and deliberately ashed his cigarette into the sink.

“I am shaking in my wingtips,” he said drily, pushing the knife away with the tip of a finger. “You ’ave quite the nose, lapin.”

“And those things fuckin’ stink,” Freckles shot back, jabbing the knife at the cigarette before turning back to the cutting board with a huff. “It’s a miracle y’can sneak up on anyone at all. Ya really gotta smoke that shit in here while I’m cookin’?”

“I am a Spy; I always smoke,” Spy said, pouring himself some coffee—and giving Freckles a dark look when he smelled the hazelnut—before mixing in some cream and sugar and taking a seat across the table from Sniper. Freckles rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, but ya don’t hafta smoke here,” he said. “Y’could just fuck off and not be a total fuckin’ prick. Shockin’, I know, but it is an option.”

Sniper coughed out a brief laugh and Spy cut him a look before he said, in a too-sweet voice, “It is, but why bother when being a ‘total prick’ is so much more entertaining? Besides, I can’t ’elp but be a little suspicious of the RED Scout ’elping ’imself to our kitchen. You could be trying to poison us, for all I know.”

“For all you know. Right. Sneaky, back-stabbin’ fuck,” Freckles muttered, finishing chopping the onions and putting them into the casserole dishes with the potatoes. He jiggled the dishes a little so everything sat evenly, drizzled them with oil, salt, and pepper, and slid them into the oven. “Just stay outta the way, assface. And I meant it about the fuckin’ ash, too.”

He tossed an ashtray onto the table, and Spy glowered at him, very pointedly tapping ash into it. Sniper hid his growing smile behind another sip of coffee. As much as he considered Spy to be his best mate, it was still pretty damn funny, watching him being stood up to by the diminutive Red.

Spy took another drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke toward Freckles as he exhaled, and said, “Well, well. Someone ’as certainly grown a backbone lately. I can remember, not so long ago, that even being in the same room as one of us in our own base would ’ave ’ad you running like the little rabbit you are.”

“Yeah, but that was before I really got to know the guy y’let fuck ya,” Freckles said flippantly. He had leaned back against the counter and was cracking eggs with one hand into another large bowl held in the crook of his other arm. He gave Spy a mocking grin. “I mean, if ya let Blue up yer ass, how scary can ya be? I could kick his ass with my eyes closed and my hands tied.” He shrugged as he cracked another egg. “Besides, if ya fuck with me too much, I know Py’ll barbeque ya for me. He’s good like that.”

Another small chuckle escaped Sniper and he could only shrug as well when Spy leveled a glare at him. “Sorry, mate, but he’s got a point. Pyro’d slow-roast any of our asses if we mess around too far with his beau off the field, and you know it.”

Spy let out a huff and took a sip of coffee. “It would be just my luck that it is the pyromaniac ’oo despises me that decides to fraternize with the most easily ’arassed member of the enemy team…”

“I dunno ’bout easily harassed,” Sniper said, sharing a smile with Freckles. “Y’saw what he did to his own team when they kept pushin’ him.”

“Damn right,” Freckles said. He was viciously churning the eggs in the bowl with a fork, turning them a goopy golden yellow. “Just ’cause I’m short and freckly-”

“And buck-toothed,” Spy put in maliciously, “and young enough to be most of ours’ son.”

“-don’t mean I’m easy to push around,” Freckles finished, flicking a stray piece of onion at Spy. He set the bowl down on the counter and prepared a cup of coffee for himself—Spy’s coffee, with enough cream and sugar in it to disgust any true coffee drinker—as Sniper laughed and Spy wiped at the spot the onion had impacted his balaclava with a grimace of distaste. Freckles hopped up to sit on the counter beside the cooking supplies, swinging his legs slightly so his heels bumped out a light beat on the cabinets, and smiled at the two Blues. He swallowed a mouthful of his coffee and gestured with his mug.

“Even with Py outta the picture, I could still kick yer ass,” he said. “Bein’ nervous before was just ’cause I wasn’t sure how shit worked yet. I thought it was just ‘rahr rahr, kill the other team’ all the fuckin’ time, ceasefire or no. I mean, yer Soldier’s kind of a dick that way, but the rest a’ya ain’t so bad. Not bad enough for me t’be jumpin’ outta my skin every five seconds, anyway.”

“Ahh, we’re all old hands at this point,” Sniper said. “Except for Pyro and Scout, of course, and Soldier’s a… special case. The rest of us, though?” He flapped a hand. “For me, plain and simple, it’s not worth the effort if I’m not gettin’ paid for it, and you’re not doin’ anythin’ I’d wanna kill ya for. Most of the time, anyway.”

“It does feel like a waste of effort. Not that it takes very much, but still,” Spy grunted, returning Freckles’s stuck out tongue with a sneer of his own, ignoring Sniper’s returning amusement. “I ’ave better things to spend my time doing.”

“Yeah, ’cause smokin’ and drinkin’ and sneakin’ around watchin’ people are sooo important. Who would constantly invade our privacy and give us all fuckin’ cancer if we didn’t have you?” Freckles said, rolling his eyes and sipping more coffee. “Ya do gotta get Blue off, I guess. I mean, he’s already a total fuckin’ shithead. I don’t wanna know what he’s like when he’s pent up. That’s kinda important.”

“Rosso is right. You are a truly monumental pest,” Spy grumbled, giving Sniper’s chair a kick when he couldn’t keep his snickers contained. “What are you giggling at, bushman? Where is your espirit de corps? You should be defending my honour against this miserable RED interloper.”

“I make it a policy not t’piss off anyone makin’ me food, and this is good fun,” Sniper said, then paused. “Nah, hold on. Watchin’ ya bein’ taken down a peg is ‘good fun’; watchin’ Freckles do it to ya is bloody hilarious.”

“Ha!”

——

Anniversary

[...]

The night shift, though, was when the Frenchman and the Aussie came in.

They were Dana’s favourite regulars, though “regulars” might have been a bit of a stretch: their visits were sporadic, and she’d only really seen them maybe seven or eight times since their first appearance almost a year back. They were some kind of contractors, part of the group working out of the old train depot in the desert, but while their fellows who frequented the town had garnered something of a… reputation, the Frenchman and the Aussie were never anything but friendly and courteous, if maybe a little aloof. They weren’t too hard on the eyes, either, which was always a pleasant treat during a long shift.

Their visits, infrequent as they were, followed a by-now familiar routine, so when the slightly janky glow of the dusty camper’s headlights pulled into the parking lot, Dana perked up from where she’d been leaning on the counter in a haze of stupefied boredom. The night so far had been even more quiet than usual, with not even the usual drunks staggering in. Any diversion would have been welcome, and this one was definitely more welcome than most.

She poured out two glasses of water, no ice, and two mugs of coffee from the good pot to the rumbling and squeaking of the camper rolling into its accustomed space. The engine chuffed to a halt, and she heard the muffled mutter of voices from outside as she set the drinks on a serving tray. The words burst into sudden clarity as the door swung open.

“—etter things to spend my money on.” The Aussie was the first to enter, holding the door open for his companion and tipping his wide-brimmed hat at Dana in greeting. “It still runs fine, and it’s not like I’ve got plans t’do any drag-racin’ out here.”

“It sounds like a wounded animal begging to be put out of its misery,” the Frenchman said, offering Dana a nod and small smile as he made his way to the booth in the smoking section with the least-scarred table, taking his usual seat in the bunkette with a view of the door. “Even the convict’s van doesn’t sound ’alf as bad, and it ’as made acquaintance with every ditch within twenty kilometres of the base. Even Engineer thinks it’s time to retire the poor beast, and ’e’s put as much work into keeping it alive as you.”

[...]

“Yer not worried ’bout Twinkle Toes gettin’ jealous?” the Aussie said, a smirk clear in his voice. The Frenchman snorted, and Dana returned to her place behind the counter just in time to see him rolling his eyes as he stirred three creamers and a sugar packet into his coffee.

“’Ardly. Even if ’e gets in that kind of mood, I only need ask ’oo it was that Wrenches punched in the face, and why, and ’e shuts up quickly enough.” He sipped his coffee and stirred in another half a sugar pack. He took a second sip, hummed in satisfaction, and set down his spoon.

There was a long moment of comfortable silence. The Aussie sipped his coffee and the Frenchman lit a cigarette. Dana was hanging the order ticket up for the kitchen when the Frenchman spoke again.

“’E told me ’is name, a few months ago. Not long after ’is… little tryst with the RED Scout.”

“No shit?” The Aussie blinked, his mug halfway to his lips. “How’d ya manage ta squeeze that out of him?”

“As if you could bear to ’ear the gory details, mon ami,” the Frenchman said with a chuckle, shaking his head. “I’ll ’ave you know, it was freely offered. Completely out of nowhere, and in French, no less. I’ll admit, I was surprised, and impressed.” He chuckled again, but Dana thought there was a sad quality to it. “It says a lot about us, non? A simple introduction is seen as the epitome of friendship, or romance.”

“Mm.” The Aussie took another sip of his coffee. “You tell ’im yours?”

Dana started wiping down the counter, keeping half an eye on the pair. She saw the Frenchman frown slightly, a more uncomfortable look than she had expected to see on his face. He took a sip of his own coffee, gazing into the mug for a long moment afterward.

“Non. Not yet,” he said, sighing as he set his mug back down. He took a drag from his cigarette and tapped ash off into the ashtray at the end of the table. The Aussie’s brow went up when his friend didn’t continue.

“He’s gonna start wonderin’ ’bout that, if ya don’t soon. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t started buggin’ ya for it already, if it’s been a few months. Y’know how he is,” he said.

The Frenchman shook his head. “Better than you do, ami. I just play the ‘I’m a Spy’ card if he starts trying to pry. There is still enough mystique in’erent in my profession to allow me to keep ’im in the dark when I wish.”

“Uh huh.” The Aussie’s eyebrow stayed up, disbelief as clear in those two syllables as it was on his face. “And keepin’ him in the dark is still yer plan? Can’t say that’s what I was expectin’.”

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow of his own. “Oh? ’Ow so?”

“Just thought y’were a li’l more open with them as got their hooks fixed in ya, based on past experience. Kid’s practically got ya wrapped ’round his little finger.” The Frenchman stiffened visibly, shooting the Aussie a dark look, and the Aussie smirked widely. “Mate, eleven years is a long bloody time. I can read ya like a book, fancy-arse Spy nonsense and all. We both know, if that scrawny mongrel says ‘jump’, you ask ‘how high?’” He laughed and poked the other man in the shoulder. “You really are smitten, aren’tcha? With Scout, of all the bloody people. Fuck me dead!”

“Oh, wipe the grin off your face, bushman,” the Frenchman said, smoothing his suit jacket where the Aussie had poked. “You are acting like a twittering ’igh school girl.”

“Oh, this is worth twitterin’ over if anythin’ is, mate.” The Aussie’s grin only grew and he leaned forward. “Yer blushin’!”

“Ta gueule! I am no such thing!”

“You are!” The Aussie laughed again, and, even from behind the counter, Dana could see the flush rising in the Frenchman’s cheeks. “Ha! Gremlin’s got you twisted up like one a’yer own bloody ties! Christ on a bike, how the Hell did that happen?”

“You think I do not also want to know? Esti de câlice de tabarnak!” the Frenchman said, rubbing at his temples. Dana thought she heard him growl as he tapped ash from his cigarette a little harder than necessary. “’E is not at all up to my usual standards. Everything about ’im should be utterly repellent! ’E is loud, and crass. Not only uneducated, but seemingly willfully ignorant as well. ’Opelessly juvenile. Thoughtless, careless, infuriatingly sure of ’imself especially when ’e ’as no reason to be. Uncultured, ’yperactive to the point of trying even my patience, stubborn, rude—”

“And…” The Aussie still wore a smirk. The Frenchman gave him a dry look.

“And…” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tabarnache… ’E is… surprisingly sensitive, even kind, when ’e puts ’is mind to it. More selfless than ’e will ever admit, and more unsure than ’e lets on, to the point that it really is endearing, in a way. Startlingly naïve in surprising ways. Almost painfully eager to prove ’imself, and so determined.” A small smile twitched his lips before it grew into a nasty grin of his own. “’E’s incredible in bed, too.”

The Aussie’s smile collapsed into a sullen grimace. “Ahh, and y’just had ta bring that up…”

“Hon hon hon. I can tease too, bushman.” The Frenchman chuckled. “Though, I must admit, it is not nearly as easy as it used to be.”

“Eh, I’ve put up with yer poncy ass long enough; I’m almost used to yer bizzo by now, scary as that is t’think about.” The Aussie shrugged, smile returning. “Don’t mean I like hearin’ the bloody details, mind you, but I’m not gonna lose my head. Consentin’ adults, and all that.” The Aussie paused and narrowed his eyes. “Scout is consentin’, right?”

The Frenchman gave his friend another flat look, pointedly ashing his cigarette. “Do I look like the convict to you?”

“Well, sometimes. What with yer disguise kit an’ all.”

“’Ow ’ave I not murdered you yet?”

“You have. Nine times by my count. Wait, ten. Forgot last week.” Dana saw the Aussie kick the Frenchman in the shin, and fought back a laugh. She had no idea what they were talking about, but their easy camaraderie and banter was really sweet to see. “It wasn’t my fault he figured it out, by the way; ya had no call stabbin’ me.”

“Oh, please. You could not ’ave pointed it out more clearly if you’d been ’olding a map. Thanks to your thoughtful guidance, ’e ’as started referring to me as ‘Poutine’, on occasion, rather than just ‘French Fry’. I am still trying to decide whether it is worth killing  ’im over or not…”

The Aussie laughed again, a rich belly laugh that wasn’t interrupted by a kick to his own leg or the rude gesture the Frenchman directed at him when the kick drew no response.

“Order up.”

——

Pillow Talk

Spy had become accustomed to the lack of romance in his relationship with Scout. It was not unexpected. They were killers-for-hire, forced into close quarters by their occupation, and only drawn into sexual congress by mutual desperation for the touch of another human being, regardless of genitalia.

Spy had no problems romancing a member of the same sex—Scout was far from the first man to share his bed, and most of his other partners had been far more familiar with such relationships—but he knew Scout’s views were unfortunately… American in that way. Any display of affection was emasculating, and any homosexual desires or actions were treated as not far from outright abomination. It was disappointing at times, but understandable and, again, not unexpected. Their encounters usually consisted of a smattering of banter, superb sex (Scout might be inexperienced and sometimes uncertain, but he was eager, quick to learn, and passionate), then a hurried adieu as Scout snuck hastily back to his own room.

That was why, as Spy lit his usual post-coital cigarette, he was surprised to have Scout still sprawled beside him, not having moved since he’d collapsed in the aftermath of his climax. The young Bostonian had yet to open his eyes, and presented an undeniably tempting sight, still sweaty and mussed with a flush high in his cheeks and spread down his neck and chest, the sheets practically hanging from his narrow hips. Spy had never seen him like this. Usually Scout waited long enough to catch his breath and clean himself up, and was gone with hardly a word. While he still had yet to speak, his continued presence was a welcome change.

Spy took a drag from his cigarette, and reached out to run his fingers through Scout’s sweat-spiked hair. This resulted in another shock: Scout turned his head into the touch, rather than pull away. Usually such gestures were “too gay” for Scout to accept without complaint, too affectionate for whatever he had settled on their relationship being in his mind. This time, though, he hummed softly, almost nuzzling into Spy’s hand. It was pleasant, but Spy couldn’t help but wonder at the sudden change.

“You are awfully affectionate tonight, cher,” he said finally, after a long moment of content, if puzzled, silence. Scout’s eyes fluttered open lazily, and Spy smiled to see the muzzy confusion on his still-flushed face. “It is pleasant, being able to enjoy the afterglow with more than just my cigarette and the empty sheets.” He ran his fingers across Scout’s cheek. “And you do present quite an exquisite sight in this satiated state.”

Scout blinked, then shook his head and shifted up higher on the pillows, shuffling closer to Spy as he said, “Even when yer not speakin’ French, I still can’t understand halfa the shit ya say.” He laid an arm over Spy’s waist with a sigh. “I like how it sounds, though, even if I don’t get it.”

Spy smiled and resumed stroking Scout’s hair. “I only said I enjoy your company, petit. I am so used to watching you vanish out the door before I can light my cigarette, it is nice to ’ave you stay.”

“Oh. Well, yeah,” Scout said. His fingers started idly tracing over Spy’s hip. “I got no place I gotta be, and s’nicer hangin’ out here than just, y’know, sittin’ around in my room alone.”

His arm tightened slightly and Spy gave him a light squeeze around the shoulders in return. A comfortable silence descended again as Spy finished his cigarette, grinding it out in the ashtray on his bedside table and letting a light sigh carry away the last of the smoke.

[...]

[*Capital "C" Conversation*]

[...]

“Scout? What is it?”

Spy brushed his thumb over Scout’s chin, and Scout tipped his head to bump his nose against his hand. He didn’t speak, not right away, instead nuzzling into Spy’s shoulder and shifting against him, as if he couldn’t quite get comfortable. Then he went abruptly still. Spy started to turn his head, but was surprised when he was stopped by a gentle peck on the cheek and warm breath washing over his ear. He heard Scout lick his lips and callused fingers tightened against his hip.

“Je—” Scout licked his lips again and Spy’s breath caught in his throat as he said in a halting, small, uncertain voice, “Je m’appelle Aiden.”

It was a long moment before Spy could breathe again.

——

Proving Oneself

[...]

[...] The bulkhead slammed shut behind him, cutting off the screams of the pursuing Reds with a deep, final clang.

He collapsed back against the heavy steel, his legs finally giving way. It was done. He’d done it. The intel briefcases felt heavy enough to drag him straight through the floor, but he had them.  He’d brought them both in, all by himself. Soldier couldn’t say shit this time. He just had to get the cases down to the War Room, now, shove them in Soldier’s stupid face, show that helmet-wearing dick he wasn’t useless. He laid his head back against the bulkhead, swallowing hard to fight down a wave of nausea when the room spun around him. Maybe he could just take a minute…

Groaning, Scout heaved himself up straight. He wasn’t going to do this half-assed. He’d gotten the intel this far; he just had to get through a few hallways and rub Soldier’s nose in how fucking wrong he was. Then he could go pass out. There wasn’t even going to be anyone shooting at him the rest of the way. Easy peasy, numbnuts. Hard part’s done. Just start walking.

The first step nearly sent him tumbling to the floor—without the adrenaline rush of running for his life, his pains were starting to vigorously make themselves known—but he caught himself with another step, then another when his pounding right knee threatened to buckle under his weight. He realized he was more falling forward one step at a time than walking, but it was movement. The long, empty concrete passage seemed to stretch and yaw before him, and he shook his head. Just get to the War Room, show Soldier-

“Scout! Damnation, boy, what in the holy Hell happened to ya?”

Hardhat was in front of him, holding a hand against his shoulder to stop him. He wasn’t wearing his goggles. He looked weird without his goggles. Scout looked at the hand pressed to his shoulder and shrugged it away, stepping sideways to move around the stout Texan. Keep moving, drop off the intel, prove Soldier wrong…

“—et Medic, now. When did he even go out, I didn’t—”

“I don’t know, I just heard the door and came t’see—”

“I would nae try stoppin’ him. I’ve ne’er seen that look on the lad’s face…”

The concrete corridor was slowly being populated by his teammates. He saw their wavering blue silhouettes, some approaching but none making another move to touch him after Engie. He heard the thump of their footsteps as they started falling in behind him. Or was that his heartbeat? Doesn’t matter, he thought, steadying himself against a wall for a moment. He took a deep breath and peeled himself away—almost literally: his bloody shirt clung to the wall as he straightened—and continued around a corner.

There was the kitchen. Halfway to the War Room. There was a hushed buzz of voices behind him, but he couldn’t make out the words. As long as they didn’t try to stop him, he didn’t care. The briefcases really did seem to be dragging him down, and if he stopped he probably wouldn’t be able to start again. He just had to drop them off, shove it in Soldier’s stupid, stupid face…

His knee throbbed sharply and he stumbled. Gloved hands caught him, keeping him upright, and someone said… something. He mumbled in return—he wasn’t sure what, but it was enough to get the hands to release him—and started dragging his feet laboriously forward again. He could feel someone close at his side, slowing to match his pace as he took one wavering step at a time. Each one sent knives through his calves and made the hallway rock around him. He closed his eyes when one particular architectural lurch was accompanied by a similar motion in his stomach, but his feet kept moving. Almost there… Then he could rest.

He didn’t realize he hadn’t opened his eyes until an arresting hand on his shoulder made him blink, and then squint. Fuck, was it always so bright in here? His feet had stopped. He looked down at them—Christ, his legs were a mess—and then up again, jerking when he saw the War Room door. The War Room? Fuck, right, the War Room. The intel. Shove it in Soldier’s face.

He lifted a hand to knock, and paused, blinking owlishly, when the RED briefcase swung before his eyes. Right, right. He carefully managed to settle the briefcase handle in his other hand with its blue twin, feeling very lopsided with all the weight held to one side, and lifted his now empty hand. It hurt to knock, but he thumped his fist against the door again and again.

He fell forward when the door wrenched in, colliding face first with Soldier’s chest. It actually felt amazing after the initial jolt, being able to rest his weight against something solid, at least until Soldier pushed him back.

“What the Hell is this pansy parade? Do you maggots have any idea—”

It took most of Scout’s strength to shove the briefcases at Soldier, but the stunned look on the man’s face was worth it. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, so Scout could fully enjoy watching his eyes pop when he registered what had been thrust into his arms. His mouth gaped, and his bewildered gaze flicked between Scout and the intel with growing incredulity. Without the briefcases weighing him down, Scout was able to straighten (mostly), and he met Soldier’s baffled stare. He hoped he looked badass, rather than woozy.

“Call me useless now, asshole,” he said. “I fuckin’ dare you.”

Silence. Sweet, shocked silence. Scout had never thought it could sound so good.

Letting out a slow breath, he tottered back a few steps, the jarring thud as his back hit the wall not dislodging his smile. He slid down the wall to sit heavily, closing his eyes against the glare of the fluorescents. He’d done it. All by himself, no matter what anyone said. He wasn’t fucking useless…

“Open your eyes, cher.”

Spy. Always calling him those stupid froggy things. Share. Petty, or pity, or whatever the fuck it was. He opened his eyes, just a slit; a blue blur filled almost his entire vision.

“S’bright,” he murmured. He closed his eyes again. His voice sounded far away. “I got it, Spy. All by m’self…”

“You did, petit, you did.” A hand brushed through his hair, pushing his cap and headset away. It felt nice, the lightly probing touch across his scalp. Something gently slid behind his shoulders, pulling him away from the wall, and something else slid under his knees. His stomach swooped as the floor disappeared beneath him, replaced by the cradle of two heavy arms.

“Da, little Scout is credit to team.”

Heh, Heavy arms. Heh.

——

Moving Day

Sniper had never really thought his camper van small. For one man with limited spatial requirements and little desire for luxury, he thought it was perfect. It had a tiny kitchenette with a stove, fridge, and diner-style table. There was a cubby bed tucked up over the cab and a pull-out folded into the sofa along the back wall. It even had a little bathroom, with an admittedly rather cramped sink and flush toilet. He’d seen some of the monstrosities that tourists liked to roll around in, more full trailer homes on wheels than proper camper vans, and could only shake his head, wondering who could possibly need so much extra space.

On the long drive from Teufort to Well, however, he had to wonder if maybe something a little bigger would have been so bad.

It was supposed to be a simple two hour drive, moving Builders’ League United’s Team Garrison to their new base. A few dozen clicks or so of empty desert backroad—boring, but easy. Easy, if one didn’t consider the innumerable twists and turns in the barely maintained road, or the fact that there were nine mostly large men jammed into the camper’s few, not very large seats in the thirty-plus degree heat. It was now approaching the midpoint of the third hour of their two hour trip, and none of them were particularly happy about it.

Despite a few stops already to get some air, and once to replace a tire fallen victim to one of the many, many goddamn potholes, everyone was feeling hot and cramped. Even up in the cab, with the windows down to allow in as much breeze as possible, it was unseasonably sweltering, and bloody bright. Sniper could feel a rager of a headache building in his temples after so long staring at the pitted grey strip of asphalt in the endless waste of sun-baked dirt. Even through his sunglasses, it was like staring into the Goddamn sun; he couldn’t remember the Outback ever being this bad. Spy, in the passenger seat beside him, had discarded his suit jacket in a rare concession to the heat. There had been a few grumbles from the back, but so far, most of the team had had the courtesy to keep their dissatisfaction to themselves in such tight, uncomfortable quarters, so as to not make the extended trip any more unpleasant.

Most of them.

“Are we fuckin’ there yet?”

A chorus of displeased groans followed on the heels of that most hated of road-trip questions, and Sniper’s tightening grip squeaked on the steering wheel. He’d known it was coming; really, it surprised him that it had taken this long. Scout’s whining and moaning had been ongoing throughout the trip (save for a blissful, if short-lived, stretch of silence after Medic had threatened to sew Scout’s lips together if he didn’t shut up), but, until now, it had been nothing more than the usual bitching he got up to when forced to sit still for too long. The longer the trip had gone on, the more Sniper had been dreading the inevitable four (or, in Scout’s case, five) word question, scourge to passenger-ferrying drivers everywhere.

Sniper fought down the urge to release a frustrated groan of his own, and had to unclench his jaw before he could reply.

“No, Scout,” he grated out, “we’re not there yet. Can see the base, though; shouldn’t be much longer.”

The heat-distorted silhouette of their future home had first risen out of the craggy desert landscape in the far distance not even a minute before, and had only just begun gaining distinction from its surroundings as the road’s meandering track led them on toward it. Sniper judged they had another five minutes of unnecessary twists and turns—maybe fifteen, on this shithole road—before they reached it. If Scout could’ve kept his damn mouth shut for just another fifteen minutes…

The sounds of scuffling and scrambling were accompanied by another outburst from those in the back, seemingly propelling Scout into the camper’s cab on a wave of outraged cries. He nearly impaled himself on the center console in his haste to see out the front windshield; Spy pressed a hand to his skinny chest to keep him from throwing himself straight into the glass. Scout didn’t seem to notice: he was still fully leaning into Spy’s hand when his face split in a massive grin at the sight of the structures looming in the distance.

“Fuck yeah! S’about fuckin’ time!” he said. Sniper rolled his eyes when Scout leaned further into the cab, finally brushing away Spy’s hand and fully blocking Sniper’s view of the road as he tried to get a look at the speedometer. “Christ, why’re ya goin’ so fuckin’ slow, wombat? We’re almost there and yer drivin’ like my fuckin’ gramma.”

Sniper shoved Scout out of his way with a hand in the face, and said, “I can’t go any faster if I can’t see the bloody road. Gonna send us straight into another pothole, and I don’t have a second spare tire, so unless ya wanna walk the rest a’the way?”

“I could probably get there fuckin’ faster,” Scout griped, but he subsided somewhat, bracing himself crouched in the cab’s threshold. He popped up every few seconds, though, to peer out at the slowly approaching base. He reminded Sniper, funnily enough, of a wombat, peeking in and out of its hole. A very talkative, vulgar wombat.

“Seriously, who the fuck drew up this road? A straight fuckin’ line from here to there, how hard would thatta been? They can afford to pay us hundreds a’grand a year, and they invented fuckin’ respawn, for Christ’s sake, but they can’t fill in a few ditches and blow up a few rocks so we can have a straight fuckin’ road? Wait, is that fuckin’ train tracks? We’re drivin’ through the desert in the fuckin’ hobo rape-van, and we coulda taken the fuckin’ train?”

“It’s not a ‘rape-van’, ya bloody whelp,” Sniper growled, tugging the bill of Scout’s baseball cap down over his eyes and cutting a glare at Spy when his cough didn’t quite cover a tight chuckle. “There’s no direct line from Teufort to here. Drivin’, even on this sorry excuse of a road, is faster than havin’ to switch trains three’r four times.”

“Man, if the Reds got to take the train, I’m gonna be so fuckin’ pissed,” Scout said, straightening his hat. “What if they got there already and they’re fuckin’ with all our shit?”

“The base and battlefield ’ere are far larger than at Teufort, and ’ave far superior security,” Spy said, taking a drag from his ever-present cigarette. “The battlefield is fair game, but there are bulk’eads at each barracks’ entrance, so the Reds should not be able to get in.” He held his hand out the window to let the wind take the ash from the tip of his smoke. “We won’t need to worry about that maudit ‘Alarm-o-Tron’ nonsense any more, at least, with a proper security system in place.”

“Hey, I liked the Alarm-o-Tron. There was some fun shit on there,” Scout said, grinning. “‘The RED Spy is a woman!’ Fuckin’ classic.”

“Mmm, Rosso never ’as quite forgiven you for that, ’as ’e?” Spy said with a chuckle, and Sniper had to smile. That had been a good few days, after Engineer had finally given into Scout’s pestering and showed him how the enormous alert board in the Teufort base’s basement worked, even if Scout had eventually turned his Alarm-o-Tron antics on his teammates as well. Seeing the Reds losing their minds over the sporadic (and usually ridiculous) alerts blaring through their base—“The RED Sniper is about to explode!” was one of the BLU sharpshooter’s personal favourites—had provided better entertainment than they usually had in months.

“M’still not convinced the RED Pyro ain’t a fuckin’ vampire,” Scout said, a thoughtful frown crossing his face. “I mean, we never seen him outta that suit, and he’s a bloodthirsty motherfucker, always usin’ his fuckin’ axe… Why else would the Alarm-o-Tron have ‘is a vampire’ on it if someone ain’t one?”

“Because RED ’n’ BLU are run by a buncha loons,” Sniper said, snorting and shaking his head. After more than eleven years on the Builders’ League’s payroll, he’d grown accustomed to the organization’s… eccentricities. Having a vampire alert programmed into the Alarm-O-Tron didn’t even break the top ten on his list of the strangest things he’d encountered.

The camper bumped over a raised patch of asphalt, and Sniper winced when something started rattling under the bonnet. He could see the road actually leading into the base now. One more turn and then a surprisingly straight stretch to the barbed-wire-topped fence surrounding the compound where they’d be spending the next God knows how long resuming their endless battles with the mercenaries from Reliable Excavation Demolition. He gave the dashboard a reassuring pat.

“Almost there, sweetheart,” he murmured, wincing again as another bump increased the violence of the rattle. “Not even another mile, y’can do it.”

“Adorable,” Spy said. “Per’aps we can finally put the poor thing out of its misery once we arrive, if its valiant effort to get us the next few ’undred feet doesn’t do it for us.”

“Ah, blow it out yer ass, Spy, she’s fine,” Sniper said, hunching slightly over the steering wheel and adding under his breath, “Yer fine, yer fine, just a li’l further…”

Thankfully, despite the increasingly concerning sounds coming from the engine compartment, and Scout’s renewed complaints about the speed of Sniper’s driving with their destination “literally right fuckin’ there, man, come on”, the camper managed to make it past the fence and into the expansive courtyard at the rear of the BLU base before letting out a groaning wheeze and shuddering to a grateful stop. The relief in the sighs and groans of those in the back was almost as palpable.

Scout clambered over Spy and out the passenger-side door with a whoop, ignoring the Frenchman’s irate curses as elbows, knees, and cleats jabbed into him in the course of his scrambling passage. Sniper shrugged when his chuckles drew a dark look from Spy in the midst of meticulously rearranging his mussed pants and tie, and he gave the dashboard another gentle pat before hopping out onto the dusty parking pad.

At least it looked like Scout would have plenty of space to burn off his abundant energy out here. Tipping back the brim of his hat and following the long line of the fence enclosing the backyard with his eyes, Sniper was impressed. The base at Teufort had been pretty cramped, especially after Sawmill—barely more than a couple parking spaces for a backyard, and an Infirmary, kitchen, rec room, and three bunk rooms inside—but returning to a larger battlefield, thankfully, meant a return to larger accommodations. The back courtyard the team currently occupied had space enough for at least half a cricket pitch, and though the barracks was still just a bland concrete block tucked behind the main battlefield compound, it was at least thrice the size of their previous home.

It seemed everyone was as affected by the breadth of their new domain as Sniper—as they stretched out the various kinks from the overlong drive, the team’s eyes roved over the sheer amount of space, and Sniper saw more than one approving nod and enthused smile.

“This place is fuckin’ huge!” Scout crowed as he made a sprinting circuit of the fenceline, laughing like a madman, and Engineer chuckled, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“Certainly got plenty a’extra legroom,” he said. He smiled up at Sniper. “Looks like ya don’t gotta worry ’bout smackin’ yer noggin off the rafters no more, eh Stretch?”

Sniper snorted. “I’d wait t’see how tall the shelves are in yer new shop before ya start havin’ a go, mate. Dunno if yer gonna need a boost.”

That received another chuckle and an elbow to the side (well, closer to the hip) in return. “Ahh, y’know m’just pokin’ fun,” Engie said, and he nodded at the compound. “Does look a Helluva lot nicer than the old place, though, huh? Well, nice as a big ol’ slab a’concrete can look, anyhow.”

“And as nice as that is,” Spy said as he strode up, suit jacket back in place and a fresh cigarette between his fingers, “I imagine the interior is even better, non? Per’aps even air conditioned?”

“What, can’t handle the heat, Spooky?” Sniper said, grinning. Spy just gave him a dry look and started toward the base’s rear entrance, joining the rest of the team as they did the same. Sniper and Engineer shared another chuckle, following, and they arrived at the back door just in time to have a beaming Scout nearly barrel into them on his way back out. After his lap of the backyard, he’d been the first to go in, while everyone else had still been working out the stiffness from the drive.

“We get our own rooms!” Scout said, near vibrating with excitement. “There’s a whole hallway with just fuckin’ bedrooms! And there’s a gym, and the rec room, oh my God! It’s fuckin’ gigantic! There’s, like, three fuckin’ couches and a buncha chairs and a huge-ass TV! And the kitchen—”

“We’re comin’, kiddo, slow yer roll,” Engie said. “Bet Pyro’s happy, finally gettin’ his own space.”

Scout rolled his eyes, falling in slightly ahead of Sniper and Engie as they traversed the wide and (thankfully for Sniper) high-ceilinged halls.

“Yeah, I’d fuckin’ say so,” he said. “Went right into his room soon as he saw it and slammed the door in my fuckin’ face. Ev’ryone else is still lookin’ around, though, seein’ what there is. This place is fuckin’ insane! Like, a gajillion times bigger than the old place. We’re gonna need fuckin’ maps just t’find our way to breakfast!”

“Maybe that’ll give the rest of us a chance t’eat before you end up scarfin’ it all down, eh?” Sniper said, smirking. Scout turned, continuing to walk backward, and flipped Sniper the bird, but a grin had once again overtaken his face.

“I can’t help it if all a’ya old fucks can’t hobble yer way outta bed before I stuff my face. I thought old fogeys were s’posed to get up early anywa— Oof!”

[...]

Sniper saw the red dot on the wall half a second before Scout darted past him, and managed to catch the hem of the younger man’s t-shirt just before he passed out of reach. The echoing crack of a rifle shot accompanied Scout’s yelp as he was yanked backward, and a not insignificant hole appeared in the concrete wall where his head would have been. Spy raised an eyebrow at it, taking another puff off his smoke.

“It seems the Reds are already ’ere,” he said, and Scout started cursing, jerking his shirt out of Sniper’s grip and bolting to the window he’d almost been shot through. Sniper stepped up beside him with a sigh, looking out across the field at the RED base, as Scout started bellowing threats and swears at the top of his lungs.

The RED Sniper was making no attempt to hide himself; he stood in the window of the battlements directly across the field from theirs, just barely visible past the mid-field train station, rifle raised. The red dot of his sight returned, making Scout hit the deck with another yell as it passed over him. Sniper crossed his arms over his chest when the little red light drifted there.

“Yeah, we see ya. Wanker.” There was another crack, and he felt the wind of the shot as it passed his cheek. He didn’t flinch.

“Fuckin’— He knows we ain’t fightin’ yet, right?” Scout said, peeking up over the low windowsill.

“Of course he does. He’s just bein’ a fuckwit,” Sniper said, glowering when his RED counterpart waved and offering a rude two-fingered gesture in return. He glanced at Spy, who was leaning against the wall beside the window. “Y’know he won’t actually shoot ya. Not yet.”

“While your trust in that filthy convict is encouraging, I’d rather avoid the risk,” Spy said, blowing a plume of smoke toward the window. Another bullet cut through it, making it curl into two distinct, swirling clouds. Spy rolled his eyes. “Ouais, I’ll stay ’ere, out of sight, merci beaucoup.”

Sniper huffed and returned his attention to the Red across the field. “Fuckin’ dipstick. How long d’ya figure they’ve been ’ere?”

“I doubt it’s been much more than an hour,” Spy said. “They left Teufort when we did, and the convict’s van is only marginally more ’ealthy than yours.”

“Leave my poor van alone. It got us here, didn’t it?” Sniper said, sighing when another shot whistled past his other cheek. “Looks like we’ll hafta put off checkin’ out the field, ’less y’feel like riskin’ a trip to the void before the fightin’ even starts. He’s gonna stop missin’ on purpose soon enough.”

“Fuckin’ asshole,” Scout grumbled, still almost flat on the floor. He peeked up over the windowsill again before retreating with a squeak when the red dot swung sharply back toward him. “Fuck this shit, I’m goin’ back inside.”

——

Introduction

[...]

“I can’t control him, Ingénieur, not anymore.”

Scout froze, pressing himself against the wall and straining to hear more. That sounded like a Spy, with that Frenchy word thrown in there, but that wasn’t Spy’s voice, or the RED Spy’s. It was throatier, deeper, and the accent wasn’t as strong.

“Y’think he’s gettin’ t’be too dangerous?” That was Engie. Scout had been sure he was in his workshop; that’s where he usually was this late. What was he doing down here, talking to a strange Spy in the sewers? Scout cautiously descended another couple steps. He could hear something moving in the water, splashing and sloshing, and there was a heavy sigh.

“I do not know.” The deep-voiced Spy sounded resigned. “I have to pity him, somewhat, but he barely bothers with the slightest pretense of humanity anymore. If it didn’t help him get what he wanted, I doubt he would even bother with speech. I don’t want to have to kill him, but…”

“If he’s really as far gone as yer sayin’, it won’t be long before there’s more incidents like today, and it won’t be up ta us no more,” Engie said. “It’s only pure damn luck no one saw him today, and that Scout was too hazy ta make anythin’ a’what happened.”

Scout jerked and almost slipped down the last few stairs. Was Engie talking about what had happened in the moat during the fight today? He still wasn’t sure what to make of those few frantic minutes underwater, but it sounded like Engie had at least some idea. He swallowed hard and peeked around the edge of the wall, turning the bill of his cap backward so it wouldn’t give him away.

Engie was sitting beside the sewer channel, still wearing his hardhat but leaving his goggles hanging loose around his neck. Scout blinked. He was talking to a Spy. It wasn’t the RED or BLU Spy, but he wore the same tight balaclava, dark gloves, and impeccable suit coat and tie. Everything he wore was blue, but a significantly darker shade than what the BLU Spy wore, and it had a strange shine to it, like it was made of some kind of plastic. He was also submerged in the sewer almost to his chest, leaning on arms folded at the concrete edge of the channel.

Scout narrowed his eyes and started to lean further as the Spy said, “You’re sure he doesn’t know what happened? I was sure he saw me, in the midst of it all.”

Engie shook his head. “Nah, I’m sure. He wasn’t chewin’ everyone’s ears off about seein’ somethin’ weird, or screamin’ about monsters, which is enough evidence in itself with him. Even if he did see ya, I doubt it woulda stuck. The poor kid was in the drink fer a good three minutes, more’n half of it underwater; spewed up a metric ton a’that shit yer swimmin’ in after I pulled him out.”

“You know it is filtered; don’t be crass,” the Spy said, propping his chin on a hand with a sigh. Scout saw the water shifting around his unseen legs. “I suppose killing Rosso really is the only option, unless you can devise some kind of system to keep him penned up. Though, I do have to worry about the precedent killing him would set regarding my own continued existence.”

“I’m not gonna turn on ya, Ten,” Engie said, frowning. Scout snuck forward, creeping a few steps in the shadows along the wall; there was something weird about that movement under the water…

“Oh oui? And can you speak for Azul as well? We both know he would as gladly see me strung up from a fishing hook as Rosso.” The water churned and a lithely twisting… something emerged from it to flick lazily in the air. “These are already enough for him to-”

Scout screamed. The sound ripped its way free before he could stop it, not that he had a thought of doing so. The thing had darted back under the water, but Scout had gotten an all-too-clear look at what it was. Both Engie and the Spy’s faces turned to him, bearing identical expressions of horror. They matched the cold fear that had speared into Scout’s gut. He could only stare, locked in place by terrified disbelief, at the shadowy writhing mass in the water below the Spy. The mass of tentacles.

His heart thundered in his ears. His  mind raced but his body was frozen. There was no way he was seeing- There was no way in Hell-

“Scout, son, take it easy now,” Engie said. He started getting slowly to his feet. “Just relax and gimme a chance ta-”

He took a step forward and Scout’s paralysis broke. Engie shouted for him to wait as he took one, two leaping strides back toward the stairs. Then something slammed into his back.

It landed on top of him as he crashed to the floor, pinning him completely from the waist down. He took in a breath for another scream, but a damp, gloved hand slapped over his mouth to muffle the cry. He tried to swing back with his elbows, arms flailing in a frantic attempt to make contact, but another hand gripped his left wrist, pressing it to the floor. His right wrist was encircled and held in place by a cool, smoothly fleshed, wet, purple tentacle.

He screamed again in spite of the hand over his mouth and thrashed desperately, panicked adrenaline lending strength to his squirming. He could hear Engie pleading for him to relax, calm down, hear him out, but he could also feel those things, writhing and sliding over his legs and torso, thick boneless limbs wrapping around him and stilling his frenzied movement. God, he was gonna get eaten by a monster! He was gonna get eaten by a fucking tentacled Spy monster! Respawn could bring them back from some pretty horrific shit, but he had a feeling being digested might be a little too much for the system to handle. Scout whimpered, eyes squeezed shut and every muscle tensed in preparation for some kind of fatal pain that he was sure was coming.

As soon as he was fully immobilised, however, everything stopped. His heart was still hammering and his breaths came in fast, shallow pants, but the hands and tentacles held steady once he was unable to move. They restrained him, but made no move to tighten, or to tear him limb from limb. 

“Scout?” Engie’s hand touched his shoulder and he flinched away as far as the gripping tentacles allowed. “Scout, if Ten lets ya up, are ya gonna start hollerin’ again?”

It took a long moment for Scout to shake his head, but the hands holding him withdrew as soon as he did. The tentacles took longer to pull away, and Scout shuddered as he felt them uncoiling from around his arms and legs and chest. He pushed himself shakily to his hands and knees as the weight on his legs shifted away, and he squeezed his eyes shut again after he caught sight of small, round red marks circling his right wrist.

“Engie?” he whimpered, and he felt the hand on his shoulder again. “Don’t let it eat me.”

Engie sighed and gave his shoulder a pat. “Ten’s not gonna eatcha, son, I promise. Here, open yer eyes and sit, we’ll getcha introduced proper. It’s alright.”

Scout hesitated, but he slowly opened his eyes and shifted so he could sit. He followed Engie’s gentle urging to scoot closer to the sewer channel, but by the time he was settled, he had yet to actually look up. Engie patted his back, and gestured, in Scout’s lowered eyeline, toward the channel edge.

“Scout, this here is Tennyson,” he said, “and he’s a Tentaspy.”

The strange, frankly ridiculous moniker finally made Scout look up. And stare. Sitting at the edge of the channel was a Spy not so unlike the others Scout had seen. He was looking at Scout with a warm smile, not an expression he’d expect to see on any Spy, but he still looked as immaculate, sophisticated, and inherently unknowable as any of the other sneaky backstabbers Scout had known. Except for the tentacles. Oh, the tentacles.

Scout was able to count ten, some as thick around as his thigh while others were only as wide as his wrist. He’d thought them purple in his earlier panic, but while there was a distinct purplish tinge to them, they were in truth a deep blue, with subtle rings and streaks in lighter shades. The underside of each was a lighter blue still, with fleshy suction pads spaced evenly along them. They seemed to be constantly in motion, curling around each other, clinging to the channel wall, and swirling idly through the water, each with a mind of its own.

“I am sorry for the tackle,” Tennyson said, drawing Scout’s eyes to his face. He could see through the gaps in the mask that the… Tentaspy was extremely pale, and—his stomach lurched—a few of his teeth came to defined points. “I’m afraid the need for secrecy outweighed any desire for tact. I’m usually much more polite.”

“Polite? Ya got tentacles! I thought you were gonna eat me!” Scout said. He still wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t going to end up as this creature’s late-night snack.

Engie sighed again and took a seat beside Scout, turning his cap around and pulling the bill down over his face. “Ya shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, son. I’ve known Ten fer years and he’s never even tried for a nibble. He’s just as human as anyone you’d meet upstairs, and significantly better company than most.”

“I’m flattered that you consider me more pleasant than the jar man, the drunk, and the mumbling pyromaniac. It speaks so highly of my character,” Tennyson said drily. Scout jumped, wide eyed, when the tip of one of the more slender tentacles reached out and pushed the bill of his cap back up. “It is true, though. I am a Spy, first and foremost. I was not always like this, and I do not intend to forsake my humanity and manners just because of a few extra limbs.” Tennyson smiled at Scout, friendly despite his monstrous features. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“Ya used t’be normal?” Scout said, watching as the tentacle that had tipped his hat coiled around another, thicker one, like a vine climbing a tree. His panic was fading faster than he could’ve hoped, and curiosity was starting to rear its head again. After all, how many other guys with tentacles for legs had he met?

Tennyson nodded. “Oui, I was a Spy with BLU for… Oh, how long was it before all this nonsense?”

He directed the question at Engie, who shrugged. “Eh, y’been like this fer a good two years, so… Four before that, maybe?”

“Merde, that makes me feel old,” Tennyson said, rubbing his eyes with a sigh. “But, yes, I was a Spy with BLU for several years. Nothing especially eventful occurred during that time, just the usual day-in, day-out bloody madness. But one year, when I was called in for my physical, I was given an injection and dragged off to Dieu sait où, strapped to a gurney and higher than a kite. Apparently our contracts contain some very unfortunate clauses that I had overlooked before I signed, regarding certain permissions for experimentation of various sorts. So the RED Spy and I spent a number of wonderful, agonizing months having our limbs and genetics rearranged until the companies tired of playing with us and we were left with what you see here.”

“Whoa, wait, so there’s another one a’you?”

Tennyson took in Scout’s shock with a shrug. “Unfortunately. Rosso did not handle the experiments nearly so well as I did. He is the one that attacked you earlier today.”

Scout blinked. So something had happened in the moat today! He knew it! “I thought I could feel somethin’ pullin’ me down, after I fell into the moat. I thought I was goin’ crazy.”

“Oui, that was him,” Tennyson said. “We are supposed to stay out of sight. A few members of each team were made aware of us when we were dumped back here-” He nodded to Engie. “-but it is otherwise supposed to be as if we do not exist.

“Rosso, however… He decided that if he appears a monster, he should be a monster. Until today, it was always just taunting, brushing against someone’s legs as they walked by or mimicking people’s voices from out of sight. Him grabbing you, it’s the first time he’s actually attacked anyone. He’s becoming more aggressive, more predatory. I don’t like thinking of what he might have done today if I hadn’t chased him off.”

Scout shuddered and said, “Yeah, almost drownin’ me was bad enough.”

[...]

——

Ten/Scout Snuggles

Scout woke up choking as he expelled grimy water from his lungs for the fourth time since his arrival at TwoFort. Hard coughs wracked his body, and gentle hands rolled him onto his side just in time for him to throw up what felt like everything he’d eaten in the past month. He could feel water and snot dribbling from his nostrils, and his clothes clung to his skin in a wetly unpleasant way. Fuck, he was starting to get really sick of this.

A hand rubbed up and down along his spine as he continued hacking up water, and he shuddered when another brushed a few wet strands of hair back from his face. “That’s right, petit, get it all out. It’s alright.”

“Ten?” Scout tried to look back over his shoulder, but another wave of coughs had him curling around his stomach and protesting abdominal muscles.

“Oui, mon petit.” A thin tentacle snaked out to lay against the back of his hand, giving it a pat. “We really need to stop seeing each other this way, as attractive as it is watching you cough up half the moat.”

“Ugh, trust me, I’m not tryin’,” Scout said, rolling onto his back with a groan. “Fuck. I gotta learn t’swim better.”

“That would probably be helpful,” Tennyson said, smiling down at him. “How on Earth did you manage to end up down here this time?”

Scout sat up with another groan, leaning forward and swiping under his nose with the back of a hand. “Sniper ’n’ Demo, the fuckers. Tangled me all up in my shirt and then pushed me in. By the time I got my shirt pushed back down and my arms free, things were already startin’ t’get a li’l fuzzy.”

“Salauds,” Tennyson growled, lips quirking up in a snarl. “Sometimes I think… But no. No. Are you feeling alright now? Can you walk?”

Scout blinked. There had been almost a note of possessiveness in Tennyson’s voice. It had been brief, but fierce. He shook his head, and using Tennyson’s shoulder as support, he was able to push himself to his feet. He wobbled a little, but kept his balance. He coughed and plucked at his shirt, grimacing when it clung to his skin.

“I guess I should go get changed,” he grumbled, wringing out an edge of the garment. “How long was I under? Demo and Sniper should be gone by now, right?”

Tennyson frowned as Scout coughed again and spat. He said, “Perhaps, but I am not sure I want to let you head back up there just to fish you out again in a few hours.” He slipped into the sewer channel and shrugged. “You can come to the den if you’d like. No one will bother you there, and I doubt I have anything quite your size, but there should be something dry for you to put on, at least.”

A wide grin swept across Scout’s face. He didn’t like imposing on the quiet Tentaspy, but he loved his chances to visit the cozy little home Tennyson had made for himself beneath the base. It was warm and homey, and his bed was freakin’ awesome, and no one bugged him down there. Engie came down sometimes, but usually it was just him and Ten, chatting and hanging out.

“Yeah, cool! That’d be cool. I mean, anythin’ would be better’n this wet shit,” Scout said, following along the channel edge as Tennyson started swimming deeper into the sewer. He cocked his head, frowning curiously. “How d’you keep all your stuff dry? Yer in the water, like, all the time.”

Tennyson rolled and continued swimming along on his back; the rhythmic, flowing motions of his tentacles as they pushed him along were mesmerising.

“I have Engineer to thank for that,” he said, holding up a hand to examine his glove and sleeve. “It is a special waterproof coating he developed. Originally it was supposed to be for his sentries, but he couldn’t find a way to make it adhere to metal or plastic. It works perfectly well on fabric, though, and leather. I have to have him renew it every few months, but it is more than worth the small inconvenience.”

“I wonder if he coated me in it, I’d float better,” Scout said, and Tennyson snorted so roughly he sank for a second before recovering himself.

[...]

“Here.” A mass of pale blue fabric hit Scout in the face. “It is too large, but it’s dry and clean, I promise.”

Scout held the enormous shirt out in front of him and raised an eyebrow. It was definitely a Heavy’s shirt, at least five times larger than what Scout would ever need, no matter how many pounds he packed on. Still, what Tennyson had said was true: it was dry and smelled heavily of the generic laundry soap BLU always sent them. It was warm, too; it must have been sitting near the heater.

Scout considered finding a corner to change in, but then just threw on the oversized shirt over what he already wore, wriggling out of his own clothes while hidden beneath its massive folds. The dry shirt had a neck hole nearly large enough to fit over both of Scout’s shoulders and it hung down past his knees at the lower hem, giving him more than enough privacy. He peeled off his socks with a grimace and stepped away from the soggy pile containing his uniform, holding up the hem of the shirt like a dress to avoid touching the wet fabric.

“This thing is fuckin’ huge,” he said with a snort, spinning in a tight circle and watching the t-shirt fan around him. “Seriously, how big was the Heavy y’got this from?”

Tennyson, reclining on a stack of pillows in his nest, chuckled. “That one is from a mis-order, thankfully; I can’t imagine having to face down a Heavy that large. It’s never been worn, you should be happy to know. Engineer gave me a whole crate of them that came in with one supply order that someone had let Demo fill out the paperwork for.” He smirked. “That was a good month. Engineer ‘confiscated’ a few of the extra cases of whisky for me.”

Scout laughed and crawled up into the nest, forming a pocket for himself next to Tennyson and padding it with a big fleecy blanket he’d found on one of his previous visits, and several of the squishier pillows in the Tentaspy’s collection. He’d contemplated pilfering a few items more than once—everything he’d found in the massive pile was far superior to the starchy linens BLU provided—but he always ended up just snuggling in and enjoying the simple, warm comfort. Tennyson seemed happy to share his nest; Scout had noticed that some of his favourite items tended to migrate to the top of the pile whenever he was around. He sighed happily and pulled another comforter, this one thick and down-filled, over him up to his chin.

“You have the best fuckin’ bed, man, seriously,” he said. “Almost makes gettin’ dunked so often worth it. So warm ’n’ comfy, and you can just sprawl out as much as y’want.”

Tennyson let out another chuckle, and Scout watched, fascinated, as he stretched. His tentacles uncoiled to their fullest extent, a few of the smaller ones trembling, before they all at once fell into a limp pile and resumed their usual languid slithering. Scout hadn’t realized before quite how long they were. Two of the thickest—the ones that Scout privately considered Tennyson’s “legs”—were almost as long as Scout himself was tall.

“It is nice having the extra room,” Tennyson said with a contented sigh. He folded one arm behind his head, and Scout blinked when the other hand started brushing softly through his damp hair. He’d grown used to the Tentaspy being more physically affectionate than most other people he’d met—probably a side effect of spending so much time alone—but Ten had never… petted him before. It sent shivers across his scalp and down his spine. He snuggled deeper into the blankets, but didn’t retreat from the gently stroking hand.

“Yeah, s’nice,” he murmured. Now warm and dry and comfortable, he was starting to feel tired. Not sleepy—his mind was still awake and aware, though it was mainly focused on how comfortable he felt—but physically tired. He had almost drowned again, not that long ago. Strange as it was, he’d almost forgotten. It seemed like it had been hours.

It amazed him how quickly being in Tennyson’s den had pushed the brief but intense earlier stresses away. As was always the case, as soon as the door closed, he felt safe. No, not just safe. Protected. He remembered the Tentaspy’s flash of anger when he’d told him how he’d ended up in the moat, directed entirely at the ones who’d done him harm. Maybe it wasn’t just the den, then. 

It was baffling to him. Tennyson seemed to genuinely want to look after him, and took an interest in the mundane details of his life and his well-being. Engie looked out for him, sure, on and off the field, but he wasn’t used to this degree of care. Tennyson talked to him without being pestered into it, and even asked after him when he wasn’t there—Engie had mentioned Tennyson asking about him on several occasions. He’d saved him from drowning three times, and repeatedly saved him from Rosso, in spite of the injuries he unfailingly received in the process.

The blankets shifted and Scout blinked drowsily. Something solid was trying to snake its way into the cocoon he’d constructed. A smile twitched his lips, and he slowly lifted the blankets. The warm weight of one of Tennyson’s tentacles slid up across his hip before settling lightly around his waist. Tennyson seemed unaware of the limb’s movement; he was lying back with his eyes closed, his hand still absent-mindedly carding through Scout’s hair. Scout smiled and hummed low in the back of his throat, shuffling closer to where the Tentaspy was sprawled.

Then he whined when the tentacle suddenly withdrew, along with the hand on his head. He felt Tennyson tense slightly, matching his shuffling closer with a scoot in the opposite direction.

“I’m sorry, petit, I didn’t realize I was-”

Tennyson quieted when Scout wriggled his way across the pillows and blankets, and snuggled up firmly against his side. Scout smiled when the hand returned to his head and a pair of tentacles coiled loosely around his middle.

“Yer real warm. And comfy,” he said, nuzzling into Tennyson’s broad chest and hitching the collar of the too-big shirt higher up on his shoulder. He felt Tennyson’s light laugh rumble against his cheek, and another pair of tentacles pulled his blanket back up around him.

“Ah, I see,” the Tentaspy said. His fingers brushed across the shell of Scout’s ear, making him shiver. “I suppose I am just not used to having you be so… cuddly.”

“Hey, m’cuddly as fuck. Like a teddy bear’r some shit,” Scout murmured, wrapping an arm around Tennyson’s waist. Or trying to. “Jesus, Ten, how fuckin’ big’re you? I can’t even reach…”

Tennyson gasped dramatically. “So cruel, petit! How could you, when I’m so clearly sensitive about my dainty figure!”

Scout rolled his eyes and fisted the Tentaspy in the shortribs. “Aw, fuck off drama queen, I’m serious. Y’ain’t fat or nothin’, but… I mean, lookit that.”

He laid his hand on top of Tennyson’s, lining it up at their wrists. None of his fingertips reached even as far as the second joint of Tennyson’s fingers, and Tennyson’s palm was almost half as wide again as his. There were the same slender proportions, but the Tentaspy’s hand was undeniably larger by far. He lifted it to lay over Scout’s, enveloping it entirely.

“Yes, yes, I know what you mean. I honestly thought you’d noticed long ago,” he said, smiling.

“Never really registered, I guess,” Scout said. “T’be fair, the tentacles kinda pull focus.”

“Mmm, that is true.” Tennyson lifted one of the appendages, and Scout snorted when it poked him on the tip of his nose. “It doesn’t help that they have a mind of their own half the time.”

Scout returned the tentacle’s poke and laughed when it coiled around his hand. “They really just do their own thing? I mean, I noticed they’re always, like, movin’ around and stuff, but I just figured you was, I dunno, stretchin’ or somethin’.”

“Well, obviously I can control them if I choose, but if I am not paying attention, they tend to wander,” Tennyson said. He shrugged. “Sometimes it is just kind of fidgeting, others it is kind of like subconscious multi-tasking, where they’ll do something I hadn’t even realized I was thinking of doing.”

“Like gettin’ all cozy with me?” Scout said with a smirk. One of the tentacles draped over his waist had started stroking the small of his back while Tennyson had been speaking. It felt a little weird, kinda… intimate, but it felt good, more than anything. Relaxing. Tennyson blinked and Scout felt the stroking tentacle twitch before resuming its gentle sweeping.

“Oui, like getting cozy. So long as you don’t mind?” the Tentaspy said slowly, as if unsure. Scout looked up at him; he seemed nervous, maybe even a little worried. That wasn’t like him. He could be quiet, sometimes even shy, but Scout couldn’t remember seeing him nervous since their first, uncertain meeting months ago.

Scout shifted up in the nest so he could curl up against Tennyson, head coming to rest on his shoulder and an arm stretching across his chest. He smiled when the tentacles hesitantly followed, curling back around his waist and twining comfortably around his wrist.

“S’all good,” he said. He could feel heat suffusing his cheeks and he nuzzled into Ten’s jacket. “I mean, as long as yer not gonna start explorin’ under this tent I’m wearing, it’s all good.” He hesitated, but smiled and said, “It’s real nice, just bein’ able t’cuddle up. I missed cuddlin’, bein’ out here.”

Tennyson chuckled. “I must say again, I wasn’t expecting it from you. The badass boy from Boston, just looking for a chance to snuggle.”

“Hey, badasses need to snuggle too,” Scout said.

[...]

——

Caught

[...]

Scout didn’t wait for the RED Engineer’s corpse to fall before he started moving, but he was still too slow. He was able to bark out a curse before his feet were yanked out from under him and he smacked into the concrete, his remaining breath leaving him in a whoosh. His shirt rucked up around his chest as he was dragged back along the floor. He scrambled, gasping, to draw his bat or his pistol, anything, but he knew, even before the tight coiling pressure encircled and immobilized his arms, that he had no chance.

He’d barely regained his breath when the world spun and he found himself dangling, upside-down, before an unpleasantly familiar face.

“I was wondering how long it would be before I got hold of you again.” Rosso’s teeth were filed, all of them, not just a few naturally pointed like Tennyson’s. They were all on full display; Scout had never seen a grin look so horrifying. “Mmm, petit morceau. I’m going to enjoy playing with you.”

Scout took in a breath to shout, but was muffled as a slick maroon tentacle engulfed his head. His stomach and heart lurched. His nose was free to breathe, but that was all. He couldn’t see, and he felt suction pads fluttering against and plucking at his hair and cheeks and brow. He had a brief thought for how often he’d assured Tennyson and Engie that he could handle himself before blind panic took over.

He thrashed and kicked frantically until, like his arms, his legs were tightly wrapped and stilled. He strained against the smooth hold, but the tentacles’ slickness belied their pure, muscular strength. He could manage only the slightest twitches, and even that was restrained when another tentacle, longer and thicker, enfolded his entire torso in its grip.

 His constrained muscles jerked, desperate to pull away from the restrictive pressure, and his stomach roiled at the unfamiliar, slimy slide of the tentacles across his skin. Tennyson’s tentacles were smooth, yes, and often damp, but the ooziness now enveloping him felt unnatural and just fucking gross. He wanted to scream, but kept his lips clamped shut; the thought of getting any of that slime in his mouth made him want to gag.

He was dimly aware that he was being moved before he slammed into something solid, the impact barely cushioned by Rosso’s tentacles. His head was starting to throb; he was still upside-down. The tentacle around it uncoiled enough for him to see, though it tightened around the lower half of his face as it did. He was being pressed against the wall, suspended more than a foot above the floor. Rosso hung before him, a few tentacles wrapped around the pipes running along the ceiling to support him while the others maintained their hold on Scout. He still wore that horrifying grin.

“What to do, what to do,” Rosso purred, cocking his head and running a fingertip up and down Scout’s cheek. Scout shuddered and tried to jerk away. Rosso didn’t wear gloves, and his nails were sharpened claws. “I am hungry, and you smell…”

He gripped Scout’s hair to draw himself in and he inhaled deeply. He licked his lips, and Scout squeezed his eyes shut. The sight of the uncannily long, dark tongue made his stomach give another lurch. Rosso chuckled beside his ear, a rumbling, sinister sound.

“Délicieux… But to use you up all at once, it seems like such a waste. A strong, resilient, young body like yours…” The tentacle around his torso squeezed until his ribs creaked, the suction pads clinging to his skin. “I wonder how much punishment it can take.”

Scout couldn’t fight a scream as sharp pain erupted in his shoulder, a dozen jagged points tearing deep into the skin and muscle at the juncture of his neck. He barely had time to register the vile, rotted-metallic taste that flooded his mouth, or the fact that Rosso had bitten him holy fucking God, before he was flying across the room. His first bounce when he came back to earth sent the air once again rushing from his lungs, and he was choking and spluttering as he skidded to a stop against another wall.

He didn’t even look for Rosso. He could see the stairs leading up into the RED base, a meagre ten feet away. Even getting blown away by the Reds would be better than whatever Rosso would do to him. Gasping, he lurched to his feet, trying to ignore the pain radiating from his shoulder.

And he promptly collapsed on his face, his legs refusing to hold his weight.

His heart gave another terrified jerk as he tried to get his arms and legs under him, but it felt as if he were trying to support himself on wet noodles; he couldn’t even make it to his knees before he hit the floor again. Moving his limbs felt like trying to drag a cart full of Heavies up a steep hill. His chest was tight with panic as he tried, and failed, to force his body to move. What the fuck-

A tentacle took a tight grip on his ankle, and he let out a breathy wail as he was once again dragged across the floor. His voice was so weak. What the fuck! Why couldn’t he yell? Why couldn’t he move?

Rosso’s darkly satisfied chuckle rolled through the room, and a large hand gripped the bunched back of Scout’s t-shirt, effortlessly lifting him. “Feeling nice and limp, morceau?” He shook Scout, like a dog worrying a rat. “Tennyson never warned you, did he? Didn’t want to frighten you away?”

He lifted Scout higher, so he could look into his face. A tentacle tipped up his limply hanging head. Rosso still wore that terrible grin, now tinged bloody red. “Paralyzing venom. Useful, non? I would usually prefer a little struggle, but you are a quick little rabbit and we wouldn’t want you getting away, now would we?”

Scout tried—God, did he try—to wrench himself out of Rosso’s grip. He may as well have tried to take flight. He couldn’t move anything. He had a feeling that he’d be drooling if not for his panicked breaths drying his mouth. Blinking was the extent of what he could manage. He could still feel everything—his shoulder was a blaze of pain and everything else felt bruised after his multiple collisions with the concrete—but he was floppy as a ragdoll in the Tentaspy’s hold.

Rosso gave him another shake, and chuckled again. A thick tentacle wound around his chest, snaking under his armpits and holding him upright as Rosso tugged his shirt away. A weak whimper pushed out of his throat, barely audible even to his own ears, as a clawed fingertip drew its way up from his navel to the center of his chest, applying just enough pressure to leave a vivid red line in his skin.

“Look at that. So soft and smooth. Barely a single scar,” Rosso said, drawing more light scratches perpendicular to the first, tracing the lines of his pectorals and abs. “Tennyson truly is a fool for not marking you sooner.”

A squeak that would have otherwise been a scream passed Scout’s lips as Rosso drew a single, deep furrow across his sternum. It burned, a line of white heat across his chest, and he could feel the hot blood sheeting down his front. He couldn’t lift his head, so he watched as the crimson stained his pale belly and started soaking into the waistband of his pants. It was almost as sickening as the sliminess of Rosso’s tentacles still sliding across his skin, and his stomach gave a painful, nauseated lurch when he saw Rosso’s fingers tracing through the slow flood of red.

[...]

“I c’n walk,” Scout murmured, trying to push himself up from Tennyson’s back. “I think the venom’s gone; I c’n-”

A thick tentacle gently but firmly pressed him back down, and another encircled his waist to hold him in place. His heart gave an uncomfortably heavy thud, but the stark difference between that gentle hold and Rosso’s implacable grip sent a shiver of relief up his spine. He was okay, he was safe. Engie was keeping Rosso across the moat and Tennyson was bringing him to the den. He was safe.

“You are going to move as little as possible until we clean and patch up those gashes,” Tennyson said, pulling himself out of the channel with three of his tentacles gently holding Scout against his back. “Did he bite you?”

Scout grunted, rolling his still-throbbing shoulder. “Yeah. Said he’s got some kinda paralyzin’ venom. S’how he was able to do most a’the damage; I couldn’t move…”

He shuddered, curling up against Tennyson’s broad back. One of the tentacles holding him shifted to stroke up and down his spine as Tennyson let them into the den, closing the door firmly behind them.

“You’re safe now, petit,” he said, smiling over his shoulder. He crawled across the room to his nest. “I have more than enough supplies here to take care of you.”

He started searching one of his shelves nearest the nest, and Scout couldn’t help but giggle as several tentacles carefully transferred him from Tennyson’s back to the mass of blankets, seemingly without the Tentaspy being aware. Some twined around him to keep him steady while others cradled his legs, back, and head, shifting to keep him mostly level until they set him down. Several didn’t pull away even after he was settled, stroking across his shoulders and arms like a fretful mother; another was stroking his head and neck, feeling lightly but purposefully over his face. He laughed when the tip of that tentacle prodded his ear.

“Hey Ten?” he said, giving the face-exploring tentacle a poke in return, and Tennyson turned from the shelf. He made a sound halfway between amusement and mortification, and Scout laughed again as most of the tentacles whipped away. He could see spots of colour on Tennyson’s cheeks in the gaps of his mask. Two tentacles remained, one tugging a blanket up over him to the waist and the other fluttering from the bite on his shoulder to the slash in his chest to the scratches over his belly and hips.

“I have said they have a life of their own, have I not?” Tennyson said, pulling a medkit off the shelf and settling into the nest next to Scout. He opened the kit and drew out a dimly glowing syringe, a bottle of disinfectant, and several packets of gauze padding. “They know what they’re doing; I can trust them. Most of the time.”

Scout snorted, and groaned when it sent a sharp jolt of pain through his chest. “They’re a lot less aggressive than Rosso’s, thank fuck. M’definitely gonna have some bruises, never mind the scratches.”

He held up a hand to examine the red rings spaced around his wrist and forearm, grimacing. It looked like the beginnings of an assload of hickeys. Tennyson’s large hands took hold of his arm, his thumb stroking over the angry marks. He sighed, shaking his head, and picked up the syringe.

“I should’ve been keeping a closer eye,” he said, injecting the needle into Scout’s arm before he could protest. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting Rosso to grow so bold so quickly.”

Scout rubbed where the needle had jabbed him; he could already feel the unsettling tingliness of the concentrated medigun essence working on his larger wounds. “It’s not yer fault, Ten. Rosso’s nuts. More than nuts. From the way he was talkin’, I’m surprised he didn’t attack me sooner.” He made a face. “He was bein’ right creepy, sayin’ he’d been waitin’ a long time and grinnin’ like a psycho clown or somethin’.” He raised an eyebrow at Tennyson. “He was sayin’ you shoulda ‘marked’ me. Right before-”

He gestured to the slowly but visibly healing gash in his chest. Tennyson frowned and brushed his fingers over the torn skin. He shook his head, uncapping the bottle of disinfectant and soaking a small pad of gauze.

“He has made comments recently… I had thought he was just trying to vex me,” he said. Scout winced as he started dabbing the bite in his shoulder, and frowned when Tennyson didn’t elaborate.

“What’d he say?” he asked. A reluctant look flashed across Tennyson’s face, and Scout’s frown deepened. “Ten? C’mon, how bad could it’ve been?”

Tennyson sighed and laid a fresh gauze pad over his shoulder, taking his time in settling it properly in place and taping it down. Scout fidgetted; he wasn’t used to seeing the Tentaspy so unsettled.

“Rosso…” Tennyson sighed again, looking uncomfortable. Colour was rising in his cheeks again. “He’s become more and more animalistic over the years—in thought and action—and seems to assume I’ve done the same. Lately, he’s expressed certain desires…”

He trailed off, looking aside, and Scout poked him. “I’m not a fuckin’ kid, Ten. I can handle it.”

Tennyson looked back at him and he hesitated before he said, “Rosso has lately made comments about… mating…”

“Mating?” Scout’s eyebrows made a run for his hairline. “As in…”

He made a crude gesture with both hands and Tennyson snorted. “Oui, as in that. He knows as well as anyone else that there are no… procreative opportunities here, but that doesn’t seem to matter. I believe the RED Scout has fallen afoul of him at least once, but from what he’s said, I think he may have set his eyes on…”

Little Moments: Twinkie

“What the fuck does your shirt mean?”

Red blinked, lifting his head from Pyro’s shoulder and looking over at Blue. The elder Scout’s comic book was laying abandoned in his lap, his attention instead entirely fixated on Red’s shirt. Red looked down at it. It had started out as just a plain white tee—one of those provided in bulk by RED as “patented mercenary-grade-comfort leisure wear”—but the discovery of a veritable rainbow of Sharpies in Wrenches’s workshop one weekend had led to a few modifications.

Red tugged at the shirt’s lower hem, stretching out the wrinkles to more clearly display the message on it, and pointing at each multicoloured word in turn.

“‘Lord of the Twinks’,” he read out. Pyro huffed out a laugh beside him; he had one hand brushing lightly through Red’s hair while the other held open an issue of Rolling Stone against his knee. He’d fully lost his shit the first time he’d seen the shirt, and still got adorably giggly every time Red wore it. It was, consequently, quickly becoming one of Red’s favourites.

Red raised an eyebrow at Blue. “What’s so hard to understand? Like, seriously dude, I know yer halfway fuckin’ retarded, but ya might wanna get checked out if ya can’t read four one-syllable words.”

“I can fuckin’ read it, assclown, I didn’t ask what it says. I just dunno what it means,” Blue said, his curious frown becoming a glower. “The fuck’s a ‘twink’?”

“Oh.” Red shrugged, leaning back into Pyro’s side. “It’s a gay thing. They’re, like, young guys that’re skinny without a lotta body hair. Comes from ‘Twinkie’, I think.”

“Wha— Okay, yeah, that’s obvious, but how the fuck’s a dude like that like a Twinkie?” Blue said, clearly even more confused. “Are they supposed t’be, like, junk food or somethin’?”

Red rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, a snarky retort ready on his tongue, but Pyro spoke up first.

“No,” he said, still lazily carding his fingers through Red’s hair, eyes on his magazine. “It’s because they’re blond, sweet, and full of cream.”

There were five full seconds of ringing silence. Blue blinked slowly, a look of disgusted horror coming onto his face, before he lowered his head into his hands with a groan. Red let out a whoop of laughter that quickly led into a full-on fit; he slipped from resting against Pyro’s shoulder into his lap as he clutched his gut and wheezed. Pyro didn’t laugh, or even look away from his magazine, but his lips twitched in a failing attempt to hold back a smile. Blue glared at him from between his fingers.

“I hate you so fuckin’ much, dude. So fuckin’ much,” he grumbled. Pyro finally gave up the ghost and a broad grin swept across his face, his eyes gleaming as he turned to Blue.

“Love you too, pendejo,” he said, blowing him a kiss. Blue dropped his hands, rolled his eyes, and got to his feet, tossing his comic book on the coffee table as he started toward the hallway.

Red sat up enough to watch Blue’s exit, still giggling and grinning from ear to ear. “Aw, where ya goin’, dude?”

“Just gonna go drown myself in the fuckin’ moat,” Blue said, hardly slowing on his way out of the room. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and respawn without rememberin’ any a’this…”

Pyro chuckled and Red let out a final snort before pushing himself back into a sitting position. He snuggled into Pyro’s side again, head dropping to his shoulder with a happy sigh.

“I love you so fuckin’ much.”

——

Prologue

Tales of Sawmill [1983-1988; will (eventually) become its own series] Tales of Teufort [1988-1993; may become its own series as well]

Tales of Well (Start Date: March 6, 1993)

Moving Day

First Day

Privacy

A Special Cigarette

Untitled (RED Speeding Bullet [smut; *RED Speeding Bullet begins])

Gentle Hands

For the Birds

Little Moments: Art Therapy

In Vino Veritas [smut; *BLU Spy/Scout begins]

Untitled (BLU Scout/Spy [smut])

Scout Vs Scout [tent title]

Respawn Errors

Little Moments: Arson Face

Deathmatch

Southern Comfort [smut? maybe? still on the fence; *RED Speeding Bullet ends, RED Texas Two-Step begins]

Bloody Suit [tent title]

Untitled (first Trio [Scout/Pyro/Scout] hangout)

Toys [PWP]

Desert Rain

Little Moments: Respawn Errors 2

Little Moments: Mask Off

Proving Oneself

Sick Scout

Heart-to-Heart

Life, Death, and Respawn [tent title]

Inner Workings: RED Scout - Who Am I?

Little Moments: Long Jump

Going Public

Little Moments: Supply Day

Check-Up [Six-month mark]

A Bad Idea [smut; *(occasional) Scoutcest begins]

“The Gayest Fuckin’ Conversation of My Life” [*RED Texas Two-Step ends]

Pillow Talk

Munchies Run

Little Moments: Laundry Day

Spawn Camping

Little Moments: BONK!

Line in the Sand

Heat [smut? maybe? *cross-faction Flash Fire begins]

Shave and a Haircut [tent title]

Check-Up 2

Little Moments: Story Time

Town Fair

Parle Salement A Moi [PWP]

Little Moments: Spy’s Secret

Anniversary

Strange Feeling

Good Morning [PWP]

Breakfast

A Breach of Trust

Spell-Check  [One year mark]

Inner Workings: BLU Spy - Tells

Grocery Run

Camping [smut; *Flash Fire/Scoutcest-combo begins]

Inner Workings: BLU Scout - I’m Not A Fag

Details

Little Moments: Twinkie

Sick Scout 2

Little Moments: Respawn Errors?

Cockblocked

Dance Lessons

Happy Birthday

I See You

Untitled (RED Sniper tortures Scout)

The Other Side of the Fence

Untitled (Pyro/Spy trapped)

Little Moments: Snuggle Bunny

Accessorizing [PWP]

Little Moments: A Ticklish Situation

Float Like a Butterfly

Sting Like a Bee

“Charge Me Doktor!” [PWP]

Lovers' Quarrel

Inner Workings: BLU Pyro - Mine

Night Terrors

Little Moments: Respawn Errors 3

Little Moments: Feliz Cumpleaños

Campfire Songs

Old Dogs

Little Moments: Problem?

Scout Hunt

Brotherly Love

Those Words

Little Moments: Bet

Little Moments: Noise Complaint

Kindred Spirit

Reaper at Your Back

Little Moments: Fishsticks

RED Day

Little Moments: Brownies [...]

Fast Car

Little Moments: Grease Monkey

Ink

Our Third [PWP]

Little Moments: Sleepover

Possession [smut/maybe just straight PWP] [...]

(End Date: June 10, 1995)

Into the Future

——

Introduction

[...]

“I can’t control him, Ingénieur, not anymore.”

Scout froze, pressing himself against the wall and straining to hear more. That sounded like a Spy, with that Frenchy word thrown in there, but that wasn’t Spy’s voice, or the RED Spy’s. It was throatier, deeper, and the accent wasn’t as strong.

“Y’think he’s gettin’ t’be too dangerous?” That was Engie. Scout had been sure he was in his workshop; that’s where he usually was this late. What was he doing down here, talking to a strange Spy in the sewers? Scout cautiously descended another couple steps. He could hear something moving in the water, splashing and sloshing, and there was a heavy sigh.

“I do not know.” The deep-voiced Spy sounded resigned. “I have to pity him, somewhat, but he barely bothers with the slightest pretense of humanity anymore. If it didn’t help him get what he wanted, I doubt he would even bother with speech. I don’t want to have to kill him, but…”

“If he’s really as far gone as yer sayin’, it won’t be long before there’s more incidents like today, and it won’t be up ta us no more,” Engie said. “It’s only pure damn luck no one saw him today, and that Scout was too hazy ta make anythin’ a’what happened.”

Scout jerked and almost slipped down the last few stairs. Was Engie talking about what had happened in the moat during the fight today? He still wasn’t sure what to make of those few frantic minutes underwater, but it sounded like Engie had at least some idea. He swallowed hard and peeked around the edge of the wall, turning the bill of his cap backward so it wouldn’t give him away.

Engie was sitting beside the sewer channel, still wearing his hardhat but leaving his goggles hanging loose around his neck. Scout blinked. He was talking to a Spy. It wasn’t the RED or BLU Spy, but he wore the same tight balaclava, dark gloves, and impeccable suit coat and tie. Everything he wore was blue, but a significantly darker shade than what the BLU Spy wore, and it had a strange shine to it, like it was made of some kind of plastic. He was also submerged in the sewer almost to his chest, leaning on arms folded at the concrete edge of the channel.

Scout narrowed his eyes and started to lean further as the Spy said, “You’re sure he doesn’t know what happened? I was sure he saw me, in the midst of it all.”

Engie shook his head. “Nah, I’m sure. He wasn’t chewin’ everyone’s ears off about seein’ somethin’ weird, or screamin’ about monsters, which is enough evidence in itself with him. Even if he did see ya, I doubt it woulda stuck. The poor kid was in the drink fer a good three minutes, more’n half of it underwater; spewed up a metric ton a’that shit yer swimmin’ in after I pulled him out.”

“You know it is filtered; don’t be crass,” the Spy said, propping his chin on a hand with a sigh. Scout saw the water shifting around his unseen legs. “I suppose killing Rosso really is the only option, unless you can devise some kind of system to keep him penned up. Though, I do have to worry about the precedent killing him would set regarding my own continued existence.”

“I’m not gonna turn on ya, Ten,” Engie said, frowning. Scout snuck forward, creeping a few steps in the shadows along the wall; there was something weird about that movement under the water…

“Oh oui? And can you speak for Azul as well? We both know he would as gladly see me strung up from a fishing hook as Rosso.” The water churned and a lithely twisting… something emerged from it to flick lazily in the air. “These are already enough for him to-”

Scout screamed. The sound ripped its way free before he could stop it, not that he had a thought of doing so. The thing had darted back under the water, but Scout had gotten an all-too-clear look at what it was. Both Engie and the Spy’s faces turned to him, bearing identical expressions of horror. They matched the cold fear that had speared into Scout’s gut. He could only stare, locked in place by terrified disbelief, at the shadowy writhing mass in the water below the Spy. The mass of tentacles.

His heart thundered in his ears. His  mind raced but his body was frozen. There was no way he was seeing- There was no way in Hell-

“Scout, son, take it easy now,” Engie said. He started getting slowly to his feet. “Just relax and gimme a chance ta-”

He took a step forward and Scout’s paralysis broke. Engie shouted for him to wait as he took one, two leaping strides back toward the stairs. Then something slammed into his back.

It landed on top of him as he crashed to the floor, pinning him completely from the waist down. He took in a breath for another scream, but a damp, gloved hand slapped over his mouth to muffle the cry. He tried to swing back with his elbows, arms flailing in a frantic attempt to make contact, but another hand gripped his left wrist, pressing it to the floor. His right wrist was encircled and held in place by a cool, smoothly fleshed, wet, purple tentacle.

He screamed again in spite of the hand over his mouth and thrashed desperately, panicked adrenaline lending strength to his squirming. He could hear Engie pleading for him to relax, calm down, hear him out, but he could also feel those things, writhing and sliding over his legs and torso, thick boneless limbs wrapping around him and stilling his frenzied movement. God, he was gonna get eaten by a monster! He was gonna get eaten by a fucking tentacled Spy monster! Respawn could bring them back from some pretty horrific shit, but he had a feeling being digested might be a little too much for the system to handle. Scout whimpered, eyes squeezed shut and every muscle tensed in preparation for some kind of fatal pain that he was sure was coming.

As soon as he was fully immobilised, however, everything stopped. His heart was still hammering and his breaths came in fast, shallow pants, but the hands and tentacles held steady once he was unable to move. They restrained him, but made no move to tighten, or to tear him limb from limb. 

“Scout?” Engie’s hand touched his shoulder and he flinched away as far as the gripping tentacles allowed. “Scout, if Ten lets ya up, are ya gonna start hollerin’ again?”

It took a long moment for Scout to shake his head, but the hands holding him withdrew as soon as he did. The tentacles took longer to pull away, and Scout shuddered as he felt them uncoiling from around his arms and legs and chest. He pushed himself shakily to his hands and knees as the weight on his legs shifted away, and he squeezed his eyes shut again after he caught sight of small, round red marks circling his right wrist.

“Engie?” he whimpered, and he felt the hand on his shoulder again. “Don’t let it eat me.”

Engie sighed and gave his shoulder a pat. “Ten’s not gonna eatcha, son, I promise. Here, open yer eyes and sit, we’ll getcha introduced proper. It’s alright.”

Scout hesitated, but he slowly opened his eyes and shifted so he could sit. He followed Engie’s gentle urging to scoot closer to the sewer channel, but by the time he was settled, he had yet to actually look up. Engie patted his back, and gestured, in Scout’s lowered eyeline, toward the channel edge.

“Scout, this here is Tennyson,” he said, “and he’s a Tentaspy.”

The strange, frankly ridiculous moniker finally made Scout look up. And stare. Sitting at the edge of the channel was a Spy not so unlike the others Scout had seen. He was looking at Scout with a warm smile, not an expression he’d expect to see on any Spy, but he still looked as immaculate, sophisticated, and inherently unknowable as any of the other sneaky backstabbers Scout had known. Except for the tentacles. Oh, the tentacles.

Scout was able to count ten, some as thick around as his thigh while others were only as wide as his wrist. He’d thought them purple in his earlier panic, but while there was a distinct purplish tinge to them, they were in truth a deep blue, with subtle rings and streaks in lighter shades. The underside of each was a lighter blue still, with fleshy suction pads spaced evenly along them. They seemed to be constantly in motion, curling around each other, clinging to the channel wall, and swirling idly through the water, each with a mind of its own.

“I am sorry for the tackle,” Tennyson said, drawing Scout’s eyes to his face. He could see through the gaps in the mask that the… Tentaspy was extremely pale, and—his stomach lurched—a few of his teeth came to defined points. “I’m afraid the need for secrecy outweighed any desire for tact. I’m usually much more polite.”

“Polite? Ya got tentacles! I thought you were gonna eat me!” Scout said. He still wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t going to end up as this creature’s late-night snack.

Engie sighed again and took a seat beside Scout, turning his cap around and pulling the bill down over his face. “Ya shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, son. I’ve known Ten fer years and he’s never even tried for a nibble. He’s just as human as anyone you’d meet upstairs, and significantly better company than most.”

“I’m flattered that you consider me more pleasant than the jar man, the drunk, and the mumbling pyromaniac. It speaks so highly of my character,” Tennyson said drily. Scout jumped, wide eyed, when the tip of one of the more slender tentacles reached out and pushed the bill of his cap back up. “It is true, though. I am a Spy, first and foremost. I was not always like this, and I do not intend to forsake my humanity and manners just because of a few extra limbs.” Tennyson smiled at Scout, friendly despite his monstrous features. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“Ya used t’be normal?” Scout said, watching as the tentacle that had tipped his hat coiled around another, thicker one, like a vine climbing a tree. His panic was fading faster than he could’ve hoped, and curiosity was starting to rear its head again. After all, how many other guys with tentacles for legs had he met?

Tennyson nodded. “Oui, I was a Spy with BLU for… Oh, how long was it before all this nonsense?”

He directed the question at Engie, who shrugged. “Eh, y’been like this fer a good two years, so… Four before that, maybe?”

“Merde, that makes me feel old,” Tennyson said, rubbing his eyes with a sigh. “But, yes, I was a Spy with BLU for several years. Nothing especially eventful occurred during that time, just the usual day-in, day-out bloody madness. But one year, when I was called in for my physical, I was given an injection and dragged off to Dieu sait où, strapped to a gurney and higher than a kite. Apparently our contracts contain some very unfortunate clauses that I had overlooked before I signed, regarding certain permissions for experimentation of various sorts. So the RED Spy and I spent a number of wonderful, agonizing months having our limbs and genetics rearranged until the companies tired of playing with us and we were left with what you see here.”

“Whoa, wait, so there’s another one a’you?”

Tennyson took in Scout’s shock with a shrug. “Unfortunately. Rosso did not handle the experiments nearly so well as I did. He is the one that attacked you earlier today.”

Scout blinked. So something had happened in the moat today! He knew it! “I thought I could feel somethin’ pullin’ me down, after I fell into the moat. I thought I was goin’ crazy.”

“Oui, that was him,” Tennyson said. “We are supposed to stay out of sight. A few members of each team were made aware of us when we were dumped back here-” He nodded to Engie. “-but it is otherwise supposed to be as if we do not exist.

“Rosso, however… He decided that if he appears a monster, he should be a monster. Until today, it was always just taunting, brushing against someone’s legs as they walked by or mimicking people’s voices from out of sight. Him grabbing you, it’s the first time he’s actually attacked anyone. He’s becoming more aggressive, more predatory. I don’t like thinking of what he might have done today if I hadn’t chased him off.”

Scout shuddered and said, “Yeah, almost drownin’ me was bad enough.”

[...]

——

Ten/Scout Snuggles

Scout woke up choking as he expelled grimy water from his lungs for the fourth time since his arrival at TwoFort. Hard coughs wracked his body, and gentle hands rolled him onto his side just in time for him to throw up what felt like everything he’d eaten in the past month. He could feel water and snot dribbling from his nostrils, and his clothes clung to his skin in a wetly unpleasant way. Fuck, he was starting to get really sick of this.

A hand rubbed up and down along his spine as he continued hacking up water, and he shuddered when another brushed a few wet strands of hair back from his face. “That’s right, petit, get it all out. It’s alright.”

“Ten?” Scout tried to look back over his shoulder, but another wave of coughs had him curling around his stomach and protesting abdominal muscles.

“Oui, mon petit.” A thin tentacle snaked out to lay against the back of his hand, giving it a pat. “We really need to stop seeing each other this way, as attractive as it is watching you cough up half the moat.”

“Ugh, trust me, I’m not tryin’,” Scout said, rolling onto his back with a groan. “Fuck. I gotta learn t’swim better.”

“That would probably be helpful,” Tennyson said, smiling down at him. “How on Earth did you manage to end up down here this time?”

Scout sat up with another groan, leaning forward and swiping under his nose with the back of a hand. “Sniper ’n’ Demo, the fuckers. Tangled me all up in my shirt and then pushed me in. By the time I got my shirt pushed back down and my arms free, things were already startin’ t’get a li’l fuzzy.”

“Salauds,” Tennyson growled, lips quirking up in a snarl. “Sometimes I think… But no. No. Are you feeling alright now? Can you walk?”

Scout blinked. There had been almost a note of possessiveness in Tennyson’s voice. It had been brief, but fierce. He shook his head, and using Tennyson’s shoulder as support, he was able to push himself to his feet. He wobbled a little, but kept his balance. He coughed and plucked at his shirt, grimacing when it clung to his skin.

“I guess I should go get changed,” he grumbled, wringing out an edge of the garment. “How long was I under? Demo and Sniper should be gone by now, right?”

Tennyson frowned as Scout coughed again and spat. He said, “Perhaps, but I am not sure I want to let you head back up there just to fish you out again in a few hours.” He slipped into the sewer channel and shrugged. “You can come to the den if you’d like. No one will bother you there, and I doubt I have anything quite your size, but there should be something dry for you to put on, at least.”

A wide grin swept across Scout’s face. He didn’t like imposing on the quiet Tentaspy, but he loved his chances to visit the cozy little home Tennyson had made for himself beneath the base. It was warm and homey, and his bed was freakin’ awesome, and no one bugged him down there. Engie came down sometimes, but usually it was just him and Ten, chatting and hanging out.

“Yeah, cool! That’d be cool. I mean, anythin’ would be better’n this wet shit,” Scout said, following along the channel edge as Tennyson started swimming deeper into the sewer. He cocked his head, frowning curiously. “How d’you keep all your stuff dry? Yer in the water, like, all the time.”

Tennyson rolled and continued swimming along on his back; the rhythmic, flowing motions of his tentacles as they pushed him along were mesmerising.

“I have Engineer to thank for that,” he said, holding up a hand to examine his glove and sleeve. “It is a special waterproof coating he developed. Originally it was supposed to be for his sentries, but he couldn’t find a way to make it adhere to metal or plastic. It works perfectly well on fabric, though, and leather. I have to have him renew it every few months, but it is more than worth the small inconvenience.”

“I wonder if he coated me in it, I’d float better,” Scout said, and Tennyson snorted so roughly he sank for a second before recovering himself.

[...]

“Here.” A mass of pale blue fabric hit Scout in the face. “It is too large, but it’s dry and clean, I promise.”

Scout held the enormous shirt out in front of him and raised an eyebrow. It was definitely a Heavy’s shirt, at least five times larger than what Scout would ever need, no matter how many pounds he packed on. Still, what Tennyson had said was true: it was dry and smelled heavily of the generic laundry soap BLU always sent them. It was warm, too; it must have been sitting near the heater.

Scout considered finding a corner to change in, but then just threw on the oversized shirt over what he already wore, wriggling out of his own clothes while hidden beneath its massive folds. The dry shirt had a neck hole nearly large enough to fit over both of Scout’s shoulders and it hung down past his knees at the lower hem, giving him more than enough privacy. He peeled off his socks with a grimace and stepped away from the soggy pile containing his uniform, holding up the hem of the shirt like a dress to avoid touching the wet fabric.

“This thing is fuckin’ huge,” he said with a snort, spinning in a tight circle and watching the t-shirt fan around him. “Seriously, how big was the Heavy y’got this from?”

Tennyson, reclining on a stack of pillows in his nest, chuckled. “That one is from a mis-order, thankfully; I can’t imagine having to face down a Heavy that large. It’s never been worn, you should be happy to know. Engineer gave me a whole crate of them that came in with one supply order that someone had let Demo fill out the paperwork for.” He smirked. “That was a good month. Engineer ‘confiscated’ a few of the extra cases of whisky for me.”

Scout laughed and crawled up into the nest, forming a pocket for himself next to Tennyson and padding it with a big fleecy blanket he’d found on one of his previous visits, and several of the squishier pillows in the Tentaspy’s collection. He’d contemplated pilfering a few items more than once—everything he’d found in the massive pile was far superior to the starchy linens BLU provided—but he always ended up just snuggling in and enjoying the simple, warm comfort. Tennyson seemed happy to share his nest; Scout had noticed that some of his favourite items tended to migrate to the top of the pile whenever he was around. He sighed happily and pulled another comforter, this one thick and down-filled, over him up to his chin.

“You have the best fuckin’ bed, man, seriously,” he said. “Almost makes gettin’ dunked so often worth it. So warm ’n’ comfy, and you can just sprawl out as much as y’want.”

Tennyson let out another chuckle, and Scout watched, fascinated, as he stretched. His tentacles uncoiled to their fullest extent, a few of the smaller ones trembling, before they all at once fell into a limp pile and resumed their usual languid slithering. Scout hadn’t realized before quite how long they were. Two of the thickest—the ones that Scout privately considered Tennyson’s “legs”—were almost as long as Scout himself was tall.

“It is nice having the extra room,” Tennyson said with a contented sigh. He folded one arm behind his head, and Scout blinked when the other hand started brushing softly through his damp hair. He’d grown used to the Tentaspy being more physically affectionate than most other people he’d met—probably a side effect of spending so much time alone—but Ten had never… petted him before. It sent shivers across his scalp and down his spine. He snuggled deeper into the blankets, but didn’t retreat from the gently stroking hand.

“Yeah, s’nice,” he murmured. Now warm and dry and comfortable, he was starting to feel tired. Not sleepy—his mind was still awake and aware, though it was mainly focused on how comfortable he felt—but physically tired. He had almost drowned again, not that long ago. Strange as it was, he’d almost forgotten. It seemed like it had been hours.

It amazed him how quickly being in Tennyson’s den had pushed the brief but intense earlier stresses away. As was always the case, as soon as the door closed, he felt safe. No, not just safe. Protected. He remembered the Tentaspy’s flash of anger when he’d told him how he’d ended up in the moat, directed entirely at the ones who’d done him harm. Maybe it wasn’t just the den, then. 

It was baffling to him. Tennyson seemed to genuinely want to look after him, and took an interest in the mundane details of his life and his well-being. Engie looked out for him, sure, on and off the field, but he wasn’t used to this degree of care. Tennyson talked to him without being pestered into it, and even asked after him when he wasn’t there—Engie had mentioned Tennyson asking about him on several occasions. He’d saved him from drowning three times, and repeatedly saved him from Rosso, in spite of the injuries he unfailingly received in the process.

The blankets shifted and Scout blinked drowsily. Something solid was trying to snake its way into the cocoon he’d constructed. A smile twitched his lips, and he slowly lifted the blankets. The warm weight of one of Tennyson’s tentacles slid up across his hip before settling lightly around his waist. Tennyson seemed unaware of the limb’s movement; he was lying back with his eyes closed, his hand still absent-mindedly carding through Scout’s hair. Scout smiled and hummed low in the back of his throat, shuffling closer to where the Tentaspy was sprawled.

Then he whined when the tentacle suddenly withdrew, along with the hand on his head. He felt Tennyson tense slightly, matching his shuffling closer with a scoot in the opposite direction.

“I’m sorry, petit, I didn’t realize I was-”

Tennyson quieted when Scout wriggled his way across the pillows and blankets, and snuggled up firmly against his side. Scout smiled when the hand returned to his head and a pair of tentacles coiled loosely around his middle.

“Yer real warm. And comfy,” he said, nuzzling into Tennyson’s broad chest and hitching the collar of the too-big shirt higher up on his shoulder. He felt Tennyson’s light laugh rumble against his cheek, and another pair of tentacles pulled his blanket back up around him.

“Ah, I see,” the Tentaspy said. His fingers brushed across the shell of Scout’s ear, making him shiver. “I suppose I am just not used to having you be so… cuddly.”

“Hey, m’cuddly as fuck. Like a teddy bear’r some shit,” Scout murmured, wrapping an arm around Tennyson’s waist. Or trying to. “Jesus, Ten, how fuckin’ big’re you? I can’t even reach…”

Tennyson gasped dramatically. “So cruel, petit! How could you, when I’m so clearly sensitive about my dainty figure!”

Scout rolled his eyes and fisted the Tentaspy in the shortribs. “Aw, fuck off drama queen, I’m serious. Y’ain’t fat or nothin’, but… I mean, lookit that.”

He laid his hand on top of Tennyson’s, lining it up at their wrists. None of his fingertips reached even as far as the second joint of Tennyson’s fingers, and Tennyson’s palm was almost half as wide again as his. There were the same slender proportions, but the Tentaspy’s hand was undeniably larger by far. He lifted it to lay over Scout’s, enveloping it entirely.

“Yes, yes, I know what you mean. I honestly thought you’d noticed long ago,” he said, smiling.

“Never really registered, I guess,” Scout said. “T’be fair, the tentacles kinda pull focus.”

“Mmm, that is true.” Tennyson lifted one of the appendages, and Scout snorted when it poked him on the tip of his nose. “It doesn’t help that they have a mind of their own half the time.”

Scout returned the tentacle’s poke and laughed when it coiled around his hand. “They really just do their own thing? I mean, I noticed they’re always, like, movin’ around and stuff, but I just figured you was, I dunno, stretchin’ or somethin’.”

“Well, obviously I can control them if I choose, but if I am not paying attention, they tend to wander,” Tennyson said. He shrugged. “Sometimes it is just kind of fidgeting, others it is kind of like subconscious multi-tasking, where they’ll do something I hadn’t even realized I was thinking of doing.”

“Like gettin’ all cozy with me?” Scout said with a smirk. One of the tentacles draped over his waist had started stroking the small of his back while Tennyson had been speaking. It felt a little weird, kinda… intimate, but it felt good, more than anything. Relaxing. Tennyson blinked and Scout felt the stroking tentacle twitch before resuming its gentle sweeping.

“Oui, like getting cozy. So long as you don’t mind?” the Tentaspy said slowly, as if unsure. Scout looked up at him; he seemed nervous, maybe even a little worried. That wasn’t like him. He could be quiet, sometimes even shy, but Scout couldn’t remember seeing him nervous since their first, uncertain meeting months ago.

Scout shifted up in the nest so he could curl up against Tennyson, head coming to rest on his shoulder and an arm stretching across his chest. He smiled when the tentacles hesitantly followed, curling back around his waist and twining comfortably around his wrist.

“S’all good,” he said. He could feel heat suffusing his cheeks and he nuzzled into Ten’s jacket. “I mean, as long as yer not gonna start explorin’ under this tent I’m wearing, it’s all good.” He hesitated, but smiled and said, “It’s real nice, just bein’ able t’cuddle up. I missed cuddlin’, bein’ out here.”

Tennyson chuckled. “I must say again, I wasn’t expecting it from you. The badass boy from Boston, just looking for a chance to snuggle.”

“Hey, badasses need to snuggle too,” Scout said.

[...]

——

Caught

[...]

Scout didn’t wait for the RED Engineer’s corpse to fall before he started moving, but he was still too slow. He was able to bark out a curse before his feet were yanked out from under him and he smacked into the concrete, his remaining breath leaving him in a whoosh. His shirt rucked up around his chest as he was dragged back along the floor. He scrambled, gasping, to draw his bat or his pistol, anything, but he knew, even before the tight coiling pressure encircled and immobilized his arms, that he had no chance.

He’d barely regained his breath when the world spun and he found himself dangling, upside-down, before an unpleasantly familiar face.

“I was wondering how long it would be before I got hold of you again.” Rosso’s teeth were filed, all of them, not just a few naturally pointed like Tennyson’s. They were all on full display; Scout had never seen a grin look so horrifying. “Mmm, petit morceau. I’m going to enjoy playing with you.”

Scout took in a breath to shout, but was muffled as a slick maroon tentacle engulfed his head. His stomach and heart lurched. His nose was free to breathe, but that was all. He couldn’t see, and he felt suction pads fluttering against and plucking at his hair and cheeks and brow. He had a brief thought for how often he’d assured Tennyson and Engie that he could handle himself before blind panic took over.

He thrashed and kicked frantically until, like his arms, his legs were tightly wrapped and stilled. He strained against the smooth hold, but the tentacles’ slickness belied their pure, muscular strength. He could manage only the slightest twitches, and even that was restrained when another tentacle, longer and thicker, enfolded his entire torso in its grip.

 His constrained muscles jerked, desperate to pull away from the restrictive pressure, and his stomach roiled at the unfamiliar, slimy slide of the tentacles across his skin. Tennyson’s tentacles were smooth, yes, and often damp, but the ooziness now enveloping him felt unnatural and just fucking gross. He wanted to scream, but kept his lips clamped shut; the thought of getting any of that slime in his mouth made him want to gag.

He was dimly aware that he was being moved before he slammed into something solid, the impact barely cushioned by Rosso’s tentacles. His head was starting to throb; he was still upside-down. The tentacle around it uncoiled enough for him to see, though it tightened around the lower half of his face as it did. He was being pressed against the wall, suspended more than a foot above the floor. Rosso hung before him, a few tentacles wrapped around the pipes running along the ceiling to support him while the others maintained their hold on Scout. He still wore that horrifying grin.

“What to do, what to do,” Rosso purred, cocking his head and running a fingertip up and down Scout’s cheek. Scout shuddered and tried to jerk away. Rosso didn’t wear gloves, and his nails were sharpened claws. “I am hungry, and you smell…”

He gripped Scout’s hair to draw himself in and he inhaled deeply. He licked his lips, and Scout squeezed his eyes shut. The sight of the uncannily long, dark tongue made his stomach give another lurch. Rosso chuckled beside his ear, a rumbling, sinister sound.

“Délicieux… But to use you up all at once, it seems like such a waste. A strong, resilient, young body like yours…” The tentacle around his torso squeezed until his ribs creaked, the suction pads clinging to his skin. “I wonder how much punishment it can take.”

Scout couldn’t fight a scream as sharp pain erupted in his shoulder, a dozen jagged points tearing deep into the skin and muscle at the juncture of his neck. He barely had time to register the vile, rotted-metallic taste that flooded his mouth, or the fact that Rosso had bitten him holy fucking God, before he was flying across the room. His first bounce when he came back to earth sent the air once again rushing from his lungs, and he was choking and spluttering as he skidded to a stop against another wall.

He didn’t even look for Rosso. He could see the stairs leading up into the RED base, a meagre ten feet away. Even getting blown away by the Reds would be better than whatever Rosso would do to him. Gasping, he lurched to his feet, trying to ignore the pain radiating from his shoulder.

And he promptly collapsed on his face, his legs refusing to hold his weight.

His heart gave another terrified jerk as he tried to get his arms and legs under him, but it felt as if he were trying to support himself on wet noodles; he couldn’t even make it to his knees before he hit the floor again. Moving his limbs felt like trying to drag a cart full of Heavies up a steep hill. His chest was tight with panic as he tried, and failed, to force his body to move. What the fuck-

A tentacle took a tight grip on his ankle, and he let out a breathy wail as he was once again dragged across the floor. His voice was so weak. What the fuck! Why couldn’t he yell? Why couldn’t he move?

Rosso’s darkly satisfied chuckle rolled through the room, and a large hand gripped the bunched back of Scout’s t-shirt, effortlessly lifting him. “Feeling nice and limp, morceau?” He shook Scout, like a dog worrying a rat. “Tennyson never warned you, did he? Didn’t want to frighten you away?”

He lifted Scout higher, so he could look into his face. A tentacle tipped up his limply hanging head. Rosso still wore that terrible grin, now tinged bloody red. “Paralyzing venom. Useful, non? I would usually prefer a little struggle, but you are a quick little rabbit and we wouldn’t want you getting away, now would we?”

Scout tried—God, did he try—to wrench himself out of Rosso’s grip. He may as well have tried to take flight. He couldn’t move anything. He had a feeling that he’d be drooling if not for his panicked breaths drying his mouth. Blinking was the extent of what he could manage. He could still feel everything—his shoulder was a blaze of pain and everything else felt bruised after his multiple collisions with the concrete—but he was floppy as a ragdoll in the Tentaspy’s hold.

Rosso gave him another shake, and chuckled again. A thick tentacle wound around his chest, snaking under his armpits and holding him upright as Rosso tugged his shirt away. A weak whimper pushed out of his throat, barely audible even to his own ears, as a clawed fingertip drew its way up from his navel to the center of his chest, applying just enough pressure to leave a vivid red line in his skin.

“Look at that. So soft and smooth. Barely a single scar,” Rosso said, drawing more light scratches perpendicular to the first, tracing the lines of his pectorals and abs. “Tennyson truly is a fool for not marking you sooner.”

A squeak that would have otherwise been a scream passed Scout’s lips as Rosso drew a single, deep furrow across his sternum. It burned, a line of white heat across his chest, and he could feel the hot blood sheeting down his front. He couldn’t lift his head, so he watched as the crimson stained his pale belly and started soaking into the waistband of his pants. It was almost as sickening as the sliminess of Rosso’s tentacles still sliding across his skin, and his stomach gave a painful, nauseated lurch when he saw Rosso’s fingers tracing through the slow flood of red.

[...]

“I c’n walk,” Scout murmured, trying to push himself up from Tennyson’s back. “I think the venom’s gone; I c’n-”

A thick tentacle gently but firmly pressed him back down, and another encircled his waist to hold him in place. His heart gave an uncomfortably heavy thud, but the stark difference between that gentle hold and Rosso’s implacable grip sent a shiver of relief up his spine. He was okay, he was safe. Engie was keeping Rosso across the moat and Tennyson was bringing him to the den. He was safe.

“You are going to move as little as possible until we clean and patch up those gashes,” Tennyson said, pulling himself out of the channel with three of his tentacles gently holding Scout against his back. “Did he bite you?”

Scout grunted, rolling his still-throbbing shoulder. “Yeah. Said he’s got some kinda paralyzin’ venom. S’how he was able to do most a’the damage; I couldn’t move…”

He shuddered, curling up against Tennyson’s broad back. One of the tentacles holding him shifted to stroke up and down his spine as Tennyson let them into the den, closing the door firmly behind them.

“You’re safe now, petit,” he said, smiling over his shoulder. He crawled across the room to his nest. “I have more than enough supplies here to take care of you.”

He started searching one of his shelves nearest the nest, and Scout couldn’t help but giggle as several tentacles carefully transferred him from Tennyson’s back to the mass of blankets, seemingly without the Tentaspy being aware. Some twined around him to keep him steady while others cradled his legs, back, and head, shifting to keep him mostly level until they set him down. Several didn’t pull away even after he was settled, stroking across his shoulders and arms like a fretful mother; another was stroking his head and neck, feeling lightly but purposefully over his face. He laughed when the tip of that tentacle prodded his ear.

“Hey Ten?” he said, giving the face-exploring tentacle a poke in return, and Tennyson turned from the shelf. He made a sound halfway between amusement and mortification, and Scout laughed again as most of the tentacles whipped away. He could see spots of colour on Tennyson’s cheeks in the gaps of his mask. Two tentacles remained, one tugging a blanket up over him to the waist and the other fluttering from the bite on his shoulder to the slash in his chest to the scratches over his belly and hips.

“I have said they have a life of their own, have I not?” Tennyson said, pulling a medkit off the shelf and settling into the nest next to Scout. He opened the kit and drew out a dimly glowing syringe, a bottle of disinfectant, and several packets of gauze padding. “They know what they’re doing; I can trust them. Most of the time.”

Scout snorted, and groaned when it sent a sharp jolt of pain through his chest. “They’re a lot less aggressive than Rosso’s, thank fuck. M’definitely gonna have some bruises, never mind the scratches.”

He held up a hand to examine the red rings spaced around his wrist and forearm, grimacing. It looked like the beginnings of an assload of hickeys. Tennyson’s large hands took hold of his arm, his thumb stroking over the angry marks. He sighed, shaking his head, and picked up the syringe.

“I should’ve been keeping a closer eye,” he said, injecting the needle into Scout’s arm before he could protest. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting Rosso to grow so bold so quickly.”

Scout rubbed where the needle had jabbed him; he could already feel the unsettling tingliness of the concentrated medigun essence working on his larger wounds. “It’s not yer fault, Ten. Rosso’s nuts. More than nuts. From the way he was talkin’, I’m surprised he didn’t attack me sooner.” He made a face. “He was bein’ right creepy, sayin’ he’d been waitin’ a long time and grinnin’ like a psycho clown or somethin’.” He raised an eyebrow at Tennyson. “He was sayin’ you shoulda ‘marked’ me. Right before-”

He gestured to the slowly but visibly healing gash in his chest. Tennyson frowned and brushed his fingers over the torn skin. He shook his head, uncapping the bottle of disinfectant and soaking a small pad of gauze.

“He has made comments recently… I had thought he was just trying to vex me,” he said. Scout winced as he started dabbing the bite in his shoulder, and frowned when Tennyson didn’t elaborate.

“What’d he say?” he asked. A reluctant look flashed across Tennyson’s face, and Scout’s frown deepened. “Ten? C’mon, how bad could it’ve been?”

Tennyson sighed and laid a fresh gauze pad over his shoulder, taking his time in settling it properly in place and taping it down. Scout fidgetted; he wasn’t used to seeing the Tentaspy so unsettled.

“Rosso…” Tennyson sighed again, looking uncomfortable. Colour was rising in his cheeks again. “He’s become more and more animalistic over the years—in thought and action—and seems to assume I’ve done the same. Lately, he’s expressed certain desires…”

He trailed off, looking aside, and Scout poked him. “I’m not a fuckin’ kid, Ten. I can handle it.”

Tennyson looked back at him and he hesitated before he said, “Rosso has lately made comments about… mating…”

“Mating?” Scout’s eyebrows made a run for his hairline. “As in…”

He made a crude gesture with both hands and Tennyson snorted. “Oui, as in that. He knows as well as anyone else that there are no… procreative opportunities here, but that doesn’t seem to matter. I believe the RED Scout has fallen afoul of him at least once, but from what he’s said, I think he may have set his eyes on…”

——

SCOUT HUNT

[...]

The cheery triple beep of a level three sentry echoed up from the second floor of the warehouse, along with Tex’s not-so-apologetic, “Sorry boys!”

“Bite me, Hardhat,” Blue called through the hole in the floor, leaning back against the wall with a groan. He’d lost his hat at some point in the last hour or so, and he looked as spent as Red was starting to feel. Red had never really considered how much energy it took to run for his life for almost six hours straight. Dying sucked, but at least respawn was rejuvenating in its own way. This “passive healing” shit just wasn’t cutting it.

[...]

“No, shut up and fuckin’ listen t’me,” Blue growled, jabbing Red sharply in the chest. “They’re gonna start tryin’ to smoke us outta here if we don’t move soon; they have to or they lose without even tryin’. Yer smaller than me, and y’got yer Bonk. Y’just gotta fuckin’ book it soon as I start gettin’ blasted, and find somewhere to fuckin’ hide. They’ll have a harder time findin’ you than they would me, and y’just gotta keep away from ’em for ten more minutes. Long as ya don’t get yerself fuckin’ killed, I’ll respawn back in and we fuckin’ win. Easy shit.”

[...]

“You better not fuckin’ die, chucklenuts,” Blue said, stepping up to the edge of the hole leading to the lower floors. He took a deep breath, grimacing, and shut his eyes. “Ahhh, this is gonna fuckin’ suck.”

Red cracked and chugged his Bonk so he wouldn’t have to watch Blue take the step over the edge, but he could hear the all-too-triumphant beeps of the sentry below before the air was filled with nothing but machine-gun fire and explosions. He didn’t hesitate. The Bonk wouldn’t have let him even if he’d wanted to: the now-familiar, exhilarating rush made him feel like he’d explode if he stood still.

[...]

Everyone turned at the soft groan behind them, and there was Scout, falling forward to his knees but looking otherwise perfectly fine. Spy was at his side in a second, alternating between bitter and soothing mutters as he checked him over, and Sniper quickly joined him, giving Scout a clap on the back. For once, Scout offered no complaints about the fussing; with his head hanging, eyes closed, and shoulders slumped, he looked completely exhausted.

“S’still today?” he mumbled, finally brushing away Spy’s hands when he started to pull away his cap. Sniper smiled and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Still today. Siren just went,” he said. “Freckles zipped right on back to his side as soon as ya dropped down. Guess no one over there was able t’nip ’im.”

Scout nodded, a small smile touching his lips. “Knew the li’l fucker could do it…” He laid a hand against his forehead and let out a long breath. “Fuck, m’tired…”

[...]

“Yo, Hardhat.” Engie turned to catch the grim smile Scout gave him. “Yer daughters? Second they turn eighteen, I am all over that shit. Fuckin’ count on it.”

“Wha- Hey- Hell no, boy! Disproportionate response!” Engie yelped and sputtered as Spy helped Scout deeper into the base, starting to take a step after them. He stopped when Sniper chuckled and patted him on the shoulder, though.