fic: Inkmates
Aug. 28th, 2016 02:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Inkmates
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Scout/Miss Pauling
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 5739
Author's note: Based on
this tumblr post/headcanon thing. There actually was a lot of deleted lines from the Meet The Scout video, where he was quite a bit more aggressive and angry at the Director, interestingly enough.
The "Jacket" conversation is semi-canon. It's paraphrased from an in-character AMA that Nathan Vetterlein, Scout's voice actor did. The question was What's your favorite thing about Miss Pauling?
The first regular use of chlorine for potable water treatment was at Jersey City's Boonton Reservoir, in Boonton, New Jersey in 1908.
Canon-typical violence. I mean, it's TF2 fic. I don't think I've gotten through one without copious amounts of gore.
Soulbonding tattoo AU, go! o/
Miss Pauling had never fully trusted the Ink.
Even as the phenomenon had been thoroughly studied, the source had never been found. Some said it was God, or some other mystical force, from fairies to aliens to past lives. A tattoo would appear either at birth, or sometime during childhood. A phrase, or word. They would seem illogical, but every single time, it would turn out to be the first thing said by their Inkmate. Most people who found their Inkmates had happy, long marriages. Even those that divorced would often get back together, as if they were drawn together, like magnets.
But while the rest of her class was holding out their wrists to reveal Inked messages and giggling amongst themselves as they daydreamed who this person would be, she kept her Ink to herself.
Her Ink had come earlier than she could remember. Across her back in a rough scrawl, like someone had written it with a trembling hand. It came when swear words were still gasp worthy, and she could barely even dare to speak aloud what it said. Man, what a jackass. So how you doin, Miss Pauling? Hey, you ever seen me with my shirt off, 'cause it is awesome! It brought more confusion than romantic daydreams. Why would her first conversation with her Inkmate be about how someone was a jackass? Why was he asking if she'd seen him shirtless? Why would he call her 'miss' and not by her first name? And most of all, why would she take stock in a destiny which apparently wedded her off to someone who sounded like some kind of possible serial nudist?
For over twenty years, she spent more time with work than dates, and pushed the thought of her Ink to the back of her mind. She had a few boyfriends, a few girlfriends; none lasted, not with fate and someone else waiting for them. Her job took up almost all her time, but she was good at it. She'd never dream that she'd be belt sanding the prints off corpses; the ad hadn't been kidding when they said challenging out of doors work.
But the pay was good.
And she forgot all about her so-called destiny, until the day she was assigned a more permanent position in badlands of New Mexico, and the tattoo began to burn like an ember under her skin.
*
Scout was sure he was the only person in the history of ever who didn't have any Ink show up. Sometimes these things take time, his Ma had said. So he waited patiently, while everyone around him got their Ink. Some of them found each other and paired off young, others kept waiting. But everyone had some hint of who they'd find--the first words that person ever said to them.
It wasn't like he was a hopeless romantic. Really, he was having a blast flirting with any girl who crossed his path. But it galled at him, thinking he was the only guy in the world who didn't have an Inkmate. All these girls he kissed would go and find someone else in their lives. Everyone else he knew had someone out there–everyone but him.
Sweetie, sometimes they don't work. I mean, mine has something in French, and I still married your father. He was my Inkmate, even if we didn't match. I'd like to think some French girl has 'You're a sight for sore eyes, Colleen O'Shea,' on her arm and is utterly confused.
Still, it wasn't any comfort.
He'd pass girls with their Ink down their arms, across their wrists, their shoulders and necks. Every visible place he'd memorize the messages, like love letters to other people. Each time he'd study and see things like Excuse me, have you met Mr. Jones? or Did you know the history behind Albright library? It's really quite fascinating. These were all windows into worlds he'd never know, no matter how many flirty glances or quick smiles he gave the girls. They were always looking over their shoulders for someone else who would just say the right words, the ones Scout never could have for anyone.
In a world of people who fit just right, in a world of interlocking hands, Scout was nothing but reaching, nothing but that one unmatchable piece.
And no matter how much bragging he did, how fast he ran, or how he hard he tried, he couldn't wish the Ink on him.
He'd tried. No words had ever came.
*
The day he met her, he quite literally, hit a wall. He didn't even notice the pain for seconds, because all he could see was her. It was practically a minute, when she was long past the window until the pain even hit. He could taste blood in his dry mouth. A split lip, a few new bruises that would purple along his elbow and arm.
His first thought was holy shit . The second was damn
The third one, which came much later, after bandages and much heckling from the 'not so good doctor' Man, I've really got to up my game.
He remained in a haze for day. New bruises sprung up all on his body. Instead of going to Medic for a quick heal, he kept them. Every time he rubbed the tender skin, he remembered her.
*
Of course, the first thing he noticed was those sweet curves, but the more he tried to talk to her, the less he got through. She worked harder than anybody he'd ever known, and because of it, he never had to worry about dying away in jail, or getting caught. She'd bury every body, forge the papers, or whatever the hell they needed. She was more mysterious than Spy, but all he wanted to do was unravel her. And kiss her, plenty of that, too.
It took days to even learn her last name, to know anything other than she was the assistant in purple. Somebody real high ranking, who worked up there with the Voice.
Somebody who he definitely wanted to see again.
Then, there was a little flicker in his. Ear piece. He nearly tripped down an incline when he heard her there. Scout, Miss Pauling here. Here's the contract. He couldn't even speak. All he could do was nod.
Uh...you know that people can't actually see you nodding on the phone, right? I can see you because I'm behind the cameras right now. Just as a note for next time. The details will be landing in a moment. Don't forget to destroy them. The phone clicked before he could say a word.
Not many things had ever made him speechless in his life. Her, her, and that the Impossible Dream, 1968, when the Sox came so close to winning the pennant.
An envelope fluttered down from the sky. He looked back, and wondered if she could see him, if she could feel this too. He carefully pulled out the documents. Coffee spattered across the side. Kill so and so---easy. So easy, he could've done this when he was in diapers. Scout stared down at the neatly typed script, her name signed in neat squiggles at the end. It smelled like her perfume. Flowers and something that smelled like desserts and nostalgia and summer, and every happy day he'd ever known.
That was when he hit a metaphorical wall. Everything changed from that point. No more trips out, and when he went to fried chicken joints, it was actually for the chicken.
The phone had long gone silence, but Scout finally spoke.
"Yeah, I got you, Miss Pauling. You don't gotta worry about a thing. I'll get 'em all."
*
And he did. He set new records, he'd made whole piles of bodies. Hell, he was half surprised he wasn't leaving a trail of flames with how fast he was going. Just in case she might be watching, he'd put on the best show she'd ever seen. Scout would pace the rooms, waiting for the call. Fingers tensed, his breath caught. This was the closest he'd ever gotten to her. Trying to get ahold of her was like trying to scale a mountain with both hands tied together. She was always behind the phones, behind the classified doors, behind the cameras, and always just out of reach.
Except one day, she came out into the light of the badlands summer, this time with a cameraman. Sure, Scout had spent plenty of time in his life practicing for the inevitable point when his fame really cashed in, and everyone would realize what he'd been telling them all along.
The fact that she was the one to finally realize, and bring the cameraman (even if the guy was a douche of the first order) to jumpstart all the movies, the lights and everyone listening to him, it only made it sweeter. Though nothing was as sweet as her behind it all, taking note after note on the things he said.
*
Her Ink had been especially warm as of late. It burned against her back, but not in a painful way. She'd put her fingers to her back and feel the sparks there, like a foreboding of a coming storm. All she could think was that if The Director was her Inkmate, she'd become a black widow and kill him herself, fate be damned.
But a few minutes with him gave her relief. He was far too pretentious, and he wouldn't remove his dark clothes even in the unrelenting New Mexico noon, though she could see a small sentence in French in cursive Ink over his pinkie finger. He'd never be caught dead saying the sorts of things her tattoo said, anyways.
Several of the mercenaries had been interviewed, and the ensuing clean up ensured that they were way behind schedule. She couldn't fathom how he could take that much thick black clothing in this heat, but he hadn't taken any of the chances to change out. Apparently in his world, clothes trumped not dying of heatstroke. It would hardly matter how comfortable the last hours of his life were.
She tilted her head as he stood up. Tall, thin, and with a playful smirk. He pulled his cap off to push his fingers through his light hair. She studied him a moment longer, the way the light caressed the line of his angular jaw, the rakish turn of his lips. His shirt hung loose across broad shoulders. The red sleeves were rolled up to reveal more of his arms.
The heat was obviously getting to her. And the Ink was only making her more lightheaded. She stepped towards the shade of the camper van.
"So," Scout said.
"Yes?" the Director said. He phrased everything like it was a personal inconvenience.
"You doin' the filmin' thing? Because I am one-hundred percent ready for this thing. I got the movie star looks, the sculpted bod of a pro athelete, and the charms--the charms like you wouldn't believe."
In just one word, he'd solidified that his ego was roughly about the size of Texas, or maybe Mars.
"Tell me about yourself," the director said.
Scout slowly smiled. "Where do I begin?"
"The beginning," the director said coolly.
"Well, I was born in the South side of Boston--"
*
After over five hours of the sun glinting off her glasses, Miss Pauling had a dull headache throbbing at her temples, and the day wasn't even over yet. The shade from the camper had long gone. Sweat dripped down her back and gathered across her forehead.
Even after all these months, she still hadn't quite gotten used to the dry climate, the sand always against her skin, snuck into her shoes and pantyhose until every step grated.
She checked her clipboard again. In a few hours, she'd be able to 'take out the trash' as she'd happily put on her list. The pretentious whining of the director had long ago put her past her breaking point, until her fingers longed to take ahold of her gun and put him out of her misery.
Unfortunately, she still needed him for a few more videos. One which would might take days more to finish, just because of how much the mercenaries put them behind schedule. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. It was going to be a long day.
They'd taken a lunch break, and Scout had managed to keep talking between bites throughout the entire time. His piece was going to be an editing nightmare. And knowing how the Administer tended to handle things, it would probably be dropped on her desk.
"...More of a mentor to the rest of the team, you know? I see how they could do their jobs better? It don't matter how busy I am. I will drop what I'm doin' and tell them. And why? I'll tell you why--"
The Director put his head in his hands and sighed. "We ran out of film five hours ago."
Scout talked right over him. "Because I'm a team player. I'm probably the best player on this team--"
"We ran out of film five hours ago."
"That's okay, you can go buy more. I got tons more to say. We'll wait here for you." He pulled his cap down, with a playful smirk. He moved so quickly, she hadn't seen him come closer to the fence. He leaned in. His arm was draped over the fence behind them. The first touch of his skin made her gasp. She flushed red across her cheeks.
"Man, what a jackass. So how you doin', Miss Pauling? Hey, you ever seen me with my shirt off, 'cause it is awesome!"
For once, she was so surprised she couldn't even respond. She blushed harder, and gripped the clipboard tighter. Her Ink tingled on her back. No one had ever told her that the Ink reacted when that person came this near. No one ever said it felt like a second heartbeat.
"I found more film," The Director said. He grimaced and held out the reel.
"Yes--I'll get that," Miss Pauling said. She broke away from the overwhelming feelings cresting over her, and reached for the reel.
She could still feel the beating of both her heart, and the Ink.
*
Scout ended up in the infirmary with heatstroke, serious sunburns, a sore jaw, and an ache not even Medic with all his extra organs that 'fell off a truck' and fancy doctor machines could cure. Nobody could hold that clipboard with the kind of grace she did. Being around her was a punch to the solar plexus, and all he wanted was more.
He'd kissed plenty of girls, all who were always waiting to see who else would come, someone who they really wanted to spend their time with. Not just a guy to pass the time until the Inkmate came. Each kiss might have well have been stolen, every other word from the girl would be just another lead up to a goodbye.
But the thought of Miss Pauling looking past him and thinking of who else would come, that was like a punch to the chest.
He'd never seen her Ink, and for that he was glad. He'd traced the lines of the Ink, the line meant for somebody else. But he couldn't take having the words he'd never get to say memorized, stuck in his mind like a brand.
*
She could feel him rooms away, just by the heat that spread across her back, like someone was tracing the words across her skin. When he expired in a match, she felt her skin grow cold, and a sudden tightness in her chest. She would have to count down the seconds until Respawn brought him back. Only then could she breathe easy once again.
She spent late nights pouring over his files. A modest arrest record. Armed robbery, assault and battery. She'd gotten him off of the later charges with a bit of finagling.
In spare moments--usually between bites of late lunch--she rewatched the tapes. Today, it was a late dinner at almost 2AM. Warmed up ramen and coffee to prepare for another shift. The reel shone across the painted brick wall. Bullet holes peppered the side, making the picture come across uneven. Through many viewings, she had started to notice the details. Even as he mugged for the camera, he kept looking above the lens, towards her. She hadn't even caught sight of all his attempts to catch her eye, not with so many things to check off, and homicidal fantasies about the Director to indulge herself in.
So many questions that her younger self had wondered were answered. Yet, through his posturing, the bicep kiss, the five hours of building himself up, something charming shone through. She found herself smiling between sips of coffee as he talked on about hurting people.
He might be a braggart, but there certainly was a grain of truth in that part. She'd seen him beat enemies to a bloody pulp.She chuckled at the memory at how thorough he'd been at her last contract.
Her Ink warmed at the thought of him. She rested her palm across her back. "Honestly, this is ridiculous," she said. "I'm supposed to take the advice of some tattoo?"
Even said tattoos had incredible accuracy, even as she felt her skin burn, she was still a tad skeptical, as the truth stared her straight in the face.
The only response was the loop of Scout's reel playing on.
*
The steam of the shower had fogged over the mirrors. The dull white always smelled like the whole damn place had been flooded with buckets of bleach. The stink of chlorine always tickled his nose here, and reminded Scout rubbed at an ache in his shoulder, and began to soothe it away through the hot stream of water. Other mercenaries had all taken their stations. Just beside him, he heard a curse, and the glass clink that rolled over towards his stall.
"Don't mind me, lad," he said. Demoman bent down and retrieved his bottle. He paused as he rose up, as if he were teetering with dizziness. A common thing with him, especially after a long match.
"Ey, Lad, you got a new tattoo on yae ass? Don't tell me yae are goin' on drunken adventures without me."
"What? I ain't got no―"
"Right there on ye back."
He patted Scout on the shoulders. Scout turned around, and his eyes widened.
"What the hell, that's not my ass!"
"Depth perception--my one weakness," Demoman said.
Scout desperately felt down his back. How had he missed this through all the times he'd mooned people, all the times he'd taken dares from Demoman and streaked through the compound, or every girl he'd been the in-between for.
But he could feel it, like braille, right at the the small of his back.
"You're right, I can't believe I didn't notice it before!"
Scout laughed, giddy and full of so much more than he could say. There really was someone out there waiting for him. He wouldn't be the one person in the entire world who nobody really wanted. He wasn't broken. he wasn't broken.
"I'm Inked, baby! What does it say? What does it say??
"Can't make sense of it, boyo. It's the tiniest thing I've ever seen. Like the fine print on those contracts," Demoman said.
"Quick, anybody got a magnifyin' glass! Engie, get your robo-crap over here, I got Ink to read!"
Scout ran through the shower. He held up his towel, waving like it was a torch.
"C'mon, this is an emergency, we gotta find out what it says!"
Scout rushed through the gray walls and gray stalls. Even the threat of slipping didn't matter. Not when he had Ink.
Besides, Medic would heal anything that he broke in a few minutes.
"Relax, now. Some of us are tryin' to soap off," Engineer said.
"I always thought I didn't have any Ink!"
The doors of the showers opened, and a silhouette appeared in the steam.
"No Ink, or Ink suddenly appearing? This is fascinating," Medic said. Unlike the others, he hadn't even undressed yet, and was still spattered with a considerable amount of blood. In fact, Scout thought he was bloodier than when he came back from the match. Medic was inevitably the last the wash up, due to he complex Medic crap he had to do with his equipment.
"This can wait! C'mon, doc, we gotta figure this out!"
Scout nearly fell into the wall in his attempt to step into a clean pair of pants. Underwear and shirts could wait, Scout didn't even care if his heels got burned walking outside, or if he got cactus spines in his toes. If it meant he'd find out what it said just a little sooner, all that pain would be worth it.
Doves fluttered up, with indignant coos as the door burst open. The flimsy table shuddered beneath him. On jars he could see--things in bottles. He couldn't tell if Medic was getting his Halloween decorating done early, or those really were hellish visions of pickled organs, or even worse.
Knowing him, it was probably both.
As Medic pulled off his old gloves, he saw a hint of Ink. But it was made up of some sort of letters that Scout had never seen before. He squinted, but he couldn't make it out.
"You got tattoos of your own, doc?"
"This?" Medic lifted up his wrist. "It's Cyrillic."
"You datin' an alien, doc?"
Medic laughed. "An alien? Why not?"
"Whoa, you went across the universe to get some booty. I respect that."
Medic chuckled and shook his head. "You are an interesting one, that's for sure," Medic said.
"Hell yeah, I'm interestin'," Scout said.
As Medic fiddled with some kind of machinery, Scout felt a damper on all the highs of the day. How was he supposed to tell Miss Pauling that someone was waiting out there for him? Sure they had never dated, and he'd only exchanged a few words with her, despite his best attempts, but he was sure there was something between them. Thick tension, like Lois and Clark, Batman and Catwoman, The Flash and Iris West--They were a pair of spandex away from having a real romance, just like the comic books.
"You say your Ink came late?" Medic said.
"I never saw it. And you can back me up, doc. You seen my ass tons of times. In fact, I mooned you just last weekend," Scout said.
"I've never heard of a case of Ink appearing late in life," Medic said. He rubbed at his chin. "Well, we could cut it off, and put it under a microscope," Medic said hopefully.
"What? Like hell you're cuttin' me up! Just bring out one of those doc things. I know you got tons."
Magnified several hundred times, the words were clear.
Scout, Miss Pauling here. Here's the contract.
Scout ran over the Ink with his hand. He could barely manage anything but a few sputtered words, and her name. He almost fell off the examination table.
"That's---that's..."
His mind was full of so many things at once. Miss Pauling and him really were meant to be. He wouldn't have to tell her his Inkmate was someone else, and their romance to rival Batman and Catwoman was canceled.
Scout reached out to the screen. It wasn't close enough, but he remembered that moment. The first contract call. He'd waited to hear who would be on the ear piece--hoping, wishing it would be her. And that first contract was so unbelievably sweet. To have her undivided attention for five whole seconds.
Every time he felt down--his team lost, be it RED or the Red Sox--he'd just think of those five seconds. And everything was a little better.
"Good news, I take it?" Medic said.
"Oh, the best friggin' news I could ever have," Scout said.
He jumped off the cold metal examining table. It wobbled, almost turning over in his haste. He made a rush for the door.
"Pants!" Medic called back.
"Screw pants, I gotta go tell Ma!"
In the waiting room, Demoman was sat, cradling his arm. He burst out laughing when he saw Scout.
"No pants? Ye are somethin' else, boyo."
"Don't have time!"
"Aye, I'll drink to that," Demoman said. The last thing Scout saw before he cleared the hall was Demoman lifting up his bottle of Scrumpy for a toast.
Scout rushed out without worrying about unimportant things like clothes.
He didn't care if his dick got sunburned, or all of Teufort saw the greatest sculpted masterpiece of an ass they'd never have. His ma had to know that it'd finally happened. He wouldn't be alone anymore.
"Ma!IHaveInk!It'sMissPauling!" It all came out as a stream of tangled words.
"Put your pants on," Ma said.
"How the hell---?"
"I got sources on these things. Call me back when you aren't runnin' around like a heathen. You don't wanna scare her off," she said.
"More like draw her right to my perfect body," Scout said.
"Pants. Now," came the terse voice over the phone."
"All right, all right. I'm callin' right back, though. I gotta tell you everythin'! See you in just a few! Love you, Ma!"
Without waiting for her response (or further scolding) Scout rushed back to the showers.
*
Miss Pauling watched from the cameras. She nearly spilled her coffee as Scout ran naked and shrieking with happiness back towards the showers.
She could only stare at the screen, the door still wobbled from the speed. A few moments later he ran back towards the phones, except this time he was clothed.
She took two more sips of coffee. It came to mind that not only was this not the strangest thing she'd seen a mercenary do this week, it also wasn't a dealbreaker. Not with thighs and an ass like that, that's for sure.
*
There was only one way to really tell. She'd set this to rest once and for all.
Scout's eyes lit up as he saw her. She couldn't tell if he'd known already, or he simply had a crush. Perhaps he'd always known, long before her. Maybe they'd been on uneven points of finding each other.
"You needed somethin', Miss Pauling?"
"We're too close to the base, you should keep your voice down," Miss Pauling said.
"Oh, bugs and stuff?" Scout said.
She nodded.
"All right, let's blow this Popsicle joint!"
He climbed up into the truck, and slammed the door behind him, not out of anger, but pure excitement. He couldn't sit still as they traversed the long dirt roads and scenic views of sand, rocks, and more sand that made the badlands. His knee jostled all the way. Her Ink tingled. It felt amorphous, like not just a tattoo, but a painting of Ink, one that formed into a compass pointing straight to him.
Only when they'd reached far into the desert, on a barely perceivable trail did she stop the car.
"The air conditioner is broken--the heater too, but that's not really a problem in this weather," she said.
Parked under a rock cropping, they had some decent shade at least. She'd just checked, and it wasn't a fake rock with a radio tower to catch the men spilling secrets.
"You need extra cactus spines or somethin', Miss Pauling?"
She didn't respond. She took a breath, one, two, three, I can do this, and grabbed his t-shirt. Before he could say another word, she pulled him down to her level, and to her lips.
The first brush of skin was electric, warmer than anything she'd ever known. Forehead to forehead, they lingered, stealing breaths before they leaned in again for more.
If a single kiss left her this breathless, she couldn't even imagine what fucking him would be like.
"Holy shit," Scout said.
"I know," she said.
"Just--Holy shit. That blows any kiss I ever had just out of the friggin' water."
She nodded. She could barely describe the feeling in words. It was magnetic, it was magic.
"Hey, listen--I have Ink, Miss Pauling. I really have Ink," Scout said.
"Everyone does," she said.
"No, no, you don't get it. I never had Ink. Spent all my life thinkin' that I wouldn't have any, but it was just small, so nobody saw it. Real fine print. Kinda fittin', considerin' all that contract work..."
"Your entire life?" she said.
"All of it."
"You spent all that time thinking there'd be nobody for you?" Miss Pauling said. Unintended concern filled her voice. Scout bent his head and nodded. Despite his brave face, she could see just a hint of past hurts.
"But now, you do..." Miss Pauling said softly.
He broke into a big grin. "I finally do! So, what's yours?"
"I think you know already. It's some asshole asking if I'd seen him without his shirt," she said dryly.
"Me! I'm that asshole!" Scout lifted his arm in triumph, only to draw back with a cry of pain after he punched the top of the truck.
She broke into laughter.
"Scout, you--"
"I don't even feel it. Though you could kiss it better, maybe."
She bent to press her lips to his hand.
"Feels like a jolt to the system. I didn't know it could be like this," Scout said.
"Me either," she said.
"I spent so long thinkin' I was goin' to be like this forever. Always second best. I'm so, so, so glad it's you. Like, you have no idea. From the minute I met you, I was thinkin' how fuckin' sad it was that you'd have Ink for someone else, that you'd just be waitin' for someone else, like every other girl I ever knew. I just kept thinkin' how sad I'd be if I had to tell you all this stuff between us couldn't happen. I mean, you--you're like my jacket."
Miss Pauling's brow creased. "Your... jacket?"
"You ain't just pretty, you're smart and stuff. You keep me safe and warm, and I know you'll never let me rot in jail. I never gotta worry, because I know you'll be there, bein' reliable and stuff. Filing papers, cleanin' up. You're warm, comfy, stylish, you keep the wind away. Like a jacket."
She smiled. All his clumsy metaphors had doubled back into something charming, and surprisingly sincere, considering his bravado. But, then, no wonder. How isolated must he have felt all those years without a tattoo as everyone else eagerly waited for how their lives would turn.
She hadn't understood her Ink, but at least she'd never felt broken.
She reached out and took his hand.
"The truth is, I don't even know where to start with this. I didn't have a lot of relationships, and the ones I had were a long time ago. I'm kind of a workaholic, you see," she said.
Each girlfriend or boyfriend had found their Inkmates, and she had been cast aside. Some even met them as they were out on a date so she could only watch as the realization of the words she'd read across their skin came true. With waiters, passers by, she would only be able to watch as they became a part of something more.
"Me neither. Everybody was just waitin' for somebody else, and I didn't have nobody waitin' for me, except I did. Doc wonders if maybe it came later in life. I like that idea, like I wanted you to be my Inkmate, so you were."
He squeezed her hand. His calloused thumb traced a line across her skin.
She looked down to this spark, this point of contact. She'd watched people she loved walk off with someone due to a few words scrawled on their skin by an unknown hand. Now she knew the deeper feeling, the rush and spark of his touch.
"No, it wasn't that. I've had my Ink for a very, very, very long time. It came when I was quite young," she said.
"You--you did? You and me was always meant to be? Makes sense, seein' you that first time was like a punch to the chest. I couldn't breathe for about three minutes. Wait, wait, I gotta get outside--"
He let go of her hand with some reluctance, and leapt out the truck. In the process, he almost fell on his face, but ever resourceful, Scout managed to land on his feet. He jumped up, and let out a cheer.
"I'm goin' to get to know your name! And kiss you! And like, do all this Inkmate stuff like---"
"Cohabitation, marriage, joint tax returns--things like that."
"Yeah! We are goin' to file so many taxes together! So damn many!"
She laughed. "Taxes?"
Scout let out a whoop. "I hope you can do taxes, because I sure as hell can't!"
"I can make so many loopholes that the IRS will pay you for fifty children you don't have," she said.
"Speakin' of kids, that too! We gotta do that! Enough for a whole team!"
"That comes after the taxes," Miss Pauling said dryly. Scout hopped outside of the shady spot, until he was leaping through the rising heat mirages.
"Come on back in, you'll get sunburned," she said.
"I don't care! I gotta shake this out!"
"I can't kiss you out there," Miss Pauling said.
"--I'll just have to learn the art of car dancin'!"
He crawled back in, and to her lips again.
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Scout/Miss Pauling
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 5739
Author's note: Based on
this tumblr post/headcanon thing. There actually was a lot of deleted lines from the Meet The Scout video, where he was quite a bit more aggressive and angry at the Director, interestingly enough.
The "Jacket" conversation is semi-canon. It's paraphrased from an in-character AMA that Nathan Vetterlein, Scout's voice actor did. The question was What's your favorite thing about Miss Pauling?
The first regular use of chlorine for potable water treatment was at Jersey City's Boonton Reservoir, in Boonton, New Jersey in 1908.
Canon-typical violence. I mean, it's TF2 fic. I don't think I've gotten through one without copious amounts of gore.
Soulbonding tattoo AU, go! o/
Miss Pauling had never fully trusted the Ink.
Even as the phenomenon had been thoroughly studied, the source had never been found. Some said it was God, or some other mystical force, from fairies to aliens to past lives. A tattoo would appear either at birth, or sometime during childhood. A phrase, or word. They would seem illogical, but every single time, it would turn out to be the first thing said by their Inkmate. Most people who found their Inkmates had happy, long marriages. Even those that divorced would often get back together, as if they were drawn together, like magnets.
But while the rest of her class was holding out their wrists to reveal Inked messages and giggling amongst themselves as they daydreamed who this person would be, she kept her Ink to herself.
Her Ink had come earlier than she could remember. Across her back in a rough scrawl, like someone had written it with a trembling hand. It came when swear words were still gasp worthy, and she could barely even dare to speak aloud what it said. Man, what a jackass. So how you doin, Miss Pauling? Hey, you ever seen me with my shirt off, 'cause it is awesome! It brought more confusion than romantic daydreams. Why would her first conversation with her Inkmate be about how someone was a jackass? Why was he asking if she'd seen him shirtless? Why would he call her 'miss' and not by her first name? And most of all, why would she take stock in a destiny which apparently wedded her off to someone who sounded like some kind of possible serial nudist?
For over twenty years, she spent more time with work than dates, and pushed the thought of her Ink to the back of her mind. She had a few boyfriends, a few girlfriends; none lasted, not with fate and someone else waiting for them. Her job took up almost all her time, but she was good at it. She'd never dream that she'd be belt sanding the prints off corpses; the ad hadn't been kidding when they said challenging out of doors work.
But the pay was good.
And she forgot all about her so-called destiny, until the day she was assigned a more permanent position in badlands of New Mexico, and the tattoo began to burn like an ember under her skin.
*
Scout was sure he was the only person in the history of ever who didn't have any Ink show up. Sometimes these things take time, his Ma had said. So he waited patiently, while everyone around him got their Ink. Some of them found each other and paired off young, others kept waiting. But everyone had some hint of who they'd find--the first words that person ever said to them.
It wasn't like he was a hopeless romantic. Really, he was having a blast flirting with any girl who crossed his path. But it galled at him, thinking he was the only guy in the world who didn't have an Inkmate. All these girls he kissed would go and find someone else in their lives. Everyone else he knew had someone out there–everyone but him.
Sweetie, sometimes they don't work. I mean, mine has something in French, and I still married your father. He was my Inkmate, even if we didn't match. I'd like to think some French girl has 'You're a sight for sore eyes, Colleen O'Shea,' on her arm and is utterly confused.
Still, it wasn't any comfort.
He'd pass girls with their Ink down their arms, across their wrists, their shoulders and necks. Every visible place he'd memorize the messages, like love letters to other people. Each time he'd study and see things like Excuse me, have you met Mr. Jones? or Did you know the history behind Albright library? It's really quite fascinating. These were all windows into worlds he'd never know, no matter how many flirty glances or quick smiles he gave the girls. They were always looking over their shoulders for someone else who would just say the right words, the ones Scout never could have for anyone.
In a world of people who fit just right, in a world of interlocking hands, Scout was nothing but reaching, nothing but that one unmatchable piece.
And no matter how much bragging he did, how fast he ran, or how he hard he tried, he couldn't wish the Ink on him.
He'd tried. No words had ever came.
*
The day he met her, he quite literally, hit a wall. He didn't even notice the pain for seconds, because all he could see was her. It was practically a minute, when she was long past the window until the pain even hit. He could taste blood in his dry mouth. A split lip, a few new bruises that would purple along his elbow and arm.
His first thought was holy shit . The second was damn
The third one, which came much later, after bandages and much heckling from the 'not so good doctor' Man, I've really got to up my game.
He remained in a haze for day. New bruises sprung up all on his body. Instead of going to Medic for a quick heal, he kept them. Every time he rubbed the tender skin, he remembered her.
*
Of course, the first thing he noticed was those sweet curves, but the more he tried to talk to her, the less he got through. She worked harder than anybody he'd ever known, and because of it, he never had to worry about dying away in jail, or getting caught. She'd bury every body, forge the papers, or whatever the hell they needed. She was more mysterious than Spy, but all he wanted to do was unravel her. And kiss her, plenty of that, too.
It took days to even learn her last name, to know anything other than she was the assistant in purple. Somebody real high ranking, who worked up there with the Voice.
Somebody who he definitely wanted to see again.
Then, there was a little flicker in his. Ear piece. He nearly tripped down an incline when he heard her there. Scout, Miss Pauling here. Here's the contract. He couldn't even speak. All he could do was nod.
Uh...you know that people can't actually see you nodding on the phone, right? I can see you because I'm behind the cameras right now. Just as a note for next time. The details will be landing in a moment. Don't forget to destroy them. The phone clicked before he could say a word.
Not many things had ever made him speechless in his life. Her, her, and that the Impossible Dream, 1968, when the Sox came so close to winning the pennant.
An envelope fluttered down from the sky. He looked back, and wondered if she could see him, if she could feel this too. He carefully pulled out the documents. Coffee spattered across the side. Kill so and so---easy. So easy, he could've done this when he was in diapers. Scout stared down at the neatly typed script, her name signed in neat squiggles at the end. It smelled like her perfume. Flowers and something that smelled like desserts and nostalgia and summer, and every happy day he'd ever known.
That was when he hit a metaphorical wall. Everything changed from that point. No more trips out, and when he went to fried chicken joints, it was actually for the chicken.
The phone had long gone silence, but Scout finally spoke.
"Yeah, I got you, Miss Pauling. You don't gotta worry about a thing. I'll get 'em all."
*
And he did. He set new records, he'd made whole piles of bodies. Hell, he was half surprised he wasn't leaving a trail of flames with how fast he was going. Just in case she might be watching, he'd put on the best show she'd ever seen. Scout would pace the rooms, waiting for the call. Fingers tensed, his breath caught. This was the closest he'd ever gotten to her. Trying to get ahold of her was like trying to scale a mountain with both hands tied together. She was always behind the phones, behind the classified doors, behind the cameras, and always just out of reach.
Except one day, she came out into the light of the badlands summer, this time with a cameraman. Sure, Scout had spent plenty of time in his life practicing for the inevitable point when his fame really cashed in, and everyone would realize what he'd been telling them all along.
The fact that she was the one to finally realize, and bring the cameraman (even if the guy was a douche of the first order) to jumpstart all the movies, the lights and everyone listening to him, it only made it sweeter. Though nothing was as sweet as her behind it all, taking note after note on the things he said.
*
Her Ink had been especially warm as of late. It burned against her back, but not in a painful way. She'd put her fingers to her back and feel the sparks there, like a foreboding of a coming storm. All she could think was that if The Director was her Inkmate, she'd become a black widow and kill him herself, fate be damned.
But a few minutes with him gave her relief. He was far too pretentious, and he wouldn't remove his dark clothes even in the unrelenting New Mexico noon, though she could see a small sentence in French in cursive Ink over his pinkie finger. He'd never be caught dead saying the sorts of things her tattoo said, anyways.
Several of the mercenaries had been interviewed, and the ensuing clean up ensured that they were way behind schedule. She couldn't fathom how he could take that much thick black clothing in this heat, but he hadn't taken any of the chances to change out. Apparently in his world, clothes trumped not dying of heatstroke. It would hardly matter how comfortable the last hours of his life were.
She tilted her head as he stood up. Tall, thin, and with a playful smirk. He pulled his cap off to push his fingers through his light hair. She studied him a moment longer, the way the light caressed the line of his angular jaw, the rakish turn of his lips. His shirt hung loose across broad shoulders. The red sleeves were rolled up to reveal more of his arms.
The heat was obviously getting to her. And the Ink was only making her more lightheaded. She stepped towards the shade of the camper van.
"So," Scout said.
"Yes?" the Director said. He phrased everything like it was a personal inconvenience.
"You doin' the filmin' thing? Because I am one-hundred percent ready for this thing. I got the movie star looks, the sculpted bod of a pro athelete, and the charms--the charms like you wouldn't believe."
In just one word, he'd solidified that his ego was roughly about the size of Texas, or maybe Mars.
"Tell me about yourself," the director said.
Scout slowly smiled. "Where do I begin?"
"The beginning," the director said coolly.
"Well, I was born in the South side of Boston--"
*
After over five hours of the sun glinting off her glasses, Miss Pauling had a dull headache throbbing at her temples, and the day wasn't even over yet. The shade from the camper had long gone. Sweat dripped down her back and gathered across her forehead.
Even after all these months, she still hadn't quite gotten used to the dry climate, the sand always against her skin, snuck into her shoes and pantyhose until every step grated.
She checked her clipboard again. In a few hours, she'd be able to 'take out the trash' as she'd happily put on her list. The pretentious whining of the director had long ago put her past her breaking point, until her fingers longed to take ahold of her gun and put him out of her misery.
Unfortunately, she still needed him for a few more videos. One which would might take days more to finish, just because of how much the mercenaries put them behind schedule. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. It was going to be a long day.
They'd taken a lunch break, and Scout had managed to keep talking between bites throughout the entire time. His piece was going to be an editing nightmare. And knowing how the Administer tended to handle things, it would probably be dropped on her desk.
"...More of a mentor to the rest of the team, you know? I see how they could do their jobs better? It don't matter how busy I am. I will drop what I'm doin' and tell them. And why? I'll tell you why--"
The Director put his head in his hands and sighed. "We ran out of film five hours ago."
Scout talked right over him. "Because I'm a team player. I'm probably the best player on this team--"
"We ran out of film five hours ago."
"That's okay, you can go buy more. I got tons more to say. We'll wait here for you." He pulled his cap down, with a playful smirk. He moved so quickly, she hadn't seen him come closer to the fence. He leaned in. His arm was draped over the fence behind them. The first touch of his skin made her gasp. She flushed red across her cheeks.
"Man, what a jackass. So how you doin', Miss Pauling? Hey, you ever seen me with my shirt off, 'cause it is awesome!"
For once, she was so surprised she couldn't even respond. She blushed harder, and gripped the clipboard tighter. Her Ink tingled on her back. No one had ever told her that the Ink reacted when that person came this near. No one ever said it felt like a second heartbeat.
"I found more film," The Director said. He grimaced and held out the reel.
"Yes--I'll get that," Miss Pauling said. She broke away from the overwhelming feelings cresting over her, and reached for the reel.
She could still feel the beating of both her heart, and the Ink.
*
Scout ended up in the infirmary with heatstroke, serious sunburns, a sore jaw, and an ache not even Medic with all his extra organs that 'fell off a truck' and fancy doctor machines could cure. Nobody could hold that clipboard with the kind of grace she did. Being around her was a punch to the solar plexus, and all he wanted was more.
He'd kissed plenty of girls, all who were always waiting to see who else would come, someone who they really wanted to spend their time with. Not just a guy to pass the time until the Inkmate came. Each kiss might have well have been stolen, every other word from the girl would be just another lead up to a goodbye.
But the thought of Miss Pauling looking past him and thinking of who else would come, that was like a punch to the chest.
He'd never seen her Ink, and for that he was glad. He'd traced the lines of the Ink, the line meant for somebody else. But he couldn't take having the words he'd never get to say memorized, stuck in his mind like a brand.
*
She could feel him rooms away, just by the heat that spread across her back, like someone was tracing the words across her skin. When he expired in a match, she felt her skin grow cold, and a sudden tightness in her chest. She would have to count down the seconds until Respawn brought him back. Only then could she breathe easy once again.
She spent late nights pouring over his files. A modest arrest record. Armed robbery, assault and battery. She'd gotten him off of the later charges with a bit of finagling.
In spare moments--usually between bites of late lunch--she rewatched the tapes. Today, it was a late dinner at almost 2AM. Warmed up ramen and coffee to prepare for another shift. The reel shone across the painted brick wall. Bullet holes peppered the side, making the picture come across uneven. Through many viewings, she had started to notice the details. Even as he mugged for the camera, he kept looking above the lens, towards her. She hadn't even caught sight of all his attempts to catch her eye, not with so many things to check off, and homicidal fantasies about the Director to indulge herself in.
So many questions that her younger self had wondered were answered. Yet, through his posturing, the bicep kiss, the five hours of building himself up, something charming shone through. She found herself smiling between sips of coffee as he talked on about hurting people.
He might be a braggart, but there certainly was a grain of truth in that part. She'd seen him beat enemies to a bloody pulp.She chuckled at the memory at how thorough he'd been at her last contract.
Her Ink warmed at the thought of him. She rested her palm across her back. "Honestly, this is ridiculous," she said. "I'm supposed to take the advice of some tattoo?"
Even said tattoos had incredible accuracy, even as she felt her skin burn, she was still a tad skeptical, as the truth stared her straight in the face.
The only response was the loop of Scout's reel playing on.
*
The steam of the shower had fogged over the mirrors. The dull white always smelled like the whole damn place had been flooded with buckets of bleach. The stink of chlorine always tickled his nose here, and reminded Scout rubbed at an ache in his shoulder, and began to soothe it away through the hot stream of water. Other mercenaries had all taken their stations. Just beside him, he heard a curse, and the glass clink that rolled over towards his stall.
"Don't mind me, lad," he said. Demoman bent down and retrieved his bottle. He paused as he rose up, as if he were teetering with dizziness. A common thing with him, especially after a long match.
"Ey, Lad, you got a new tattoo on yae ass? Don't tell me yae are goin' on drunken adventures without me."
"What? I ain't got no―"
"Right there on ye back."
He patted Scout on the shoulders. Scout turned around, and his eyes widened.
"What the hell, that's not my ass!"
"Depth perception--my one weakness," Demoman said.
Scout desperately felt down his back. How had he missed this through all the times he'd mooned people, all the times he'd taken dares from Demoman and streaked through the compound, or every girl he'd been the in-between for.
But he could feel it, like braille, right at the the small of his back.
"You're right, I can't believe I didn't notice it before!"
Scout laughed, giddy and full of so much more than he could say. There really was someone out there waiting for him. He wouldn't be the one person in the entire world who nobody really wanted. He wasn't broken. he wasn't broken.
"I'm Inked, baby! What does it say? What does it say??
"Can't make sense of it, boyo. It's the tiniest thing I've ever seen. Like the fine print on those contracts," Demoman said.
"Quick, anybody got a magnifyin' glass! Engie, get your robo-crap over here, I got Ink to read!"
Scout ran through the shower. He held up his towel, waving like it was a torch.
"C'mon, this is an emergency, we gotta find out what it says!"
Scout rushed through the gray walls and gray stalls. Even the threat of slipping didn't matter. Not when he had Ink.
Besides, Medic would heal anything that he broke in a few minutes.
"Relax, now. Some of us are tryin' to soap off," Engineer said.
"I always thought I didn't have any Ink!"
The doors of the showers opened, and a silhouette appeared in the steam.
"No Ink, or Ink suddenly appearing? This is fascinating," Medic said. Unlike the others, he hadn't even undressed yet, and was still spattered with a considerable amount of blood. In fact, Scout thought he was bloodier than when he came back from the match. Medic was inevitably the last the wash up, due to he complex Medic crap he had to do with his equipment.
"This can wait! C'mon, doc, we gotta figure this out!"
Scout nearly fell into the wall in his attempt to step into a clean pair of pants. Underwear and shirts could wait, Scout didn't even care if his heels got burned walking outside, or if he got cactus spines in his toes. If it meant he'd find out what it said just a little sooner, all that pain would be worth it.
Doves fluttered up, with indignant coos as the door burst open. The flimsy table shuddered beneath him. On jars he could see--things in bottles. He couldn't tell if Medic was getting his Halloween decorating done early, or those really were hellish visions of pickled organs, or even worse.
Knowing him, it was probably both.
As Medic pulled off his old gloves, he saw a hint of Ink. But it was made up of some sort of letters that Scout had never seen before. He squinted, but he couldn't make it out.
"You got tattoos of your own, doc?"
"This?" Medic lifted up his wrist. "It's Cyrillic."
"You datin' an alien, doc?"
Medic laughed. "An alien? Why not?"
"Whoa, you went across the universe to get some booty. I respect that."
Medic chuckled and shook his head. "You are an interesting one, that's for sure," Medic said.
"Hell yeah, I'm interestin'," Scout said.
As Medic fiddled with some kind of machinery, Scout felt a damper on all the highs of the day. How was he supposed to tell Miss Pauling that someone was waiting out there for him? Sure they had never dated, and he'd only exchanged a few words with her, despite his best attempts, but he was sure there was something between them. Thick tension, like Lois and Clark, Batman and Catwoman, The Flash and Iris West--They were a pair of spandex away from having a real romance, just like the comic books.
"You say your Ink came late?" Medic said.
"I never saw it. And you can back me up, doc. You seen my ass tons of times. In fact, I mooned you just last weekend," Scout said.
"I've never heard of a case of Ink appearing late in life," Medic said. He rubbed at his chin. "Well, we could cut it off, and put it under a microscope," Medic said hopefully.
"What? Like hell you're cuttin' me up! Just bring out one of those doc things. I know you got tons."
Magnified several hundred times, the words were clear.
Scout, Miss Pauling here. Here's the contract.
Scout ran over the Ink with his hand. He could barely manage anything but a few sputtered words, and her name. He almost fell off the examination table.
"That's---that's..."
His mind was full of so many things at once. Miss Pauling and him really were meant to be. He wouldn't have to tell her his Inkmate was someone else, and their romance to rival Batman and Catwoman was canceled.
Scout reached out to the screen. It wasn't close enough, but he remembered that moment. The first contract call. He'd waited to hear who would be on the ear piece--hoping, wishing it would be her. And that first contract was so unbelievably sweet. To have her undivided attention for five whole seconds.
Every time he felt down--his team lost, be it RED or the Red Sox--he'd just think of those five seconds. And everything was a little better.
"Good news, I take it?" Medic said.
"Oh, the best friggin' news I could ever have," Scout said.
He jumped off the cold metal examining table. It wobbled, almost turning over in his haste. He made a rush for the door.
"Pants!" Medic called back.
"Screw pants, I gotta go tell Ma!"
In the waiting room, Demoman was sat, cradling his arm. He burst out laughing when he saw Scout.
"No pants? Ye are somethin' else, boyo."
"Don't have time!"
"Aye, I'll drink to that," Demoman said. The last thing Scout saw before he cleared the hall was Demoman lifting up his bottle of Scrumpy for a toast.
Scout rushed out without worrying about unimportant things like clothes.
He didn't care if his dick got sunburned, or all of Teufort saw the greatest sculpted masterpiece of an ass they'd never have. His ma had to know that it'd finally happened. He wouldn't be alone anymore.
"Ma!IHaveInk!It'sMissPauling!" It all came out as a stream of tangled words.
"Put your pants on," Ma said.
"How the hell---?"
"I got sources on these things. Call me back when you aren't runnin' around like a heathen. You don't wanna scare her off," she said.
"More like draw her right to my perfect body," Scout said.
"Pants. Now," came the terse voice over the phone."
"All right, all right. I'm callin' right back, though. I gotta tell you everythin'! See you in just a few! Love you, Ma!"
Without waiting for her response (or further scolding) Scout rushed back to the showers.
*
Miss Pauling watched from the cameras. She nearly spilled her coffee as Scout ran naked and shrieking with happiness back towards the showers.
She could only stare at the screen, the door still wobbled from the speed. A few moments later he ran back towards the phones, except this time he was clothed.
She took two more sips of coffee. It came to mind that not only was this not the strangest thing she'd seen a mercenary do this week, it also wasn't a dealbreaker. Not with thighs and an ass like that, that's for sure.
*
There was only one way to really tell. She'd set this to rest once and for all.
Scout's eyes lit up as he saw her. She couldn't tell if he'd known already, or he simply had a crush. Perhaps he'd always known, long before her. Maybe they'd been on uneven points of finding each other.
"You needed somethin', Miss Pauling?"
"We're too close to the base, you should keep your voice down," Miss Pauling said.
"Oh, bugs and stuff?" Scout said.
She nodded.
"All right, let's blow this Popsicle joint!"
He climbed up into the truck, and slammed the door behind him, not out of anger, but pure excitement. He couldn't sit still as they traversed the long dirt roads and scenic views of sand, rocks, and more sand that made the badlands. His knee jostled all the way. Her Ink tingled. It felt amorphous, like not just a tattoo, but a painting of Ink, one that formed into a compass pointing straight to him.
Only when they'd reached far into the desert, on a barely perceivable trail did she stop the car.
"The air conditioner is broken--the heater too, but that's not really a problem in this weather," she said.
Parked under a rock cropping, they had some decent shade at least. She'd just checked, and it wasn't a fake rock with a radio tower to catch the men spilling secrets.
"You need extra cactus spines or somethin', Miss Pauling?"
She didn't respond. She took a breath, one, two, three, I can do this, and grabbed his t-shirt. Before he could say another word, she pulled him down to her level, and to her lips.
The first brush of skin was electric, warmer than anything she'd ever known. Forehead to forehead, they lingered, stealing breaths before they leaned in again for more.
If a single kiss left her this breathless, she couldn't even imagine what fucking him would be like.
"Holy shit," Scout said.
"I know," she said.
"Just--Holy shit. That blows any kiss I ever had just out of the friggin' water."
She nodded. She could barely describe the feeling in words. It was magnetic, it was magic.
"Hey, listen--I have Ink, Miss Pauling. I really have Ink," Scout said.
"Everyone does," she said.
"No, no, you don't get it. I never had Ink. Spent all my life thinkin' that I wouldn't have any, but it was just small, so nobody saw it. Real fine print. Kinda fittin', considerin' all that contract work..."
"Your entire life?" she said.
"All of it."
"You spent all that time thinking there'd be nobody for you?" Miss Pauling said. Unintended concern filled her voice. Scout bent his head and nodded. Despite his brave face, she could see just a hint of past hurts.
"But now, you do..." Miss Pauling said softly.
He broke into a big grin. "I finally do! So, what's yours?"
"I think you know already. It's some asshole asking if I'd seen him without his shirt," she said dryly.
"Me! I'm that asshole!" Scout lifted his arm in triumph, only to draw back with a cry of pain after he punched the top of the truck.
She broke into laughter.
"Scout, you--"
"I don't even feel it. Though you could kiss it better, maybe."
She bent to press her lips to his hand.
"Feels like a jolt to the system. I didn't know it could be like this," Scout said.
"Me either," she said.
"I spent so long thinkin' I was goin' to be like this forever. Always second best. I'm so, so, so glad it's you. Like, you have no idea. From the minute I met you, I was thinkin' how fuckin' sad it was that you'd have Ink for someone else, that you'd just be waitin' for someone else, like every other girl I ever knew. I just kept thinkin' how sad I'd be if I had to tell you all this stuff between us couldn't happen. I mean, you--you're like my jacket."
Miss Pauling's brow creased. "Your... jacket?"
"You ain't just pretty, you're smart and stuff. You keep me safe and warm, and I know you'll never let me rot in jail. I never gotta worry, because I know you'll be there, bein' reliable and stuff. Filing papers, cleanin' up. You're warm, comfy, stylish, you keep the wind away. Like a jacket."
She smiled. All his clumsy metaphors had doubled back into something charming, and surprisingly sincere, considering his bravado. But, then, no wonder. How isolated must he have felt all those years without a tattoo as everyone else eagerly waited for how their lives would turn.
She hadn't understood her Ink, but at least she'd never felt broken.
She reached out and took his hand.
"The truth is, I don't even know where to start with this. I didn't have a lot of relationships, and the ones I had were a long time ago. I'm kind of a workaholic, you see," she said.
Each girlfriend or boyfriend had found their Inkmates, and she had been cast aside. Some even met them as they were out on a date so she could only watch as the realization of the words she'd read across their skin came true. With waiters, passers by, she would only be able to watch as they became a part of something more.
"Me neither. Everybody was just waitin' for somebody else, and I didn't have nobody waitin' for me, except I did. Doc wonders if maybe it came later in life. I like that idea, like I wanted you to be my Inkmate, so you were."
He squeezed her hand. His calloused thumb traced a line across her skin.
She looked down to this spark, this point of contact. She'd watched people she loved walk off with someone due to a few words scrawled on their skin by an unknown hand. Now she knew the deeper feeling, the rush and spark of his touch.
"No, it wasn't that. I've had my Ink for a very, very, very long time. It came when I was quite young," she said.
"You--you did? You and me was always meant to be? Makes sense, seein' you that first time was like a punch to the chest. I couldn't breathe for about three minutes. Wait, wait, I gotta get outside--"
He let go of her hand with some reluctance, and leapt out the truck. In the process, he almost fell on his face, but ever resourceful, Scout managed to land on his feet. He jumped up, and let out a cheer.
"I'm goin' to get to know your name! And kiss you! And like, do all this Inkmate stuff like---"
"Cohabitation, marriage, joint tax returns--things like that."
"Yeah! We are goin' to file so many taxes together! So damn many!"
She laughed. "Taxes?"
Scout let out a whoop. "I hope you can do taxes, because I sure as hell can't!"
"I can make so many loopholes that the IRS will pay you for fifty children you don't have," she said.
"Speakin' of kids, that too! We gotta do that! Enough for a whole team!"
"That comes after the taxes," Miss Pauling said dryly. Scout hopped outside of the shady spot, until he was leaping through the rising heat mirages.
"Come on back in, you'll get sunburned," she said.
"I don't care! I gotta shake this out!"
"I can't kiss you out there," Miss Pauling said.
"--I'll just have to learn the art of car dancin'!"
He crawled back in, and to her lips again.
