fic: Cough Syrup Shots
Dec. 24th, 2017 09:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Cough Syrup Shots
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Scout/Miss Pauling, ensemble.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When Miss Pauling falls ill, Scout tries to help.
Word count: 4344
Author's note:
It's a grand tradition for me to write sickfic whenever I'm dying of death plague. This time I've even had a bottle of antibiotics, and a possible trip to the oral surgeon with the words "possible cyst or tumor" as a fun bonus.
And in the grand tradition of sickfic, it's kinda unsanitary and gross. Also, canon-typical gore.
Post Expiration Date, but set before MVM and the TF comics.
For Sarah.
So as they say:
A cough and a love are not easily hid.
Even a small cough
Even a small love
-Anne Sexton
1.
Her nose was rubbed raw and red, and her usually clear green eyes (that he lost himself in so often) were unfocused and even hazy and unfocused. When her glasses slipped down her nose, she didn't even push them up.
"Hey, Miss Pauling--You hittin' the bottle or somethin'?"
At this rate, he'd have to drive the whole damn base to AA on a weekly basis.
She took in a wet-sounding breath, with a slight gurgle in the back of her throat. It was only now that he noticed the overflowing pile of used tissues that fell out of the truck as she stepped out.
She sighed. "I wish."
"Oh, crap. Did you stop by Doc's? He's probably got somethin' for you."
"Don't have time," she said. Her voice had practically gone hoarse. She walked on, zombie-like. She barely hung on to the shovel. It dragged on behind her plodding steps, and hit every rock along the way.
Scout followed after her as she took the entire other way, to the men's base. Scout cleared his throat, but she didn't respond, even as she walked through the door.
Maybe he had somebody to yell at in there, because her office was entirely the other way. But as she kept walking, straight to a door with a whole bunch of Tom Jones and Baseball posters, Scout started to wonder.
"Uh, Miss Pauling, this is my room--"
"Uh-huh," she said. She coughed into her sleeve, with a shudder.
"Oh, come on, it's not that bad. I put baking soda in my shoes and everythin'," Scout muttered.
But it wasn't smell that made her shiver, or even his extreme hotness. She fell face forward onto his bed. Scout quickly rushed to check on her, only to find she had fallen asleep, right while they were talking. He pulled off her--thankfully unbroken--glasses, and set them on his bedside table.
He'd made out with her when she smelled like death. Hell, in some desperate times, he had jacked off to numerous mountains, rather round milk pails, and once on a long dry spell, some shadows left by the flickering, barely working lights. Shout out to the ceiling titties for keeping him company in tough times. But now, even though she was in his bed, Scout wasn't thinking about sex.
No, the fact that he could not want to bang Miss Pauling at any moment in his life wasn't the real surprise here. He was filled with all these ideas. He wanted to wrap her up in warm blankets and curl up with her. He wanted to....what did someone even do with sick people?
Scout tried to remember when last he was sick. He had a metabolism like a horse, among a ton of other horse things--he was super fast, okay.
He'd watched a whole lot of Ghost Prosecutor re-runs, and soaps on the screen. (though he'd turned them off in disgust when Renee and Rasmus didn't get together. Fuck that shit. Nine seasons for her to suddenly go back to her ex after his wife suddenly died? Not fucking likely!)
His ma had made him chicken noodle soup, and each sip, he felt a little better.
"That's it! I gotta cook for her!" His enthusiasm drained as he came to a realization.
"But, how the hell do I soup?"
His posters of baseball didn't give him any clues, so he hoofed it down to the one payphone. He slipped in a quarter and waited those agonizing seconds as the phone rang.
"Ma! How do I soup?"
"Hello to you too," she said.
"It's an emergency, ma! Miss Pauling is real sick, and I wanna get her somethin' to make her better. Soup is where it's at, right?"
"You put water in a pot--"
"Like, a gallon? Do I need a bucket? Will plastic do? Soldier got one outside. It's got a couple raccoons in 'em, but I could dump 'em out--So I just put the bucket on the stove and what then?"
She let out a sigh. Scout didn't even have to see her to knew she was rubbing her forehead (and probably regretting all the wrinkles and gray hairs he gave her.) "...Go get Spy."
"Wait, how you know him?"
His ma cleared her throat. "You mention them all the time, sweetie. He sounds like the most competent, and least likely to shank you in your sleep."
"Nah, he'd wait until I was awake."
2.
Scout knocked at Spy's door. He'd had it imported from somewhere vaguely European. It was walnut, and didn't even have a single bullet wound or nudie pic on it.
"Spy! Do me a solid, would you? Actually, it's a liquid..." Scout chuckled at his own joke.
There was no response. Scout considered his options:
1) Spy was doing something sexy with himself, or God-forbid, somebody else.
2) He was taking a nap. Though he probably wasn't anymore, considering all the yelling. Though Demoman blowing shit up outside probably would've woken him up first. (On cue, there was a series of laughs, and big damn booms outside as Demoman let off a series of grenades.)
3) He was just being a douchebag as usual and decided to ignore Scout.
Knowing Spy, Scout figured it was the third option. After all, the Eiffel tower was way the fuck over in France. It couldn't fuck him over here, even if it wanted to.
"Spy! Ma says you gotta do me a solid and teach me how to soup!"
The door opened a crack. Just enough for Scout to catch Spy giving him a one finger salute.
"Ma said to tell you she said so."
He heard a loud sigh as the door opened all the way.
3.
"Step one: you open a can. Step two, you pour the can into the pan. Step three, you add water. Merde, how could you mix up such simple instructions? Just hand it over here. Now watch carefully, and don't burn yourself. Pour it carefully! Now put that bucket of raccoons away--"
4.
"Ow, crapfuckmccrap!"
All the fucks blending into one long word. In retrospect, maybe he shouldn't have filled the bowl so high. But he wanted Miss Pauling to have any many sips of soup as he could manage, and it'd be cold by the time he got back.
"I've been through worse, literally been fried by Pyro on multiple occasions," Scout reminded himself through gritted teeth.
It still hurt like hell.
Scout stopped at the door of his room. Was he supposed to wake her up? Usually the scent of cooking woke him up. Unless his was stuffed up, then it was the sound of his brothers getting into fights.
Scout tried to remember his sick days. After his ma got him soup, he'd spend the rest of it telling her how bored he was, because there was nothing but crap on television and he couldn't play outside.
Scout pushed open the door with his hip, and set the soup on a nightstand near his bed.
She stirred, and groaned.
He pressed his hand to her forehead. "Wow, you're really hot."
"This isn't the time, Scout," she said.
"I meant your temperature."
"You need one of those thermabobmathinators," Scout said.
"Thernomator?" she said.
"Medic would probably have one," she said.
"I'll go get it right away--"
"Wait, what time is it?" she said.
"Noon. Why?"
"Don't go visit Medic. It's his lunch break. If he's even dressed, he'll shoo you out with a wave of needles."
"Do I want to know?"
"He has company around that time. He gets very cranky without that...company."
Scout tried to figure out what the hell she was talking about, but then he figured he just really didn't want to know.
"Anyways, I brought you somethin'. Blow on it. Like a lot."
She lifted her eyebrows. "Really, Scout?"
"The spoon. Jeez, I'm tryin' to be G-rated here."
Which was pretty hard, as she was in his bed.
"Premium Chicken Noodle soup from a can. Nothin' better for gettin' you back on your feet."
"I have things to do....how did I even end up here?"
"You passed out here. Dunno why, you picked it yourself. You don't remember?"
She let out a noncommittal mmm
"Here, if you're too weak, I'll hold the spoon. C'mon, say 'ah.'"
Her cheeks were really red. Was that a blush, or was she about to pass out again? Scout pushed it to the back of his mind. All that mattered right now was that she got better.
"Listen, you gotta take care of yourself."
"What I've got to do is work--"
"--and since you never do, I'll have to do the takin' care for you," Scout said.
Okay, the fact that she chose to pass out in his bed was somewhere in the top ten mysteries of life. He'd have to figure that one out later.
"From a can, huh."
"Yeah, we're eatin' fancy tonight," Scout said.
"I really have so much to do," she said.
"You're not goin' anywhere. You can barely even walk," Scout said. "You need like, rest and crap. And soup. Lots and lots of soup."
"But--"
"Look, I'll do it. Everythin' you need. I'll take care of it all. Just trust me, okay? I promise I won't let you down. But right now, we gotta get this down."
Scout sat on the edge of the bed. She had wedged his two pillows behind her back.
He slowly blew on the spoon, and lifted it to her mouth. As little droplets of broth slipped down, he reached with the ever-present box of tissues at the side of his bed. He closed it quickly before Miss Pauling could see his reading material, or the hint of the bunny logo.
(He read them for the articles, honest.)
He was Miss Pauling's right hand man: he had to get shit done. (And not that kind of right hand man--though one day, he'd totally be that kind. And make her cry his name out, to boot.)
How hard could it be? She had said he buried bodies like a champ. So good he deserved a gold star. And he wasn't just a lady killer, he could swing a mean bat, too.
He took one last glance at Miss Pauling. He'd gone quiet for two seconds and she'd conked out again. If anyone deserved some z's, it was Miss Pauling. "Hey, sweet dreams, Miss Pauling."
He closed the door as quietly as possible behind him as he could.
5.
"Hey, fellas!"
They kept on chatting among themselves. Scout cleared his throat. "Fellas!"
He leapt up on the table. it came to mind with the way he stood, he kind of looked like he was about to do an impromptu strip act. And while it'd be good practice for later, Scout was going to save that for Miss Pauling. (He had it all planned out. He'd take her bachelorette party by complete surprise. He'd be the groom and the secret stripper. Now all he had to do was infiltrate a stripper place.)
"Miss Pauling is really sick. Like waterfall of snot, sick."
Soldier had his pinkie finger stuck deep in his nose. The guy knew snot; he'd won awards.
"Guys, we gotta start stepin' up and doin' stuff around here," Scout said.
Engineer chuckled. "Start? Speak for yourself, Yankee."
Medic laughed too, though his was more Dr. Frankenstein. Miss Pauling taught him that Frankenstein was actually the doctor, not the monster. Then she went into some kind of thing about the point of the story was who was true monster between the two, but Scout got distracted about how cute she looked when she was nerdy to follow along with the point.
"Look, she's done so much for us. Like gettin' us out of jail, and filin' paperwork." And being incredibly hot, so much so that she beat out all the pin ups even covered in dirt and grime. But not just hot, smart and cool, and funny, and honestly real down to earth. Like...some superhero girl.
By us, Scout meant me.
"We gotta pay her back for all that stuff she does. I gotta go get her stuff to do, and then..."
Spy appeared from a cloud of smoke behind him. He handed over a little piece of paper. Her to-do list! Or more like, her to-kill list.
"Dude, you stole it!"
"She dropped it. I can't be faulted for someone else's carelessness."
"Okay, I'll do the killin'. Who takes over the surveillance?"
Demoman and Soldier held up their hands.
"Are you going to just blow everythin' up?"
Demoman put his hand down. One of Soldier's hands was still up, the other was busy picking his nose. Demoman elbowed him, until.
"I'll do it. I already do plenty of work with my
"Aren't you already doin' the thingamabob? Corey or somethin'?"
"Son, I didn't get 12 PHDs by doin' one thing at a time," Engineer said.
"Yeah!
"Soldier and Demoman, you should--"
Scout tried to think of anything they could do which wouldn't land someone in the hospital or destroy the whole place.
"Watch TV or somethin', I don't know. Just hang out," Scout said.
Demoman shrugged and took a swig. "If it helps the wee lass, then so be it."
"I got my part covered. The rest of you--probably won't die," Scout said.
"This team occasionally manages to be competent," Spy said.
He looked over the group. Pyro took a lighter, and left a black singe to the couch. Soldier reached his pinky deeper up his nose. Demoman glanced Pyro's way and swallowed a gulp of alcohol. He lit a burp, and they laughed together.
Spy sighed. "Some of us, at least."
6.
Scout glanced over the list.
"Kill some guy, kill some poor bastard, kill somebody--jeez Miss P's got a long kill list."
He had to wonder, did her trigger finger ever get tired? Because damn. This was enough to fill an entire graveyard.
But Scout was going to finish it all. A shame she wanted them all burned, because he could make a stack and lean against it and be all Eyyy, Miss Pauling. Look at me here, killin' all the dudes for you. Ain't this somethin', probably makes you wanna give me a kiss. I don't blame you, I'd want to kiss me, too. I'm just awesome.
Scout laughed to himself at the image. One day, he thought.
7.
Scout put in another clip in his pistol.
He was glad he finally got to put some lead in Fred. He'd been wanting ever since he'd made some gross comment about Miss Pauling months back. Scout didn't even want to repeat or remember it. Just the thought made him clench his knuckles until they were white.
(Never mind that years ago, he would've made a worse comment.)
But, Miss Pauling hadn't let him. He was their accountant, and it was apparently hard to find accountants crooked enough for Mann co and TFI's liking. But he'd dipped into the funds, and TFI didn't take too kindly for that.
It was all over too quick. That's what Scout got for having such incredible aiming skills. He just had to go and get a headshot and make it an instant death.
"Should've shot lower," Scout muttered to himself.
He started to drag Fred towards the truck. How does she do this without help? he thought, as he grunted and strained to move him. And it'd get even worse after the death set in. What was it called, Tigger Morris?
One down, several hundred to go. And honestly, he was a little tired. Maybe he should've packed a wheelbarrel to carry the creep in. Scout couldn't figure out how Miss Pauling managed to do this in twenty-four hours.
He guessed that was just the magic of Miss Pauling. He wouldn't be surprised if the laws of gravity, time and space just stopped working for her. His brain did the same when she came around, after all.
8.
Scout woke up in a puddle, with no damn clue where he was, and how long he'd been out.
Technically, this wasn't the first time that'd happened. Last time he'd tried to go drinking shots with Demoman, he'd wished for death the next day, and ended up waking up in a dumpster.
Scout pushed himself up. he couldn't stop shivering. Damn, how long had he been passed out, practically submerged in this cave puddle?
Scout coughed. That water sure as hell wasn't pure. It was brackish, with a tinge of pink from the blood.
But, he'd gotten all those fuckers dead and buried. Now he just had to get back before midnight and let Miss Pauling that not only was he extremely handsome, he was a sure shot, a killer and then some.
9.
It was only when he turned on the radio on the way home that he realized how long he'd been out. Three days, to be exact.
His arms ached. His mind was numb, and his arms felt about ready to fall off with how many graves he'd dug, but he was done.
Just in time to fill out today's list. And catch up on the lists before that. But first, Scout was going to make some damn soup. And not for just Miss Pauling this time, he thought, as he broke out into another coughing fit.
Note to self: don't pass out in a fucking puddle. Staying up for three days on nothing but BONK and coffee probably
He'd thought it'd just been the cave dust, but it'd hung around. The teeth chattering and coughing were persistent.
"Dammit, now how the hell am I goin' to kill all these goons?"
9.
Scout opened the door a crack. He leaned on the door, filled with a fatigue which seemed to rest in his very bones. "Miss Pauling--" Scout broke off coughing before he could ask after her. He'd meant to be right back, tuck her in and kiss her forehead, and bring her more soup.
"You ain't been without nothin', right? Someone brought you food and crap?"
"Engineer sent me a note, and Spy sent some more soup. It was from the batch you and he made, apparently," she said.
"Good," Scout said. He opened the door the rest of the way.
Damn, she was a sight for sore eyes. A bit of time had improved her. Brought some color back to her cheeks. Her glasses slipped down her nose. And those green eyes. Dang, he could just stare at them all day. Unless the game was on, then he'd have to put her on his lap so he could sneak glances back at his team losing for another season.
She leaned up in bed, with a look of alarm. "Scout, you look dead."
"Nope, still kickin'. The people on your list, though? Bam, dead."
"All of them?"
"Yep! Well, for three days ago. Apparently I lost some days in between it. Did I mention you're awesome for doin' all that?"
"God, how did you stay up?"
"Shotgunnned some coffee and BONK. I woke up a cave at one point. Passed out in a pretty deep puddle. I dunno how long I was out. That ain't the important part, though. I killed that one coffee stealin' office dude. I just know that guy was on your list," Scout said.
"Scout, that's sweet, but you just can't kill random people."
"He stole you pencil. It was an mechanical one, too," Scout said.
Her face went from shock to fury. "You made the right choice."
"And I really enjoyed killin' that fucker Fred. Thinkin' he can just whistle at ladies and call 'em 'toots.' Well, he ain't sayin' right anymore, 'cause he's dead!. Oh yeah, and Engie took over surveillance, Spy did spy stuff, I asked Bidwell to do the paperwork, and all I had to do was promise him a favor!"
"That's a deal with the devil right there," Miss Pauling said.
"With who, Spy?"
"Bidwell. Before you know it, he'll have you doing errands for Saxton Hale so he doesn't have to."
"I brought you some more soup. Soup-er, right?" Scout chuckled at his own joke. He was a comedy genius; he seriously should do stand-up sometime. Because he was such a stand-up guy.
"Blow on it, it's hot," Scout said.
Here she was, holding the base of a thermos. Her cheeks were flushed, and Scout thought it was right about then that he needed to really look at the wall or maybe focus on the years his team lost. At least until some of the blood flooded back to his brain.
Scout broke out coughing.
"You caught my cold," she said.
"Nah, I'm just--" He started to cough again, "--just fine--"
"You're shivering," she said.
He'd gotten a second wind when he saw her, but now the fatigue had set in again. He couldn't believe it, down before the second inning. He'd wanted to take care of her list every single day until she was better. But he'd blown it by falling asleep in a fucking cave.
He took a step and felt woozy. "You're right. I guess I'll just have to leave it to the guys."
"The mercenaries? You know you probably doomed all humanity, right?" she said.
"What's the worst they can do? Wait, don't answer that. You'll be up all night."
She chuckled. "Probably more than that."
Scout took a step towards the bed. "I told Demoman and Soldier to just watch TV for a while. Dunno what Pyro's up to. Burnin' things last time I saw."
"I slept really well. Probably because it was your bed."
She patted the bed beside her. He'd dreamed of the day something like this would happen. In his dreams, neither of them were hacking up gross green globs of snot.
This had to be a fever dream. There was no other explanation. he was probably passed out in a gutter somewhere. Maybe he dreamed the whole thing. There'd be a twist nobody saw coming. Seriously, he should write books with ideas that good.
Catching Miss Pauling's cold was about the closest he'd gotten to kissing her.
He crawled under the covers. She curled up beside him. He could feel her warmth, slowly sinking into his skin. It felt almost like time slowed. Probably because he was dying somewhere. Because this wasn't just a dream, this was like that point when he died and he jumped high enough to see clouds and high-five God.
"Thanks for making sure everything was okay."
"Glad to--anytime, really--but...it wasn't the same as when you are there. With you, it's always great. You're like some action movie star."
"I missed the part where action movies spend most of their days burying bodies," she said.
She poured out two caps full of cough syrup. It was glowing green, almost radioactive.
"Cheers." She clicked them together, like they were champagne glasses.
"Oh and Scout? You need to scoot over a bit. This cold is pretty brutal. It might even be the flu--I'm going to need a clear path to the bathroom, or...cleaning everything up isn't going to be pretty."
This would've been the point where he would've bailed with any other girl. But with Miss Pauling, he'd follow her to hell. Be that literal hell, or a real bad case of the flu. He'd hold her hair back when she barfed, and guide her back to bed and make sure she was covered up.
He'd kill for her, die for her, bury those bodies, and do a rad backflip along the way.
"I got you," Scout said.
She shifted and pinched his cheek.
"Ow, what was that for?"
"Because if I so much as say 'hello' to you, you always pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming," Miss Pauling said dryly.
"I figured I was just goin' to enjoy the dream."
"Really romantic. Passing out with me. What's next, downing Cough Syrup shots together?"
"It'd be more fun from alcohol, but as long as it's with you, I'll be here," Scout said.
"Yeah, about two more of these and I'm going to be comatose," she said.
She poured out bit into the cap, and drank several down as if she was drinking shots.
"Your turn," she said. She refilled the cap.
"What, no lime and salt?"
"I would, but someone doesn't keep any shakers handy. Just lotion. And comics. And magazines underneath which I'm suuure you just read for the articles."
Scout could do little more than shrug sheepishly. He should've known she'd find the magazines. She always found the people to kill, and all the blackmail material, too.
"I'm sure there'd be some in Demo's room," Scout said to change the subject.
"I don't really feel like getting up," she said.
"Me either."
"One more drink?" she said.
"This flu is goin' to get one hell of a sucker punch," Scout said.
And hey, at least he'd be passed out in a bed this time. Really, he couldn't think of any place he'd rather be passed out than with Miss Pauling.
(Though to be honest, he'd even take a cave full of dead bodies if she was around.)
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Scout/Miss Pauling, ensemble.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When Miss Pauling falls ill, Scout tries to help.
Word count: 4344
Author's note:
It's a grand tradition for me to write sickfic whenever I'm dying of death plague. This time I've even had a bottle of antibiotics, and a possible trip to the oral surgeon with the words "possible cyst or tumor" as a fun bonus.
And in the grand tradition of sickfic, it's kinda unsanitary and gross. Also, canon-typical gore.
Post Expiration Date, but set before MVM and the TF comics.
For Sarah.
So as they say:
A cough and a love are not easily hid.
Even a small cough
Even a small love
-Anne Sexton
1.
Her nose was rubbed raw and red, and her usually clear green eyes (that he lost himself in so often) were unfocused and even hazy and unfocused. When her glasses slipped down her nose, she didn't even push them up.
"Hey, Miss Pauling--You hittin' the bottle or somethin'?"
At this rate, he'd have to drive the whole damn base to AA on a weekly basis.
She took in a wet-sounding breath, with a slight gurgle in the back of her throat. It was only now that he noticed the overflowing pile of used tissues that fell out of the truck as she stepped out.
She sighed. "I wish."
"Oh, crap. Did you stop by Doc's? He's probably got somethin' for you."
"Don't have time," she said. Her voice had practically gone hoarse. She walked on, zombie-like. She barely hung on to the shovel. It dragged on behind her plodding steps, and hit every rock along the way.
Scout followed after her as she took the entire other way, to the men's base. Scout cleared his throat, but she didn't respond, even as she walked through the door.
Maybe he had somebody to yell at in there, because her office was entirely the other way. But as she kept walking, straight to a door with a whole bunch of Tom Jones and Baseball posters, Scout started to wonder.
"Uh, Miss Pauling, this is my room--"
"Uh-huh," she said. She coughed into her sleeve, with a shudder.
"Oh, come on, it's not that bad. I put baking soda in my shoes and everythin'," Scout muttered.
But it wasn't smell that made her shiver, or even his extreme hotness. She fell face forward onto his bed. Scout quickly rushed to check on her, only to find she had fallen asleep, right while they were talking. He pulled off her--thankfully unbroken--glasses, and set them on his bedside table.
He'd made out with her when she smelled like death. Hell, in some desperate times, he had jacked off to numerous mountains, rather round milk pails, and once on a long dry spell, some shadows left by the flickering, barely working lights. Shout out to the ceiling titties for keeping him company in tough times. But now, even though she was in his bed, Scout wasn't thinking about sex.
No, the fact that he could not want to bang Miss Pauling at any moment in his life wasn't the real surprise here. He was filled with all these ideas. He wanted to wrap her up in warm blankets and curl up with her. He wanted to....what did someone even do with sick people?
Scout tried to remember when last he was sick. He had a metabolism like a horse, among a ton of other horse things--he was super fast, okay.
He'd watched a whole lot of Ghost Prosecutor re-runs, and soaps on the screen. (though he'd turned them off in disgust when Renee and Rasmus didn't get together. Fuck that shit. Nine seasons for her to suddenly go back to her ex after his wife suddenly died? Not fucking likely!)
His ma had made him chicken noodle soup, and each sip, he felt a little better.
"That's it! I gotta cook for her!" His enthusiasm drained as he came to a realization.
"But, how the hell do I soup?"
His posters of baseball didn't give him any clues, so he hoofed it down to the one payphone. He slipped in a quarter and waited those agonizing seconds as the phone rang.
"Ma! How do I soup?"
"Hello to you too," she said.
"It's an emergency, ma! Miss Pauling is real sick, and I wanna get her somethin' to make her better. Soup is where it's at, right?"
"You put water in a pot--"
"Like, a gallon? Do I need a bucket? Will plastic do? Soldier got one outside. It's got a couple raccoons in 'em, but I could dump 'em out--So I just put the bucket on the stove and what then?"
She let out a sigh. Scout didn't even have to see her to knew she was rubbing her forehead (and probably regretting all the wrinkles and gray hairs he gave her.) "...Go get Spy."
"Wait, how you know him?"
His ma cleared her throat. "You mention them all the time, sweetie. He sounds like the most competent, and least likely to shank you in your sleep."
"Nah, he'd wait until I was awake."
2.
Scout knocked at Spy's door. He'd had it imported from somewhere vaguely European. It was walnut, and didn't even have a single bullet wound or nudie pic on it.
"Spy! Do me a solid, would you? Actually, it's a liquid..." Scout chuckled at his own joke.
There was no response. Scout considered his options:
1) Spy was doing something sexy with himself, or God-forbid, somebody else.
2) He was taking a nap. Though he probably wasn't anymore, considering all the yelling. Though Demoman blowing shit up outside probably would've woken him up first. (On cue, there was a series of laughs, and big damn booms outside as Demoman let off a series of grenades.)
3) He was just being a douchebag as usual and decided to ignore Scout.
Knowing Spy, Scout figured it was the third option. After all, the Eiffel tower was way the fuck over in France. It couldn't fuck him over here, even if it wanted to.
"Spy! Ma says you gotta do me a solid and teach me how to soup!"
The door opened a crack. Just enough for Scout to catch Spy giving him a one finger salute.
"Ma said to tell you she said so."
He heard a loud sigh as the door opened all the way.
3.
"Step one: you open a can. Step two, you pour the can into the pan. Step three, you add water. Merde, how could you mix up such simple instructions? Just hand it over here. Now watch carefully, and don't burn yourself. Pour it carefully! Now put that bucket of raccoons away--"
4.
"Ow, crapfuckmccrap!"
All the fucks blending into one long word. In retrospect, maybe he shouldn't have filled the bowl so high. But he wanted Miss Pauling to have any many sips of soup as he could manage, and it'd be cold by the time he got back.
"I've been through worse, literally been fried by Pyro on multiple occasions," Scout reminded himself through gritted teeth.
It still hurt like hell.
Scout stopped at the door of his room. Was he supposed to wake her up? Usually the scent of cooking woke him up. Unless his was stuffed up, then it was the sound of his brothers getting into fights.
Scout tried to remember his sick days. After his ma got him soup, he'd spend the rest of it telling her how bored he was, because there was nothing but crap on television and he couldn't play outside.
Scout pushed open the door with his hip, and set the soup on a nightstand near his bed.
She stirred, and groaned.
He pressed his hand to her forehead. "Wow, you're really hot."
"This isn't the time, Scout," she said.
"I meant your temperature."
"You need one of those thermabobmathinators," Scout said.
"Thernomator?" she said.
"Medic would probably have one," she said.
"I'll go get it right away--"
"Wait, what time is it?" she said.
"Noon. Why?"
"Don't go visit Medic. It's his lunch break. If he's even dressed, he'll shoo you out with a wave of needles."
"Do I want to know?"
"He has company around that time. He gets very cranky without that...company."
Scout tried to figure out what the hell she was talking about, but then he figured he just really didn't want to know.
"Anyways, I brought you somethin'. Blow on it. Like a lot."
She lifted her eyebrows. "Really, Scout?"
"The spoon. Jeez, I'm tryin' to be G-rated here."
Which was pretty hard, as she was in his bed.
"Premium Chicken Noodle soup from a can. Nothin' better for gettin' you back on your feet."
"I have things to do....how did I even end up here?"
"You passed out here. Dunno why, you picked it yourself. You don't remember?"
She let out a noncommittal mmm
"Here, if you're too weak, I'll hold the spoon. C'mon, say 'ah.'"
Her cheeks were really red. Was that a blush, or was she about to pass out again? Scout pushed it to the back of his mind. All that mattered right now was that she got better.
"Listen, you gotta take care of yourself."
"What I've got to do is work--"
"--and since you never do, I'll have to do the takin' care for you," Scout said.
Okay, the fact that she chose to pass out in his bed was somewhere in the top ten mysteries of life. He'd have to figure that one out later.
"From a can, huh."
"Yeah, we're eatin' fancy tonight," Scout said.
"I really have so much to do," she said.
"You're not goin' anywhere. You can barely even walk," Scout said. "You need like, rest and crap. And soup. Lots and lots of soup."
"But--"
"Look, I'll do it. Everythin' you need. I'll take care of it all. Just trust me, okay? I promise I won't let you down. But right now, we gotta get this down."
Scout sat on the edge of the bed. She had wedged his two pillows behind her back.
He slowly blew on the spoon, and lifted it to her mouth. As little droplets of broth slipped down, he reached with the ever-present box of tissues at the side of his bed. He closed it quickly before Miss Pauling could see his reading material, or the hint of the bunny logo.
(He read them for the articles, honest.)
He was Miss Pauling's right hand man: he had to get shit done. (And not that kind of right hand man--though one day, he'd totally be that kind. And make her cry his name out, to boot.)
How hard could it be? She had said he buried bodies like a champ. So good he deserved a gold star. And he wasn't just a lady killer, he could swing a mean bat, too.
He took one last glance at Miss Pauling. He'd gone quiet for two seconds and she'd conked out again. If anyone deserved some z's, it was Miss Pauling. "Hey, sweet dreams, Miss Pauling."
He closed the door as quietly as possible behind him as he could.
5.
"Hey, fellas!"
They kept on chatting among themselves. Scout cleared his throat. "Fellas!"
He leapt up on the table. it came to mind with the way he stood, he kind of looked like he was about to do an impromptu strip act. And while it'd be good practice for later, Scout was going to save that for Miss Pauling. (He had it all planned out. He'd take her bachelorette party by complete surprise. He'd be the groom and the secret stripper. Now all he had to do was infiltrate a stripper place.)
"Miss Pauling is really sick. Like waterfall of snot, sick."
Soldier had his pinkie finger stuck deep in his nose. The guy knew snot; he'd won awards.
"Guys, we gotta start stepin' up and doin' stuff around here," Scout said.
Engineer chuckled. "Start? Speak for yourself, Yankee."
Medic laughed too, though his was more Dr. Frankenstein. Miss Pauling taught him that Frankenstein was actually the doctor, not the monster. Then she went into some kind of thing about the point of the story was who was true monster between the two, but Scout got distracted about how cute she looked when she was nerdy to follow along with the point.
"Look, she's done so much for us. Like gettin' us out of jail, and filin' paperwork." And being incredibly hot, so much so that she beat out all the pin ups even covered in dirt and grime. But not just hot, smart and cool, and funny, and honestly real down to earth. Like...some superhero girl.
By us, Scout meant me.
"We gotta pay her back for all that stuff she does. I gotta go get her stuff to do, and then..."
Spy appeared from a cloud of smoke behind him. He handed over a little piece of paper. Her to-do list! Or more like, her to-kill list.
"Dude, you stole it!"
"She dropped it. I can't be faulted for someone else's carelessness."
"Okay, I'll do the killin'. Who takes over the surveillance?"
Demoman and Soldier held up their hands.
"Are you going to just blow everythin' up?"
Demoman put his hand down. One of Soldier's hands was still up, the other was busy picking his nose. Demoman elbowed him, until.
"I'll do it. I already do plenty of work with my
"Aren't you already doin' the thingamabob? Corey or somethin'?"
"Son, I didn't get 12 PHDs by doin' one thing at a time," Engineer said.
"Yeah!
"Soldier and Demoman, you should--"
Scout tried to think of anything they could do which wouldn't land someone in the hospital or destroy the whole place.
"Watch TV or somethin', I don't know. Just hang out," Scout said.
Demoman shrugged and took a swig. "If it helps the wee lass, then so be it."
"I got my part covered. The rest of you--probably won't die," Scout said.
"This team occasionally manages to be competent," Spy said.
He looked over the group. Pyro took a lighter, and left a black singe to the couch. Soldier reached his pinky deeper up his nose. Demoman glanced Pyro's way and swallowed a gulp of alcohol. He lit a burp, and they laughed together.
Spy sighed. "Some of us, at least."
6.
Scout glanced over the list.
"Kill some guy, kill some poor bastard, kill somebody--jeez Miss P's got a long kill list."
He had to wonder, did her trigger finger ever get tired? Because damn. This was enough to fill an entire graveyard.
But Scout was going to finish it all. A shame she wanted them all burned, because he could make a stack and lean against it and be all Eyyy, Miss Pauling. Look at me here, killin' all the dudes for you. Ain't this somethin', probably makes you wanna give me a kiss. I don't blame you, I'd want to kiss me, too. I'm just awesome.
Scout laughed to himself at the image. One day, he thought.
7.
Scout put in another clip in his pistol.
He was glad he finally got to put some lead in Fred. He'd been wanting ever since he'd made some gross comment about Miss Pauling months back. Scout didn't even want to repeat or remember it. Just the thought made him clench his knuckles until they were white.
(Never mind that years ago, he would've made a worse comment.)
But, Miss Pauling hadn't let him. He was their accountant, and it was apparently hard to find accountants crooked enough for Mann co and TFI's liking. But he'd dipped into the funds, and TFI didn't take too kindly for that.
It was all over too quick. That's what Scout got for having such incredible aiming skills. He just had to go and get a headshot and make it an instant death.
"Should've shot lower," Scout muttered to himself.
He started to drag Fred towards the truck. How does she do this without help? he thought, as he grunted and strained to move him. And it'd get even worse after the death set in. What was it called, Tigger Morris?
One down, several hundred to go. And honestly, he was a little tired. Maybe he should've packed a wheelbarrel to carry the creep in. Scout couldn't figure out how Miss Pauling managed to do this in twenty-four hours.
He guessed that was just the magic of Miss Pauling. He wouldn't be surprised if the laws of gravity, time and space just stopped working for her. His brain did the same when she came around, after all.
8.
Scout woke up in a puddle, with no damn clue where he was, and how long he'd been out.
Technically, this wasn't the first time that'd happened. Last time he'd tried to go drinking shots with Demoman, he'd wished for death the next day, and ended up waking up in a dumpster.
Scout pushed himself up. he couldn't stop shivering. Damn, how long had he been passed out, practically submerged in this cave puddle?
Scout coughed. That water sure as hell wasn't pure. It was brackish, with a tinge of pink from the blood.
But, he'd gotten all those fuckers dead and buried. Now he just had to get back before midnight and let Miss Pauling that not only was he extremely handsome, he was a sure shot, a killer and then some.
9.
It was only when he turned on the radio on the way home that he realized how long he'd been out. Three days, to be exact.
His arms ached. His mind was numb, and his arms felt about ready to fall off with how many graves he'd dug, but he was done.
Just in time to fill out today's list. And catch up on the lists before that. But first, Scout was going to make some damn soup. And not for just Miss Pauling this time, he thought, as he broke out into another coughing fit.
Note to self: don't pass out in a fucking puddle. Staying up for three days on nothing but BONK and coffee probably
He'd thought it'd just been the cave dust, but it'd hung around. The teeth chattering and coughing were persistent.
"Dammit, now how the hell am I goin' to kill all these goons?"
9.
Scout opened the door a crack. He leaned on the door, filled with a fatigue which seemed to rest in his very bones. "Miss Pauling--" Scout broke off coughing before he could ask after her. He'd meant to be right back, tuck her in and kiss her forehead, and bring her more soup.
"You ain't been without nothin', right? Someone brought you food and crap?"
"Engineer sent me a note, and Spy sent some more soup. It was from the batch you and he made, apparently," she said.
"Good," Scout said. He opened the door the rest of the way.
Damn, she was a sight for sore eyes. A bit of time had improved her. Brought some color back to her cheeks. Her glasses slipped down her nose. And those green eyes. Dang, he could just stare at them all day. Unless the game was on, then he'd have to put her on his lap so he could sneak glances back at his team losing for another season.
She leaned up in bed, with a look of alarm. "Scout, you look dead."
"Nope, still kickin'. The people on your list, though? Bam, dead."
"All of them?"
"Yep! Well, for three days ago. Apparently I lost some days in between it. Did I mention you're awesome for doin' all that?"
"God, how did you stay up?"
"Shotgunnned some coffee and BONK. I woke up a cave at one point. Passed out in a pretty deep puddle. I dunno how long I was out. That ain't the important part, though. I killed that one coffee stealin' office dude. I just know that guy was on your list," Scout said.
"Scout, that's sweet, but you just can't kill random people."
"He stole you pencil. It was an mechanical one, too," Scout said.
Her face went from shock to fury. "You made the right choice."
"And I really enjoyed killin' that fucker Fred. Thinkin' he can just whistle at ladies and call 'em 'toots.' Well, he ain't sayin' right anymore, 'cause he's dead!. Oh yeah, and Engie took over surveillance, Spy did spy stuff, I asked Bidwell to do the paperwork, and all I had to do was promise him a favor!"
"That's a deal with the devil right there," Miss Pauling said.
"With who, Spy?"
"Bidwell. Before you know it, he'll have you doing errands for Saxton Hale so he doesn't have to."
"I brought you some more soup. Soup-er, right?" Scout chuckled at his own joke. He was a comedy genius; he seriously should do stand-up sometime. Because he was such a stand-up guy.
"Blow on it, it's hot," Scout said.
Here she was, holding the base of a thermos. Her cheeks were flushed, and Scout thought it was right about then that he needed to really look at the wall or maybe focus on the years his team lost. At least until some of the blood flooded back to his brain.
Scout broke out coughing.
"You caught my cold," she said.
"Nah, I'm just--" He started to cough again, "--just fine--"
"You're shivering," she said.
He'd gotten a second wind when he saw her, but now the fatigue had set in again. He couldn't believe it, down before the second inning. He'd wanted to take care of her list every single day until she was better. But he'd blown it by falling asleep in a fucking cave.
He took a step and felt woozy. "You're right. I guess I'll just have to leave it to the guys."
"The mercenaries? You know you probably doomed all humanity, right?" she said.
"What's the worst they can do? Wait, don't answer that. You'll be up all night."
She chuckled. "Probably more than that."
Scout took a step towards the bed. "I told Demoman and Soldier to just watch TV for a while. Dunno what Pyro's up to. Burnin' things last time I saw."
"I slept really well. Probably because it was your bed."
She patted the bed beside her. He'd dreamed of the day something like this would happen. In his dreams, neither of them were hacking up gross green globs of snot.
This had to be a fever dream. There was no other explanation. he was probably passed out in a gutter somewhere. Maybe he dreamed the whole thing. There'd be a twist nobody saw coming. Seriously, he should write books with ideas that good.
Catching Miss Pauling's cold was about the closest he'd gotten to kissing her.
He crawled under the covers. She curled up beside him. He could feel her warmth, slowly sinking into his skin. It felt almost like time slowed. Probably because he was dying somewhere. Because this wasn't just a dream, this was like that point when he died and he jumped high enough to see clouds and high-five God.
"Thanks for making sure everything was okay."
"Glad to--anytime, really--but...it wasn't the same as when you are there. With you, it's always great. You're like some action movie star."
"I missed the part where action movies spend most of their days burying bodies," she said.
She poured out two caps full of cough syrup. It was glowing green, almost radioactive.
"Cheers." She clicked them together, like they were champagne glasses.
"Oh and Scout? You need to scoot over a bit. This cold is pretty brutal. It might even be the flu--I'm going to need a clear path to the bathroom, or...cleaning everything up isn't going to be pretty."
This would've been the point where he would've bailed with any other girl. But with Miss Pauling, he'd follow her to hell. Be that literal hell, or a real bad case of the flu. He'd hold her hair back when she barfed, and guide her back to bed and make sure she was covered up.
He'd kill for her, die for her, bury those bodies, and do a rad backflip along the way.
"I got you," Scout said.
She shifted and pinched his cheek.
"Ow, what was that for?"
"Because if I so much as say 'hello' to you, you always pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming," Miss Pauling said dryly.
"I figured I was just goin' to enjoy the dream."
"Really romantic. Passing out with me. What's next, downing Cough Syrup shots together?"
"It'd be more fun from alcohol, but as long as it's with you, I'll be here," Scout said.
"Yeah, about two more of these and I'm going to be comatose," she said.
She poured out bit into the cap, and drank several down as if she was drinking shots.
"Your turn," she said. She refilled the cap.
"What, no lime and salt?"
"I would, but someone doesn't keep any shakers handy. Just lotion. And comics. And magazines underneath which I'm suuure you just read for the articles."
Scout could do little more than shrug sheepishly. He should've known she'd find the magazines. She always found the people to kill, and all the blackmail material, too.
"I'm sure there'd be some in Demo's room," Scout said to change the subject.
"I don't really feel like getting up," she said.
"Me either."
"One more drink?" she said.
"This flu is goin' to get one hell of a sucker punch," Scout said.
And hey, at least he'd be passed out in a bed this time. Really, he couldn't think of any place he'd rather be passed out than with Miss Pauling.
(Though to be honest, he'd even take a cave full of dead bodies if she was around.)
