fic: Not So Smooth Criminals
Feb. 26th, 2018 08:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Not So Smooth Criminals (or: A Number Of Times The Mercenaries Ran Into Other Criminals, And The Bloody Chaos That Ensued)
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Scout/Miss Pauling, Soldier/Zhanna, Merasmus, Medic.
Rating: PG-13?
Summary: Some criminals have the unfortunate fate of running into the mercenaries and Miss Pauling.
Word count: 2728
Author's note: Medic's part of Gargoyles and Gravel got me thinking. That's also where Kleine, a victim of Medic is mentioned.
Canon-typical violence. No, seriously. This one is violent.
For Sarah.
1.
Kleine lit up a cigarette on his usual haunt. Drunks and tourists were always coming into these back alleys, and right into his range. Soon, he caught sight of his next dupe, and next paycheck.
"There you are, Archimedes. You're a bad boy for making me run this far, you know! At least you didn't get into anyone's chest this time. The dove stepped onto his hands, and he cooed towards the bird as if it were a child. He stroked the soft white feathers at the back.
He was such a sitting duck, that Kleine almost felt bad for preying on a clumsy and nerdy German tourist, dressed up in a sun visor that said Foxy Grandpa, and somehow managed to match his bulging white fanny pack. He might as well have had chump written across his forehead.
But it was a living.
Kleine stepped into the light of the streetlamp and pulled out his glock. The click got the guy's attention. "Hand over your cash, and nobody has to get hurt," he said.
The old man looked perplexed down at the gun. Oh great, he'd gotten one who was going senile.
"My cash? Oh, I've got all these traveler's checks, silly me. Now, let's see, I must have put it in my fanny pack somewhere..."
He set down the doves in cages at his side and glanced through them. "No, that's birds, not cash."
"What, you a magician? C'mon, buddy. You don't wanna get on my bad side." He shoved his gun into the man's ribs.
The man stared down at the gun. Kleine was starting to wonder if he should just let the senile old grandpa go and cut his losses. There were always bars he could hit. Drunks were easy prey. If this dottering old man couldn't even understand a simple order, then this could get difficult. And Kleine always wanted the easy mark, the easy kill.
Suddenly the nerdy German tourist grinned, and it was darker than anything he'd ever seen. Like looking into the darkness, a monster beneath a Foxy Grandpa golfing visor. Kleine saw a glint of metal, before the intense pain hit him.
"Ja, thanks for the free organs! So fresh, too!"
The last thing Kleine heard was the sound of the man's laughter.
2.
The mafia closed in on him. Damn his gambling habit. The Great Merasmus spent a little too much at the race track. And the craps table. He always told himself he could win it back, that he technically had the power of synchronicity and reality shifting--but the houses were always stacked against him.
If he attacked humans, he'd be in hot water with the wizarding world. He'd already almost lost his wizarding license over his feud with a certain mercenary group. Of course, once they'd heard about the incredible injustices he'd had to endure with that man as his roommate, they'd let him off, and given him free reign to attack them at will every Halloween.
He could bring himself back from the brink of death, of course. But it would be painful, difficult, and it was so damn hard to find a proper dry cleaner who wouldn't shrink his wizarding robes, until he'd have to cast the tiny head spell on himself just to fit.
They started to lift him up. Merasmus started to struggle as his mind raced for a way he could somehow get out of this and keep his license. Tiny head curse, perhaps? They would be so utterly embarrassed by how ridiculously they looked with their tiny, tiny, tiny heads they'd drop him and run away, surely.
But just as he started the words, a familiar bellow came through the air. Make that a war cry.
"Oh, no....."
"No one touches my roommate, but me!" Soldier bellowed.
A very unwelcome site greeted Merasmus. His old roommate, in an army suit he'd gotten out of the dumpster, and fury in his deep blue eyes. Beside him, a tall amazon of a woman, with long dark hair and remarkable curves cracked her knuckles behind him. "I protect my husband's roommate."
Dear gods above, he had a mate now? And one with a Russian accent, no less? And she looked just as vicious as him. The thought of Soldier spawning made him fear for the fate of humanity.
"Is there perhaps anyone else who would save the great Merasmus? Anyone?"
But his plea went on deaf ears.
The mafia men let him fall into the trunk. Both Soldier and the woman let out a battle cry and raced towards them. He started to pull at his bonds. However, it was quite hard to see what was going on at this angle. The trunk rather got in the way. Perhaps he could levitate the car away. But for a spell like that he'd need his wand, and they'd confiscated it.
Merasmus let out a sigh as Soldier and his wife punched a member of the Russian mafia while holding hands. They snapped a neck together, they kicked the last one in the ribs again and again until he lay still. Another, they ribbed off his arms and beat him to death with them, all the while laughing. At one point, they took a break in beating him to begin to kiss right on his dying body.
The whole thing lasted less than five minutes. The mafia men hadn't even had a chance.
"Merasmus!"
Soldier lifted him out from the trunk, and carried him bridal style.
"Yes... of course, the ancient wizarding code states that I now must grant you a wish," Merasmus said flatly. "Do it quickly. I have a...meeting to be to. Perhaps you would like a new raccoon?"
Magic coursed through his veins, ready to grant any wish that came, no matter how many raccoons it was.
"I want....a roommate!" Soldier burst out.
Merasmus grimaced. "Well, what are you asking me that for? Do you want me to conjure up one? It looks like you already got one while I was gone," Merasmus said crossly.
"That's my wish! I want my old roommate. Forever!"
The wizarding code was clear. A wish for a life. But oh, at what cost?
But the magic was already started. He could feel himself being inexorably bound in roommatedom, forever.
Forever cursed to Soldier making bathrooms in the kitchen, Soldier pissing in the sink, Soldier attacking his fridge in the night because he was sure it spawned Russian Communists. And now, there'd be little Soldiers to join in on the carnage.
"NOOOOO!"
Merasmus' screams echoed all across the city and beyond, even as his possessions manifested themselves in the cardboard box Soldier and his wife lived in.
3.
"We got out late, but the restaurant should still be open. Hopefully there's still some space open," she said.
"Oh, they'll make room, or they'll answer to my fist," Scout said. He'd kept his hands wrapped, just for such occasions. He mimicked punching, somewhere between boxer and Kung-fu movie.
Miss Pauling glanced at the map. "Here, we can take a short cut through the alley, and we'll save five minutes at least. We should be able to make our reservation, then."
"Ooh, good one, Miss P."
They took a cut across the alley, and onto a side street that lead downtown. It was weird, having a high class restaurant right next to all these shady looking warehouse and cracked pavements, complete with gutters that looked wrong without at least one body in there. But hey, maybe it was mafia. Chattering amongst themselves, it took them both a few minutes to realize they were being followed.
"Keep walking," Miss Pauling said in an undertone.
But Scout stopped, and glared back at the guy on the streetlamp. His hands were in his blue jacket. Probably hiding a gun.
"Hey, toots! A tiny girl like you is probably pretty lonely. You're so small--I bet you're real tight."
Scout let go of her hand, and turned so fast that the catcaller drew back. He leapt across the street, past the streetlights.
"The fuck did you just say?"
"Hey, pipsqueak. Aww, you going to dance with me?"
"No, I'm goin' to friggin' tangle with you. Didn't your ma teach you anythin'? You don't talk to girls like that. Especially not my girl."
He pulled out his bat from his bag. "Let's play ball. Oh yeah, and you're the ball," Scout said.
Before the man could even say a thing back, Scout slammed his bat into the man's chest. The gun dropped out of reach. Scout slammed that bat over and over, like he was going for home run twenty times over. He heard the satisfying sound of bones cracking, letting him know he'd done a good job.
"Scout! This is really sweet of you, but save some for me."
Scout stepped back. "Knock his teeth out, baby," Scout said.
"Oh, you're silly. I'd flay him alive slowly, while burning him in hot oil, then pull all his teeth out. But, unfortunately, I don't have time for that," she said. She pulled out a knife from her thigh holster--which might as well be called thigh armory for all the killing stuff she had between her legs. With a smile, and took a stab and twisted, right in his chest.
Scout broke into a big grin. He wiped blood away from his face--she'd hit a major artery--as he watched that knife go down again, and again, and again. The last look on the guy's face was one of complete shock that a tiny girl could frigging kick his ass. Make that frigging kill his ass. Because nobody came out alive when Miss Pauling was gunning for them. Or in this case, knifing for them.
But, the catcaller wasn't alone. Slowly, the rest of them stepped out from the shadows of the alley.
"Fucking Fred, always chasing after girls."
Any lingering conscience Scout might've had about killing them was lost the minute Scout saw they all wore faded Yankees jackets, and beat up Yankees caps.
"Fuckin' Yankees fans," Scout muttered. "Me and my girl are just tryin' to have a quiet night out. No need to make things get rough. Just step back, maybe go home and kiss your ma goodnight."
The tallest one pulled out a knife, that had seen better days. The holster looked about worn out, and the blade looked practically rusted through. "Gotta avenge that dumbass."
Scout snickered. "What you goin' to do with a knife like that? Cut some butter?"
"Scout, don't make it worse," Miss Pauling said.
She pulled out her gun. "I'd make this take longer, but I'm already late for our for our date."
Scout burst into a big smile. She'd said it, the d word. He was filled with so much love for her at that moment.
Back to back. Her derringer, his handgun. Her first mark hit true--right in the head. And like, every other single moment in the world.
"Good shot, Miss P!"
His first hit right in some poor bastard's throat. He reached up, gasping and clutching as he fell down. Blood oozed across the pavement.
"You're not so bad yourself," she said.
Scout smirked, and flipped his gun back into his bag. He pulled out his bat, still bloody from the last kill, and sped in to beat some skulls in. Sometimes, a guy just had to make it personal.'
He ducked a bullet, like he was some super hero action star in the movies, and let out a Danananana as he slammed his bat straight into some poor bastard Yankee fan's head. There it was, that satisfying squish and crack as another one of them fell dead on the pavement. But he'd gotten cocky. He felt the deep sudden pain as one of them got him, right in the side.
"Fuckin' Yankee Fans!" Scout said between gritted teeth.
But the poor bastard didn't even survive another second. There was a hole right between his eyes, from Miss P's perfect headshot.
There was only one of the group left. He started to back away as he glanced at his fallen comrades.
"Shit, now we have to avenge Tommy and Billy!"
"You keep it up and your ma will be buryin' what's left of you," Scout said.
He rushed into the dark. Scout for once, didn't chase after him. "Yeah, you're lucky I got a reservation, punk! Or I'd be right there chasin' after you. And for your information, I'd beat you because--I'm real good at runnin'!"
Scout broke out coughing as the last of the gang disappeared.
"Scout, are you okay?" Miss Pauling reached to touch his arm.
Scout wiped the blood from his face on the sleeve of his jacket. "Babe, I've gotten worse wounds at Thanksgivin' dinner. I'm fine."
Still, he was filled with a deep warmth at her concern. Totally worth being knifed. But, his suit was stained with blood, and now ripped for that matter. "Aw, man. One date without buryin' bodies, that's all I ask," Scout said.
"Technically, it'd probably be best to leave them where they are," Miss Pauling said. "The police aren't going too look too deep into a bunch of street thugs, and it'd send a message."
She looked to his blood-spattered suit. "You'll have to change," she said. Her red dress had absorbed the blood and made it only look as if it had a new pattern.
"Yeah, I figured. Your dress--it's real nice. I know I told you that, but it bears reapeatin'," Scout said.
"You told me that so much we were almost late right off the bat," she said. "It's the latest in Mann co. fashion," Miss Pauling said. "Absorbent, blood colored, and it's even filled with some kind of special material that doesn't smell like death. I'm still waiting for the purple version to come out."
"We could tell 'em there was a tragic accident with the spaghetti sauce," Scout said.
"We might even get priority with the staff if they see us come in like this," Miss Pauling said.
"Higher priority to the clink, you mean," Scout said. he let out a sigh as he surveyed the state of his suit. " This is goin' to take a ton of dry-cleanin' to get out. At least it ain't a rental."
"And you need to go see Medic about that stab wound," she said.
"Eh, I could've made it just fine. I'm a big boy. I get stabbed all the time back at base. Usually for drawin' pictures of Spy. Or stealin' Spy's food. Or puttin' a 'kick me' on Spy. Or hangin' around Sniper when he's really drunk and hopped up on shrooms." Scout let out a sigh. "We almost made it to a friggin' dinner. Almost."
"You know, it still felt like a date. It was sweet how you smashed those heads in. Messier than I'd do, but still a very effective kill," Miss Pauling said.
"For you, I'd beat all the skulls in," Scout said. "And, you know, for fun."
Under the street lights, she reached up, to kiss him. Blood had splattered across them both. It almost looked like a heart, now that he thought about it. A real fricking romantic scene. Him, her, and buckets of other people's blood all over them.
Who needed roses with something like that?
Miss Pauling cupped his face, and gave him such an intense look, he couldn't help but shiver a little.
"You looked so good out there killing them, I don't think I could've have waited through dinner. I definitely would've ripped your clothes off. Then we would've been banned, and I'd have to burn down the place to hide the evidence after one of us killed them, and--" she broke off as he kissed her, unable to take that much sexy talk in one place.
"Let's get some take out. Make a date of our own in your room," Scout said.
"Good plan," she said.
He took her hand and they went back to the base. Sure they were just killing creeps, but it was the best date he'd ever had. And it'd only get better with some Chinese food and kisses later.
Technically, every day with Miss Pauling was the best date ever. It was like she won every first prize ribbon, just for showing up. What could he say? She was just that classy of a lady.
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Scout/Miss Pauling, Soldier/Zhanna, Merasmus, Medic.
Rating: PG-13?
Summary: Some criminals have the unfortunate fate of running into the mercenaries and Miss Pauling.
Word count: 2728
Author's note: Medic's part of Gargoyles and Gravel got me thinking. That's also where Kleine, a victim of Medic is mentioned.
Canon-typical violence. No, seriously. This one is violent.
For Sarah.
1.
Kleine lit up a cigarette on his usual haunt. Drunks and tourists were always coming into these back alleys, and right into his range. Soon, he caught sight of his next dupe, and next paycheck.
"There you are, Archimedes. You're a bad boy for making me run this far, you know! At least you didn't get into anyone's chest this time. The dove stepped onto his hands, and he cooed towards the bird as if it were a child. He stroked the soft white feathers at the back.
He was such a sitting duck, that Kleine almost felt bad for preying on a clumsy and nerdy German tourist, dressed up in a sun visor that said Foxy Grandpa, and somehow managed to match his bulging white fanny pack. He might as well have had chump written across his forehead.
But it was a living.
Kleine stepped into the light of the streetlamp and pulled out his glock. The click got the guy's attention. "Hand over your cash, and nobody has to get hurt," he said.
The old man looked perplexed down at the gun. Oh great, he'd gotten one who was going senile.
"My cash? Oh, I've got all these traveler's checks, silly me. Now, let's see, I must have put it in my fanny pack somewhere..."
He set down the doves in cages at his side and glanced through them. "No, that's birds, not cash."
"What, you a magician? C'mon, buddy. You don't wanna get on my bad side." He shoved his gun into the man's ribs.
The man stared down at the gun. Kleine was starting to wonder if he should just let the senile old grandpa go and cut his losses. There were always bars he could hit. Drunks were easy prey. If this dottering old man couldn't even understand a simple order, then this could get difficult. And Kleine always wanted the easy mark, the easy kill.
Suddenly the nerdy German tourist grinned, and it was darker than anything he'd ever seen. Like looking into the darkness, a monster beneath a Foxy Grandpa golfing visor. Kleine saw a glint of metal, before the intense pain hit him.
"Ja, thanks for the free organs! So fresh, too!"
The last thing Kleine heard was the sound of the man's laughter.
2.
The mafia closed in on him. Damn his gambling habit. The Great Merasmus spent a little too much at the race track. And the craps table. He always told himself he could win it back, that he technically had the power of synchronicity and reality shifting--but the houses were always stacked against him.
If he attacked humans, he'd be in hot water with the wizarding world. He'd already almost lost his wizarding license over his feud with a certain mercenary group. Of course, once they'd heard about the incredible injustices he'd had to endure with that man as his roommate, they'd let him off, and given him free reign to attack them at will every Halloween.
He could bring himself back from the brink of death, of course. But it would be painful, difficult, and it was so damn hard to find a proper dry cleaner who wouldn't shrink his wizarding robes, until he'd have to cast the tiny head spell on himself just to fit.
They started to lift him up. Merasmus started to struggle as his mind raced for a way he could somehow get out of this and keep his license. Tiny head curse, perhaps? They would be so utterly embarrassed by how ridiculously they looked with their tiny, tiny, tiny heads they'd drop him and run away, surely.
But just as he started the words, a familiar bellow came through the air. Make that a war cry.
"Oh, no....."
"No one touches my roommate, but me!" Soldier bellowed.
A very unwelcome site greeted Merasmus. His old roommate, in an army suit he'd gotten out of the dumpster, and fury in his deep blue eyes. Beside him, a tall amazon of a woman, with long dark hair and remarkable curves cracked her knuckles behind him. "I protect my husband's roommate."
Dear gods above, he had a mate now? And one with a Russian accent, no less? And she looked just as vicious as him. The thought of Soldier spawning made him fear for the fate of humanity.
"Is there perhaps anyone else who would save the great Merasmus? Anyone?"
But his plea went on deaf ears.
The mafia men let him fall into the trunk. Both Soldier and the woman let out a battle cry and raced towards them. He started to pull at his bonds. However, it was quite hard to see what was going on at this angle. The trunk rather got in the way. Perhaps he could levitate the car away. But for a spell like that he'd need his wand, and they'd confiscated it.
Merasmus let out a sigh as Soldier and his wife punched a member of the Russian mafia while holding hands. They snapped a neck together, they kicked the last one in the ribs again and again until he lay still. Another, they ribbed off his arms and beat him to death with them, all the while laughing. At one point, they took a break in beating him to begin to kiss right on his dying body.
The whole thing lasted less than five minutes. The mafia men hadn't even had a chance.
"Merasmus!"
Soldier lifted him out from the trunk, and carried him bridal style.
"Yes... of course, the ancient wizarding code states that I now must grant you a wish," Merasmus said flatly. "Do it quickly. I have a...meeting to be to. Perhaps you would like a new raccoon?"
Magic coursed through his veins, ready to grant any wish that came, no matter how many raccoons it was.
"I want....a roommate!" Soldier burst out.
Merasmus grimaced. "Well, what are you asking me that for? Do you want me to conjure up one? It looks like you already got one while I was gone," Merasmus said crossly.
"That's my wish! I want my old roommate. Forever!"
The wizarding code was clear. A wish for a life. But oh, at what cost?
But the magic was already started. He could feel himself being inexorably bound in roommatedom, forever.
Forever cursed to Soldier making bathrooms in the kitchen, Soldier pissing in the sink, Soldier attacking his fridge in the night because he was sure it spawned Russian Communists. And now, there'd be little Soldiers to join in on the carnage.
"NOOOOO!"
Merasmus' screams echoed all across the city and beyond, even as his possessions manifested themselves in the cardboard box Soldier and his wife lived in.
3.
"We got out late, but the restaurant should still be open. Hopefully there's still some space open," she said.
"Oh, they'll make room, or they'll answer to my fist," Scout said. He'd kept his hands wrapped, just for such occasions. He mimicked punching, somewhere between boxer and Kung-fu movie.
Miss Pauling glanced at the map. "Here, we can take a short cut through the alley, and we'll save five minutes at least. We should be able to make our reservation, then."
"Ooh, good one, Miss P."
They took a cut across the alley, and onto a side street that lead downtown. It was weird, having a high class restaurant right next to all these shady looking warehouse and cracked pavements, complete with gutters that looked wrong without at least one body in there. But hey, maybe it was mafia. Chattering amongst themselves, it took them both a few minutes to realize they were being followed.
"Keep walking," Miss Pauling said in an undertone.
But Scout stopped, and glared back at the guy on the streetlamp. His hands were in his blue jacket. Probably hiding a gun.
"Hey, toots! A tiny girl like you is probably pretty lonely. You're so small--I bet you're real tight."
Scout let go of her hand, and turned so fast that the catcaller drew back. He leapt across the street, past the streetlights.
"The fuck did you just say?"
"Hey, pipsqueak. Aww, you going to dance with me?"
"No, I'm goin' to friggin' tangle with you. Didn't your ma teach you anythin'? You don't talk to girls like that. Especially not my girl."
He pulled out his bat from his bag. "Let's play ball. Oh yeah, and you're the ball," Scout said.
Before the man could even say a thing back, Scout slammed his bat into the man's chest. The gun dropped out of reach. Scout slammed that bat over and over, like he was going for home run twenty times over. He heard the satisfying sound of bones cracking, letting him know he'd done a good job.
"Scout! This is really sweet of you, but save some for me."
Scout stepped back. "Knock his teeth out, baby," Scout said.
"Oh, you're silly. I'd flay him alive slowly, while burning him in hot oil, then pull all his teeth out. But, unfortunately, I don't have time for that," she said. She pulled out a knife from her thigh holster--which might as well be called thigh armory for all the killing stuff she had between her legs. With a smile, and took a stab and twisted, right in his chest.
Scout broke into a big grin. He wiped blood away from his face--she'd hit a major artery--as he watched that knife go down again, and again, and again. The last look on the guy's face was one of complete shock that a tiny girl could frigging kick his ass. Make that frigging kill his ass. Because nobody came out alive when Miss Pauling was gunning for them. Or in this case, knifing for them.
But, the catcaller wasn't alone. Slowly, the rest of them stepped out from the shadows of the alley.
"Fucking Fred, always chasing after girls."
Any lingering conscience Scout might've had about killing them was lost the minute Scout saw they all wore faded Yankees jackets, and beat up Yankees caps.
"Fuckin' Yankees fans," Scout muttered. "Me and my girl are just tryin' to have a quiet night out. No need to make things get rough. Just step back, maybe go home and kiss your ma goodnight."
The tallest one pulled out a knife, that had seen better days. The holster looked about worn out, and the blade looked practically rusted through. "Gotta avenge that dumbass."
Scout snickered. "What you goin' to do with a knife like that? Cut some butter?"
"Scout, don't make it worse," Miss Pauling said.
She pulled out her gun. "I'd make this take longer, but I'm already late for our for our date."
Scout burst into a big smile. She'd said it, the d word. He was filled with so much love for her at that moment.
Back to back. Her derringer, his handgun. Her first mark hit true--right in the head. And like, every other single moment in the world.
"Good shot, Miss P!"
His first hit right in some poor bastard's throat. He reached up, gasping and clutching as he fell down. Blood oozed across the pavement.
"You're not so bad yourself," she said.
Scout smirked, and flipped his gun back into his bag. He pulled out his bat, still bloody from the last kill, and sped in to beat some skulls in. Sometimes, a guy just had to make it personal.'
He ducked a bullet, like he was some super hero action star in the movies, and let out a Danananana as he slammed his bat straight into some poor bastard Yankee fan's head. There it was, that satisfying squish and crack as another one of them fell dead on the pavement. But he'd gotten cocky. He felt the deep sudden pain as one of them got him, right in the side.
"Fuckin' Yankee Fans!" Scout said between gritted teeth.
But the poor bastard didn't even survive another second. There was a hole right between his eyes, from Miss P's perfect headshot.
There was only one of the group left. He started to back away as he glanced at his fallen comrades.
"Shit, now we have to avenge Tommy and Billy!"
"You keep it up and your ma will be buryin' what's left of you," Scout said.
He rushed into the dark. Scout for once, didn't chase after him. "Yeah, you're lucky I got a reservation, punk! Or I'd be right there chasin' after you. And for your information, I'd beat you because--I'm real good at runnin'!"
Scout broke out coughing as the last of the gang disappeared.
"Scout, are you okay?" Miss Pauling reached to touch his arm.
Scout wiped the blood from his face on the sleeve of his jacket. "Babe, I've gotten worse wounds at Thanksgivin' dinner. I'm fine."
Still, he was filled with a deep warmth at her concern. Totally worth being knifed. But, his suit was stained with blood, and now ripped for that matter. "Aw, man. One date without buryin' bodies, that's all I ask," Scout said.
"Technically, it'd probably be best to leave them where they are," Miss Pauling said. "The police aren't going too look too deep into a bunch of street thugs, and it'd send a message."
She looked to his blood-spattered suit. "You'll have to change," she said. Her red dress had absorbed the blood and made it only look as if it had a new pattern.
"Yeah, I figured. Your dress--it's real nice. I know I told you that, but it bears reapeatin'," Scout said.
"You told me that so much we were almost late right off the bat," she said. "It's the latest in Mann co. fashion," Miss Pauling said. "Absorbent, blood colored, and it's even filled with some kind of special material that doesn't smell like death. I'm still waiting for the purple version to come out."
"We could tell 'em there was a tragic accident with the spaghetti sauce," Scout said.
"We might even get priority with the staff if they see us come in like this," Miss Pauling said.
"Higher priority to the clink, you mean," Scout said. he let out a sigh as he surveyed the state of his suit. " This is goin' to take a ton of dry-cleanin' to get out. At least it ain't a rental."
"And you need to go see Medic about that stab wound," she said.
"Eh, I could've made it just fine. I'm a big boy. I get stabbed all the time back at base. Usually for drawin' pictures of Spy. Or stealin' Spy's food. Or puttin' a 'kick me' on Spy. Or hangin' around Sniper when he's really drunk and hopped up on shrooms." Scout let out a sigh. "We almost made it to a friggin' dinner. Almost."
"You know, it still felt like a date. It was sweet how you smashed those heads in. Messier than I'd do, but still a very effective kill," Miss Pauling said.
"For you, I'd beat all the skulls in," Scout said. "And, you know, for fun."
Under the street lights, she reached up, to kiss him. Blood had splattered across them both. It almost looked like a heart, now that he thought about it. A real fricking romantic scene. Him, her, and buckets of other people's blood all over them.
Who needed roses with something like that?
Miss Pauling cupped his face, and gave him such an intense look, he couldn't help but shiver a little.
"You looked so good out there killing them, I don't think I could've have waited through dinner. I definitely would've ripped your clothes off. Then we would've been banned, and I'd have to burn down the place to hide the evidence after one of us killed them, and--" she broke off as he kissed her, unable to take that much sexy talk in one place.
"Let's get some take out. Make a date of our own in your room," Scout said.
"Good plan," she said.
He took her hand and they went back to the base. Sure they were just killing creeps, but it was the best date he'd ever had. And it'd only get better with some Chinese food and kisses later.
Technically, every day with Miss Pauling was the best date ever. It was like she won every first prize ribbon, just for showing up. What could he say? She was just that classy of a lady.
