Fic: Until Death Do Us Part chaptered 1
Feb. 14th, 2019 06:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisgf went "would it kill you to make actual chapters?" You can read the full original post here
Title: Until Death Do Us Part
Series: TF2
Character/Pairing: Scout/Miss Pauling
Rating: NC-17
Summary: On the night before the court date of a massive legal action against Mann co. and TFI, Miss Pauling drags Scout to a Vegas drive-through chapel.
Word count: 18336
Author's note: After the line "Though, technically, we'd have confession immunity if we got married" in another piece I backflipped into a fake marriage fic in like ten seconds flat.
Hand driers originated as early as 1921, and were popularized in the 1940s.
For Sarah.
"Let's go," she said.
When she asked, Scout followed. He leapt into the truck, and waited on the explanation why. In his line of work, it was better not to ask. But, something was off today. Her shoulders were tense, her jaw set. Scout tried to remember back. He hadn't stolen any briefcases--at least, not when he was off duty.
Couldn't be him. He'd been doing everything he could to prove just what great boyfriend material he would make.
"So--where we headed?"
She cut him off. "Don't, it might be bugged," she said tersely.
It came to Scout that when Miss Pauling was worried, then some real shit must've gone down. But he caught himself. If she couldn't even tell him where they were going, she certainly wasn't about to tell him what they were up to.
*
The drive was longer than usual. The radio only brought in some country station, but jangling banjos was better than the silence. If he'd known it'd been this long--that she'd be as tight lipped as if she was on the witness stand--he would've brought his comics.
They passed by a big, fancy sign that said Welcome to Nevada. It went too fast for him to catch the state motto. Miss Pauling was driving so fast, a practical dust storm of clouds rose up behind them as they sailed over that desert highway.
"We got a job, or on a deadline or somethin'?"
"You'll see," was all she said. Which was no wonder. She was always quiet about jobs.
They passed by ghost towns and gas stations. The tank was half full from the last fill up, so that was one thing less to worry about.
"I can't go on without another cup of coffee," she said.
"I'll take over. Where we headed?"
"Vegas," she said.
She gave over the wheel, and laid down on the seat. The tip of her head rested against his side. It took all his effort to keep his attention on the road.
He knew damn well they weren't headed for a night at the casino, not unless they had somebody to kill. But, he just kept driving towards those far off lights.
*
They reached Vegas about 3AM. She stirred as he came to a stop at the nearest gas station.
"We're here, though I don't know where the friggin' hell is here," Scout said.
Technically he did. Anybody knew Vegas. But what he meant was he had no clue why they were in Vegas at 3AM.
In the end, it was probably better that he didn't know. Like Miss Pauling was always telling him: you can't be a witness if you didn't see anything. You can't testify if you don't know anything. So don't look at those papers, and don't you dare steal anymore briefcases.
"I know where we're going. I'll take another turn," she said.
The casinos were a show of bright lights and fountains. In the morning, the poor bastards would blink into he light, dull and dazed, with much lighter pocketbooks. But for now, they were living it up.
Scout craned his neck to watch them fade into dark and streetlights. But she headed towards one of the smaller ones, like a roadside diner of casinos. On the side was a pink, flickering drive through chapel. An overweight Elvis drank from a bottle of cheap whiskey in front of a bedazzled pulpit. There was the sound of clanking and beeping from the slot machines in the nearby rooms.
"Look, Miss P, it's a McMarriage! They should offer fries to go. Ey, Miss Pauling, you think they throw fries instead of rice here? Maybe burgers..." He chuckled at his own joke. A McMarriage. God, he should write these ones down.
She smoothed out her skirts. Her hair had gotten mussed. "At least it isn't stained," she said to herself.
"You look fine. Which you always do. More than that, you look great."
"Do you trust me?"
"Of course," Scout said.
"You shouldn't, but I'm glad you do. No matter what, keep trusting me. All right?"
"C'mon, I ain't that bad at poker," Scout said.
"You're that much and more. You lost to a lamp."
"A lamp who was also a lawyer, like not just any regular sexy foot lamp, this one had a law degree," Scout said.
"Trust me, this time, you won't have any lawyers who can double as furniture," she said.
Las Vegas didn't have much now that he was steady with Miss Pauling. She was the only nudie show he wanted to attend, and he didn't have much luck with gambling. For all his bragging, Scout knew he didn't have the best poker face.
But Scout figured they'd only see the lights in passing. Some poor bastard would end up dead in the back of their truck, and Scout would find a new forever home six feet deep in the desert wilds.
But Miss Pauling parked the truck at Almost Elvis' House of Love: 24 Hour Marriages.
Were Elvis impersonators on the Voice's shitlist now? Maybe they'd gotten the wrong person hitched and now they'd have a hunka-hunka- burning limb.
A large Elvis impersonator took a drink from a bottle of Jack, and wiped his mouth with the back of his big hands as Miss Pauling approached him.
Miss Pauling cleared her throat. "Are you still open?"
"We're open all night, darlin'," the Elvis impersonator said. He pointed up to the sign. "Twenty-four hours of hunka-hunka burnin' love."
Even though it was part of the act, Scout found himself gritting his teeth. He couldn't believe some fake Elvis got to call her a sweet nickname before he even did. His hand tensed. His bat, his gun was near.
Miss Pauling placed her hand on his shoulder, like she sensed his dumbass ideas. His hand relaxed at her touch.
"Good, then we'd like to be married, please."
Scout gaped, and quickly looked to her for some kind of confirmation. What the fuuuuck? Wait a---
"Of course, darlin'. Right over here. We got custom papers, and matrimonial options. Some rice for 25 cents in the back.
"Oh, that's all right. We have to make this quick. Real quick," Miss Pauling said. "You have rings for sale, right?"
He had to be dreaming. In a few moments she would turn into stripper Miss Pauling and the dream would have a very literal happy ending. Then he'd wake up with sticky pajama pants, and it'd be the same song and dance of burying bodies and the only thing keeping him warm at night was his hands, because she didn't have any time for anything else.
"Oh, this some kind of shotgun wedding?"
"You could say that," she said dryly.
No, seriously, what the fuck? Scout wasn't exactly a genius when it came to plenty of things--God was too busy giving it all to Miss Pauling, so he could have the looks and the charisma and the sweet, sweet, muscles. to say nothing of his fantastic ass. But he was pretty damn sure marriage came after things, like an actual date. And a ring. He hadn't even gotten her a ring yet.
But apparently Elvis here was already showing her the options.
Sure, he'd thought about it. But rings came after a frigging date. Unless maybe she counted each body burying as a literal date. Then they'd be up to....Scout couldn't even count the amount of bodies they'd done in together.
And shotgun weddings--those came after sex. Which they hadn't had.
Could Miss P be one of those super religious types? Scout knew all too well the Catholic girls who might neck a little, but the minute he slid in for second base, would button up their shirts and demand a commitment. He'd flirted and kissed plenty during his teens. There was a reason he was a virgin well up until he moved out to New Mexico for work.
"You got a certificate?"
"How much extra is that going to take? I need to get this done fast. I have to be back to work soon," Miss Pauling said.
"Hundred and a pack of smokes," he said.
She dug in her purse. "I've only got cash."
Scout dug around in his bag, and pulled out an unopened pack. He threw it towards the Elvis impersonator. It sailed over his head and smacked against the wall.
"Close enough," Scout said.
"You don't smoke," Miss Pauling said.
"In prisons, it's good to have some handy, to keep people from shankin' you. Plus it's fun to light 'em and flick 'em at Spy when he's bein' a jerk. Then Pyro picks 'em up and runs around like they're sparklers. Must think they're like sparklers or somethin'. It's always handy to have some smokes around. Of course, they're hard to buy..."
He never could convince the sellers that he was old enough to have them. Even when he showed his real IDs, they just claimed he was faking them, and there was no way he was older than sixteen.
But Elvis here, he either didn't care or was too drunk to try and pull some shit like that. He glanced over their IDs and wrote up.
"What names you want on them?"
Everything faded away as he faced her, and she took his hands in hers. Sure, he didn't know what the fuck was going on. But as long as it was with her, he'd say yes every time. His heart beat in his chest like a freight train. It hadn't been the way he'd planned, but here it was. Miss Pauling and him, forever.
"Let's cut it down for time. I don't really like the worship and obey part," Miss Pauling said.
"I do. I'll obey and worship you," Scout said quickly. "Uh, what was the rest of it?"
"Richer or poorer, I think. And In sickness and in health..."
"Then--" Scout broke off.
"Oh right, to have and to hold," she said.
"I remember this one! I like that one. Then it was... Until death do us part. And I ain't talkin' Respawn, either."
"Right, I do," she said quickly.
"Me too. I totally do."
Then, she kissed him. Hands to his chest, her fingers balled up his shirt. The day only felt more unreal. Scout was just sure he'd wake up any second now. But he kept not waking up.
*
They stumbled out into the parking lot. Or at least, Scout did. He was half-surprised he didn't fall, face first into the pavement. The word felt weird, like he was drunk. But it wasn't on alcohol, it was her that was making him more and more intoxicated.
"We need to be back as soon as possible," she said.
"It's fine, I'll shotgun some coffee."
If he'd know he was going to be pulling an all nighter, he would've grabbed some BONK. Sure, he'd be going the speed of light, but he'd be up.
"No...I don't want you falling asleep at the wheel. Pull over at the next motel."
There was always a cheap hotel or motel somewhere in Vegas. In this case, it was right across the street. Miss Pauling paid, and then it was just him and her and one room. Sure, Scout had been planning this whole thing for years, but he didn't think it'd happen all at once.
Scout took several deep breaths, like he did before each game. He'd had this vision of them both, and there were rose petals and a lot of other fancy crap girls liked. Somewhere fancy, not some sleazeball motel. The tv was chained to a cinder block. The lock, and thick chain were covered in scratches that looked like they'd been made with a knife.
It wasn't even a good TV. The bunny ear antenna were wrapped in tin foil, and it looked about ten years out of date. Probably didn't even have color.
Hell, he hadn't even planned on his wedding night happening this soon. His palms were sweaty. Any game he'd had was lost somewhere along with I do and until death do us part. He staggered in towards the bed, still barely able to believe he hadn't woken up yet.
But he didn't take that leap. Not yet.
Miss Pauling practically fell into bed. She didn't even bother getting undressed. Interesting plan, but Scout liked it. Even if taking her dress off with her in it could be a challenge. Gotta love a challenge.
But the place, it was all wrong. He stretched out to clear and calm his mind. If only he could get in a nice run and a shower. He hadn't even gotten close, but the Elvis impersonator wore so much cologne, it had wafted onto him.
"Goodnight," she said. "Don't exercise too much. We'll have a long drive back."
She turned off the lamp, leaving him in darkness.
His options were the floor, the chair which looked about as comfortable as the cinder block, and the bed.
It was supposed to be a queen, but it felt about the size of a twin. He tried to steady his breath as he slipped in beside her.
He couldn't say if he was disappointed that his wedding night was curling up on a too-hard bed in a crummy motel in sheer exhaustion, or relieved that he could get a do-over which was more romantic. And less likely to have bed-bugs.
*
He woke up, and she was still beside him, still wearing the ring. Unless it was a dream within a dream, he'd won the fucking lottery and Miss Pauling and decided to freaking marry him.
She woke up with messy hair, her bun all undone and reached for her glasses. The night had wrinkled her purple dress. He slowly let his hand rest against her hip. She didn't push him away.
"Mmn. What time is it?"
Scout squinted as he tried to read the clock on the wall. "Says ten, but it might be broken. Everythin' else in here is."
"Shit! We should've been out by nine!"
She was out of bed in seconds. Scout's hand fell to the bed, where it'd once been against her. There wasn't much to pick up, considering that nothing had been unpacked. Scout pushed himself up. He'd kind of hoped, just a bit, that maybe they'd get a chance to change to a different motel or hotel, and get this wedding night in, even if it was a wedding afternoon.
She finger combed her hair back into a more orderly bun as he watched.
"We have to get back before anyone realizes we're gone. We could be charged with leaving that---Scout, do you remember the inquest?" She met him with that intense green eyed gaze through the mirror.
"You mean that G&G stuff we were doin'?" Scout said.
"No, I'm talking about the massive law action that's going on against Mann. co."
Oh right. He'd heard something about that, but he hadn't paid much attention. It wasn't really his business, and the more he got into TFI business that wasn't his, the more he got photographs reminding him that they knew where his mother lived.
Scout shrugged. So what if there was a 'inquest'? He'd done jail time. Hell, Saxton had done jail time. Miss P always got them all out. It'd be just a another few annoying hours of waiting in a court and waiting for her to come in, like the Calvary.
"So? Spy says he put his money in offshore banks. What, did Saxton put his money in Yetis or somethin'?" Scout said.
"If only it were that simple," she said.
She let out a long breath. "Listen, all you need to do is take the fifth. Don't say anything. Not a damn thing, all right? They can't make you talk. Not now," she said.
They got breakfast on the drive back. She was quiet, considering it was hard to drive over the sound of the motor. The truck hadn't been fixed. For once, Scout was caught up in himself, wordless with wonder.
He was freaking married to Miss Pauling. And that was something he was ever going to get used to or ever stop being damn thankful that the Big Guy Upstairs had apparently decided that today, he was gonna win the jackpot.
*
The base was quiet. Too quiet. No explosions or laughter, no animals being wrestled or cries of Freedom! and For America! The rest of the men were gone, and whatever other staff were either hauled away to the clink, or dead and buried somewhere in the caves.
It was the sirens that cut through it, Scout whirled around.
"Let's go. We can get out of here. We're close to the border--we can get there in a few hours, right? Make it back across later on, go hide out in Southie--!"
"No, Scout. We've got to do this," she said.
Scout reached for his gun. He'd probably survive it, though they'd have to be a real Bonnie and Clyde when it was all over, and head straight to the border.
"Don't you dare. You're going to live through this. Remember, Scout. Remember the fifth!"
Drop it! Drop the weapon!
Scout dropped his gun, make that plural. He didn't even make a stupid ass pun about gun shows like he would've before then. Not with Miss Pauling so close, not when they were both in the firing line.
The pigs closed in, blue uniforms and mirrored glasses. His mind whirled with possibilities to keep her out of all this, to keep her safe, but it was all an hour late. He could only watch as the handcuffs were put on her.
"Don't you touch her!" He was cut off as he was slammed against the door of the police car. His bag was torn off. A used candy wrapped spilled out onto the sand and gravel as they went through his most personal possessions.
"Don't you take my stuff! Th-that's my pictures!"
"He isn't involved with this--I'm telling you, he isn't involved with this at all! He's just a delivery boy! He knows nothing!" she said.
Her protests were ignored.
He was cuffed and shoved into the back of the police car. It sure wasn't the first time he'd heard those blaring sirens in his head. Probably wouldn't be the last, knowing him.
*
It was a small, concrete room. The fluorescent lights above flickered, like some disco Halloween show. Someone was behind that two-way mirror. Scout smirked at the person waiting. come on, you son of a bitch. I'm waitin'.
Miss Pauling and his Ma were always the two people he had to choose between the one phone call. If Miss Pauling wouldn't pick up, then it'd be to Ma and apologize for being the son who came back in a casket. But this time, it was Miss Pauling in deep with him. So he just shook his head when it came to his one phone call.
He'd spend it calling the Big Guy Upstairs and asking him what on earth was up with this? Two seconds of heaven and then crashing back to hell? He should've known that some things were too good to last.
He couldn't let him get down. Miss Pauling would get them out of this. She always did.
His hands were folded on the table. Men in blue circled him. As they talked, Scout just smirked. Nothing could touch him, not even their attempts to chip away at him. They tried his ego, they tried whatever they could think to tear him down, or piss him off.
All they got was a cocky grin. He was married to freaking Miss Pauling. Little things like trying to imply he was a dumbass, or a brute wasn't going to cut it when she'd said I do hours ago.
No water. No food. For hours they'd turn down the lights. But they'd pipe in some godawful radio, wouldn't let him sleep.
Thought they could wear him down. Scout smirked. Miss Pauling had already given him the out.
By hour six, they shoved data in his face. Scout had to bend close to read. The words seemed so blurry, and jumped around, all twisting until he couldn't get past them, like a maze. And when he did manage to get it close enough to almost get past that blurriness, they were all big and stupid and boring. He managed to read out loud a few, then pushed it aside in frustration.
By hour ten, they were trying to cut a deal. Make him turn. But he wasn't a rat. And he wasn't about to give in that easily. Not that he had anything to give anyways.
"Takin' the fifth, pally," was all he said.
It was probably the only damn time he'd ever willingly chosen not to speak. Anybody would've probably thought he'd have died, not talking for that long. But his mind kept going back to her sleeping beside him. He'd do whatever he could to get back to that moment, and get back to her.
*
He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. But, they couldn't hold him. They'd tried to pin a bunch of shit on him, but his superior dumbassery won through the day. Bet those teachers who laughed when he couldn't see the words written on the blackboard past the blurrinsess and way the words just kept going cross-eyed. Well, look who was laughing now, and not in freaking jail?
Scout downed drink after drink of Coke from the vending machines outside. He felt marginally more alive as his parched body took in all that sugar.
"I'll be pissin' like Sniper at this rate," he muttered.
The sugar rush hit him like a wall of adrenaline, but that wasn't all. He shoved quarters into the vending machine. Chips, candy bars, he bought up one of everything. He shoved them in his mouth, all the flavors melded together. The wadded ball of wrappers fell into the trash can.
With as many brothers as he had, a guy learned to eat fast. If he didn't get his share, he'd go hungry. And he was the smallest of the bunch, but he could run, and he could hit hard.
He headed back towards the front desk. There was a female cop, and a cute one, at that. He would've flirted with her in another life, before Miss Pauling.
"Listen, pally. Where's my pictures? Ain't nothin' about the case about pictures of my ma!"
"Sir, if you'd--"
"C'mon, I'm innocent! Gimme my pics of my ma already!"
Miss Pauling had a bag slung over her shoulder. His bag, in fact. It was a bit ripped up, and had definitely seen better days, but it was still there. Hopefully it still had his pictures, too.
"Oh! Miss Pauling!"
She glanced back. She looked about as grim and tired as he felt before she got there. "Let's get out of here, Scout," she said.
He caught up with her in the parking lot. A heat mirage rose up from the chipped blacktop.
"Miss Pauling, you okay? They didn't hurt you, did they?"
"Of course, they didn't even use torture. Something about it not being legal." She let out a derisive snort. "Some law system they are. I guess it's lucky for us they're so incompetent."
"Ain't nothin' to hide anyways," Scout said.
She climbed into the truck. Who had brought it there? Some orderly that remained around? Scout didn't quite know. Maybe Miss Pauling perfected magic and teleportation while he wasn't looking. It'd explain how she managed her hellish schedule.
He followed her into the truck, and shut the door hard behind him. The side rattled, possibly with old bullets.
She turned the key, and it rumbled to life. It wasn't until the police station was so far away, it was a line in the distance that she finally replied.
"For you, maybe. When all your coworkers are alcoholics, there's always evidence to hide. They're always sloppy at getting rid of something. And I'm always too busy to catch all their mistakes. And that isn't even bringing into everything I know about TFI," she said.
"Oh, yeah. Guess you gotta think up alibis," he said.
"There's nothing to think up. I never do anything without a clear alibi, even get coffee," she said.
"Dang," he said. She was so put together, remembering alibis like they were nothing. But then, Miss Pauling made everything look easy. She read off stuff like the words weren't blurry and jumpy, he bet she even could do math.
They ended up back at the base. She pushed up the yellow tape and climbed underneath.
Scout headed upstairs to the former men's quarters, where rooms full of boxes remained. There wasn't a single sound, not even a raccoon digging around, like usual, or any angry men screaming freedom! at the top of their lungs.
His stuff was all boxed up. The room was downright bare. Even the posters had been torn down. Without the pin up calendars and baseball pics on the walls to cover up the bullet holes, the room looked like moldy Swiss cheese.
"What the hell, am I fired?"
"Keep your voice down, Scout," Miss Pauling said. "Don't be silly. There's no job left to be fired from."
"Oh, right...I just figured, the whole place always comes back..."
"If it comes back, it'll be under another name, and with entirely new staff," she said.
She bent down and dragged a box closer.
"You're moving in with me. We're married now, after all. I just took the liberty of getting everything ready."
A week ago, he and Miss Pauling had been only sort of, kind of dating. The type where he questioned a lot if they really were dating or he just hallucinated that whole bread thing, because, really? Evil bread with tentacles?
Now, they were Vegas married. He hadn't even popped the question, she'd just dragged him there and then this happened.
They were really married. He was really Mr. Pauling now. Wait...
And he had a ring to prove it. Every time Scout wondered if maybe the whole thing was a fever dream, all he had to do was look down.
Still, he had so many questions. Why the sudden change? Who had packed his stuff up, if they were both out? He was pretty sure the cops wouldn't just put stuff in boxes like that.
She came up behind him, small and in charge. He turned around, and shared a smile with her for a second.
"These are all yours," she said.
"When'd you get a chance to save them?" he said.
"Before I left, off course."
They didn't even smell of smoke. Somehow she'd kept what little he had safe. Scout smiled. "Thanks, Miss P."
(Did Miss Pauling have the ability to be in two places at once, or possibly know teleportation? Because that would explain a lot.)
"What about you?" he said.
"My things? I already stashed my weapons and some new clothes. I didn't really have anything else worth saving other than that."
"Seriously, nothing at all?"
"If you treasure something, you've got a weakness," she said.
She met his gaze for a long while, and he nodded. The company sure had sent him a lot of pictures of his ma to remind him that the minute he stepped out of line, they knew where she was.
"Aight, I got 'em. I'll have the whole thing loaded before you know it."
As he hauled the last box into the truck, the lights all suddenly blew. Scout whirled around, ready to fight whatever ghost or wizard was there. But it wasn't Merasmus, fourth rate wizard he saw. Miss Pauling was silhouetted in flames. In her hand was a can of gasoline.
It was a beautiful, horrible sight. Here he was, watching all his work for years go quite literally up in smoke. The rickety wood walls gave in easily.
But Miss Pauling sure looked good while she destroyed everything he'd loved.
She razed the whole place, until even their tracks were lost. And then they drove off into the night, back into Teufort. Scout figured there were more hotels with their name on it, but Miss Pauling stopped into Teufort Pleasantville Apartments.
"I already booked us a place at least until the end of the month," Miss Pauling said.
That little us made him shiver.
"And you shouldn't call me 'Miss Pauling' anymore. It'll seem suspicious. You should call me Sophie, or Mrs. Dempsey. Though I haven't changed my name yet officially..."
Scout scrunched up his nose. "Suspicious? Feels weird, you not bein' Pauling anymore. It's all I've ever know you as."
"I could hyphenate. Then I'd be Mrs. Pauling-Dempsey, or Dempsey-Pauling."
"The first one. Then you'd still be Miss Pauling."
"Mrs. technically," she said.
"Yeah, Mrs. Pauling. Uh, babe--Why not go into hidin'? That's what I don't get. You say you have to take all this. It ain't your crap."
"Because the Administrator left this for me to handle. And I'm sure it's just like all the other trials she's given me."
"If she can be a coward and just run off, then so can you. It ain't your place to carry the whole company. What have they ever done for you?"
Miss Pauling's face twisted into rage in seconds. Scout hadn't seen her this pissed since he stole a briefcase. She pointed a finger accusingly at him. "Scout, don't you dare say such things about the Administrator. She is no coward. She's the most powerful deadly person in the world, and if she heard you say such things, not even I could save you from her wrath."
Scout gestured with his hands, towards nothing, towards everything. You talk like an Italian, baby his mother had always said, because even his hands couldn't keep quiet, and had to go along while he talked. It got even worse when he was angry.
"Oh, right--what's it called when somebody runs off and leaves the mess for everybody else to clean up? Because that sure don't sound like frickin' bravery to me!"
"Strategic. It was a common practice for kings and queens of the day. You don't let the important people just get captured."
"Then what does that mean, she don't think you're important?"
Miss Pauling's voice rose. There was this wild look in her eyes that usually ended up with somebody dead. Scout enjoyed watching her go off on whatever poor bastard was next in line to the graveyard train, but it was a lot less enjoyable being the target of her wrath. "I'm important enough to clean up and save the company for her. Not that you would understand anything about that. You're nothing but a mercenary. You've never even met the Administrator. To you, she's just a voice yelling commands. Well, I took care of those commands and did things you can't even imagine!"
They hadn't even been married a week and they were already into first fight territory. Scout couldn't tell if it was a bad sign, or good to get it out of the way. Either way, even a dumbass like him could see there was no winning this one. Whatever hold the Voice had on her, it was too strong for him to get rid of so easily.
"Forget it. We're both exhausted. Let's just get the stuff put in and get to bed."
She didn't respond, though that door sure didn't close quietly behind her. Which made Scout realize that today was probably supposed to be their belated wedding night, and he'd probably spend it on the couch. He had an inkling Miss Pauling's take on 'never got to bed angry' would probably come off more like 'never go to bed unarmed.'
Sure, he'd made some dumbass choices, but was this one of them? How the hell was he supposed to know that telling Miss Pauling to take care of herself and not rush headlong into certain death would be taken like that. He sat down, pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair.
It was going to be a long night.
*
next part
Title: Until Death Do Us Part
Series: TF2
Character/Pairing: Scout/Miss Pauling
Rating: NC-17
Summary: On the night before the court date of a massive legal action against Mann co. and TFI, Miss Pauling drags Scout to a Vegas drive-through chapel.
Word count: 18336
Author's note: After the line "Though, technically, we'd have confession immunity if we got married" in another piece I backflipped into a fake marriage fic in like ten seconds flat.
Hand driers originated as early as 1921, and were popularized in the 1940s.
For Sarah.
"Let's go," she said.
When she asked, Scout followed. He leapt into the truck, and waited on the explanation why. In his line of work, it was better not to ask. But, something was off today. Her shoulders were tense, her jaw set. Scout tried to remember back. He hadn't stolen any briefcases--at least, not when he was off duty.
Couldn't be him. He'd been doing everything he could to prove just what great boyfriend material he would make.
"So--where we headed?"
She cut him off. "Don't, it might be bugged," she said tersely.
It came to Scout that when Miss Pauling was worried, then some real shit must've gone down. But he caught himself. If she couldn't even tell him where they were going, she certainly wasn't about to tell him what they were up to.
*
The drive was longer than usual. The radio only brought in some country station, but jangling banjos was better than the silence. If he'd known it'd been this long--that she'd be as tight lipped as if she was on the witness stand--he would've brought his comics.
They passed by a big, fancy sign that said Welcome to Nevada. It went too fast for him to catch the state motto. Miss Pauling was driving so fast, a practical dust storm of clouds rose up behind them as they sailed over that desert highway.
"We got a job, or on a deadline or somethin'?"
"You'll see," was all she said. Which was no wonder. She was always quiet about jobs.
They passed by ghost towns and gas stations. The tank was half full from the last fill up, so that was one thing less to worry about.
"I can't go on without another cup of coffee," she said.
"I'll take over. Where we headed?"
"Vegas," she said.
She gave over the wheel, and laid down on the seat. The tip of her head rested against his side. It took all his effort to keep his attention on the road.
He knew damn well they weren't headed for a night at the casino, not unless they had somebody to kill. But, he just kept driving towards those far off lights.
*
They reached Vegas about 3AM. She stirred as he came to a stop at the nearest gas station.
"We're here, though I don't know where the friggin' hell is here," Scout said.
Technically he did. Anybody knew Vegas. But what he meant was he had no clue why they were in Vegas at 3AM.
In the end, it was probably better that he didn't know. Like Miss Pauling was always telling him: you can't be a witness if you didn't see anything. You can't testify if you don't know anything. So don't look at those papers, and don't you dare steal anymore briefcases.
"I know where we're going. I'll take another turn," she said.
The casinos were a show of bright lights and fountains. In the morning, the poor bastards would blink into he light, dull and dazed, with much lighter pocketbooks. But for now, they were living it up.
Scout craned his neck to watch them fade into dark and streetlights. But she headed towards one of the smaller ones, like a roadside diner of casinos. On the side was a pink, flickering drive through chapel. An overweight Elvis drank from a bottle of cheap whiskey in front of a bedazzled pulpit. There was the sound of clanking and beeping from the slot machines in the nearby rooms.
"Look, Miss P, it's a McMarriage! They should offer fries to go. Ey, Miss Pauling, you think they throw fries instead of rice here? Maybe burgers..." He chuckled at his own joke. A McMarriage. God, he should write these ones down.
She smoothed out her skirts. Her hair had gotten mussed. "At least it isn't stained," she said to herself.
"You look fine. Which you always do. More than that, you look great."
"Do you trust me?"
"Of course," Scout said.
"You shouldn't, but I'm glad you do. No matter what, keep trusting me. All right?"
"C'mon, I ain't that bad at poker," Scout said.
"You're that much and more. You lost to a lamp."
"A lamp who was also a lawyer, like not just any regular sexy foot lamp, this one had a law degree," Scout said.
"Trust me, this time, you won't have any lawyers who can double as furniture," she said.
Las Vegas didn't have much now that he was steady with Miss Pauling. She was the only nudie show he wanted to attend, and he didn't have much luck with gambling. For all his bragging, Scout knew he didn't have the best poker face.
But Scout figured they'd only see the lights in passing. Some poor bastard would end up dead in the back of their truck, and Scout would find a new forever home six feet deep in the desert wilds.
But Miss Pauling parked the truck at Almost Elvis' House of Love: 24 Hour Marriages.
Were Elvis impersonators on the Voice's shitlist now? Maybe they'd gotten the wrong person hitched and now they'd have a hunka-hunka- burning limb.
A large Elvis impersonator took a drink from a bottle of Jack, and wiped his mouth with the back of his big hands as Miss Pauling approached him.
Miss Pauling cleared her throat. "Are you still open?"
"We're open all night, darlin'," the Elvis impersonator said. He pointed up to the sign. "Twenty-four hours of hunka-hunka burnin' love."
Even though it was part of the act, Scout found himself gritting his teeth. He couldn't believe some fake Elvis got to call her a sweet nickname before he even did. His hand tensed. His bat, his gun was near.
Miss Pauling placed her hand on his shoulder, like she sensed his dumbass ideas. His hand relaxed at her touch.
"Good, then we'd like to be married, please."
Scout gaped, and quickly looked to her for some kind of confirmation. What the fuuuuck? Wait a---
"Of course, darlin'. Right over here. We got custom papers, and matrimonial options. Some rice for 25 cents in the back.
"Oh, that's all right. We have to make this quick. Real quick," Miss Pauling said. "You have rings for sale, right?"
He had to be dreaming. In a few moments she would turn into stripper Miss Pauling and the dream would have a very literal happy ending. Then he'd wake up with sticky pajama pants, and it'd be the same song and dance of burying bodies and the only thing keeping him warm at night was his hands, because she didn't have any time for anything else.
"Oh, this some kind of shotgun wedding?"
"You could say that," she said dryly.
No, seriously, what the fuck? Scout wasn't exactly a genius when it came to plenty of things--God was too busy giving it all to Miss Pauling, so he could have the looks and the charisma and the sweet, sweet, muscles. to say nothing of his fantastic ass. But he was pretty damn sure marriage came after things, like an actual date. And a ring. He hadn't even gotten her a ring yet.
But apparently Elvis here was already showing her the options.
Sure, he'd thought about it. But rings came after a frigging date. Unless maybe she counted each body burying as a literal date. Then they'd be up to....Scout couldn't even count the amount of bodies they'd done in together.
And shotgun weddings--those came after sex. Which they hadn't had.
Could Miss P be one of those super religious types? Scout knew all too well the Catholic girls who might neck a little, but the minute he slid in for second base, would button up their shirts and demand a commitment. He'd flirted and kissed plenty during his teens. There was a reason he was a virgin well up until he moved out to New Mexico for work.
"You got a certificate?"
"How much extra is that going to take? I need to get this done fast. I have to be back to work soon," Miss Pauling said.
"Hundred and a pack of smokes," he said.
She dug in her purse. "I've only got cash."
Scout dug around in his bag, and pulled out an unopened pack. He threw it towards the Elvis impersonator. It sailed over his head and smacked against the wall.
"Close enough," Scout said.
"You don't smoke," Miss Pauling said.
"In prisons, it's good to have some handy, to keep people from shankin' you. Plus it's fun to light 'em and flick 'em at Spy when he's bein' a jerk. Then Pyro picks 'em up and runs around like they're sparklers. Must think they're like sparklers or somethin'. It's always handy to have some smokes around. Of course, they're hard to buy..."
He never could convince the sellers that he was old enough to have them. Even when he showed his real IDs, they just claimed he was faking them, and there was no way he was older than sixteen.
But Elvis here, he either didn't care or was too drunk to try and pull some shit like that. He glanced over their IDs and wrote up.
"What names you want on them?"
Everything faded away as he faced her, and she took his hands in hers. Sure, he didn't know what the fuck was going on. But as long as it was with her, he'd say yes every time. His heart beat in his chest like a freight train. It hadn't been the way he'd planned, but here it was. Miss Pauling and him, forever.
"Let's cut it down for time. I don't really like the worship and obey part," Miss Pauling said.
"I do. I'll obey and worship you," Scout said quickly. "Uh, what was the rest of it?"
"Richer or poorer, I think. And In sickness and in health..."
"Then--" Scout broke off.
"Oh right, to have and to hold," she said.
"I remember this one! I like that one. Then it was... Until death do us part. And I ain't talkin' Respawn, either."
"Right, I do," she said quickly.
"Me too. I totally do."
Then, she kissed him. Hands to his chest, her fingers balled up his shirt. The day only felt more unreal. Scout was just sure he'd wake up any second now. But he kept not waking up.
*
They stumbled out into the parking lot. Or at least, Scout did. He was half-surprised he didn't fall, face first into the pavement. The word felt weird, like he was drunk. But it wasn't on alcohol, it was her that was making him more and more intoxicated.
"We need to be back as soon as possible," she said.
"It's fine, I'll shotgun some coffee."
If he'd know he was going to be pulling an all nighter, he would've grabbed some BONK. Sure, he'd be going the speed of light, but he'd be up.
"No...I don't want you falling asleep at the wheel. Pull over at the next motel."
There was always a cheap hotel or motel somewhere in Vegas. In this case, it was right across the street. Miss Pauling paid, and then it was just him and her and one room. Sure, Scout had been planning this whole thing for years, but he didn't think it'd happen all at once.
Scout took several deep breaths, like he did before each game. He'd had this vision of them both, and there were rose petals and a lot of other fancy crap girls liked. Somewhere fancy, not some sleazeball motel. The tv was chained to a cinder block. The lock, and thick chain were covered in scratches that looked like they'd been made with a knife.
It wasn't even a good TV. The bunny ear antenna were wrapped in tin foil, and it looked about ten years out of date. Probably didn't even have color.
Hell, he hadn't even planned on his wedding night happening this soon. His palms were sweaty. Any game he'd had was lost somewhere along with I do and until death do us part. He staggered in towards the bed, still barely able to believe he hadn't woken up yet.
But he didn't take that leap. Not yet.
Miss Pauling practically fell into bed. She didn't even bother getting undressed. Interesting plan, but Scout liked it. Even if taking her dress off with her in it could be a challenge. Gotta love a challenge.
But the place, it was all wrong. He stretched out to clear and calm his mind. If only he could get in a nice run and a shower. He hadn't even gotten close, but the Elvis impersonator wore so much cologne, it had wafted onto him.
"Goodnight," she said. "Don't exercise too much. We'll have a long drive back."
She turned off the lamp, leaving him in darkness.
His options were the floor, the chair which looked about as comfortable as the cinder block, and the bed.
It was supposed to be a queen, but it felt about the size of a twin. He tried to steady his breath as he slipped in beside her.
He couldn't say if he was disappointed that his wedding night was curling up on a too-hard bed in a crummy motel in sheer exhaustion, or relieved that he could get a do-over which was more romantic. And less likely to have bed-bugs.
*
He woke up, and she was still beside him, still wearing the ring. Unless it was a dream within a dream, he'd won the fucking lottery and Miss Pauling and decided to freaking marry him.
She woke up with messy hair, her bun all undone and reached for her glasses. The night had wrinkled her purple dress. He slowly let his hand rest against her hip. She didn't push him away.
"Mmn. What time is it?"
Scout squinted as he tried to read the clock on the wall. "Says ten, but it might be broken. Everythin' else in here is."
"Shit! We should've been out by nine!"
She was out of bed in seconds. Scout's hand fell to the bed, where it'd once been against her. There wasn't much to pick up, considering that nothing had been unpacked. Scout pushed himself up. He'd kind of hoped, just a bit, that maybe they'd get a chance to change to a different motel or hotel, and get this wedding night in, even if it was a wedding afternoon.
She finger combed her hair back into a more orderly bun as he watched.
"We have to get back before anyone realizes we're gone. We could be charged with leaving that---Scout, do you remember the inquest?" She met him with that intense green eyed gaze through the mirror.
"You mean that G&G stuff we were doin'?" Scout said.
"No, I'm talking about the massive law action that's going on against Mann. co."
Oh right. He'd heard something about that, but he hadn't paid much attention. It wasn't really his business, and the more he got into TFI business that wasn't his, the more he got photographs reminding him that they knew where his mother lived.
Scout shrugged. So what if there was a 'inquest'? He'd done jail time. Hell, Saxton had done jail time. Miss P always got them all out. It'd be just a another few annoying hours of waiting in a court and waiting for her to come in, like the Calvary.
"So? Spy says he put his money in offshore banks. What, did Saxton put his money in Yetis or somethin'?" Scout said.
"If only it were that simple," she said.
She let out a long breath. "Listen, all you need to do is take the fifth. Don't say anything. Not a damn thing, all right? They can't make you talk. Not now," she said.
They got breakfast on the drive back. She was quiet, considering it was hard to drive over the sound of the motor. The truck hadn't been fixed. For once, Scout was caught up in himself, wordless with wonder.
He was freaking married to Miss Pauling. And that was something he was ever going to get used to or ever stop being damn thankful that the Big Guy Upstairs had apparently decided that today, he was gonna win the jackpot.
*
The base was quiet. Too quiet. No explosions or laughter, no animals being wrestled or cries of Freedom! and For America! The rest of the men were gone, and whatever other staff were either hauled away to the clink, or dead and buried somewhere in the caves.
It was the sirens that cut through it, Scout whirled around.
"Let's go. We can get out of here. We're close to the border--we can get there in a few hours, right? Make it back across later on, go hide out in Southie--!"
"No, Scout. We've got to do this," she said.
Scout reached for his gun. He'd probably survive it, though they'd have to be a real Bonnie and Clyde when it was all over, and head straight to the border.
"Don't you dare. You're going to live through this. Remember, Scout. Remember the fifth!"
Drop it! Drop the weapon!
Scout dropped his gun, make that plural. He didn't even make a stupid ass pun about gun shows like he would've before then. Not with Miss Pauling so close, not when they were both in the firing line.
The pigs closed in, blue uniforms and mirrored glasses. His mind whirled with possibilities to keep her out of all this, to keep her safe, but it was all an hour late. He could only watch as the handcuffs were put on her.
"Don't you touch her!" He was cut off as he was slammed against the door of the police car. His bag was torn off. A used candy wrapped spilled out onto the sand and gravel as they went through his most personal possessions.
"Don't you take my stuff! Th-that's my pictures!"
"He isn't involved with this--I'm telling you, he isn't involved with this at all! He's just a delivery boy! He knows nothing!" she said.
Her protests were ignored.
He was cuffed and shoved into the back of the police car. It sure wasn't the first time he'd heard those blaring sirens in his head. Probably wouldn't be the last, knowing him.
*
It was a small, concrete room. The fluorescent lights above flickered, like some disco Halloween show. Someone was behind that two-way mirror. Scout smirked at the person waiting. come on, you son of a bitch. I'm waitin'.
Miss Pauling and his Ma were always the two people he had to choose between the one phone call. If Miss Pauling wouldn't pick up, then it'd be to Ma and apologize for being the son who came back in a casket. But this time, it was Miss Pauling in deep with him. So he just shook his head when it came to his one phone call.
He'd spend it calling the Big Guy Upstairs and asking him what on earth was up with this? Two seconds of heaven and then crashing back to hell? He should've known that some things were too good to last.
He couldn't let him get down. Miss Pauling would get them out of this. She always did.
His hands were folded on the table. Men in blue circled him. As they talked, Scout just smirked. Nothing could touch him, not even their attempts to chip away at him. They tried his ego, they tried whatever they could think to tear him down, or piss him off.
All they got was a cocky grin. He was married to freaking Miss Pauling. Little things like trying to imply he was a dumbass, or a brute wasn't going to cut it when she'd said I do hours ago.
No water. No food. For hours they'd turn down the lights. But they'd pipe in some godawful radio, wouldn't let him sleep.
Thought they could wear him down. Scout smirked. Miss Pauling had already given him the out.
By hour six, they shoved data in his face. Scout had to bend close to read. The words seemed so blurry, and jumped around, all twisting until he couldn't get past them, like a maze. And when he did manage to get it close enough to almost get past that blurriness, they were all big and stupid and boring. He managed to read out loud a few, then pushed it aside in frustration.
By hour ten, they were trying to cut a deal. Make him turn. But he wasn't a rat. And he wasn't about to give in that easily. Not that he had anything to give anyways.
"Takin' the fifth, pally," was all he said.
It was probably the only damn time he'd ever willingly chosen not to speak. Anybody would've probably thought he'd have died, not talking for that long. But his mind kept going back to her sleeping beside him. He'd do whatever he could to get back to that moment, and get back to her.
*
He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. But, they couldn't hold him. They'd tried to pin a bunch of shit on him, but his superior dumbassery won through the day. Bet those teachers who laughed when he couldn't see the words written on the blackboard past the blurrinsess and way the words just kept going cross-eyed. Well, look who was laughing now, and not in freaking jail?
Scout downed drink after drink of Coke from the vending machines outside. He felt marginally more alive as his parched body took in all that sugar.
"I'll be pissin' like Sniper at this rate," he muttered.
The sugar rush hit him like a wall of adrenaline, but that wasn't all. He shoved quarters into the vending machine. Chips, candy bars, he bought up one of everything. He shoved them in his mouth, all the flavors melded together. The wadded ball of wrappers fell into the trash can.
With as many brothers as he had, a guy learned to eat fast. If he didn't get his share, he'd go hungry. And he was the smallest of the bunch, but he could run, and he could hit hard.
He headed back towards the front desk. There was a female cop, and a cute one, at that. He would've flirted with her in another life, before Miss Pauling.
"Listen, pally. Where's my pictures? Ain't nothin' about the case about pictures of my ma!"
"Sir, if you'd--"
"C'mon, I'm innocent! Gimme my pics of my ma already!"
Miss Pauling had a bag slung over her shoulder. His bag, in fact. It was a bit ripped up, and had definitely seen better days, but it was still there. Hopefully it still had his pictures, too.
"Oh! Miss Pauling!"
She glanced back. She looked about as grim and tired as he felt before she got there. "Let's get out of here, Scout," she said.
He caught up with her in the parking lot. A heat mirage rose up from the chipped blacktop.
"Miss Pauling, you okay? They didn't hurt you, did they?"
"Of course, they didn't even use torture. Something about it not being legal." She let out a derisive snort. "Some law system they are. I guess it's lucky for us they're so incompetent."
"Ain't nothin' to hide anyways," Scout said.
She climbed into the truck. Who had brought it there? Some orderly that remained around? Scout didn't quite know. Maybe Miss Pauling perfected magic and teleportation while he wasn't looking. It'd explain how she managed her hellish schedule.
He followed her into the truck, and shut the door hard behind him. The side rattled, possibly with old bullets.
She turned the key, and it rumbled to life. It wasn't until the police station was so far away, it was a line in the distance that she finally replied.
"For you, maybe. When all your coworkers are alcoholics, there's always evidence to hide. They're always sloppy at getting rid of something. And I'm always too busy to catch all their mistakes. And that isn't even bringing into everything I know about TFI," she said.
"Oh, yeah. Guess you gotta think up alibis," he said.
"There's nothing to think up. I never do anything without a clear alibi, even get coffee," she said.
"Dang," he said. She was so put together, remembering alibis like they were nothing. But then, Miss Pauling made everything look easy. She read off stuff like the words weren't blurry and jumpy, he bet she even could do math.
They ended up back at the base. She pushed up the yellow tape and climbed underneath.
Scout headed upstairs to the former men's quarters, where rooms full of boxes remained. There wasn't a single sound, not even a raccoon digging around, like usual, or any angry men screaming freedom! at the top of their lungs.
His stuff was all boxed up. The room was downright bare. Even the posters had been torn down. Without the pin up calendars and baseball pics on the walls to cover up the bullet holes, the room looked like moldy Swiss cheese.
"What the hell, am I fired?"
"Keep your voice down, Scout," Miss Pauling said. "Don't be silly. There's no job left to be fired from."
"Oh, right...I just figured, the whole place always comes back..."
"If it comes back, it'll be under another name, and with entirely new staff," she said.
She bent down and dragged a box closer.
"You're moving in with me. We're married now, after all. I just took the liberty of getting everything ready."
A week ago, he and Miss Pauling had been only sort of, kind of dating. The type where he questioned a lot if they really were dating or he just hallucinated that whole bread thing, because, really? Evil bread with tentacles?
Now, they were Vegas married. He hadn't even popped the question, she'd just dragged him there and then this happened.
They were really married. He was really Mr. Pauling now. Wait...
And he had a ring to prove it. Every time Scout wondered if maybe the whole thing was a fever dream, all he had to do was look down.
Still, he had so many questions. Why the sudden change? Who had packed his stuff up, if they were both out? He was pretty sure the cops wouldn't just put stuff in boxes like that.
She came up behind him, small and in charge. He turned around, and shared a smile with her for a second.
"These are all yours," she said.
"When'd you get a chance to save them?" he said.
"Before I left, off course."
They didn't even smell of smoke. Somehow she'd kept what little he had safe. Scout smiled. "Thanks, Miss P."
(Did Miss Pauling have the ability to be in two places at once, or possibly know teleportation? Because that would explain a lot.)
"What about you?" he said.
"My things? I already stashed my weapons and some new clothes. I didn't really have anything else worth saving other than that."
"Seriously, nothing at all?"
"If you treasure something, you've got a weakness," she said.
She met his gaze for a long while, and he nodded. The company sure had sent him a lot of pictures of his ma to remind him that the minute he stepped out of line, they knew where she was.
"Aight, I got 'em. I'll have the whole thing loaded before you know it."
As he hauled the last box into the truck, the lights all suddenly blew. Scout whirled around, ready to fight whatever ghost or wizard was there. But it wasn't Merasmus, fourth rate wizard he saw. Miss Pauling was silhouetted in flames. In her hand was a can of gasoline.
It was a beautiful, horrible sight. Here he was, watching all his work for years go quite literally up in smoke. The rickety wood walls gave in easily.
But Miss Pauling sure looked good while she destroyed everything he'd loved.
She razed the whole place, until even their tracks were lost. And then they drove off into the night, back into Teufort. Scout figured there were more hotels with their name on it, but Miss Pauling stopped into Teufort Pleasantville Apartments.
"I already booked us a place at least until the end of the month," Miss Pauling said.
That little us made him shiver.
"And you shouldn't call me 'Miss Pauling' anymore. It'll seem suspicious. You should call me Sophie, or Mrs. Dempsey. Though I haven't changed my name yet officially..."
Scout scrunched up his nose. "Suspicious? Feels weird, you not bein' Pauling anymore. It's all I've ever know you as."
"I could hyphenate. Then I'd be Mrs. Pauling-Dempsey, or Dempsey-Pauling."
"The first one. Then you'd still be Miss Pauling."
"Mrs. technically," she said.
"Yeah, Mrs. Pauling. Uh, babe--Why not go into hidin'? That's what I don't get. You say you have to take all this. It ain't your crap."
"Because the Administrator left this for me to handle. And I'm sure it's just like all the other trials she's given me."
"If she can be a coward and just run off, then so can you. It ain't your place to carry the whole company. What have they ever done for you?"
Miss Pauling's face twisted into rage in seconds. Scout hadn't seen her this pissed since he stole a briefcase. She pointed a finger accusingly at him. "Scout, don't you dare say such things about the Administrator. She is no coward. She's the most powerful deadly person in the world, and if she heard you say such things, not even I could save you from her wrath."
Scout gestured with his hands, towards nothing, towards everything. You talk like an Italian, baby his mother had always said, because even his hands couldn't keep quiet, and had to go along while he talked. It got even worse when he was angry.
"Oh, right--what's it called when somebody runs off and leaves the mess for everybody else to clean up? Because that sure don't sound like frickin' bravery to me!"
"Strategic. It was a common practice for kings and queens of the day. You don't let the important people just get captured."
"Then what does that mean, she don't think you're important?"
Miss Pauling's voice rose. There was this wild look in her eyes that usually ended up with somebody dead. Scout enjoyed watching her go off on whatever poor bastard was next in line to the graveyard train, but it was a lot less enjoyable being the target of her wrath. "I'm important enough to clean up and save the company for her. Not that you would understand anything about that. You're nothing but a mercenary. You've never even met the Administrator. To you, she's just a voice yelling commands. Well, I took care of those commands and did things you can't even imagine!"
They hadn't even been married a week and they were already into first fight territory. Scout couldn't tell if it was a bad sign, or good to get it out of the way. Either way, even a dumbass like him could see there was no winning this one. Whatever hold the Voice had on her, it was too strong for him to get rid of so easily.
"Forget it. We're both exhausted. Let's just get the stuff put in and get to bed."
She didn't respond, though that door sure didn't close quietly behind her. Which made Scout realize that today was probably supposed to be their belated wedding night, and he'd probably spend it on the couch. He had an inkling Miss Pauling's take on 'never got to bed angry' would probably come off more like 'never go to bed unarmed.'
Sure, he'd made some dumbass choices, but was this one of them? How the hell was he supposed to know that telling Miss Pauling to take care of herself and not rush headlong into certain death would be taken like that. He sat down, pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair.
It was going to be a long night.
*
next part
