Munchies Run Teaser/WIP

Anniversary Teaser/WIP

Summary: The Aussie and the Frenchman don't come to the little diner in town very often, but Dana always appreciates the break from backshift monotony that they provide.

——

Anniversary

[...]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[...]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ta yeule! I am no such thing!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“’Ow ’ave I not murdered you yet?”

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

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

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

“Order up.”

Dana turned to the kitchen window and saw the collection of steaming dishes on the ledge. She gathered them up on her serving tray, throwing Chuck a quick thanks, and brought them out the Aussie and Frenchman’s table. The Aussie was still chuckling behind a hand and the Frenchman was finishing off his cigarette a little too nonchalantly.

[...]

Shave and a Haircut Teaser/WIP

Some Trio (Scout/Pyro/Scout) hangouts, not long after Pyro and Red get together. Also, notes denoting the beginnings and endings of each of the ships in the shorts' timeline have now been added to the timeline/masterpost, so at least the important info is up even if (too damn many of) the WIPs aren't postable yet :P.

Summary: Soldier's in the void, so Red is able to come over for a visit with Scout and Pyro.

——

Shave and a Haircut [will be renamed]

[...]

“Honestly, it ain’t him bein’ old as balls, or bein’ a prissy French prick, that’s so bad,” Red said, bending backward until his palms were flat on the floor. With a grunt, he kicked his feet up into the air, and, after taking a second to balance himself, continued speaking as he made a slow circuit of the room walking on his hands. “It’s the smoking. It fuckin’ stinks, and kissin’ him’s gotta taste like lickin’ a fuckin’ ashtray.”

“’Kay, first off, like I already said a bazillion fuckin’ times, Spy ain’t that fuckin’ old,” Blue said, scowling. “Second, the smokin’ shit ain’t that bad. Y’get used to the smell, and I never noticed any kinda nasty taste when we’re kissin’.”

“You wouldn’t notice if it tasted like fuckin’ gasoline,” Red said, prodding Blue’s shoulder with his toe as he made his way by. “I had to smoke ’em back on fucky-respawn day, remember. They’re fuckin’ gross, and he’s always smokin’ ’em.”

“I used to smoke, years ago. Pretty much everyone does, back home,” Pyro said, shrugging when Red gave him a startled look. “You do get used to it. I started when I was a kid, but never really picked it back up after I got burned.” He chuckled, scratching his scarred cheek and said, almost to himself, “Eso fue una de las cosas buenas de estar en coma, supongo… Got to quit smoking without having to deal with the cravings or any of that shit.”

“Whoa, wait, gettin’ burned putcha in a fuckin’ coma?” Blue said, goggling. Red honestly thought it was kind of a miracle that he’d managed to pick that up, his grasp of Spanish being as non-existent as it was. “Like, the soap opera kinda coma, where you was, like, almost dead ’n’ shit? Fuck, dude! I mean, the scar’s pretty fuckin’ sick, but I had no idea it was that fuckin’ bad.”

[...]

“Ya look like a fuckin’ mopey teenager, dude,” Blue said. “I never thought I’d agree with Soldier on anything, but you need a fuckin’ haircut.”

Pyro glared at him, pushing his hair from his face. “Yeah, fuck no. I like it long, and plenty of famous dudes have long hair.”

“’Kay, here’s the deal, then,” Red said with a grin. “You get as famous as John Stamos or Patrick Swayze, or the guys from Zeppelin or Queen, then you can have long hair like they got.” He gathered Pyro’s hair behind his head in a loose tail and gave his face a considering look. “I think you’d look really good with yer hair short. Not, like, buzzed or nothin’, just trimmed back a bit. Maybe shave the sides and the back, leave ya a little bit in front and on top… get it outta yer eyes…”

Pyro blinked—he seemed uncertain, but pleased, as Red arranged and toyed with his hair—and he and Blue both jumped when Red popped suddenly to his feet.

“Alright, get a chair and some towels. I’ll be right back!”

And he was gone, in a blur of red and a pattering of footsteps. The two Blues exchanged a thoroughly confused look, Pyro appearing all the more so with his hair flopping freely back in front of his face. Blue held up his hands and shrugged when Pyro jerked a thumb at the door.

“Don’t look at me, dude,” he said, “he’s your fuckin’ boyfriend.”

Five minutes later, Pyro and Blue were facing each other in chairs borrowed from the kitchen, playing Bloody Knuckles as Red came jogging back into the room. Blue’s attention was immediately taken by the cardboard box Red had brought with him, allowing Pyro to crack him solidly with both hands, and he cursed, rubbing at his reddened knuckles. Red laughed as he set the box on Pyro’s bed.

“Bet I know who’s winnin’,” he said, and Blue glared at him.

“Blow me, assclown. Py’s got a wicked poker face, can never tell when he’s gonna fuckin’ move,” he said. Pyro dusted his knuckles off on his shirt with a smirk, and Blue flashed him the bird. “What’s in the fuckin’ box?”

“Haircut stuff,” Red said, drawing items from the box as he listed them: “Comb, scissors, Wrenches’ electric razor, a spray bottle.” He pointed the bottle at Pyro and blasted out a little puff of mist. “Yer gettin’ a haircut.”

Pyro’s smugness faded remarkably quickly. “¿Qué?”

“I’m gonna give ya a haircut, so I can see more a’yer pretty face.” Red grinned and held up the scissors. “And if ya try to fight me, I’ll shave ya bald.”

“Te asesinaría,” Pyro said, glowering and pushing his hair from his face; his bangs flopped back in front of his eyes the second his hand had passed.

“Then I’ll respawn, and you’ll still be fuckin’ bald,” Red said loftily. “Now sit still unless ya wanna be bald anyway by accident.”

He retrieved the towels Blue and Pyro had collected along with the chairs and settled them around Pyro’s shoulders, despite the attempts made to swat him away. Blue had turned his chair around to sit in it backwards, and he snorted as Pyro subsided into grumpily muttering acceptance of Red’s ministrations.

“He’s got ya there, dude. Ya’d looked pretty fucked as a cue ball,” he said. He gave Red a curious look. “Ya really know how to cut hair? Like, actual haircut style, not just shavin’ it off?”

“I used t’do it for my brothers sometimes, when cash was tight. They’d kick my ass if I made ’em look stupid,” Red said, drawing the comb through Pyro’s hair and spritzing with the spray bottle. “It’s not that hard, ’specially if yer just cuttin’ it short.”

“Not too short,” Pyro said, looking back over his shoulder. Red sighed and turned Pyro’s head back so he was facing straight on.

“Not too short, don’t worry,” he said. “Just enough that yer not gonna be fuckin’ dyin’ inside yer mask no more, and t’get it outta yer eyes. It’ll be good, I promise.”

Pyro hunched his shoulders, but stayed silent and still as Red started clipping with the scissors. Blue smirked, crossing his arms over the back of his chair.

“Man. Gymnastics, dancin’, and now fuckin’ haircuts? Ya’ve really just been a fuckin’ fag forever, huh?” he said, then yelped and jerked his chair sideways when Red threw the scissors at him. “Hey, no throwin’ sharp shit!”

“Quit bein’ an asshole and I won’t,” Red said, retrieving the scissors and waving them in Blue’s face on his way back to Pyro, who was chuckling softly. “Gymnastics and dancin’ have been fuckin’ awesome for me. Gymnastics means I got a leg up on yer clumsy ass out here, and dancin’ got me crazy laid back in school. And knowin’ how to cut hair is just plain useful.” He pointed at Pyro’s head. “Exhibit A.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s useful. It’s still gay as fuck,” Blue said, resettling his arms and resting his chin on them. “And there ain’t no way dancin’ got ya laid, not unless ya lived in that fuckin’ town from Footloose. Yer not a fuckin’ girl, despite all the evidence otherwise.”

Red wound up as if to throw the scissors again, but settled back to clipping when Blue flinched. Pyro snorted.

“You crazy, hombre? Dancing is sexy as fuck,” he said, brushing some hair off his shoulder. Red nodded, a grin sweeping back onto his face.

“Fuck yeah it is,” he said. “Two things are guaranteed t’drop any chick’s panties: a guy who can cook, and a guy who can dance. I-” He gestured to himself with both thumbs and a cocky smile. “-just so happen to be both.”

“And it works pretty well on guys, too,” Pyro said, tipping his head back with a smile of his own. Red gave a little giggle and kissed Pyro on the forehead before tipping his head forward. They both then gave Blue near-identical deadpan looks when he rolled his eyes and started making loud retching noises.

“Christ, you two are so fuckin’ adorable I wanna puke,” he said, giving them a disgusted look of his own. “Is this how it’s gonna be hangin’ out now? You two bein’ all lovey-dovey ’n’ gross? I mean, watchin’ Red be a pushy little man-wife is kinda fuckin’ hilarious, but- Fuck! I said no throwin’ shit!”

Red stuck his tongue out at him before continuing to trim away the hair around Pyro’s ear—he’d thrown the spray bottle, this time. He said, “If ya don’t like it, yer free to fuck off. You can hang with Py whenever ya want. I don’t live here, though, in case ya fuckin’ forgot. I’m makin’ the best a’my time over here without people tryin’ to murder me as I can.”

“Well, I still wanna hang out with you too,” Blue said, grudgingly, “even if yer like an annoyin’ little brother. Who’s gettin’ fucked by my best friend. Who’s kinda like an annoyin’, homicidal little brother.” He returned the middle fingers flashed at him by both Pyro and Red. “S’just weird havin’ you guys makin’ fuckin’ goo-goo eyes at each other all the time. Before it was just normal chillin’.”

“We only got together a week ago, pendejo,” Pyro said, crossing his eyes to watch as Red started trimming his bangs. “This is the first time all three of us have hung out together since.”

“But you guys’ve been all fuckin’ gay when we been fightin’ too,” Blue said, eyes rolling again. “Grab-assin’ ’n’ shit. I saw ya fuckin’ makin’ out in the back a’the intel room a few days ago. Hardhat was not happy, by the way.” He jabbed a finger at Pyro. “Fuckin’ RED Spy was on his ass all afternoon and no one had any idea where the fuck ya were. Yer lucky I didn’t say anythin’; Hardhat was ready t’fuckin’ beatcher ass, throwin’ shit and swearin’ and everythin’.”

Red and Pyro both winced; they all knew how much it took to get the usually placid Texan to start resorting to foul language to express himself. Pyro rubbed the back of his neck guiltily as Red got the razor from the box and fiddled with the head, looking sheepish.

“Okay, maybe we’ve been a little… enthusiastic…” Pyro said with an uneasy shrug.

“Can ya blame us? Y’know, young, horny, all that shit,” Red muttered, starting up the razor. Its soft buzzing provided accompaniment as he continued, “We should probably tone it down a bit, I guess. Durin’ fights, anyway.” He smirked at Blue as he started working on the left side of Pyro’s head. “We’re not fightin’ now, though, so yer just gonna hafta put up with us bein’ adorable, at least ’til the whole ‘new boyfriends’ thing wears off.”

Blue let out an annoyed grunt and Pyro chuckled. “Lo siento, hombre. The man-wife has spoken.”

“I can still shave ya bald, mi fuego.”

“No te atrevas, conejito.”

“Seriously, gonna fuckin’ hurl if you guys don’t knock it off,” Blue said, grimacing. “Don’t make me start spritzin’ ya; I’ll get the fuckin’ bottle.”

Red shook his head. “Christ, you don’t got a romantic bone in yer body, do ya? Why the fuck does Spy put up with yer ass?”

“Um, hello?” Blue leaned out to the side and gestured at himself. “You seein’ this? Aaaaalll a’this? You were definitely fuckin’ happy enough with it.”

Red rolled his eyes, and Pyro gave Blue a considering look. Then he shrugged. “Eh.”

Blue stared at Pyro for a few seconds, then exploded, “The fuck d’ya fuckin’ mean, ‘Eh’? You fuckin’ shittin’ me? You- Fuckin’- What?”

[...]

[...] “I mean, ya don’t act gay, most a’the time.”

“Y’obviously ain’t seen him checkin’ out yer ass,” Red said, filling a pot of water at the sink and putting it on the stove to boil. Blue sat down quickly, on the opposite side of the table from Pyro, and Pyro gave Red a sullen look.

“Thanks a lot, conejito,” he grumbled, and Red offered an apologetic shrug. To Blue, Pyro said, “What do you mean, I don’t ‘act gay’?”

“Y’know. Like, y’ain’t all flamin’ and shit,” Blue said, gesturing vaguely. Pyro raised an eyebrow at him; he’d taken a cheap plastic lighter from his pocket when he’d sat down and had been flicking it idly on and off since. Blue grunted. “Okay, bad choice a’words, but y’ain’t all, like, worried about yer clothes and how ya look, except for yer fuckin’ hair. And yer not all touchy-feely and sensitive and emotional ’n’ shit. If it weren’t for you and Bucky bein’ all couple-y, y’wouldn’t even know you was queer.”

“Yeah, ’cause I’m gay, not a fucking girl,” Pyro said, burning away a loose thread at the edge of one of his sleeves. “My dick didn’t drop off when I figured out I like dudes, pendejo.”

“Well, obviously,” Blue said, kicking his feet up on the table and tipping his chair back on its rear legs, “but still. Y’should act… different. It’s fuckin’ weird when ya act normal most a’the time, then get all gay whenever Red’s around.”

“I could start ‘being gay’ around you too, if it bugs you so much,” Pyro said, leaning forward across the table with a wicked, lewd grin, making Blue jerk with a look of panic on his face. Pyro and Red both laughed as Blue’s chair wobbled precariously and he frantically windmilled his arms to keep it from tipping any further back. Red shook his head and took a seat beside Pyro, while Blue got his chair settled back on all four legs and glared at his teammate.

“Y’seriously gotta chill, dude,” Red said; he’d brought over the cheese grater and the brick of cheese, and started grating as he spoke. “We wouldn’t fuck with ya so much if ya didn’t make it so fuckin’ easy.”

“Oh, yes you would,” Blue said, turning his glare on Red. “You guys like watchin’ me sweat. Just ’cause I got sicka jackin’ off and Spy was down to fuck, I can’t get you queers off my ass about it!”

“Only because you keep making such a big fucking deal out of it,” Pyro said, rolling his eyes and leaning back in his seat. “You fuck Spy, you suck his dick. So fucking what? I mean, you’ve got shitty taste, but that’s not news. Soldier’s the only one who’s an asshole about it, but do you really give a shit about him? Even Engie doesn’t mind so much, so long as you don’t shove it in his face.”

“Dude, I dunno how ya do shit back in fuckin’ Mexico-land-” Blue ignored it when Pyro kicked his chair. “-but where I come from, queers get their fuckin’ pussy asses beat, ya get me?” His eyes narrowed and his voice went grim. “I seen two dudes get jumped for gettin’ fuckin’ handsy with each other at the park once; shit got fuckin’ intense. Couldn’t even recognize ’em after people got done fuckin’ ’em up.”

“No one but Soldier’s like that here, though,” Pyro said, shaking his head. “I put up with so much shit back home after I got outed, but no one here cares.” He smiled. “It’s fucking awesome. No one getting on my ass about who I wanna fuck, it’s great.”

[...]

Post-"Tales of Well" Longfic Basics

Premise and some lore and characters for longfics that will follow the end of Tales of Well. However many one-shots Tales of Well ends up being. Honestly, shorts will probably keep being added even after the longfics are done as inspiration strikes me, until I fill out as much in-universe time as is possible within the fics’ timeline. I’m loving writing about these characters; they’re honestly some of the favourite OCs that I’ve created over the years. I just wish my non-fandom OCs and their stories could hook me as hard D:

Anyway, longfics! Both will be more dramatic and serious in tone than the majority of the one-shots, though I’ll do my damnedest to keep them from getting downright depressing. First is “On the Run”, which will directly tie into TF2 canon and feature (*hides face*) canon characters. Honestly, that’s the most intimidating part of writing this one: actually making sure I don’t completely destroy the canon characters that show up.

The second longfic is “Great White North”, and will have even more OCs! (I have a problem please help me…) Will still tie in with canon, though it’ll shift to the back burner a bit. There’s more “lore” behind this one, and a bunch of new additions to the cast :) It’s also the one I’m more excited to write, so it’s more fleshed out (and takes up the majority of this post o.o).

Infodump under the cut! Enjoy!

——

Tales of Well: On the Run

Premise

After years of growing steadily more and more disillusioned with the RED/BLU “war”, and multiple unsuccessful attempts, the BLU Spy and Wrenches (the RED Engineer) finally manage to break open the intelligence briefcases. Inside are samples of a strange, glowing liquid element, unnerving medical and technical reports, and reams of classified documents that shed an uncomfortable light on the reasons the mercenaries are fighting.

They had been told they were being hired to “test new weaponry and battlefield technologies”. What they hadn’t been told was that every moment of their lives under RED and BLU’s employ had been watched, recorded, and neatly packaged for the amusement of wealthy investors… and the morbid satisfaction of the Administrator, one “F.P.”. Every triumph, every trauma, every private moment over their years of fighting: it had all been on display for countless strangers, a violent, candid soap opera to entertain the rich and unscrupulous.

Aside from gaining this unsettling knowledge, there is another, more pressing consequence to opening the intel: both teams have been marked for immediate termination. The mercenaries are forced to flee for their lives, with robot "termination teams" hot on their heels. They decide to take out the snake at the head, and set course for TF Industries HQ for the fight of their lives.

——

Great White North

Premise

[Spoilers for the end of “On the Run”, I guess lol]

Having barely escaped the Administrator and her minions by the skin of their teeth, with the aid of Olivia Mann and former members of Team Fortress, the runaway mercs take Olivia’s suggestion to change targets, and go after what the Administrator really cares about: Canadium. The strange element only found over the northern border has been being mined, experimented with, and jealously guarded by the Administrator, for reasons the mercs are only just beginning to understand.

Olivia puts the Well mercenaries in contact with Team Great White North, former TF Industries mercs who (with Olivia’s help) have been working to wrest TF Industries’ massive Canadium stockpiles out of the Administrator’s hands. Together, they may be able to put an end to the Administrator, and, hopefully, the entire pointless, endless RED/BLU war.

—

Lore

Canadium: In its basic state, Canadium is a transparent, faintly glowing red-and-white liquid roughly the same viscosity as maple syrup. It remains in a liquid state at room temperature and solidifies at -30 degrees Celsius into maple leaf-shaped crystals that have roughly the same hardness as quartz. It is extremely difficult to provoke a chemical reaction from Canadium, but reactions are often exceptionally violent when they do occur. 

Canadium shares many of the effects of Australium, and has a few unique features of its own. It does not extend life to the extent Australium does, but it increases general health and hardiness exponentially, and can revive the recently deceased. Signs of prolonged exposure include increased politeness and tolerance of others, a love of fighting and drinking, and increased muscle mass. Heavily exposed men also have their chest hair grow in a maple leaf pattern. There are different varieties of Canadium, depending on where in Canada it was found, and the degree of the effects of exposure varies between the different types (Rocky Mountain Canadium gives greater muscle mass, Maritime Canadium increases love of fighting, Quebec Canadium [blue-and-white rather than red-and-white] increases love drinking, etc).

[Originally, it was just pure self-indulgence having the new "magic element" being from my home country, so I'd have an excuse to make an all-Canuck mercenary team. In doing research for ToW, though, I saw something from the Engineer Update background art that made me very happy:

So yeah, I am 100% latching on to one tiny little piece of background art as an excuse to expand on my self-indulgent integration of Canada to the TF2 universe! I know it's only talking about gold, but I'm going to ride this little bit of background art straight into Hell!]

—

Team Great White North

Originally formed to defend TF Industries’ largest Canadium stockpile without being told exactly what they were guarding, but the mercs broke their contracts and went into hiding after discovering it and what the Administrator was using it for. Olivia Mann offered to help them hide from the Administrator and her robots in exchange for help siphoning off the Administrator’s stockpiles, and she provided them with a hideout “base” in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. They have been performing smash and grab raids for a little more than a year before being joined by the Well mercs.

Nick: Scout. 24 year old male. City kid from Toronto. Uses a lacrosse stick instead of a baseball bat. Really likes his hats; has several “favourite” toques that he cycles through.

Danny: Scout. 22 year old male. City kid from Halifax. Uses a hockey stick instead of a baseball bat, and wears a hockey helmet in fights. Missing left lateral incisor.

Colin: Demoman. 23 year old male. Cape Bretoner (L’Ardoise). Friendly, as long as you don’t take away his booze. Makes grenades out of empty Moosehead beer cans.

Hank: Heavy. 36 year old male. Team leader. Lumberjack from northern BC. Wears plaid flannel and uses a big axe. Married to Madeleine.

Quinten: Engineer. 25 year old male. Third-generation Japanese-Canadian from Vancouver. Alvin’s son, not happy his father joined the team with him. Total sci-fi and computer geek. Dating Marshall behind Alvin's back.

Kacey: Engineer. 24 year old female. Half-Mi’kmaq, Haligonian. Full name is Kimberly Cecilia, but she hates it, so she just goes by Kacey. Big sister to the younger guys on the team, especially Colin.

Alvin: Medic. 53 year old male. Second-generation Japanese-Canadian from Vancouver. Quinten’s father, joined the team with him to keep an eye on him and keep him safe. Uses the “Healing Hands” rather than a medigun: gloves that, when activated, heal on contact.

Marshall: Sniper. 28 year old male. Rancher from Alberta, not far from Calgary. Was kicked in the head by a horse when he was sixteen, is still a little “goofy” as a result (has some minor brain damage that mostly manifests in excessive cheeriness, lapses in attention, poor impulse control, and “rage blackouts” when provoked). Uses a modified cattle-prod as a melee weapon. Dating Quinten behind Alvin's back.

Madeleine: Spy. 35 year old female. Quebecois. Former CSIS recon officer, and cat burglar. Wears a white pant suit, a white fedora with a red band, a red domino mask, and a red scarf. Married to Hank.

Little Moments: Story Time Teaser/WIP

Another one that just needs a little bit of intro to be done. A lot of the Little Moments are like that, honestly :\ Ah well. I'll finish these shorts if it kills me!

Summary: Scout's hanging out with Spy, and he's bored. Spy comes up with a new way to keep him entertained.

——

Little Moments: Story Time

[...]

Scout tipped his head back over the arm of the couch to look at Spy. “What’re ya readin’?”

“Doctor No, by Ian Fleming,” Spy said. “Not ’is best Bond novel, but I like reading them in order.”

“Ain’t that a movie? The one with Sean Connery in it, bein’ some kinda spy?” Scout said, scrutinizing the cover of the book. Spy nodded, flipping a page.

“Oui. It is based on the novel, as are the other James Bond films.” He gestured toward his bookcases without lifting his eyes from the page. “I ’ave the first nine, if you would like to take a look.”

Scout shrugged, making a face. “Nah, I ain’t much for readin’. Gives me a headache.”

Spy frowned and finally looked up at Scout, raising an eyebrow. “Eye strain? I wouldn’t ’ave expected you to require les lunettes, cher.”

“My eyes’re fine,” Scout said, rolling them. “The words ’n’ letters just get all weird when there’s a bunch of ’em. The councillors at school when I was a kid said I had some kinda ‘learnin’ disabilities’—dyslexia, and AHAD or somethin’ like that—but I ain’t fuckin’ retarded. S’just hard t’read for too long.”

“Most learning disorders do not indicate mental retardation, petit,” Spy said. His frown had taken on a more thoughtful aspect. “Though, ADHD does explain quite a bit…”

Scout made an indignant noise, but Spy ignored him, closing his book and setting it on the small table next to the armchair. He got to his feet, stepping over to one of the bookcases, taking a slow drag on his cigarette as he looked over the collection of literature. He picked one book out and thumbed through the first few pages before shaking his head and putting it back. A few seconds later he selected another, and the process repeated itself.

It was on the fourth book that Scout’s curiosity finally bubbled over: “What’re ya doin’?”

Spy didn’t answer right away. He replaced an absolute brick of a book—Scout could see it was called The Stand thanks to the huge red letters on the cover—with a rueful smile and a shake of his head, then plucked out a smaller book a couple shelves down. He made a small sound of satisfaction after a perfunctory flip through and went to sit back in his armchair. Scout, sitting cross-legged and watching him with wary interest, fidgeted as Spy lit another cigarette and made himself comfortable.

“This,” Spy said, tapping a finger against the cover of the book he held, “is The Bourne Identity, by Robert Ludlum. It is one of my favourite spy novels, full of globe-trotting adventure, conspiracy, intrigue, violence, and romance.” He smiled and ashed his cigarette. “I am going to read it to you.”

Scout blinked, then grimaced. “Oh, nah nah. No way. I ain’t sittin’ around for fuckin’ story time with Spy. Nuh-uh. M’not a fuckin’ little kid.”

Never mind that he liked stories—it was just the actual reading part that was hard—or that he had loved story time in kindergarten, and when the teacher would read from a good book in English class. And when Ma had read to him when he was sick, or when he had a really tough book for a book report. When he was a kid. He started to get up, shaking his head.

“You did say you were bored,” Spy said with a nonchalant shrug. There was that little upward quirk at the corner of his mouth. “I thought a story full of violence and cursing and sex might be more appealing than staring at the walls, but I could be wrong.”

Scout paused, halfway to his feet, and narrowed his eyes. Listening to Spy read did sound better than wandering around trying to find something else to do, but it was clear the other man was trying to entice him, and he couldn’t help but wonder why. He considered for a second, hovering in his half-seated position.

“It ain’t gay sex, is it?” he asked finally. Spy snorted out a puff of smoke along with a tight laugh and shook his head, rubbing his eyes as he clearly fought further chuckles. Scout sat back down, recrossing his legs and glowering as Spy got control of himself.

“Ahh, non, it is not gay sex, cher,” Spy finally said, clearing his throat with another light chortle. “You could do with more culture than Spider-Man and Bugs Bunny, and there are worse places to start than with Jason Bourne. And it should be interesting enough to ’old your attention for a little while, at least.”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with Bugs Bunny, French Fry,” Scout said, but he settled into a more comfortable position, elbows on his knees and chin in one hand. “But I guess I ain’t got nothin’ else t’do.”

Team Garrison (BLU) Bare Bones Basics

What it says on the can! Some details about my BLU boys. Eventually might put up proper bios for everyone, but for now, just some very basics about who they are. Scout, Pyro, Sniper, and Spy are the primary focus on the BLU team, so they've got a little more info. I'll throw up the RED one soon, once I've actually got it done (it won't be as long, though).

BLU - Team Garrison

Scout

Age: 23 Nationality: American (Massachusetts [Boston]) Time w/ BLU: 13 months Height: 5’11 Hair: Light brown, crew cut Eye Colour: Hazel Build: Slim, broad-shouldered, well-defined legs Distinguishing Features: N/A

[Technically the main character? At least in the beginning.]

The prototypical Scout. An arrogant, loud-mouthed, hard-brawling boy from Boston, with a single ma, eight older brothers, and enough energy (even without his monthly supply of Bonk) to drive even the most patient of his teammates up the wall.

The biggest pain in everyone’s ass. General levels of tolerance for him and his antics range from Engie and Sniper’s resigned acceptance to Soldier and Medic’s near-homicidal antipathy.

Unapologetically offensive (though racism is generally off the table. Homophobia is fair game, though). Curses constantly, insults everyone he meets, and loves to push people’s buttons to see how much of a rise he can get out of them.

Pyro

Age: 20 Nationality: Mexican (Santa Ana) Time w/ BLU: 12 months Height: 5’9 Hair: Black, chin length, long bangs Eye Colour: Brown Build: Underweight, defined arms Distinguishing Features: Third-degree burn scar: left arm, elbow to shoulder; left side, mid-ribs to armpit; back, left side, mid-back to upper shoulder; neck, left side; left cheek from jaw to cheekbone (primarily hypertrophic scarring, some contracture on left shoulder)

Almost never seen out of his suit and mask, and rarely spends time with the rest of the team. He showers and eats on his own, and barely leaves his room during ceasefire, usually only emerging for the occasional visits with Engie in his workshop, or to burn things.

He was “convinced” to show his face by Scout several months ago at Teufort (during a very long weekend of Bonk-induced harassment), and hasn’t really forgiven him for it yet.

Is only really comfortable around Engie and Medic. He will only speak to the two of them willingly without his mask, and if he’s not in his room, Engie’s workshop is the next best place to look for him.

Sniper

Age: 38 Nationality: Australian (Northern Territory [primarily Outback]) Time w/ BLU: 11 years, 3 months [longest-serving merc] Height: 6’5 Hair: Dark brown, short, messy, long sideburns Eye Colour: Dark blue Build: Thin, broad-shouldered Distinguishing Features: “Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril, perpetual five o'clock shadow

Team Garrison’s unofficial leader.

He and Spy have been on the same team since Spy was recruited at Sawmill a decade ago. He considers Spy to be his best friend and they give off major “old married couple” energy, despite their relationship being entirely platonic. 100% heterosexual life partners.

More friendly than a lot of Snipers, and is seen around base more often during ceasefire. He has a camper van, but it’s more a means of transport than a home. He actually sleeps in his provided room in the barracks most nights, and is usually the first one up in the morning (he makes the coffee).

Spy

Age: 41 Nationality: (Assumed) French Time w/ BLU: 10 years, 1 month Height: 5’8 Hair: Wouldn't you like to know? Eye Colour: Light grey Build: Slender Distinguishing Features: N/A

Like Sniper, more friendly and less reserved than one might expect of a typical member of his class. He’s been at this “war” long enough to not take things too seriously any more, and he’s grown to have at least some degree of affection for the rest of the team over the years.

Incredibly nosy, and a shameless gossip. Knows more about the rest of the team than they would ever expect.

Surprising absolutely everyone (including himself), he’s found himself on unexpectedly friendly terms with Scout. He’s one of the few that Scout will actually sit down with long enough to have an actual conversation with.

The Rest

Soldier: Utterly devoted to the cause, and expects the best from the rest of the men, to an often infuriating degree.

Demoman: An alcoholic, one-eyed, Black Scotsman. Suspiciously similar to the Team Fortress Demoman, Tavish DeGroot. The “fun older brother” of the team; one of the few members of Team Garrison that tolerates, and even sometimes enjoys, Scout’s particular brand of obnoxious, hyperactive jackassery.

Heavy: Uncle Heavy. Laid-back and easy-going, more than willing to sit and chill with the guys, drinking a few beers and shooting the shit. Very protective of his team, especially Medic (his “husband”).

Engineer: The team dad. Quiet, friendly, and down-to-earth. Always willing to sit and listen to any of the guys’ problems and try to help them sort through them. The only married merc, and the only parent: he has two young daughters (nine and eleven years old) back home that he will gladly talk anyone’s ear off about.

Medic: The chronically exasperated mother-hen of Team Garrison. Austrian, despite Soldier’s unwavering belief that he must be German (due to German being his mother tongue). Oldest merc at 58 years old, a fact which Scout never lets him forget. Has a pet turtle dove named Rokitansky (after the Austrian physician and pathologist [not anything to do with rockets in spite of, again, Soldier’s certainty that this is the case]) who lives in the Infirmary. Has been in a loving relationship with Heavy since their days at Sawmill.

Little Moments: Laundry Day Teaser/WIP

This one's mostly done! I just need to work out, like, a paragraph or two of intro, but it just keeps eluding me for some reason (it's driving me nuts D:). So, yeah, a Little Moment, just a silly little scene between longer shorts :) No cut this time, since it's short!

Summary: Scout did the laundry, and Pyro is not happy.

——

[...]

Sniper frowned, leaning aside as Scout scrambled over the back of the couch to keep out of Pyro’s reach. “The bloody Hell did ya do now?”

“Nothin’!” Scout yelped, almost tripping over the coffee table in his haste to get to the other side of it. “Pyro just can’t take a fuckin’ joke!”

Pyro snarled and took a swing at Scout; Sniper ducked as the axe whistled by in a wide horizontal arc. “Every single one of my shirts is pink! And they all say ‘Gay Mexican’ on them!”

“Not all of ’em!” Scout said, doing his best to keep Sniper and as much furniture as possible between himself and the incensed younger man. “Some say ‘Muy Caliente’.”

“¡Voy a matarté cabrón!”

Scout let out another yelp as Pyro darted around the side of the couch, and hopped backward to avoid another heavy swing. “Whoa, hey, c’mon dude! I thought we were friends!”

“That’s why I’m gonna cut your fucking head off instead of roasting you alive, gringo!” Pyro bellowed. Sniper kept his head down, and did his best to fight down a growing urge to laugh.

Scout pouted at Pyro as he backed away from him, hands up defensively before him.

“Hey, c’mon man, ya don’t gotta start bein’ fuckin’ racis- Ahh shit!”

Dipping my toes back in the pool

Socially awkward intro time!

Ok, so I haven't been on tumblr for... a decade? Close to? God, I feel old... But I was in desperate need of some TF2 fanart after the seventh comic dropped, so I'm back. Created a new account since it feels suuuuper weird going back to my old one and I want a place to post my things in a more coherent and organized manner than my early-twenty-something self.

So yeah! Here we are! To start off, I'm planning on using this blog as a place to throw up the shorts from my (slowly) in-progress TF2 OC fanfic series "Tales of Well" (link to fanfiction.net copy), and any other info or thoughts about it that I feel like sharing. It might eventually transition into a world-building/story-posting blog for my original world (some vastly out-of-date posts on it being available on yet another blog I started around the same time as my first just for my writing), but I'm not sure yet. I've just been doing a lot of work on the shorts lately and want to throw as much of it out there as possible, even if it's not even remotely close to done yet.

If anyone out there stumbles across this and takes a look, welcome, thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

Tales of Well Timeline/Masterpost

[Updated April 26, 2025]

Putting everything in one place for easy access and reference :) Timeline includes all of the one-shots (and other fics in the "Tales" timeline) that I have planned/started.

Bolded titles are complete (at least tentatively), italicized titles aren't significantly started yet (either just ideas or under 250 words), and everything else is a WIP (most are sitting at 1.5k+ words so far). Also, the ones titled with "Little Moments" are more drabbles than full shorts, usually more light-hearted and goofy, and the ones with "Inner Workings" switch to first-person for little internal monologues. There are also likely to be more shorts added as inspiration strikes me (still got some time to fill between the main body of shorts and the longfics that follow [see bottom of timeline]).

Also now on AO3! ToW on AO3!

INFO POSTS

Tales of Well Basics Team Garrison (BLU) Bare Bones Basics Team Rampart (RED) Bare Bones Basics Main Character Bios & Info Post-ToW Longfics Basic Info Tales of Sawmill Main Character Basics

Timeline under the cut :)

——

Prologue

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

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

Moving Day

First Day

Privacy

A Special Cigarette

Art Therapy

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

Gentle Hands

For the Birds

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

Untitled (BLU Scout/Spy [smut])

Scout Vs Scout [tent title]

Respawn Errors

Little Moments: Arson Face

Deathmatch

Going Public

Little Moments: Supply Day

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

Bloody Suit [tent title]

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

Toys [PWP]

Desert Rain

Little Moments: Respawn Errors 2

Proving Oneself

Sick Scout

Heart-to-Heart

Life, Death, and Respawn [tent title]

Little Moments: Long Jump

Check-Up [Six-month mark]

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

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

Pillow Talk

Munchies Run

Little Moments: Laundry Day

Spawn Camping

Little Moments: BONK!

Line in the Sand

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

Shave and a Haircut [tent title]

Check-Up 2

Inner Workings: RED Scout - Who Am I?

Little Moments: Story Time

Town Fair

Parle Salement A Moi [PWP]

Little Moments: Spy’s Secret

Anniversary

Strange Feeling

Good Morning [PWP]

Breakfast

A Breach of Trust

Spell-Check  [One year mark]

Inner Workings: BLU Spy - Expressions

Grocery Run

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

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

Little Moments: Twinkie

Sick Scout 2

Little Moments: Respawn Errors?

Cockblocked

Dance Lessons

Happy Birthday

I See You

Untitled (RED Sniper tortures Scout)

The Other Side of the Fence

Untitled (Pyro/Spy trapped)

Accessorizing [PWP]

Little Moments: A Ticklish Situation

Float Like a Butterfly

Sting Like a Bee

“Charge Me Doktor!” [PWP]

Lover’s Quarrel

Inner Workings: BLU Pyro - Mine

Night Terrors

Little Moments: Respawn Errors 3

Little Moments: Feliz Cumpleaños

Campfire Songs

Old Dogs

Scout Hunt

Brotherly Love

Those Words

Little Moments: Noise Complaint

Kindred Spirit

Reaper at Your Back

Little Moments: Fishsticks

Little Moments: Brownies [...]

Fast Car

Ink

Our Third [PWP] [...]

(End Date: June 10, 1995)

Into the Future

Tales of Well: On the Run [longfic] Great White North [longfic]

Privacy

Second finished "Tales of Well" short (third chronologically). Still shorter than I'd like, but I'm happier with this one than "First Day", even if not much really happens.

Again, warning for unnecessary amounts of profanity, courtesy of Scout.

Summary: Scout was told to go get Pyro for dinner.

——

Privacy

“Yo firebug! S’dinner time! Getcha ass out here!”

Scout’s fist hammered out a staccato beat on Pyro’s door, and he leant against it waiting for an answer. His foot tapped impatiently, and he waited all of three seconds before he gave the door a few hard whacks with his palm.

“Pyro! C’mon, man, I ain’t standin’ here all fuckin’ night!” he yelled, more than loud enough to be heard through the flimsy wood panel. “It’s steak night, man, come the fuck on!”

He didn’t hear even the slightest rustle of movement coming from the other side of the door. He sighed and drummed his fingers.

He was torn. Dinner had started a couple minutes ago, long enough for Scout to get in one bite of mashed potatoes before Sniper had told him to go fetch Pyro. He’d argued, naturally—it wasn’t his fault if Pyro couldn’t get off his ass for steak night—but Sniper had given him that Look. The “do what I fuckin’ say or you will regret it” Look. Scout hated that Look. It was what had separated him from the delicious slab of beef that was now growing cold on his plate, if Demo or Soldier hadn’t pilfered it already.

However, in opposition to Sniper’s Look, Pyro had a very strict “stay the fuck out of my room or I will fry you like an ant under a magnifying glass” policy. The firestarter was serious about his privacy. As far as Scout knew, no one else had entered that room for even a second since Pyro had taken up residence, not even Spy. Scout was definitely curious—he’d spent more than a fair space of time since the move standing outside this door, trying to work up the nerve to go inside—but he wasn’t stupid, no matter what Medic all-too-frequently implied (or said outright). Satisfying his curiosity wasn’t worth getting barbequed.

But tonight, his steak was waiting for him. Pyro still hadn’t answered the door and the one bite of mashed potatoes he’d managed to scoop taunted Scout like a fading dream. Engie made the best steak and potatoes he’d ever tasted, and having only sampled one bite of one part of his meal, he was more than anxious to return to the table to finish stuffing his face. But he couldn’t go back without Pyro, or Sniper would be pissed. But Pyro wasn’t opening the door, and if he tried to go in to get him, he’d probably end up fried. He groaned in frustration and pounded his fist against the door.

“PYRO! Fuck man! I wanna go eat my fuckin’ steak!” He kicked the door and huffed. Fuck it, he thought. He took a deep breath, and gripped the doorknob. “I’m givin’ ya three seconds, then I’m comin’ to drag yer skinny ass out! One! Two! Threeee-eee… Whoa…”

Scout turned the knob and pushed. The door wasn’t locked—only Spy’s room had a lock, and that was because he’d bought and had it installed it himself—so it swung open easily. And revealed a brilliant sanctuary.

Plastic model planes hung from near-invisible strings pinned to the ceiling, which had been painted to look like a clear midday sky with a few wispy, scudding clouds. A globe-like fixture had been set over the overhead bulb, making it look like the Sun poking out to light the room. Large stretches of the walls were vibrantly painted with desert scenery—sand and broad red plateaus, hoodoos and prickly-looking cacti—and Scout saw a painted jackrabbit poking its head out from behind a tall wooden dresser pushed up against the wall.

Tall racks and shelves also scattered along the wall held a massive collection of sleeved records, cassette tapes, and CDs. A few smaller shelves held several well-worn paperback novels, some of which bore titles in what Scout thought was Spanish on their battered spines, and a huge number of magazines. A stereo cabinet sat next to a small cot in the corner, the former littered with discarded cassettes, pencils, scraps of paper, and a few near-empty water glasses that had yet to make their way back to the kitchen, while the latter was heaped with fluffy pillows and thick blankets. And Pyro.

It still shocked Scout to see Pyro out of his protective suit, even months after he’d first… encouraged the younger man to peel back the mask. He said he was only a few years younger than Scout, but he still looked too young for mercenary work. Without his suit, he was more scrawny than simply thin, and pale despite his Latino heritage. He needed a haircut—his shaggy black hair was almost to his shoulders, and his bangs flopped freely in front of his eyes—and his narrow frame made him seem far more adolescent than he claimed to be. The only thing that spoiled the effect somewhat was the livid burn scar covering his left cheek almost as far as his eye, and disappearing down under his t-shirt collar, reappearing from under his left sleeve to cover the back of his arm past the elbow; Scout didn’t want to imagine what had happened to cause a scar like that.

Pyro seemed content for the time being, though he hadn’t yet noticed Scout’s intrusion. He was stretched out on the cot, eyes closed and arms folded behind his head, a thick black cord connecting the massive headphones he was wearing to the stereo beside him. He was nodding his head and wiggling his feet in time to whatever he was listening to, and Scout heard the occasional hummed note float across the room. He also noticed that Pyro’s gear was piled in a heap at the end of the cot—flamethrower, axe, and fire-proof suit—occasionally being tapped by his bobbing feet.

Some part of Scout’s mind (a part that sounded suspiciously like Spy) told him to get out while he was still unscorched, but his curiosity won out over caution, as it so often did. He wandered over to a painted stretch of wall, admiring the detail in the desert scenery masking the grotty concrete. While he didn’t consider himself an “artist” by any means, Scout liked to draw and occasionally paint, and he could appreciate the subtle shading on the sand and cacti, and the curiously bright eyes of the rabbit that, he now saw, crouched behind a small patch of painted scrub hidden by the dresser.

Hasty shuffling from the corner drew Scout’s attention, and he straightened when he saw Pyro scrambling from the cot, fumbling the headphones off and staring with an expression not far from outright horror. Pyro didn’t speak—Scout had often wondered about Pyro’s silence on the rare occasions when he wasn’t wearing his mask—but he flapped his hands frantically at Scout, trying to shoo him toward the door. Emboldened by the lack of immediate violence, however, Scout ignored him and sauntered over to one of the racks of vinyl, flipping idly through. He recognized many of the bands and artists, but there were several others he didn’t know, many of which seemed to be in Spanish, like the books. He was impressed by what he was familiar with, though.

“Fuck, Py, this is amazing. Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Skynard, Floyd, Sabbath, Styx, Queen… Shit, is that fuckin’ Boston? I had no idea anyone else liked- Whoa!”

Scout whirled at a sudden flash of intense heat against his back, hands leaping away from the records as he spun. He found the gaping maw of a flamethrower only inches from his face, the pilot light flickering uncomfortably close to his chin. He staggered a few steps, tripping over a pile of what certainly smelled like dirty laundry even if had amalgamated into some sort of amorphous cotton blob, and he held his hands out defensively as he backed in what he hoped was the direction of the door.

Before him stood Pyro, lips pulled back to reveal his teeth in a feral snarl. He hissed, a purely animalistic sound. It might have been funny, the oversized weapon being supported by Pyro’s scrawny—if whipcord-muscled—arms, and him hissing and bristling like an irate cat. The small plumes of flame that fwoofed into and out of existence at the flamethrower’s muzzle killed any sense of hilarity, though.

“Whoa, Py, c’mon,” Scout said, bumping up against the wall and sliding toward the door with his hands raised in surrender. The flamethrower still followed him, way too close. “I-I just had t’come getcha for dinner. Y’weren’t answerin’ when I knocked so I just opened the door and- Aaah!”

A longer tongue of flame jetted out of the flamethrower, and Scout felt his eyebrows and the hairs on his arms singeing. He bolted for the door with a yelp, hearing Pyro growl. He made it into the hallway and the door slammed shut behind him, but he didn’t stop running until he barrelled into the kitchen. Incredulous and disapproving stares fixed on him from around the table, but he ignored them as he hastily slid back into his seat. Without a word, he started in on his steak.

He could feel Sniper’s Look, even if he didn’t look up to catch it. “Scout, we said t’go get Pyro.”

Scout shoved a piece of meat into his mouth and glowered at Sniper as he chewed. After the light roasting he’d just received, the Look wasn’t quite so intimidating. At least not compared to the current alternative to the punishment it promised.

“Fuck that,” he said. “I knocked and knocked and he wouldn’t answer, so I went in t’get him ’n’ he tried to fuckin’ toast me. Nuh uh, if he wants to eat, he can come out whenev’r the fuck he wants.”

Shocked silence held around the table. Aside from Scout, everyone had stopped eating, some with utensils still hovering over their plates. Heavy had frozen mid-chew, his cheeks comically puffed as he turned to stare at Scout. Engineer looked horrified, and also somewhat amazed.

“Y’went into Pyro’s room?” he said, setting his fork down carefully and lifting his goggles to scrutinize Scout without the impediment of their tinted lenses. Scout looked back, finally taking note of the unusual stillness and everyone’s attention on him. He shrank down in his chair somewhat.

“I had to,” he mumbled, “t’get Pyro to come out.” When no one said anything, he threw up his hands. “What should I have done? Ya told me t’go get him!”

The silence persisted. Scout scowled around the table before returning to his food. Everyone else’s eyes were either fixed on him or the kitchen doorway, waiting for the inevitable.

It came fairly soon after Scout had started eating again. Engie, Spy, Sniper, and Demo all watched as Pyro strode into the room, fully geared up, and stepped up behind Scout. The other watching eyes drifted up to him. Scout remained oblivious, shoveling in more gravy-smothered potatoes, until he was grabbed by the back of the neck by a rubber-gloved hand. He yelped and started to flail, but froze when a well-honed axe blade pressed against his throat. Pyro pushed him down until his face was nearly in his potatoes, never letting up on the axe head’s pressure, keeping it pressed in just hard enough to make sure that Scout felt nervous about swallowing.

Pyro leaned down slowly, tightening his grip and growling softly beside Scout’s ear. Scout whimpered, but cut off with a choke when Pyro pressed the axe blade in just a little bit harder.

Then it was pulled away, and Pyro released Scout with a light shove that sent his face straight into his meal. Scout sat up, sputtering and wiping away globs of potatoes and gravy, as Pyro wandered over to the dishes on the stove, loading up a plate for himself. He slung his axe over his shoulder and started back out of the kitchen.

He paused by Scout’s chair. Scout looked up at him, cowering, potato still clinging to his nose and bill of his cap. Pyro watched Scout cower for a moment, breaths hissing ominously through his mask’s filters, and delivered a swift, sharp smack to the back of the Bostonian’s head. It nearly sent him pitching into his plate again. Nodding to himself, Pyro left the kitchen without a backward glance, humming softly.

There was total silence for another few seconds after he’d gone before Medic also gave Scout a sharp swat. “Zhat is vhat you get for being a nosy little schwein. And you should count yourself lucky it vasn’t vorse.”

“Okay, again, what exactly was I s’posed t’fuckin’ do!”

“Just about anythin’s smarter than bustin’ in on someone who explicitly toldja t’stay the Hell out,” Engineer said, replacing his goggles with a sigh and picking up his fork again.

“Aye, we all knoo the wee firebug disnae like us in his space.”

“Da. Little Pyro enjoys privacy.”

“Would it’ve killed ya to try a little patience, mate, wait an extra minute for him to come to the door?”

Scout huffed and pushed his chair back, snatching up his plate. “Fuck you guys, I’m gonna go eat in my room.”

“As long as you leave Pyro alone, Scout.”

Scout didn’t pause, though he did throw back a light, “Fuck you Doc!” over his shoulder as he headed off down the hall.

Medic rolled his eyes and returned to his food, scowling, though a smile broke through his disgruntlement when Heavy gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. Demo engaged Soldier and Engie in a spirited, but friendly, debate about the strengths of Scottish whisky versus American whiskey once the speedster was out of sight, with Sniper throwing in his two cents if the conversation seemed to be devolving into an all-out argument. Order was always quick to reassert itself when the most rambunctious member of the team left the room.

Spy chuckled to himself and also pushed back from the table, gathering up his dishes and taking them to the sink. He’d finished eating quickly, as he did with every meal; he’d been in too many situations where food was scarce to shed the instinct easily in a non-civilian setting.

“Engineer, merci beaucoup. The meal was spectacular, as always,” he said, offering a small bow when Engie tipped his hardhat. “I believe I shall go ensure that Scout does not go out of ’is way to become char-broiled. Bonsoir, gentlemen.”

“Do not try too hard. Zhe boy could benefit from a sharply applied lesson or two,” Medic said, and Spy smirked as he lit a cigarette.

“Do not worry, Doctor, I truly only mean to stop ’im if ’e goes out of ’is way. ’Is usual reckless curiosity should offer the chance for lessons galore.”

Heart-to-Heart Teaser/WIP

Just some Scout comfort chats :) Not as long as the other WIPs, but still sticking it under a cut.

Summary: The RED Scout experiences his first permanent respawn error, and calls Blue out to talk and hopefully give him a little insight into just what he's gotten himself into.

——

Heart-to-Heart

[...]

“So… how bad was it?”

Red didn’t look up, but he lifted his left arm before him, pushing the sleeve of his sweater up past his elbow and spreading his fingers wide. Blue choked on his beer.

Around Red’s elbow and wrist, and halfway down his forearm, were thin rings of tight new scar tissue. It was as if his arm had been cut into precise sections and then glued back together. And more than half of his ring finger was gone. Just gone. Between his middle finger and pinky was a nauseatingly obvious gap.

Blue wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck…”

“Yeah.”

Red pushed his sleeve back down. He stared at his hand, curling and uncurling his fingers with a grimace. His thumb kept prodding at and swiping over the end of the newly shortened digit. Blue couldn’t help but stare at it. Respawn errors were nothing new to him, even more extreme ones (especially after that… weird day, a little while back), but Red was new. Like, brand new. He hadn’t even hit six months yet. Blue hadn’t had his first really bad, permanent respawn error until he’d been with BLU for more than eight, and, though he’d never admit it aloud, he’d died a lot in those first few months back at Teufort.

Red sighed, scrubbing his maimed hand through his hair and grabbing the beer Blue had opened for him. He took a deep swig and shuddered.

“Doc said I’m lucky it wasn’t worse, that I didn’t lose my whole hand,” he grunted, taking another, smaller sip. “If this is fuckin’ lucky… And it’s only my first one. How bad does this shit get?”

Blue made a soft sound, lowering his own beer slowly. He didn’t want to freak Red out, but he felt like he should let the kid know at least some of what he could expect. He had a feeling that the warnings he’d received from his own teammates had helped blunt the shock of his first bad error—kept it from pushing him into either suicide or psychosis—and, if Wrenches hadn’t done it yet, it seemed unlikely anyone else in that pack of psycopaths with RED was going to offer up that information to the younger Scout. Taking in a slow breath, Blue set his beer aside and lifted up the left side of his track jacket and t-shirt. It was Red’s turn to choke.

Seated over Blue’s lowest ribs was a jagged scar, almost as wide as his hand, reaching nearly as far inward as his navel and spine. Even after months, it refused to fade in the slightest, remaining as a bunched ridge of dark, angry red while his other scars had become less prominent with fairly little age, and it was still sensitive to too hard a touch. Where Red’s new scars were surgically precise, it looked as if someone had tried ripping Blue in half and stopped halfway through. He’d grown used to the grisly sight, but Red’s horrified stare reminded him just how bad it really looked.

He smoothed his shirt back down and lightly prodded at his two lowermost ribs. “These two ribs are fake, had t’be replaced,” he said, “and Doc said he was surprised he didn’t hafta regrow half a’my lung and a few other organs.” He sipped his beer. “Yer Pyro got me good with his fuckin’ axe—almost cut me the fuck in half—and when I respawned I still had the gapin’ fuckin’ axe wound. And of fuckin’ course it was right at the end a’the fight, too, so if I woulda croaked again I’d’ve been stuck in the void for days. It was almost a whole fuckin’ week before the next fight, and if I woulda been in there that long, it prob’ly woulda killed me for good.”

“Is that how the last RED Scout died?” Red asked softly. Blue winced and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Ehh, pretty much, but he was…” He shook his head and sighed. “Red—old Red—was pretty fucked in the head. Ya know he was a total fuckin’ slut, right?” Red snorted, the briefest flicker of a smile tugging his lips. “Well, I’m pretty sure he had a fuckin’ death wish, too. He was worse than both fuckin’ Soldiers, always runnin’ head-first into shit, no matter how many times it got him killed. He spent more time in the void, and had more respawn errors, than everyone else on both teams combined.” He shrugged. “One fight, he just didn’t respawn. He’d been in the void a few days and when the fight started he just… wasn’t there. Didn’t even last a full year.” He grimaced. “Better than what happened to my old Pyro, though.”

Red’s voice was small and hesitant when, after a few too-long seconds, he asked, “What happened t’him?”

Blue rubbed his neck again, hesitating, before he said, “I don’t really know, for sure. One fight, I respawned, and Pyro ’n’ Doc was already there. Py was just on the ground screamin’ and thrashin’ around and shit, completely covered in blood. It-” He swallowed thickly, the memory making his gorge rise. “It was comin’ out from under his suit and mask, and out through his mask, y’know, like through them filter things. Took him a few minutes t’actually die, and his body didn’t fade out like it usually would. Was just layin’ there in a pool a’blood on the respawn room floor. Took weeks for the blood-smell t’go away, even after, like, five bottles a’bleach.”

Red shuddered again and lowered his forehead to his knees. He was silent another long moment, until he said, almost too softly to hear, “What the fuck am I doin’ here, man…?”

His voice cracked and he hugged his legs tighter. Blue could see him shaking, and his hand was stroking up and down Red’s back before he even had the conscious thought to move it.

It was… heart-wrenching, seeing Red like this. He was a little shit when they were fighting, yeah, but Blue had grown to kind of like the brat. He’d grown up with nothing but older brothers, but, along with Pyro, Red made him feel like he had two younger ones. It was kind of weird, but he found himself wanting to look after them, especially Red. Red was just so young, and clueless in so many ways, like a lost puppy or something. It felt… wrong, seeing him so upset.

He could feel that Red’s shivering had stopped, though he hadn’t lifted his head.

[...]

“So yer sendin’ most a’yer money home too?” Red said and Blue nodded, leaning back on an elbow.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not like I need it for much out here, and even if I did, I got enough t’never hafta worry regardless. Less’n two years into a five year contract and I already got almost two hundred grand banked, and that’s after sendin’ more’n half of it t’Ma,” he said. He finished off his beer and sent the bottle winging off down the train tracks. He waited to hear the distant tinkle of the glass shattering before continuing, “Ma did everythin’ for me ’n’ my brothers growin’ up; it’s only right makin’ sure she’s taken care of.”

“You got brothers? How many?”

Blue smirked and held up eight fingers, and Red punched him in the shoulder. “Bull. Shit. You do not have eight fuckin’ brothers.”

“Oh, yeah I fuckin’ do. Older brothers, too,” Blue said, ticking them off on his extended fingers: “There’s Robby in th’Army; Joey workin’ on his cars; Tony’s at fuckin’ MIT, the smartass; Matt and the twins, Alex and Adam, are doin’ the whole wife-and-kids thing, white-collar city jobs; Paul’s still in jail for a few more years; Johnny was flippin’ burgers, last I heard; and then there’s me.”

“Yer the youngest?” Red said, and Blue nodded.

“Yeah. M’dad died when I was three and Ma never got married again,” Blue said. “There was guys around every once in a while, but none of ’em really lasted too long.” He glanced over at Red, eyebrow raised. “How ’boutchu? Brothers? Folks?”

“Four older brothers,” Red said. “Well, two half-brothers, two full brothers. Ethan and Mike had a different dad from me, Ty, and Jonah. My pops fucked off when I was five, though. Y’know, ‘gone out for smokes and never came back’ shit.”

“Ah, fuck, that sucks.” Blue frowned. “Sorry dude.”

Red shrugged and finished his beer, sending his bottle flying after Blue’s. “Eh, he was a dick. Ma’d been sick of him for a long time, since before I was born, even. Was always gone for days, doin’ who fuckin’ knows what. I barely even saw him for the whole five years before he fucked off for good. Jonah loved him, but me ’n’ Ty fuckin’ hated him.”

[...]