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Spy takes a shuddering breath, then another, deep and painful in his ribs. It isn’t until a few moments that he registers his hurting neck, the ache in his back and the fact that his body feels like one large bruise. He tries to swallow, and comes up dry.
He feels a sinking sensation in his stomach, and his eyes snap open, darting to every corner of the tiny room he’s trapped in. He tries standing, blinking down to see himself sat on a chair with his hands trapped in cuffs. Spy takes a single, shaky breath, trying to calm the rhythm of his panicking heartbeat. He stares down for a few moments, collecting his bearings, trying to compose himself. This should not bother him so much; years ago, waking up in different places used to be the norm.
His fingers work quickly, pulling out the clip hidden in his gloves and searching for a lock to pick; he tries to subdue the slight shake of his hands, and succeeds to a questionable degree. The click of a safety being turned off brings him to a halt, fingers stiff, eyes burning a hole through the ground.
“Don’t make this harder than it should be,” He hears a gruff voice behind him, and after a few moments, works out the courage to respond.
“Caught red-handed,” He confesses, as a matter of fact. He manipulates the clip into the lock, trying to turn it, make it click . The only reward he gains is cold metal pressed against the back of his head.
He thinks of curse words inside his mind, an entanglement of french and english alike, yet the only sound that escapes him is a light huff. He drops the clip with a resounding clatter.
The light above flickers, an old bulb with its death spelt neatly among the next few days. The walls are painted a dark gray, though the single light above casts most of the ceiling in shadow. Before him lays another chair, mirroring his own, and Spy’s eyes dart to his captor as the man rounds him, still pointing a small, almost friend-sized pistol at him. Spy wants to recoil at the wording, but no such thing leaves the contents of his mind.
The man moves to stand behind the chair, leaning his weight on the top rail. He’s wearing sunglasses, despite being within the confines of a room. The pistol is still lazily pointed at him. Only then does he notice the figure standing far behind, arms crossed behind his back, wearing dark clothes and a mask that mirrors Spy’s own.
“They warned me about you,” The man with the sunglasses, their target , prefaces. “They said you’d come. I didn’t believe them.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Won’t make that mistake again.”
He looks back, nodding his head towards Spy, and the masked man steps into the light. His eyes dart between the target and the approaching figure dressed in black, and attempts to suppress a quickening breathing as the other approaches and walks behind him. He takes a deep breath, and feels the click of the cuffs being unlocked. He doesn’t think twice before moving to stand, kicking the chair behind himself and making a dash for the door.
The light flickers once. His hands curl around the handle and he pushes, to no avail. He hears fast footsteps behind him and barely remembers to dodge an incoming punch, and when Spy tries to pull out one of his knives, finds himself empty handed.
There’s a shot of pain that makes him mumble a curse and fall to his knees. He huffs once, twice, feels a bead of sweat roll down his cheek and looks down to see a trail of red going down his leg. The masked man easily picks him up by the cuff of the shirt, slamming him against the wall. Spy grunts, grinding his teeth together to prevent himself from giving any indicator of pain. He’s slammed into the wall again, and this time lets out a gasp.
He heaves a quick breath, then another, mouth open as he watches the target slip the gun back into his belt. He looks down at his leg, a deep red hole placed right below the knee and dripping with more red. It seems the only thing keeping him from being entirely incapacitated and barely functioning is sheer dumb luck. He groans, laying his head on the wall and looking up at the dark ceiling.
He hears footsteps, and looks back down at the target, who now stands behind the masked man as he pulls a lighter out of his pocket and uses it to burn the tip of the cigarette placed between his lips. Spy didn’t remember there being a cigarette in the first place.
“So, who sent you?” The target asks after the cigarette has been lit.
Spy huffs, letting his head fall to the side. He presses his eyes shut, fighting the pain. When he opens them, he finds the man staring at him expectantly.
“I’m afraid you won’t be getting much out of me, gentlemen,” He finally snaps. “I suggest you pack your bags and call it a day.”
“And let you free of charge, after what you tried earlier today?” The man says with a hint of humor. He exhales smoke, and Spy unconsciously breathes it in. Anything to feel a hint of comfort with his nerves all over the place.
“Yes,” Spy says, innocently. The man scoffs.
“And what about your partner?”
Spy resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Please. I have not disrespected you, have I?”
The man exhales smoke. Spy breathes in. “You come into my home, kill my men, then intend for me to treat you with respect.”
“It’s the least you could do.”
“You think this is some kind of joke,” The man snaps, breathing heavily. He looks Spy over, fury etching itself into his face, before it fades away into something else. Something cold. Spy suppresses a shudder.
The lightbulb fails, again. This time it lasts a few seconds.
“I have ways of making people like you talk,” The man tries again. “Good ways. Bad ways.”
“I don’t have all day,” Spy snaps.
He receives a punch to the gut in response, and falls to the ground, doubling over in breathlessness. He utters a few choice words in french.
The target laughs. “I got no idea what you just said, but I’m sure it wasn’t nice.”
Footsteps. Circling him, like prey. Spy doesn’t appreciate the feeling. Hands on his head, removing the balaclava and shoving it across the floor, eyes meeting his own. “You sure you don’t want the easy option?”
“Do your worst,” He hisses, mind foggy with pain, and he’s dropped back onto the ground. He breathes once, twice, and hears the click of the door opening. He glances back, dread pooling in his stomach, but he’s made his choice: he’ll find a way out eventually.
The man with the mask picks him up by the shoulder, and Spy gasps in pain when his legs are forced to stand on their own before he’s shoved back onto his chair. Without the strength to stand, he leans back on the chair and looks with wanting eyes to the open doorway mere feet away from him. His hands are placed behind the back of the chair, and the click of the cuffs reminds him that his choice has been cemented in stone.
He leans his head back, trying to control his breathing, and shivers at the feeling of cold air meeting his face. He’s surprised they let him keep the mask for so long.
Moments later, he hears footsteps near the room again. This time double. He looks back down with a heavy sigh, and his heart skips a beat as he finds Scout being shoved into the chair before him, hands cuffed behind the seat like his.
“What are you doing here,” He snaps with excess frustration. “You were meant to leave. ”
“Oh, go fuck yourself. I came back to save your sorry ass,” Scout is quick to respond, high pitched and indignant.
“And I imagine that went well.” He pushes, tilting his head in annoyance.
“Your friend is stealthier than I would have given him credit for,” The target says from behind Scout’s chair. “It wasn’t even his fault he got caught.”
He shoots Scout a cold look, hopefully conveying even a fragment of his indignance, and makes an attempt to quell the very real panic beginning to form in his gut. One thing is getting himself out, but two people is an entirely different story. Especially Scout.
Spy breathes deeply. Especially Scout.
‘Idiot boy, you’ll get us both killed!’ , Spy wishes he could say, but doesn’t. He mercifully manages to keep his own mouth shut, but Scout does not.
“Yeah, go tell everyone ‘bout it, asshole,” Scout huffs. He leans back on his chair. “I ain’t telling you shit , by the way. If you were wondering.”
“He knows nothing,” Spy tries stating it like a fact. “He’s a brute, incapable of stringing together a coherent thought. He won’t be of use.”
“I cannot fuckin’ believe you–”
“Looks like we’re in agreement, then,” The target says before taking what looks like a handkerchief and forcing it into Scout’s mouth. The boy makes an effort of being as difficult as possible, kicking and screaming all the way through until the thing is tied in the back of his head.
Spy looks between Scout and the target. Scout doesn’t stop moving, saying incomprehensible things into the handkerchief, and fixing Spy with a look that spells murder.
The target nods to Scout with his head, and the masked man walks from his place behind Spy’s chair and next to the boy. Spy frowns, gaze darting between one man and the other, until he sees the man cleanly land a blow to Scout’s stomach. The boy huffs, breathless, and doubles over.
The target meets Spy’s gaze. The masked man pulls Scout back up and lands another blow on his stomach, and the boy’s breath hitches. He moves to stand up and is pushed back down forcefully, head hitting the back of the chair.
What started off as panic grows into something else, a creature beyond recognition, and even when Spy’s gaze darts from one place to the other, his target continues to stare at him unnervingly. He takes another drag of the cigarette. The only sound in the room is the one of a fist against skin, a rattling chair, muffled cries of pain.
He wasn’t trained for this. Spy was not trained to watch his own son be beaten up before him by a pack of brutes.
He stands before a crossroad. Something unlike himself, the creature born of panic and a fierce need for protection, seems like it would shake him from his stupor and give him the strength to fight back. Habit and cowardice snaps his mouth shut, jaw locked in place as beads of sweat fall down his face.
At one point, he meets Scout’s eyes. There is a clear message sent his way, something that, if worded, would sound much like a ‘fuck off’ . Or something along those lines. The masked man grabs Scout by the face and punches him cleanly, and Spy flinches at the cut off whimper from the boy. Scout leans back on his chair, head held low. A momentary reprieve.
Spy breathes a heavy, shaky sigh, eyes locking on a corner of the room. The light flickers again, this time for a few seconds longer than before.
“Nothing to say?” The target says, raspy. Scout mumbles something incomprehensible. Spy hears the sound of a clean slap across the face, and he doesn’t believe anything he could say would be any kind of helpful, so he keeps shut.
He hears footsteps, and turns his head to see the target hover over him as he places one hand on Spy’s shoulder. He barely resists the urge to flinch, and fixes him a look with a raised eyebrow.
“You have the same eyes as the boy,” The target says, and Spy feels his blood turn cold. “Would be a shame if he lost them.”
He swallows once, twice, and comes up dry. He should ask for water.
The target nods his head towards Scout, and the masked man brings his hand to one of his pockets. He pulls out a dagger, and Spy doesn’t have much time to react before the man presses it against the boy’s arm, then slowly, brings it up until the edge is pointed to one of his eyes. He hears the boy gasp, freeze, and mutter a few curses.
“So?” His eyes dart between the target and masked man, dizzy and bitter and self preservation quietly slipping away as he reconsiders his previous choice.
“Fine,” He hisses. “I’ll tell you what you want, but let him go . ” He says, urgently, and hears Scout’s muffled cries of disagreement. The lights flicker again, this time for what feels like forever, and Spy remains very still. He hears the target curse under his breath.
When the lights come back on, Scout meets his eyes.
“You’re not in a position to bargain,” His target says, anger finally slipping into his tone.
He thinks back to the cyanide pill sewn in the inside of his balaclava, the second one in the neck of his shirt. One out of reach, the other only a few moments away from consumption, but Spy’s beginning to feel the blood loss. The pain has become muffled, dizziness and discomfort and something cold taking hold of him. Still, it is there.
“Perhaps. But the longer you wait, the closer till my imminent death,” He nods down to his leg, the picture of calm and collected. “On account of the bullet.”
His target scoffs, then breathes a heavy sigh with annoyance and frustration and impatience. He takes the cigarette and throws it to the ground, lightly crushing it under the soles of his shoes. “Get the boy out of the room. I’ll take it from here.”
The masked man huffs, grabs Scout by the shoulder and shoves him out of the chair. The boy struggles to stand, pain clouding his senses, and they make eye contact.
The target pulls out another cigarette, pressing it between his lips. The lights go out.
Spy lunges forward, toppling the man. He hisses when a knee comes up against his chest, forcing the breath out of him, but he persists, pressing his hands against the other’s neck. In the dark, distinguishing one thing from the other seems impossible: the lights come back on and Spy hears the click of safety being turned off. He feels the cold metal being pressed against his chest, his target breathless and snarling at Spy.
“Real fucking smart, aren’t you?” He says, and the lights go out again.
He rolls to the side, falling on the ground, and resists the urge to scream when his leg touches the cold cement beneath him. He hears a gunshot, two gunshots, but feels nothing on himself.
“You little shit–” He hears, then the clicking of an empty gun, and suddenly scuffling on the ground.
The lights come back on, and Spy sees Scout straddled on top of the target, pressing a dagger against his neck. Some blood is being drawn. On the other end, he sees the masked man laid on the ground, a pool of red and quick, panicked breaths. He won’t make it very long from now.
“We can work something out,” The target says, anxious, and Scout scoffs, though he still can’t make much out due to the handkerchief. Spy notices his hands are free of the cuffs.
The boy mumbles something, eyebrows raised in mock suggestion, but it doesn’t come out as threatening as it could have. Perhaps on account of his muffled voice.
“I was just doing what I thought was best–” The target says, and the lights go out. Spy hears Scout gasp in pain, and more back and forth of fists being thrown around, but he can’t make anything out and the pain is blinding. He makes an effort, pats the ground around to try and sense for a weapon, anything– his fingers wrap around a clip, the same one he dropped after waking up, and sets about releasing himself from the cuffs.
His hands shake, anticipation, nerves or pain, but the lock is picked and he hears the click that signifies his freedom. He holds his wrists, marked from the tight restraints, and looks back up. The room has fallen quiet, save for labored breaths. The lights don’t come back on.
“Scout?” He asks, very quietly, into what feels like an empty room. The panic has left, only a residual emptiness in its stead. “Scout.” He presses again, doing his best to project something calm and collected, and does quite the opposite.
He tries to stand, and only achieves monumental amounts of pain. He pats the ground before him, moving forward on all four limbs, until his hand finds another wrapped in bandages. The sinking feeling in his stomach grows, anxiety and nerves and something horrible making his breath hitch. His hands travel through the boy, checking for wounds, until they reach his face.
“ Jeremy, ” Spy hisses, and moves to remove the handkerchief. He fumbles, having to turn his head to the side so he can untie the knot, but once he does he hears Scout take a deep breath. They meet eyes, and Spy feels himself tied into a knot of concern and panic and discomfort that is suddenly untied the moment he sees the boy’s tiny smile.
“You’re ugly,” Is the first thing Scout tells him, and Spy can only be slightly annoyed at the comment. He scoffs, shooting him a disbelieving look that can barely be glimpsed through the darkness. The reassurance that the boy is alive is enough to make anything else a side note.
“Am I? The beating must be clouding your judgment.”
“ Graying hair. How old are you?”
“Medic has graying hair.”
“At least it's stylized, Spy. Not that you’d know anything ‘bout that.”
He squints his eyes in disbelief at the boy, like he’d know anything about stylizing, then shakes his head. “The target?”
Scout’s smile turns into a grin. “Stabbed the shit outta him. No way he’s gonna make it outta that alive.”
Spy hums. “What of the other?”
“What’s this, a test? Stabbed him to death too.” He says, moving to stand up. Spy thinks about doing the same thing, but the moment he leans his weight on his wounded leg he falls back down on the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
“What the– Spy, Spy,” He feels hands on him, shaking him, and everything feels so cold. He tries saying something, parts his lips to speak, but nothing comes out. His mouth feels so dry.
“Jesus,” He hears Scout say after he’s noticed the problem. “Fuck. Fuck, how am I gettin’ you outta here?”
‘Curious. I was wondering the same thing when you got here,’ he wants to say, like this was all the setup for a joke. But Spy is not a humorous man. All that comes out are his breaths in quick succession and the pervasive sensation that his insides have all been sucked out, that if someone were to cut him open right there and then they would find nothing. Just a dry carcass of the man he used to be.
Scout leans down, placing Spy’s arm over his shoulder and standing with Spy’s weight largely on him. Spy blinks, familiarity dawning from the sudden exhaustion that fills him, urging him to close his eyes and fade away.
“Scout,” He chokes out as the boy starts leading them to where he must recall the entrance for the room to be. “Talk to me.”
He hears the boy huff, “What?” he says, but Spy can tell he’s not listening. He wants to explain it to him, that if he falls asleep he might not wake back up, that he would like to listen to him speak his mind for once, but nothing comes out. He can’t tell if it’s his usual brand of cowardice regarding the boy or if the blood loss has impacted him more than he’d have thought.
Scout doesn’t respond immediately, glances back at Spy, and continues trudging forward. He pats the wall until his hand closes around a handle, and pulls the door open. Spy winces at the sudden light, tentatively glancing back out once they’re outside the dark room and Scout is leading them down the hall of the warehouse.
He reads a few blurry signs, colored ones that remind him of emergency exits. He recalls the car they left in the parking lot early this morning, the revolver beneath the seat. Suddenly he recalls his equipment, the disguise kit and the watch: he tries to stop in his tracks, redirect them elsewhere, but as soon as he isn’t entirely held up by Scout he tumbles to the ground again. Nearly, because Scout holds him up, sending him a quizzical look framed by irritation.
“The hell’s gotten into you?” He says, trying to pull him back up.
“The watch,” Spy manages. “The disguise kit. We aren’t leaving without them.”
Scout glares down at him, looking between the nearby emergency exit and Spy. “You gotta be kiddin’ me– we can get another set back at base.”
“No,” Spy hisses. “We can’t let this technology fall in–” He heaves a shaky breath. “–In the wrong hands.”
He hesitates, for a moment. “We are also missing the car keys.”
Scout breathes in, eyebrows raised in the picture perfect imitation of frustration. He flashes a look at the entrance, then back at Spy, who’s still clinging onto him desperately. He lowers him to the ground, leaning against the wall, and pats him awkwardly on the shoulder. His face brightens with an idea, and he takes the dagger– the same one nearly plunged into his eye, minutes earlier– and places it on Spy’s hand. He closes Spy’s hand around it, nodding to himself in reassurance.
He stands back up, glancing down at Spy, then at the corridor they came from. “Be right back,” He says, and Spy looks at him from the ground, head leaning on his shoulder, and takes another shuddering breath.
A few minutes pass where Spy wonders when the boy will return, if at all. He grips the handle of the blade, a meager form of self protection that Spy won't get much use out of should someone find him in the hallway like this. Still, he appreciates the gesture.
His thoughts slip from his mind, quick and shuddering breaths reminding him of the ticking clock his life has been placed in. He wonders if he'll wake up in respawn, or if he'll be met with the inky blackness of death: an afterlife seems like a fairytale to him. Then he recalls the knife held in his tight grip, and decides that he would rather not test his luck.
Against his better instincts, he works to remove his jacket, and uses his dagger to cut off the sleeve. Trying not to think about the amount of dollars he's wasting on his own survival, Spy wraps the sleeve of his jacket on the still bleeding wound in his leg. He sucks in a sharp breath and presses his eyes shut in pain, figuring that at least he's lucky enough that none of his teammates have to be here to see this display.
When the pain starts feeling even the slightest bit manageable, Spy leans on the wall to stand, holding the dagger with white knuckles and whispering soothing things to himself. Well, more like promises of violent murder if Scout doesn't come back in a few minutes.
‘Speak of the devil’ , he thinks as he suddenly hears the familiar pattern of Scout’s shoes against the surface of the ground. He looks down at the hallway to see the boy making a mad dash towards him, face scrunched up in concentration. For a moment Spy wonders if he'll go past him and make a beeline to the exit, but he stops when he's before Spy, heaving deep breaths and helping him reach the exit.
They resume the same position Scout had used to help him move earlier, and Spy can't help but notice how he keeps sending anxious looks back, like he's expecting someone to show up. As well as the fact that he's empty handed.
“Look, I know you got shot n’ all, but can you speed it up.” Scout urges him anxiously, and Spy doesn't have time to think too much about it because where are his things.
“The watch,” He hisses. Scout doesn't wait a beat, moving forward towards the exit with the glowing sign above. “Scout.”
“Look, it's– dead, gone. I fuckin’ broke it, okay? Not gonna be a problem. Key's in my pocket.”
“ Merde, ” Spy curses under his breath, dragging the word on. He garners a look of both curiosity and animosity from the boy.
“Yeah, yeah, you're welcome– can you move faster ,” Scout urges him, looking back and forth. They eventually reach the doorway, pushed open by Scout, who keeps muttering curses and encouragements, none of which Spy really keeps a tab on. His only priority at the time is getting to the empty car stationed in the middle of the parking lot.
They've made it about halfway through, dripping blood and stumbling over the pavement, before they hear the exit doors be pushed open again. Scout almost risks a look back, but Spy nods his head at the car.
“No time,” He grits through his teeth, and Scout thankfully doesn't object to the notion. When they're getting close enough that the doorway’s within reach, Spy gestures for the key. “You drive, I shoot.”
He leans heavily on the door, inserting the key and pulling it open, practically throwing himself on top of the seat. He immediately sets his sights on finding the revolver hidden beneath the chair, and eventually his fingers curl around the cold hilt of the gun.
The door to the driver's seat opens, and with one fell swoop Scout has sat on top, slamming the door shut. Spy doesn't have time to feel for ammo, because he feels hands gripping his legs and he turns and points at the masked man and shoots.
Once, twice. As soon as he feels the grip loosen, he pulls the door closed and slams the key into Scout's hands.
He doesn't speak a word, and Scout turns the engine on all while muttering curses and swears, letting them escape the empty parking lot. Spy glances back through the rearview mirror, looking at the masked man’s red corpse on the ground where their car was moments ago, very still.
-
With shaking hands, Spy brings the lighter up to the end of his cigarette. The flame flickers, and he throws the lighter on top of the dashboard. The window is open, the smallest hint of sympathy for the boy next to him, and Spy exhales out of it.
The throbbing, invasive pain from earlier has dulled into something dark and phantom like, but nonetheless dulled. He keeps pain killers in the storage compartment for emergencies like these, but he's not foolish enough to think it will fix anything. For all he knows, the phantom pain and dullness could be the blood loss. The arm sleeve tied around the wound is red, dripping a small puddle on the ground before his seat.
He heaves another breath of smoke, lingers on it, then exhales. Better to think nicer thoughts.
Spy looks over at Scout, whose eyes are stuck on the road as he grips the wheel with tight hands. He didn't take him for a nervous driver. His face is colored with an assortment of bruises and what looks like a broken nose. The area around his eye has swelled into a mix of colors, green and purple reminding Spy of the beating he took earlier. He examines the other for a few moments that drag on to minutes, a mix of emotions brewing up within. Frustration, exhaustion, annoyance: these he understands, and they flow through him and bring him to take another breath of the cigarette like it will quell the shaking of his hands and the beating of his heart.
Guilt, concern, pride. These he doesn't recognize, barely knows the names for, and feel like a dream he had once decades ago. They flow through him, unknown variables, disconcerting his thoughts until they're all scattered and senseless and the only thing he knows is mechanically breathing through a cigarette.
“Whaddya want?” He hears, and blinks. Scout is side eyeing him, eyebrows furrowed. Spy wishes his instinct wasn't to be defensive, but understands that he was the one who planted the seeds for their animosity. If only he weren't so good at those sorts of long-term predicaments. If only.
“How did you get out of the cuffs?” Spy asks, voice level. Scout grins, like a switch has been flipped.
“These babies aren't just for show, yanno?” Scout gestures to the bandages on his arms, grinning a little bit. His grip on the wheel turns loser. “Betcha didn't expect that from me.”
Spy hums, looking back at the road. “No. I did not.”
The moment drags on, the atmosphere strange, neither certain how to bridge the space between them that seemed so easily mended in the thrill of the escape. ‘Graying hair. How old are you?’ Spy recalls, and passes a hand through his face. Still maskless. He releases a shaky breath, opens the storage compartment below the dashboard and pats through the dark.
His fingers come across fabric, the same kind that most of his balaclavas are made of. He hesitates.
“I learnt to pick locks from my older brothers,” Scout admits into the empty car, save for the sound of the engine and flow of the wind. “Ma couldn't always afford for everyone, so…” He shrugs, like he's long since accepted the facts. “I keep a few spare clips in my clothes, just in case.”
Spy suddenly gains the urge to leave. He wants to stop the car and open the door, slam it shut and find his own way back to base. He does not want to spend another second in Scout's presence, and he takes another long drag of the cigarette, giving a small hum in response to Scout's words. He wished he hadn't told him this.
“No one really expects that from someone like me,” Scout shrugs, self satisfied. “Y’know, cool, athletic, smart. Somethin’ of a womanizer myself. It's good for taking them by surprise.”
Spy stares dead ahead at the road, staying very quiet, unsettled by the sudden array of information. He doesn't want to know any of this.
A few quiet moments pass. Contemplative, for Scout. Uncomfortable, for Spy. Eventually Scout’s hand inches for the radio, and Spy swats it away.
Scout breathes a deep sigh of annoyance, flashing Spy a look with raised eyebrows before resting his arm on the side window and his head on his hand. “Geez. Sorry for wantin’ a little fun. ”
“I am deeply in pain, Scout. Your abysmal music would only add to it,” Spy deadpans, still staring down the road. At this point it's more like a glare.
From the corner of his eye, Spy sees Scout’s face scrunch up, his fingers turn white, before he scoffs and looks back at the road.
They share a space for some time in silence, the atmosphere tense as it usually winds up when they spend too long with one another, their back and forth destined to turn sour eventually, though Spy doesn't want to ponder much on it. Doesn't want to consider too deeply where the blame lies when it wasn't even his decision that brought them together on a mission in the first place.
It's this trail of thought that finds his eyes fluttering, his consciousness dangling off a thread. He knows he's walking a very thin line between a light nap and never waking again, but sleep seems charming and exhaustion has crumbled Spy’s determination to dust. His limbs feel alien, his leg more of a phantom sensation by now, and he decides that, perhaps, he can close his eyes for a few moments and rest. In the worst case scenario, they’ll reach the base as Spy’s body goes cold and, with any luck, will be quick enough to use the medigun on him; it is this comforting thought of his potential survival that delivers him into unconsciousness, or something like it.
-
He feels a hand on his shoulder, shaking him from his stupor. Insistent, annoying. All Spy wants is rest .
Spy blinks his bleary eyes open, and is surprised to see that there isn’t much light to begin with. He blinks again, trying to swat the hands bothering him away, and only manages to raise a finger.
“–py. Spy! For fuck’s sake, man, don’t drop outta the radar like it’s nothin’,” He hears Scout’s voice, his bandaged hands shaking him by the shoulders, and for once Spy actually looks at him and tries registering his surroundings.
They’re in a car. The same one they started the mission with, except now it’s dark, and they have yet to reach base. Spy shakes his head, then stops when everything wavers. He feels cold, then looks down at his leg with a twinge of curiosity. He barely censors a wince once he sees the blood still covering his leg, some of it dried up by now.
He misses his jacket. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so cold without it.
“Thank fuckin’ god– Spy, can you say somethin’? Anythin’?” He looks back at Scout, his voice wavering slightly. He doesn’t understand why the other is so insistent that he speak, but when Spy parts his lips and tries to say something, he winds up coughing instead.
“Fuck, fuck, shit– how did this happen,” He hears the boy say in distress, holding his head in his hands. He hears another voice, a little bit fainter, and notices Scout talking into a receiver. “Jackass is awake, I just–” The boy glances back at him, then at the tiny radio. “–Dunno if he’s gunna last for much longer.”
More mumbling, senseless words Spy wishes would shut up so he could return to his sleep. He hears more words, Scout scoffing into the receiver, then glancing back at Spy. He registers all this, still in his seat and breathing very slowly.
“Fine. Fine, see you there,” Scout finalizes, dropping the receiver onto the dashboard, then turning the key to the car engine. He hears it roar as it wakes up, and Scout begins maneuvering them back onto the road. There are lines of tension in his face and from the way he holds tightly onto the wheel, his momentary glances back at Spy.
He closes his eyes, for a second. As soon as he does, Scout’s voice fills his ears.
“I know you, uh, don’t like me talkin’. I got that, I’m not stupid ,” Scout starts. He chuckles, humorless. “But you’re bleedin’ out all over your own car. Wonder what you’d have said a few hours ago, if you saw yourself here now. But ya ain’t. And I– I can’t letcha die like that, I mean, it’d be sad. Really. So, so– this is the best you’re gettin’,” Scout says, looking back at Spy with a deep set frown. “And ya better like it.”
Spy stares back at Scout, trying to make sense of the fragments of the world around him, the boy before him standing up to him like this. He feels his heart seize up, a strange burn in his eyes, the same mixture of emotions from before but this time stronger. Guilt, concern, pride. He wishes he could smoke, but he can barely breathe as it is. He presses his eyes shut, breathes heavily, then opens them again. He doesn’t look at the road this time.
“When I was a kid, I– I really wanted to try theater,” Scout says, voice uncertain. “I thought– well. One of my older brothers wanted to be an actor. Is, actually,” He smiles. “Couldn’t tell ya what for, but I’ve watched a movie starring him. Freakiest shit in the world, watching your family act like they’re… someone else.” Scout hesitates, glancing back at Spy.
He doubts himself only for a moment before looking back at the road. “I thought, well. Might as well try for myself,” He scoffs. “Tried it back in high school, can’t say I was a fan. All the, the dresses, the people. S’ not that it was bad, I made a few friends back there,” He says. Smiles. “I still call one of em once in a while, s’ just… didn’t feel built for me, yanno? Too much of a normal life.”
Scout snorts. “And here I am, driving… well, you , back to base while ya bleed out to my right,” He says, glancing back at Spy.
“You would have been a great actor,” Spy whispers softly.
Scout’s eyes widen, glistening with something, and he looks back ahead. He takes a few moments to recompose himself.
“I tried one of ma’s dresses once, just outta curiosity,” Scout blurts out, and Spy lets out a dry laugh. Scout glances back at him. “Really, man. Can’t imagine what was goin’ in my head that day. When she found me she didn’t stop laughin’, then eventually the whole family found out. Didn’t try it again after that.” He recollects fondly on the memory, shaking his head with a tiny smile. “Threatened me with gettin’ me my own one.”
“The baseball wasn’t even my idea,” Scout says, like he’s revealing some long lost secret. “One of my brothers wanted to impress a girl, said he had a lil bro in the leagues. I just had to live up to that in no time, and then… well. I was just good at it. Guess it stuck.”
Like that, Scout continues untangling fragments of himself and showing them to Spy briefly through small comments and narrations, enough to stave off the exhaustion gnawing at his consciousness. In turn, Spy whispers short words, punctuated with french commentary, and gains a few raised eyebrows from Scout. It is, all in all, the most decent interaction he has had with the boy up until this day. It is only a shame that it took a bullet and an unfortunate series of events for them to get to this point. As much as Spy appreciates hearing the boy’s stories, he does not think they will reach base before he passes out once more.
But he doesn’t say anything. There’s little point in tainting the first good thing he’s had in so very long, corrupting it with the touch of his words and the facts that he knows to be true: he will die, and the boy’s energy will have been wasted. He might as well have left Spy to rot on the ground of the parking lot, went off to one of those fast food places he enjoys so much, and gotten himself a famed American burger.
But there is something soft about the way Scout tells these stories, untangling the threads of his existence and showing them off to Spy of all people. Precious memories Spy was not there to glimpse firsthand, life defining choices he did not get to help Scout make, and shared moments that have slipped through their lives like sand through his fingertips. The boy is all grown up now, entirely independent from his upbringing yet still shaped by it to this day, but he is not exactly a boy anymore.
Spy searches Scout’s face desperately for traces of the boy he knew in those decade old pictures, the ones sent to him through mail with a few choice words from his lover, asking him to make himself known back in their lives. Leaving an open spot for him back at the dinner table, back in their family.
He finds none of the boy from the pictures: only the man that was shaped by his mother, his brothers, and his lack of a father. A heavy weight settles on his chest.
“–then, well, my ma chose most of my brother’s names. She’s got good taste. But then, well–” He hesitates, glances back at Spy with raised eyebrows. “Wait, you know my name already. You said it earlier, I remember.”
Spy stares back at him, swallowing dry. “I read your file.” He whispers, a little too quickly, a little too easily.
Scout looks his face over, a strange smile taking over his face. He scoffs. “Yeah, I betcha knew most of these stories already. Seems like ya already know everythin’ bout everyone.”
Something like desperation clutches at Spy’s chest. Just when he thinks they’re getting somewhere, Scout closes off again, looking back at the road, and Spy wants to shake him by the shoulders and beg him to keep talking. He wants to pick up the pieces of who he is and glue them back together, find a place in the puzzle of Scout’s life where he could fit in, like just by doing that he would fix the choice he made decades ago. Life was simpler, then, and walking from a new responsibility seemed like the right thing to do: fair, even.
“Do you like it,” Spy whispers.
“Hm?”
Spy hesitates. “Your name.”
A few moments of silence follow, the man staring down at the road ahead of them, and Spy does not dare to breathe the wrong way. He wonders, after more than a minute has passed, if he will grace him with a response, if he’s being too transparent and has somehow shattered this strange alliance formed over the course of their roadtrip.
Finally, he shrugs, wearing a tiny smile. “It’s fine, I guess.”
Spy laughs softly. He can settle for fine.
-
The medbay is just as uninviting as he recalls it being, jars with questionable contents and tools he cannot imagine the use for scattered on tables and beneath desks. Papers are splayed on a desk, stuck to walls, drawings and sketches and prototypes for who-knows-what. It is all shaped like Medic, the sort of puzzle with pieces shaped inhumanly, uncomfortable, and anyone who walks in always feels off-putting. Spy knows this because he feels strange, clearly an outside element to the order this room and its host works under, but Medic doesn’t seem to mind.
He doesn’t have the strength to sit up or move, only to examine his surroundings, inspect them, try and profile some of this information for later.
“I can hear your thoughts from here,” Medic states with a smile in his words. “Trying to understand me, ja ? You will not get very far like that.”
Spy scoffs. He drops his head back onto the examination table, hissing when he feels Medic’s hand grip his leg, presumably for the third examination since he closed the open wound with his medigun.
“And you are certain you did not gain more than one bullet?”
“I think I would know if that were the case, docteur .”
Medic does not answer him, then nods to himself, satisfied. “I will say, you are very lucky you did not die on your way here, especially with that shoddy bandage you came up with. My condolences for the suit jacket.”
Spy does not grace him with a response, irritation surging up at the reminder of the lost jacket. He’d only just gotten it back from the tailor, too.
“I would recommend laying low for the next few days, I can’t exactly summon all that blood back, ja ?” He says with a soft laugh, and Spy moves to sit up, still feeling the leftover exhaustion from before on the edges of his vision.
“I would also recommend against smoking too much, but I can’t imagine that will stop you,” Medic says, going back to one of his desks and pulling out a folder. Spy sits with his legs dangling off the examination table, scoffing.
“Certainly not.”
“Well, then. Off you go, to face the impending death at the end of the road,” Medic says, sitting down as he pulls a pen and starts to write some notes on loose pages of the folder. Spy gives him an odd look, surprised at how hands off the man is currently being, before deciding he should not be too discomforted by this.
He walks over to the exit, trying to recompose himself, before he hears a little tut from behind. He sighs. “I thought it strange that you would let me leave so easily.” He notes, leaning against the doorway.
Medic laughs. “Yes, well,” He readjusts his glasses. “I just remembered something. Scout came by earlier to check on you, asked me to take care of you.”
“He did?” Spy asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, in his own unique way. But yes,” Medic clicks his tongue. “I will not pretend to understand you two, or the look he was giving you when he left. Something happened on that mission,” He says. “I know better than to inquire. But I would not waste this chance, mein freund. ”
He wants to laugh at the notion that things are anything other than a wasted chance between them two, that Scout doesn’t represent anything other than all of Spy’s failures, all the good chances left unattended. The bridge between them would not be so easily mended, like a single conversation would fix anything.
Spy wants to say some of this, speak his mind on the topic, for once. But the words won’t come out, so instead he quietly slips out of the medbay, swinging the doors shut.
-
He’s not entirely sure what Medic was referring to when he told him not to waste his chance, but he has an inkling. Spy immediately retires to his smoke room, desperate to satisfy the itch for a cigarette, and scours through his belongings until he finally finds the cigarette case. It takes another two minutes of searching until his fingers curl around his lighter, flicking the flame on and immediately taking a deep breath before exhaling the smoke.
The rampant thoughts in his mind begin to quiet after that, and he sits on his desk, pulling his hair back.
When his mind eventually returns to Medic’s words before he left the medbay, things seem better, calmer. Nothing truly out of place, easily fixable. Spy is perfectly capable of pretending he didn’t hear a word out of Scout’s mouth, claiming the blood loss to have somehow stolen his memories, and even then it wouldn’t be a very bold claim. He recalls his consciousness slipping, thoughts too fast or slow for him to make sense of much of anything, but he does remember Scout’s stories and attempts at keeping him awake.
Nothing has to change. He holds onto this idea, and eventually returns to his room to shower, get dressed, and find another watch to place on his wrist.
By the time dinner has arrived, most of their teammates have been made aware of Spy’s return. They pat him on the shoulder, tell him they’re pleased with his return and glad he’s not dead. He’s not certain how much he believes them, but he finds the sudden spout of empathy strange. None of them are exempt from the occasional mission, dirty work outside of their usual participation on the battlefield to make sure that the status quo remains as it is: permanent, fixated, a constant back and forth with no clear end.
He walks onto their dining room and spots a few of their teammates animatedly talking about one thing or another as they eat from their plates. It is not a foreign sight to Spy, especially since they don’t all dine at the same time, yet he remains fixed in place: sat between Demo and Heavy is Scout, who looks to be knee deep in one of his stories, the ones that tend to elicit an eye roll from Spy and a sardonic comment.
He stays quiet, this time, and walks over to the interconnected kitchen to serve himself a plate of the stew he figures Heavy must have made. He returns to sit on one of the farther chairs, and by that time more people have entered the room, Scout’s animated monologue has turned into a back and forth of banter and jokes. He listens intently, though his exterior suggests nothing other than boredom, with a new fondness he hadn’t quite felt before. Or maybe he had, but had buried it underneath layers of contempt and frustration.
It’s not a realization, not quite a single moment but more of an admission. He thinks back to Medic’s words, something about wasted chances, and thinks that perhaps his contempt towards Scout has been heavily misplaced. He thinks of the boy’s clips hidden beneath his bandages, the admission that baseball was not his first choice, but his brother’s, and his interest in theater. None of these things inspire a particular opinion from Spy, only the vague notion that Scout is not the boy Spy would have initially labeled him as.
And isn’t that a strange thought? The idea of Scout he has created in his head, the vision of a loudmouthed fool with little to true depth, is a fallacy. Not entirely wrong, simply superficial, and deliberately so. Traits Spy has latched on to that only really reflect fragments of the boy, no, the man Scout truly is. He stops to think, then, that even though he knows his name he doesn’t really know him, not in the way he thinks he does.
This man, the one that narrates a story of his youth and animatedly laughs with his teammates, is the same one who softly shared aspects of himself to Spy while he bled out next to him. The same who freed himself from his cuffs under the guise of darkness, and stabbed not one but two men with a small dagger and little training. The same one who had the foresight to destroy his watch and disguise kit after realizing he didn’t have the time to carry them too. The same one that irritates Spy every day, the one that rambles incessantly, the one who enjoys radio music that he would rather die than listen to.
Spy sits there, discomforted by his realization, and rests his plate on a nearby table. His appetite is gone.
He hears nearby footsteps, a heavy weight sitting on a chair next to Spy’s.
“Glad to see you back in one piece,” Engineer says to him, laid back as usual. Spy hums.
Engineer serves himself a spoon of the stew, brings it to his lips and softly blows air onto it, apparently too hot for him to swallow immediately. Minutes pass like this, the room filled with the background noise of conversation and banters. At one point Scout’s head scans the room until his eyes meet Spy’s, and the man actually smiles at Spy, waving from his seat.
Spy does not know what to do, so he waves back.
Their strange exchange is interrupted by Engineer’s soft laugh. “Didn’t think I’d see the day you two would look at eachother with anything other than daggers.”
Spy scoffs. “Don’t get too used to it.”
Engineer leans forward, elbows on his knees, and looks down at his empty plate. He gently places it next to Spy’s unfinished one.
“I think I’ve seen the boy smile more times than he has in the past week since you two came back from that mission.” He says with his characteristic low intonation.
“Of course he did. I was constrained to the infirmary, was I not?” Spy easily retorts, looking over at Engineer with a raised eyebrow.
Engineer rolls his eyes, and with a slight shake of his head, smiles. “You’re too stubborn for your own good. The boy’s happier, relaxed, and he just looked at you with something other than annoyance. I’d say that’s progress.”
Spy hesitates, his eyes still stuck on Scout as he talks to Demo with a glint of mischief in his eyes. He swallows. “But that’s where you’re mistaken. He isn’t quite a boy anymore, is he?”
Engineer stares at him, mouth slightly agape, before he looks back ahead. He snaps it shut, the edges of his lips curling up into something soft. “You’ve been thinking about it.”
“Musing on it, yes. He’s a better man than I gave him credit for.” Spy admits, quietly, into the atmosphere of the room.
“Maybe you should be the one to tell him that,” Engineer muses out loud as he stands from his place on the chair. Spy’s head shoots to look at him, eyes widened, but Engineer doesn’t add to his statement. He grabs his bowl, glances at Spy and asks if he wants a refill. Spy shakes his head, and Engineer shrugs before leaving for the kitchen.
Spy remains there for a few minutes, contemplating, before he decides to exit the room, quietly. He needs to think.
-
Thinking, it seems, requires a week.
Eventually he finds himself standing before the door to Scout’s room, checking the cuffs of his sleeves, rubbing his wrist, taking a smoke. He decides he has something else that requires his attention and leaves, only to come back hours later and repeat the same ritual.
It isn’t until the third day of repeating this ritual that, just as Spy pulls out a second cigarette from his disguise kit, the door to Scout’s room opens on its own. He almost drops the cigarette, jumping from his place and looking over at Scout through the partially open door.
“Holy shit, I thought I was goin’ crazy. Are you the reason why everythin’ smells like shit when I wake up?” Scout says with the barest hint of a smile, giving Spy a look over.
“Smoke, Scout. Not ‘shit’, as you so pleasantly put it. And I would advise against breathing it.”
Scout huffs, glances to the side, looks back at Spy. “Sure. Any reason you’re not followin’ your own advice?”
Spy snorts, against himself. “ Fait comme je dis et pas comme je fais ,” He muses to himself, and Scout shoots him a raised eyebrow.
“Okay, yeah, totally got that. Soo ,” He says, dragging the word on. He leans against the doorway, arms crossed. “Do I get to know why you moved your smoking room to my doorstep or is this just how things work now?”
Spy hesitates. “You seem strangely calm about this.”
Scout shrugs. “Look, you pull this crap all the time, okay? Do some senseless shit, then refuse to explain. Then everyone just gets used to it,” He says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Like you sneakin’ into everyone’s rooms when we first moved in. Or, just, leftover cigarettes on the hallways from your insomniac fueled smokes in the middle of the night.”
Spy swallows, staring at Scout. He snorts. “You’re not as sneaky as you think you are, yeah? Everyone just, just accepts it. Accepts you.”
He parts his lips, tries saying something, then snaps his jaw shut. He feels woefully unprepared, all of a sudden, to say half the things he thought he was going to say. Words, which have never really failed him, suddenly do.
“So…?” Scout tries again, and Spy’s heart skips a beat when he senses the apprehension in his voice. He pulls out a lighter, trying to calm the faint tremble in his hands, and lights a cigarette. When he exhales, he makes sure to do it in the opposite direction to Scout’s.
“May I have a word with you? In private,” Spy finally admits, looking anywhere else other than at the man before him.
“Sure,” Scout shrugs, suspicion in the squint of his eyes, but he still opens his door to Spy and walks inside. He hesitates for a moment, passes a hand through his face, and walks in.
It’s messy. Of course it is, but not in the way the medbay is messy. This is different, less like a madman’s laboratory and more of… well, a passionate young man’s room. There’s posters on the walls depicting celebrities and singers, trophies and medals on some desks, scattered notebooks on others. Spy finds it strange at first, believing Scout incapable of reading more than two sentences without a headache, before he finds an open notebook. Inside, drawings. Good drawings. Expressive, with few but efficient lines that transmit meaning with very little effort. Spy stares at one of the pieces, a recreation of one of the posters on Scout’s walls, before he hears forced coughing from behind.
He turns to see Scout sitting on his mattress, leaning forward on his legs and looking up at Spy with the same inquisitive look he looked at him with when he opened the door. The bed, Spy examines, is also unmade. Articles of clothing are scattered on the bed, ground, and chairs, like Scout entered his room after doing exercise and simply didn’t feel like properly putting it away. He wonders how long it has been since the man took a minute to organize his room, but the more Spy looks at it, the less discomforting he finds it. Indeed, it is not the otherworldly ecosystem of Medic’s infirmary, and more of… well. A normal room.
Perhaps this is not the best comparison.
“Lemme guess. Is this an elaborate scheme to check on the shit I keep in my room?” Scout finally interrupts, bored. “Yeah, yeah. Caught me red handed. I have hobbies.”
“Your room could use some love and care put into it,” Spy notes.
Scout scoffs.
“...but it is not unpleasant.” He ends the sentence, looking down at Scout.
“Uh, okay. Okay,” Scout mumbles. He forces a laugh, “I bet your room’s all fancy n’ shit, yeah? All suits and ties in a row. Do you even wear other shit?”
“Rarely,” Spy admits. Scout laughs, this time not as forced.
“Figured.”
Spy swallows, comes up dry. He thinks about not wasting chances.
“I… I didn’t know you knew how to lockpick,” He starts, looking at the pile of clothes on the edge of Scout’s bed. “Nor that your mother couldn’t afford for all of you,” Spy continues, with no small measure of guilt, but Scout doesn’t need to hear about that part. “I am sorry to hear that.”
Scout stares at him, uncertain, eyebrows raised comically high. He coughs, looks to the side. “Uh, thanks?”
“I am not finished,” Spy presses, deciding to fully commit. “I didn’t know you liked theater, nor that baseball wasn’t your first choice.”
“S’ not like I didn’t like it,” Scout mumbles.
“I didn’t know your brother was an actor,” Spy continues, crossing his arms behind his back to hide the way his hands shake a little bit. “Nor that you had tried on one of your mother’s dresses. There is a great deal of things I didn’t, and still don’t, know about you. Your name, the most basic overview of your interests, all the tiny ways in which you irritate me to no end, are all things I know and understand. But they are nothing, in the grand scheme of things.”
Scout looks at him, really looks at him, and Spy can tell he is not reaching him in the way he’s intending. “ Fait chier , what I mean to say is–” He swallows. “–I have misjudged you. Greatly.”
Scout blinks, continues staring at him. “Okay,” He says, though his mind’s clearly elsewhere.
“You were invaluable to the success of the mission,” Spy says, backtracking, trying to transmit even a modicum of the things he intended to say in the first place. “And you– you did well.” He hesitates once he sees the way Scout’s shoulders have tensed up, his face switching between so many emotions Spy wouldn’t know how to label, and stares at Spy like he’s grown a second head. “You did very well. Better than I thought you would.”
Scout blinks.
“And I,” He looks to the side, then back at Scout. “I am grateful for your help. I was sloppy, and– and inefficient,” Spy wants to add something else, tries to filter through all the lines he came up with in his mind, but nothing seems like it would add to this situation. So instead Spy finds himself taking another drag of his cigarette, as he tries to quell his nerves.
The man sitting opposite to him doesn’t comment, not immediately. But when he does, his eyes are glistening with emotion.
“You… you’re not lying, are you? Bein’ a jackass?” Scout says, voice wavering, and Spy’s eyebrows raise in alarm.
“No,” He cuts. “Of course not.”
“You think I was invaluable?”
Spy thinks about his phrasing for a few moments, tilts his head, before Scout’s look renders him helpless.
“...Yes,” He eventually admits. “Yes, I do.”
Scout stares at him, blinks, then looks to the side. He passes a hand through his face, rubs against his eyes with ferocious intensity, then looks back up at Spy with red rimmed eyes and a wobble in his lip. Spy feels uncomfortable, like he’s witnessing something he shouldn’t.
“I thought you hated me,” Scout whispers.
“ Mon dieu, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Scout scoffs. “I– I’m not, really. Your comments, the way you look at me, like, like I’m– irritating, useless. I know you–” He wavers. “–and everyone else thinks that too. I’m not sick shit like all of you, just a guy with a bat and a shotgun,” He ends, humorlessly. He looks up at Spy, face scrunched up. “But you don’t think that?”
Spy frowns, looks down at Scout, and bites his lip as he looks to the side. Eventually he settles for something, and walks over to Scout’s bed, gently sitting down next to him. Close enough that it’s friendly, but far enough that it isn’t intimidating, and takes a long drag from his cigarette.
“I may find you… irritating, at times. Annoying, yes. Loud, frustrating, stubborn to no end,” He says. “But none of these things make you expendable or useless. Your teammates hold you to the highest regard there could be, and you would be a fool to ignore that.”
Scout laughs, a wet sound. “I don’t know what some of those words meant, but I’m guessin’ it’s all positives?”
Spy shakes his head softly, staring at the sea of colorful posters on Scout’s wall. He momentarily freezes when he feels Scout’s head lean on his shoulder, lightly, as though posing a question. He forces himself to breathe normally, to stay still and allow the other some meager comfort.
He hears the other breathe a shaky sigh. “So y’don’t hate me?”
“No, Scout. I don’t hate you.” He says firmly.
“Oh,” Scout mumbles, a sentence without a real ending, into the silence of the room. Spy brings the cigarette to his lips once more, inhales, and exhales into the opposite end of the room.
“Can I try?” He hears the other say, voice thin.
“No.” Spy answers.
Scout moves to sit straight, angrily rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, and stares at Spy with clear frustration.
“I meant what I said before, Scout. I strongly advise against getting acquainted with cigarettes, pleasant as they may seem,” He cuts him off before the other can jump to conclusions. He watches Scout’s expression soften, though his eyebrows remain in a set frown.
‘Addiction runs in the family,’ Spy thinks, but doesn’t say.
“You’re ridiculous. If it was half as bad as you say it is, you wouldn’t smoke all the goddamn time,” He says with annoyance finally slipping into his voice.
“Why not?” Spy’s lips quirk into a smile. “People make bad choices all the time.”
Scout stares at him, eyebrows raised. “This has gotta be the craziest fuckin’ day of my life.”
“No one will believe you,” Spy adds, taking another drag.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Jackass.” Scout complains, dropping back onto the mattress. Spy remains sat, looking at the opposite wall, wondering how he winded up here.
“You could just… stop. Yanno? If you really wanted to.” He says, half a question, half a statement.
“It’s not so simple,” Spy says, staring down at the cigarette.
“Isn’t it?” Scout says, and Spy looks down at him. “You don’t really look like ya’ want to stop.”
Spy considers this for a moment, and decides that he doesn’t have a good answer to that.
They stay there for a few moments that drag on to become minutes in shared silence. Spy is surprised to see that Scout is deep in thought, clearly thinking about the events of the past half hour, and Spy decides not to push. Only once he’s finished does Spy move to stand from his place, pocketing the cigarette stub.
“This has been enlightening,” He says. “But I’m afraid it’s past your bedtime.”
“Fuck off,” Scout groaned, turning so his face was stuffed among his pillows.
“Like I said. Enlightening,” Spy finalizes, pulling the door open for him to return to his room. He hesitates for a moment, glances back at Scout, and takes a deep breath. “The smoking room is available, should you need anything. Other than a cigarette.”
He closes the door behind him.