1 . Name: big gay shark @ 2011-09-11 19:44

sup tf2chan this is a fic about scout i don't know if you guys all still like him or not but w/e

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Scout leans against the outside wall of the base, trying not to count the minutes until the mail arrives. He presses the tips of his fingers hard between his front teeth, biting off pieces of the clear skin just at the end of the nail, swallowing it because it always gets stuck on his lips when he spits it out. He has nothing better to do while he stands in the midday sun.

Scout usually bites his nails, but he’s already forced them down so far that he can’t get a good hold with his teeth. Plus, the skin there is red and raw. It looks like it’s going to start bleeding any second now.

He sees the train inch over the horizon, thick smoke trailing behind it like one of Spy’s stinking cigarettes, and slides his thumb into his mouth. He presses the pad of it hard against one of his top canines, and grinds one of his bottom canines on the nail, trying to distract himself from his anxiety by wondering how hard he’d have to press down to break the skin, wondering how much he’d have to grind to cut through the nail.

Just when Scout’s thinking about how fucking stupid that would be, and how much blood he would get on his shirt, Sniper walks out with a mug of coffee in his hand. He raises the other over his eyes when he looks out at the train, like his sunglasses don’t shield his eyes well enough.

Sniper turns around, and frowns when he sees Scout’s hand at his mouth. “Nasty habit,” he says. Scout notices Sniper’s hand twitch like he’s going to bring it up to show Scout what he means, like he’s a child. His teammates all do that—moments where they feel like he needs to be educated, where they treat him like he hasn’t learned anything because he’s only half their age. It makes his hands ache to grab his bat and slam it across each of their faces.

Instead, Scout just tears more useless skin off of his thumb. “At least I don’t drink coffee at one in the afternoon. What, you wanna have a fucking heart attack or something? Or maybe you just like pissing all day, shit, I don’t know.”

Sniper glares at him, then shrugs. “Still healthier than that sugary crap you drown yourself in.”

Scout scoffs. “Yeah, all right. Sure. You waiting for something?”

“The train, kid.”

“Don’t fucking call me kid.”

Sniper just sighs and strides off, bound for some private spot that probably has better shade than Scout’s, or which is at least more comfortable. He doesn’t care. He just shoves a finger back in his mouth and watches the train come closer.

Scout’s sure he could run faster than the huge hunk of metal is moving right now—and he’d be a lot quieter, too—but his ma always told him that the more patiently you wait for something, the better your reward is, or something like that. He’d only ever listened when he had to, and it was difficult to remember when he was waiting for dinner to get done cooking, or for wounds to quit bleeding, or for a stupid fucking train to get through the stupid fucking desert and bring him his stupid fucking mail.

As soon as the train gets close, Scout pushes off the wall and grins. “Finally, Christ.” The brakes are squealing like a pig for the slaughter, making his ears ring and his head feel like it just got bashed against concrete, but he steps up to the edge of the platform anyway. The train comes slowly to a stop and he waits for the lackey working for BLU to hop out with the mailbag and shove it into his arms, like always.

The same man always comes to the base; he’s portly, his nose is red, and his moustache hangs over his mouth like the pile of vines in Scout’s ma’s garden. He hop-steps over and pushes the bag into Scout’s hands.

Scout doesn’t stick around to figure out what the package Sniper is picking up contains. He just walks to the base kitchen, dumps the bag on the table, tugs it open, and starts looking for his letter. He always has a letter.

He finds it at the bottom of the pile, a little, off-white envelope with his ma’s handwriting on it in dark blue cursive. Her handwriting is precise. Scout lets the bag slump over, and leaves it there even though some of his teammates’ letters spill out onto the table. He walks to his room in double-time, shutting the door with rare softness, not wanting to draw any attention to himself. He pushes the back of the only chair in his room beneath the doorknob, then sits on the bed and tears open the envelope, tossing it on the ground once he’s got the letter.

There are two pages. His ma loves to write about unimportant things: What she saw at the grocery store, what she was talking about to Mr. Dawson across the street, what the cat did, new recipes she found. Each word brings him closer to home. The tension he’s grown too used to leaves his body, there’s a smile on his face, and for once, he doesn’t feel like biting his nails, or like digging straight into the bones of his hands and feeling the pain.

He reads the words, “I love you,” and, “I hope you’re all right,” and it’s like a blanket has been draped across his shoulders.

Scout sits on his bed, rereading the letter until the Administrator’s voice crackles over the speakers, and suddenly he’s tense again as he grabs his bat from beside the bed and kicks his chair away from the door.