Title: You Looked Cold
Category: Games » Team Fortress 2
Language: English, Rating: Fiction Rated: T
Genre: Romance
Pairing: BLU Spy X BLU Scout
Disclaimer: Team Fortess 2 belongs to the utterly fabulous Valve, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

N: I wrote this yesterday while I was waiting for my study partner at the library. (She never came; she's very flaky.) I've been writing a lot of TF2 fan fiction lately; some of it is up on TF2chan, where I'm now namefagged as Mama Morton. That's totally a Chicago reference, by the way. Just in case anyone was wondering. This is just some fluff to pass the time, with vague mentions/implications of sex that prompted me to rate it as Teen... like most of my things are rated anyway. Also, nice job typing "retard" the first time you tried to type "rated," self. Nice job.

BLU Scout runs every morning, unless it rains — and even sometimes when it does rain. It's strange, being on his own. Even the birds are still asleep.

It's strange, and to use a sort of faggoty word, it's lovely.

Scout has always been a part of a unit, a group, a team, a family; even on the mornings when he "wanted to be alone" (in the early… and, okay, the late days of his youth… and sometimes now, too), he still ended up bringing the dog with him. In his defense, she's a damn good dog.

All he can focus on when he's running alone is the pounding of his feet on the dirt; the pounding of his heart in his chest. When he stops to rest, he can hear his blood pumping through his ears. It's weird and a little worrying and really relaxing.

So on the darkest day of October — Halloween — he pushes out the memories of trick or treating (mostly tricking) with his brothers and his buddies, and focuses on his steps.

Scout doesn't think of sitting on the curb and complaining about the old lady who always liked to give out apples, nor does he remember the way they all ended up eating them anyway.

He doesn't think of the first costume he can remember wearing, some sort of feathery little chicken get-up that his mom thought was oh-so-cute, and that his brothers teased him about for years.

Scout doesn't worry about his scatterbrained ma, or think about the one year that he and his brothers tried to help her with her baking for the annual party she always went to, and how they ended up spilling flour all over the kitchen and spraying each other with the hose like little kids.

Scout doesn't think about his brothers, all separated across the world; especially not his two closest siblings — the twins — both stationed out in a place far away from where he is, but still so similar.

He doesn't wonder about Lucille, the first girl he ever kissed, or about Karen, his on-again off-again girlfriend for the entire duration of his high school career.

He doesn't think about Douglas, the first guy he ever kissed, or about Dean, his fling-on-the-side whenever he was feeling lonely in his junior year, the year before he dropped out.

He doesn't worry about BLU Spy, or about their crazy, confusing relationship together.

He doesn't complain to himself about the sting in his thighs and his ass whenever he takes another step, and definitely not about how hard Spy had been thrusting into him, about the way the man had bent him and stretched him and pulled him across the bed and into his arms and held him there all night.

Scout just thinks about the squelch of mud beneath his feet, the dirt still wet from last night's rain. His socks are splattered with mud around the ankle, reminding him that he'll have to do his laundry later; his clothes all stink of sweat and blood.

When Scout slows at the end of his fourth lap (the marker that he's done just a little over a mile), his panting doesn't bring him back to the noises he and Spy were making.

But when Scout sees Spy leaning on the wall near the entrance of BLU Base, a mug of coffee in his hand and a Gauloise Blonde in his mouth, there are no more distractions to keep Scout from recalling the warmth of his embrace, or the sweet, broken way he called out Scout's real name, or his quiet joy when Scout returned the favor.

"You look tired," Scout says, stretching his arms out over his head as he cools down. "You didn't have to wake up so early, you know — sun's not even out."

"I woke up early and saw you through the window. You seemed cold."

Scout lets his arms fall to his sides, and he just watches for a while as Spy drinks his coffee.

"That so?" he asks eventually.

Spy smirks, and Scout recognizes it. It's not the cruel, cold smirk that he sometimes glimpses on the battlefield; the one that sends chills up his spine, and not in a good way. It's the one only he gets to see. The one that makes the hairs raise on his arms, and his blood speed up in excitement.

"Ouais."

"…cool."

Scout moves to stand next to Spy, their arms pressed together, and basks in the warmth from the man's body. They stand in silence until both the coffee and the cigarette are finished, and then for longer still.

The sun rises.

"Do you like cookies?" Scout asks, breaking the quiet.

Spy doesn't answer at first, but instead grabs Scout, pulls him close, and kisses him.

"I love cookies."

Scout nods slowly. "Let's go make cookies."

And they walk into the base together.

N: So yeah, there's that. Also, all of my old documents that I had uploaded to ffnet were purged... I forgot they did that. I'll figure out what to do about that later, though.

"Ouais" means "yeah," in case you were wondering. Lucille, Karen, Douglas, and Dean were all common baby names in the 1940s and, to a somewhat lesser extent, in the 1950s. And Gauloises is a brand of French cigarette; the brand was heavily associated with the poilu (basically infantrymen) during WWII, and Blondes (to my knowledge) have the highest amount of tar, because they're frickin' robust and manful and stuff. So yeah. I typically imagine RED Spy smoking Gauloises and BLU Spy smoking an obscure cigarillo brand, but yeah.

Anyway, Happy Halloween, you guys. I might write more Halloween things later, because I'm an absolute sucker for holidays.