Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Y'know, it gets real tirin' jus' sittin' up'ere with you every match."

"Quiet."

You huff, fidgeting with your hair as to stay quiet, but still complaining. "Honestly, Sniper, it feels kinda useless sittin' up here when I could be out helpin' the rest'a the team as well."

The other man provided no response, still as ever as he stared down the barrel of his gun. The quiet, as much as Sniper liked it, did nothing to help your current annoyance. You were tired of sitting in his dumb tower every match, healing him and providing amps every time he needed so. You wanted to be actually out on the field with the rest of your team. You wanted to feel that spike of adrenaline when you would clash with an enemy. It was sad how sharp your machete was with disuse, sitting against your thigh. The opposing team's Spy had learned a while ago that it wouldn't be smart to climb the tower knowing there were two mercs- one just starved for action- which left you bored out of your mind. You even had a couple notebooks on one of the crates filled with random notes and drawings just to pass the time. It wasn't the most satisfying, but it helped the wait for that blaring call signaling the end of a match.

Speaking of, the loud bell rang out on the field, accompanied by the announcement of the Red team's win. The start of the bell was all it took for you to jump up and quickly slide down the side of the ladder leading to the tower, not caring to look back to see if Sniper was following. He was great, probably, but you really needed more excitement in life than sitting in a tower and, admittedly, sleeping away some matches.

"Ay, Scout! Wha's'up, dude!" You grinned, running over to the other merc and playfully hitting his shoulder. It felt much more freeing now that you were out of that tower, able to be the loud and excitable person you are.

"You should'a seen me down there!" The Bostonian beams, shoving you back. His bat was slung over his shoulder, ego flowing heavy as ever as he recounts an 'absolute pissa kill', accompanied with a live recreation. The air was light as the team walked back to the base, conversation and occasional laughter filling the usually quieter walks back. The win definetly seemed to help with the mood. The round of losses you and your team had taken recently was hopefully just an odd bout that over now.

"Still, it must be pretty nice just sittin' in that tower all match. Y'get some sleep in?" Scout half-jokes as the team reaches their home base, most others going to their separate ways to change or resume whatever task they occupied themselves with. You two continue on in the hallway, reaching Scout's room.

You give a small huff, leaning against the door of the other man's room, still talking as he changes his shirt and pants. "Gods, I'd trade you anyday," you complain, a slight frown on your lips. "It gets so damn boring up there, practically doin' nothin' th'whole time! Maybe Sniper's a fine guy, but he rarely ever talks to me, either- in or out the field."

You watch a moment as Scout slips on a new shirt, eyeing you as if knowing something you didn't. "Really? 'Cause he always seems'a find a way to slip you in to every conversation when I'm with'em," he grins at you and moves closer, likely waiting for some sort of reaction. You only push his face away, giving a light, amused scoff.

"An' hell'chu mean by that?" You smile. The air lingers with a prolonged quiet, Scout just knowing you enough to wait those few seconds to get you to crack. You hold your breath a beat, tapping your foot against the messy, tiled floors as if it would distract you from his previous statement. "Well, damn. What's he say about me?"

He gives you his classic shit-eating grin, and you already know that you're never gonna hear the end of this.

"Oh, y'know, just mentionin' how much 'ya never seem 'ta shaddap in that tower'a yours-"

"Aw, put'ta sock in'nit! I rarely ever speak with'em," you quickly defend, letting yourself fall back on the other man's bed accompanied with a quiet huff.

Scout rolls his eyes and shoves you aside to make room for himself, causing you an indignant shout before pulling yourself up from the floor and sitting beside him.

"Y'didn't let me finish!" Scout chuckles before continuing his explanation. "Anyways, he may not be.. the nicest with things, but he remembahs the things ya'say." He nudges your leg with his own, obviously meaning something else with his words though refusing to elaborate. "'Nah, mate, 's not f'me. Alchemist can't stand straight black coffee.'" The merc teases, doing a failing impression of the Australian. "'Alchemist 's always talkin' about it, can't be that bad-"

"Alright, you can shut up about it!" You groan as you feel your face warm with embarrassment. "I get it, Sniper ain't a bad guy," you bite the side of your cheek, laying back and leaning on your arms to hold yourself up part-way. "I'm still tired'a bein' cooped up in that tower every damned match!"

"You're lucky, really," Scout concludes, letting his body flop back fully on the bed, taking in a deep breath before finishing. "Sounds real nice, bein' able to nap up there ah'lla'time."

You let the conversation die off with that, looking at Scout's closed eyes and beat or two before laying down properly on the bed next to him. Fingers tapping against your stomach , against the tight feeling deep inside your guts. That constricting squeeze you couldn't name the source of or seem to be rid of, despite what you've tried. You wondered if it was a good or bad thing, this unnamed emotion. So far it had only proved problematic, leaving you with the desire to reshow any food you had eaten previously to the lovely shared bathrooms. You couldn't say it was impacting your performance, as it had been a good while since you had actually performed, but the thought wasn't exactly reassuring. It really did lose you, what it could be that was causing this.

Mind running on and on until thoughts began to drift slower and separate, your eyes fumbled shut, a quiet exhale leaving your mouth as you let yourself sleep.

Chapter Text

Cold and sweaty and nostalgic. A horrid, empty feeling in your stomach yet comforting in a way you can only achieve from doing it time and time before.

You rest your forehead against the front edge of the cool toilet rim, eyes closed and again avoiding the real reason you were here. 'Breathing,' you think you murmured to yourself, 'Make sure you're breathing..'

In...

Out...

In...

Out...

In...

Out...

Finally, you stood- slowly, of course, making your way to the sink. Rushing, cold water hit your face, only half-aware of the process you were yet repeating, keeping your eyes off the mirror. Don't look in the mirror. The guilt eats you enough. You don't look at the toilet as you flush it either, aware enough of the hollow feeling in your stomach that you knew too well.

Slipping out the shared bathrooms, you shuffled past closed doors containing your sleeping teammates. Most of them, anyways. Some, you knew, never really slept, but were too indulged in their own vices to really notice outside their rooms or workshops. So you needn't worry of them overhearing your unhelpful night routine. That's what you told yourself, at least.

You stopped at the door of Scout's room, hand hesitating to even reach the metal knob that would open to reveal something inbetween a boy and a man, sleeping. One you knew would welcome you back even in his sleep, where you had been resting previously before awoken with that reoccurring feel of.. stomach bugs, you called it, knowing full well it was nothing close. It was a nagging in your mind, in your body, an unconscious need to be rid of the gross, guilt-ridden emotion that clawed at your stomach and made your throat feel as if something were stuck, but surely going anywhere but down.

A crash rang through the building, not too loud to wake the rest of the team, but loud enough to disrupt your thoughts and make you jump a bit.

Turning the corner, the door edges open and you're greeted with the sight of Medic, pools of crimson staining the usually- okay, not clean but acceptable- floors. The doctor curses under his breath, fast German you can't catch as you watch from the door. You contemplate going in and helping or even just starting a conversation, but the other man seems to decide for you before you could properly weigh your options.

"Ah, Alchimist! Come in, perhaps you can help me with zhis," he greets before turning back around, completely ignoring the mess of blood on the floor at your appearance. Trusting you're following him, he leads to the board in the middle of the room that acts as a sort of border between your two spaces. Practically the whole wall, covered in sticky notes with reminders and hypothesises and medical malpractice whatnot.

Medic allows you a moment to take a breath and gather yourself before he's rapid firing rhetorical questions and explaining procedures he's been trying out. It was more a way for himself to go over and analyze everything that might've gone wrong rather than asking you for assistance in his processes, properly hearing his thought process again easier than saying he may need help.

You only gave a light hum, which you doubt the uncertified doctor even heard, leaning back on the corner between your side of the room and the shared board. It distinctly occurred to you that you weren't wearing pants, originally just visiting the bathroom awoken from sleep, but neither of you could care less.

It feels like you blinked and then it was morning, mind fogged as the grass outside did on chilled autumn days. You noted the fact you seemed to have been sat down, and you can't decide if you did that in your subconscious sleep or if Medic took the time to sit you down once he realized your off silence.

The burn of your throat had dimmed to a sore ache, stomach still empty, and your eyes were blurry. Oh, Medic did take the time. Your glasses were off on a near desk, a spare blanket strewn over you with a bit too much care to just be thrown in your general direction.
The medical room was, for once, clear of any of your other teammates. Not totally void, though, as you knew the conscious head of the Blu's Spy remained in the fridge. You wondered if Medic purposefully gave you time to sleep, faltering before deciding you were looking too much into it. 'A teammate giving you quiet and a blanket doesn't mean much', you rationalized possibly irrationally. 'He just doesn't wanna deal with your lame ass out on the field this afternoon.' Which is to say, not that you get a lot of time out on the field. Y'know. Sniper's tower, 'n all.

You huffed, standing up with a bitten-back noise and wiping off your glasses before putting them on. Still kinda pissed about it, your mind kept on the thought like a magpie finding their newest shiny object. Why do you even keep going up there, anyways, if you find it so boring? It's not like he's physically dragging you up with him or anything. You suppose it's the routine that was so quickly engraved when you started out in the team. Your anxious energy of the first match wasn't too hard to notice, Sniper being a mercy when he offered you a spot in his tower. Doing it subconsciously match after match, following the sharpshooter up that high lookout so many times- it sort of built into yourself to follow him, regardless if you realized it or not.

You huffed, opening the door to the medical room with a squeak and carelessly shuffling past doors to reach your own room. Your hand traced the wall lazily as you walked, a cool, rocky smoothness that had grown a subtle trail of accidents, bumps and cracks in the wall that reminded you of countless times the team had done something stupid you couldn't even care to consider the how or why's of it ever happening in the first place.

It took you a second to notice you now stood in front of the marked door, small chemical burns against the faded ash wood. In the middle, a simple image of a filled vial, surrounded by a red circle the way everyone else's symbols were.

"The Alchemist.." You murmured to yourself, opening the door, it locking behind you with a soft cr-crk.

Your clothes-that is to say, the worn'n'torn hoodie that was previously the only thing covering you besides a pair of boxers-drop to the floor, sliding them aside with your foot to a growing pile of laundry that you've dreaded to even look at.

Your hand reaches the scruffy, yet protective medical coat, tucking it into your pants before sliding on the belt that carries the many pockets and spaces for vials, extraction tools and other equipment, shiny with the lack of action they've had. "What a ridiculous name," you huff a laugh, carrying your scabbards to hang at your side. The chilled metal of the two main blades you used, or were to use, sent a shiver upon contact of your skin. It truly was embarrassing, how such wonderful knives were lacking in the action department, how the vials on your belt had never had the need to be cleaned, how you noticed the feeling of getting breathless at simpler tasks. You yearned for the feeling of connection with the people on your team, to bleed and fight and repair and sleep and rest and eat and battle once more with them. You blamed Sniper, you blamed yourself. You cursed him under your breath for him having ever invited you up to his tower. If he had just kept his damned mouth shut and ignored you like he did most of the time anyways, you wouldn't be in this situation. You wouldn't be scorning yourself here. You wouldn't end up in the bathrooms at night. You wouldn't look at him with the same look you'd catch Medic giving Heavy. You wouldnt look at him with the same look you'd catch Scout giving Spy.

You flopped back in bed, pissed and tired and stuck all rolled in one, a little gift from you, to you. Too bad you couldn't throw it away.

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Loud talking, shouts of battle-ready allies and declarations of how they'd easily win this battle. A timer upfront, near the top of the wall, flashing with each tick, ticking with each second, counting down the seconds until the battle started. Everyone was distracted with either fixing their tools or talking loudly to someone else.

"Ay, Scout. Y'mind 'f I follow you for a bit?" You forced out before you lost the build-up of what you called courage in your chest, the words feeling spiked on your tongue but giving a light deadpan smile regardless.

The speedmiser blinked at you, surprised obvious in his eyes for a flash moment before grinning, a glint of excitement at the idea. "Oh, 'course! Doubt you coul' keep up, though."

You hummed as your eyes swept away, only claiming a soft smile to linger on your face, giving no response. You felt eyes, Sniper, on your back, though held yourself in place to not move, not react. Gaze kept on the zigzaged matter of the metal pull-down door, for lack of a better explanation, watching as the timer flickered to a flashing zero, blaring alarms and a quick pickup of wind and feet against the rough, burning gravel that covered the terrain.