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"Mate," Sniper said, his voice beholding tender gruffness. His hand clasped Scout's protruding, blanket-swaddled shoulder. "Jess give it up." Patting the boy, he slipped away and grabbed a mug sitting on a nearby upside-down banana crate. "Can't deny it any longer."

Scout hunched over, gathering the covers of Sniper's cot closer around him. "Fuck you, man."

"No use fightin' it."

"I said, fuuuuuuck. You." Scout's entire body tensed, bundling himself closer if that were possible. He mentally blocked out the implications of the situation. "And your blanket smells like piss," he added, still underneath said-blanket and wrapped up tight.

A sigh, sounding of exasperation and surrender – "There's no use fightin' it. You're outta luck, precious."

"P-precious? Don't you fuckin' call me that, faggot!" Scout popped up from his cocoon, head comically poking neck-up from the fuzzy pile, his body still twisted up in Sniper's ratty broken-in comforters. His hair was ruffled in every which way in cute little stubborn tufts, and his baby blues were sharpened steel. "Freakin' unbelievable. Freakin' – you're freakin' all right with all this?"

Sniper drank cold coffee from his trademark mug. No fuss about it, no ceremony.

He was all nonchalance as he took a seat on the edge of his stained cot, ran his grummy fingers over grains of cheap material. "We'd be damned right fools to ignore it," he said. "So, I ain't gonna ignore it anymore. You can't either, mate."

"The fuck I can't," Scout said. He licked the palm of his hand and slicked back his freaked-out hair. "I'm not gunna let ya do this to me, no fuckin' way. No guilt trips, man."

"Scout…"

"Don't you 'scout' me. You ain't my Ma. You ain't my Pop. Just a fuckin' pervert."

"Watch what you're saying, twitchy," Sniper said darkly, "or the only thing still twitchin' is your bleedin' eyeballs as I pluck 'em out with a little of the ol' chop chop."

"You threatenin' me? You fuckin' threatenin' me?"

"I'm warnin' you, boy. Don't make me cranky. I'm ain't in a mood."

"Sure you're not," Scout said, no attempt made to hide his snark.

After a moment, he faltered a bit and shuddered; he held his knees close to his chest, sighed. Sniper barely perceived it - Scout's lips, trembling – but it was there, and it happened. He looked… broken.

"This shit's fucked up, Snipes."

"'S not as fucked up as ya think. We jess need ta talk about it, that's all."

"…I'd ratha drink gasoline."

"I'm afraid there's not any around here."

"Engie's got some. I'll drink that."

"I'm sure he wouldn't let ya," Sniper said. There was softness in his words, something Scout didn't expect –"…and neither would I."

"Whatever." Scout didn't really have a response to that. "Ain't gunna talk about it," he said. "Pretend it didn't happen, and move on with our lives."

Sniper shook his head, solemn. "Can't do that," he said. "In too deep, mate."

;I own nothing but the words and situations I control.
Second time writing for Team Fortress 2.
Possibly a work in-progress, not sure yet.
Written after a long conversation with my friend Britt about TF2 slash, and our shared love of Sniper/Scout.
COMPLETE FOR NOW, BUT POSSIBLY TBC.