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The sweltering heat bled through his quilt, sweat rolling desperately underneath his breasts. He takes a wheezy breath, his chest bubbling with warmth. Agonizingly, he gazes at the table besides his elevated bed in his van’s cramped space.
A plain orange pill bottle lonesomely sits on the empty table in the dark, staring at him contemptibly.
This is the third time Sniper has gotten this sick this year. Record-low numbers for September, since usually he reaches at least six by this month. Feverish and achy, his migraines combined with a simple cold caused his brain to melt and his body to scream in jittery, unparalleled pain. He likes to believe it’s due to his healthier lifestyle recently, but deep down he knows that it's all based on luck.
His weekly migraines haven’t faltered, however, even when he’s up in the crow’s nest during the team’s skirmishes; all he can do is pray to a bottle of water and attempt to ignore the sun beaming on the bright, arid sand of the Badlands.
Sniper thanks whatever God is out there for the invention of sunglasses, otherwise, he’d have no idea how he’d make it this far in life.
He vaguely remembers days like this in his childhood. If they were out, his father would always give Mick his sunglasses to substantiate the pain, the glasses always sliding down the bridge of his nose due to them barely fitting against the width of his head. Or when the migraines struck him out in the quiet hallways of his childhood home, how his mother always quietly took his tiny, sweaty hands and rode out the worst of it underneath his class portraits and photos of the ranch and his parents or their dogs.
He tries not to think about how his hands are far too big to fit in his mother’s now, or how he's too far from her to even get the chance to hear her offer. How he still wears his father’s sunglasses, which are synonymous with his brand in a profession both his parents disapprove of.
Guilt begins to well in his stomach, accompanying the ache in his joints and the sting in the center of his chest. God, how he wished he could smoke in here.
A gentle, familiar knock booms against the van’s rear door; his migraine deepens into his eye socket with the unexpected addition of stimuli. He groans in response, which the knocker takes as permission to let themselves in. Sniper doesn’t know—he doesn’t care to question whether or not it was.
“Yo, Snipes– damn it’s dark in here.” Scout declares in a decibel barely above a whisper, thankfully not flicking the lightswitch.
“Hey, I haven’t seen you all day, migraine?” He asks after settling down what sounds like a plastic bag. Sniper doesn’t open his eyes to check but hums in affirmative, the pain too prevalent to explain it’s more than just a migraine.
He can tell Scout just nods at the information; even with his eyes buried into the crook of his elbow, he can still sense the other man’s mannerisms. With the amount of time they’ve spent together over the past few months, how could he not?
The schedule is relatively simple: after work, more so after the team shared dinner that Sniper typically skips, occasionally Scout will mosey to Sniper’s van and knock in a pattern of two knocks, repeated three times. It reminds Sniper of a heartbeat, comforting him when he realizes it is Scout, which he will never admit out loud to the Bostonian.
Their fast friendship had puzzled him for a while; nobody but Tavish has slithered their way to become Sniper’s friend, and even so, Sniper doesn’t feel the same about Demo as he does with Scout.
The man stumbled into every portion of his life, and for once in his introverted, lonely existence, Sniper did not mind it. Bugging him on his weekly shopping trips, tagging along when the Australian went hunting, even this simple invasion of his space when he was writhing in pain that not even the team’s Medic knew of.
It all felt so intimate. So personal. Sniper was the silent type; everyone knew that. There was no way to get through a conversation with him unless one was willing to talk the majority of the time. He did it on purpose, partly. Most folks were deterred by the brick wall that Sniper presented to conversation, which meant fewer people attempted to rope him into excruciating small talk.
Scout, however, would be able to talk by himself for hours if prompted, and in Sniper's presence, he was practically welcomed to.
“I brought you some of that instant coffee shit ya’ like. I’ll make ya’ a cup right now.” He asserts, shuffling around Sniper’s cabinet for the coffee pot and clicking on the stove while he fills it with water. “Y’know, my Ma’ used to drink this all tha’ time, but even she put creamer in it. I don’t understand ya’, man.”
“At least I don’t drink shit that rots my teeth with a single sip.” Sniper grounds out, thankful for the smile on his face so Scout wouldn't misinterpret him.
“Hey, you’re still weirder than me, pal. Majority of tha’ population agrees.”
Sniper simply hums at that, too exhausted to argue back. Thankfully, the silence doesn’t settle, with Scout filling the void with nonsensical conversation: how gross coffee was, how caffeine didn’t even affect him, how his day was.
Sniper sighed at the familiarity of it, nestling into the white noise of his friend’s words. As he relaxed more into his pillow, the sound of liquid being poured caught his attention, prompting him to carefully sit up. His eyes remained closed as he reached his hand out, shakily grasping at the coffee cup handed to him and ignoring the way his heart fluttered at the brisk contact against Scout’s hand.
“Mm. Thank you.” He muttered into the cup, inhaling the cheap yet surprisingly rich aroma with a sigh of relief.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, ya’ weirdo.” Scout waves off, his footsteps quietly hobbling to the table with the empty plastic bag and lone pill bottle. With a shuffle of plastic and paper and a recognizable click and hiss, Scout opens a can of soda. Sniper breathes out his nose in a tender laugh, sipping his coffee.
“Scoot.” He speaks up, already shoving Sniper’s blanket to the side as he makes his way up the ladder to sit next to the gunslinger. “Hey, how’s the headache?”
“Hmm. Still a headache.”
“Yeesh, Snipes. Even with the coffee? Thought ya’ said it helps.”
“Well, I did just start drinking it, so.” He could feel Scout’s unimpressed stare as a smirk began to spread across his face.
“Quit being a smartass, dick.” Scout lightly shoves Sniper’s knee, which lazily repositions itself against Scout’s back. He’s smiling, he can tell, which makes him relax into taking another sip.
Silence entraps them once again, comfortably easing around the two as they enjoy their drinks. Sniper sighs once more, leaning his head almost uncomfortably on the peak of Scout’s shoulder, basking in the warmth against his eye.
For a while they sat like that, the muteness barely interrupted by hushed breathing and gulps of caffeine. However, the peace, of course, couldn't last too long. Sniper’s blank mind was suddenly ridden with electric pain, coursing past his eyes and piercing deep into his socket.
He physically winces, removing himself from Scout’s space and pressing his reliable hand into the shaky rumbling of his eyelid.
“Christ.” He whispers in what he hopes to be taken as an apology while Scout turns his whole body to face Sniper, concern melting off of his absent presence.
Time slows around him as all he can focus on is relaxing enough for the pain to quit, a hand resting on his shoulder as he takes a shaky breath through his teeth. Suddenly he feels everything all at once, the warmth of Scout against his side, the overwhelming odor of cheap coffee, and the stuffiness that occupies his sinuses and nostrils.
His breathing quickens, a short cough slithering between the heaves. The cup in his hand is quickly removed from his grasp, and the same is true for the presence besides him. He isn’t too sure if he is or isn’t relieved by the fact; he is too busy pressing both his palms above his eyes, sandwiching the crook of his nose between them.
“Sorry.” Sniper fusses, attempting to mute his breathing, which rumbles through his ears as it escapes the shallow space in his lungs. He mustn't let Scout think he’s doing this whole thing for attention, the gasping for air would surely give him the idea. Too dramatic. “Just, just came outta nowhere.”
“Shush.” Is all Scout says, and something tempts Sniper to look at him, but the pressure against his face is too gravitating to abandon now. He hears the faucet run once more, splashing, and quiet humming underneath him.
“Did ya’ take the painkillers?”
Sniper tries to take a breath through his nose, a rough noise that worms out proves he failed. No, he didn’t take the pill from that lonely orange bottle. The image of the grey tablets haunted him every time a migraine struck him. It was almost too easy, too simple. He popped one, and in about 20 minutes, the agony would subside into a simple body ache.
Something gnawed at him whenever he saw it. He told Scout about this before, and the Bostonian clearly tried to sympathize but couldn’t understand why Sniper simply didn’t take the pill and let it be over with. A part of Sniper didn’t understand either; was it pride? Longing to make himself suffer? Pure laziness? He couldn’t be too sure.
Scout pulled him out of his soon-to-be self-deprecating reverie with a simple clearing of his throat. Sniper remembers Spy mentioning Scout got that from his mother—the ability to clear someone’s mind without any effort. He could just sense when somebody was stuck inside their own head. Like a lie detector telling you someone’s heart rate, he said.
“No.” Sniper finally answers, leaning back into his pillows, and instinctually prepares to get reprimanded.
“Well, maybe it’d be a good idea to, hmm?” He declares, tossing the pill bottle up next to Sniper as he begins to make his way back up on the bed. “Got ya’ a cold towel. Here.”
He gently moves Sniper’s hands from his face, placing the wet towel atop his eyes. Sniper dares not to open them, hoping the heat in his face is mistaken for a fever.
“Drink some coffee and take your stupid pill, Snipes.” Scout passes the cup to Sniper, who awkwardly hooks his thumb over the mug’s handle as he props himself up on his elbows.
He takes a gulp, trying his damndest not to let the towel dip past his nose. He holds out his palm, into which a pill is dropped, and he tosses it into his maw and swallows.
He dramatically drops backwards, which he instantly regrets as the shock returns to strike his brain once more. His teeth are bare in pain, and Scout snorts. He takes the mug from Sniper's hand once more and pats his thigh in compensation.
Scout hops off the bed, opens the door, and clearly dumps out the rest of the lukewarm coffee outside.
“Oi’, I could’ve finished that, y’know.” Sniper drawls, turning his head towards the door as if to prove a point.
“Sure, bud’. Sure.” Scout teases, placing the cup in the sink and stops in the center of the van. Suddenly his confident, brisk demeanor faltered.
“Welp. I guess that’s my cue, I-I mean, if ya’d like. I can just dip and bring ya’ more coffee tomorrow. Maybe one of those magazine’s ya’ read, Engie’ told me ya’ didn’t… y’know, pick up your erm. Mail today.” He stuttered out, Sniper imagined him standing awkwardly, likely with his hand on the back of his head like whenever he doubted himself. He removes the towel from his face, squinting at the figure in front of him. He’s unable to stop his amused half-smile when he’s proven right. “Oh, come–c’mon Snipes. Put that back on.. Y-your eyes, man.”
He obliges Scout’s request, laying back down in his previous position. “Can you come back up here, Scout?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure, whatever you want, man.”
Once the familiar weight pushes down the mattress besides him, Sniper reaches his hand out again. A beat. He’s sure Scout has no clue what to do, but Sniper hums in affirmation when Scout hesitantly places his hand in his.
As they sit there, a hand rests carefully on the nook of Sniper’s waist.
He traces Scout’s knuckles with his free hand, imploring the man to relax as he himself slowly lulls into a dreamless sleep.