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Maybe cooking before the sun rose wasn’t the smartest thing Scout’s done, but it sure as hell was worth it! No nosy Spy, no interrupting Soldier, no micromanaging Engie — nothing!
Scout rubbed his eyes as he watched the clams gradually open up in the boiling water, grinning at how good they looked. Getting fresh clams sent from Boston to New Mexico was no easy feat, and Scout was less than proud to admit the amount of money he had to cough up to get them overnight. Grumbling at the memory, Scout grabbed the slotted spoon by his side and scooped out the clams, transferring them to a bowl set on the counter next to the pot.
Once all the clams were out and the steaming water strained for all the grit the shellfish left behind, Scout started the process of removing the clams from their shells. As he slowly and gently worked his way through every clam, his mind began to wander.
What if Doc doesn’t like clam chowder? The thought was ridiculous to Scout; he snorted.
Nah, that knucklehead should be grateful he’s getting a taste of Ma’s cooking. Speaking of... Scout glanced at the recipe his Ma mailed him a few months ago in his lap, making sure he was following it to a T.
‘Don’t forget to be gentle, Jeremy! Take it slow, be careful! Next, roughly chop them and…’
A smile graced Scout’s tired face as he chuckled to himself. When he was a kid, the runner had a nasty habit of trying to get all the clams out of their shells as soon as humanly possible, which resulted in an embarrassing amount of cuts on his fingers and clams on the floor.
His older brothers would tease him about it, calling him ‘butterfingers’ and other names, but his Ma knew her son’s clumsiness came out of an eagerness to help. She was always so patient with Scout, taking his little hands and demonstrating how to properly get a clam out of its shell without hurting yourself. Then she’d walk him through every step of making clam chowder, guiding him through the recipe with that sweet voice she always took when she was talking to her youngest baby.
Before Scout knew it, he’d finished removing all the clams and was now staring at nothing, fiddling with the knife in his hands. He set the clams aside and zoned back in to the world. It’s gonna be a long night...
His gloves long forgotten, Medic combed his hands through his greasy hair; he had gone without a proper wash in days. It was pathetic, really, how a simple fever turned into a common cold, and how that common cold was kicking a grown man’s ass, and had been for the past week.
Several times, Medic had considered just sending himself through respawn, but he knew that it would do nothing. After all, respawn recovers physical injuries, not ailments. If he recalled correctly, he had learned this just over a year ago, when Scout was hit by a near-deadly wave of the flu; no one had taken responsibility for passing it on to him, but Medic was almost entirely sure that it was Sniper’s doing, given how much he and the boy hung out.
Maybe this was Sniper’s fault again, Medic bitterly thought, furrowing his brows and clenching his fists in his hair as he slumped over his desk. That wretched man does anything but take care of himself... won’t even come to me when he’s ill, Schweinehund.
Medic looked up from his desk to check the clock on his wall. He had to squint to read it, having taken off his glasses earlier. It was a little past one in the morning. Medic groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he sat up in his chair. Sitting around in his sickness and cursing whoever gave this to him was doing him no good. If anything, he was only making himself more miserable. He was lucky his team and the BLUs were on a temporary ceasefire, else he’d have to be running around on zero hours of sleep and a fever.
He had briefly considered waking Heavy up for some company, but he ultimately decided against it, not wanting to interrupt his friend’s sleep and risk getting him sick. Still, though, having someone to be around would be nice. It would certainly take Medic’s mind off the feeling of being too hot and too cold at the same time, the way his head pounded like his brain was trying to escape, and the layer of mucus coating his throat and nose that never went away, no matter how many times he hacked up or blew out the gunk.
Just as Medic finally set his mind on returning to his quarters and trying to head to bed, even though he knew there wasn’t a chance he was getting any sleep, a knock at the infirmary’s double doors caught his attention. The thought of having to deal with one of his teammates being injured at one in the morning — while he was sick, no less — made him growl out his response.
“Ja? If it is not life-threatening, I am sending you back to bed!”
There was a brief pause, but it was long enough for Medic to be about to yell something nasty before a familiar Bostonian spoke up on the other side of the door.
“Uh, well- I mean, I ain’t hurt or nothin’, doc. I’m fine, I just know that you... aren’t. Um- if you’ll take it, I got somethin’ for you. You don’t have to like it, it’s just…”
The rambling continued for a few more seconds before awkwardly petering off. Medic’s glare softened. It’s just the boy. Medic cleared his throat as he approached the doors, opening them and gesturing for Scout to come in.
“Komm herein, Scout. I thought it was- ach, never mind. Just come in.”
It was only once Scout had entered the infirmary and begun walking to Medic’s desk that the doctor noticed something in the boy’s hands. A bowl, a large one at that, a spoon, a packet of small, round crackers, and a salt shaker. Medic raised a brow and followed Scout as he set the assortment of items on his desk.
“Und what is this, Hase? Looks like you have been busy tonight.”
Despite how congested Medic was and sounded, he still flashed a smile Scout’s way, leaning over him with his hands folded behind his back. Scout seemed... nervous? No, that wasn’t the word. He refused to make eye contact with Medic. Hell, he refused to look in the doctor’s direction at all as he picked at his hand wraps and was visibly mulling over what he wanted to say. If Medic were in a better state of mind, he would’ve scolded Scout for both being up so late and having his wraps on outside of battle. Lucky for Scout, though, Medic figured that any lecture he wanted to give would be made hypocritical, given that he was also up at this hour.
Finally, Scout spoke, fumbling over his words and staring at what he brought.
“It’s, uh... it’s clam chowda’. Um- my Ma would always make it for me and my brotha’s when we got sick, cuz it’s like- it’s really good and it makes your throat feel nice and- yeah.”
Scout cut himself off mid ramble, uncharacteristically reserved. Medic figured the boy was embarrassed by doing something so thoughtful. Domestic, even. Always so unsure of yourself, aren’t you? Medic mused before inspecting the bowl.
He had never had clam chowder before, but he had heard Scout swear by it multiple times. He couldn’t blame the boy; by looks alone, it seemed delicious. Even though Medic wouldn’t have ever heard of clam chowder when he was a child, it strangely reminded him of being one, lying in bed with a fever as his mother brushed her fingers through his unruly locks.
Medic circled around his desk and took a seat. He felt Scout’s eyes on him as he gently took the bowl, as if handling something delicate, and moved it toward him. His smile widened as Scout quietly took a seat on the other side of his desk and scooched forward, pushing the crackers, spoon, and salt shaker to Medic.
“Well, danke, Scout. I am surprised you stayed up so late just to make me something to eat. This is very thoughtful of you, Schatz.”
For the sake of Scout’s pride, Medic chose not to comment on how the boy’s cheeks and ears flushed when he complimented him. Scout mumbled something affirmative under his breath before clearing his throat and speaking up, nodding.
“Yeah, it’s no problem. Kinda wanted to just- I mean you- you’re always takin’ care of us when we get hurt and stuff, so I figured I’d... repay the favor, or somethin’.”
Medic hummed as he picked up the packet of round crackers and spread them on the clam chowder, sprinkling salt on it afterward. As soon as Medic took a spoonful of the soup to his mouth, he was instantly grateful that his illness hadn’t stolen his sense of taste. His eyes widened at the taste: comforting, homey, warm.
Quicker than Medic would care to admit, he went for another spoonful, then another, and then another. Unbeknownst to him, Scout was staring at him with wide eyes; not judging, not mocking, but genuinely surprised that his cooking was ‘good enough’ for Medic. If he had been red before, he was even redder now. Is this how his Ma felt watching him and his brothers scarf down everything she made without a second thought? Oh, God, was Scout being sweet?
Scout purged those thoughts as soon as they came, speaking so he wouldn’t think like that anymore.
“Is it alright? It’s my Ma’s recipe, so it’s, like- I mean, it’s gonna be good cuz I made it and my Ma’s the best at cookin’ and makin’ recipes, but- uh- do you like it?”
Scout hoped he didn’t sound as desperate for validation as he felt as he crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against his upper arms. At the boy’s question, Medic looked up from the now half-finished bowl and set the spoon aside. Scout wasn’t lying when he said that this would make your throat feel nice; although Medic could still feel that irritating layer of mucus, his throat was sufficiently soothed.
“It is lovely, Scout. Though I have to wonder why you don’t cook more often if this is what you’re capable of...?”
Medic tilted his head and waved his hand, motioning for Scout to respond as he let his question trail off. It took Scout a minute to respond, but when he did, it seemed like he finally got his moxie back as he clicked his tongue and leaned back in his chair with a familiar shit-eating grin.
“Well, I mean, if all o’ the guys knew I was a freakin’ gourmet chef, they’d be beggin’ for me to cook all of the time! Grovelin’ at my feet, cryin’ for more of my Ma’s recipes, it’d be crazy! I don’t got time to be cookin’ for you knuckleheads twenty-four-freakin’-seven! Plus…”
Scout proudly jammed a thumb into his chest as he went on his self-congratulatory rattling. There’s the boy I know, Medic smiled as he rested his elbows on his desk and his chin on his fingers. Just a little bit of praise, and all is right in the world for you. Finally, Medic cut Scout off by clearing his throat; he suppressed a grimace at the mucus he had to swallow down after doing so.
“I see, I see. Well, I can’t say I’m not honored to be the lucky man receiving your world-renowned cooking, Hase. Now,”
Medic stood up from his chair and approached Scout, guiding him up and leading him to the doors while maintaining a healthy distance from the boy.
“It is awfully late, no? You should head to bed.”
Surprisingly enough, Scout let himself be led to the doors, only stopping right when he was about to leave. When he looked up at Medic, he hesitated before biting the bullet and smiling at the doctor, speaking softer than he was used to.
“Yeah, yeah, I will, Doc. You get some sleep, too, yeah? Rest of the guys have been worried ‘bout you, so... so I hope you get better. G’night.”
With that, Scout exited the infirmary and left Medic for the night. The doctor hummed and waited a few more minutes at the door, just in case Scout ran back because he forgot something, before heading back to his desk to finish the clam chowder.
Such a sweet boy. If only he let himself act like that more often.