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spinach-productions · 6 years

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Miami Vices (TF2), part 2/2

Wordcount: 12,726

Summary:

“Our contact in Miami wants to speak with someone from the organization. Spy, that’s where you come in.”

“Naturally,” Spy says neutrally.

“Aaand,” Miss Pauling draws out the word, “He specifically asked to speak with a real person, not a mask.”

“Ah,” Spy says less neutrally.

“Which is where you come in.” She beams at Scout, whose face is anything but neutral. “Spy might need backup and you’re the only one who’s already seen him without a mask.”

In which Scout and Spy take an involuntary cross-country road trip. Includes bad clothing and unexpected family bonding.

Warnings: cannon-typical violence, internalized homophobia, personal headcannon about ScoutMa.

part 1

Notes:

I have so many feelings about this, guys. Should I make a different post for my feelings about this? Maybe.

They drive for slightly less than two hours and reach Mikhail’s park by mid-afternoon. It’s a small area in a well-to-do neighborhood, idyllically green and tropical with a stunning view of the ocean. Places where nothing dark or shady could ever happen, which of course means they happen all the time. Spy counts no less than three loitering pairs of individuals engaged in some sort of covert operations.

A man in a trenchcoat is sitting alone on bench. Spy recognizes his curly blond hair and boyish face.

“Hey, uh.” Scout continues to fidget with the knife as he leans against the car. The plan is for him to stand guard while Spy conducts business.

“Put that away during work,” Spy says.

Scout pockets it, still looking at his own hands. “Once this is done, maybe we could… get lunch? I think I saw a hot dog stand back there--”

“No hot dogs,” Spy says reflexively. “But,” he continues when Scout looks away, “I suppose it’s been a while since I indulged in food that could kill me. We could search for some facsimile of poutine.”

“Is that a food?” Scout asks cautiously.

“It is fried potatoes with cheese and gravy.”

Scout lights up. He somehow does it with his entire body. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Something like fondness wriggles in Spy’s gut. He squashes it and turns on his heel towards the man on the bench, surrounded by palm trees and well manicured grass.

“Mikhail,” Spy says cordially.

He is older than the man from ten years ago, but Spy supposes time has it's way with them all. His blond hair is speckled with grey and his face has a few more lines, but his eyes and smile still hold the charm Spy remembers. Mikhail smiles warmly and says an old name. “Still afraid to show the world your beautiful face?”

“Something like that.” Spy takes a seat next to him on the bench. “Are you well?”

“Something like that,” Mikhail says playfully. “You appear to be doing well yourself,” he says with a nod to the car.

Spy makes a face. “A coworker.”

“Available, then?”

Spy huffs out a laugh. “He is not to your tastes.”

“I suppose you would know,” Mikhail says. He leans back against the bench and looks skyward. “I have information for your company.”

“I believe that’s why I am here,” Spy replies.

Mikhail hums. “I wish I could put this off a little longer. It would be nice to catch up.”

“There is time,” Spy says. He glances around, but the park is still as idyllic as the moment he sat down. There is nothing to justify the sudden, creeping feeling that something is wrong.

“Hmm, there isn’t.” Mikhail smiles warmly. “Do you know what your company does? The kind of havoc it brings on this town?”

Spy cocks an eyebrow. “I understand it sells bread.”

“They say they disseminate bread to fellow subsidiaries,” Mikhail says agreeably, “But did you ever look into what kind of bread? It begins as regular whole-wheat, but over time evolves into some a hulking, ravenous monstrosity. Have you seen it, solnyshka ? Towering, hungry bread erupting from buildings to devour everything in its path.”

“Ah.”

“Ah indeed.”

The breeze ruffles through the park.

“I do hope you’ll understand,” Mikhail says. A gun has materialized in his hand, aimed at Spy’s mid-section. “I need to know what those things are, and how to stop them.”

“You know I will not talk,” Spy says evenly.

“I am well aware. I am only here to hold you in place.”

Someone yells. Spy’s head snaps in the direction of the noise. Sure enough, three large men are trying to wrestle Scout away from their car, which appears to be smoking, and into one of three identical black vehicles. One man is cradling his hand, another has Scout’s arms twisted behind his back, and the third shoving something between Scout’s teeth to keep him from biting again. Scout manages to throw his weight back and kick out, but the third man catches his legs and lifts him off the ground.

“Please understand, this isn’t personal,” Mikhail says, laying a hand on Spy’s cheek. He runs his hand up Spy’s face to his head, brushing back the hood and carding his fingers through Spy’s short hair. “You used to keep your hair long. The mask has taken so much from you.”

Across the parking lot, Scout’s eyes widen. The men use his momentary distraction to dump him into the trunk and slam the lid.

“You don’t usually worry about coworkers,” Mikhail says mildly, “Who is that?”

The car engine starts. They’re going to torture Scout for information he does not have, and when they realize he knows nothing and is worth nothing to RED, they’re going to kill him. Spy feels an uncharacteristic tremor move through his limbs and has the irrational thought that they won’t get the chance to eat dangerously unhealthy food together. The thought is surprisingly upsetting.

In one well-practiced motion, he pulls a knife from the hood lying against his shoulders and buries it between the bones of Mikhail’s wrist. Mikhail yells in shocked pain, and Spy plucks the gun free as his muscles spasm. Later, he’ll remember that Mikhail always carried as many guns as Spy carried knives and wonder why he let him go; presently, he sprints to the smoldering car, yanks the door open, and jams the key home. The various indicators tell him the secondary boosters have been sabotaged, but the men seem to have (somehow, thankfully) missed the primary engine in their search. It jumps to life and he peels out of the parking lot after the intimidating Russian cars.

Spy can’t risk ramming the wrong car, so he weaves in and out of traffic and follows the line of cars onto the highway. Each car seems to have three passengers: two extremely muscled men and an extremely muscled woman dressed in identical black suits. The cars split apart into three separate lanes; Spy glances at an overhead road sign as it zips by. Apparently a series of off-ramps will be coming up in twenty miles. He’s certain each car will take different exit, giving him a one-in-three chance of finding Scout if he can’t identify the correct car. Spy swears under his breath and stomps on the accelerator.

The car on his right rolls down the backseat window and an agent slots a machine gun into a door-mounted holder. Spy doesn’t bother rolling down his own window before aiming Mikhail’s gun and pulling the trigger three times in succession. In the same moment, the backseat agent squeezes off a spray of shots, peppering the RED car with some kind of small ammunition. The agent takes a shot to the shoulder and Spy feels the impact of a bullet somewhere in his thigh. He can’t feel the pain now, but it will certainly require medical attention later. The cars veer apart, but Spy keeps firing until something in the Russian car begins to smoke. It begins to decelerate towards the shoulder, and Spy can drop back behind a civilian car for cover.

Something in his own car’s underbelly begins to make a rapid knocking noise, but the car is still moving so it will have to wait.

As he slides behind the cover car, one of the two remaining vehicles begins to weave in its lane. It nearly jerks over the yellow line, corrects course, then breaks abruptly, leaving smoking tire marks on the road. A civilian car lays on the horn, then swerves aside when the passenger door bursts open and an agent is ejected from the cabin. Spy speeds up to keep pace with the bucking car just as a woman’s head crashes through the driver’s side window, followed closely by her body flying out the open passenger door. Cars behind them skid and lurch to avoid the agents on the road, but Spy focuses on the driver’s seat where Scout is struggling with the final agent. He’s got both legs twisted into the passenger seat where he appears to be trying to kick him head-first out the door.

He’s shouting something. Spy can’t hear him over the roaring wind and sounds of wheels on the asphalt, but he’s sure it’s absolutely vulgar.

“Scout,” he yells across their broken windows and several feet of tarmac, “Are you alright?”

“Do I look fuckin’ alright?!” Scout shouts back. He’s repeatedly stomping heel into the man’s face while somehow still keeping the car on track.

“It’s hard to tell with you,” Spy admits.

“Hard to tell with me?! It’s hard to tell with you , you--” The wind whips away his words, but Spy knows the look on his face. It pairs with disgust and betrayal he’d shown when Mikhail ran his fingers through Spy’s hair in the park.

Before Scout can respond further, a hand grabs his face and shoves his head out the broken window. Scout grapples with the agent, but the man grabs his shoulders and pins him to the door. One of them hits the handle and it flies open, stretching Scout precariously between the chassis and door.

If he isn’t killed on impact with the road at a hundred and twenty miles an hour, one of the unwitting civilian cars will surely finish the job. Spy reaches across the passenger’s seat and jerks his own door open.

“Scout,” he shouts, “ Jump! ”

The agent has a death grip on Scout’s shirt. Scout glances over to judge the distance, then pulls Spy’s ballisong from his pocket. He flips it open and slams it into the agent’s forearm; the agent screams and snatches his hand back, allowing Scout to throw his weight against the door to swing it fully open. At the height of its arc, he braces against the frame and launches himself across the gap.

Spy already has an arm out. Scout’s momentum slams the door shut and he clutches Spy’s arm with both hands, using it to slither through the broken window into the passenger-side foot space.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

Spy takes unsteady aim and shoots in the driver’s direction until the car begins to veer off the road. If the man isn’t dead, he is at least incapacitated enough to drop pursuit.

Now that Scout has returned to the car, Spy’s leg reminds him of its injury at full volume. “Can you drive?”

Surprisingly, Scout assesses the situation with some degree of success. He stretches across the gearshift to the pedals. “You steer, I got this.”

They rocket along, dodging and weaving until they can sneak onto a tiny off-ramp, leaving the last functional Russian car to speed ahead in search of them. Despite this success, the car continues making clunking noises until the engine cuts out two miles later. They pull over onto a relatively even patch of dirt shoulder, then tumble out of the car in a disorganized pile of limbs and blood.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Spy asks as he eases himself to the ground. An exposed stretch of hot Florida road isn’t an ideal place for injury assessment, but it will have to do.

Scout has already popped the hood. His shirt is in tatters, but being kidnapped by Russian spies and jumping through a broken window doesn’t seem to have caused more than superficial lacerations and a few bruises. “Chill, Spy, I got this,” he snaps.

Spy raises an eyebrow. Scout’s emotional capacity is usually as nuanced as his extremely short attention span, but he’s been dwelling on something since their meeting with Mikhail. “Are you still upset that I had a life before returning to your mother?”

“Fuck you,” Scout spits, jamming the hood-prop into place with unnecessary force.

Spy sneers. “I see. And if that wasn’t uncomfortable enough, to find out I spend that time with a man , well. No wonder you’re disgusted.”

“You’ve got no fuckin’ idea,” Scout mutters as he starts examining under the hood.

“No no, I understand perfectly well.” Spy extracts a knife from his sock garter and begins cutting his pant leg. “You are like every other bigot I’ve had the misfortune to know.”

“First: shut up. Second: fuck off.”

Maybe it’s the waning adrenaline making him shaky and confrontational, but Spy does not want to fuck off about this. “It makes sense, I suppose. Finding out your father had a perfectly normal life with a man --”’

“I thought all you wanted was for me to be quiet-- what the fuck , ” Scout yanks something loose from the car’s guts and examines it in the sun. “You kept a knife in the engine? Were you trying to kill us?!”

“As it turns out, it would have been no great loss.” Spy turns his attention to his own leg. The bullet seems to have gone cleanly through his vastus lateralis muscle, which is the best he can hope for given the circumstances. He begins shredding his lower pant leg into strips.

Scout snarls and hurls the knife. It sticks into the ground a short foot from Spy’s hand.

“ Watch it, ” Spy growls.

“I thought you dying wouldn’t a been a big deal?”

Scout’s Boston accent thickens when he’s angry, just like Minnie’s. “Your mother will be so disappointed to learn you don’t approve of me,” he jabs.

“You don’t--” Scout wrestles violently with some piece of machinery, “Fuckin’--” He loses his grip on the part and screams in frustration, “ You don’t get it!”

“Oh, this should be good,” Spy sneers, “Go ahead and enlighten me, then. Tell me why you, a grown man, are shrieking like a child at the prospect of two men together.”

Scout glares, then returns to staring at the car’s stubborn mechanics. “Fuck you so many fuckin’ times. Fine. Fine. You got a right to know why this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, seeing as it’s all your fault.”

Spy winds the makeshift bandages around the bullet hole. “Truly, I am all ears,” he says sarcastically.

“I didn’t have anything normal growin’ up,” Scout says as he tries to twist some cap or another, “Because I didn’t have a dad. You know that part.”

Spy rolls his eyes and doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Well, I want a big-ass family one day. A dozen kids piled into one huge fuckin’ house, all happy and.” He hiccups and wipes sweat from his forehead. “And I got to RED team and I like Miss Pauling, you know, like like-like, and I thought finally, I can have those kids without--”

Spy belated starts to wonder if something is wrong.

Scout’s fingers skitter on the cap. “Without worrying, because I could finally give them normal because I’m finally normal,” he hiccups again, “But if it’s genetic then I can never--”

“Scout?”

“I’ll never be--”

He doesn’t have hiccups, he’s gasping for air. Scout is having a panic attack.

“Scout breathe. ”

He doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s hunched over the car on shaking arms, both hands braced on the hot metal chassis even though it must be burning his palms and he isn’t breathing properly, just making small hiccuping noises as he fights for control.

In what he’ll later consider his first fatherly act, Spy lunges forward, ignoring the spike of pain up his leg, and socks Scout straight across the face. They both reel back and lose balance, toppling onto the asphalt road. Scout, shocked out of his panic, takes a great, heaving breath and starts swearing a blue streak he could only have learned at his mother’s knee.

Spy’s leg tells him this was a bad idea. He grits his teeth hard enough to make his jaw creek, but he does not agree. “Are you still breathing?”

“Fuck you,” Scout gasps.

“Good.” He drags himself up onto his elbows by sheer force of will. “You must keep breathing because I can’t reach you to do that again.”

Scout is glaring at him through wet eyes as he cradles his cheek. “You punched me in the face.”

“You’re welcome.” Spy lets his head hang low as he catches his own breath. “I will only say this one time so listen very closely. There is nothing wrong with me, and there is nothing wrong with you . Understand?”

Apparently he will have to repeat himself because Scout rolls to face away from him with a mumbled “you don’t know anything ”. Spy drags himself forward, reaches around Scout’s torso to grab the front of his shirt, and jerks him onto his back.

“You listen to me you little pest. You have many, many things to be ashamed of. You are irritating, and stupid, and have somehow reached the age of twenty-seven without learning that all doors handles are labeled with push or pull . I have seen your laundry habits and they are revolting. I don’t know how you carry half of my genes because not a day goes by where I don’t look upon you with both horror and mortal embarrassment. I cannot even begin to count the things you should be ashamed of but this is not one of them. ”

Scout stares at Spy’s face. His lungs are still hitching, but he’s breathing and that’s what matters.

Spy holds his breath for a count of three, then lets it slowly back out. He gently takes Scout’s chin in hand. “Let me see.”

“Fuck you,” Scout mumbles, but doesn’t resist when Spy turns his head to assess the damage.

His cheek is already red and starting to swell. There will be an impressive bruise by morning, but the skin is unbroken and his jaw bones seem fine. “You’re alright. I don’t have any ice or I would have used it on myself.”

“I’m telling Ma you punched me in the face,” Scout says petulantly.

“I’ll tell her you swore at me,” Spy counters, “We’ll both be killed.”

Scout barks out a laugh, wincing as it pulls his facial muscles. “Yeah. Fuck you’ve got a mean right hook.”

“So I’ve been told.”

They lie panting on the hot tarmac. Spy is in immeasurable pain, yet he feels… good? Satisfied, like this is the first thing he’s done right in a long time. He wonders if this is how parental feels.

“Think you could teach me that?” Scout asks.

Spy rolls onto his back and forces himself to sit upright. “Let’s get out of here, then I’ll consider teaching you how to punch.”

This is, of course, when Spy registers the rumbling approach of a car engine. He leans into the road to confirm: a large black car is driving up the road toward them. Scout follows his line of sight and begins to swear.

“Scout—”

Scout is already pulling Spy’s arm over his shoulder. “Nope.”

“Scout, listen to me—”

“No.”

“ Scout. They will be here any moment, the car is not working and I cannot run. You need to—”

“Need to what? ” Scout gestures to the road surrounding scrubland. “There's nowhere to hide, and I can't outrun a car! And, even if I could do something, I ain’t leaving you here to get killed.”

“Get under the car,” Spy finishes lamely. “I can distract them while you figure out what to do.”

“I said I ain’t—”

A black car pulls over behind theirs.

“I will find a way out of this,” Spy whispers, “It will be alright.”

“You're such a fuckin' liar,” Scout hisses back.

Spy squeezes his shoulder. “ Go. ”

Scout finally skirts around the side of the car when the Russian doors pop open. Spy takes a breath to sit up and compose himself, carefully opening a knife in each sleeve as two heavy sets of footsteps crunch across the gravel.

One of the hulking agents says something. Spy’s Russian isn’t fluent, but he picks out enough to know these people aren’t pleased about the car chase and dead coworkers.

“Lady,” he says cordially, “Gentleman. Weren’t there three of you?”

“And two of you,” the man replies. “It seems our missing comrades will have to find each other.”

Spy subtly shifts his weight off his injured leg. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Oh yes,” the woman says, cracking her knuckles with a grin. Her partner pulls a pistol from his pocket and levels it at Spy’s head.

“Small man,” he calls loudly, “If you run, I kill your friend.”

“We are hardly friends,” Spy mutters.

The man thumbs back the safety. “You have until three. One.”

“You are wasting your time. He went for help and will be miles away by now--”

“Two--”

Somewhere behind them, glass shatters. The woman jerks toward the sound, but the man does not so much as flinch.

“Ah,” the woman says, pulling an identical pistol from her own jacket, “There you are.”

She disappears from view, followed by the sound of several feet scuffling across dirt and broken glass. Someone yells, then gurgles; someone punches someone else hard enough to activate their gag reflex. The struggle ends, and one set of footsteps return.

Scout is dumped on the ground next to Spy. His front is covered in Russian arterial spray, and he immediately curls around his injured stomach and begins to wretch. Both agents step back to avoid the resulting stomach contents.

“Petrov is dead,” the woman says. She annoyed, rather than upset, about this turn of events. Apparently these agents are consummate professionals.

“Unfortunate,” the man replies, passing the woman his gun. “Put the body in this car and set it on fire.”

“ Don’t burn my stuff, ” Scout wheezes.

Spy rolls his eyes. “I will buy you a dozen new baseball bats if we survive this.”

“You will not,” the man says cheerfully.

Under the woman’s watchful aim, he moves Scout’s arms behind his back and cuffs them together. He does the same thing to Spy, then escorts him to the Russian car trunk with surprising care while his associate relocates “Petrov’s” body. Scout, who has apparently earned considerably rougher treatment, is unceremoniously dropped in next to him.

“We will be driving for the next few hours,” the man says, “Please be patient. Thank you for your cooperation.”

He slams the lid closed.

The trunk would be spacious enough for two grown men to lie head-to-toe in relative comfort if it weren’t also occupied by several large boxes. Spy is forced to hunch his knees up and curl his torso forward toward Scout’s chest. He can just make out Scout’s silhouette in the light filtering in from a gap in the tail light.

Scout groans.

“If you throw up on me, you will not live long enough to be tortured,” Spy says. He rolls his shoulders and bumps an arm against the trunk lid.

“You’re freakin’ welcome,” Scout replies.

“Oh yes, thank you so very much for getting me locked in a trunk with you. Stop squirming, there isn’t enough room.”

As usual, Scout completely ignores him and continues to fidget. “What are you complaining about? I saved your life.”

The car begins to cough. Spy holds a momentary hope that the engine was damaged during the chase, but it, too, ignores him and turns over. The wheels rolls along the gravel, then along the smoother asphalt as they drive back onto the road. “You had a chance to get away. One had to watch me, you could have taken them out individually.”

“After they killed you, right?”

“I am incapacitated and the car will not work. One of us getting out was the best case scenario, and since ‘incapacitated’ means ‘unable to run from Russian hit men’, it was meant to be you .” Spy grunts as Scout headbutts his chest. “Would you stop moving?”

“Hold on a sec.”

“There are no more seconds to hold on to!” Spy sighs heavily. “I was prepared to die for you, you imbecile.”

“Whoa. Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.” Spy attempts to find a more comfortable position for his shoulders. He fails miserably, just as he seems to have failed at so many things. “Your mother wants us to be a family. Until recently I thought it was impossible, and now that I would like to try, we are out of time.”

“You…?” Scout clears his throat in a way that doesn’t actually cover his cracking voice. “I thought you hated me.”

“I cannot honestly say that I like you, but no, I do not hate you.”

The tires grind against the uneven road. Spy wonders how much can be said in the handful of hours they have left.

“I don’t hate you either,” Scout says quietly.

Spy smiles humorlessly. “It’s amazing how easy it is to be honest at the end of one’s life.”

Scout clears his throat again. “Yeah, no. I don’t like that.”

There’s a click, and a moment later something smacks Spy hard enough to jerk his head to the side. “ Merde! ” He swears, more surprised than hurt.

“Whoops. Where’s your hands, asshole? We’re bustin’ out of here.”

“Did you just slap me? ” Spy asks incredulously.

“Nah, I turned upside-down when you weren’t looking and kicked you in the face. Of course I slapped you, you freakin’ drama queen.” Scout starts patting down Spy’s shoulders. “Calm the fuck down.”

“ I am calm!”

“Make peace with your maker in silence,” someone yells from the cabin.

They freeze. Spy takes a deep breath to center himself as Scout cautiously continues the search for his hands. “I am calm. Please explain.”

Scout jingles something. Spy can just make out his grin in the murky darkness. “Got the keys.”

“I see.” Deep breaths, in and out. “And where did you get them?”

“The lady’s pocket, when she was carrying me back to the car.” Scout finally locates Spy’s bound hands and shoves something into the locking mechanism, twisting it about until the cuffs pop open. “Couldn’t have got them if I’d run.”

Spy rubs his wrists where the handcuffs bit in. “No, I suppose you couldn’t have,” he replies. “Does this plan of yours have further details?”

“Yep,” Scout says, army-crawling into the mess of boxes. “Get the keys, get dumped in the trunk, use the keys to get free. Then--” He makes a triumphant noise and shoves an assortment of things into Spy’s chest. “Use the stuff I stashed before killing the Rooski to get in some batting and shooting practice.”

Spy examines the things he’s holding. It’s Scout’s scattergun which, upon inspection, comes fully loaded and with almost a dozen rounds of ammunition. He has no idea how Scout managed to hide all this in the time between Spy’s capture and killing the Russian agent. For once, he doesn’t care to question it.

“I got into the car through the backseat armrest last time,” Scout says, draping his bat over his shoulder. “You up for it?”

It’s a challenge. Trapped in a Russian car trunk in the middle of the god-forsaken state of Florida with his occasionally clever son, Spy grins and cracks the shotgun’s chamber back into place. “I could be persuaded.”

It takes a full week to drive their newly acquired car way back to base. Spy limps to Miss Pauling’s office under his own power because he’ll be damned before he shows weakness in front of his own team.

“Did it go well?” Miss Pauling asks during debriefing. Both her eyebrows have crept up her forehead as she takes them in their grungey clothing and motley collection of injuries.

“Yes,” Spy replies.

“We escaped and are still alive,” Scout says with a wide grin.

“Mikhail betrayed us,” Spy elaborates, “Apparently he is upset with RED setting monsters on his organization.”

Miss Pauling jots something down on her clipboard. “The Administrator thought that might be the case. Thank you for looking into it.” She eyes their assorted injuries. “Do you require medical attention?”

“Nothing more than a moment with the medigun,” Spy says quickly. They’d robbed a pharmacy on the way home for supplies to stabilize Spy’s leg, and after learning about the energy drink experiments, Spy finds himself strangely opposed to leaving Scout in Medic’s dubious care. Will wonders never cease?

“Alright then. You can submit your reports tomorrow, go ahead and turn in.”

Spy gives his thanks and leaves so Scout can kiss Miss Pauling’s cheek in goodbye. “What on Earth does she see in you,” he asks as they hobble towards the residential hall.

“Dunno,” Scout says good-naturedly. “Also fuck you.”

Spy thinks of his own relationship with Scout’s mother. To be honest, he doesn’t know what such a beautiful and terrifying woman sees in him either. The only explanation is that he passed on some kind of charm and luck to the next generation. The thought is warming. “Fuck you too,” he replies fondly.

Epilogue:

Spy stakes out an armchair at the common room table early the next morning, supplying himself a full cup of coffee and the extended edition of the morning paper for cover. Sniper’s schedule on their days off can be unpredictable --Spy has known his to rise with the sun, but has also known him to sleep until noon and stay up until the next sunrise-- and he doesn’t want to miss him.

Sure enough, Sniper makes his appearance an hour later. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt and ratty jeans (two of the few casual clothing items he owns) and, for some unfathomable reason, his dirty hat and outdated sunglasses. Spy has only seen him take them off in sleep and death. He perhaps thinks it makes him look professional, which says something grievous about the man’s sense of style.

Sniper wanders into the kitchen and pulls a jar of something Australian down from the shelves. Spy surreptitiously watches him rummage through the fridge, presumably looking for bread to put in the toaster, then fill the coffee pot Spy purposefully left empty. He chooses the bland, American blend when the clearly superior European style roast is right next to it on the shelf. Poor taste in weapons, poor taste in clothes, poor taste in coffee; Sniper is a conglomerate of bad decisions piled into the shape of a man with a hat. No wonder Scout is so thoroughly charmed.

The door slams open, causing Sniper to fumble the coffee container and spill half the grounds into the sink. Good riddance.

“Yo Spy,” Scout calls, jogging across the room as Sniper swears about the coffee on his ‘last good jumper’.

“...good morning,” Spy says.

Scout slings himself into an adjacent chair. “Guess what I got in the mail.”

“I do not care.”

Scout extracts a few papers from his pocket. They are wrinkled from storage in his disgusting pants, but still creased into the distinct tri-fold of something sent in an envelope. “You’ll never guess.”

Spy fixes Scout with his least impressed stare and takes a long, deliberate sip of his coffee. “A letter,” he says at length.

“Jackass,” Scout says affably. “Yeah, a letter. It’s from your gay Russian buddy.”

Spy feels his eyebrows creep upwards. “What does he want?”

“He says he wants to tell me embarrassing stories about when you guys were together.”

“What? ”

Scout jerks the papers back before Spy can grab them. “ Dear Scout ,” he reads, “ I write in the hopes of introducing myself, since there was no opportunity to do so at our last meeting. I hope you’ll excuse my lack of manners --ooo, there’s a semicolon here, fuckin’ fancy-- as I’d been sent to kill you and couldn’t risk letting down the appearance of professionalism.”

Spy reaches over the side table for the letter. Scout braces a foot against the floor and tips his armchair sideways to keep them out of reach.

“ In the name of the good relations I’d like to build between us, I will hazard a guess: if I know your ‘coworker’, and I like to think I do, he will not have given any details about his life. Twenty-seven years is a long time to go with no information about one’s ‘coworker’.”

“Stop that,” Spy snaps, shoving Scout’s foot out from under him. The chair over-balances and thumps to the floor; Scout somehow bounces to his feet and dances just out of Spy’s increasingly desperate reach.

“For instance, ” Scout continues mercilessly, jogging backwards as Spy storms toward him, “You probably don’t know that he has a terrible snore. It can be heard down the hall with the door closed. He takes great pains to silence himself, lest any bunkmates learn of this terrible secret.”

“Scout,” Spy hisses in warning.

“And that he has a tattoo on his lower back --holy shit, Spy, you got a tramp stamp?! -- from overestimating his alcohol tolerance during a mission. Charmingly, it’s in the shape of a--”

Finally giving up the pretense of composure, Spy tackles his son into the couch. They grapple violently for the letter (growing up with seven brothers seems to have made Scout prone to biting) until Spy manages to twist Scout’s arm behind his back and forcibly pry the papers out of his hand.

“You will not speak of this,” Spy says, “Nor will you answer it--”

“Already did,” Scout says with a grin.

Spy makes a noise of disgust and shoves Scout’s head between the cushions. It muffles Scout’s laughter but, infuriatingly, doesn’t stop it.

“S’not a bad thing,” says Sniper, who naturally chooses this moment to re-materialize from the kitchen to lean against the common room wall with his stupid ‘#1 Sniper’ mug in hand. “You okay there, kiddo?”

Scout says something about not being able to breathe

“You’re fine,” Spy snaps, “And you will not speak of this either, bushman.”

Sniper remains unaffected. “I’m serious. You were never gonna tell him anything, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Now you’ve got something to talk about, and a few embarrassing stories are a good start to being a better dad.”

Scout makes a long series of outraged noises. Spy catches “oh my god” and “what the fuck” and “does he fuckin’ know?” and “why am I the last person to know about this?!” before Scout finally passes out from the oxygen deprivation.

“You’re gonna kill him,” Sniper says off-handedly.

“He’s fine,” Spy says again, “Explain yourself.”

He shrugs. “Meant what I said. You owe your kid something for running off. He can get to know you and have a laugh at the same time.”

Spy considers this. This certainly isn’t what he would have chosen, but Sniper has a point. “You suggest I allow an internationally known assassin to correspond with my son . In the hopes that it will bring us together?”

Sniper takes a long drink from his mug. It’s the same gesture Spy used earlier. Spy knows it, and he’s certain Sniper knows he knows.

“I don’t like you,” Spy says.

“Don’t care,” Sniper replies between sips, “Wanna tell me why you were watching me?”

Spy finally releases his grip on the back of Scout’s head and pulls him out of the couch. Once he’s sure Scout is still alive, he turns back to the conversation. “I was trying to understand what Scout sees in you.”

Sniper raises an eyebrow.

“I did not find anything worth understanding, but he seems to enjoy your company for some reason. Perhaps that is enough.” Spy straightens his tie. “Do try to be less of a bad influence, hmm?”

“I’m not a--”

“Make sure he does not die,” he says, straightening his tie. “ Au revoir , bushman; au bientot , Scout.”

“Bye,” Scout replies woozily.

Spy takes his leave as Sniper props Scout into a sitting position. The door closes on Sniper informing Scout that’s he’s fine, Scout mumbling something about hearing that a lot lately.

The door closes behind him. Spy lights a cigarette from his case, breathes in the smoke, and lets it slowly hiss back out. There is no fighting today. Perhaps he will pay the good doctor a visit to discuss his ‘energy drink’ experiments.

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davidoespailla · 6 years

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The Most Expensive Neighborhood in Every State in America

iStock; realtor.com

We’re curious. There’s no other way to explain our fascination—make that obsession—with the biggest, the best, and the richest. We always desire a glimpse inside the lives of the wealthiest among us, to learn what cars they drive, what clothes they wear, and, most importantly, where they live. (What else could possibly explain 14 seasons of “The Real Housewives of Orange County”?)

To satisfy our innate curiosity about high-end housing, the data team at realtor.com® set out to pinpoint the most expensive neighborhoods in each and every state. Plus DC, because why not?

To track down each state’s priciest place, our data team calculated the median listing price for every ZIP code in the U.S. in 2018. ZIP codes with fewer than an average of 30 listings per month were eliminated, to make sure the results weren’t skewed by a few big-ticket listings.

The result is a fascinating mix of places you’ve probably heard of alongside some up-and-coming bastions of wealth. You’ll find them below in alphabetical order by state.

Grab your checkbook and take a look!

Alabama

Birmingham, AL (Mountain Brook) ZIP code: 35223 Median home list price: $611,612

Mountain Brook in Birmingham, AL

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Birmingham’s real estate market is in the midst of a boom, with new jobs delivering droves of eager home buyers into the burbs. But only the elite earn a spot in the Magic City’s southeastern suburb of Mountain Brook, which has long been a haven for the city’s upper crust, according to Zachary Armstrong, a real estate agent with Berkshire Hathaway in Birmingham. They’re flocking to Beverly Hills–style estates built in the 1920s with enormous pools, manicured lawns, and city views. Plus, the suburb offers low property tax rates and the highest-rated schools in the state—a potent combo.

Alaska

Anchorage, AK ZIP code: 99516 Median home list price: $537,129

Anchorage, AK

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Ever dream of quitting your stressful 9-to-5 and taking off for greener pastures? How about whiter and fluffier ones? For years deep-pocketed international buyers have done just that, swooping into the upscale southeast section of Anchorage where huge cedar and wood homes offer primo views of snow-capped mountains.

“At first it was a lot of Canadians, but we’ve also been seeing Koreans, Russians, and Germans,” says Jacob Sebring, a local real estate agent with Keller Williams.

Arizona

Paradise Valley, AZ ZIP code: 85253 Median home list price: $2,263,540

Paradise Valley, AZ

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Nestled between Phoenix and Scottsdale, Paradise Valley manages to juggle a few distinct personas: amped-up tourist locale (eight full-service resorts!), upscale retirement mecca (one-quarter of the city’s population is aged 65 and up, according to the U.S. Census Bureau), and, weirdly, hot spot for pro athletes. But the last part of that equation may be falling off a bit: Over the past year, we’ve seen Randy Johnson, Larry Fitzgerald, and Matt Williams all put their Paradise Valley megamansions on the market.

Arkansas

Fayetteville, AR ZIP code: 72703 Median home list price: $417,265

Fayetteville, AR

DenisTangneyJr/iStock

It’s the Walmart effect. Questions?

California

Beverly Hills, CA ZIP code: 90210 Median home list price: $6,062,925

Beverly Hills, CA

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Despite the frenzied attention paid lately to the eye-popping home prices in Silicon Valley and San Francisco, the old-money enclave of Beverly Hills holds its own as the wealthiest neighborhood in the Golden State—and the most expensive town in America.

The iconic 90210 ZIP did more than just launch one of the most fab shows of the ’90s (the less said about the CW reboot, the better), it also boasts some of the nation’s most extravagant properties, including the Beverly House, a 19-bedroom estate once owned by William Randolph Hearst. Even dirt and trees go for big bucks in this sunny paradise. Case in point? This massive plot of land on the market for $1 billion. And no, there isn’t a house on it.

Colorado

Snowmass, CO ZIP code: 81654 Median home list price: $3,355,488

Snowmass, CO

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With home prices in red-hot cities like Denver and Boulder soaring, it might come as a surprise that a small ski village topped Colorado’s most expensive list.

Location, location, location: Nestled in the Colorado Mountains, Snowmass is just a 25-minute drive to ultraposh Aspen. This ski town’s housing stock consists mostly of enormous mansions—unlike in Aspen, where a plethora of small condos have pulled down the median prices.

Connecticut

Greenwich, CT ZIP code: 06831 Median home list price: $2,625,154

Greenwich, CT

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Located within easy-peasy commuting distance to New York City, Greenwich is the crown jewel of Connecticut’s “Gold Coast”—a cluster of leafy and enormously affluent suburban towns along the Long Island Sound. It’s long been the destination for ungodly rich hedge fund managers or titans of industry who want to spread out and escape midtown Manhattan.

Some real estate markets in the tri-state region are seeing slowdowns, but not Greenwich. Area mansions are still selling briskly, according to Leslie McElwreath, a real estate agent at Sotheby’s International.

Delaware

Wilmington, DE (Westover Hills) ZIP code: 19807 Median home list price: $890,829

Wilmington, DE

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Fun fact: Even though it was set in Vermont, 1989’s “Dead Poets Society” was the first major Hollywood release filmed entirely in Delaware, most of it in the Westover Hills area (yep, even the traumatizing student suicide scene).

Today Westover Hills, just 10 minutes north of downtown Wilmington, is sought-after for its old-money homes built in the late 1920s and 1930s, says Tucker Robbins, a real estate agent with Berkshire Hathaway.

“The neighborhood blends Tudor-style homes with Georgian-style homes with Colonial homes,” he says. “Our community fights to keep this particular look, and people are willing to spend the money to be a part of it.”

District of Columbia

Washington, DC (Georgetown) ZIP code: 20007 Median home list price: $1,246,663

Georgetown in Washington, DC

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Scores of wealthy diplomats, lobbyists, and politicians have called Georgetown home over the years. Administrations come and go, but the beautiful brick homes and 100-year-old Colonial row houses in this neighborhood continue to attract those who want to live in style close to the action. Home prices in this famous neighborhood along the Potomac River begin in the seven digits and range all the way up to $18 million.

Florida

Miami Beach, FL (Fisher Island) ZIP code: 33109 Median home list price: $3,592,981

Fisher Island in Miami Beach, FL

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Just off the shores of Miami, Fisher Island has become a second-home destination for many of the world’s wealthiest folks—including Russian oligarchs, who keep their helicopters and yachts here. The 200-acre island, once owned by the Vanderbilt family, is accessible only by ferry, water taxi, or helicopter. Luxury condos and villas dominate the housing stock and can easily top $10 million, including this five-bedroom beauty for $12 million.

Georgia

Sea Island, GA ZIP code: 31561 Median home list price: $2,786,717

Sea Island, GA

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Sea Island, a privately owned territory about 60 miles south of Savannah, has long been a hot spot for the ruling class. The centerpiece is the Sea Island Beach Club and its accompanying hotel, The Cloister. After President Calvin Coolidge vacationed there in 1928, Sea Island gained national attention. It wasn’t long before Eugene O’Neill and John D. Rockefeller Jr. bought property in the area, and the VIP cavalcade has barely abated since.

Buyers are attracted to the oceanfront mansions with manicured lawns and mature oaks, such as this 5,700-square-foot palace for a cool $14.95 million.

Hawaii

Kilauea, HI ZIP code: 96754 Median home list price: $2,285,904

Kilauea, HI

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At the northern tip of the island of Kauai, you’ll find Kilauea, a small community with multimillion-dollar homes that boast ocean views that are almost painfully beautiful. The place worked its charms on Mark Zuckerberg, who bought a coveted (and controversial) piece of property along the ocean.

Homes on this part of the island are often relatively modest structures, but you don’t come to Hawaii for megamansions.

In Kilauea, “most homes are within walking distance to all Hawaii has to offer: swimming, snorkeling, and hiking,” says Danette Andrews, a real estate agent at Sotheby’s International Realty in Kauai.

Idaho

Ketchum, ID ZIP code: 83340 Median home list price: $1,488,696

Ketchum, ID

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Ketchum gained attention after it caught the eye of Ernest Hemingway in the late 1950s. The novelist loved fishing and hunting in the area so much that he bought a home overlooking Wood River, where he lived until his death in 1961.

Today, the area is popular with wealthy and famous folks looking for a (beautiful) second home near plenty of outdoor activities. Ketchum is right next to the famed Sun Valley ski resort, and it’s also a prime spot for media titans thanks to the annual Allen & Company Sun Valley Conference. It pretty much defines chic-but-mellow ski town ambiance.

Illinois

Kenilworth, IL ZIP code: 60043 Median home list price: $1,517,467

Kenilworth, IL

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Businessman Joseph Sears sought to create the perfect (and perfectly opulent) suburban community when he planned and built Kenilworth in the late 1800s. Flash forward to 1987, and it was the cherished place where Steve Martin‘s character struggles to make it home for Thanksgiving in “Planes, Trains and Automobiles.”

Dubbed “the most exclusive neighborhood in the Midwest” by Forbes, this Chicago ZIP code is still a mecca for suburban bliss. The city’s heavy hitters are lured by the quiet streets and the giant estates that Sears once dreamed about.

Indiana

Zionsville, IN ZIP code: 46077 Median home list price: $560,520

Zionsville, IN

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Just 18 miles north of downtown Indianapolis, Zionsville is sought-after for its excellent schools and redeveloped downtown, complete with restaurants, boutiques, and year-round festivals.

“I get a lot of people moving in from out of state who will commute down to the city,” says Kelly Lavengood, a real estate agent with the Lavengood Team in Indianapolis. The high end of the market stretches to about $3 million.

Iowa

Cedar Rapids, IA ZIP code: 52411 Median home list price: $450,469

Cedar Rapids, IA

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The northwest side of Cedar Rapids is the place to be! However, some may call it trouble in paradise. The city is attracting so many deep-pocketed buyers that wannabe home buyers are finding it more difficult to score a house. Competition is through the roof, with homes selling way over listing price.

Kansas

Leawood, KS ZIP code: 66211 Median home list price: $1,078,967

Leawood, KS

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Leawood’s small-town charm and proximity to Kansas City have spurred real estate prices, says local real estate agent Tamra Trickey with ReeceNichols. Lately there’s been a housing shortage, and three-bedroom, two-bathroom homes can easily fetch over $1 million.

Kentucky

Goshen, KY ZIP code: 40026 Median home list price: $545,298

Goshen, KY

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Just 20 miles northeast of Louisville, Goshen is home to a number of historic horse farms in its high-end neighborhoods. Not only do these farms raise property values, but equestrian property buyers are willing to cough up extra cash to keep their precious ponies in their own backyard. Giddyap!

Louisiana

New Orleans, LA (Lakeview) ZIP code: 70124 Median home list price: $511,027

Lakeview neighborhood in New Orleans, LA

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Few neighborhoods in New Orleans were harder hit by Hurricane Katrina than the upper-middle-class enclave Lakeside, which completely flooded after the levees were breached.

Its “very existence was in peril,” according to The Advocate. But after federally funded rebuilding, Lakeview rebounded with a vengeance and is now thriving—and it’s more upscale now than before the storm. Currently, you’ll find no shortage of pricey properties, including this Colonial-style home for $849,000.

Maine

Kennebunkport, ME ZIP code: 04046 Median home list price: $727,765

Kennebunkport, ME

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This tiny town is home to some seriously big bucks and understated wealth, New England style. Expect to see popped collars, vintage yachts, and four- to five-bedroom homes quaintly referred to as “cottages.”

On the banks of the Atlantic you’ll find Walker’s Point, the summer compound of the late President George H.W. Bush. Former Florida Gov. Jeb Bush recently built his own cottage on the land.

Maryland

Potomac, MD ZIP code: 20854 Median home list price: $1,346,967

Potomac, MD

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Many of DC’s movers and shakers actually live in Maryland, where the vibe is..

The Most Expensive Neighborhood in Every State in America

#TRUSTED LOCAL REALTOR #The Most Expensive Neighborhood in Every State in America

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