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The world snapped back into place with the familiar crack of the respawn system.
For a split second, everything was white—then sound rushed in all at once.
Boots hit metal. Weapons clattered. Someone laughed too loud, too sharp, the kind of laugh that only came after surviving something that should’ve killed them twice over.
RED base.
They were back.
“HA!” Soldier barked, already halfway into a victory stance, chest puffed out like he’d personally conquered the concept of war itself. “Did you SEE that final push?! Textbook domination!”
“Textbook?” Demoman snorted, “Lad, there was nothin’ ‘textbook’ about ye runnin’ straight into a sentry nest screamin’.”
“And it WORKED,” Soldier shot back, pointing like that settled it.
Nearby, Heavy let out a low, satisfied chuckle, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the last remnants of the fight.
“Good battle,” he said simply, the corners of his mouth lifting. That was high praise, coming from him.
Metal doors hissed. The base hummed. It was over.
And just like that, the tension bled out of the room, replaced by something looser. Lighter.
“Alright, alright—” Scout clapped his hands together, already bouncing on the balls of his feet, “We crushed ‘em. Ya all know what dat means.”
That got immediate reactions.
Demoman grinned. “Oh, I know exactly what that means.”
Engineer tipped his hard hat back. “Think we got a fresh batch in the fridge.”
Sniper, leaning against the wall, just muttered, “Finally.”
Even Spy, who had been meticulously brushing dust off his suit like the battlefield had personally offended him, paused—just slightly.
Everyone knew what came next.
Beer. Loud, messy, probably involving at least one broken chair and a very questionable singing attempt.
Scout opened his mouth—but hesitated.
It was small. Barely noticeable. But it was enough.
He glanced around at them—really looked, for once. At the scuffed armor, the tired eyes, the way everyone was already slipping into the same routine they always did.
Same win. Same celebration.
Same everything.
“…Actually,” Scout said, dragging the word out just enough to make a few heads turn, “I got a better idea.”
That alone was enough to raise suspicion.
Sniper narrowed his eyes. “That so.”
Spy gave a soft, disbelieving scoff. “Zis should be good.”
Scout pointed at them like he was about to drop the greatest plan in human history.
“No beer tonight.”
Silence.
It hit like a missed step.
Demoman blinked. “…I’m sorry, what?”
“No beer,” Scout repeated, firmer now, like if he said it with enough confidence it’d sound less insane. “We do somethin’ different.”
Engineer folded his arms, intrigued despite himself. “Different how, exactly?”
Scout grinned. Not his usual cocky, I’m-about-to-do-something-stupid grin. Something lighter.
“Let’s go get ice cream.”
“…Ice cream,” Sniper echoed flatly.
“Yeah!” Scout snapped his fingers. “C’mon, man, think about it—cold, sweet, not gonna make Demo pass out in da hallway—”
“Oi!” Demoman protested, though not very convincingly.
“—we actually go out, do somethin’ normal for once. Like—like regular people!”
“Zat is deeply unsettling,” Spy muttered.
Scout’s sprawled across the table, boots up on a chair, gesturing wildly. “C’mon! We win all da time. Beer party, beer party, beer party— I’m sayin’ we mix it up! Ice cream party. Boom. Revolutionary.”
Spy barely looks up from his cigarette. “Ice cream is for children. And Americans with no palate.”
Scout fires back instantly. “Oh yeah? Then why does every fancy restaurant ya drag us to have dessert, huh? What, suddenly sugar’s beneath ya?”
That’s when it goes weirdly… quiet.
Heavy hums, thoughtful. “Beer makes victory loud. Ice cream would make victory… comfortable.”
Engineer chuckles, leaning back. “Can’t argue with that. Been feelin’ like we’re celebratin’ on autopilot lately.”
Demoman squints at his bottle. “Don’t get me wrong, lads, I love beer. But even I can admit it’s startin’ tae taste like routine.”
Soldier slams a fist on the table. “VARIETY IS THE SPICE OF WAR. I SUPPORT THE FROZEN DAIRY OPTION.”
Scout lights up like he just won a court case. “YES. Thank you. Finally, a room full’a visionaries.”
Spy exhales slowly, clearly outnumbered now.
“…Very well. If we must indulge in zis childishness—zen we will do it properly. No sprinkles.” He said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Pyro, who has been silently drawing a smiley face on the condensation of a beer bottle, lets out an excited muffled noise and starts hopping in place.
“Fascinating! Cold desserts improve morale and dopamine levels. I vill observe very closely.” Medic announced, already halfway to the door.
And just like that, it stops being about ice cream and starts being about something else; breaking routine, letting themselves enjoy a win without getting blitzed and doing something soft for once, even if none of them will ever admit that out loud.
Scout doesn’t have the words for it, but he feels it anyway—this rare, almost domestic moment where nobody’s yelling (much), nobody’s bleeding, and victory tastes sweet instead of bitter.
———
The bell over the door jingles—cheerful, tinny, mocking—and Spy freezes mid-step.
Pastel.
So much pastel.
The walls are an aggressive bubblegum pink, the kind that looks like it was chosen by someone who has never felt shame. White swirls curl up toward the ceiling. There are cartoon ice cream cones painted everywhere, all smiling in a way that feels deeply personal.
Spy’s eye twitches.
“…Mon dieu,” he mutters, like he’s just walked into a crime scene.
Scout, of course, thrives instantly. “Oh dis rules. Lookat dis place! It’s got character!”
“Zis place has a migraine,” Spy snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can feel ze color.”
Heavy ducks slightly through the doorway, taking it all in with surprising calm.
“It is… pink,” he says diplomatically.
“Seen worse. At least it’s clean.” Engineer tips his hat back, amused.
Soldier salutes one of the painted cones. “THE WALLS ARE THE COLOR OF VICTORY STRAWBERRY.”
Pyro lets out a delighted muffled squeal and spins once in place, immediately drawn to a corner booth shaped like a sundae cup.
“Zis is exactly why ice cream should be consumed privately. In silence. In a neutral-toned room.” Spy peels off his gloves with exaggerated restraint, like the wallpaper itself might be contagious.
“Relax, Eiffel Tower. You’ll survive.” Scout grins at him, already halfway to the counter.
Then Spy sees the menu board.
It’s handwritten in looping cursive. Little hearts dot the i’s. There are sparkles. Actual glitter embedded in the paint.
He exhales through his nose, slow and long.
“If anyone requires me,” he says coolly, “I will be dissociating.”
Behind the counter, the teen employee blinks at the group of armed mercenaries now filling their shop, eyes landing briefly on Heavy before snapping back to Scout.
“…Uh. Welcome to Sugar Rush?”
Scout beams.
“Yeah! We’re celebratin’. Big wins. No beer. Gimme—” he squints at the board, overwhelmed, “—uh. Everything?”
Spy closes his eyes. This is going to take hours.
He steps up to the counter like a man approaching the gallows.
Straightens his tie. Smooths his suit. Lowers his voice into something controlled, cultured—adult.
“I will have,” he says carefully, “a single scoop of espresso gelato. In a cup. No garnish.”
Behind him, chaos immediately erupts.
“WHADDYA MEAN DEY GOT COOKIE DOUGH CHUNKS,” Scout shouts, leaning halfway over Spy’s shoulder. “LIKE—ACTUAL DOUGH? Dat’s genius.”
“I REQUIRE THE LARGEST CONTAINER OF CHOCOLATE AVAILABLE,” Heavy adds, entirely too close to the counter. “In bowl. Possibly second bowl.”
Demoman squints at the menu, swaying slightly. “Ye got rum raisin? Please tell me ye got rum raisin.”
Soldier slams a fist onto the glass display case. “DO YOU SERVE FREEDOM FLAVORS.”
The employee—poor, doomed soul—blinks rapidly, eyes darting between Spy’s immaculate posture and the wall of lunacy behind him.
“Yes—yes, we have espresso—uh—gelato,” they say, hands shaking just a little.
Spy nods, pretending he cannot hear the shrill squeal Pyro makes upon discovering the toppings bar.
“Sprinkles!” Scout yells. “Oh dude. Oh dude. Dey got dinosaur sprinkles.”
Spy’s jaw tightens.
He leans closer to the counter, lowering his voice even further. “I apologize for… ze ambiance. Zey are—how you say—unsupervised.”
Behind him, Engineer calmly adds, “Ah’ll take butter pecan. Two scoops. Cone’s fine.”
Medic pops up at Spy’s other side like a jack-in-the-box. “Ooh! And vat is your coldest flavor? I am testing pain thresholds.”
Spy does not look at him. “Medic. Step away from me.”
Too late.
At a nearby booth, a middle-aged couple has gone completely still. The woman clutches her spoon midair.
“…Is that—” someone whispers.
Scout finally notices the stares and grins, waving with his hand. “Hey! Don’t worry, we’re cool.”
This does not reassure anyone.
Spy receives his cup—small, dark, dignified—and accepts it like a sacred object. He turns, scanning the room: the pastel walls, the stunned civilians, his teammates loudly debating cones versus cups like it’s a matter of life and death.
He sighs.
“…I should ‘ave insisted on sorbet.”
And yet—when he takes a spoonful, standing there in a violently pink ice cream parlor with half of Teufort realizing they may not survive dessert—it’s good.
Very good.
He does not smile.
But he also does not complain.
They end up outside by accident more than design—Heavy simply claims the biggest booth on the patio, and the rest of them orbit him like it’s gravity.
The afternoon sun’s warm, the air smells like sugar and pavement, and for the first time in a while there’s no gunfire in the background. Just clinking spoons and the hum of Teufort being… weirdly peaceful.
Scout sits sideways on the bench, balancing a towering cookie-dough monstrosity. “See? Tell me dis ain’t better dan beer.”
He immediately drops a chunk back into the cup and scrambles to catch it.
Engineer chuckles, spooning up butter pecan with the care of a man who respects craftsmanship. “Gotta admit, kid’s got a point. Don’t remember the last time we celebrated without somebody passin’ out.”
Heavy eats chocolate slowly, methodically. One spoonful at a time.
“This is good,” he says simply, like that settles the matter.
“…Aye. It tastes like bad decisions, but in a friendly way.” Demoman squints into his rum raisin, contemplative.
Soldier is halfway through his cone already, ice cream smeared on his lip like war paint. “THIS IS A VICTORY FEAST.”
Pyro sits cross-legged on the bench, rainbow sherbet melting fast, humming happily and offering unsolicited spoonfuls to anyone who gets too close.
Medic, naturally, is taking notes. “Fascinating! Zhe cold induces joy and mild pain. Such efficient morale engineering!”
Spy sits at the end of the booth, espresso gelato in hand, posture immaculate despite the pastel carnage surrounding him. He pretends not to notice Scout watching him.
Scout smirks. “Ya like it.”
Spy does not look up. “It is… acceptable.”
Scout grins wider. “Yeah. Sure.”
For a few minutes, no one talks. They just eat. Watch cars go by. Listen to Pyro hum and Soldier loudly debate whether sprinkles are a “civilian weakness.”
Spy glances at them—at Heavy’s quiet contentment, at Engineer’s easy smile, at Scout laughing with his mouth full—and something in his shoulders eases.
He takes another spoonful.
“…Perhaps,” he says, almost to himself, “we do zis again sometime.”
Scout nearly drops his cup. “WAIT—did ya just say—”
“Do not make me regret it,” Spy snaps, but there’s no heat behind it.
And for once, victory doesn’t taste like hops or smoke or blood.
It tastes like sugar.
And melting ice cream.
And a team that, against all odds, chose to sit together and enjoy it.