Chapter 1: Leftover Wedding Cake
Chapter Text
The bride was shot in the lobby, and the groom died on the dance floor with a knife in his back. There are several others dead in the banquet hall—the entire the wedding party and most certainly all the immediate family members. At the very least, most of the wedding guests had fled at the sound of the first gunshot, which made the work quicker.
Law enforcement bought off. Venue staff paid to simply leave. No one will come to this ruined wedding reception for the rest of the night. All in all, a mission success.
A lone waiter pulls up a chair next to the wedding cake. There’s a good chance the cake is the only untouched item in the entire room; four tiers of frosting and fondant still white and pristine, edible pearls carefully placed at the edges. When the waiter cuts into the lowest portion, the flavor is chocolate with some sort of jammy fruit center.
Spy almost forgets to pull off his disguise. He sets the plate down, slipping off the paper mask. The disguise fizzles away, leaving just the austere waiter’s uniform, which had been a nice change of pace from his usual suit.
Spy finally drops into the chair, grabs the slice of cake, and starts eating. No sense in wasting the dessert. He knows how much these things cost and besides, he hadn’t the time to eat anything before completing his objective. After a moment, he reaches for a nearby bottle of champagne and a glass.
At the sound of shuffling near the reception hall doors, Spy hooks a second glass with his fingers. He pours for two.
Sniper closes the door. He has the bride gripped by the collar, dragging the corpse behind him like a game animal. The rustle from the petticoat of the bride’s dress echos between them, the beads and sewn-in gems scraping softly as Sniper hauls her across the dance floor.
Spy watches, eating his cake. Sniper doesn’t strike him as the repentant or guilty sort, especially when getting paid for a job, and he isn’t sure what to feel when Sniper slumps the bride’s body next to the groom and squats down to rearrange the limbs. That isn’t like Sniper at all—there’s not a bone of romance in him, nor a taste for dramatics.
“Hm,” says Spy, as Sniper rearranges the corpses; he makes them hold hands. “I did not think you’d be one for romantic theatrics.”
Sniper stands back up. The way he dusts off his hands and nudges the groom’s wayward foot with his boot seems to suggest otherwise.
“Nah. Our client requested it,” Sniper says, arms crossed as he inspects at his handiwork. “Thought I’d do it m’self since you were doing most of the leg work.”
Spy cuts himself another slice of cake, this time from the second tier. Vanilla, presumably, with some kind of tangy buttercream center. He eyes the bodies.
“Our client did seem a bit spurned and unhinged.” He takes a bite, lifting a hand over his mouth to cover his chewing before adding, “You should tip the bride’s head on the groom’s shoulder.”
Sniper does. He gives the poses another considering look. “Ah, ace. Thanks.”
Spy waves a dismissive hand. It isn’t rare to have requests for specific corpse arrangements, especially for framing an intended victim. Spy hopes Sniper thought to charge extra for it. If not, Spy will just take it out from Sniper’s cut for the consultation.
“That vanilla?” Sniper asks, perking up, now that the job’s done.
Spy holds up the plate and the second flute of champagne. “Plenty of cake to go around. And drink.”
Plenty of cake, but Sniper goes over and puts a hand on the back of Spy’s chair. He leans close with his mouth open, waiting, even before taking the glass of champagne.
It’s only after Spy feeds him a bite that Sniper allows a cheeky little toast between the two of them.
Chapter Text
There’s a little mantra that Sniper has, working all those years in the Outback. He’s faced all sorts of creatures, most of them monstrous things—massive gators, vicious emus, and the occasional unnamed horror that happens to have a great payout. It helps whenever he thinks he’s gone in over his head. Steadies his nerves, soothes his pounding heart. Makes him sure that whatever dangerous thing that’s out in the wild, he’s got the better of it. If it doesn’t die by a bullet through the skull then it’s got to be with the knife. If not the knife then he’s going to need more bullets.
If it bleeds, it can be hurt. If it bleeds, it can die.
And they always bleed, in one way or another.
Things change once Sniper signs on to BLU. Turns out—if it bleeds, it’ll still die. But staying dead? Not so much.
It takes some time getting used to. The mantra still runs through Sniper’s head on occasion, chanting between his ears when he aims his sights over the RED spy’s head.
He fires, and the spy turns to smoke. There’s no blood. A frustrated tremor runs through Sniper’s hands. If it bleeds—
He’ll never forget the first time he’s tried to kill the RED spy. The man simply disappears into thin air. A faint shimmer is all Sniper gets, a distorted warp in the distance that he’s learned to pick up on.
Not once has Sniper seen the man bleed. Even when Sniper swears up and down his bullet finds the mark through Spy’s chest, the red bloom of blood is hidden with the dark red of his suit. Spy collapses, dead by all rights, and Sniper stays with his scope trained on the corpse until the body disappears, and somehow he’s still left unsatisfied.
When he shoots Spy through the skull, it’s the first time Sniper has ever been disappointed by a headshot. Even Spy’s mask covers the blood, being shot so cleanly. So of course Spy respawns five minutes later. And if it bleeds—
The first time Spy kills him, Sniper stares with blood bubbling up his throat. He’s died before, but for some reason he feels the burn of humiliation and indignation when Spy glances at him with no particular interest before cloaking away. Again. It’s all business. It should be all business, but all Sniper sees is red.
If the bullet fails then it’s got to be the knife.
It stings his pride a little the next time Sniper guts Spy through his soft belly. If it bleeds, it can be hurt. He pulls out the kukri, wishing he hadn’t sharpened it so much that it simply slides out with no hint of resistance. It’s the nice thing to do, but when Spy only gives the faintest sigh of pain, Sniper starts to think that maybe he ought to make it hurt if there’s not enough blood.
The blade comes out clean, but Sniper doesn’t look at it. Instead, he stares at Spy’s fallen body, waiting for the blood to soak and spread through the red of his suit.
When it doesn’t, a spike of fear hits Sniper so hard he thinks it may not be entirely out of his own volition as he drops down over Spy’s body. He puts his hand over Spy’s jacket, clenching the thick fabric like he’s afraid Spy’s going to fade into smoke. His breathing is loud, too loud, and his ears are ringing. There’s a gnawing hunger in him, and he’s never one to fall so much into sick curiosity, but he’s built up so much in this moment and it surprises him by how much he wants, wants someone dead so badly.
“If it bleeds,” he mutters, unbuttoning the suit. He opens the vest, fingers brushing over slippery cloth, and sits back as Spy’s white dress shirt shows a growing red-soaked stain. His hand presses down, palm over the viscous jelly of coagulating blood, still warm. There it is.
He keeps his hand in place until the corpse fades, and the little mantra in his head comes back in full force.
—it can die. Over and over and over.
Chapter 3: stalemate
Summary:
Theme: One-word prompt
Prompt: Stalemate
Notes:
Based off of vogely's two-panels of undeniable restraint. :)
Chapter Text
Spy admits that he can’t be too surprised when Sniper finally loses his patience and boxes him in against the open window. What actually surprises him is how the Cloak and Dagger doesn’t deactivate as his back bumps against the sill, hands coming up to brace over the splintered wood edges.
It takes a moment for Spy to realize, with Sniper’s breath warm against his neck, that they haven’t actually touched. Practice and instinct has made Spy move unconsciously with Sniper, anticipating the space between them down to the millimeter. Of course, it takes two to pull it off—it only works if Sniper’s sense of spacial awareness is just as precise.
And it is. Sniper stares at Spy where their gazes should meet, but to anyone else it only looks as if Sniper is hunched over the window, glaring out into the distance.
Spy knows Sniper can’t see him either, but a little bit of doubt worms itself into the back of his mind as Sniper leans in and places his palms at either side of Spy’s hands on the window’s ledge, and it’s just the faintest brush of Sniper’s forefinger that connects with the cuff of Spy’s sleeve. It’s not enough to deactivate his invisibility.
There’s still the leftover snarl in Sniper’s expression, upper lip curled in annoyance. Spy supposes it’s understandable for the enemy sniper to be upset by two consecutive missed shots—due to two successful attempts to distract. Spy rather likes the look on Sniper, whose cheeks are flushed, eyes dark, with a flash of teeth that tempts at a dangerous idea neither one of them should entertain.
Spy stays completely still for the long moment it takes for Sniper to swallow. He waits for that flicker of doubt in Sniper’s eyes, lets the thought of overstepping cross the other man’s mind, before he brushes a finger back against Sniper’s glove. Purposeful enough to not be an accident, but still teasingly light to hint at an invitation. Or a challenge, so often as these things are with them.
There’s teeth in Sniper’s smile now. He lowers his head to Spy’s left side, setting a deliberate, careful pressure so calculated it makes Spy twitch, the muscles at his shoulder tensing as Sniper bites down with agonizing slowness.
They stay like that for a moment, waiting for the cloak to fail. Spy’s fortunate to be invisible with Sniper this close and this attentive. He doesn’t want to know what his expression could be; even with the mask, there’s no hiding how dark his eyes can become nor the way his lips tend to part when he wants something badly.
Sniper gradually mouths along the edge of Spy’s mask, nudging it up Spy’s neck. It almost feels sweet, like an affectionate nuzzle and not some kind of hungry act of restraint. The window sill creaks, loud in Spy’s ears. Spy glances down with only his eyes, sees that Sniper’s nails are digging into the wood, and something in him nearly bursts.
It’s Spy’s fault when his form almost flickers, a slight warp in the air as he sucks in a breath that goes too hard and fast, but also makes Sniper growl from his throat in response, hitching his jaw to clamp down tighter, and Spy feels a well of saliva start to trail into his collar at the base of his neck. Under more visible circumstances, Spy thinks Sniper would lick it back up but he finds himself liking the idea that Sniper can’t—but clearly wants to, drooling at his shoulder instead.
“Careful,” Spy murmurs, the heat from his overworked watch growing at his wrist. It mirrors the heat from Sniper’s tongue, two points of contact searing at his skin. He shudders.
“Me?” Sniper asks, very quietly, with that sharp smile that Spy can’t see but can imagine perfectly. Just as Sniper might be imagining with him. “Or you?”
Chapter 4: stay the night
Summary:
Theme: night
Prompt: stay the night
Chapter Text
“Spend the night,” Sniper suggests, casual enough that it doesn’t seem overtly demanding or strange—like he could have suggested this to anyone.
Spy continues to put on his shirt without faltering. In truth, he feels a little too old and too tired for any sort of deep psychoanalysis on why his jaw tightens at the mere thought. He acknowledges the first truth to himself; he likes the idea. He likes the idea for multiple reasons.
One; he’s already here in the camper. Two; his ass is sore but he’s feeling warm and comfortable besides, and going out to walk back to base is a bigger pain at present. Three; Sniper.
Spy glances at him. Sniper looks like someone who doesn’t have any particular expectations, no hopeful expression or put-upon frown. Perhaps if Spy makes some type of rude comment then Sniper might have a say in the matter, kick him out and have the decision made for them both.
Spy pulls on the suit jacket. There’s a deep bite mark at his shoulder that throbs when he fixes the lapels and does up the buttons. His hands are warm despite the lack of gloves, the feel of someone else’s skin lingering on his palms. He finds that he doesn’t have it in him to be pointlessly mean. Or teasing. Not in the way that would get him kicked out, even as a joke. He drops his hands.
Spy has never stayed the night and, up until this point, Sniper has never asked. There’s a tried and true instinct in Spy to be wary. Sniper’s tone had been neutral, but the question itself sets an alarm bell off in his mind. It makes him imagine the sound of a gun’s safety being clicked off, or a knife being slid out from its sheath. Impending danger. Take caution.
There’s another mercenary instinct in him, more ingrained skill than anything; give an inch, and he’ll take a mile.
Let him stay the night once, and then it’ll be a bigger problem soon enough. Spy knows himself.
So, in answer, Spy simply gives Sniper an exhausted look. One that says, you should know better.
Sniper’s impassive expression frays at the edges. He knows exactly what he’s just given away and admitted to. His eyes go to the ceiling for a quick second, corners tightening, and Spy isn’t at his sharpest to catch whether or not Sniper is disappointed in himself, abashed, or simply rueful.
“Mm. Forget I said anything,” Sniper eventually says, leaning back on the counter. He takes a drag from the cigarette.
A perfect answer, in line with every boundary they’ve established. And yet Spy still can’t leave well enough alone. Give an inch, indeed.
“You’ll feel better about this in the morning,” Spy assures, voice quiet, but the moment the words leave his mouth, he realizes he has made an infringement of his own.
Sniper doesn’t look at him, something miserable in the way his mouth turns with the cigarette held so close.
“Right.”
Chapter 5: traveling mishaps
Notes:
Theme: trips
Prompt: traveling mishaps
Chapter Text
“Ah, yeah. She’s blown,” Sniper reports from the passenger side of the car. He ducks his head back in, no doubt smudging the bottom window line with his fingerprints. There’s a slight greasy feel to the exterior, meaning Spy has recently waxed his beloved Bizzarrini Strada to a high shine before the trip. Nearly blinded Sniper when he took off his sunnies. He wipes his fingers on his shirt.
Three hours into a long drive ain’t bad for the first mishap to happen. All things considering, Sniper had thought maybe they’d last thirty minutes.
Spy is in the process of getting out from the car and rolling up his sleeves. Sniper’s eyes inadvertently go to the folded cuffs sitting above Spy’s elbows. Spy’s a slim fellow, always fitted perfectly in his suit, so the chance to see the fabric of his shirt strain at his shoulders and forearms is always a treat, doubly so with the top two buttons undone.
Spy shuts the door, putting an abrupt stop to Sniper’s ogling, and Sniper belatedly climbs out of the car himself. He stretches, rolls his shoulders some, and saunters over to join Spy at the back of the car.
It’s midday, the sun at its peak. Nothing but them and the long stretch of highway in the desert. Sniper flips his sunnies back down from his forehead.
Spy has a slight look of annoyance by the whole ordeal. He throws Sniper a sidelong glance. “It must have been the weight distribution. I don’t often have a passenger riding.”
“Or,” Sniper says, leaning against the car just to further aggravate Spy. “Maybe you don’t have to go speedin’ two hundo kilometers an hour over a patchy road.”
Spy pops open the trunk, which nearly smacks Sniper in the face. Sniper takes the hint, pushing himself off the gleaming polished surface, and peers inside.
The Bizzarrini’s trunk is as deceptively roomy as Spy’s pockets. Spy pulls out a spare tire, wrench, and jack. Before Sniper can get a better look, Spy shuts the trunk, almost taking out Sniper’s fingers. A red glare reflects straight into his eyeballs in admonishment and leaves Sniper temporarily blinded despite the sunnies.
Forget the driver. The car itself is a menace. Sniper blinks away the flashes of light and turns just in time to see Spy on the dusty ground setting up the jack with practiced ease.
Sniper hadn’t been surprised that Spy would have a car to match his expensive tastes, but he has always wondered if Spy was simply a collector of fancy things or if he was a true car enthusiast—maybe even a greasemonkey not afraid to get under the hood. Judging from the way Spy starts clamping on the hydraulic jack and inspecting the wheel, Sniper thinks Spy might actually be a real rev-head. No wonder Spy seems to go into conniptions any time he has to ride in the van for an extended amount of time.The land rover is a good ol’ reliable gal that Sniper keeps trim, but she ain’t no pretty roadster.
“Do you plan on only watching?” Spy asks pointedly from the ground. He’s taken the wrench to the lugnuts with all the expertise of someone who may or may have not had a decent career as a mechanic in another life. Any bloke can change a tire in a pinch. Not many can measure out the balance or think to check under the chassis and suspension.
“Watching’s the only thing I’m good for, mate,” Sniper says, moving slightly. “Told me yourself. Many times.”
His shadow falls over Spy, saving him a little from the sun’s heat. A damp patch of sweat has built up at the back of Spy’s collar, making his shirt cling to his back. Sniper stares while he wrestles with the silly urge to pluck the shirt loose and wave a bit of air through.
“Watching,” Spy repeats without looking back at him. He sounds both skeptical and amused as he rolls the bum tire off. “But not because you’re curious about how to properly install a custom tire on a custom car, I assume.”
Correct assumptions aside, Sniper pulls his weight by stopping it from rolling off into the desert and pushing the spare towards Spy’s waiting hands. “I’m surprised you’re letting something so mediocre as a spare touch your Bizza. Shouldn’t you have another tire that’s made from a nigh extinct rubber tree only grown on some remote island off the coast of India with hostile natives?”
Spy grunts. “That tire is on the drivers’ side.”
It’s still hard to tell if Spy is lying or being truthful. Sniper’s going to let this one slide in favor of letting Spy concentrate. Man’s even got his hands dirty with grit and grease and nails looking as bad as Sniper’s after a day’s work.
“Good grief. Engie know you’re this slick with a wrench?”
“Do not tell him. The last thing I want is for him to know who is stealing his torque wrenches.”
“Piss. That’d be me borrowing his impact wrenches,” Sniper says with a sigh. “No wonder he’s been feeling tetchy ‘bout his stuff lately.”
“Two more secrets we will both take to the grave,” Spy mutters, sitting back with a gentle thump. He considers the newly placed wheel, not looking very satisfied but there is little else he can do until the next pitstop or town or however he’s going to obtain another custom tire.
Sniper is about to haul him back to his feet, but Spy tips his head to look up at him. There’s sweat at his collarbones, skin flushed from the heat and working over the burning highway pavement, and now Sniper really can’t resist reaching down to pluck at the back of Spy’s shirt to fan in some air.
“Merci,” Spy says, like Sniper’s been some big bloody help the entire time.
They spend some moments cooling off in the car before Spy starts to argue that the best way to dry the sweat from his back is to roll down the windows and go two hundred kilometers an hour, and not with Sniper's hands under his shirt.
Hard to win against that logic, but Spy doesn't complain when Sniper's hand makes its way under his shirt anyway.
Chapter 6: missed oppotunity
Summary:
Theme: regrets
Prompt: missed opportunity(Pre-relationship)
Chapter Text
“Y’know, maybe these emergency meetings would be more tolerable if people bothered to show up on time,” Sniper says, walking into the conference room with a miffed expression.
“For a moment I was sure I had misread the clock,” Spy says, the only other person present and just as annoyed by it.
Technically, the rest of the team have three more minutes until the appointed time, but even Heavy, who is normally punctual, hasn’t shown up. Spy doubts the meeting would take place anywhere else. There’s only ever one official meeting room, unless it’s been blown up. He watches as Sniper stands a bit to the side, eyeing the empty chairs. He seems to debate with himself for a moment—not surprising, being a man who takes his positioning very seriously—before claiming the seat next to Spy. The chair swivels under Sniper’s weight, one knee bumping against Spy’s leg before Sniper corrects himself with a polite scoot away.
Spy doesn’t react. Or maybe staying still is a reaction itself. He’s not one to be self-conscious, least of all about seating assignments, but he wonders about the seven other chairs. Plenty of other spots. God willing, the rest of the team will come bumbling in on time, and then to the sight of the spacious conference room with only him and Sniper sitting together in the corner.
Sniper seems to pick up on a thread of his thoughts. He glances at Spy, and Spy is aware that Sniper is more self-conscious, especially when the other man starts patting his pockets for a cigarette.
“I figured Solly might want the classes grouped together,” Sniper says by way of explanation, too deliberately casual to not hint at being the tiniest bashful about it. He finally finds his carton of cigarettes.
Spy considers Sniper. Considers teasing him. Then decides that maybe it’s not the right time for it. It’s not often he thinks of Sniper as skittish but, well, Spy can sense a little bit of it in the moment.
“Likely so.” Spy reaches over, ready with a light, and feels as if he’s had the right of it when Sniper looks slightly taken aback.
“Thanks,” Sniper says, edging close. Their knees touch again, but this time Spy leans in as if to get a better angle even though there’s no need. Sniper’s head tilts, his eyes glancing up at Spy, and there’s no way the single flame could heat up his face that much.
“We should save a seat for Medic and have him sit between us,” Spy says, like a hunter laying out a particularly mean trap.
Sniper’s curious glance turns into a look away, and Spy really wonders if he has the nerve to say no. If Sniper will go through the effort of explaining that he wants to stay where he is.
“Er,” Sniper begins, and Spy might have miscalculated with how invested he is in hearing the answer when he feels a smile start to form over his own face.
The conference room door slams open. Sniper jerks upright. Spy snaps his lighter close.
Seven other bodies pile through. Medic drops into the seat next to Spy, his coat smelling of petrol, and Demoman, still smoking from his clothes, miraculously slumps into the chair beside Sniper. Spy can take an educated guess on what had happened.
“You were all nearly late,” he says anyway, gesturing to the clock, and sets off seven different litanies of excuses and more jostling as an incredible story about Pyro and a gasoline tank comes into light.
Sniper’s lit cigarette almost gets confiscated, and if he so happens to dodge multiple hands by leaning heavily into Spy then Spy supposes it’s the price they’ll have to pay for choosing to sit next to each other.
Chapter 7: marriage of convenience
Summary:
Theme: free for all
Prompt: marriage of convenience
Chapter Text
The ring on Spy’s finger is a completely hideous band with inlaid diamonds that Sniper might consider a real tactical weapon of warfare if he ever caught it glinting through his scope. It’s bright enough to blind as it is through his bare eyeballs.
“Really?” he asks. He’s little to no sense in modern fashion stuffs but even he can recognize tacky when he sees it.
“Yes. I thought it looked impressive,” Spy says, his voice a couple octaves higher with a feminine lilt to it. The rest of his disguise is reasonable, at least. Some type of red flowery blouse and bellbottom jeans with heeled leather boots. Blond hair floofed up and curled. Apparently Sniper’s married some type of roller rink disco gal.
“Mate, I don’t think the government of Australia’s gonna issue citizenship cards based on ring size. Couldn’t you have forged my adoption papers instead?”
Spy slips his arm through Sniper’s in a bid to make him lean in. It doesn't work. Like any weekday, the government offices are packed, and Sniper hopes they’re in the right queue. “Of the two of us, who looks the most Australian?”
Sniper shuts his eyes and rubs his mustache-less face. When he opens his them again, Spy’s got open a little box in front him.
“Yours, too,” Spy says, holding it up.
Sniper’s fraudulent matching ring is also the ugliest thing he’s ever seen. Bright gold and gaudy. Fit for a clown. He can’t believe Spy went through all this effort to specifically spite him in this way. He lifts up one defeated ring finger.
“What’re your thoughts on something discreet for once? Like maybe a nice teak wood band with some tungsten in the middle, you know? Kinda fancy but still reasonable.”
Spy pauses before slipping the ring on Sniper’s finger. “You’ve put some thought into this.”
Sniper almost winces, hand twitching in Spy's grasp. “Dunno ‘bout that, really.”
“For me, I suppose I’d prefer a simple silver band myself,” Spy says, letting go of Sniper’s hand.
The ensuing silence is only a tiny bit agonizing for Sniper. Spy seems content to let him drown and flounder in it until the queue suddenly moves up by three parties and Spy has to tug Sniper forward to get moving.
“...’kay,” Sniper eventually mumbles, and Spy lets out a very unfeminine snort of laughter.
Chapter 8: sleepless
Summary:
Theme: Free-for-all
Prompt: sleepless(BLU Spy/RED Sniper)
Chapter Text
Within the first ten minutes of the match, the RED sniper kills Spy with half an SMG clip. Less than an hour later, Sniper has his second kill over Spy with the kukri in Spy’s stomach. He holds it in long enough for Spy to slump forward against his shoulder while he leans into Spy’s ear.
“You’re off you game, mate,” Sniper says. He manages to both sound smug and curious at the same time. With a quick jerk, the kukri slides out from Spy.
Spy doesn’t register hitting the floor, but he must have. The familiar feeling of blood bubbles from his throat, one side of his chest heavy, and Spy inwardly sighs; yes, off his game, but at least he’ll die soon enough.
To his belated and very sluggish surprise, Sniper kneels down next to him. One rough thumb presses below Spy’s left eye, sliding downwards—enough to tug at the mask but not displace it.
“Tired?”
“Losing blood does tend to do that to a man,” Spy says, impressed with himself when all the words are flatly enunciated despite the slight gurgle.
Sniper’s thumb leaves his face, brushing beneath Spy’s eye again in an unconscious way—though Spy doesn’t discount the idea that he might be delusional so close to death. Spy opens his mouth, finally speechless.
Then, thankfully, dead.
When he wakes up in the respawn room, Spy checks the mirror in passing. There are dark circles under his eyes, which doesn’t surprise him, but several restless nights should not have affected his work.
He doesn’t attempt to kill the enemy sniper again until explicitly ordered by the majority of the team. Kill, maybe not. Distract, probably yes. Spy makes his way up the enemy base ramparts and immediately takes an arrow to the chest. Annoying and painful, but not fatal. His breath comes out wrong, one side of his chest heavy again. Likely a punctured lung.
He runs into Sniper, which means his distraction is a success. The ensuing fight is lackluster by his standards, but at least it gives his team some time to advance across the terrain.
The next time Spy wakes up, it’s not in the respawn room but with his head in Sniper’s lap. He’s a little miffed he didn’t die, but there’s a pressure dressing at the injured side of his chest, sticky with medigel, and a warm hand held over his eyes.
“Looks like you could use a nap,” Sniper taunts, voice in a low growl that makes him sound mean.
Horrible liar. His thumb brushes across Spy’s cheek. As his hand slightly lifts, Spy can see through the cracks of his fingers. Sniper’s expression is as stoic as ever, but it isn’t mean.
“Do you actually believe I can sleep like this?” Spy asks, rolling his eyes. That motion gets Sniper’s hand more firmly placed over his face again.
“Dunno. Seemed like you did.”
“That was called being unconscious,” Spy says, turning his cheek to Sniper’s palm. His mouth moves against Sniper’s fingers.
Sniper peers down at him, leaning over slowly like he thinks Spy will simply get up if he isn’t too careful. Spy only shifts his position, ignoring the hard ground in favor of putting his head on one side of Sniper’s thigh. The strain causes the bandages at his chest to reopen and bleed.
He shuts his eyes and falls unconscious with Sniper’s hand brushing at his cheek again.
Chapter 9: sheltering from the rain
Summary:
Challenge Prompt: sheltering from the rain / bonus: darkness
Notes:
Pre-relationship sniperspy (same fraction)
Chapter Text
Sniper first hears rather than sees Spy’s stupid loud Bizzarrini Strada coming up the long stretch of highway. He recognizes the sound of the engine in the distance even in the pouring rain, though he gets a little worried about the speed at which roar is approaching him.
Just to play it safe, Sniper makes sure he stays a minimum of two meters away from the road. It still isn’t enough to stay out of the splash zone when the Bizzarrini zooms past him, drenching him completely in rainwater and mud. If Sniper wasn’t already damp before, he’s practically soggy down to his knickers now.
He trudges onwards, watching as the Bizzarrini screeches to a halt a good distance away, makes a sharp U-turn, and goes speeding back towards Sniper.
Sniper gets drenched a second time.
He stops walking when the car stops in front of him, blocking his way.
Spy rolls down the window by the tiniest crack. There’s some lilting French song blasting from the radio, but Spy turns down the volume.
“You’re all wet,” he says, disapprovingly.
Sniper takes in this criticism as stoically as he can. The only way to do it is to pretend he didn’t hear any of it. “Your headlights are off.”
There’s a single highway lamp above them, flickering weakly in the rain. All the better to make Spy look more put-upon.
“I was under the impression your mission involved some stealth,” Spy says. “I am being stealthy.”
Sniper gives him an expressionless stare.
Spy smiles sweetly. “Did it go well? Were you stealthy enough? You look like shit.”
Considering that his hat is sporting several new bullet holes through the brim and he’s missing his own getaway truck, Sniper isn’t inclined to answer any of Spy’s questions. He takes a step forward, leaning slightly down so that he can peer through the gap in Spy’s window. Out of politeness and professional integrity and future networking opportunities, he doesn’t yank the car door open so that he can simply throw Spy out and steal the car. Better to cut to the chase before making threats.
“You gonna give me a ride home or no?” Sniper asks.
Spy’s brow goes astronomically high. “And ruin my leather seats? The leather that is imported across six different countries representing the four cardinal directions, made from the hybrid skin of two extinct reptiles-”
Sniper starts walking around the Bizza so that he can at least get back to base before five in the morning, if he keeps his current pace and stops listening to Spy.
Spy puts the car in reverse and has the bloody nerve to brake check him, grazing his shin with the fender. After hopping gracelessly to the side, Sniper pounds his fist over the back trunk.
“Oi, watch it!” he sputters, jumping again when he gets a rather scary blast for a honk in answer. So much for stealth.
Spy must be handy behind the wheel. He does some complicated maneuver that Sniper assumes has something more to do with pure skill than a stick shift behind the controls. Before Sniper knows it, the passenger side door flies open, nearly smacking him aside to the muddy ground. He regains his balance just in time to see the grin disappear from Spy’s face.
“You’re limping,” Spy says.
“From you nearly running me over just now!” Sniper explodes, though it’s only half the truth. Falling off three stories from a roof in an attempt to run away from a near-blotched job doesn’t help matters.
The smirk on Spy’s face returns, though there’s something fond and less sharp in the shape of it, and Sniper finally gives in to throwing himself into the bloody fuckin’ car. His flare of temper and frustration about the mission dissipates the moment he slams the door shut.
The noise of the rain dims, turning into a different sound of drops pattering against Spy’s windshield. Sniper curls into the seat, sliding into a slouch. Sliding way down. Unnaturally so, even in his exhausted state.
“What am I sitting on?” Sniper shifts, crinkling loudly, and pats his seat. “This a bloody tarp? You put a tarp over everything?”
“Well, I had planned to retrieve your corpse and wrap it up to keep things tidy,” Spy says, now turning on his stupid headlights. Highbeams, at that. He tosses Sniper a warm towel from God-knows-where. “You cannot imagine how hard it is to commission a custom black tarp interior for a 5300 GT Strada-”
Sniper turns on Spy’s radio, now blasting a new jazzy tune by chance, but at least he’s gotten some dirt all over the controls. To his surprise, Spy doesn’t say anything about it, and only begins to drive back towards base. Slower than his usual speed, which gets Sniper grumbling, but it makes for a smoother ride, especially with the ridiculous tarp making him slip around in the seat.
He’s too worn out to complain at this point. Sniper scrunches up as best he can and lays his head across the middle console, hat dripping towards Spy’s side. The second surprise of this entire ordeal comes in the form of silence from Spy, whose elbow doesn’t move out of the way when Sniper rests his forehead against it and gets the sleeve all wet. He catches Spy’s fingers tapping over the gear shift, offbeat to the song. Nervous. Even though he’s already gotten Sniper in the car with him, pretty well and alive as can be.
“Sorry to worry you,” Sniper says, quietly enough that the rain should’ve been able to drown him out.
Spy brake checks him off the console, hard enough that Sniper has to catch himself with a hand against the glove compartment.
“Seat belt,” Spy says.
Chapter 10: opposite sides of a room
Summary:
theme: opposites
prompt: opposite sides of a room
Chapter Text
The sound of Demoman letting out a bark of laughter makes Sniper glance back down at the chessboard. Demo currently has Sniper’s sad little bishop curled under three fingers as he moves the white pawn into its place. With his forefinger and thumb, Demo wiggles a shot glass for Sniper to take as punishment.
“Gotta wonder, laddie. You playing chess with me? Or some other game with that bastard standing behind us?” Demo asks with a grin.
Sniper grimaces. He takes the shot glass, face warming even before he drinks, and a bishop’s jigger shot’s worth of whiskey goes down the hatch. Demoman’s got a modest collection of Sniper’s black pawns but, to be fair, Sniper’s got his own pile of white chess pieces off the board as well. He’d been doing quite alright for himself until ten minutes ago—he thinks all that liquor might’ve hit then.
“Sorry, mate,” Sniper mutters, unable to come up with a proper excuse that wouldn't get Demo falling out of his chair in a laughing fit.
“Here’s a freebie on me; that man of yours ain’t gonna come over unless you holler out to him,” Demo whispers with one hand covering the side of his mouth. The wrong side. Sniper hopes the echo of his words doesn’t bounce off his palm and into someone else’s ears. They’re lucky the rec room is busy with other chatter. Demo leans in with a mocking sympathetic expression. “You makin’ eyes don’t work if his back’s turned. Thought you’d know.”
Sniper takes Demoman’s knight. It might’ve been an ill-advised move in the heat of the moment but it’s satisfying to tip the bottle for a heavy-handed pour. “Ain’t making eyes.”
He hands the shot glass back to Demoman but as he does, he catches Spy turning from his periphery and Sniper does look over Demoman’s shoulder right then.
Spy is only moving to speak with Engineer, hands animated to suggest that he’s either arguing with the other man or—well. Arguing would be the safest bet, though with the way Engie is excitedly holding up a blueprint, it seems to only be friendly banter of some kind. Medic steps in, also starting to talk over Engie, and Sniper’s view of Spy is blocked.
“Ach. Of course,” Demo says, and he might as well slap Sniper’s hand like a school teacher with a ruler. He takes the shot with ease. “Jus’ yer eyeballs being glued forlornly across the room. Maybe you oughta heave a great sigh and twirl your hair-”
“It’s your move,” Sniper reminds.
Demoman knocks Sniper’s rook aside with a well-placed pawn. Sniper glances at the half empty whiskey bottle with what must be a flicker of impending misery. There won’t be much left of him to embarrass at this rate.
“Tell ye what,” Demoman says, lowering his voice. “If you gather enough of your own bollocks and holler out to Spy, I’ll let you take a pawn off the board.”
Sniper scoffs. “I’ll beat you fair and square, mate.”
“And if Spy doesn’t come over, I’ll let you skip that rook shot. If he does, you’ll have to double it.”
Sniper smirks. “Oh, easy-peasy. He’ll not come over for anything if he’s busy arguing with Engie.” Which happens to be one of Spy’s favorite pastimes, particularly if he has the upperhand.
Demoman smiles.
With a huff, Sniper cranes his neck to look across the room. Spy isn’t even paying attention to them. And it seems like he’s winning whatever argument he’s getting into with Engie, who is getting to look more and more blustery by the second.
Sniper takes a breath. “Oi, Spy!”
Spy turns his head, annoyed by the interruption, and Sniper thinks Demoman is off his rocker believing Spy might actually abandon the opportunity to ridicule a fellow coworker, until Spy starts walking across the room to meet them. Even Engie seems to be taken aback by the way Spy waves him off, effectively ending whatever discourse they’ve be going at.
When Spy reaches their table and sets his hand on the back of Sniper’s chair, Sniper thinks he might’ve been stunned stupid by one of Demoman’s shields.
“You called?” Spy asks, looking down at Sniper.
Sniper knows his face must be flushed to the ears. He starts pouring himself two shots of whiskey.
“Aye, Sniper’s in a bit of a pickle,” Demoman says for him, gesturing to the chessboard. His own face seems to have developed a permanent grin of frightening proportions. “It’s his move. Thought I’d let him have a second man to compensate.”
Muttering, Sniper ducks his head, about to take his shots, but Spy plucks the glass from his hand and downs the whiskey for him. Utterly casual about it. Even when he has to press the back of his hand to dab a corner of his mouth with a polite cough as the burning whiskey goes down.
Sniper stares up at Spy in mute despair, which only makes Spy shoot him a small smile like he’s done Sniper a favor.
If Demoman looked gleeful before, he appears downright delirious with victory now. Unbeknownst to Spy, Sniper is considering the pros and cons of eating the chess pieces so that he can never play this bloody bitch of a game ever again.
“Yeah,” Sniper says, already defeated, “I’m at my wits end.”
Spy considers the chessboard.
“Neither of you are playing well,” he concludes after a long moment. The chair creaks as he leans over Sniper’s shoulder. Out of sight, his thumb caresses at Sniper’s back. “Knight takes bishop.”
Oh, you son of a bitch, Sniper thinks, glaring at Demoman. He moves his knight as advised and captures Demo’s bishop.
By now, Demo has taken the whiskey bottle for himself. He moves his queen while taking his required sip. “Check.”
Sniper’s gaze immediately goes to Spy in deep, affronted betrayal.
“King takes pawn,” Spy says, smiling indulgently. He pats Sniper’s shoulder. “I will make you lose in less than two moves. Demoman is quite the cruel adversary. I’m giving you a quick death.” And then, bending down to whisper in his ear, “I believe you wanted my attention for some time now.”
Sniper stares at the ruined chessboard as Spy pats his shoulder again, nods at Demoman, and saunters out of the rec room.
“I think I just lost two games,” Sniper says, not surprised in the least, and knocks his own king over.