This was kicking around my brain awhile, and I didn't know if anyone would want to read it, until I saw a request go out for genderfluidity. It also uses some subtle unmasking-as-rape-analogy, or at least as assault. Anyway, the first chapter has some potential trigger moments for sexualized violence. The full scope of the actual fluidity comes in later. Ch.1 The Sniper found himself suddenly glad of his decision to arm himself with the huntsman for once as he pinned the BLU Spy to the wall before the man could get in close. Normally not a great weapon at that range, but it did all the job he needed it to do… He grabbed a second arrow, didn’t bother nocking it to the bow as he strode up to the trapped spook, watching him frantically try to pull the bolt from his own shoulder. “Not this time.†The Sniper growled, grabbing the free wrist and slamming the Spy’s arm back, sticking it in place through the sleeve and grabbing for his kukri, just to reinforce the notion. “We can play this game nice or we can play it nasty, Spook, your choice.†“Don’t make me laugh.†The man sneered. The Sniper just grinned, placing the edge of the blade alongside the Spy’s throat. “You stay where I put ya and I’ll be nice. You move around too much and, well…†“Putain!†The Spy struggled, but only a little—the expected bit of resistance before giving in to the man with the big knife on his neck. “What kind of game do you think you’re playing?†“I’m not the one who likes playing games.†He whispered, fingers closing on the soft, stretchy fabric of the Spy’s balaclava. “No…†“Who’s under there, anyway?†“Bushman, you don’t understand,†“What’s the matter? You ugly?†“For the love of God, no!†It was a rising shriek as he pulled the mask away. The Spy convulsed, bulged, shrank… There was a litany of ‘no’s, as the shoulder around the arrow changed, and the Sniper watched the suit stretch and sag, the seams of the trousers pulling apart almost to tearing over a very different set of hips. The Spy was on tip-toe now, shaking and pale-faced and very, very female. “… Bloody hell…†“Give it back.†She choked. It had already dropped from his hand, but he pulled the arrows out, setting her gently on the floor and leaning her against the wall. It was the wrong move. Her knife skewered his hand to the floor before he could even react to her having it, and when the blinding flash of pain subsided, he was looking at a man again. “What… was that?†“Don’t you dare treat me any differently now that you’ve seen.†He—she?—The Spy snarled, one gloved hand on his throat. “Oh, don’t you worry about that.†He recovered his kukri, swinging at the Spy. “Wouldn’t mind knowing what that was about.†The Spy danced back, extracting the disguise kit, slipping one mask on, then trading it for another. “It is a little better than these flimsy things. It is not dispelled when someone bumps into you. Of course, to fit and sustain the illusion, it does change your skeleton. But turning into a man is far more useful than turning into some kind of crab creature. It is worth the discomfort.†“Yeah?†“It hurts, to change. Excruciating, the first few times. And some times worse than others.†She, or he, stepped in a little closer, kicking the kukri out of his hand. “I will give you a lesson in excruciating.†The Spy was on top of him then, pinning his free hand, face close. “Go on and do it, then.†“Wrong answer.†He grinned. She grinned? The Sniper couldn’t quite wrap his head around that moment of change and what it may have meant. The Spy turned the knife in his hand. “Does this… this mean our Spy’s a—“ “No. The mask is meant to look like the standard of our trade. Your teammate is everything he appears to be. I’ve taken enough pictures to prove it.†He wrenched his arm free, twisting his body to throw the Spy off. It hurt like hell to rip the hole in his hand wider, but he’d thrown the Spy free and given himself the chance to pull the knife out. Maybe he could recover one of his own weapons, take the Spy out and call for the Medic… He caught an elbow to the throat, the hand he’d wrapped around the Spy’s knife jerking too far to the side as he attempted to extract it, leaving his hand even more of a bloody mess. “I am nowhere near done with you!†The Spy hissed, hand covering the recently-struck throat and slamming the Sniper back down. “Strong,†He coughed. “For a sheila.†The Ambassador was in his face. He hadn’t even seen the Spy draw it. “Perhaps you are just weak, for a bushman.†“That supposed to stop me fighting you?†He gasped, trying to shrink back from the constricting grip. “I don’t struggle, you’ll make me suffer. Least if I try for it, I could take you down with me.†“Oh, try for it, Bushman.†The Spy leered, challenging. “You may have drawn first blood, but I have taken more of yours.†“Dirty it is.†He made a grab for the suit jacket, hampered by his one bad hand, attempting another throw, but this time the Spy just clocked him in the temple with the Ambassador and let his momentum take them around again. When they stopped rolling, the Sniper was on his back again, his chest heaving, the smell of blood thick in the air, and mortifyingly hard against the Spy on top of him. Blue eyes narrowed, cold and fairly glittering with rage now. “Is that because you’ve seen her now?†“I—I don’t—“ “Because I am not her now.†The Spy continued. “And I do not appreciate this.†“… Her? You mean you?†“Tell me it is for me, the way I am right now, and maybe I will be kind to you, but if it is for that soft, pretty little thing you unpinned from the wall, I will cut it off and feed it to you.†“No—I don’t know—Both!†He admitted. A large part of him would have rather taken the painful end, over owning up to liking the Spy either way. Women were safer. And nicer. He preferred women, on the whole. Every so often, a man turned his head, but his interest didn’t normally go that far. The Spy had been one of those men, and he’d shrugged it off, because it was easier to hate the Spy than to think of him that way. He wasn’t sure if this revelation made things simpler or harder. “Both?†The Spy was skeptical. The Ambassador kissed the Sniper’s chin. “How so?†“Dunno. You make a good-looking bloke. Didn’t get such a good look at you, as a woman. I mean, I noticed you were—“ “Enough. You…†There was a moment of hesitation that the Sniper should have taken advantage of. He let it pass. The Spy fixed him with a steady and nearly manic look. “Both? Just the same?†“Haven’t got much to go on. But both, yeah.†The Spy’s head shook. “You don’t mean that. No one means that.†“Well I’m not exactly keen on buying you flowers just this minute.†He snorted, eyes moving to the gun, to the piercing gaze, to the dusty corner of the nest where his kukri had skidded. “Tell me you want to suck my cock.†The Spy ordered, words sounding somehow filthier than the Sniper imagined they ever could. “O-okay. Yeah. Sure.†He wasn’t sure if it was true or not—finding a man handsome, even kissable, didn’t exactly mean you had to want to go down on him… “No. Say it.†“I want to. I want to suck your cock.†“Open your mouth.†“Now hang on a bloody minute—“ “Open.†The Spy ordered, voice steely, gaze hard. The Sniper did, more out of shock than compliance. The Spy made no move to change position, or to undo the pinstriped trousers. The only movement was the bringing of the Ambassador up to the Sniper’s mouth. “Lick it.†Another order, this one slightly breathy, though the Sniper could glance down and see that the Spy wasn’t affected quite the same way as he had been earlier—and no longer was. He ran his tongue along the gun’s barrel, eyes closed. He could feel the engraving, taste metal and old powder from earlier discharges. “You can do better than that.†The Spy said, sounding almost bored. The Sniper opened his eyes to glare, but he did better. The entire time, he kept checking. There were never any signs of arousal from the Spy, only determination and anger. And some loathing that wasn’t directed at him. “Enough.†The Spy barked, holstering the gun and grabbing the Sniper’s injured hand, squeezing. “AH! The hell—I played your little game, Spook.†“No. You got what was yours. You took my face. Do you have any idea what kind of a violation that was?†“Beginning to.†“I hope you felt just a fraction of that.†The Spy stood. “Sending you to respawn now is better than you deserve.†He just let her… or him… or whatever the Spy was, walk out. Despite what he’d thought was coming, and despite the ridiculous embarrassment the display brought him, he didn’t think he had. There had been a moment’s cold stab of fear, but he’d had guns in his face plenty of times with worse result, even tasted his fair share of them. Compared to how she’d looked when he took her mask… He stayed on his back and tried to clear his mind—and to figure out what exactly he was supposed to think of the Spy now. He’d never regretted even the most gruesome deaths on the battlefield, the most disproportionate retributions, the most foul weapons… he regretted unmasking her. He’d called it taking his face, and that alone spoke volumes. Even this war had some rules, unspoken as they may have been. He’d crossed one… but he couldn’t turn back time, and he wasn’t sure what he could do.
I am curious to see where this goes...go on...
captcha: reflection Please do continue.
Just as much as I'm looking forward to how this story continues, as the plot isn't something I've yet seen in this fandom, the prospect of more CatDetective fic arriving fresh every morning is a source of excitement in and of itself. Eagerly waiting to see where this goes.
Go on, please! I'm deeply interested in this
i want to hug you
Thank you, I requested rape/mask metaphors I am so happy someone made it!
Thank you, everybody! Out of everything I've ever written, I think this is what I was most initially nervous about sharing... And here's this chapter, which was shorter than I intended because I had no time tonight to revise the next scene (which is a mess) and need sleep. Step one in the rocky road of apologizing to someone who spends their day murdering you... Ch.2 The first time the Spy killed him the next day, the Sniper didn’t even have time to hear the tread on a creaking floorboard or smell the particularly cloying cigarette smoke hanging in the air—he woke up in respawn and learned from the readout that he’d been killed with the Ambassador. When he got back to his nest, he smelled the smoke, and dismissed it as a lingering sign of his assassin, until the knife bypassed the spot between his shoulder blades and cut across his throat. On his third trip up to his nest, he hurled one of his jars into the corner up by his window. It was a lucky guess—the Spy’s cloak shorted out, the familiar wail like music to his ears after two deaths in a row at those hands. “You didn’t want me to treat you any different.†He parried a dagger thrust with his kukri, knocking the Spy’s hand to the side, but not disarming him. “So don’t expect that treatment to stop.†“Good.†The Spy’s expression was strangely triumphant, in spite of the recent frustration—and the recent dousing. “So, what, were you just gonna wait up here, kill me every single time I respawned?†“That was the plan, yes.†“Petty.†He slashed out, snagging through the front of the Spy’s suit. “Justified.†The Spy did the same, knife biting deep into the leather of the Sniper’s vest. “Sorry about what I did,†The Sniper jumped back, stepped to the side, stabbed forward again. He had greater reach, but the Spy was just as agile, spinning away from the blade so that it passed within centimeters. Harmless, but only just. “That doesn’t mean I won’t try to kill you now.†“I would be oh so disappointed if it did.†The Spy huffed, sliding up close to the Sniper’s body and taking advantage of how awkwardly he’d extended himself. The knife slid into his gut—not a mortal wound yet, but it would go that way. They were face to face, both panting hard and in time, and the Sniper couldn’t tell if he really saw something in the Spy’s face, or if it was just some reflection of himself. “Pity,†The Spy said, still breathing too hard, chest bumping the Sniper’s on every shared inhale. “I didn’t think our little dance would be over so soon.†“Oh, our ‘little dance’ ain’t over.†He grunted. His eyesight was starting to wobble, whiting out for brief moments when the pain spiked and returning too slowly when it ebbed again. The knife was still inside him—he’d be losing blood a hell of a lot faster if it wasn’t. He had enough strength to bring his own blade up, to return the blow, if not with his usual vigor. They sank to the floor, skewered to each other, the Spy no longer able to keep the Sniper on his feet, or no longer to inclined to. Still grinning, though, laughing, the edges of his teeth stained pink when he coughed up a little blood, and the Sniper could taste the same, coppery at the back of his mouth. “You dance divinely, my dear.†The Spy whispered, chuckle weakening. “Did I… kill ya yet?†“Not yet. Maybe not at all.†One gloved hand came up to brush the side of the Sniper’s face. “But you kept trying. Do you want to die, more cleanly?†“Nah.†The Sniper grimaced and shook, waves of pain coming harder and faster and yet somehow feeling much further away. “Not… ‘f it’s any trouble, mate…†He didn’t kill the Spy— that encounter never showed up on his record, except for marking his own death as he left respawn. All he knew coming out was that the Spy had either finished him off quickly after all, or waited for him to finish dying, because they were connected up to the end. Even coming out of respawn, he could feel the warmth and wetness of the Spy’s blood flowing over his hand even more clearly than the phantom feeling of his own, even more than the lingering psychosomatic pain. They were at each other all day, and sometimes he won, had a chance to scan the field through his scope before the Spy was back. As the day went on, it felt less and less like an accident when the Spy gave away his position too soon. The fights, too, were more physical. Then, as one ended in a clear draw that neither one of them could push past for a victory, the Spy was the one to break the spell of tension by pulling back and offering a cigarette. “You would really… you would really be attracted, to both?†He shook his head, marveling. “Huh? Well, yeah, reckon. Like a pretty girl as much as the next bloke. But… maybe I like the next bloke as much as a pretty girl. Which is a pretty big bloody secret about me, so… I’m not saying it makes us even, but I’m saying I could catch hell for that and you can hold it over me.†“I have met people before, who had no preference, but…†The Spy took a deep drag. “Even they had trouble reconciling this, when it is both in one person.†“Yeah? Just today you killed me five times and here I am. Stranger things in heaven and earth than you having a disguise kit that changes your skeleton.†“Not quite Shakespeare.†The Spy laughed. The Sniper shrugged. “I got no problem with it.†“I appreciate that.†They sat, leaning against the wall of the nest, while the battle moved on below, cigarettes slowly dwindling until the workday was over. The Sniper headed back into the living quarters of the base desperately wanting a drink. “You smell like someone else’s cigarettes, mon ami.†The RED Spy said, appearing beside him in the corridor. “Yeah? Maybe because the bastard spent all day coming after me. Whole nest probably smells like him. You can check the readouts if you want to, I don’t think he’s killed anyone but me all day.†“What did you do to earn his wrath? No, no, let me guess—“ The RED Spy’s nose wrinkled under his balaclava—and the Sniper couldn’t help wondering, despite the BLU Spy’s assertion otherwise, if he was a woman underneath as well. “The offense was Jarate-related in nature, wasn’t it? You filthy Aussies are all the same.†He let the comment slide. “Probably, yeah.†Walking into the mess, he felt suddenly unable to deal with the team. Friday night was usually a cause for jubilation, but they’d lost the day as a whole, which generally meant tempers flaring up. One or the other extreme was bad enough, but he didn’t think he could deal with the headache of both at once. He made a sharp u-turn, leaving the base and driving his van out to the nearest town and the nearest bar. There was a car behind him on the road, for most of the trip.
Hi Anne! I haven’t commented on this fic yet, but it has a really promising start and I’m very interested in seeing where you’ll take it. I love your writing, and this has me intrigued. I also love how your Spy doesn’t come across as a woman disguised as a man at all. When he’s wearing the mask, he really feels like a man to me, and he seems even... disgusted? With his female self. It will be interesting to see how (s)he acts with the mask off, if we get to see that. Please keep up the good work!
Thanks! I was definitely trying to make sure that Spy didn't seem like he was just 'pretending' to be a man. This chapter has a little insight into how she is without the mask, and how she views him-- as well as a cautious exploratory warming towards the Sniper-- but there's a little more wait before I delve into the full complexity of Spy's relationship with Spyself. Ch.3 The Sniper watched the car carefully in his side view mirror as he drove, though the windshield was too dark to see more than the shape of its driver. The man hadn’t been following him since he pulled out of the base—not that he could have been, the car was an unfamiliar one—but just where he came from, the Sniper couldn’t tell. He was relieved when he reached town and the car pulled down a side street heading towards a motel—someone taking the long highway, then, for who knows how long before he just happened to find himself stuck behind the camper. His hands relaxed on the wheel, his jaw unclenched as he no longer had to worry about a fight in the pub parking lot with his pursuer. After a couple of beers, he was ready to forget the coincidence completely. After a third… After a third, he wasn’t so sure. That was when The Woman walked in, and he couldn’t tell if it was the Spy or not—the only time he’d seen the Spy’s female face, it had been free of makeup, sticky with sweat, and twisted in pain and hate. This woman was polished, put together… but possibly the same person, for all that. Without an arrow through her shoulder and a badly-fitting suit, why wouldn’t she look like a perfectly decent lady? He wasn’t three sheets to the wind, but he wasn’t exactly as sober as he’d been three beers ago, and he didn’t have much of a mental image to try to match her to. His suspicions were raised when she made for the stool next to his, though. “Well.†He smiled carefully, tipping his hat to her. “This is either the luckiest night of my life, or the unluckiest. Guess it all depends on what you say next.†If she was someone else, it was a line and nothing more. If she was him, well… he’d get an answer. “Yes.†She answered coolly, without disguising her accent. “I guess it does.†“Can I buy you a drink, or…?†“Come with me.†He followed her out, and when she unlocked the passenger’s-side door of her car, he climbed in without complaint. “So you were following me.†He remarked, as she started the engine. “I was.†Her face was impassive, as was her voice. “You were a man when you were driving—I mean, you looked—I mean—“ “Yes. I changed at the hotel.†She smirked a little, and he allowed himself a nervous chuckle. He wound up in her motel room, sitting in a wooden chair, while she leaned against a small secretary desk. “So.†He took his hat off. Judging by her—still his?-- body language, it was all he’d be taking off. “Please do not mistake this for what it isn’t.†“Wasn’t going to.†“I just want to talk. Someone who might understand.†There was a sadness in her eyes, but he didn’t comment on it. “And no one else even knows about me. Or, about him.†“Talking’s fine, but…†The Sniper scratched the back of his neck and glanced around the room. Bog standard, from the bed with its rusty-coloured coverlet that near-matched the carpet—the carpet that near-matched the drapes—to the ugly lamp on the cheap nightstand, to the rattley AC beneath the window and the off white-painted radiator, to the uninspired still life print on the wall with the same awful brown and orange palette as the rest of the room’s décor. It was a depressing place to imagine almost anyone in. Her—or him—in particular. “I don’t know what to call you.†“Spy.†She blinked. “No, I mean… I don’t know what to call you.†“He is Spy. He has always been.†She smiled slightly at that. “And for now it is best if I am the same. When I am wearing the mask, I am him. You may call me a bastard, you may call me that bloody spook, you may call me things even more profane, if I bedevil you. But I will be him. He.†“All right.†The Sniper nodded. He wanted to ask about ‘always’. He kept his mouth shut. “If you see me in town—by design, as tonight, or by chance, some other time… You may call me Mademoiselle, or you may call me Miss, or if you must, you may call me some other little name, if you accept that I will carve every casual endearment out of your flesh on Monday. And I will be her.†“You talk about yourself like you’re two different people.†“It only sometimes feels that way.†She laughed. “He is a part of me. He has been for a long time. And he is a necessary part—he is my livelihood, or, the one who earns it. But… however I feel, during the week, I must be him. Often as not, it suits me. He is as much my face as this is. But if it begins to feel like a mask, I cannot take it off. I sleep in it, just in case. I cannot afford to be careless with my… other identity.†“No. Don’t imagine it would be easy for you.†The Sniper nodded, trying very hard not to imagine just how it wouldn’t be easy. He could fantasize about putting his fist through the Spy’s smug grin all night, even knowing what was under the balaclava. His stomach turned at the thought of someone laying a hand on the girl, though. Even if they were the same person, he still felt like it was different… “Indeed not.†She lit a cigarette, puffing nervously. “On the weekends, he drives out to this place with a suitcase, with two people’s clothes, and I am free to leave this room as whoever I feel like. Sometimes, I still feel like him. Sometimes I do not. And those times I go out on the town—or what passes for it—and I look like a damned movie queen. Men fall over themselves to be with me, but I come back here without any of them. Women fall over themselves for the Spy, too, sometimes. It is easier to leave them behind. For appearances sake, I can make love to a woman in public—oh! Words, I mean, or kisses to the hand, or dancing. Not… not sex, of course. I never really care to, though. Still, I am a charming man with the ladies. The men in this dismal hamlet do not care for that kind of thing.†The Sniper just nodded. He’d never been to anyplace where men did care for it… you could trade handjobs in the army if you didn’t talk about it, or make eye contact, or kiss. You could even trade blowjobs if you were willing to risk making a carefully worded opening bid, but he never had been. He wanted the kissing more than that, and that was the part you couldn’t get. “I gave up on trying to explain, until you went and… Well.†“Well.†He agreed—what to, he wasn’t exactly sure. “I am sorry.†Her gaze was measuring, still cold, but considering. “I believe that you are. Maybe you do not understand, really, but no one else has even understood this little bit, so… Now that you know what it means, you will never touch my mask again?†“Never.†He promised. “Hell, I… Well, if I’d thought—It seemed like just an affectation.†She nodded, crossing her arms and blowing a plume of smoke up to the stained ceiling. The Sniper’s eyes followed it, until it billowed gently and dispersed against the stucco, and he wondered how many thousands of cigarettes had been smoked in that room, to build up that dinge, or if it was water damage from the second story. “If I did forgive you…†She weighed the words. “It would not be an easy thing. It would be as permanent as the rest of me, which is to say, not at all. I might be friendly as it is possible to be with you one day, and suddenly remember how angry you had made me the next. But for a chance at even a little understanding, I am willing to try. Are you willing to accept the terms?†He held out his hand. “Fair enough. I’d expect any spy worth his—or her—salt to go back on their word once or twice, anyway. And you were always going to be stabbing my back regardless.†“True.†Her hand came in over his to accept the handshake. The gesture looked demure and feminine, but her grip felt like dominance. “Very well. At this moment, I forgive you. Just once, you are allowed a mistake. If you did it again, I would find a way to keep you from coming back.†“If I did it again, Ma’mselle, then you ought to.†The image of her flashed through his mind’s eye again, hurt and shrieking for him to stop and suddenly a woman, her clothes torn. The fear he’d seen in her, even remembered, made him ill to his stomach. “If we came to an arrangement—and I am not saying that we will,†That part was stern, and she waited for him to nod his understanding. “You would be perfectly happy to come to see me some weekend only to find a man in bed where you’d expected a woman?†He wanted to ask if that man would be perfectly happy to kiss him, but he didn’t even know, in this hypothetical ‘arrangement’, if the woman would be, either. “I’d be perfectly happy to find a man in your bed, as long you were him. I’d be perfectly happy to find a woman who wasn’t in bed. I mean, who didn’t want—I mean, I didn’t expect to be making love to you when you asked me here. I expected to be one hell of a bloody mess for housekeeping, to be honest. So I’m happy to meet up, and talk, and I’m happy to be the only person who knows your secret, because you’re the only person who knows mine. But I don’t expect anything from you. And I don’t care who you are when I see you.†“Right answer.†She smiled. “Well, give the man a cigar.†He chuckled weakly. She smiled and moved to sit on the bed, producing a second cigarette. “This is the best I can offer. It’s yours if you want it. If you tell me more about you. I have shared enough for one night.†“Don’t think there’s much to tell.†He shrugged, reaching out to snag the cigarette. “If you care, though, I’ll still tell it.†“Tell me about how you became a sniper.†She tossed him her lighter. “And next time, I will tell you about how I became the Spy.†It was more personal information than he was used to giving out, but with the chance of that promise… “Well, Nasho wasn’t my first time with a rifle, but that’s probably where it all started, just the same,†He began, turning his chair around and pulling up to her.
This story fills me with so much joy you have no idea. The first thing I do in the morning is check to see if you've updated or started a new story, Anne and I get a little thrill of joy each time I see you have. I don't comment often, but I've been following your work since The Defiant Ones on livejournal and you are by far one of my favorite authors. I do so love this story so far, I'm a bit of a fan of genderbending and this puts a whole new spin on it that I haven't seen elsewhere, I can't wait to see how it progresses!
I'm about as adept as your Sniper when it comes to ardent praise, so if you hold that in mind when I say I love your work perhaps you'll have an idea of how very much.
Oh my goodness. This fic is more than I ever though I would get out of a gender-fluid fic. Not that I ever asked for one because I didn't know until now that I had been waiting for a fic like this one. I will await each update with eager anticipation!
Thank you! A little more slow bonding and Spy backstory, before I get either into the romance, or into the other coming conflict... (and man... it seems like no matter what else I do with Spy-- and/or Spy's nebulous gender-- there are some Spy's-past-headcanons I just can't shake... Sorry if everyone's sick of me writing variations on a theme when it comes to Spy's youth, but I guess this time there's one major difference...) Ch.4 Workdays were almost normal, after that—they fought, but he was no longer the Spy’s only target, and if they ever wound up in the same place when the day ran out, they’d chat amiably for a moment or two instead of slaughtering each other, unless the Spy was in a mood. It was a weird week—maybe it was a weird relationship—but the Sniper was getting used to the Spy coming around to tease a bit as often as he came around for a quick kill. The Sniper would come back from respawn to find his things shifted around, or take his eye from his scope and reach for his mug only to see the Spy lounging in the corner drinking his coffee for him. They started talking about things unrelated to either of their secrets that week—never in depth, none of their talks lasted that long, but he learned that the Spy had no personal preference when it came to colour—except for when She did—and the Spy learned all about his rather unrefined tastes in music. On the days when the Spy wasn’t moody, they got to know each other better than the Sniper knew his own team. Of course, if the Spy was moody, instead of a quick chat, the Sniper got either a knife in the back or the silent treatment, but he hardly minded. He’d gotten nothing but knives and insults and frosty silences before, after all. On the weekend, they sat in the same hotel room with takeaway and a crummy western on the fuzzy little TV, and the Spy changed halfway through dinner, taking a set of ladies’ pyjamas into the bathroom as Him and coming out wearing them as Her. The Sniper could hear the transformation through the cheap door, the loud sudden inhale and little grunts of pain that carried in the stillness and made him stand to turn the sound up on the Late Movie. “I promised to tell you about it all, didn’t I?†She asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed and gripping her ankles. The Sniper still had the chair. A week of awkward stabs at friendship that occasionally felt natural was about even with his best track record, as friendships went, but it wasn’t near enough for him to think about asking to join the Spy on the bed. “Yeah.†He nodded, taking another bite he didn’t feel like, just to have something to do. “Only if you like.†“It would be nice to be able to tell someone. I said he has always been Spy. When I was young—I prefer not to date myself by giving an exact age, but please, imagine that I was quite young indeed—We lived near Paris. Not in the heart of the city, but, not very far. When we were invaded, there were soldiers in the streets. There was also a resistance. My family was a part of that. Men were stopped and searched, of course. After a while, they learned to search the women, too. Eventually they thought to search the boys. Anyone could have been a spy, and somehow messages were getting through, people were escaping who should not have, intelligence was in the wrong hands.†“They didn’t ever search little girls, though?†The Sniper asked. “They did not ever search me. I was terrified they would, I was always terrified, but sometimes my father or my uncles were on missions they called hunting trips. Sometimes my mother had strangers from out of town in the house who she always called her relatives even though I knew they were not. She would take peroxide to their hair and put them in someone else’s clothes and… Most of this is irrelevant, really. My apologies. The only part that matters, is that messages or sometimes forged documents had to get from one place to another.†“Your folks forged documents?†He smiled a little, leaning forward. “The acorn does not fall far from the tree.†She smiled back, shaking her head. “I always volunteered to, for them. I was always terrified. Sometimes I thought I was sure to be caught, I was scared so badly, and I could not think what to do. The Spy always did. He was… more like a… like an imaginary friend, back then. He was always a man, even when I was small, never a child like me. And because he was not a child, he was never scared, or foolish, or any of that. He was a calm, cool, clear voice in my mind. When I pictured him, he looked something like my father and something like my uncles… maybe something like me, if I was ever going to grow into a man. He remembered every step, repeated them to me so that I could not make a mistake.†“Useful.†The Sniper nodded. It came out sounding like the stupidest thing in the world, but he had nothing else waiting in the wings to fix it with. “He was. When I was older… The war was over. For a while, I was not in espionage, but also… It had been profitable to be a little girl, to be below suspicion—if I was carrying something for my father, maybe it would be searched, but me, personally, I never was. With the war over, with… with me, growing up, it was… No longer profitable, to be a woman. And… sometimes it was worse than unprofitable. I probably could have borne that, but there were other times… Times when it had nothing to do with jobs I would not be offered, or men I wanted to avoid. Times when I was not a woman.†She was rubbing a hand over her arm, where the sleeve of her pyjama jacket rode up, and he reached over to grab her wrist when he could see the skin reddening. “Hey.†He caught her eye. “It’s okay.†“I didn’t understand it. How sometimes I could feel perfectly normal, how most of the time I could feel perfectly normal!—only sometimes I would pass a mirror, and this girl would look out at me, and I wouldn’t understand for a moment why she should… She wasn’t me. I hated her, and then another mood would take me and I would feel at home in my skin again, but never for very long.†“I’ve never been all that comfy in mine.†The Sniper volunteered, with a half-smile. “I mean, it’s got nothing to do with what’s between my legs, but… I mean… I don’t mean I know what you went through, I just mean I—“ “Understand anyway. Yes, I… I figured you would. Because of your secret,†“Nah. Well, that too. I was just awkward most my life. ‘S better now. I found myself in the desert. Before that, though. Used to itch to be someone else.†“I became someone else.†“The Spy.†She shook her head. “I wanted to be. But I was a girl. I could barely pass for a woman, let alone a man. Still, I could pass for a boy of twelve or thirteen for a while. It was a little better, even if the boy in the mirror couldn’t possibly belong to the voice in my head. He could still be some child-self for him, something the girl could never be. When I found that the mask existed, that it could make me into him—the face it gives me is so close… It was like a miracle. And I could hear that voice in my head again, telling me exactly what to do. Talking me through every painful switch. He is me, sometimes. But when he is not, he is still with me.†There was nothing to say… ‘That’s nice’ was downright imbecilic. ‘Do you want the last of these fries’ was a bit dismissive. He just sat quietly for a while, and so did she. “I’m still sorry.†He whispered, as the Late Movie ran its course and no more conversation sprang up. “Part of me wants to tell you to stop already, part of me thinks you should be.†She snorted. “Which part is which?†“It’s all mixed up.†She lit a cigarette and took a drag, pushing the fries across the bed towards him without a word being spoken on the subject. “But I think I am a little more forgiving when I am like this.†“Oh.†“Not because it would have been any less terrible, but… When I feel like a woman, I am not ashamed to be one. He is. Don’t say it is awful—wouldn’t you be?†“Dunno.†He answered honestly. “Got no experience on the subject. Maybe if I was a real uggo. Aw, you know I would be. Be a bloody miserable looking woman. Like to think I wouldn’t be ashamed if I was pretty at least.†“Are you saying I shouldn’t be?†There was something in her expression, that told him there was no easy answer. He took a deep breath, then smiled at her wryly. “Wish I had a calm, collected voice in my head telling me what to do about now.†“Don’t try to distract me from the question.†She smirked back, shaking her head. “N-no. I mean—Look, you’re beautiful, but… but you’re a girl right now, you’re supposed to be. And… and I guess… I guess I can see how you’d feel different, when you’re not. All very well me saying I’d be fine with it when I don’t know what the bloody hell I’m talking about, right? Er… should I be apologizing to him instead of you, then?†“It isn’t a split personality.†She scoffed. “It’s just easier to talk about him like someone else sometimes, it is not as though I forget everything you say to me once I put him back on. It’s more comfortable on the bed, if you want to sit with me.†He climbed up beside her, stretching his legs out as a silent Indian Chief in profile took the place of any regular kind of programming. He didn’t touch her, or look at her except to glance quickly out of the corner of an eye, but she was relaxed, as she finished off her cigarette, and eventually he relaxed as well.
To be able to WEAR your imaginary friend. That kind of set my brain on fire for a moment.
I'm anon because it's a bit embarrassing to admit (and people online tend to tell me I'm full of crap when I do) but I'm consciously gender-fluid. I think the way Spy explains his mindset is accurate. I identify myself as having two 'me's that are both 'me' but I'm only one or the other most of the time. The changes aren't rapid and usually a routine sets in and I'm one gender mindset or another for days or weeks. I'm enjoying this (I'm a sucker for all your stories, though) and have absolutely no complaint about they way you're pulling it off. Me likey... moar.
captcha: discretion HA But really, this fic is lovely, and I eagerly check back for more updates everyday.
Thank you very much. (16, I'm really glad this felt true enough to you!) 'Chan's back, and so am I! This chapter's not as short... it feels a little lacking to me as the author, though... I think because it's a 'bridging' chapter, between bits of real plot... Ch.5 It was The Spy who kissed him first, and not the enchanting still-nameless woman he sometimes became. They had been fighting—it seemed like the Spy timed it, because they were almost always facing off when the day came to an end, no matter what errand he should have been on. All of that Thursday, the Spy had just come to stab him in the back before flitting away, and tired of the silent treatment even when he was being consistently slaughtered, the Sniper forwent his Jarate, equipping a shield instead. “Oh, that is playing dirty.†The Spy had hissed. “You think this is playing dirty?†He had chuckled, before engaging in one of their little knife fights. It had ended on a draw, and with the Spy’s mouth covering his. There was a long silence after, the blood drawn on both sides dripping onto the floorboards and both weapons forgotten in the impasse. “Should I not have done?†The Spy asked, putting miles of cool distance into his voice. “I like kissing.†The Sniper shrugged. The pain in his side throbbed in time with his pulse, more unbearable than ever with the kiss reverberating in his mind, in the air between them. “Funny time for it. Thought you were mad at me.†“No. I should be.†He laughed, putting a hand to his own wound. “I should hate you… so much, I should hate you. So why do I like you?†“I’ve got a lot of good qualities.†The Sniper smirked, tone mild. “My sterling wit. My personal hygiene.†“Please…†The Spy gasped. “It hurts to laugh.†The countdown started over the unseen-but-effective PA system. “Could finish each other,†He offered. “Come see you on the weekend.†The Spy smiled, cupping his head and bringing him in close, raising his knife again. “That is a plan… I must like you for your cool head.†The Sniper braved a stolen kiss of his own before lifting his kukri, listening to the Spy’s countdown, a step ahead of the Announcer’s voice blaring around them, so that they would both be assured of a neat death before invincibility robbed one or the other of his ability to succumb. When he reached the hotel on Saturday, earlier than his past visits had been, She answered the door. Her dress was surprisingly old-fashioned, not like the hot little number she’d worn to pick him up at the bar, with a flutter of robin’s egg blue that moved about her calves when she walked, and little beads and crystals scattered across her chest. She looked like something out of an old film, and he rather suspected she capitalized on that sometimes. “I’m conflicted when it comes to you.†She smiled, shaking her head. “I still think maybe I forgave you too quickly, but… You were sorry, and maybe no one else would have been. And you… listened. Which no one else has ever done.†He kissed her hand, relieved when it was allowed. “You still come here wondering if you will wind up a big mess for housekeeping?†She teased. “I have my moments of doubt. Might be worth it. Hell, you answer the door looking like that and a man might start to think you’re worth a lot of things.†“If I put on a record, would you dance with me here?†“Here? I mean, yes. I mean, I don’t know how.†“That is fine. I’m better at leading than I am at being led… I just really felt like changing back into this skin for the weekend. Honestly, if I could go to work like this, realistically? On Monday at least, I would.†She ran a hand through her hair. He sat on the edge of the bed while she pulled a record from one of her suitcases, going to the player in the cabinet beneath the TV, idly watching the way her dress moved, the way she moved inside it. Different from the Spy—at least, different from the Spy most days… If he thought back hard enough, he could remember times when the Spy’s body language had been subtly different, more feminine. Days, perhaps, when she had wished she could go into work without the mask. He wondered how she would move, with this body and the Spy’s mindset, how his mannerisms would translate with the smaller hands, the curvier hips. Then again, with this job, she never had to be the woman when she felt like the Spy… “Done staring yet?†She asked. He could detect enough good humour in it to keep him from falling all over himself apologizing. “You know… if I accidentally call you ‘sweetheart’ just when we’re dancing…†“Just when we’re dancing? I wouldn’t take that out on your hide come Monday. As long as you don’t abuse the privilege.†“What if I call you sweetheart on Monday—No, on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or any day, at work.†Her expression didn’t change at all, but somehow he could see it shut down all the same, her eyes sliding away from his. “Then I will take it out on you on the weekend, I suppose. Where recovering from such a thing is much more difficult.†“Him, I mean. In case I wasn’t clear.†He tried to follow along, moving backwards where she led him. “Still a dance, isn’t it? That’s your metaphor, not mine.†She faltered, and he tripped, only just catching them both. “We’ll see.†She blushed. They started moving again. After a while, she led him through the steps the other way around, though he tripped just as much in the lead as he had when he was following her. He held his tongue even with the hint of permission, until she spun back into his arms and he caught a whiff of lavender. “Thanks for the dance, sweetheart…†“Marguerite.†She whispered. “You can call him sweetheart, if it is him you are talking to. If you call him ‘Marguerite’, there will be absolutely no forgiveness.†“I’d never,†He held her close, buried his nose in her hair and swayed, as the record hissed and popped in the wake of the song’s end. “He used to be paid in cash… This job is too different. I told them I was wealthy enough from old jobs, especially since this one had room and board, that they should make all payments to my ‘sister’.†She stopped moving. He let go of her, following after a while when she moved to the bed. “Clever.†He said. He was still trying to process the fact that she had just given him a name. “Marguerite… it’s—It suits you. When you’re like this, I mean.†“No need to return the favour, Mr. Mundy. I know what I need to know about you already.†Her eyes sparkled. “Bloody hell, next you’ll be telling me what kind of underwear I’ve got on.†“Briefs.†She said. He gaped at her and she laughed. “Well, I had a roughly twenty-five percent chance of being right on a guess. You seem like a brief man.†“Twenty… five?†This didn’t help matters. It had sounded like an easy fifty-fifty to him. Thirty-three, when he considered going without completely. She only laughed again. “Well, fine.†He leaned on one elbow, reclining, his feet dangling off the bed where his boots wouldn’t muddy up the coverlet. “What’s your Spy wear?†“Boxers.†She answered calmly. “Most of the time.†“You’re dressed too nice for take-away and crap television, you know.†He smiled at her. “Me, I’m dressed like a bum and my manners probably aren’t much better, but I’m never gonna be able to treat you right during the week. I might as well foot the bill for one nice meal.†She frowned, but it was more thoughtful than upset. And really, they both knew it wasn’t just work… he’d never be able to take the Spy out to dinner, or dance with him where people could see. They’d never get more than a stolen kiss or a secretive romp in a cheap room with the blinds drawn. The blinds weren’t drawn then—he could look across to an empty office building across the way, the one that housed the dentist and the realtor and the town’s sole law office during the day. Even if the building wasn’t all darkened windows and bolted doors, anyone in it who cared to look back wouldn’t have seen more than a man dancing with a pretty woman. They were more than welcome to look at that in town, if she said yes. If she did say yes, he could give her all the things he couldn’t give her other half… however much of it she cared to get. “I don’t expect nothing in return.†He promised, when she didn’t answer. “And maybe… maybe you and him like different things in a man. I mean… Pleasure of your company’s enough. But I spent the last two weekends having that here, and I thought you might like the change in scenery.†“True.†She slid to her feet, smoothing her hands down her thighs. “This dress is wasted on a bushman like you.†“Well, wouldn’t say wasted. Not that I’d complain if you wanted to take it off…†He chuckled, rising easily enough to her teasing, daring to flirt. “Maybe some other time.†Her smile turned oddly earnest, even more oddly, a little shy. “I got nothing going on.†He stood, shoving his hands in his pockets and returning the smile. “Oh, a man on call. Lucky me.†She kissed his cheek, with softer lips. “Give me time. Both of me. Trust is something hard to give.†“Guess I better earn it.†He opened the door for her. She nodded, just slightly. “You may. If I didn’t want to be treated like a lady, I would not bother looking like one, cheri. But, I will drive. My car is much nicer. And we would like to arrive in style, yes?†“You are gonna make me work for it.†He laughed, trailing her out to the parking lot. “Ah, don’t worry. Most of the time, you will be dealing with Spy, anyway. He is far less work.†She grinned, as they climbed into the car. “He’s a different kind of work.†The Sniper rolled his eyes, and she laughed.
This chapter is the one I liked the most so far. I love how you make them interact and the fact that Sniper isn't acting like a socially retarded bushman. On another side, I feel so much like >>16 (and I get so much trouble from my family/friend for it). I nearly burst in tears reading both the story and 16's review. Don't ever stop making the world better Anne.
This may be a silly question, but is Spy completely physically male when he is Spy? Otherwise, great story so far!
Loving this.
Hnnnnnnnnnnngh. That is the only way to express my feelings.
Thank you, thank you so much, and also, >>20 The answer to your question. Ch.6 Marguerite may have been the more forgiving side, but the Spy was bolder, or maybe just more aggressive, because during that week, every fight that brought them close came with at least a little stolen kiss. Maybe it was a matter of libido, or maybe it was something Nice Girls Didn’t, making the first move. The Sniper didn’t much care, the snatches of sweetness and heat becoming a much nicer game than the old one. Of course, it could have been a tactic, as well—it would have been an effective one. It was Wednesday morning that the Spy had him panting and all but humping at his leg like a dog with a particularly long kiss and wicked hands that had completely abandoned any other weapon. “Absolutely unfair…†The Sniper groaned, his hands slipping down to squeeze the harder, flatter muscle of the Spy’s backside, a far cry from the soft pear-shaped swell of his other half, but equally nice. “How are you not affected by all this?†The Spy was on the other side of the nest before the Sniper could even figure out what he’d said, much less how it could have caused offense. “Drop it.†“Look, if it doesn’t do anything for ya, you don’t have to—“ “I said drop it.†He snarled. “I enjoy what we do and if I didn’t we wouldn’t do it, so just. Drop. It.†The Spy had drawn his knife, flipped it open. He still made no move to use it, but the Sniper shut his mouth, hands in the air. For a long while, they stood in their respective corners, the Sniper waiting, the Spy stewing. “It changes the skeleton.†The Spy blew out a deep sigh on a cloud of smoke. “That is the first thing it does. The muscles change as well, to support those differences. The vocal chords, mercifully, those change as well. You have probably noticed by now the stubble is illusory. All the body hair is like that, strange and visible and untouchable, if it is different from hers. The internal organs shift about some, just in following the new framework. But… the organs do not change.†“So…†The Sniper blinked, staring—trying desperately not to, as his brain fought first to understand and then, quickly, fought not to. “So it doesn’t matter if I am affected!†He snapped. “I still have her… I still… Her fucking vulve, everything else with it. You have no idea the lengths I have to go to to hide that from everyone else even when every other detail is perfect… You have no idea what… If anyone else knew about this, what could—Well, fine. Go ahead and make your jokes if you have them.†“Oughtta know by now I don’t.†The Sniper said softly. “Don’t expect me to apologize for being unfair to you, either.†“Oughtta know by now I don’t hold much in the way of expectations, either.†He snorted. “Except that you’ll probably stab me in the back at least once a day during the week. Guess I’ve come to expect a little bit more than that, but the last thing I look to you for is consistency—scratch that, the last thing I look to you for is manners, not when you’re like this. And I oughtta know by now that if I even look like I might pity you, you’ll make me bleed for it, so.†“So?†“It is what it is, and you’re you, and I’ll be honest, I’m just relieved I haven’t been doing anything wrong.†The Spy smiled slowly. “You are far more sensitive for her.†“She’s a lady. You’re the bloke with the knife in my back. When do you think I should be ‘sensitive’?†“If I’m still like this on the weekend, you can still be sensitive, just don’t overdo it.†He crossed the floor again, leaning his head against the Sniper’s shoulder. “After all, I’m not paid to knife you on the weekend… And I don’t mind a little consideration now and again, from one gentleman to another—or, from you.†“Oh, nice.†The Sniper kissed him on the temple. “You wanna fight or you want a smoke?†“Smoke.†He straightened up, only to sit down and lean against the wall, legs in a sprawl. “Light?†The Sniper lit his own cigarette, using the tip to ignite the Spy’s, sliding down the wall to sit beside him. “I must be crazy to put up with you ruining my productive work days. I’d never put up with it if you weren’t bloody handsome.†“Flattery will get you… hm, a few places.†The Spy chuckled. “Sorry.†“Nothing to be sorry about, mate.†“I just hate it. And of course she has no such problem… In the world, it is easier to be a man. But sometimes… sometimes it is easier to be a woman. There are things a man can be that a woman cannot, maybe, but that is a thing that cuts both ways. She can flirt with men. She can show weakness—she is expected to. She can… she can have this damned body that I am stuck with either way, and there is no solution for it, no better and newer mask that will give me the rest of myself.†The Sniper just nodded. Eventually, the Spy flicked his cigarette butt towards the Sniper’s ashtray, landing it instead on the surface of the crate, and the Sniper picked it up to deposit it alongside his own. “Suppose we should try killing each other about now.†“Reckon so.†“I… have been finding myself liking you more and hating you less, even in battle. I… I hardly think of—The unmasking.†“Yeah, well… you know what I think of you.†The Sniper felt himself flush. “I don’t halfway understand it, but yes… I think so.†For a moment, there was something of Marguerite in Spy’s smile, though it did not last long, and it did not come with any of her mannerisms. Just a softening of the eyes and the corners of the mouth, a nanosecond of a certain tightening and relaxing that reminded him of the little liberties she allowed when he managed not to offend her. “Made about three kills this morning already.†“Just one on the way over here.†The Spy admitted. “Aw, go ahead, then.†He shrugged. “Be gentle with me.†The Spy chuckled, and then everything went dark.
Now granted, although we've heard this - “You talk about yourself like you’re two different people.†“It only sometimes feels that way.†- it sounds like Spy would ditch her in a hot second if he could.
Aww. Poor Spy. So close, yet so far to being himself.
...This.this is amazing. Please please please...moooore.I WILL GIVE YOU ARTS. capcha: useful,
>>26 It would really be appreciated if you would put "sage" in the email field when commenting on a fic, especially one that hasn't been updated in this long. Otherwise, you'll just get people's hopes up for nothing.
Sorry this has been so long in coming, guys-- and I guess in the end it's a good thing someone didn't sage, or I would have lost it completely... (also, captcha says 'desired.') Ch. 7 The Spy was still the Spy, at the weekend's start, and there were no words when the Sniper arrived at the hotel, just a firm grip and strong arms pulling him into the room, pushing him into the door to close it beneath their weight, and hard kisses. The Sniper was perfectly happy to be dragged to the bed, pushed down and kissed some more. His hands kept busy, stripping the Spy to the waist, and the illusion didn't stop him, when the hair beneath his fingertips was soft and fine and sparse, nothing like the thick, coarse hair he could see. It didn't matter, he had already lost control of himself in the touching and kissing, the bare skin and muscle, the murmured pleas and praise he couldn't be bothered to keep track of. He had to backtrack through it to the best of his ability when some carelessly chosen word made the Spy freeze. "Well you can't." The other man hissed, pulling away, folding his arms over his chest and putting space between them. "I... sorry?" "You know." He shook his head. "Wasn't paying attention to me. I'm sorry." "I can't fuck you. You can't suck my cock. There isn't one and you know it and none of the things you want--" "Hey, hey, hey now..." He placed a hand on the Spy's shoulder, unfazed when it was shaken off. "I really didn't mean to... It's just... talk, you know? My mouth gets to running whenever you're not keeping it busy, it's not--" "Well, I can't." The Spy snapped. "I didn't mean anything by it, except you drive me crazy like that sometimes. I don't-- I'm not missing anything. It's all right." "But you expect certain things from a man." "Yeah. I expect a few things from a man, if I was going to ask him for this. I'd expect a fist in my face. I'd expect to come away with a few boot prints, if I came away from it at all. I'd expect to be spat on, and called a few things I won't repeat. I keep telling you I got no expectations. I wouldn't know what to expect. Not from you. You're... different." The Spy snorted. "I mean it as a compliment." The Sniper shrugged. "I don't always know what to think around you, but I like it. I like your faces. I like the ways you hold yourself. I like your voices. I like kissing you. Like the ways you smell. And the way you smile at me when I don't fuck everything up with you, 'cause I always feel like I'm going to, and I'm sorry when I do, and bloody hell, tell me this isn't what you can't forgive me for." He had grown a little more desperate, as the idea dawned on him, but this time his hand wasn't shaken off, and finally the Spy rolled over and slipped an arm around him. "No. No, of course not. It just... it's a sore spot. And don't lie and tell me you don't care about any of it, the things I can't-- We can get around it, maybe, if you really want to, but not if you lie to me." "All right. I'd love to suck your cock. That's true. But that doesn't mean I'm disappointed by you. Better?" "I don't know. Maybe you should come back later. Marguerite, after all, never has to worry about the state of her genitals." The Sniper shook his head, hand resting on the Spy's belly. "Only if you'd really rather be alone. Would it be... bad, for me to ask to see you?" The Spy sat, wrapping his arms more firmly around himself and staring ahead. When he moved, there was a slight soft jiggle, but the cross of his arms hid it again, the spread of breast tissue, broader and flatter but still out of line with the lean male figure. The Sniper hadn't noticed, except to notice that the Spy was softer than he looked in general, until the Spy sat up. He placed a hand on the man's back, stroking up the knobs of his spine. "Won't be sore if you say no." "It looks wrong." "I won't think so." "What if you do?" Another snap, another pulling away. "Then you can say no, but you better the hell believe I still want to be with you. You know, you can-- you can spend all next week giving me the cold shoulder and stabbing me in the back, that's fine, but I'll knock on your door next weekend too, and then I guess it's your choice whether you let me in or not. Whatever it means with us, you can... You know. It's fine. Whatever it means with us, but I... I do, you know?" The Spy stood and went to the window, but he made no move to draw the blinds. Finally, he unbuckled his belt, fussed a bit with his fly-- more hesitation than anything-- before letting his trousers drop. "I think I would rather keep the boxers on." He said, voice small. "Sure." The Sniper nodded. "Hey, I'm a simple man. Still get to look at your arse." The Spy laughed, and moved back to the bed. "It's not as nice as hers." "Sure it is." The Sniper wrapped both arms around the other man's waist, pulling him close. "Think it's just as nice." They fell asleep like that, the Sniper mostly-dressed and the Spy down to mask, gloves, socks, and boxers, to wake in the middle of the night when the temperature had dropped too low and the Spy accidentally elbowed the Sniper in his search for the blanket.
most definitely unique. More please.
Holy shit, Anne, thank you so much! Sometimes dreams do come true...
A few chapters ago I started to feel like Spy and Sniper’s behaviour was going from “Spy is going through difficulties, and Sniper’s wonderfully patient about it,†to “Spy is being a bitch, and Sniper’s a fool for putting up with it.†By this chapter, I’m ready to slap somebody. I understand more intimately than I’d like that what Spy is going through is tough, but taking it out on other people—especially the scant few people who are trying their best to treat you correctly—isn’t and never has been acceptable behaviour. It’s to be expected that Spy will be tender in places, and he’s got every right to share his hurt with a willing listener. What isn’t cool is throwing fits at the drop of a hat [hat drops, there’s your problem] and requiring lengthy displays of affection and apology every time Sniper’s good intentions trod amiss. Just for once, I’d like to see it go something like this: “Please don’t do that, Sniper. It gets me in a sore spot.†“Sure thing, mate. Didn’t mean to.†“I know. Thanks for understanding.†And that’s it. Job well done with no hurt feelings and no Sniper trembling in his boots thinking that any minute he’s going to sneeze the wrong way and lose his closest friend. What Spy’s doing now borders on emotional abuse. Marguerite is better, if only because she got the body, but she’s still not being very respectful of Sniper. Mind, “selfish and manipulative†fits very well with the Spy we know from the game. If that’s how he and she are, that’s fine, as long as you understand that it’s not material for a sympathetic character. Sniper, Jeeze. “Go ahead and give me the cold shoulder, treat me like shit. I’ll keep coming for you, and by the way, everything about you is beautiful.†Jeeeezze. Maybe we need to set Spy aside and examine why Sniper thinks he should put up with being jerked about all the time. I can certainly come up with a few ideas—he feels obligated, he’s desperate, he’s a masochist, he doesn’t care enough about Spy to view his mistreatment as a threat—but those reasons need to be addressed somewhere in the story. From what I've seen so far, it looks like he just functions as would a teenaged girl’s imaginary boyfriend, with no needs of his own and a never-ending tolerance for shit from his lover.
Actually 31, I'm sorry Spy seems to be "throwing fits", but people who spend their entire lives in the wrong bodies, wrong in one way or another, very often develop extreme sensitivities when having to face these unsatisfactory, alienating, nonfunctional and even painful bodies at times in their lives when they are most vulnerable--in bed with their lovers, having to explain to people they care for that they are different, strange, inadequate, and maybe frightening. That Spy is not totally "well-adjusted" and "reasonable" about their situation is absolutely realistic, and, from the point of view of a person who feels exactly the same as Spy does in this story, identifiable. What's unreasonable is expecting anyone to breeze through issues as complex as gender fluidity and transexuality without getting impatient, frightened, angry, and depressed. Even in 2012. In 1967? Fucking christ; I can hardly imagine it.
Being a genderfluid individual myself, I find Spy to be quite real and I also find Sniper to be extremely patient which fits his character well. After all, you don't get to be a professional assassin without having an elephantine amount of stubbornness, dedication and patience which lasts even in the face of dysphoria -caused irksome behavior from someone you seriously fancy. In any case, good story, good read. Keep it up, deary.
Thanks everyone, both for the positive and the negative. This story is sort of a slow one in coming, but I really appreciate the feedback. (Sniper does have a reason why he feels he deserves to be mistreated. Whether it is a 'good' reason is down to the personal reactions of the audience, and I don't expect that I can please every person, nor do I expect this promise to bring back a reader who can't connect with the story, but it's there, and I do hope that when it comes out, it's stronger than it otherwise might have been for having some very critical feedback.)
I am so very happy to see that this fic is updating again. Thanks, Anne!