Repostan reposts. Story is by Kievan.


Title: In the Morning

Pairing: Spy/Sniper

Warnings: Slightly Depressing

~~~~~

Spy has never liked festivities. His lifestyle is one of silence and stealth, so it comes as little surprise that he immediately harbours a distaste for anything loud, raucous, or generally tumultuous and annoying. On that list would be things like parties, drinking contests, dinner with the group when fresh rations have just arrived, and last but certainly not least, Scout. Spy could always simply disappear into his own room when he doesn’t feel like entertaining celebrations, but Heavy has become particularly adept at breaking open his door to get him to join in the “fun,” and Spy doesn’t feel like spending another week or so with broken hinges, so usually he just climbs into Sniper’s nest and relishes in what little time they have to spend together as the sounds of the party drift up from below.

Sniper never minds. He too is used to isolation and prolonged group contact makes him uncomfortable, but Spy is not Demo or Soldier; Spy understands the concept of peace in silence. For this, Sniper allows his nest to be a small haven for an escaping Spy (though the first few times he was wary to the point of paranoia, Spy has never attempted aggression against him – in fact, sometimes their little rendezvous end in something quite opposite of aggression but that’s another story – and repeated occasions have taught Sniper to relax, if only a little, around the man).

Besides, Spy usually brings some sort of alcoholic beverage and, every so often, food that Sniper wouldn’t want to venture into the chaos to retrieve as thanks for letting him stake out in the nest. Sniper would have let him in for free, but he’s not one to reject good solid alcohol. It’s their own special ritual – while Demo and Soldier drink themselves into comas (Engie, Scout, and Pyro placing bets and cheering loudly) and Heavy and Medic lock themselves in the clinic, Spy and Sniper relax in the nest around liquor and small talk that both of them are grateful was meaningless.

Usually Sniper’s the one drinking up all the alcohol. Spy, while fond of fancy cocktails and drinks in martini glasses with umbrellas in them, doesn’t take to raw liquor well. This time though, the empty bottles around Spy are alarming compared to the one bottle next to Sniper. It is a bit out of the norm, but Sniper dismisses it: they’d had a fantastic victory over those BLU bastards today – they were lucky any of them escaped, what with Spy backstabbing left and right. This victory is basically thanks to Spy – he deserves a little reward.

Even if it means drinking himself into an almost-coma on his nest floor. Sniper smirks, amused, at Spy’s disheveled state as he takes another swig at the bottle, muttering in incoherent half-English, half-other languages phrases. He hasn’t even taken the time to clean up his (usually immaculate) suit, which has a bit of blood staining the front. This attests to his sorry state, but all Sniper can think of is how his nest still must smell like blood, especially from that BLU Spy earlier. Oh well, there’s nothing he can do about it at the moment.

Sniper puts down the rifle he’s been cleaning and stretches out his long legs so that they drape over Spy’s thighs. His smirk only grows bigger when Spy makes some sound of discontent but attempts to do nothing about the problem at hand. Instead, the Frenchman only takes another swig of his drink, wipes his eyes blurry by the drink, and stares out the nest into the sky. It is spectacularly starry tonight. Sniper can identify almost every constellation available currently, and out of habit he begins tracing them, mouthing their names as he connects the dots.

“What are you looking at?”

Ursa Major rides high on the horizon behind him. To Spy, in his sprawled state, it probably looks like Sniper is holding a mute conversation with the roof of his nest.

“Ursa Major,” Sniper responds without turning his head around, his fingers painting a stickbear shape in the air. “A real beaut, but ya never see her or her cub in the Outback. Too fah north.”

Spy’s brow furrows. “Where?”

“Well ya can’t see her from where you are, mate. You’ll have to come over here if you’re curious.”

“Hmph.” Spy responds at first, then reconsiders and slowly sits up. He clutches his head, then slides over to where Sniper is reclining against the wall, resting his back on the wood. There is a bullet-hole where an enemy Sniper had missed his Sniper, and he traces it with his finger before finally wrenching his gaze to Sniper’s hand.

“See it? There’s the mother,” His hand moves ever-so-slightly to trace the figure, “An’ there’s her cub.” His fingers shifts to the right and traces a smaller figure. Spy nods, though he’s not looking at all where Sniper’s pointing. His gaze hasn’t left the hand, the calloused, large hands with a signature bruise on the thumbnail. Nobody has steadier, deadlier, more beautiful hands, and Spy can’t help but follow that hand to where it connects at the wrist, eyes languidly brushing over the shape of his forearm, up, up across the sleeve (pausing at the tear, that was from an enemy Medic’s Ubersaw) and then stopping at the shoulder. The nasty bruise along the side from that Scout’s bat a few days back probably still hasn’t healed, so Spy is careful to avoid the area as he places a gloved hand on Sniper’s shoulder.

“You’re not quite yourself tonight, mate.” Sniper says, lowering his hand and turning his gaze to Spy.

“Embrassez-moi,” Spy says, though it’s slurred. Sniper raises an eyebrow and is a bit taken aback – Spy, while he can be smug and arrogant and certainly narcissistic at times, is never openly needy or demanding. Sniper traces the tan lines around Spy’s eyes that the balaclava left, noting how bloodshot the Frenchman’s eyes are. They’re so red he may as well have been crying for hours or more.

Spy’s grip tightens on Sniper’s shoulder, the edges of his palm accidentally digging into the bruise. “S'il vous plait,” He continues. Sniper’s intrigue skyrockets, but there’s no way he can deny him now, not with Spy’s desperation seeping through his grip into his shoulder. He leans over and places his lips over Spy’s, noting how the usual taste of cigarettes is almost completely smothered by the alcohol. Sniper loves the taste of Spy’s cigarettes, how smooth and silky they are compared to the brand he smokes. They describe Spy himself almost perfectly: subtle yet classy, with a hint of impeding danger that’s unnoticed until it’s too late. Deepening the kiss, Sniper grins into it as he feels Spy moan in his mouth because it’s wet and warm and good with that small sucking sound when they pull apart that lets them know it was sloppy enough to be perfect.

“Mon cher… “Spy mutters, though his voice stops on the “ch.” He shakes his head, wipes his blurry eyes, and relinquishes Sniper’s shoulder to grab at the bottle of liquor again. It’s a bit out of his reach, and he complains to Sniper, who has longer arms, and Sniper only tells him to speak in English, then downright refuses. He thinks he’s had enough, especially at this point.

Spy seems to disagree. He slides away from Sniper and takes a swipe at the bottle, but misjudges the distance because now it’s too close and his wrist bumps into it and it falls and rolls across the wooden floor, the liquid sloshing inside (a good bit has spilled out of it too.) Sniper sighs, because now instead of blood his nest smells like alcohol. It’s not much of an improvement. In fact, it’s probably a downgrade because now Demo is going to be attracted to his nest. Goddamn it.

“You,” Sniper says as Spy wobbles toward the empty bottle and crashes next to it. “You’re going to hate yourself for this in the morning, mate.”

Spy makes some noise of agreement and motions to take another swig. He pauses, the bottle halfway to his lips, to wipe at his blurred eyes again before slurring,

“Oui. But zat is because, in ze morning, I’ll remember zat you are dead.”