A/N: Here's to my new brOTP.

It's basically an OTP, but they don't do the sexy stuff until after you start respecting me as an author.

But you will never respect me, therefore, the two are still straight.

I do not own Monty Python, but I do own several books.

Ah, yes.

The BLU library. It contained more than a few fact files and the detailed anamnesis of every employee that ever worked there. In this small, stale, putrid abomination that was indeed a pathetic excuse for a book storing facility, much could be found. In between these dark, hardwood shelves shielded from the damp walls by a thick line of mold and soot, many comics, magazines, bestsellers and all-time classics stood, festering away. They were unread, unwanted, and could have even gone untouched if one of the mercenaries didn't have his weekly cataloguing duty.

A poor soul would spend a full day in the damned facility, lit by only a trace of abrasive white light and covered with a mound of shimmering dust that flew into one's esophagus whenever he would move or breathe or speak. And his function? Lending the books that kept these forever-trapped mercenaries out of a frenzy of madness and cabin fever. Charge the book if anybody bothers to come. Give the blueprints for the new and improved, slightly less explosive sentry. Get out and take your Vicodin that you will need, and will need it badly.

And whose turn was it this time?

The Spy's.

He leaned over the desk, bored out of his mind, longing to catch up on his sleep while he dwelled in this hellhole. But he could not, on account of the many security cameras buzzing around him. Today of all days, he had to pick the shortest straw. Nobody came, and he was about to get up and leave the premises, when he was suddenly woken up from his bored state and forced to look ahead.

The Frenchman stared at the Soldier, his mouth agape, barely blinking. He could not believe his eyes. This man… this wretched, idiotic simpleton… among books?

He sat up straight until he was upright and statuesque as the proud patriot was.

"Did you happen to lose your way somewhere along the base? This is the book inventory, not the Resupply room."

The Soldier paid no mind to the man's curt tone, which was borderline mockery. The only aspect that kept it from being complete ridicule was the Frenchman's complete lack of interest.

Barely looking at the man under his helmet that cut his vision in half, the Soldier responded.

"As surprising as this might be, Spy, I'm looking for a book."

The man's hands crossed over his desk, and he slouched over them. A cynical gaze never left the Soldier's frame.

"A book," he repeated. "None of these have pictures that pop up, I assure you."

Except for those books the Pyro often took out. For children's books, they were legitimately horrifying.

See Jane.

See Jane's lighter.

See Jane burn house.

See house burn.

Run, Jane, run!

He did not want to think about these.

The Soldier, not being particularly amused by the Spy's response, stated his demand.

"I need a copy of "Sixty Days of Sudden Death with the Spirit of Australian Christmas" by I. C. U. Peeman, O.B.E."

The Spy slowly rose up. He was not surprised with the Soldier talking nonsense. He was merely taken aback by him taking his time to make his little prank convincing. If it was a prank. It sounded like a book title they would have in stock, though he had never heard of it.

"Well we," he started, slightly less comfortable and idle than he was a second ago. "We haven't got it in stock, as far as I know…"

"What?!" The Soldier bellowed. "You don't have it?! It's only the most important book a man must lay his eyes on! Next you'll tell me you're out of A Hundred Ways to Start a Fight!"

Curious about the title, the Spy managed to stand up from his chair, lined with powder blue corduroy. A small cloud of dust lifted and fell on his suit.

"Who is it by?"

"Some… Scottish guy," the American replied, waving his hand. "Don't tell me you've never heard of it."

"… actually I didn't," the Spy admitted. Pity. Of all his teammates, he thought that he was the most literate. And yet two book titles passed him. Quite odd… But he would not let that get to him today. Not this close to leaving his function as the weekly list-keeper. "Now, if there is nothing else you'd like…"

"I am not leaving here without a book! Now you will stay there and be civil about it or I swear to God I'll shove my boot so far up your ass you'll taste it!"

A pause.

"Fair enough."

"Now…" The Soldier paced quite slowly around the room, contemplating his other possibilities. The Spy was becoming annoyed by the man's steps. "Do you have David Copperfield?"

The Spy's face lit up unexpectedly. He knew this book! He loved this book! Hell, he fucking lived this book. He instinctively walked up to the bookshelf, muttering to himself with an air of triumph as his fingers curled against the old, tattered covers that he himself had held time and time again.

"Ah, yes, Dickens!"

"No."

The Spy formed a grimace. His lower lip stiffened and his eyes went wide. Gingerly, he turned to the side, the book still in his touch.

"I… beg your pardon?"

"No, Edmund Wells," the Soldier said with a deadpan gaze.

"I… I think you'll find that Dickens -…"

"ARE YOU ACCUSING ME OF NOT KNOWING EDMUND'S WORK?! I know the great Dutch author when I know him! David Coperfield, one P, by Edmund Wells! Look it up!"

"David Coperfield with one P…" the Spy spoke slowly, angry at himself for believeing that the Soldier could ever know of such a masterpiece. "By Edmund Wells…"

"Yes."

"In that case, we don't have it."

"Just like that? You aren't even going to look, you lazy scum bucket?"

"I fail to see the point."

"You have a lot of books here," the Soldier said, turning on his heel. The Spy responded through gritted teeth.

"Yes, but we don't have David Coperfield with one P by Edmund Wells."

"How about Great Expectations?"

The Spy uncrossed his arms and reluctantly looked to the side.

"Yes, we do have that…"

"That's G-R-A-T-E expectations, also by Edmund Wells."

Of course it was.

The Spy spoke through a sigh, averting his eyes.

"Well, yes, unfortunately, we don't get much Edmund Wells. He's not quite as popular as one might think."

And then, what the heck, the Soldier seemed genuinely disappointed that his favorite author wasn't in stock.

"Not Knickerless Knickleby? That's K-N-I-C-K-E-R-L-E-S-S." He suggested with a gleam of hope.

The Spy replied with a very taciturn and curt no.

"Khristmas Karol with a K?"

"No."

"Er, how about A Tale of Two Titties?"

"Definitely not," the BLU Spy answered. The Soldier shifted around the carpet, and just for a glorious second, the Spy thought that the Soldier would soon leave. But alas, the man rose up his index finger with a triumphant oh!, that made the Spy take a deep breath, preparing for the worst.

"How about Rarnaby Budge?"

"No, we're right out of Edmund Wells."

"No, you idiot, not Wells, Dickens!"

The Spy looked to him with a look of genuine surprise.

"Charles Dickens?"

The Soldier nodded once.

"You… you must mean Barnaby Rudge!"

"No, Rarnaby Budge, by Charles Dikkens, a well-known Dutch author. A close friend of Wells, I think. Spelt with two Ks, I'm surprised you don't know that."

A slight pause ensued before the Spy finally replied, leaning against the desk. His voice rose up by a few octaves.

"No, well we don't have 'Rarnaby Budge' by Charles Dikkens with two Ks, the well-known Dutch author, and perhaps to save time I should add that we don't have 'Karnaby Fudge' by Darles Chickens, or 'Farmer of Sludge' by Marles Pickens, or even 'Stickwick Stapers' by Farles Wickens with four M's and a silent Q! Why don't you try the nice, big, public library aaaaaaall the way down town?"

"I did, they sent me back here."

"Did they? I wonder why…" The Spy managed through his teeth.

"Do you…?"

"Do I what, Soldier?"

"I wonder if you have The Misadventures of Helen the Administrator and Her Assistant Pauling amongst the Giant Mini-Sentries of Teufort… a volume Eight."

The Spy blinked.

He considered turning into a giant ball of fire and burning a hole through the ground in order to find refuge with Satan.

"No. Strange. We have a lot of books here. Well, I mustn't keep you waiting," he said, hurriedly scampering towards the Soldier in order to escort him outside. "You are a busy man, and I…"

"B-b-but-!"

"No, no, no, come back next month, good man. We still don't-!"

"I saw it over there!" The Soldier said, pointing towards one of the wide shelves, miraculously supporting more than a few grains of dust. The Spy followed the man's finger.

"What?"

"I saw it over there: Mann's Glossary of Weapons!"

"Mann's…" he repeated with a hint of hostility and disbelief; "… Glossary of Weapons?"

"Yes."

The Spy shot him yet another look of disbelief, mixed with exhaustion and sprinkled with only a smidgeon of loathing.

"M-A-N-N?" He stressed.

"Yes."

"… W-E-A-P-O-N-S?"

"That's right."

The man watched the Soldier with narrowed eyes before he exhaled, making his way towards the large, boxy book the man had in sight. He curled his fingers around it and was just about to pull it away from all the other drab and boring books when the Soldier's booming voice stopped him dead.

"That better be the expurgated version, maggot."

The Spy remained in his halt. He took a deep breath, his eyes reducing themselves to tiny narrow lines at this point.

"I'm… what?!"

"The edited version."

"The edited version of Mann's Glossary of Weapons?!" The Spy shrieked at him, turning around with the book in his hands.

"The one without the revolver."

"The one with- pfft- the revolver?!" He flipped open the side of his coat, revealing the aforementioned weapon tucked in his suit, the safety off and loaded. For a millisecond, the Spy considered using it on the Soldier. He decided against it, once he came to terms that he would just be wasting precious ammunition. "The revolver is everywhere! It's a standard weapon, all Spies have them!"

"Well I don't like them! They're wuss weapons! They don't even make sentries explode!"

The Frenchman closed his jacket, flipping the book until he reached the full description and several images of the revolver displayed on the glossy page. He pressed his thumb and index finger against the edge of the sheet.

"Alright."

With a loud and sharp pfsssssh the page was gone and thrown on the floor. It might have been a sin to destroy books, but would have willingly subverted to it, if it meant getting this retarded ape off his back.

"I removed it! Anything else you don't like?"

"The Level Two Sentry."

"Right!"

Pfsssssh!

"Anything else, anything at all?"

"Hm… oh! That kid's baseball bat, the plain one!"

"Alright, bat, bat, bat, bat…" the Spy muttered aloud as he flipped the pages until he finally found it, pulling it out of the covers. The glossy image of the baseball bat was no more. He closed it up victoriously.

"Right! No bats, no Level Two sentries, no revolvers, there's your book!"

He reached his hands out, hoping that the Soldier would take it, deposit his fee and piss the fuck off. Instead, the American only looked at it with a look of disgust.

"You can't give me that! It's torn!"

The. Spy's. Jaw. Dropped.

Luckily, he regained his composure and threw the book on the ground. His heavy arms flailed around him, failing to find support. This universe was dark, cold and unforgiving. Just like his mother. His mind went loopy.

"Okay… Alright! Give me something! Anything! We have lots of books here, it's a book inventory!"

"Er… what about Saxton Combs His Chest Hair?"

"No, no, no," the Spy shook his head before looking at the Soldier with his crazy eyes. "Try again."

"The Dynamic of Flying Grass and Hurting People?"

"No, no, no, that's not it."

"Er… oh! Do you have Dominic the BLU Spy Saves the Survivors?"

"No, no, no… wait, WHAT?!" The Spy shouted, the small hairs at the back of his neck standing straight and sharp as shivers of shock flew across him. The Soldier kept his steely gaze before repeating the title.

"Dominic the BLU Spy Saves the Survivors."

"Dominic the-… BWAH! BWAH-HA-HA-HAH! We've got it!"

In a flee of euphoria, the Spy rushed to the bookshelf. Pages were torn and cast aside, the old books covered the desk as they were thrown about. The Spy muttered to himself, looking for the Holy Grail.

"I've seen it… somewhere… smn, smn… yes! YES! YES, here it is!"

He pulled out the book and exclaimed its title before turning to the Soldier with a smirk.

"There's your book," he said, throwing it at the desk. "Now pay for it!"

"I, uh… don't have money…"

"I'll take a deposit!"

"I don't have any money!

"I'll take a check!"

"I forgot my-"

"I'll take a blank one!"

"I don't have a bank account!"

A brief pause ensued. The Spy, holding his insane glare, gave the book to the Soldier and took out his wallet.

"Right…" he pulled out a couple of notes. "I'll buy it for you!"

He tossed a five-dollar note in a small ashtray and gave about twenty dollars to the Soldier, stepping behind him and pushing him out of the room.

"There you are: there's the book, there's some money for the teleporter back to the base…"

"Maggot, I…" The Soldier tried to protest, but to no avail.

"No, no, no, goodbye, Sir, goodbye… enjoy your book!"

"I - I – I - …"

"WHAT?!" The Spy asked, stepping in front of him. His nostrils flared, his veins popped out at the front of his neck, and with every other repetition, he inched towards the stoic, slightly confused Soldier. "WHAT, WHAT, WHAT, WHAT, WHAT, WHAT, WHAT?!"

"I can't read."

The Spy's sanity flew out of him, like air out of a balloon. He almost felt like a deflated balloon, his body reducing itself into a wrinkly mop and falling down. Still, he remained in front of the Soldier, one of his eyes popping out and twitching.

"You can't… read."

He should have expected this.

"Right!" He took the book away from him. "Sit down, sit! Sit, come on!"

The Soldier sat on the floor, squeezing with excitement. This was the third free book he had gotten this way. The Spy walked past him, sitting on his desk and crossing his legs. He watched the Soldier, watching the emissary intently with his palms on his face, beaming with joy.

"Sitting comfortably? Right!" The Spy opened the book and began;

"Dominic the BLU Spy managed to backstab the Demoman, so he, the Soldier, the Engineer and the wounded Medic escaped the Queendom and went to Europe. Many adventures were to be had, and the BLU remained a badass mother-fucker, a loyal member of his team and a total babe."

This must have been written by a woman.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Except for the wounded Medic.

And the Spy upped his Vicodin dosage.