A Melancholy Others Diary Respawn Family Redux

by captainbobbin

The events of the Respawn Family series, told from the view of the BLU Sniper. Similar to the original, slight gore at times, although there is less in this.

It was April thirteenth, 1963, and the first accident was awaiting me in exactly a month.

I thought of love considerably less than I thought of dying, the concept of which had become a faint, unrealistic blur, with the miracles a friend, the Engineer, or at least the headquarters controlling him, had given our team; a system allowing the dead to come back to life.

I had become accustomed to the desert I lived in at this point, the landscape more unforgiving as the one back home, but my current homes other inhabitants incredibly less so.

But with being accustomed came being bored, and being bored led to an unfamiliar self hatred digging itself up inside me, which led to me ultimately being ratty with my teammates.

Winter blurred from sandstorm to sandstorm into the dry warmth of spring, and I barely noticed.

I was tired.

The twenty-third made itself apparent as I glanced at my calendar, going through my morning routine, and the brief thought of crawling back into my van and sleeping through the days battle almost gave me hope. No one on my team would miss me. My job was to find a secret place and kill from afar, barely noticed, if at all.

But somehow I found myself waiting for the gates to open, my brain blurred from sleep and spring and the identical memories of the same gates and scenarios ricocheting behind my eyes.

I had been in this business for as long as I could remember, and the weight of time burdened me as I ran through battle.

Seven o'clock and I sat at the dining table with my comrades that night, and we were all there, a rare event. I can barely remember the last time we all sat down to eat, or talk, or relax, even with my extensive memories of the last few years.

I am thirty-six, and from across the table, the resident BLU spook glances at me, meets my eyes, says nothing, then gets back to picking at his food. Neither of us engages in the conversation, between ourselves or with the rest of our loud, boisterous group.

If I was told that night what would happen between us, I would have laughed in your face.

I grew weary, and took my leave from the rest of dinner, eating little.

I slept under the stars, the stark reaches of spring beginning to settle in my bones, pushing out the cold winter behind.

It is December twelfth, 1963. I cross from my van, through the sands, to his room. It is locked, and he inside.

I was sorry, without having reason to be.

But I would rather have him for what he is than be alone again.

Seven thirty-five, the twenty-third of April.

I realise that he has blue eyes for the first time.

Like the steel of a glinting gun.

May finds itself in my grasp, and I cross the thirteenth from my little paper calendar as I yawn.

The thought of my warm bed waiting for me jabs at my mind but I shove it off. I want to fight today. I found myself wanting more and more to be part of the group, even though my job must have seemed minimal to the others.

I ran across the sands of war, to find a secret place for myself to hide, to fight, to win.

I had learnt to shut out the sounds of fighting yet listen at the same time, and apparently the resident Medic had learnt to do the same, as a cry or two of pain passed my ears.

I could not distinguish who was shouting, and tried to focus on my job, on making the blokes heads on the other teams explode without warning.

It was not my job to help those that were injured.

My job was to kill, and I did that well, at least helping somewhat to win for the day.

I climbed down from my keep, and as I began moving I heard the faint cry of the same voice I had heard, and glanced around. I was alone, the rest of BLU going ahead of me.

Blinking, I stood still, listening for the sound to call again. The years of the outback deserts taught me patience, and so I called upon such favours of tranquillity now. I waited for the cry to come. It did, a faint rasp, and I followed its call.

I found him with half his side missing, curled in a corner, so covered in blood that you could think he was a RED, with how much blood smothering his clothes.

I knelt to him, and he looked up, pushing his mask up so the lower half of his face was free although dripping red. The teeth marks of a doctors saw had cut into his side and jugular.

"Bushman. . . ." He was twitching, and a faint whine was carried on each of his breaths. ". . . .aidez-moi. . .s'il . . . .v. . . ."

He was getting weaker by the second, and I lifted him gently, careful of his side.

We had never got on, the Spy and me; I had become accustomed to trusting him as much as I trusted the Spy on the other side.

But I felt no fear, and I carried him home, his heavy injuries bleeding through my shirt and vest.

I don't know what made me carry him back at all, besides the fact that he was a fellow BLU, and as I managed to get inside, carrying him to the Medic's infirmary, the frenchie was getting delirious.

". . . you're . . . a shabby hero, are you not . . . ? My shining knight. . . .In scrappy clothes. . . . ."

"Shut it, spook, you need to save your energy and all that." I was blunt and he was weak and not making sense.

"Vheres your horse . . . . . filthy convict. . . .Knights have. . . .Steeds."

By this point, I was fully contemplating punching him in the nose to knock him out, but I knew by his injuries that it wouldn't be wise.

Medic was cooperative and treated the Spy, as the masked idiot sat there yammering about knights and horses and, quieter, damsels in distress, while Doc got to work on his side. I sat with them both. I didn't want to leave.

I could see the Medic was getting frustrated, half way through stitching up the Spys side, he injected him in the neck with this clearish fluid, and he was out like a light, his mask halfway over his top lip.

I felt like I had seen something forbidden that night, sat with the Medic patching him up. I could see with ease the thick layer of stubble, busted lip, scarred neck, and part of the dark hair of the frenchie, and it was something I thought I never would see, never would have the right to see.

But there was something kind of nice about it, seeing him at least somewhat peaceful.

I took that as my chance to go, letting Doc take care of him the rest of the way, and I stayed away from dinner that night too.

I lay in my bed, wondering what the hell was happening to me.

The next day when I woke up, he was sat outside my van, those long legs of his folded over themselves, and the smell of his cigarettes hit me before I realised his was sat against my door. I almost fell over him, and he snorted from beneath me.

"As graceful as ever, lanky bushman."

I growled. I was so used to being the outsider of the group, growling, cursing and being stand-offish was getting to be my second nature.

"You can talk there, slim."

He stood, and I realised how short he was exactly. He came eyelevel to my mouth, and I had to tilt my head down slightly to look at him properly in the eyes. Dangerous. He suddenly became shy and so unspy-like I was forced to stop myself gaping.

"I . . . vanted to zhank you, monsieur. If it vasn't for you yesterday, getting me out, I vould have had a nasty trip through Respawn."

I laughed it off somewhat. I knew what he meant; coming back to life was unpleasant, for lack of a better word.

"No worries, mate. You'd do the same." I didn't like change, especially in people. More so in ones I was quite familiar with. I moved to turn past him slightly, and he grabbed my arm.

"Non, zhats the thing." He was frowning, and I could saw he was without his famous black gloves.

His famous, black, Spy gloves.

His famous, black, silk Spy gloves.

If the gloves were silk, his hands were some higher-than-god level of smooth as they gripped my bare forearm.

For a second, I was self-conscious. Here I was, in the middle of a warzone, a lonely, middle aged Australian, so far from home, unkempt by the normal standards, barely awake, and I had a seemingly younger, lankier, and what I thought to be almost more powerful Frenchman clinging to me.

I almost had to strain to hear his words.

"I . . . vould not have 'elped you."

The bags under his eyes and mask were a dull grey, and his slim lips were chapped.

He swallowed.

Looking away and lessening his grip, his usually cold voice became soft, and pleasant, as if debating upon the weather.

"I vould not have 'elped you back to our Medic at all. After all, it's not my job to help, my job is to gather information and act upon it. Non. . . .I vould have put you out of your misery and sent you back to Respawn."

"Cheers." Sarcasm, my best defence.

He shrugged, a slight quirk of the lips indicating his vague good humour. "It's true, not my fault."

"So why are you here then?" I leaned against the edge of the door. "Just to say you'd let me die or wot?"

He gave a slight smile, looking away. His hands were warm.

"Just to zhank you. So, zhank you, ami." He met my eye again, steel blue, as always. I risked a small smile, of which he returns.

He has the teeth of an average man, but they stand out to me, pearly white against the dark blue fabric of his mask, the flush skin of his mouth. Two sharp incisors mark the edge of his lips, silently denting his lower lip. Part of me screams that it is a warning.

This man is a lethal hound waiting in a suit, eyes like a gun, hiding behind his job title. Warm hands invisibly stained by blood.

With a gentle tug to my arm, he took a step back, leading me.

"Come on, you skinny fool. It's early enough for you not to have missed breakfast."

I relax more in his hold, and with my free hand I close the van door, and walk at his side.

He is short, and as I glance from the corner of my eyes at him, he drops my arm to fold his hands into the pockets of his blazer. He is short for a Spy, and skinny. Besides the greyish blur beyond his eyes, his visible skin is warm and tan, the sheer edge of his cheeks just peeking from below the navy fabric. The flesh there is darker, but marginally so. Beneath his mask lays a slightly pointed jaw, and a thin lining of trimmed stubble.

He catches me looking and glances up at me, and I stole away my stare before he can nab it back.

There was a childishly sly amount of smugness about him and he stopped himself from chuckling, and then picked at the rim of his mask.

Despite my age and general stony outlook on life, my inexperience with the Spy got to me, and my cheeks flared slightly. As we found ourselves entering our building and settled in the kitchen, I thought upon what was happening, to me, to him. I played with my food and he did the same, and I watched as he made conversation for once with the dwindling members of BLU that had not yet gotten on with their business of the day.

As I sat, and scraped at my food, I can't help but feel he must think me quiet, some silent fool.

But there we sat. And there we talked.

And for the next week or so I grow to know him. We become steadfast friends. And then proper friends. And then mates.

At first he just seemed apologetic, searching for some kind of forgiveness for his lack of care and seemingly wanting to stick by my side when not in battle. I grew close, much too close.

The months came quicker with him by my side, and I noticed my personality coming out more. I conversed, whistled as I did the dishes, chuckled up in my keep when catching the sight of him fading from view in battle.

I slept at night, knowing I could look forward to speaking to him every morning.

Until, at least, I woke up in the middle of the night, one very early morning in July, darkness swamping my cosy little van and a warm weight shifting across my chest.

As I felt the slight brush of soft hair catch my chin, I moved to lift my hand, but I was stopped.

"Don't." He muttered, and I became half aware of the slight patter of rain driblets hitting the van roof. "Just sleep."

The hand squeezed my half lifted wrist, and I lowered it to his side; and in the darkness I felt a thick cotton shirt covering his skin and I gently held him there as he released my wrist, wrapping his arm around the back of my neck. I could feel the long sleeve of that heavy shirt brush the hair that trailed down to the tip of my shoulder, and there was a comfortableness surrounding us.

I've been noticing things.

The way he picks at food, fidgets with his mask, the long sleeved sleeping shirt. He seems so childish, like a teenage thrust into a killer's profession. And there he was, laying across my chest, ear pressed just above my ribs, no doubt my heartbeat audible to him.

He laid still, and his breathing was quiet.

The base of my chin came to lie at the top of his hair, and his warm nose buried itself into the crook of my neck. I half wished the sun would rise, to allow his face to be seen, but if it did, morning would come, and he would leave. Maybe it was all my years of being alone catching up, but I longed to wake up in the morning and for him to be there still, for me just to be able to hold him close and stroke his hair and wake him up gently, to kiss the top of his head and wake up content for once. I would still feel intrusive, seeing something no one else had, but then again, he came to me.

With these thoughts in mind, I drifted to sleep, the rise and fall of our chests in time as I felt him settle upon me.

When I awoke, it took me a moment to realise what exactly the unfamiliar weight on my body was.

My moment of qualm disappeared and warmth washed over me as I realised it was just the Frenchman that I had come to call my best friend. I opened one eye, expecting to find his hair against my chin like I had fallen asleep too.

Instead I found the top of his mask.

He was dead to the world asleep, snoring gently, head tucked against my collarbone.

Suddenly there was conflict. Do I lift his mask; see what I want to see and risk waking him, or leave my Spy sleeping, forbid myself from feeling that awful sense of intrusion again?

"Stop zhat." Came sleepily from my chest.

"Wot?" I grunted back. I was tired, but oddly enough more refreshed than usual.

"Zhinking. I can hear you. Stop zhinking."

I gave a slight scoff at what I thought at first was his stupidity, but I settled again and rested my chin on his head. The cotton of his mask was nothing like the soft hair I had felt before this whole charade.

The rhythmic pattering of rain continued on the top of my van.

Suddenly, he sat up on me, his weight resting on my hips, his back to me. He looked up, through the translucent square of glass on the van ceiling that gave him a crooked view of the orange sky.

His back facing me.

Obviously between us trust was in no short supply anymore.

". . . It's still early in the morning."

Underneath him, I replied, tired and weighty, but smiling.

"Yep."

I folded my arms behind my head and stretched slightly in the tiny space I had to move, as he titled his head back to me and watched the bare muscles in my arms and stomach flex slightly in the low light.

As I relaxed back with a groan, I mentally noted his smile, and how shallow those little grey rings around his eyes really were. Apparently sleeping with me, or rather, on me, was as good for him as it was for me, me myself feeling at least a little perkier at that moment than I usually was after my usual lonely night and three cups of coffee in the early morning.

But he yawned after moment of watching, and slid off of me.

" . . ." He opened his mouth to say something, and then shut it. Then spoke again. "Ve should get to breakfast."

I blinked. I had sort of expected something with more depth than that, but as my stomach growled weakly, I found myself unable to argue, and before I knew it, I was sat in the kitchen with him and the others.

Time flies when you have fun, isn't that the old saying?

Well, July and August went by quicker than I would like to remember.

I could barely remember any of those months, besides him sleeping on my chest each night, wearing that same old mask of his.

On the 7th of September, I noticed something different in battle for the first time.

Usually up in the little outlet of space I had found to snipe from, I could see everything, each movement from each member of either team, and I had taken to making sure I could spot my Spy when I could, just watching his back. That's what friends do, assuming we were still friends and not . . . something else I couldn't put the word to.

Today he was going for their Medic, and with a quick stab the doctor dropped down dead, and their Heavy yelled and spun around, searching for the BLU blur of mine that did it.

Luckily I managed to blow the blokes thick skull apart before those $400,000 or something bullets blew apart Spy.

Only, a little while later – a half hour or so by my guess - the same Medic managed to hack Spy apart before my eyes, catching him with the saw enough to slow him down as his watch ran out of power.

I watched as the German spun his beam off the larger RED and proceeded to gauge the BLU in the middle of the battlefield, tearing him apart with only a bonesaw in his hands.

I watched, unaffected.

This was war, after all.

Before I knew or realised it, a back and forth game was between the two of them, my Spy and the RED Medic. Each would aim primarily for each other, and the deaths were long, brutal and violent.

That night he was annoyed and frustrated, not sleeping, shifting on and across me throughout the night. I sat and endured it, finally wrapping my arms around him to keep him still, half wanting to calm him down, half needing him to quit moving so I could sleep.

He settled with a sigh and ended up yanking his mask off, pressing up against me and forcing himself to get a comfy spot.

I was tired.

Orange steaks of light hit my eyes and I blinked myself awake with a groan. With a yawn, I nuzzled the top of his head, knackered, his soft hair rubbing against my cheek.

Wait.

Hair.

Opening my eyes again, I pulled myself away a little, and tilted his sleeping head up to face me, the former doubt of invading privacy disappearing with the sight of his finally peaceful face.

In a way, I had always known. The angles of his face were always obvious, and I had seen up to the tip of his nose before, along with the dark stubble, even tan and soft lips. But still, it was nice, seeing this.

Only me, only me allowed to see it.

His hair was dark and thick, drooping down his forehead and to the nape of his neck. The tan, despite the impairment of the mask, was even all over his face and neck, leading me to believe that wherever he was from, it was hot, and he liked it outside.

Maybe one day I'd take him to Australia.

Derailing my train of thought, he moved on me, yawning and pushing his face closer to my heart beat with a murmur.

"Stop with zhe zhinking. I can hear zhe tiny cogs in your head work."

I tutted but smiled.

"Shut up, Spy."

"Mhm." He curled into me more with a yawn, that image of childishness returning to me.

After a few minutes, he stirred and sat up on me, clicking his back right and rubbing an eye. He stopped, smiled at me sparingly, and then slid away to the other side of the van, leaving me to sit up.

". . . Yer stressed."

Shrugging slightly, he picked up his fallen mask and tugged it back on, keeping quiet, a true Spy even in extremis.

"Are you not, in zhe middle of a battlefield?"

"I'm not right now."

Another half-forced smile back at me.

"I zhink zhat's because you're Australian. And lazy." Trailing back to me, he poked my side at the last comment, and I gave a little chuckle, slotting back on the bed.

" And you're European."

"And?"

"And a prick."

"Vrai."

Making sure his mask was on right, his smile faded and he went to the small, A4 sized window, peering out.

" . . . "

"What's bugging you?" It wasn't a question, I needed to know.

"Nozhing."

"Sure seems like it." I tilted me head, watching him, watching the movement of his back as he breathed in the vans stale air.

Slowly, after half a hesitation, he turned back to me.

"Nozhing at all."

Another one of those little smiles, and he came back to me, laying on me again.

"You do realise we've got a battle today?"

"Oui, I'm not as stupid as you zhink." Another poke to my side.

"Just sayin', cus I don't want you getting too comfy there."

"Are you saying you don't vant me here?" He peered up at me beneath his mask and the shock of his hairs fringe stuck under his mask.

"I never said that."

A slightly more relaxed smile from him, those fangs slightly pointing out, and then he leaned up to meet my face fully, slotting our lips together.

Pulling my hands up, I held his face there, meeting him and kissing back, listening to his purr, feeling it hit my chest.

It wasn't a French kiss like I expected him to want, but it was just as good, if not better.

Cupping his slim, sculpted cheeks, I slid one palm under the mask, feeling the back of his smooth, flawless neck.

Looking back on it, I miss that feeling most of all.

Him without flaws, him without faults, or pain, or secrets.

I miss him.

He pulled away and gave a slight smile, another of his odd ones. Even though I knew him so well, he was still a mystery. A half-open book with mixed up words and a blank front cover.

Something in his eyes shifted and he slid off me again, refocusing his mask.

In silence, he stood at the window again and pulled out a fag, lighting up, and with little space to spare, began pacing.

"Yer awful temperamental, you know that?"

He grunted slightly. "Sign of a good Spy, I guess."

"Is that so?" I sat up on my bed and tugged on my boots, starting to get ready for the day.

"Mh-hm. Not zhat you vould know zhough, bushman."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm from Australia, I get it." Finishing the tying of my boots and still seeing his back to me, I stood and hugged him from behind, bringing him close to me body and earning a slight jolt and a squeak.

"Relax, would ya?"

He sagged a little and didn't push away, but I could tell he wasn't used to being close to someone when not on his terms.

We stayed there for a couple minutes, my eyes scanning the back of his flawless and exposed neck, him smoking and looking out into the sands outside, until the silence was broken.

" . . . .Vincent."

"Uh?" I looked at him, and he titled his head back to me slightly.

"You 'eard, bushman, or is your hearing going in old age?"

"N-no, I heard." I frowned. Did he just tell me what I thought he told me? I guessed there was only one way to find out.

". . . Luke."

A soft chuckle came from him, and finally relaxing completely, he pushed back into my hold a little.

"Good to make your acquaintance."

I smiled, kissed his cheek, and patted his shoulder affectionately before pulling on my vest, then returning, leaning on him.

Another weary little smile from him as he gazed outside, some part that I didn't recognise of him shining through. I think I now know that that look was of fear, of dread. He didn't want to fight.

The part locked away in my head, the part still wary of him and Spy kind made the snide remark that he was a coward. At the time I didn't believe it, but now. . . .

Close to his neck, I nuzzled the visible flesh exposed from his uneven mask, and I felt a vibrating purr some from within him, despite him refusing to look at me. At that moment I was happy, even though I realise now that he was not.

The moments like these seem to fade from my memory quicker than the important times we had.

Within a few hours of that moment, we were out in the field, weapons out, fighting. I did not see the RED Medic kill Vincent in revenge of his Heavy, slicing my Spys head from his still twitching, trying to escape body. As the RED victory call rang out, I fled from my spot, knowing Respawn will pick us all up, as it always did.

At dinner, I realised he was gone.

The next day, the tenth, he was still gone.

And the day after that.

It was on the twelfth when I finally saw him again. I came back to my van after battle, the days seeming long and the battles hard without his backup, but as I closed the door behind me, I became aware of the slight noise the bed made under the covers.

Caution and the time I had lived in Australia had honed my instincts, and keeping a tight grip on my kukri; I took a hold of the sheet and ripped it back.

Startled and scared, he flew at me and clocked me across the jaw, snarling as the glint of my knife warned him. There was a tussle, and we ended up on the floor, him on top of me, his own engraved knife flicked out and pressing on my windpipe, my kukri lodged against the back of his neck. We were on the same team for Gods sake.

Staring at each other for a few brief moments, we realised who each other were and he flicked his knife shut, unable to move back without my blade digging into his mask and skin. I retreated, and he stood then moved away from me, facing me at all times, and shakily lit one of those sweet smelling fags of his.

I didn't know what to do besides sheath my knife, which I did, and I stood after a minute, watching his every move like a hawk, as he watched mine.

"So . . . where'd you get to?"

" . . . ." He said nothing to me as he sat on the bed, still shaking.

" . . . .RED Base." He murmured after a moment, not looking anywhere in particular except in my general direction. I frowned, and just let him sit. As far as I knew, no one from their side came to our base, at least willingly, so I assumed something bad had gone on. He may have seemed like a coward, but he was smart enough to know not to go there without backup for about three days.

As I rubbed the side of my jaw where he'd smacked me, I briefly looked over him. Then I spotted the blood leaking from the back of his intact mask.

"S-Spy, your neck-" I leant over and pulled the back side of the mask up, only to have him reel around and punch me on the other side with a shout.

"NON!"

I fell back onto the bed as he hastily made sure his neck was covered, the redness leaking through and scoring the edge of his suit collar. He was still shaking, and without helping me in any way, he finished his cigarette.

". . . . I can't. . . .I can't tell you vhat happened. I just can't." Under his mask he was unusually pale and he was still shaking.

" . . . Okay." I gave a little nod, even if the want to know was killing me. "Alright."

"That's that then."

". . . So it is."

And he stayed quiet until I pulled him onto my lap and pulled him down under my cover. He needed to rest if nothing else.

He sighed, mumbled something about the Respawn machine, and the rest is a sleep induced blur.

For the next month, he was different. At least from what he had been, but he was becoming what I knew him to be now.

He was jumpy, on and off the battle field, snarky, and willing to fight constantly. Even when not in danger, it would take not a lot to make him draw his knife, and he was restless, almost expectant.

Outside of battle, he was always searching for something. Paper work, books, he was always studying the Respawn system, learning. Something was going on, and I had no idea.

Busy, always so busy. He was tired, and his tan had seemed to fade, even with his increased vigour out in the field. Like the lust for life had drained from him, and been replaced with the lust for something else, something I couldn't foresee.

The last battle of the month swung round, and I saw him, from up on top of BLU Base, running across the sands, flicking between invisibility and visible, stalking the RED Heavy. In his pockets were papers and brown crumpled packaging, and his mask had shifted across his face. Following him in haste was a white coat, wrapped around a bloodstained and rather infuriated RED German.

Before I had the chance to lift my rifle and blow his bloody little head off, the doctor swung for Vincent, catching his collar, and Spy went down, papers flapping about in the incoming sandstorm.

Focusing finally on the scene going on in front of me, I watched as Vincent yelled something in French, tried to kick free, and was silenced by an incoming bonesaw hacking at his windpipe. Suddenly a bellowing sound rang out and I almost lost my place with a tumble, the call of victory being screeched out for the REDs from the multiple foghorn-like sirens around us all.

Pulling the rifle from my eyes for the final time that day, I hazily made out the figure of RED Medic trailing back across the desert, carrying something or other that was red and blue, and the fading body of my Spy in a puddle where he'd been left.

Stepping back from the edge and climbing back down the hatch into base, I thought nothing more of it.

People died everyday out here, and the blessing of Respawn would surely pick up my closer-than-best friend.

I lay in my bed that night with no regrets.

Until I realised he wasn't in it with me.

My mind had been getting hazy, yet at the same time so clear. Why was he such a good friend to me? Was this whole thing still just repayment for saving him once? . . . Did he love me, was that it?

The wind howled outside as my answer, sand slamming in waves against the side of the van as my mind wandered to where he could be. Wondered what his problem was. Wondered why he was obsessed with the Respawn machine. Wondered why I wondered about him so damn much. Wondered where the hell he was. . . .

Wondered if I loved him back, truly.

"Vince!" I shouted out, disregarding the Demoman walking by my side as I spotted my BLU little Spy down he hall, and I practically leapt for him and held him flush tight to me, grasping at the back of his mask and his side tightly.

"Where've you been?" I pulled away enough to see his face, to see the weakened half smile and the faded shine in those gun-sapphire eyes.

"Oh, nowhere. . ." A tired little smile and a gentle pat to my arm. "I'm fine." He glanced behind me, spotting the companion I had formerly been walking with.

"You two go catch up, I'll see you both later, d'accord?" Another one of those little fleeting smiles, then his face darkened somewhat. "I need to go check on Respawn." His eye twitched, like a wild animal, a rabid dog, expecting an attack. Spy was expecting revenge.

Ignoring that look, I rubbed his arm, hugged him tight, and muttered "Alright Vincent,-" the first time I had called him his name, at least to his face. "-I'll see you in a bit."

I pulled away completely and left with Demoman, leaving Spy to his own devices. He knew what he had to do, and my interference would not have helped him, I think.

After dinner, a dinner without Vincent, I made my way to the van, and flopped onto my bed, dragging the thin cover over me as I shucked off my trousers.

As I was finally settling, I felt a breeze, smelt the smell of stale smokes, and leant into a warm hold coming around him. He stood half bent over my bed, hugging me, for lack of a better word

Rolling slightly and catching my arm under him, I flipped him, dragging him into bed with me and disregarding the little squeak he gave.

I yanked him again flush against my body, back to stomach, and listened as his breathing slowed and felt him settle against my body. After a moment, I rolled up the back of his mask and nuzzled the bare flesh there, leaving a kiss as my mark and listening to the pained hiss he made behind his teeth.

"Whats up?" I whispered.

" . . .Nozhing. Just don't do zhat."

I said nothing and obeyed, nuzzling my nose into his hair.

I went to sleep with the taste of dried blood on my lips.

When I woke up, he was still curled next to me, back pressed into my gut, snoring and making pathetic noises in his sleep.

I became slowly aware of the rolled up crease of his mask, the soft hair sticking out, and the massive, raw, bloody and sore cut scraped into the back of his neck. I blinked.

No. No, I was just tired, there's no way Vincent would be that hurt. I hastily rubbed my eyes. It was still there. It was still there whether my eyes were open or not.

I shook him hard to make him wake and was rewarded with a grunt and a whine.

"Vhaaaaaat, Luke, vhat?"

"Yer neck. . . .is bleedin'."

He blinked as I had done, sat up, then pulled down his mask.

". . . Wot happenend? Really?"

"I can't . . . .I can't tell you, cher."
" . . .please, Vince?" I wrapped my arms around his hips.

He shook his head in silence. " . . . . .No."

I frowned. What was worse, not being able to help him, not knowing what was wrong, or him not trusting me with the truth?

Finally got back in, having the day trying not to hound Spy for answers, and not letting him out my sight. As I headed to the van, he wanted one last check at Respawn before bed.

I found a few papers in an old brown folder crumpled on my bed, or, our bed as it had come to be. Picking it up and standing with my back to the door, I flicked the file open, and pulled out a piece of crisp fresh paper.

A photo of the RED Medic settled in front of my eyes and I blinked, skim reading through the details. His life.

Blurred black text started to make sense in my mind. This was the blokes' details, all of them.

His age, name, hometown, family life, school, grades, everything.

Why the bloody fuck was this on my bed?

The sound of the closing van door came from behind me, and I looked up from the sheet of paper.

He blinked at me, the fact I was looking through something of his sinking in. He practically leapt for me and snatched the paperwork from my slack hands.

"Seems I'm not zhe only Spy." He hissed and me, sorting out the papers.

"Mate, it was on my bed, I just picked it up-"

"Spare me, bushman." He snarled, and turned from me slightly, fussing over the file like it was carrying the secret to life itself. I guess it did, in one way. Poor RED Medic.

After a moment, Spy sighed.

"D'accord, I'm sorry. . . Just don't look through my stuff."

"Spy, it was on my bed-"

"I said-" he sighed again. "Just don't do it again."

"Okay . . . . Sorry."

He always took this to heart. He always took things too far.

Looking back on everything, I realise that he never thought he had done wrong, never apologised to either me, or poor RED Medic.

I stayed with him, by his side for that month, for all of September. He needed me as much as I needed him. I think.

Maybe, in reality and not the way my warped mind had seen it, I was just a lonely fuck who needed someone warm next to me at night, and he needed an outlet.

I stayed with him, until our final battle together, and the second and final incident was forced upon us.

I watched from up on a ledge as the REDs trundled down their rickety track with their cart, heading to us, listening to our Soldier bellowing at our Medic and our Medic bellowing back, arguing about the days plan. We hide, make an appearance, hide again, then strike when they don't expect it.

Then I saw that skinny little Scout bastard run to us, and I shouted down for my team to cut the crap and get on with our jobs for once.

The kid wheeled around the corner, and was precisely shot by me twice. Bad, but not enough to kill.

He yelped, turned and bolted, and we followed.

The REDs sliced us apart like we were hot butter, and it hurt as it always did, but it was all part of the plan.

We waited, in the shadows, watching.

Through my rifle, I watched the REDs, the idiots clueless, and then scanned my team.

Everyone but Vince was there.

I could here the brief noise of our Demo putting his stickys all around the cart drop-off point, and then his footsteps hastily coming to rest beside me in the hollow I had found.

"Mate," He whispered, gripping his gun. "That spook of yers better pull through, we'll be needin' him."

"I can only hope, mate-"

I was cut off by a shout from the REDs and Demo leapt out as he detonated the bombs he'd scattered, and the rest was hectic, all us BLUs out at once, and it was a bloodbath. A sharp stab sliced at my back, their Spy catching me but distracted by another, and their Soldier finished the job as yet again the RED bell sounded.

My body faded with my vision as in the growing red darkness I saw my opposition celebrating, and then their Medic collapsing and not hitting the floor.

I jolted up from Respawn in a cold sweat, and I stumbled to the living room to make sure we all got back safe. I leant against the door frame as I watched the Medic and Soldier bend over a table and map, planning out our next attack. The Heavy was cleaning that massive gun of his, the Demo doing the same, the Engineer and Pyro debating on tactics also as the Scout tried to intervene. I figured wherever Vincent was, he wanted to be on his own. I knew him well enough to leave him well enough alone.

Spy was no where to be seen while I stayed for a few hours with my team, scheduling our next war tactics.

I was getting worried slightly. Not only was Spy not in battle, but he wasn't recuperating with the team like I was.

It hadn't even clicked about his nemesis falling in battle today. The battle blurs and brain fuzz from Respawn had made me forget.

It only clicked when I heard aching pants from behind a locked door as I travelled down a corridor, looking for him. Not just pants but groans too, more than one.

I took a deep breath out side the door I hadn't seen before, and then I opened it, not expecting to need to comprehend what was happening.

Chained to the wall by his wrists was the RED Medic, smothered in blood and cuts and bruises, practically naked.

My jaw slackened, seeing Vincent leant so easily against a wall, chain-smoking. Not a care in his little world. No concern for the chained up German he had strapped to the wall.

" . . . . .Spy. . .?"

He turned, spotting me, and glared.

"Get out of 'ere."

"But, Vince-"

"I said out!"

He came closer to me, short but strong, glaring up at me, and for the first time I thought I saw him for what I guessed he truly was.

Rage and fire was bubbling over in his eyes, the iron grey overcome by a harsh, burning blue, and upon my noticing and glaring right back, he bared his teeth, so pearly white and threatening.

He was changing, changing so fast I hadn't realized. Or perhaps he hadn't changed at all.

The grey-blue hues of his eyes merged into his eyebrows and suit and he stepped even closer, those canine teeth close enough so that if he wanted to, he could rip my throat out.

"Keep out of my vay, Luke."

Breaking my eyes from his, I glanced as his unconscious captive, watching as a drop of blood trailed from his eyebrow and forehead down the side of his hair.

I focused my eyes back on Spys, and he growled.

"Zhis is between me and him."

I almost snarled back.

"What the fuck are you thinking?"

Don't get me wrong, I'm alright with killing. People die everyday, I was trained to slaughter men. But I was trained to slaughter men who wanted to slaughter me, and even then, we fought only when told, when forced, when our jobs tell us to.

Vincent here was going above and beyond the call of duty, taking a prisoner of war and deforming the rules into something misshapen and cruel.

He snapped, the eyes becoming darker, the teeth seeming sharper.

"You never fucking see, do you, Sniper?" He was almost shaking with rage.

"You notice but you never see! He's been targeting me for weeks, and I've been targeting him! Ve've been at it like dogs for ages! Zhats vhere I go! All zhose times! He locks me away!"

He snatched at my collar, yanking me down so our foreheads clashed and I could smell his breath, his anger.

"I am simply repaying a very, very owed favour."

I jerked myself away in disgust. This wasn't the Spy I knew and loved anymore.

"You." I snarled, brain putting together the most blood boiling words I could muster at the time. "Are fucking mental."

His face, his tanned, usually calm face contorted, fell from its position in shock, but then it twisted into another growling bearing of teeth.

"Like you vould know." He snarled back, the hound visible once more, those sharp fangs of his thrust over his soft lower lip. "Like you vould know at all, vhat it was like!"

He was shouting now, hysteric, and for the first time that I had ever seen, tears were forming in the corner of the steel eyes, pouring down his cheeks and staining his worthless mask.

"Cut off . . . from everyzhing, literally!" Shaking now. "From you and zhe ozhers! U-unable to breathe, unable to smoke, to eat, to think properly without being delirious, constantly feeling the pain of not having a body, vanting to throw up from pain and nausea but being unable to! No stomach! No lungs! No hope and barely a brain! Obviously you know everyzhing zhat Kristian is capable of, of zhe zhings he does!"

I was trying to prevent my lips curling up in my own snarl.

"And y-you have zhe nerve, zhe balls to question my mental integrity?"

I bellowed back now, the only time in my life I have been red in the face with rage.

"I'm not the one torturing a bloke! A bloke who has every right to hate me!This is war, Vince, or have you forgotten?"

His face, his once beautiful, angelic face, darkened. The snarl disappeared. The blue faded from his eyes and the grey fog returned, but everything was still so severe. He hadn't calmed. No, quite the opposite. The hound was bristling and waiting, watching, stalking my body language for the opportune moment to strike.

Tilting his head to the side sharply, his neck slicked under his suit and mask, and I finally saw the glint of his knife tucked in his belt.

The scarily neutral canvas he gave me turned to a sneer, and mocking, revolted derision.

"Just get out of my sight before I do somezhing I regret, bushman."

I frowned, unmoving.

"I said out."

I didn't respond. He needed to see sense. Be himself again. Be with me again.

"I said get out!" He exploded, and the knife was ripped from his belt and he tore at me, aiming for my eyes like the rabid mongrel he was.

I leapt back as he leapt forward, and as his knife thrust itself in his hand towards my shoulder, I jolted to the side and clocked him between the eyes, watching him stagger back,

My own snarl appeared, and his eyes scanned me as he became a dark, transfixed hybrid of the man he used to be.

His lips twitched, and me eyes flickered between his own eyes and his hands, focusing on his mindset and the way he was holding his knife.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, among the heat, the fighting, and the dank of the room, I wondered what had happened to the slightly shy, quiet, yet affectionate idiot I let share my bed with me.

His eyes not leaving mine, he flicked the knife shut, stood straight, and rearranged his mask.

There was a pause, a long, silent exchange, while the RED lay silent in the corner.

" . . .I trusted you, once." I started; ready to say what hurtful words I could to snap him out of it.

But he interrupted me. "Just get out vhile I still let you walk, Luke."

I scanned my eyes over him fully for one last time. Those peaking cheekbones over his mask, the messy ebony hair misshapen under his mask, the introvert grey of his eyes, they were all wearing me down. At the moment I couldn't tell whether I wanted to bring him into a hug and tell him it would all be better or gut him alive and watch him suffer and squirm.

Never showing my back to him, trust gone, I backed out of the room, those snarling eyes engraved on the backs of my eyelids, the mental picture of the RED Doctor curled up remaining.

" . . . .I'm sorry, Vincent."

I left him to himself, once and for all.

There was no concern from the others at dinner that night, or the following day. I doubt they knew. Spy barely spoke to me, let alone the others as far as I knew.

But on the third or fourth day after the second incident, there was uneasiness around the table.

They knew.

Whether they knew what I knew or something else I didn't know, but something had happened. Everyone was twitchy, expectant.

I smelt smoke, thick unyielding smoke, clogging my senses.

A sharp jolt worked its way around my spine.

A Pyro was near, and not a friendly one. All my years out in the desert battlefield made me sure of the impending burning of a nearby fire starter and I could tell he was close.

I ran. I fucking sprinted away, desperate to find the source of the smell, the stench of fire and dead flesh.

I passed the Spys bedroom, froze for a half second, then the fire defrosted me and I barged the door open. The smoke was from inside.

I found my Spy.

He was curled up besides his bed, blackened, crisp, hair burnt and sticking to his flesh, eyes open and fixated. Ghosted over.

I was too slow to save him.

Tear tracks worked its way down his fire-scorched cheeks, those sharp cheekbones of his peeling and decaying from the fire, his clothes, those favourite suit trousers of his almost completely eradicated from existence, leaving his blistered skin and ashen attire melding together.

The Pyro must have snuck in here, purposely to kill him. Nothing else had been burnt, taken, just him. Just my Vince.

He was maskless, alone and half naked.

I wonder if he had been frightened. I always thought he was a kid after all.

Kneeling next to what was left of him, I stopped myself from shaking. I was a Sniper. I'm meant to be alone. Shudders attacked my shoulders. I have always been alone and always will be. My fists balled up, tears streaking down my nose. I should have seen it coming, I never should have tried!

If I had tried at all . . .

I rubbed my eyes harshly, the afterimage of his black and lifeless shell scorched under my eyelids, and I looked down at him in pity.

Respawn. He'd have respawned by now, he had to have done! I stood, careful of him, and practically leapt to the door, and then I continued sprinting. I slammed into the Respawn room door, jolted it open and barged in, before being blinded.

Electrical sparks were flying everywhere, the machine making a terrible, monstrous groaning noise that wasn't quite a noise but an echo inside your skull while the ground seemed to be rumbling beneath me. A Mann Co Spy-brand sapper was glued to the machine, working on it, destroying it, flickers of a resonance of what could be Spy appearing and disappearing rapidly as the machine tried its damnedest to work, tried to do its job.

But then it gave up, and the attached technology had done enough.

The almost-BLU half Vincent faded, the machine unable to finish, and the sapper fell to the floor as the Respawn died with Vincent.

He was dead. He had died. He wasn't coming back.

For twelve seconds I stood frozen, listening to the lights of the room dm and break, the hum and rumbling cease, feel my once lovers existence fade away.

I punched, I punched and punched and broke the surface of the machine, yelling, screaming.

"Why couldn't you just do your job! Just this once? Why?"

Whether it was directed at the machine, the RED saboteurs, or Vincent, I did not know.

I found out the day after, through gossip and Chinese whispers that the Medic lived. He'd got out, the RED counterpart of Vince stealing in the with Pyro to knick him out of here. I thought I had pieced together that much, but I wasn't sure.

All I could focus on was the black rubble that he was, and then had physically turned into.

I was alone and tired yet again.

I caught sight of him, stalking down a hallway. It was him, it was still him, he was alive! My heart tore in hopelessness yet hope at the same time, and I called to him.

"Vincent!"

He looked up at me, finally, and his eyes were blank, empty, the hound quashed and invisible, just like him.

"Vincent. . . ."

With a minor frown and a thought playing on his mind, he turned his back on me for the final time and continued on his way.

That was the last time I saw him for what I thought I knew he was.

The next time I saw him we were waiting to get out to fight, waiting to get into battle.

Everyone was stood around, our Medic overhealing himself and breathing in fumes, Pyro adding in extra fuel, Demo loading up. A cloud of smoke materialized and Vincent stood the closest to the metal grate, interweaved his fingers into the mesh, and looked out.

I realized I was staring, then noticed that so was everyone else.

I coughed, maybe just a tad too loudly, and the others looked away, the rest of set up time passing in an uncomfortable silence, most of us either barely moving or incredibly and unnaturally active.

The alarm sounded, the floor vibrating and scattering sands, and Spy ran out first, knife being flicked around his silk-gloved hands restlessly, sprinting over straight into the REDs. Idiot must have had a death wish. Maybe dying once wasn't enough. I don't know how he got back, but it was as if he didn't want to come back.

Setting up in a spindly old tree on the edge of the fence, I watched the game played out before me, watched the REDs face the BLUs from a distance. That's what I was good at, that's what I could handle, distance. Through my rifle I observed in silence, observed the RED Medic and Heavy back to back on a point, guarding it for all their worth, watched as our Scout gave the Russian a gut load of scattergun pellets and their Doc grab him, heaving him to stand tall again, red blurs of the healing beam surrounding them.

Why were they such a tight knit team compared to ours?

"Vhy so blue?" Came a voice from the side of me, smothered by a smirk.

Looking up from my gun, I jolted and looked all around me. No one there. I frowned.

"Oh come now bushman, cheer up up zhere, hm?"

I glared down at the ground around me. As I frowned into bare space, I saw a foot step move.

" . . . . RED?"

Materializing into the air, the RED Spy stood in front and beneath me, tall, cocky, with steel blue eyes. I snarled, clutching my kunai, and he raised an eyebrow up at me, amused.

"Oh calm down."

" . . .First cheer up, now calm down, the hell do you want, RED?" I bared my teeth. I had the height advantage. If he made the wrong move I could leap down onto him, but the way I was sat with my equipment would mean I could not dive to the left or right. And he was faster than me, and could easily take the element of surprise from me.

However in answer to my question, he was sincere.

"I vas worried about you."

I snorted "Wot, you?"

" I may be a Spy, but I'm not alvays in disguise, ami. I don't hide zhat often." He almost frowned.

"No." I hopped down, feeling vibrations from the tree that signalled that the alarm was about to sound.

" . . .yer hidin' in plain sight, mate." The foghorns mounted on our respective building exploded with sound as I slid my rifle onto my back and pulled out my knife.

I held it up to him, the sharpest tip grazing the tip of his sharp chin. I wanted to trace it up to his sharp cheekbones which pushed up through his mask. It was scary.

"Don't come near me. I don't deal well with . . . Spies."

Keeping him in my peripherals, I took a few steps back towards home, glaring.

He raised his eyebrows, casual, unstressed.

I turned tail and legged it away from him, not wanting to see that mask, that face shape, those eyes. How could they be so similar? Even their cheekbones. . .

Once I got far enough away I turned and ran full pelt back to base.

I couldn't deal with this; I couldn't have another Spy near me, never never.

The first of November rolled around, the entirely of the summer and autumn months passing in a shit storm of disharmony, betrayal and bloodshed.

Throughout the month I saw nothing of him. Nothing in battle nor in or around the base. No bumping into him in the kitchens, no waking up to find him on me in the night and thankfully no more noise from the basements.

I was alone again.

And I was becoming increasingly tired.

I passed each night in my van, listening to lonely crickets and sympathising with their melancholy serenades.

December finally dwindled into existence and on the twelfth I found myself outside his door.

I knocked, and received no answer.

" . . . .Vincent."

I guessed he was in there. Where else would he be?

"If . . . If you're in there. . . .I'm sorry for callin' you crazy."

I was. And yet I wasn't. I did not regret calling him crazy, but I was sorry to not have him in my bed any longer.

"Vince. . ." I rested my palm on the door, praying to hear the familiar sound of his breathing, of any movement within.

Nothing.

The day after I passed a rather pissed looking Medic in the hall. Like me, he was somewhat similar to our RED counterparts, but the Medic was less so compared to me, or the Heavy. Or perhaps the Spy. I wouldn't know. Like me, his hair was beginning to get bedraggled and grey, supplies as short as his patience.

Again the thought of the close-knit REDs crossed my mind.

At least their Medic seemed a good bloke; ours was a complete and utter dick. The only reason I didn't say it to his face was because I knew that perhaps he could take my head like RED took Vincents.

"Zhe maniacs gone and left us." He snarled, stopping me. "Zhe. . .Spy. Disappeared."

He was scowling, and I, taller, looked down at him and tried to remain calm.

"Where to, Doc?"

"Gott knows." He growled, ravenous and blood hungry for answers and the urge to disembowel. As he was one to do.

"All I know is zhat he's been transferred to anozher base, along vizh zhe RED Medic und Heavy. Just gone. Poof. Ach. . . . .Now I have to meet his replacement, und do examinations on zhem und get all zheir details, und. . ." He started walking off, rambling to himself. Nutter.

I think all of BLU was permanently and entirely made of nutjobs.

I walked in a strange state of numb apathy to his familiar door.

It was unlocked, and I pushed my way inside.

Bare floors, bare walls, bare like him, completely exposed but hidden at the same time.

He'd gone.

He'd gone he'd gone he'd gone.

I was alone. Alone, on my own in the desert.

I never ever knew if he loved me.

I never ever knew if he forgave me.

He didn't even say goodbye.

Within a few days the meagre Christmas celebrations started and decorations were put up.

My van gathered dust and remained in the same state.

What was the point, it was just another day. It's not like I could share it with someone special, get a give, or perhaps give one.

I sat in the sands of the desert and watched the world go by.

With me unnoticed in the harshest of its heart.

It's Christmas Day, and he is gone.

I made my way to our main building in the late morning as I wrapped an old scarf around my neck, one my old mum gave me before I left home. I wished I could go back. Always the sentimental old fool, me, wanting what I can't have.

I had become scruffier, dirtier, able to appreciate the heat and chill of the desert more than a mans emotions, able to connect with the land more than another body.

My footsteps echoed throughout the hollow corridors until I heard the festivities, singing and calling and ripping.

Anaesthetized I opened the door, blandly watching the rest of the BLU Team rip open parcels, sing in merriness, drink hot wine.

I blended into the background, forever the sad sack of crap I was, the outsider.

"Ay, Sniper."

My eyes found the singular one of the Demo. He was smiling and wearing a tacky Christmas jumper, cradling a drink.

"There's one fer you, mate."

Mutinous to my feelings I stumbled to the tree, where I found a tiny scrap of paper, fluid writing scrawled across.

"Luke,

I'm not sorry, and I know that you aren't either.

I've gone. I've gone somewhere better.

Je serai mieux, un jour. Maispour quelqu'un d'autre.

Vincent.

The Spy."

Shame on us, doomed from the start.