The Spy was known for being a devilish son of a bitch. Not the most coveted title in the world, perhaps, but the frenchman embraced and cherished it. His brain was always working at full capacity to maintain that image, and to contrive new ways to present himself as a clever damned bastard. And there were certain American holidays, he discovered, that were perfect for this…
He was especially excited about his latest project. A delicate venture, it was—the timing had to be perfect, he had to be extremely careful to get close enough, it would have to work on the first try, and it had to be today, unless he wanted to wait another year. So he was cautious. After the battle commenced, he spent about a third of it performing his duties as usual: backstabbing, intelligence theft, sentry sapping, and putting the Ambassador to work. So far, so good.
As usual, he kept his eyes keen and his gaze observant throughout the well-practiced paces of battle. Soon enough, he located the enemy Sniper's roost—time to move onto step two. Trying to act as normal as possible, he snuck his way into the building housing the RED assassin. A cloak here, a disguise there, a careful dodge of the Pyro, and, ha! He had to smirk at the success of his mission so far. Magnifique. Now, to find the Sniper.
Predictably, the Australian was hunched over his rifle, totally attentive to the tumble underfoot, lending a bullet whenever he could, and grinning and muttering to himself whenever he got a headshot—which, and the Spy had to admit this was impressive, was most of the time. However, he was far too busy concentrating on slipping into the roost without making a sound to dwell too long on the Sniper's skills. He watched and waited, knowing that soon, the RED would need to reload.
It happened after a series of potshots at a particularly evasive Scout. Good boy, the Spy thought, licking his lips in preparation as the other man's broad, rough hands reached out to fill themselves with bullets. The gun was unloaded, the fists were occupied, and the kukri was almost out of reach—he wasn't going to get a better shot. So, as quickly as he could, he uncloaked and sprung into action.
The face. The first face the Sniper made was exactly what the BLU had expected: something between shock, anger, confusion, and fear, with widened eyes and furrowed brow, not to mention beautifully flushed cheeks. Yes, the expression that the bushman formed at the firm, wet touch of the Spy's lips pressing up against his, the way he squirmed under the gloved hands on his shoulders, and the way his eyes widened when an impudent tongue flicked across his lips—it was perfect. He had flawlessly predicted the Sniper's reaction.
What he didn't predict, though, was his response.
Wiry arms wrapped around a tiny waist, chapped lips parted eagerly, letting the Sniper's own tongue out to play, and as eyelids closed the RED assassin let out an entirely unprofessional moan. The Spy froze for a moment, unsure of what he should do—fight? run? reciprocate? He ran the options through his head, ran them against the image he inhabited, and let a bit of instinct come out to play as well. The verdict was overwhelming.
Keep going.
And so the Spy kissed him back, and fondled him, and let out a few undignified sounds of his own, and when they finally pulled apart, part of him—the part he always ignored—wanted to dive right back in. And the face the Sniper was making now, oh, that first one was nothing compared to this. Each of the features told him a different story, suggesting that what was going on in the bushman's mind was just as muddled and violent as the battlefield below. The mouth, with teeth bared and saliva dripping, presented the picture of "predator," while the flaring nostrils shuddered with desperation. Best of all, though, were the eyes: wide and glistening with disbelief, hope, and affection.Affection. How…adorable. How long had Mr. Jarman been keeping this under wraps, he wondered?
Looking at that face, that wild, desperate, pathetically loving face, no man would have been able to say it. It would have been too cruel, too much even for the most weathered, desensitized mercenary. No decent, caring, moral person would have been able to say it at all.
But of course, the Spy remembered as he bared his toothy grin, he was none of those things.
"April Fools!"