His safe place. The only place he felt warm, the only place where he could relax his usually battle-tense muscles. The only place he could let his words flow instead of inspecting each one before it left his professionally tight lips. The only place he could show his face.
In the arms of the enemy.
His bare nose, free from the usual balaclava, nuzzled against the Sniper's bare, heat-radiating chest as he tried to ignore the ticking of the watch he'd left on the bedstand. He could see nail marks on the slowly heaving chest, and tear stains—both his own doing, pouring his feelings out onto his lover. His fingers stroked the signs that he'd been there, that he'd done that, and that he had felt—anything. That he had let his guard down, cast it aside, and let himself be taken in by a man he was paid to kill.
Just as he did every night.
The slow-burning energy of the body beneath him changed as the beautiful creature himself shifted at his touch. A sleepy smile appeared on half-awake Australian lips, and sluggish hands stroked the Spy's hair gently, dragging roughly against the smooth scalp.
"What're ya doin' now…" A low, friendly rumble came from the still half-asleep assassin.
"Thinking," he replied, still running a pensive pointer finger slowly up and down the other man's torso.
"'Bout what?" The bushman shifted comfortably, letting his arm rest, weighty and warm, on the introspective mystery breathing by his side.
The frenchman looked up. "Love you," he answered simply.
A heavy eyelid lifted, and the two gazes met. Another soft smile from the Sniper. "C'mere," he mumbled, drawing the Spy in for a light, sweet kiss. After that, both eyes opened, studying the lines on the usually hidden face. "Thought you were gonna get some sleep." The frenchman shot a worried glance toward the ever-ticking watch in response, but the Sniper shifted a lumbering arm towards the table and gave it a well-aimed flick, sending it straight into the trash can. The same limb came down assertively around the Spy's shoulders, bringing his head to the pillow and his body up next to his lover's. Still half-asleep, the Australian wrapped his arms around the misunderstood enigma of a man he welcomed into his heart every night, and squeezed him tight, hoping perhaps to cuddle away the pain. "Sleep," he insisted. "Got a couple hours still…" But the bright blue eyes were still wide-open with alarm, making his lover sigh and give a soft chuckle. "Couple hours today," he clarified, stroking the pale, beautiful, too-hidden cheek, "and a bunch more tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that…"
"Forever?" Murmured the Spy, lifting a skeptical eyebrow.
"Much as I can manage to keep the ol' heart beating," he assured, giving the underexposed nose a gentle peck, "it belongs to you, y'hear?"
A soft, usually-gloved hand caressed the Sniper's neck, fondling the point where he could feel the sluggish, resting pulse. So delicate. He didn't know how it could keep going through the rest of this life, violent enough without daily war games. He didn't know how it had already beat steady for so many years. But he hoped that it kept going. He hoped, selfishly, that his lover's warm blood would pump on longer than his own. He wished it because that precious blood, too simply spilled, powered the lanky tangle of rough skin and smooth touch that was his only friend, only confidant, only love, and only home.
He didn't think he could last without him.