It wasn't so much the trek back to the BLU base that was really bothering Laurent, despite the thick, nagging ache in his midsection. It was the swirl of thoughts wracking his brain. He needed to be away... as far away as he could get from the tall, rugged RED Sniper with his lazy glances and tough, strong hands. Everything about him was disorienting no, intoxicating. He may not have known his own appeal, but the young Spy was acutely aware of it, and he had to fight to keep his voice, his face, his body out of his mind.
This was a fascination he could not afford to feed. Bailey had been kind to him, and they had even come far enough to be considered friends. To think they could be anything more than that was simple foolishness on his part. As much as he may have desired something deeper, be it physical or emotional, they were on separate sides of this war, in professions that were traditionally rivals. To hope that they could somehow develop a relationship under such circumstances was downright laughable.
The Spy's current path was one that took him wide around the side of the building, and he had hoped that taking this route would allow him to avoid any pressing questions, not the least of which concerned his whereabouts for the past week. He kept his steps light and quick, but he couldn't be prepared for everything... not in his present condition or state of mind. Which was probably why he rounded a corner and nearly ran headlong into Frank, BLU's Sniper. The older man looked just as bewildered as the younger, though his expression hardened rather quickly. Frank, he had been warned upon his initial arrival, was not a fan of Spies in general. Truly the traditional Sniper in every sense of the word. He gave Laurent a long look, noting the way he stood and the gloved hand over his abdomen, before looking back to his masked face.
"Not lookin' so good there," Frank was saying, though there was no emotion or hint of even mild concern in his tone. Laurent was wondering how in the world karma had decided on giving them this boarish bushman while RED got someone like Bailey. "Like you've been in one hell of a fight."
Laurent drew back slightly, his pale eyes narrowing. "Whezher or not I was in a fight is not your concern." Part of him was angry. Who cared whether or not Frank was right? It was not his place to assume about Laurent's activities. He was a Spy. Being secretive was part of his nature. His fury was irrational, of course, but he couldn't push it back. "I do not believe it is any of your business."
The Sniper looked neither intimidated nor bothered, narrowing his eyes behind his sunglasses as he looked the Spy over again. "Too right," he responded, very nearly too calm. "But y'keep goin' on like y'ain't on th' level, I'll make it my business. Any case, new Medic's in. He's wantin' t'give everyone a look-over an' yer th'only one he ain't seen." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of where Laurent assumed the Medic must have set up shop. "Best go deal with it now."
"Later." Visiting a Medic was not high on Laurent's to-do list anyway. He still didn't have a good story to explain where he'd been, and with no dead REDs left in his wake, the story he knew he would have to come up with would have to be spectacular. "I have information to go zhrough and I do not wish to be disturbed while doing it."
Frank lifted his chin, just slightly. "From th'way yer movin', I'd say goin' sooner rather'n later'd be th'safer bet."
Immediately, Laurent's eyes narrowed, giving the Sniper a sharp look normally reserved for opponents on the battlefield. "Do you plan on making me, bushman?"
Poor choice of words. On a good day, Laurent could have easily taken the larger man in a fight. With his injuries, however, his reaction time was clearly slowed, and after a rough battle with no sign of the gangly young Spy, the Sniper was probably itching for a reason to get rough.
The tall man's hand shot out. Laurent's first instinct was to duck away and dance to the side, out of range, but the sudden movement pulled sharply against the crude stitches across his abdomen, sending shocks of pain through his slim frame. The hesitation was an opening Frank was more than willing to take advantage of, and he had hold of the Spy's collar in a flash, pulling him roughly along toward the medical wing.
Upon entering the room, Laurent's first impression was that this new Medic must have been something of a neat freak. Everything gleamed and the whole room reeked of the kinds of disinfectants favored in large hospitals. Rows of supplies were neatly placed in alphabetical rows along the wall, shifted and adjusted until they were almost perfectly aligned. Obsessive-compulsive, then, with tendencies toward organization and tidiness. This was going to be fun.
The young man himself was rather obvious when they found him. He was of average height with short, neatly styled dark blond hair. His eyes were blue, though nowhere near as pale as Laurent's, and from their shape and his sharp, distinctive features, it was very easy to pick out his German ancestry.
"Who is zhis?" he was asking, giving the Spy's disheveled appearance a scornful look. "Ze Spy? Und vhere has he been?"
Shrugging of the Sniper at last, Laurent made a show of straightening his suit and tie, expression flat. "I have been busy gazhering intelligence on zhe RED team, and I had an unfortunate run-in with zheir Spy. I do not believe we have met. My name is Laurent."
The Medic gave him a leary look, particularly when the Spy offered him a black gloved hand. He did not take it. "Hans." His tone was clipped and curt. "Zhank you for bringing him here, Herr Sniper. I vill take it from here."
Frank just shrugged, turning to leave as Laurent gave Hans another appraising look. Not just obsessive-compulsive then. He seemed almost afraid of human contact. How very interesting. "I would razher keep zhis brief. I have a great deal to go zhrough and-"
"Sit." When Hans interrupted him, Laurent blinked, startled. "After you haff removed your suit, shirt, shoes, und tie. You may leave on vhatever undergarments you vear." He paused, then frowned. "Und zhat ridiculous mask. If I am to give you a full examination, you need to be out of zhose filthy clothes."
Laurent bristled. "I will not take orders from some crazed-"
But Hans interrupted again. "I am not crazed. Und as your physician, vhen you are in my care, you vill do as I say."
A tense moment passed before Laurent finally caved, breathing out heavily through his nose as he pulled off his balaclava, kicked off his wingtips, and started loosening his tie. "Not even dinner and wine first?" he muttered, but the Medic either did not hear him or chose not to acknowledge the barb. He could already feel the German's eyes on the long scar crossing his cheek and nose and had to bite back a grimace, hoping he would not ask. It wasn't a story he wanted to relate. Not right now, and most certainly not to this man.
Much to his relief, the Medic did not bring it up. After staring for several moments, he turned to prep a table and a tray of neatly organized tools. Part of him wanted to just toss his clothes down willy-nilly, just to agitate the man, but he thought better of it. It was never wise to anger the one with the bonesaw when you were otherwise unarmed. Standing there in his boxers and socks, however, he felt uncomfortably exposed and even more aware of how painfully thin and pale he was.
Aside from the angry, sloppily stitched wounds on his abdomen, it was his narrow waist and visible ribs that drew Hans's attention first. Once he had the Spy seated, his long gloved fingers started poking and prodding at his sides. "Tsk. Zo thin. Entirely unhealthy. Do you even eat?"
"Of course I eat," Laurent snapped in reply. "I have a very high metabolism."
Hans snorted but said nothing, moving his attention to the younger man's recent injury instead. His nose wrinkled up distinctly. "Zhis is very poorly treated. Did you do zhis yourself?"
And there was his out. He would much rather be scolded for his poor first aid skills than grilled on the actual events surrounding his mysterious injury. At least the bit about RED Team's Spy hadn't been a lie. "Of course. I have to do my job and I cannot let a little stab wound stop me. I am a Spy. Not a Scout."
"You are lucky you did not bleed out." The Medic wasted no time forcing Laurent to lay back on the bed. "I am going to redress zhese. Lie still."
That little bubble of anger rose in Laurent's chest again. Bailey had not been perfect, and true, his bedside manner had been rather rough, but his messy handiwork was the reason Laurent was still breathing at all. Not that he could let that slip, or let his anger show in his expression or voice. Years of training allowed him to expertly hide his emotions, however, and he managed to simply grit his teeth and lay silent as the medic removed the previous stitching to replace them with smart, even bindings, as accurate as a machine.
Of course, this also meant he took the Spy's silence as a great opportunity to start speaking as he worked, going over exactly how his medical facility would be run. Cleaning policy, dress code, organization and what could and couldn't be taken with and without filling out the proper forms...
The whole thing was entirely boring and Laurent actually found himself zoning out, eyes drifting closed. As he let Hans's words drift into little more than a dull buzz of background noise, he let his mind begin to drift to far more interesting things. Despite Bailey's questionable bedside manner, he had always been gentle in checking Laurent's injuries and in how he handled him whenever the need was there to move or adjust him.
He couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to have those rough hands doing things other than checking wounds. Trailing up his sides, tracing the lines of his chest and ribcage, running around to his back to draw him in closer. Bailey had been lean but not nearly as thin as he was, and his mind was racing at the thought of being pressed against that broad, sturdy chest.
Those hands traveling further down, traversing the dip of his lower back, callused fingers pulling on the waistband of his slacks, slipping around to the front to toy with the button...
A sudden pinch to his side brought him painfully back to reality, blue eyes flying wide as he stared up at Hans. The Medic was giving him a strangely wry look and it was in that moment that the Spy realized exactly why this was. Apparently his thoughts were having a far more profound effect on him than he had realized.
"I vas unaware zhat physical examinations vere so exciting to you, Herr Spy," Hans was saying, expression completely flat. "Unless of course you had somezhing else on your mind."
Laurent wasted no time in bolting from the bed, rather glad for the fact that the Medic had taken a step or so back, grabbing his pants to wrest them up his legs as quickly as he could, ignoring how painfully tight they were what with the little problem plaguing his groin. He couldn't help but imagining that the other man was probably smirking at his misfortune. "If zhat is everything, I will be going."
Hans still wasn't smiling, but he was giving the Spy an undoubtedly amused look. "Of course. I would imagine you would want to find somewhere private to deal with that... little problem of yours."
The Spy didn't even give him the pleasure of a backward glance.
The mood at the RED base may have been somewhat lighter, but for Bailey, it wasn't doing much to soothe his nerves. He was seated quietly up in the nest, staring out over the empty battlefield, watching... waiting. He wanted desperately for something to happen. Just about anything, he wagered, would have been a welcome distraction at about this point. He couldn't quite make sense out of anything that had happened recently. A week spent with the BLU Spy should have been infuriating. It should not have him thinking things that were entirely improper.
It wasn't as though he'd never had thoughts for another man like this, either. He hadn't been lying when he said he'd had trouble with women. While he'd dabbled in both sexes, he'd found himself building easier rapports with those of the same gender, and so most of his partners had been men. Not that he had ever found anyone that suited his tastes.
Or at least, he hadn't yet. Finding someone now seemed rather counterproductive, especially when that someone was not the type of person he should have been associating with. But Laurent had gotten into his head in ways he couldn't quite explain.
He was a protector by nature, and anyone who knew him knew that. He supposed it was probably part of the reason Tristan didn't like him. He had a natural instinct to want to take care of those around him, and keep them safe from things that may not have been the best for them. In Tristan's case, it was Catherine that Bailey tried so hard to keep safe. To him, the Spy was little more than a filthy old lech who needed dealt with at the first possible opportunity.
Who would have guessed Laurent would have provided him with a second opportunity? He was more than certain that the Spy could handle himself in a confrontation, but seeing him torn down and exposed like he had rustled up the urge to try to help him, at least a little bit. Oh, sure, he had blustered on about making sure the Spy got his in the end... a bullet between the eyes at a thousand yards. But could he actually bring himself to make good on his threat?
His lips tightened. No, it was extremely unlikely. If he saw those blue eyes through his scope...
Cursing, the Sniper threw his hat down, scowling at where it lay. Not that his hat had done anything wrong, but it was the nearest thing he could grab that he could throw around without feeling guilty about it later. No use wasting perfectly good jars of jarate, after all, and that would only make a mess he'd have to suffer through cleaning up. Oh, sure, he could always go find Tristan and rough him up a bit, but that would be far more trouble than it was worth.
This whole situation had become absolutely insufferable. He supposed, somewhat hopefully, that this was just a phase. That his reaction to that cattish young Frenchman had just been the fact that being on a battlefield with few romantic prospects tended to mean that you were spending a lot more time with your hand than with someone else in bed. Folks like Idelia were the lucky ones... Artyom would have hung the moon for her.
And it wasn't like he was going to deny that a lot of his time in the day or so since Laurent had left had been spent with fantasies in his head he wished he could get rid of. Even during the time the Spy had spent living in the camper van as he tried to recover from the stab wounds Tristan had no doubt inflicted, Bailey had spent far more time up in the nest than he usually would, and what wasn't spent focusing on the battlefield had been spent, in the latter half of the week, thinking about those pale blue eyes and that slim frame.
It was more than that, though. He was not a social person. Perhaps it was the way he had lived his life, spending most of his time after he was out of the parents' house in the great Australian Outback hunting, seeing and doing things that would cause most people to stop in their tracks and run straight back home. It was rare he had companionship, and it had felt surprisingly natural to sit and talk to the younger man. Laurent was good enough with conversation, and it didn't hurt at all that he was easy on the eyes.
He let out a sigh. Night was falling, and he should probably get to sleep soon. He would have to be up at the crack of dawn to get straight back up here and on to a very long job. The rainstorms of the recent days were still rolling through and BLU was likely still recovering from the hits they took taking the point the other day, bu t that didn't mean they would stop their push. Worse still, he knew that it was very likely that the next time the two teams met for battle, there would be a shimmer of movement and someone would end up with a knife in their back, dropping the cloak of the one man whose face he didn't want to see through the scope.
Picking up his hat, he sighed, climbing back down to slip into the van and put up his rifle. Sydney was at his heels the whole time, and he felt bad for not paying as much attention to his beloved bluey as he normally would, but he was so completely distracted. Grabbing a granola bar, and realizing with some irritation that he was almost out, he sat down on the cot and reached out to pat next to him. Sydney immediately obliged, hopping up next to his master to lean against him happily.
"Be glad yer a dog, Syd," he sighed, reaching up with his free hand to rub between the cockeyed ears. "You don't gotta worry 'bout love or romance or who's warmin' yer bed. You want a lady, I call a breeder an' we get ya hooked up." He chuckled, leaning down to rest his forehead against the dog's, getting himself a long-tongued lick on the cheek for his trouble. "You liked 'im, din't ya? Good fella, fer a BLU, I figure. Let's get some sleep. Big day t'morrow, so long as we don't get rain..."
Distraction. That was all he needed.
It was over too soon.
He couldn't help but admire her where she was trembling over him, her long, thick winding hair sticking to her face and tumbling over her shoulders as they rose and fell rapidly, catching her breath after her tumultuous release. His hands were still on her hips, pressing as lightly as he could to avoid hurting her, eyes on her flushed face. Red was staining her soft cheeks, lips still swollen, parted as she slowly started to regain some semblance of her usual dignified grace.
Thick fingers played up her sides, brushing the curve of her breasts before cupping her small face. "Ideshenka," he murmured softly. "You are feeling better?"
A smile curved her lips as she managed a shaky sigh, slowly leaning forward to lay fully on top of her partner, giving his shoulder a kiss before settling. "Considerably, mein Bärchen. You alvays know how to settle me down." She shifted slightly, mostly to slip free of an otherwise erotic position but also to get more comfortable, slipping to lay beside her lover. "Zough... zis still is bozhering me. Bailey has been... how do you say... avoidant as of late."
"Lonely, mebbe." Artyom shifted, brushing aside a couple of Idelia's errant curls with one of his large fingers. "Always in de tower, watching. Nobody visit. No place for healthy person." He flicked his hand, somewhat absently. "Or could be getting letters from lady friend back home."
Idelia snorted a bit, rolling her head against her large partner's shoulder. "I zink ve vould know if it was a friend from home. Besides zat, I do not zink Bailey is... mm... into ze women?" When Artyom arched his brow and cast her a curious look, she shrugged. "He has zat air about him."
For a long moment, neither said anything, and Idelia had let her eyes fall closed when Artyom made a surprisingly thoughtful noise. "Dis is about BLU Spy, yes? You said sometink about him before."
That actually caused Idelia to snap her head up, blinking a few times. The world around her was a bit blurry without her glasses on, but it wasn't as though she needed to look at something with this thought in her head. She'd asked him about that Spy, hadn't she? She knew the man had been stabbed, of course. She had seen Tristan sitting in a window cleaning his balisong. The blood trail, according to Cat, had led toward the tower and then vanished. So where had the Spy gone?
It wasn't possible, was it?
No, it couldn't be. In the fight the day before, he had gotten a few good hits in on the BLU Team's Demoman and Soldier. He was clearly still on top of his game, and his head was still in this exactly as it should have been. So why was she even entertaining the thought?
Because she had gotten to know Bailey, that's why. The man was nothing like his younger brother. Flynn was the true Sniper ideal, quiet and resigned. He would take a shot without hesitation, but Bailey was a planner. Bailey always thought things through, which she knew could bring anyone trouble. The Spy had gone to the Sniper nest. Had he disguised himself as a member of RED Team, hoping Bailey would try to aid an injured teammate?
Cat had gone to the tower not long ago, hadn't she? And she had seemed so strangely subdued after the encounter. What was Bailey hiding out there? Her eyes narrowed slightly. She couldn't let this slip. Artyom, bless him, was a Heavy through and through. The thought that a teammate could be a traitor to their team would not sit well with him, and the last thing they needed was the burly Russian stirring up trouble with BLU while they were still recovering from the last fight.
"No, I do not believe zis has anyzink to do vis ze BLU Spy. Perhaps you are right. I zink he is just... lonely."
"Your brother Viktor is with Heavy named Pavel, yes? See if Pavel has sister. Russian girls very nice. Not as nice as Ideshenka... but nice."
The slim woman chuckled, snuggling up close before she gave a long sigh, letting her dark eyes close. "Perhaps, Bärchen. Ve vill see. In ze meanvile, ve should both get some sleep. Perry is wanting to make a push to get ze point back tomorrow and take some of ze pressure off ze Intel team." She patted the Russian's arm, kissing the same spot once she had. "Danke schoen, mein Bärchen, for listening to me."
The Heavy just chuckled, running his fingers down the woman's back. "For you, Ideshenka? Is not'ink. You are always thinking better after good time, da?"
Smiling a bit, Idelia pressed up tightly against her lover, dark eyes falling closed. "Clears my mind. Sleep well, mein Liebling..."
This time, Artyom did not respond. He was already soundly asleep.
Tendrils of smoke curled around the tall, sturdy figure dressed in red from his head to his ankles. The sun was beginning to rise over the rugged landscape, though the only light it brought was muted by the heavy clouds settling over the area. Another day of rain, though he had a feeling Perry wasn't going to give up his plans for that last push.
So far, things were proceeding exactly as he had anticipated, but there were other things now that were cause for some amount of concern. Besides, if there was one thing Tristan Malveaux hated, it was unproven variables. BLU's new Spy had become that variable, and he was very quickly turning Bailey into a second one. Variables meant more work for him, and while that was not necessarily a bad thing, he knew it could turn around rather suddenly on him.
He had made a preemptive strike, of course. He had made sure to get a good hit in on Laurent, leaving him on shaky, uncertain terms in regards to his team's confidence in his skill. Left untended on his long journey back to the BLU base, he really should have simply bled out and died just as he crossed into their territory. What Tristan hadn't counted on had been the young man's cleverness. Disguising himself as the very man that had inflicted the wound upon him and going to the Sniper's nest.
Of course, under the best circumstances, that would have also solved the issue. Perhaps, he mused, if Bailey had agreed to head to the front instead of sending his brother the better Sniper, in either case along ahead of him, the Spy's life would have ended in one shot directly between the eyes. Bailey, however, was more about planning than action compared to his younger brother, and instead of killing the BLU Spy, he had allowed him to live, giving him basic first aid and nursing him back to health. Even more surprising was how the two had reacted to one another. Not only had they built a friendly rapport, they had genuinely hit it off romantically as well. It was the sort of sickeningly saccharine tale the filmmakers in his home country salivated over.
Making a quiet, thoughtful noise, Tristan pushed to his feet, walking over to a cabinet to unlock and open it, carefully lifting a bottle with one hand as he picked up a brandy snifter with the other. It wasn't like he couldn't make this work. Thoughts and considerations drifted through his mind as he walked across the room, sharp clicks rising from his wingtips, pausing at a dresser across the room to uncap the bottle and carefully pour some of the rich, caramel colored liquid into the glass. Slowly, surely, an idea was beginning to form in that cunning mind.
He pursed his lips, resting a hip against the dresser as he grabbed his lighter, turning the snifter in his gloved hand, waiting patiently. He was a patient man, and patience was exactly what he needed in this case. Let the Australian and the amateur Frenchman carry on their farce. Build it up. Let them have their longing glances and brief kisses, and let them even find their way to bed to consummate their damned union. Tristan would say nothing to them... do nothing. He would leave them to it, for the time being.
Quietly, he swirled the cognac in the glass, lifting it to just beneath his nose to inhale deeply, a smile playing over his thin lips. Indeed. Let them have their day. Tristan would become their night.
The crack of thunder over the base was loud enough to drown out the words of the Announcer as the round start was chimed. Normally, the two teams avoided fighting in rainstorms, but apparently RED's Soldier was insistant. They would take back the lost control point by any means possible, at any cost, and they would do it today, rainstorm be damned. Laurent was frowning as he pulled on his balaclava, glancing outside. Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the looming silhouettes of what little ground RED retained control over, and he couldn't help but grimace. That place looked even more dark and forboding in this atrocious weather.
Hans was busily arguing with Winnie somewhere behind him. The woman was insistant on going out into the fray, despite having taken a bullet not so very long before all of this mess began. She was the sort of person who didn't seem to pay much attention to injuries... at least from what he could tell. Let her fight.
As for Laurent himself, he was doing his best to ignore Frank's eyes boring into the back of his skull. The Sniper clearly suspected he was up to something, but at least he could brush that off to the bushman's distaste for Spies. Laurent wasn't even sure what he was going to do at this point. The best he could hope for was a clean end to this so he could get back and focus his attention on other things. Namely, in trying to get Bailey out of his head. Not, he noted with an unhappy grimace, that it was actually doing him any good. He'd only spent a week with the man. How was it that he had gotten so deeply under his skin?
Another gong indicating the struggle's true start and the various members of the team immediately began to split off in different directions. He watched the young Scout sprint off ahead of anyone else, shouting and laughing as though this were just some sort of silly game. Frank was on his way up to his newest perch, most likely already well armed with everything he would need. God only knew at this point how good any Sniper would be in this blasted storm. As for him? He simply cloaked, all but vanishing from the view of even his own teammates, as he crept quietly across the field.
Right now, he had no interest in killing. His heart wasn't in it. That didn't mean, however, that he couldn't pull off some good old-fashioned disabling. He could see the young Engineer Avery working diligently on a Sentry. Pity it wouldn't stay up very long. Narrowing his eyes, he slipped close, withdrawing an Electro-Sapper from beneath his jacket. He just had to get close while her back was turned. Lightning flashed and a crack of thunder followed it, giving Laurent just enough time to put the device in place.
"What the-..." Avery turned with a startled expression, watching as her Sentry started to break down under the device's assault. "Sentry down! Sentry d-GAH!"
That was something that needed to be cut off and quickly, and Laurent was quick to oblige, snapping the outer edge of his hand to the back of the woman's head with enough force to send her crumpling to the ground unconcious. With any luck, she would stay that way for a while. He huffed, dragging her to the side before dusting off his hands. "Nozhing personal," he grumbled. "I just had to shut you up."
Feeling reassured, and a bit more comfortable in his element, the Spy straightened himself up and adjusted his tie, waiting just long enough for the Sapper to complete its purpose before picking it up and heading on further into RED territory. This was where things were going to become tricky. He could hear the RED Heavy cackling madly, hollering insults at his teammates in a broken mix of English and Russian, taunting them to come after him, even as a faint red glow covered his hulking frame. The lady Medic, her thick curly hair hanging in spirals around her heart-shaped face, was nearby, then. No sign of that spry little Scout girl, which was likely for the best. It was bad enough having to sit and take out Bailey's teammates one by one.
Worse was doing it to continue on with the plan that was very suddenly forming in his head.
It was crazy. It was very possibly suicide. Something in him was urging him on, however, and on he went. Past Perry, wildly swinging at the Pyro Laurent had yet to really talk to. Past Winifred, firing off rockets at Cat as the little Scout taunted and jeered back at her.
Two nights it had been. Just two nights since leaving the Sniper's company, and in those two nights, he had barely been able to sleep. Waking up in a cold sweat with damp sheets and familiar tingling sensations coursing through his limbs was not conductive to getting rest. Even trying to settle himself down before he actually slept wasn't helping. His hand was not exactly a welcome partner at night, and thoughts and fantasies weren't helping things.
No, he had to end this. The thought made him even more keenly aware of the balisong tucked neatly into his pocket, its weight pressing against his thigh. One flipped blade. One quick stab. That's all it would take.
Distracted as he was, he almost missed the Demoman incoming from the left. Realizing his cloak was starting to wear off, he quickly ducked into the shadows, sticking one long leg out just in time to see the other man fumble and trip, crashing to the ground with a heavy thud, cursing in drunken Gaelic into the mud his face had ever so unceremoniously smashed into.
"Ye God-damned, ya alley-skulkin' backstabber! Come out where I can see ya!" He was working to drag himself out of the mud, slipping with an unsurprising lack of grace. "Come out an' die like th' back pokin' snake ya are!"
Laurent huffed a bit. How these drunken boars ever actually managed to get anything done in a fight was simply beyond him. To perform one's job completely drunk seemed rather counterproductive in a situation where he assumed you would need to have as much of your focus on the task at hand as possible. "If I had time, mon ami, I would finish what your liver started." He snapped his arm forward, using his elbow to render the larger man unconscious before standing straight, calmly brushing off the front of his suit as he flipped the Demoman over with his foot. "However, I have much more important zhings to do."
As he waited quietly in the shadows, watching the unconscious drunk with a wary eye, he listened to what he could hear of the battle outside. It didn't seem anyone was making any headway. The storm was too fierce, the rain too heavy, the sky too dark. On the other hand, this gave him the perfect opportunity.
Once the cloak was capable of being used again, Laurent immediately went under, slipping on toward the Sniper nest. It was only as he was moving forward, however, that something occurred to him. In his entire time on this endeavor, he had neither seen nor heard the RED Spy anywhere. There were no shouts that BLU had been attacked. No one had been stabbed or shot at close range. It was almost as if Tristan was nowhere to be found. The thought send a chill racing up the young Spy's spine.
Was Tristan watching him? Did he know where he was headed, or what he was up to? No. There was no way the other Spy could have anticipated this. He clenched his jaw, pale eyes narrowed as he closed the distance to the Sniper nest. He could hear Sydney baying inside the camper van, and he could only assume it was because of the weather. The dog had presented himself as being something of a baby, and he had a feeling he was afraid of being stuck inside the camper while a loud, violent storm and a bloody brawl raged outside where he could plainly hear it.
He took the ladder as quickly as he could, steps light and careful, delicate, easy. He was as quiet as he could possibly manage, knowing full well that the Sniper would not hear him coming even if he was shaking the nest down. Not with the pounding of the rain and the rattling of the thunder that followed almost directly on top of every single flash of lightning.
The Sniper was exactly where Laurent expected him to be, kneeling quietly and staring out into the rain, sunglasses pushed up to rest atop his head. He was grumbling about the rain and the lack of visibility, even as somewhere nearby, a gong sounded that indicated both teams were starting to retreat. The rain was just too heavy, and the visibility too low. No one was getting anywhere, and it was becoming a hassle. Laurent had a choice now, standing soaking wet in the Sniper's loft, completely cloaked.
He could turn around and leave. Walk away. Go back to the BLU base and forget he had ever been up here. Or he could finish what he started.
Just one swipe of the hand. One downward stab. His hand shook as he withdrew the balisong, expertly flipping it open with the dullest click as he crept forward.
Just one stab.
Just one.
He was feet away, jaw clenched so tightly his neck was beginning to ache, shoulders tense and hands shaking as he let his pale eyes drift over the Sniper's unprotected back.
His hand came up. He could end it now. No more fantasizing, no more lack of focus. This was exactly how it was supposed to be.
And he couldn't do it.
Taking a couple of steps back, he let the balisong clatter from his hands, dropping his cloak as Bailey immediately stood and spun, staring down the Spy with an expression somewhere between distrust and uncertainty. His hand was too near his kukri for Laurent's comfort.
"It is me, mon loup," Laurent was saying, his voice much softer than he had intended. "Zhis is... razher awkward."
Bailey frowned, lowering his hands slowly, though he was still clearly not entirely sure of how to react. "What're ya doin' here, spooky? You'll get yerself killed!"
He was keeping his voice quiet as well, proof enough to Laurent that he was trying to keep them from discovery as well. Good. "I couldn't do it." He motioned limply to the balisong laying on the floor beside him, sending a few stray drops of water spattering around it. "I could not kill you. I cannot kill you. I simply... I cannot."
The Sniper's expression had softened now, from wary to uncertain. His dark eyes were searching Laurent's much paler ones before he took a step forward, reaching out to jerk the balaclava from his head. Laurent's hair was as damp as the rest of him, thick, platinum curls sticking out in odd directions as he stood in silent waiting.
"So what's your game?" Bailey's tone was dark and unpleasantly serious, his eyes never once leaving the Spy's fair face. Outside, the gong chimed again. The round was being called as a draw. "Gimme the truth. Right here. right now. Why did you come back? Why didn't you just put that damn knife b'tween my shoulders like you just had th'chance to?"
Laurent didn't reply at first. He just watched Bailey's face, frowning softly, his hands shaking a bit at his sides. Finally, though, he stepped forward. Bailey was taller than he was by at least a head, but raised hands could solve that. He cupped the Sniper's rough face and drew him down, pressing his lips firmly over the other man's, letting his eyes fall closed and hoping to all he could think of that he didn't find himself with a kukri in his gut for his trouble.
The response, however, was far different. Bailey tensed only briefly before he let his shoulders droop somewhat, awkwardly bringing up his large hands to grip the Spy's narrow waist, uncertain of what else to do with them. They stayed like that for a long moment until Laurent finally drew back for lack of air, breathing heavily as he stared up at the tall Sniper. Bailey just looked back at him with a quizzical expression, though he didn't seem at all put off by what had just happened. Just... confused.
"I am coming to you right now as just me, mon loup," Laurent replied softly, swallowing hard against a nervous lump forming in his throat. "No tricks. No cons. No nozhing. I come before you exactly as I am. I cannot get you out of my 'ead. I want to know if you feel zhe same way. I must know. I want to know I am not mad, and zhat zhis is not just some... passing whimsy. I don't know if we can make zhis work, but I want to know zhe honest truth from you. If I were to give myself to you right now, wizhout question... would you have me?"