*whining* Goooood are we done with this I wanna go to Australia already jeez. And if you don't recognize the title, get out and don't come back until you acquaint yourself with the full works of Billy Joel.

Also, I forgot to credit Archimedes/Hippolyta to Lily, and somebody's fear of thunder to Tokyo Sunset.

...my ANs are chatty.

DISCLAIMAH


Chapter Six: It's Better Than Drinking Alone

A peal of thunder shook the plane. Or at least to Lawrence's fevered imagination it did.

The Aussie was currently several thousand feet above the air, gripping his hands together tightly and grinding his teeth as the plane jolted through turbulence once more. A band of sweat trickled down his temple and he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a wave of sickness.

He was not afraid of thunder.

He simply didn't like it.

There was nothing to be ashamed of, his mind assured him. Flying over the Atlantic in the midst of a thunderstorm was reason enough to give anyone pause.

At least, anyone but Spy.

He could hear the Frenchman's snorting laugh from first class as he blatantly flirted with one of the perky young stewardesses.

Sniper hoped he was enjoying his goddamn champagne. Or was it wine they served in first class?

Another roll of thunder shook him out of his thought process. Resisting the urge to clap his hands over his ears like a child, Sniper took several deep breathes and tried to calm his racing heart.

His mind scrambled desperately for something else to think about. His family came to mind, but Sniper shoved those thoughts away almost as quickly as they came. The moment he step foot on Aussie soil was the moment he would begin to worry about his big screwed-up family.

A Frenchman's murmur caught his ear and Sniper tilted his head to the side, listening as Spy—still disguised as Scout—subtly dismissed the stewardess.

A nagging feeling was developing in his gut, telling him that Spy was in trouble with a capital T. Although he was loathed to admit it, Sniper knew his teammate better than anyone else, and his erratic un-Spy-like behavior was setting the Aussie on edge. Spy was in big Trouble. And Big Trouble for Spy meant Huge Trouble for everyone else.

Sniper took to staring out the window, forcing himself to fight his fear as lightening flashed by once more.

….

"Eet 'as been a pleasure talking with you, ma chère," Spy's accent had mysteriously grown thicker the more he spoke with the chatty blonde serving as the first-class stewardess, "but perhaps you should check on the rest of the passengers, n'est-ce pas?"

"O-oh," she flushed, suddenly remembering that there were other people on this plane besides from the handsome young man, "yes, I suppose you're right. I'll be back in a bit!" And with that she disappeared into coach.

Spy sighed, ran a hand through Scout's full head of hair, and settled back in his seat. He could never quite get used to the lanky young man's body. It was too twitchy. I thought she'd never leave.

He hadn't even gotten his champagne yet… Or was it wine that they served? Either way, he was too tired to care. He set his seat back and curled up into it like a cat. Between the consistent pain in his left arm and the paranoia now plaguing him, sleep had become a rare luxury indeed. Spy inched his blanket up around his lean frame and willed his mind to quit racing, if only for a little while.

Typhus was spreading like wildfire. Half of the men in his block alone had succumbed to the sickness. In some twisted form of suicide, he realized he wanted to be next. He'd stopped eating, passing the moldy half-rations of bread onto others. He could almost ignore the hot, twisting, gnawing sensation in his stomach if he tried—

Spy's eyes snapped open again.

Groaning and muttering under his breath, Spy sat up in his seat again and glared out the window at the blackened sky, more irritated with the growing darkness than frightened by it.

….

"I 'pose this is the part where we part as friends, yeah?"

"Agreed."

Nevertheless the mismatched pair walked together to the row of public payphones, bodies stiff and gait uneven from the roughly thirteen-hour flight from the good ol' United States to grand ol' France.

Sniper shivered a bit and pulled his jacket closer, staring out a window at the beautiful city of Paris in horror. "Bloody hell! Is it always this cold here, Frenchie?"

"Shush," Spy snapped. He had deactivated the Scout disguise, opting instead for his usual suit-and-balaclava combo. Sniper couldn't help but wonder if the French just accepted odd sights like Spy wandering around on the streets. He leaned up against the wall, digging into his pocket for loose change as Spy hastily dialed Paulette's phone number.

With each consecutive ring Spy's grip on the receiver tightened. He had carefully rehearsed what he was going to say, and he was going through it one last time when finally someone on the other end picked up: "Hello?"

"Good afternoon," Spy began. "I was wondering if Paulette was at home."

"Who?"

Spy's heart sank. "Paulette Pelletier," he replied. "I'm a relative, and this is the number she gave me last time we spoke—"

"Oh," The voice on the other end became pitying, "I'm so sorry, but you must be talking about the last resident. Miss…Pelletier, was it? She moved about five years ago."

His heart had officially finished its descent into his shoes, where it melted into a disgusting puddle. "Ah. Thank you for your help, regardless."

"Merry Christmas!"

"Yes, yes…you too."

Spy hung up, glared at the payphone for a moment, and then spun on his heel, walking away without so much as a goodbye to the bewildered Sniper. He marched over to a map of France on the wall, staring at it with an intensity fit to kill.

Paulette had been his last connection to a normal life.

And now she was gone.

His outer composure was calm, but his mind was racing frantically, thinking of all the contacts and connections he'd made throughout the years. There had to be someone who could help him.

Sniper hadn't taken his eyes off of Spy even as he dialed the number home. Spy was good at hiding a lot of things, but even the Frenchman couldn't have hid the stricken expression on his face when he hung up. For the first time Sniper wished he could speak even a bit of French, wondering just who it was who had rattled the unshakable Spy so easily.

There was no denying it now, he mused. Spy was in Trouble.

"Hullo?"

"Hey mum! I jus' wanted ta let ya know that my plane landed in France all roight. I'll be home in another day!"

"Oh, that's great to hear, Lawrence! You'll be getting home before Lizzie, then!"

A wide, wide smile stretched across Sniper's face. "Lizzie's coming home too? I can't wait ta see her! Wait…" the smile dissipated. "She ain't bringin' Jack, is she?"

"Jack is her husband, Lawrence," his mother's tone became faintly scolding. "Of course she's bringing him!"

"But—but—but he's a roight jackass!"

"Jackass or not," Dotty Mundy replied calmly, "Jack doesn't have any other family waiting for him. Christmas is a time for family, Lawrence, even the members you'd rather not have."

As she spoke Sniper's eyes found themselves drifting back to Spy. Dotty continued on: "If Jack wasn't coming he'd been spending the holidays alone. No one—not even the jackasses—should have to spend Christmas alone."

Sometimes Sniper couldn't help but wonder if his mother was a psychic.

"I guess yeh're roight," Sniper sighed in resignation. "I'll call ya again when I get ta Sydney."

"Have a good flight, sweetheart. I love you."

Sniper cast a glance around before mumbling, "I love ya too, mummy."

He hung up slowly, lingering around the payphones as he plucked up the courage to face Spy. The Frenchman was still standing in front of that large map, hands clasped behind his back and rocking back and forth on his heels. Slowly Sniper came up to stand next to him. "So…everything all sorted out, spook?"

"Quite," Spy replied tersely.

"Ya know where yer going?"

"Oui."

"And ya know how ta get there?"

"Yes."

"Listen, spook," the faster he said it, Sniper figured, the better, "if ya ain't got somewhere ta go…yeh're welcome to join me."

Instantly Spy's gaze snapped to him. The Frenchman's gray-blue eyes went wide before narrowing dramatically. "And why on earth would I ever join you? Australia," the name came out in a sneer, "is hardly the place for a refined gentleman such as myself. No, I do not think fighting dingoes and riding kangaroos is an especially interesting way to spend my holiday. And furthermore, if there was one man I'd rather not 'ave to put up with for fourteen days, it is the uncultured bushman who doesn't shower and collects 'is own piss!"

Unfettered, Sniper rolled his eyes. "All ya had ta do was say 'no thanks, Lawrence'."

"No thank you, Lawrence." Spy scowled and made to move away, but all of a sudden a heavy hand was on his shoulder.

"Ya think yer good at hidin' it, spook," Sniper's tone was deathly serious, more serious that Spy had ever heard it, "but yer in some trouble. Now, I dunno who ya pissed off or what ya runnin' from, but it's bad enough ta send ya rabbitin' without a plan. If ya need help," he hesitated, "I'm there."

"Why?" Spy snapped. He continued to face away from Sniper.

"Because that's what teammates do. They help each other. 'Sides, not even jackasses should be spendin' the holidays alone."

The hand released Spy, who didn't move, keeping his back to Sniper. The Aussie waited a moment more before shoving his hands into his pockets, backing away. "Fine. Have a happy Hanukkah."

He hadn't gotten more than five feet when he felt a presence behind him. He smirked. "All roight?"

"All right." Spy returned. "Not for your useless sentiment about teamwork or because Australia is just so fascinating—"

"Whatever you say, spook. Whatever you say."

….

About an hour later Sniper was already beginning to regret his charity. "I dunno what my parents are gonna say when I show up with you," he muttered as he bit into a croissant, nose wrinkling at the greasy taste.

"My, my," Spy waved a hand through the air, "what wonderful taste our son has." He grinned nonchalantly when Sniper glared at him.

"Not funny." The Aussie growled through a mouth full of crumbs. He wiped his mouth before continuing: "I mean, I dunno how ta explain ya. 'Oh, Mum and Dad, hope ya don't mind but I brought my pet Spy home 'cause he don't have nowhere else ta go. Be sure ta feed him twice a day and if he starts sappin' the kitchen appliances whack him wif a rolled-up newspaper—"

"Dis, t'es con ou quoi, Lawrence?"

"Wot?"

"…never mind." Spy cast a glance around the airport café as he replied. "Will it really be so hard to say 'this is a coworker of mine'? Will it really be that impossible for your parents to believe that their son is not the crazed gunman they assume 'im to be?"

"No," Sniper scowled, "it's just…wot do I say about the mask?"

"Scarred for life in a demolitions accident."

"Use that one before, have ya?"

"Perhaps."

Sniper huffed. "Well…wot about a name? I can't just walk around calling ya 'spook' the whole time."

Spy picked at his untouched muffin for a time and Sniper had almost resigned himself calling Spy 'spook' forever when the Frenchman finally spoke: "Philippe. You can call me Philippe."

"Philippe?"

"Is something wrong with the name Philippe?"

"No." Sniper cocked his head to the side. "Ya just don't look loike a Phil, that's all."

"And what, pray tell, does a Phil look like?"

"I dunno, s'just not the name I woulda picked."

"Yes, well, that's why your smelly van is called the Mundymobile."

"At least it looks loike a Mundymobile."

"Oui. Oversized, cumbersome, and never clean—"

"Believe it or not, spook, I shower every day! Even shampoo my hair!"

"What's left of it."

"Oh, you are in no position to talk!"

"This is personal choice! Your thinning hairline is just genetics!"

"T'ain't thinnin' at all! Bloody hell, I thought it was your job to be observant!"

"And I thought it was your job to stay quiet and still!"

"Wankah."

"Bastard."

"…where were we again?"

"Philippe."

"Oh. Roight. Well," Sniper stretched a bit, "Phil it is, I guess. Noice ta meet ya, Phil." He outstretched a hand across the small café table, and after a moment Spy took it, shaking it gingerly.

"The pleasure is all mine, Lawrence."

….

January 1942

Three weeks. Three very long weeks. Three weeks of pouring over news from the front lines and tending to patients and struggling to spread the rations evenly. Three weeks of iced-over hell. My fellow men of medicine are getting twitchy, I believe. W— has been arranging for better conditions but I'm not sure how far he'll get. He has his hands full with the typhus epidemic.

Today was the first time in three weeks I managed to get close to the blue-eyed Jew. Frankly I'm surprised he's still alive; he's thinner than before, not much more than skin and bone. If the working conditions don't kill him, malnutrition will.

We were making a round in the factory. It smells horrid in there, but I have no right to complain. The SS took to bullying prisoners. I averted my gaze—and saw him staring at me. He knew me, recognized me. Hated me. Well, hate me if you must, I couldn't help but to think, but I am your only friend here.

I had been planning this moment from day one. But when the moment came I found my courage nearly failed me. It was his hatred, strangely enough, that sustained me. If he had strength enough to hate, then I had strength enough to change his mind.

The action was quick, smooth, meaningless—tossing a crust of bread down in front of him. It was a piecemeal, worthless gesture, I'll admit, but there wasn't much else I could do. I didn't even look back. But I knew he stooped to pick it up, slid it into his too-thin jacket. I caught just one more glimpse of him before leaving. He was glaring at the ground, expression twisted in thought.

I had not anticipated this from my young Jewish friend. He's a planner, and a plotter, and now he's planning something.

I just hope he knows there's more than his life at risk.


HELLS YEAH WE-ARE-FINALLY-TO-AUSTRALIA. And expecting some mini-ranting on my behalf.

Up next: "Dotty turned to the fat, half-blind cat sunbathing in the open window. "It's nice to have the house full of children again, isn't it?"'

(And Australians, I apologize if I misinterpret your country. There's only so much one can learn from NatGeo. ;-; )