Author's Note: I've written a special short Christmas story set in Renaud's childhood that I'm not posting here because on its own, it has almost no relevance to TF2. However, if you want to read it, it's up on my deviantArt page (my username is louderthanthemelody) and is titled "Giving"


The next day was almost miraculously calm. He did not think about his encounter with the Sniper all morning; instead his mind was full of nothing but work, of murder simple, swift, and clean. It was the perfect mindset for learning how to destroy raw, over-expressive Soldiers, which was what the Administrator had them focus on that day. There was no remarkable tumult in his mind, only streamlined, efficient deadliness. The pull of the trigger, the swish of the blade, the hiss of the cloaking device—these were the only words that ran through his head. His thoughts remained this clear for hours, even during lunch.

Even when he saw Gavin.

The Sniper, for the first time in over a week, was sitting at their old table, looking defiant but just the tiniest bit nervous. He had out a bag of jerky too large for one person's meal, and had his aviators locked on the entrance to the mess. When they swung open, Gavin started to stir, but before he could rise from his seat the Spy breezed right past him, headed for the table containing the slop of the day. The Sniper stayed frozen, half-standing, as the Frenchman collected his food and pointedly strode past again, heading past the beckoning aroma of jerky and out the greasy double doors.

His mind, somehow, remained calm and empty as he returned to his room and ate his food, concentrating on chewing his mystery meat enough to swallow and stirring his bowl of sludge until it looked like soup. He had to screw up the best of his determination just to convince himself to eat the stuff. Once his meal was over, however, he found his brain dangerously empty and without a thing to do.

Absentmindedly, he reached for a cigar and lit it. From Gavin's mother, he remembered. These cigars came from an abused woman, a woman who raised the Sniper that he knew—basically alone, if Gavin's father cared as little for him as it seemed. A woman, the Spy realized, who the Sniper would have considered the most important person at some point in his life, and very possibly still did. He puffed appreciatively at the cigar, which suddenly seemed a lot more precious. The Sniper had shared so much with him; it didn't really feel like equivalent exchange. It felt like…He shook his head gently. It didn't matter what it felt like, because those feelings were the sort that would get him fired or killed. He had already resolved to get rid of them, but what was he supposed to do? Share with the Sniper, as he had done with his childhood memories? That seemed like it would bring the unwanted sentiments out stronger, not quell them. The cigar came to his mouth again as he contemplated the best way to dispose of his not-quite-solidified desires. He couldn't say how long he sat there, slowly puffing and thinking.

He was jolted from his reverie by something like gunfire coming from his doorway. His instincts took over, causing him to quickly extinguish the half of the cigar that was left in an ashtray, shoot out of his seat, cloak, and slide next to the door with his knife in hand so that he would be ready to stab whoever came through. For a few breathless seconds, nothing happened. Then the sharp noise attacked again, and with a twinge of embarrassment the Spy realized that the sound was nothing more than someone knocking on the door. Cautiously, he uncloaked and reached for the doorknob, flinching when the jarring raps hit the door once more.

The door swung softly open and there was Gavin, standing awkwardly in the hall with his fist raised to pound again. Though he had been expecting no one else, the Spy was a little surprised that this time, the Sniper had waited him to answer his knocks before barging in. He waited for his visitor to say something, not bothering to put his knife away.

"Hey, ah…Got your hankie." The Sniper held it towards him, clean and dry.

The Spy snatched it from is fingers eyeing it critically before folding it carefully back into his pocket, where it belonged. "Many thanks," he admitted gruffly. The knife was still out, and Gavin seemed perturbed by it. Good. Maybe he would go on his way and leave the Spy to his thinking, let him figure out his plan of action before being forced to talk to the Sniper…

But Gavin pointed the half-smoked cigar in the ashtray and grinned. "Glad you kept those. I was worried…"

The Spy raised one eyebrow. "Why would I dispose of a gift of such high quality?"

"Oh, I dunno, I thought…All the stuff I said that day…the day I gave 'em to you…" The Sniper's face was screwed up oddly, as if he was trying to name something he didn't know the word for. "I guess I…I just…guess I'm…" The Spy's eyebrow kept rising higher and higher, distracting Gavin momentarily before he finally brought a hand to his temple as if he had a headache and said, "Sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Yeah. That's the one. I'm sorry." The Sniper's hand slid around in front of his face, putting yet another barrier between his eyes and the Spy. He couldn't tell if Gavin was ashamed of his actions or his apology. Probably both.

The Spy smirked. "Were you afraid you had hurt my feelings?" He knew he should want the Sniper to say no, that it was just a formality and they would return to a normal, distant relationship as coworkers. But somewhere, some not-yet-discarded part of him wished he would say yes, wanted him to care.

"Feelings?" Gavin sounded surprised, almost alarmed. "Look, professionals don't need feelings—"

"I could not agree more," the Spy was quick to agree. This was good, he told himself, this was the way it should be.

"—but that don't mean we don't have 'em, and yeah, I thought maybe I had hurt your—well, I guess I didn't need to worry about that," the Sniper muttered, not able to really look at the calm, collected Spy.

"Indeed," he murmured, not paying attention to whatever that fluttering was in his stomach. Instead, he grinned widely, and drawled in a horrible mimicry of Gavin's voice: "No worries, mate!"

There was a moment where the Sniper simply stared at him, dumbfounded, but then he started laughing. The Spy realized it had been over a week since he'd heard Gavin laugh like that. Something inside him felt warm and fuzzy—no, that was all wrong; he was supposed to be cold and hard! He gave his head a minute shake as the Sniper gave one last guffaw, and then began to close the door. Gavin's hand shot out to catch it.

"Oi, wait, I—"

"Yes?" The Spy met the Sniper's eyes steadily, and Gavin seemed to realize he didn't have anything to say, no good excuse for keeping the door open.

"Right," he coughed. "Never mind. Off I go." Reluctantly, he pulled his hand back, and the Spy closed it firmly in his face. He turned his back to the door, took a deep breath, and reached immediately for the second half of the cigar, relighting it almost hungrily.

He was feeling those feelings again, those ones he wanted to get rid of above all else, those ones he wasn't allowed to have, those ones that interfered with his ability to work, those ones he thought he had destroyed a week ago, those ones about Gavin. He paced the room briskly, puffing wildly; he needed to do something to get his mind off the Sniper. He had gotten too close yesterday, far too close, but if he stayed away from him for another week or two, maybe then these feelings would go away. Or maybe they'd be assigned to the same team and the Sniper's professional sensibilities would allow them to at least share a friendship; the Spy thought he could stand that…What was Gavin doing, anyway, trying to apologize and talk about feelings when he had made it clear that they were not friends? It was unfair. Yesterday had been a fluke, nothing more. He had to do something to get all this off his mind, to go on a trip, some sort of challenge or vacation, but the challenges of this job wouldn't come for another week still, and meanwhile, there was nowhere he could go. All too soon, the cigar was gone, and though he had understood perfectly how to kill a Soldier, he strode over to the shooting range again to practice; at least that would keep his mind on what was truly important.

After what seemed like no time at all, he was out of bullets, and not long after that he realized that he was in danger of dulling his knife blade. He swore under his breath, and started back towards his room; he would have to sharpen it tonight and ask the Administrator for more bullets tomorrow. Suddenly, as he stepped outside, he tripped over nothing. He scrambled to his feet and looked around; though night had fallen and it was pitch dark, he could tell there wasn't a thing there that he could have stumbled over. Surely he didn't just fall over himself? Then he noticed it: a slight shimmer over to one corner. As he watched, the other Spy uncloaked, revealing himself to be leaning against the wall with one foot propped out just enough to trip someone.

"Oh, my apologies, I did not see you there. Wait—never mind. That's your line." The other Spy wore a smile almost as wide as his face as he pulled out his disguise kit and lit a cigarette. His gold tooth glinted in the darkness; he continued, "How are you, petit? You seem stressed. Certainly very trigger-happy…"

"My business is just that: mine. Not yours," the Spy growled. He couldn't turn because that would be unsafe; he couldn't back away because that would show weakness. He just kept his eyes level with his coworker's.

"Not quite true, mon ami. Soon enough, when we are split into different teams, knowing your business will be the entirety of my business." Both Spies seemed totally relaxed, and each knew that only the other could tell how tense and alert he was.

"The entirety?" The Spy cocked an eyebrow, slipping his hands into his pockets. "So you are giving up fighting altogether now. A wise choice, if I do say so myself."

"Watch it, jeune bête," the other Spy snarled softly, blowing a smoke ring. The Spy thought he heard someone moving nearby, but the his counterpart took no notice and continued, "You would do well not to discount me. I have been paying attention, you know, to your sudden increase in skill, and the way your killing has changed. You may think you are growing, but I know better. You are spiking. Your technique is varied and erratic. No matter how many kills you get, you seem to swing between bloodthirsty animal and apathetic machine. No one else may notice it, garçon, but noticing things is my job. I don't care how nonchalant the others think you are. I know," the other Spy was drawing closer, leering in his face while smoke curled from under his lips, "you are an emotional mess."

He didn't let his eyes register his shock, even though he knew the other Spy would be able to detect it anyway. Instead, he brought out a cigarette of his own, lit it, and mentioned, "Do not let yourself think that you are the only one who notices things, vieillard. You confront me because you are afraid. You worry that I am smarter, stronger, faster, and better than you. You tell yourself that your strategy is sound and your strikes are consistent, but really, they are flat. You have lost your edge already, old man." They both blew smoke rings, but the younger Spy's grew larger and swallowed those of his older counterpart. He watched as fury burned behind the eyes of the placid-seeming gold-toothed other Spy.

"Your insults will not rile me to the point of violence," the older man pronounced slowly. "Do not mistake me for you, you cowardly, pathetic, weak, unintelligent, sniveling, bad-mannered, easily-angered, over-feeling, bleeding-heart, wanton son of a whore!"

The resounding crack that followed right on the heels of this speech reminded the Spy of something between thunder and cracking bones, and he watched with calm interest as his insult-spitting enemy sank before him under the blow of a shadowed figure. He had been right, he thought mildly, there had been someone moving nearby, and that someone had reacted very adversely and violently to the elder sneak's little speech. The Spy flipped open his lighter and was not as surprised as he should have been.

That someone was Gavin.

"Here's an idea," the Sniper growled at the sprawled elder Spy, "why don't you shut up before I feel the need to show you the way a real man uses a real knife." His right hand was balled into a fist and smeared with a drop of the older man's blood, while his left hand held a long, sharp kukri whose cold glint would send shivers down any man's spine.

The enemy Spy began to laugh from his place on the ground, despite the blood running from the edge of his mouth and the crooked shape of his jaw. "Oh, this is too cute! Look, petite fleur, your little boyfriend came to your rescue! And he's a real man, too!" His cackles rang throughout the darkness and the Sniper tensed, tightening his grip on the handle of his blade.

Without missing a beat, the Spy reached across, grabbed Gavin's kukri, plunged it into his fallen counterpart's right wrist. The peals of laughter broke off with a pained, choking cry as he wiggled the blade from side to side until the right hand was completely severed. His face was calm and his eyes betrayed nothing as he pulled the knife out of the ground again amid the other Spy's strangled whimpers, handing the bloody blade back to the bewildered bushman, and he flicked a few ashes in his opponent's eyes before suggesting mildly, "Perhaps you ought to go see a Medic. I am sure they are eager to practice their craft." He returned his cigarette to his mouth and his hands to his pockets before striding off into the dark.

He didn't want to cause more of a scene than he already had. He didn't want any awkward conversations to stem from the other Spy's little one-liner joke, and he didn't want to know why Gavin had felt the need to come to his rescue. He didn't want to know why he had felt the need to sever his counterpart's hand. He wanted to sharpen his knife, eat some dinner, and get a good night's sleep. That was all.

Of course, he had rarely gotten what he wanted. Before he could cross half the ground he needed to, the Sniper's overlong legs had caught up to him, and Gavin's low voice growled in his ear, "You always do that."

The Spy snapped his head around to look at the Sniper. "Cut people's hands off? Pray tell, when else have you seen me do that?"

Gavin shook his head. "Not that," he insisted. "You leave as soon as you don't like where things are going. You always have. When I saw your face you pushed me into a wall and ran off, when I caught you stabbing that rabbit you just threatened my life and left, and when you'd had enough heart-to-heart yesterday you stopped answering my questions and walked away. And today you shut the door in my face…The only improvement I can see here is you're letting your violence out on some other bloke instead of me." He glanced grimly and the blood staining his kukri. "But you know, nothing's ever gonna get resolved if you keep running away."

The Spy fixed him with an incredulous look and let out a short, harsh little laugh. "I am the one who runs away? Was it not you, Monsieur Sniper, who fled my room at the prospect of friendship because it disagreed with your professional standards?"

"Look, I said I was sorry about that, don't make me say it again!" Gavin protested. "And besides…I didn't leave 'cause of the friends thing. Piss, I think I was all wrong on that. After what happened yesterday, and hell, all the time we ever spent together, I think it's pretty obvious we're friends. I was just being a pissheaded, stubborn-ass piker. So let's—"

"Absolument pas," the Spy snapped. "You've made your choice and I have made mine. You chose to make no friends, and I chose to change who I am, both of us so that we could accommodate this job. I'm not about to change my mind just because you have. There are certain things that ought to stay constant so that a man can get his work done."

"Look, I heard what that other Spy said, about you being all emotional, and to be honest, I couldn't see it, and I still don't really—well, except for the bit where you stabbed him out of the blue there—but I'm willing to bet you do want to be mates and you're just being a wanker about it. Come on, Reno—"

"What have I told you about using that name?" The Spy hissed. "Besides, that is not who I am anymore. As I just said, I have changed myself. The 'Reno' you spoke to once is dead and gone."

"Oh really?" Gavin said quietly. "Who was I talking to yesterday, then?"

The Spy looked as if he was about to retort, stopped himself, and frowned. "It does not matter. There is no room in this place for the man that I was."

The Sniper matched his frown, clearly working something out behind his huge, blank aviators. A smile started creeping onto his face. "Sure there is," he whispered. "Come on!" He grabbed the Spy's wrist and strode out into the dark desert, certainly not heading towards any place on the map that the Administrator had sent.

"Where are you taking me, convict?" The Spy hissed, trying to pull his arm away but walking with the Sniper anyway.

"You'll see," Gavin promised, his grin shining in the dark.

"Are you sure you want to be friends? Because at the moment it seems that you are trying to seduce me or kill me," the Spy shook his head, "possibly both."

Soon he could see a hulking white form in front of them. It looked like…a camper van? The Sniper let go of the Spy's wrist and stood in front of it, facing his companion. "Ta-da!" he shouted, spreading his arms wide and sending a few night birds flying for cover at the sound of his voice echoing against the sand.

The Spy eyed the giant pale vehicle suspiciously. "And what exactly is this, bushman?"

"This," Gavin explained proudly, "is what I like to call 'home sweet home.'"

The Sniper lived in a van. It took a moment for this knowledge to seep in. Once it had, the Spy couldn't help himself. First he snorted, then he sniggered, then he doubled over and started shrieking with laughter. "A van!" He shouted gleefully. "You live in a van! Oh, mon dieu, you have got to be kidding me…"

Gavin put his hands on his hips, pouting. "Now, hold on, what's so funny about that?"

"Wh—wh—what's so f-f-funny?" The Spy snickered, having trouble breathing. "YOU LIVE IN A VAN! That's what's so funny! 'Oh, I think I could go for a nice, refreshing cup of tea! But what's this? I'm out of sugar? Not to worry! I'll just pop into the living room and drive down to the corner store! Might as well get some new toilet paper while I'm at it, for the bathroom that I also have in this van! Maybe I'll just drive and piss at the same time!'"

"Actually, I usually—"

"'What's that? You want to come over to my house? Better idea: my house will come over to you!'" The Spy wiped a single tear out of the corner of his eye; this was the funniest thing that had happened to him in over a week. The Sniper, however, was clearly peeved.

"Well, fine," he snapped, folding his arms. "If you're too good for my van, then why don't you walk your pansy ass back to that dinky little room of yours. Assuming you know the way back."

The Spy began to sober as he realized that he had no idea where this van was situated in relation to the rest of the base, and while he let out a few more chuckles, he started to catch his breath and regain his calm, though his huge, ridiculous smile didn't leave his face. "Ah, my apologies…I just…I have never met someone who lived in a van before…" He shook his head, holding back another laugh. "It is very nice, Monsieur Sniper. Thank you for showing me. May I go home now, or did you truly bring me here to seduce and kill me?"

Gavin winced. "Neither, mate, geez…I brought you here because you said there was nowhere you could be yourself. I thought maybe…maybe you could, here." The Sniper scratched the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable, and the Spy frowned.

"And what makes you think," he asked slowly, "that this old van is the right place for that?" Alarm bells were going off in his head; this was dangerous; this would get him fired; this was a terrible idea. A terribly tempting idea.

"No surveillance. Far enough from the base as you want it to be. Nobody around but me, and we talked before you were…before you changed. That way you could find room for yourself, we could be mates, and we wouldn't have to worry much about anyone finding out." The Spy had to admit, it sounded nice.

Too nice.

"Why do you care? Why do you suddenly want so badly for us to be friends?"

"I guess…" Gavin scratched his head, making his hat move. "I dunno, after we talked yesterday…I've never really told anyone before, 'bout my parents, and it felt real nice, and I realized…I probably need a friend. And when you told me 'bout your life, and your mum, I figured you needed one too. And I think…" The Sniper looked down, kicking at a rock by his feet and rushing through his next words. "Well, like I said, we were already mates and I was too stupid to see it, and you're easy to talk to, and I realized I missed you."

The Sniper missed him. Great. This was exactly what he didn't need. Unless…He had been wondering how he could let out his feelings for Gavin, how he could share them as he had his past without creating more drama, more tension, and more feelings. Perhaps this was it. If he acted as the observed rather than the observer, they could hammer out the issue without the Spy seeming any more human than he wanted to be. "Tell me, Gavin," he began, delicately, "you say that you were not frightened by the concept of friendship when you ran from my room a week ago. What was it, then, that sent you scurrying?"

The Sniper flushed. "Oh, it was, you know…that other thing." The Spy raised one eyebrow. "The thing, with the…when you looked at me." The eyebrow hiked up again. "You know…after I asked what you wanted, and you…er…"

"Spit it out," the Spy grumbled softly.

"You looked like you wanted to…well…Oh, piss, you know."

"I looked like I wanted to piss?"

"No, bloody hell! You know what I'm trying to say!"

"Maybe I do know, maybe I don't. I won't be sure unless you tell me." He kept his eyes locked on the Sniper's aviators, unblinking and unwavering.

"You looked like you wanted to…to…" Gavin furrowed his brow and twisted his face into a scowl, clearly struggling to say it, and the Spy lost patience with every moment. Finally, the Sniper's lips opened again, and the words came out:

"You looked like you wanted to go steady."

The Spy couldn't help it.

He laughed again.

Gavin looked crestfallen. "Guess…guess I got that wrong, then?"

Letting his cackles stop, the Spy lifted his narrowed eyes to the Sniper's again, avoiding the question. "You sound disappointed," he noted with a smirk. "I did think it was a bit odd for you to drag me all the way out to your van just to be friends…"

"What? No, I, I didn't…I don't…" Gavin shook his head emphatically, turning a new shade of red. "I don't do that."

"With men?" The Spy asked for clarification.

"Uh…" The Sniper hesitated a moment too long. "Right. Don't do that with men."

"Yet you did seem disappointed," the Spy pressed, his curiosity piqued by Gavin's behavior.

"If I did, it's probably just 'cause…Well, don't get thought of like that a lot." The Sniper kicked at the rocks at his feet again, and suddenly the Spy understood.

Gavin's views of romance would have come from his parents, his abusive, dysfunctional family. He remembered what the Sniper had said after punching him the day before—"Piss, I'm just like him…"—and realized that Gavin must have stayed away from relationships, running from the world in a battered camper van, because he didn't want to end up hurting someone he cared about the way his father did. TF Industries' rules against romance and friendship would have seemed the perfect place for him to hide, but he hadn't counted on working in close quarters with other men, and he hadn't counted on the possibility that he might need someone. The Spy could relate. He had forgotten that he might need someone, too. He looked at the awkward Sniper leaning against the beaten-up vehicle, his smirk softened into a genuine smile, and against all his better judgment, he said: "Alright, Gavin. Let's give your little theory a try. Let me in, and perhaps we can salvage something of myself."

He had tried to be objective, inhuman, cool, and shrewd, but the Sniper was acting curiously, and his offer was tempting. Was there really a place in this lifestyle for Renaud Corbet? Could he be himself in that ridiculous van with that ridiculous man? Would it make being the Spy on the job easier, or harder? And why had Gavin seemed so let down?

There was only one way to find out.

So the Spy stepped into the van and slipped into the back of his own mind, willing Renaud Corbet to come to the front and take the reins once again.