The chapter title is a lie. It's pool, not snooker. In my defence I didn't know that until I double-checked a couple of terms. I kept the title though because I appreciate a little bit of sibilance and it will match the next chapter's better.

Also, this chapter ended up only covering half of what I planned for it. The rest will follow shortly, then there will be a longer wait for the next one while I write another chapter for my Alex Rider fic. Sorry about that!

The Sniper woke up at eight, still not used to going to bed in the early hours of the morning and getting up late. The rest of the team should all be asleep, used to the strange sleeping patterns. Though the Heavy was new too, he seemed to have had no problem adjusting. That could be said all round really, in stark contrast to the Sniper. He still felt out of place, both with his team and the work he was required to do. But it was Saturday, and early. He wouldn't have to worry about either for a while.

Though there was a cramped little bathroom of sorts in his van, the facilities in the base were much better. Towel, clothes and toiletries bag tucked under his arm, the Sniper padded down the empty corridors, enjoying the rare peace. He also very much enjoyed the shower. He'd been expecting an open tiled room full of battered old shower heads that spluttered out lukewarm water if you were lucky. That's what he'd became used to over the last three years or so.

Instead there were five separate little cubicles, each one with a dry area where you could leave your clothes, and a shower behind a heavy plastic curtain that stopped the water from escaping out. The floor was often a little damp and muddy (and bloody) after a match, but there was a bench across one side to keep your clothes out of the way. The Sniper presumed that he had the secrecy of the Spy class to thank for the individual units. Apparently the mask was not only part of the uniform but something they were expected to wear whenever anybody else was around. Since they couldn't be expected to shower in the masks too, there had to be separate cubicles. The marksman didn't know if his theory was an accurate one or not, but regardless of the reason behind it, he was glad not to be sharing communal showers any more. He'd had more than enough of those awful things.

The Sniper knew exactly who to thank for the powerful jet of hot water pouring over him as he lathered up his hair. The Engineer had explained earlier that week that he maintained all the plumbing and electrical elements of their base himself as he didn't trust anybody else to do it. With the amount of changes and improvements he'd made, the Sniper doubted anybody else trying to fix things would have a clue what to do. He'd almost made a joke about how difficult the high ceilings and shower heads must make the job for the short Texan, but had bitten the words back at the last minute. The sharpshooter really wasn't sure where he stood with the Engineer yet and suspected that teasing the man about his height was something few people could get away with.

After showering and changing into clean clothes, the Sniper went back to dump the rest of the stuff back into his camper van. He'd been offered a room in the base but turned it down. Now that he was finally reunited with his old home, he felt no inclination towards sleeping inside.

Once inside he brewed himself his first cup of coffee of the day. The Sniper never allowed himself to have it before he was washed and changed, telling himself that if he was able to manage that then he mustn't be completely reliant on the stuff. Plus, it was a great motivator for getting his ass out of bed and on with the day. However, he'd definitely be heading straight back into the base for some breakfast once he'd finished the coffee. He had basic cooking facilities in his van but no food at all. There'd been no chance to stock up before he ended up at the base, and he wasn't allowed to leave the site for the first three months, according to the contract. Really, he was on some kind of trial period right now, and with all the difficulties he'd been having with the Spy, he wasn't sure how well he was doing. If he behaved himself for the three months and did a good enough job, then the ten year contract would officially start. If he didn't... Well, he wasn't sure what would happen to him. Nothing good.

Even if the Sniper had been allowed off the base and reached the nearest town (he had no idea what the place was called, only that the team referred to it as 'Town' with a capital t and that the next closest one was miles and miles away), he didn't have any money to spend. Well, he did. Just a little bit; fifty dollars he'd safely hidden away in his van for emergencies, but breakfast cereal and toast were not emergencies. Besides, the marksman already had plans for that money, once he was finally allowed out to spend it.

The Sniper mourned the loss of his bank account and everything in it. It wasn't a huge sum in the grand scheme of things, but still, it had been his entire life savings. He had no idea what had happened to that money. Where did it go when you died without a will? To his next of kin, the Sniper guessed. He hoped his parents appreciated the extra cash.

Really, he was still mourning his own death in a way. Well at least, the end of his old life. It had been a very final one. A grave with his name on it. An article in the newspaper. A funeral. He couldn't think of anyone who would have turned up for that though.

Once (well, if) he made it through the trial period and RED started paying him, then he could buy his own food. The money really wasn't much, not enough to actually live on by itself, but the Sniper guessed he just had to be glad they were intending to give him anything at all. They certainly didn't have to. After all, who could a dead man go to to complain about his rights?

He was on to his fourth slice of toast before one of his team mates appeared. It was the Spy, looking as wide awake and immaculately dressed as usual. He gave the Sniper a nod in greeting and headed straight for the coffee machine.

'Want one?'

'Nah, thanks. Not keen on the brand.' The Sniper was a creature of habit and preferred to stick to the same type of coffee permanently. He was always afraid that they might one day decide to discontinue it, so he'd made a habit in the past of bulk-buying it just in case. That meant he had plenty of it still; certainly enough to last him until he could go out and buy some more.

'You weren't at dinner last night.'

'Didn't fancy it.' He'd nicked a couple of apples from the fruit bowl earlier that day and had made do with those.

'I hope you'll be around tonight, it's my turn to cook.'

The Sniper thought of having to face the Heavy and Medic again after they'd seen him get humiliated by the Spy, and of having to put up with the Scout's animosity. It didn't sound appealing. The Spy had turned to look straight at him though, and the sharpshooter couldn't think of a decent excuse to give so he just said, 'Sure. What time do you lot eat on the weekends?'

'Nine-ish usually. It might be a little later than usual tonight though. I can send Scout round to knock on your door.'

'Nah, that's all right. I'll wander back in later, no need to bother the kid.' He hadn't been alone with the Scout since the young man had found him after that one match where he'd been scarred. Since then he seemed to have gained a real dislike for the Sniper, so he didn't fancy spending more time with the Scout than was strictly necessary.

The Sniper had all day to kill and not much to do with it. He spent his time just getting on with simple little things. Laundry, weapon maintenance, oiling the hinges on his camper doors, getting rid of the leaves and dirt that had accumulated where its roof dipped down slightly in the middle. Just stuff that needed doing and kept him busy. Anything really to keep himself from dwelling on where his life had ended up. Self-pity wouldn't get him anywhere. The Sniper didn't merit anybody's pity anyway, not even his own. He was a murderer after all, wasn't he? He deserved every god damn shitty thing that happened to him.

Maybe even the BLU Spy.

He ended up heading back into the base at eight. The Sniper generally wasn't one for seeking out company, but he'd been found himself far too tied up in his own maudlin thoughts despite his best efforts. He needed to find a better distraction. The Marksman found himself gravitating towards the rec room, partly because he could hear voices coming from in there, but mostly because of a familiar, irregular clunking noise. Peering around the door frame he spotted the Soldier and Demoman playing a game of pool in the corner. The Demoman was leaning on his cue stick, looking around in a bored manner while he waited for the Soldier to decide which ball to aim for next. His wandering gaze alighted on the Sniper and he waved to him.

'Come in, Sniper, we don't bite! Wanna play?'

Embarrassed at being caught snooping around the corner, the marksman nodded mutely and went to join them.

'You can be on my team. Scout's on Soldier's He didn't think being on a one-eyed man's side was a good idea, but I'm gonna show him!'

Oh. The Scout.

As if summoned by his name, the runner walked back into the rec room from the kitchen. 'Hey, guys, I have no idea what Spy's making but he's actually taken his gloves off for it!'

He caught sight of Sniper and his face fell. 'Oh, you.'

Confusion flitted across the Demoman's face as the Scout's cold greeting.

'He's gonna be joining us, you got a problem with that, kid?'

'No,' the younger man said, then added in a mutter, 'as long as he's not on my side.'

The oblivious Solder broke the tension by finally taking a shot. He hit the cue ball so hard it sent one of the others flying off the table. It was an impressive feat, and one that must have been achieved before, if the dents in the walls were anything to go by.

As Scout went ferreting under a nearby couch in search of the missing ball, the demolitions expert handed a spare cue and some chalk over the the Australian.

'You any good at this game, Sniper?' he asked.

'Not bad,' the sharpshooter replied with a casual shrug. 'Bit rusty though.'

The Scout returned with the ball and placed it down roughly where it had been before it'd made its brief attempt at flight. He glanced up in the Sniper's direction and said under his breath, 'so they don't let yah play pool on the inside? Too scared someone's gonna start bashing in heads with billiard balls?'

The marksman pretended not to hear, deciding to concentrate on watching the Demoman take his shot instead. It wasn't a bad one, it only just missed going in but it caught the Scout's attention.

'Ha! Nowhere near! I'll show you how a man with two eyes does it!'

Which turned out to be not all that well at all. The Scout not only failed to pocket anything, but he missed the ball he was aiming for entirely.

'Foul,' the Sniper muttered. Ignoring the runner's scowl he stepped up to the table and carefully took aim. Pool was a lot like sniping in that it took careful aim and precision, though there was usually a lot less homicide involved. The Australian would be first to admit he wasn't good at much, but pool and snooker were one of those rare things he was. The Sniper allowed himself a small, rare smile as the ball he he'd been aiming for glided straight into the opposite pocket.

'Ah, nice one,' the Demoman said from behind him.

The Sniper walked around the table, looking for his next shot. The last one really hadn't been as good as it had looked; he'd almost snookered himself. It was going to be tricky, but if he bounced the white off the side just like- just like that. A second ball slide into a pocket, the Sniper relishing the dull clunk and whirr as it rolled down inside the table to join the other potted balls.

He was just setting up a third shot when the Scout spoke up, 'Hey! You've already had two goes!'

'Yeah, but he sunk one each time. Means he gets to go again.' the Demoman informed him. The Sniper nodded his agreement and went back to trying to figure out his next move. There was another of their balls almost perfectly lined up with the pocket diagonally across, but the table was old and battered and there was a large gauge out of the cloth right in his path. He ended up aiming for a different ball instead that would be harder to get in but didn't have any extra obstacles in the way. Unfortunately he didn't quite hit it hard enough, leading to the ball rolling to a stop an inch or so away from the pocket.

'I'll get that one' the Demoman said cheerfully as they watched the Soldier painstakingly line up a shot that went fantastically wrong.

They ended up winning that game, and the one after that. Scout was just trying to get the Sniper to agree to a one-on-one match (as he blamed the Soldier for their two loses, something the Soldier wasn't happy about) when the Spy opened the door and called to them that dinner was ready.

The Scout immediately tossed his cue aside with a cry of, 'finally!' and dashed out of the room. The other three approached the door to the kitchen at a more sensible pace. Before they could reach it, the Scouts loud voice echoes out of the room.

'What the fuck is this?'

Oh the mystery! Oh the suspense! What culinary horror could the Spy have cooked up for them? Or is the Scout just overreacting? (Yes, Scout's just overreacting.)

On an unrelated note, I'm thinking of changing the name of the fic. Though the story was influenced by the 'Villainous Crush' subcategory of the Foe Yay trope I think its gained enough character by this point to deserve its own name.

I haven't decided what it's going to be yet. 'Pressure Point(s)' would be very relevant to the plot later on and to over-arching themes in the story. But something like, 'You Bend Till You Break' would also work for the over all plot and sounds a little more suitably ominous. I'm definitely open to suggestions on this one, if anybody has any.

I'll also be updating the fic description when I've changed the name as the current one only really covers the initial set-up of the story and not the direction of the plot so much.