Demo wasn't his last choice for a partner—Sniper, Scout, Pyro, and Soldier were of course all out of the question, Engineer was too fretful over his etiquette, Medic wasn't fretful enough—but nor was he the Spy's first choice. No Spy's first choice had been Heavy: a perfect compliment to all Spy's weaknesses, dependable, and devoid of annoying habits. Heavy was both physically intimidating and unlikely to cause trouble, he was quiet when he needed to be, and had the ability to feign not understanding English, opening up a whole host of opportunities when going this deep undercover. People often let things slip if they thought present company was beneath their worry.

However, it had seemed Heavy was not in the market for this particular excursion. He had wanted to go home this furlough, and so when Miss Pauling had strongly suggested he accompany Spy on this venture at his teammate's request, he had declined. Before that very moment, Spy hadn't realized it was possible to refuse a direct mission statement from BLU Command, but apparently it was feasible if one said no firmly enough and was also the Heavy Weapons Guy.

So, Spy was left with his number two, which was starting to show the gap between silver and gold since the Demoman had decided to pout about it.

"Get dressed," Spy said, throwing Demo's suit at him. Usually he'd never be so callous with such fine eveningwear, but the Demoman's dedication to his sullen child bit had already worn his patience. "We'll be missed down at the party if we don't hurry.

Demo peeled the fabric suit protector off his face. "What happened to fashionably late?"

"This is fashionably late," Spy said, adjusting his tie in the closet mirror. "Any longer and we'll just be late."

Demo grumbled quietly to himself. He'd been doing that ever since they'd gotten off the plane, and Spy was starting to lament ever rating him above Medic. In all their time working together Spy had never thought of Demo as a pain (though that may be because his years at BLU had eroded his standards of what he was willing to put up with), but something about this trip to Cancun had turned the mercenary from a reasonable if (inebriated) man into a downright menace.

"They had a piano down in the lobby," Demo mentioned offhand as he futzed with his own tie.

"Yes? And?"

"And it was terrible." The scrap of fabric (the $3,000 scrap of fabric that Demo was just letting flop all over the place) finally fell into place. "Poor kid, obviously didn't know what she was doing."

"One of our benefactor's relations, most likely," Spy replied dismissively. "Are we really wasting time discussing the entertainment? If we want to catch Arnett before he makes his speech, we need to go. Now. I do not know what has gotten into you, but if I wanted a child as my backup for this mission I would have brought Scout."

Demo shot him a look that might have withered a lesser man. "You're a real prick, you know."

"And you are descended from three separate lines of Scottish royalty. Act like it."

Great, now he was scowling. Exactly what Spy needed.

Spy paid it no mind, and put a hand on the suite door. "I am heading to the elevator. If you have not joined me in ninety seconds, I am leaving without you." With that, had turned the knob, and stepped out into the hallway.

"There," Spy said discreetly but clearly, as avoiding lip readers was a delicate art he had been training his whole life for, and countered by barely moving his jaw at all. "Sabine Arnett, owner of this fine establishment, richest man in Quintana Roo, and our target for the night. He's hosting this gala for the next three days in honor of his daughter's quinceañera, and we have exactly that time to find when and where his smuggled shipment of Australium is headed."

"What?" Demo huffed quietly into Spy's ear. "I cannae understand a word you're saying when you mumble like that."

Spy sighed. "Never mind. Just follow my lead."

Arnett was greeting every guest with the upmost grace and charm, switching seamlessly between Spanish and English with an ease that made even Spy envious, his callers hanging on his every word. As the pair of undercover mercenaries approached, Spy watched Demo swipe a champagne glass off the tray of a passing waiter and down the thing in one gulp. Spy rolled his eyes.

"Ah!" Arnett greeted with a broad smile, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes betraying not only his age but that he was in surprisingly good health for it. "The D'Villes I must presume. So wonderful of you to make it."

Spy took the man's hand (firm, gloved, good strength most likely from something besides a smuggler's standard piece. A propensity for knives, perhaps?) and returned the shake. "It was our pleasure, Monsieur Arnett. Marcel D'Ville, absolutely delighted by your gorgeous hotel."

"You are too kind." Arnett took one of those impressively strong hands and placed it over his heart. "I hope all the accommodations were to your satisfaction, sir…?"

This last he addressed to Demo, who swallowed visibly both at the question and that he was the target of it. By god, was the man sweating? Spy had seen the Demoman run full tilt at a level three sentry but now was when he decided to fall apart?

"Er…Finn," Demo coughed out. "And everything's been lovely."

Spy watched Arnett's face, looking for any chance his fool coworker had blown their cover, but their host was as impeccable as ever. He applied a friendly clap to Demo's back and said, "wonderful! Though do have a few refreshments my friend. You look a bit unwell."

Deciding it was time to come to the Demoman's rescue, Spy slid up and wrapped an arm around his waist. "Please forgive my husband, he doesn't do well on long plane rides. I'm sure a day more in your exquisite lodgings will set him right again."

Demo, who had been taking a swig of his champagne glass, promptly choked so hard it came out his nose.

"Er…sorry…" he said as Arnett raised an eyebrow at him. He offered up the glass and said, "strong stuff…?"

Thankfully, they were saved anyone else being added to the bailout chain by the chime of a giant clock. Who even installed those in ballrooms anymore?

"Ah, well, if you'll both excuse me," Arnett said with a polite bow. "Finn, Marcel, enjoy the party."

"Of course. Merci." With the hand that wasn't still holding onto the Demoman, Spy gave a small wave.

Their target departed, moving through the crowd and ascending a small stage where he rose to greet his guests. As soon as he began his speech, Demo rounded on Spy.

"Husband?" he snapped. "What exactly is that about?"

"Keep your voice down!" It was unlikely they would be heard over the polite clapping and Arnett's generous welcoming of his 'friends' (smugglers and weapons dealers all) but it was still an annoyance. "Exactly as I said, for tonight at the very least. We are the D'Villes, prolific entrepreneurs known for our generosity when it comes to supporting our family friends, even the less legal ones. What did you think those rings were for?" Spy asked, gesturing at the band on the Demoman's hand.

"You said they were for our cover."

"Yes. Our cover as being married."

"I dinnae think you meant to each other."

"Our suite only had one bed, Demo," Spy said drily. That got an awkward silence out of Demo, who likely he hadn't even noticed with how much he'd been brooding. "And keep your voice down. It wouldn't do to have people think we're having marital troubles, would it, Finn?"

"Oh don't get on me for that," Demo grumbled. "I panicked. You didn't tell me we'd have to come up with fake names."

"We aren't. Marcel is my name."

"Oh," Demo blinked. "Oh." The two of them watched the remainder of Arnett's speech for its last few minutes, not looking at each other, at least until Demo concluded with a, "Marcel?"

Spy rubbed the bridge of his nose. "It is the name I use most commonly when 'the Spy' will not do. If you are looking for birth name, you will be sorely disappointed." A wrinkle of applause swept through the crowd, signaling the end of the speech. Spy brought his hand to the small of Demo's back. "Come. Let's see if we can make a distraction."

There wasn't so much a line to get Arnett as a gaggle, various couples and socialites all bobbing around the subject of interest and settling for talking to each other instead. With some careful maneuvering, and a few none-to-subtle elbows, Spy managed to get them both to the inner circle.

"My dear niece Lydia," Arnett was busy introducing a wilting pre-teen to the assembly. "Her tutor is simply the finest, wouldn't you agree?"

The lemmings all chattered in agreement.

"That was a Fazioli Brunei she was playing, wasn't it?" Spy chimed in easily. "A beautiful instrument, how ever did you acquire one?"

Arnett puffed up immediately, and the child he had been presenting took the opportunity to slip out from under his arm. The crowd, who at an individual level all feigned interest about imported pianos, hid their distaste at his interruption.

"Ah, a man of the arts I see!" Arnett gushed. "You must play then, yes?"

"Me? Only a little. My husband however," Spy grabbed a hold of Demo, who had already acquired his third champagne glass, and now looked around in surprise at being dragged into the limelight, "is an amazing pianist. Played at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall just this summer."

"Oh, I er…" Demo's eye flicked around rapidly, eventually landing on Spy in a clear question of what are you doing? "'S nothing really…"

"He's so modest." Spy had a long and lavish education in the art of feigning desire, and knew exactly where to place his hand on Demo's shoulder to show both affection and restraint. Palm curled in just so, indicating to the observer that you want do more but social convention holds you back. "Truly, I wish you all had a chance to hear him.

The peanut gallery was none to happy with Spy upstaging them, but he needed Arnett occupied. Their host beamed, "well then! You should come try out the Brunei Mr. D'Ville, there can never be enough entertainment for the night, yes?"

Demo looked like he wanted to commit murder through eye contact alone. After seeing what the man's missing eye was capable of, Spy thought that was less out of the realm of possibility than usual, and made sure to take his leave quickly as the Demoman was swept up in the crowd of 'eager' spectators. Even if he was being monstrously difficult, Spy hoped he could trust his accomplice to keep an eye on Arnett for a minute or two.

The locks on the first floor of the venue were laughably easy to pick. After a few rooms of shuffling through cruise marketing and laundry expenses, Spy took that as a sign. He moved to the second, then the third. When he finally found a bolt that that took him more than five minutes to pick, he decided he was getting somewhere.

"Magnifique," Spy remarked as he cracked open the desk and the bountiful contents spilled out before him.

Here were much juicier transactions, some that had already been crafted tonight in still drying ink. No doubt Arnett was taking every chance to court business opportunities out of his guests, as one didn't gather so many criminals in once place for the hell of it. Quietly, as he scanned over rolls of documents with naught but his pen light, he wondered if he and Demo would be invited behind one of these closed doors before the party was through. An amusing thought to say the least.

There! That sum matched too perfectly the expected amount of Australium.

Less perfect was the lack of details. Tuesday morning it seemed, an exact time for the exchange but…that was all. When it was happening was useless without a location, and if he took too long to find it, there was a chance Pauling might not be able to intercept the delivery in time. Maddening. Didn't people know how to keep caches full of important information anymore?

Spy's temper was further heightened by the grand bell chiming the hour. He would have to get back now, abandoning his search until tomorrow at the very earliest. He sighed, tucking the accounts back in place, then placing the discreet piece of tape back over the drawer. Hopefully no one had missed him.

A great crowd had gathered when he made his way down to the ballroom. Always his first instinct, he prepared for some sort of change in plans, some sort of great disaster, but as he approached the sound of music soothed his nerves. Demo was playing. Demo was playing fantastically, and as Spy approached it seemed like the man was hardly there at all, his eye closed as his fingers moved across the keys, being taken somewhere the rest of them could only catch the faintest glimpse of.

Spy leaned against a pillar and watched.

Of course he had known Demo was good, but between the rather energy intensive events under which he'd last gotten a chance to hear him, just how good had slipped his mind. As he stood there, shoulder pressed against the Corinthian (a Corinthian? Honestly? The gaudiness of this place was really starting to wear) he felt himself being…well, swept up. Just watching the way Demo's hands moved, the peaceful expression that sent and odd feeling up the back of Spy's throat, as though he hadn't swallowed in some time. When the music finally stopped, Demo looked just as startled as Spy felt, as though surprised to find himself suddenly surrounded by people giving him a warm round of applause.

Hastily, Spy inserted himself back at the front of the crowd, doing his best impression of a proud and adoring lover as he took Demo's arm. "Wonderful mon chéri, absolutely wonderful."

But, to Spy's confusion, Demo's face only hardened as Arnett approached them once more. He had planned to dole out a genuine congratulations for keeping both Arnett and a good chunk of the crowd occupied for so long, but as soon as the appropriate pleasantries were exchanged and it was clear they were done, Demo charged right off, mumbling about turning in for the night.

"You take the bed. I know you'll get all prissy about your hair or your thousand thread count silk pajamas or whatever otherwise. I can do without your bitching." As he said it, Demo stalked over to the immaculate chair in the corner of their room and threw off his jacket.

Spy undressed in silence. He hadn't gotten a word in as they made it up to their room, and now was no different; he felt oddly at a loss as he watched his coworker shuffle about in his suitcase.

"We made progress tonight," Spy reported with his back turned, hanging his suit back in the closet.

All Demo offered was a grunt. "Well great. Sooner we get out of here the better."

"Ah, no actually. Even if we find our information, we do have to stay here all three nights in order to maintain our cover."

"…Wonderful. Just wonderful." Demo spared Spy no more words as he curled into the armchair and faced the wall.

Likewise, Spy dressed down to his sleeping clothes. Despite Demo's commentary he didn't actually have any pajamas that would make sleeping in an unfamiliar bed any more bearable. (He did, however, have a very nice silk robe at his rarely used apartment in Marseille, but it was far too fine to risk on a job like this.) Instead, he turned off the bedside lamp and let the two of them fall into silence.

Not that either of them were fooling the other. Demo's breathing was too irregular to be that of a man at rest, and Spy didn't feel like pretending just to avoid a conversation. He asked, eventually, "might I ask what has you so irate about our job here?"

"What do you care?" Demo sniped back.

"I care-" Spy cut himself off. Because it is affecting our mission didn't seem right for the moment, nor even particularly true, so he said, "because it is obviously affecting you."

"Yeah yeah, acting like a child. Heard you the first time. Shove it down yer windsack, Spy."

"…I apologize for my rather…malign…comments earlier. It is only because…" Spy stared forward in the dark, barely making out the still life of some mice on the wall in front of him, a dreadful painting that proved that the designer had no idea what to do with all their wealth. "Usually I expect much more from you. To have you nearly bit our chauffer's head off was a shock."

There was a brief intake from the other side of the room.

"I just hate this," Demo said. "All of this. The showboating, the bragging, everyone got something to prove. But ane good things to prove like how fast you can make a IED with just grain dust and chicken wire, but proving stuff that doesn't matter. How many suits o' armor you got, how many duchesses your great-great-grandfather shagged.

"But Mum, she bought into that stuff like crazy. Dragged me along to all o' those, stuffing me into little outfits…I never got why. It's not like we were ever going impress any o' those fancy distant relations, they weren't going to throw pity money at us or nothing. They hated her, hated me too."

"…It sounds like she was just looking for acceptance," Spy offered gently. It was a story he felt he had heard a dozen times before.

Demo snorted. "She was the only one then. Da didn't care, he picked her over his family right from the get-go, dinnae mind one bit if they disapproved. And me? I just wanted out you know, get it over with, all the preening, the you'll never hear what Tavish did bollox." His frustration was obviously mounting, his near speaking volume upsettingly loud in the still suite. "It was all so pointless, the playdates with some snob cousin twice removed, the fancy food, the stupid fucking piano lessons where I'd just to sit and practice and my fingers would get all chapped 'n bloody but I'd just have to keep going-"

The rant sputtered to a halt. There was the quick sound of fabric rustling, the distinctive swish of someone pulling a blanket tighter around himself. Spy waited, but there was only ashamed silence, as though Demo were afraid he'd said too much.

After awhile, Spy revolted against the presses of dead air bearing down on him. He said softly, "I am sorry. Again. I…would not have asked you here had I know you felt so strongly about these sorts of events."

"Mm. Ain't that your job to know everything about us?" There was grunt and a flop against one of the armrests. "Ach, nevermind, I didn't mean that. You digging around in my life is the last thing I want."

"You know, I do like to hear people talk about themselves for reasons outside the professional," Spy said gently, trying to bring the barest hint of levity back into the conversation. "Especially people I consider friends."

"…You're ah…you're not going to go writing all this down in one of those files o' yours, are you?"

The genuine concern, the distress Demo had barely been keeping under the surface through this whole venture was now painfully apparent in his voice, and Spy felt a stab of guilt for ignoring it before.

"Of course not," he told the tacky mouse painting. "On my honor."

There was what might have been a cynical laugh, but Demo let it slide. "Thanks Spy."

"Do not mention it."

"You want crepes or something?" Demo asked, nose pressed into the room service menu. "They got one called er…pek…pek nga. Looks amazing."

Threading the last button in his day clothes, Spy raised an eyebrow. "Crepes?"

Not looking up, Demo hummed, "for breakfast. Cause you're, y'know-" He waved a hand in Spy's general direction. "French."

"How thoughtful of you," Spy rolled his eyes. "However, I will reserve myself to the continental. I have much to get done before the festivities tonight."

"Just you?" That finally got the Demoman to look at him. "Not us?"

"Only until the party." Spy hated the note of defensiveness that crept into his voice, but Demo was giving him that sad look again. Since when was he the sort of man manipulated by sad looks? "Think of this of a vacation: head down to the beach. Enjoy yourself."

Still with the sad eyes. Eye. Whatever. They spent to rest of the morning in silence, and room service arrived just as Spy was leaving.

"Demoman, I really can't be staying," he warned, eyeing the two mimosas that had come with the pile of crepes. "I appreciate the gesture but-"

As he spoke, Demo walked over, scooped up both glasses for himself, and raised an eyebrow at Spy.

"…Right. I'm off then." As he closed the door, he could still hear Demo's amused snort through the carved mahogany.

Another fruitless day. The sun was already setting by the time he'd made it to the beach, so much time wasted with areas far more heavily guarded than he had expected. Now he only had twenty-fours to find the pick-up location, and it was looking increasingly unlikely that it was within BLU's geographic reach. The night welcomed him with open arms, a comfortably warm breeze sweeping through the open air plaza built against the beach's boarder, bonfires crackling cheerfully, yet it was not enough to sooth his irritation. The only thing that could lighten Spy's mood was a job well done, and that was in short supply.

In fact, his mood was even able to take a sharp downturn, such was his luck. Swaggering slightly with the day's drink or four, Demo walked up to the pavilion as the band began, looking happier than Spy'd seen him in days. In one hand was a margarita glass as big as Spy's head—toxic green and rimmed with rock sugar—and in the other was a woman's shoulder. She was blonde and equally intoxicated, swaying close against her companion, enough to bump into his chest. He leaned down and said something into her ear. She laughed.

Spy hardly remembered storming over to them, only that one minute he was standing at the hotel's doors and the next he had sand on his shoes, appearing in front of the pair with some sort of acrid jibe on his lips.

Before he could get it out fully, Demo greeted him. "Ah, there he is! Maria, this is my husband, Marcel D'Ville."

Spy stiffened. The woman, Maria apparently, also had one of those monstrosities of a beverage, and thus had to slip out the arm that had wound itself around Demo's waist in order to offer him a hand. Spy took it, gently, trying to remember the many lessons in chivalry that all seemed to have suddenly fled his mind.

"Finn has be been telling me all about you," Maria said in Spanish. "Wonderful to meet you, Marcel. Your husband is an absolute delight."

"He is, isn't he?" Spy replied in kind, only barely restraining himself from sarcasm. A delight and a gossip if Maria knew his linguistic skills already.

"He is, he is," she said, switching to English. She leaned in close, enough that he could see the sunburn on her brown nose in the citrus light of the tiki torches, her grin devilish and hungry. "You keep a close eye on him. Man like that, someone will steal him right out from under you."

"It's a constant worry, mademoiselle." The banter was returned, easy and on script, but Spy felt sawdust in his mouth, none of the enjoyment he usually found in playing his role.

She laughed uproariously, leaning back and nearly spilling her drink.

"Watch it lass," Demo warned her with a grin, gently guiding her arm back to safety. "Why don't you go on to the fire? Marcel 'n I are going to chat for a bit."

"Yes yes, have fun gentlemen!" she called, already making her way through the trenches of pure white sand. "Have something to drink!"

Spy waited until she was well beyond earshot, helped by the fact that Demo had begun an ambling walk further out onto the beach. When they were halfway between the crash of the waves and the mummer of the party, Spy sighed, "dare I ask what that was about?"

"Talking to a lovely woman at a nice party? Can't imagine." Demo smirked in a way that meant he definitely knew what he was up to.

"Nice party?" Spy scoffed. "Yesterday you couldn't stand it here."

"Ah, that was before we were out at the beach laddie," Demo declared. "All anyone wants to do is play Caribbean music 'n get blootered." He held up his drink for emphasis. "Can actually cut loose a bit, have some real fun."

"Is that why your shoes have disappeared." Spy gestured to where the expensive dark brown leather used to be, now only succeeded by Demo's bare toes burying themselves in the sand.

Their owner wiggled them in response. "Don't worry 'bout them. BLU's footing the bill, aren't they?" He chuckled contentedly to himself in a blanket of warm inebriation. "Heh. Footing."

Spy sighed. Trying to make it as little of an accusation as possible, he told Demo, "I trust you not to blow our cover."

"Of course you do!" Demo grinned. "I'm very trustworthy."

"You're very drunk."

"That too," Demo said. "Not worried about people gossiping just because I'm talking to someone, are you? Should I be paying my bonnie husband more attention?" As he asked, he cheekily threw an arm around Spy's shoulder.

Spy sniffed. "I assure you, you needn't worry about me getting jealous."

"You said it mate, not me."

"Even so," he continued, "perhaps it would be best not to hang around the sort of woman who makes a point to flirt with married men. Especially gay married men."

"Hey now," Demo cut in. "Maybe Finn's bisexual. A bisexual windsurfer with three dogs. Who's double jointed, always wanted to learn how to play the hurdy-gurdy, and has a sister who's just gotten engaged to nipple surgeon."

Spy looked at him as best he could with the arm still around his shoulders. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

The smile Demo gave him told him all he needed to know. It took up nearly his whole face, lighting up his single brown eye with a keynote of delight, crinkling at the corner. The sky was a deep purple wash behind him, the sea the color of wine as they stood on beach and that warm breeze reached for them again, tracing wrinkles in Spy's otherwise well-pressed shirt. It occurred to him that he should say something. His mouth was partway open but nothing came to mind, he just continued to look at his partner as the wind made waves in his half-open button-down.

"Well," Spy said. He grasped for more, but his mouth was dry even in the sea-sprayed air. "Well," he tried again. "We should be heading back, there may still be something we can glean from our guests."

"What's the hurry Spy?" Demo asked, still smug, still glowing. "It's like you're not even having a good time. Slow down, have a nice chat with a good-looking girl. If you do, y'might learn something."

Spy paused. "What exactly does that mean."

"It means, that nice lady wasn't just fun to talk to. That was Maria Castillo."

"…Arnett's sister," Spy said, realization coming to him like a speedboat crashing into a dolphin. He hadn't even recognized her: she certainly hadn't been blonde in her file.

"Sister and right hand," Demo added.

"How did you figure that out? I didn't brief you on her. You were barely even listening when I briefed you on Arnett."

Demo shrugged. "Didn't have to. She told me all on her own, after I'd struck up a conversation with her. She also has a bit of a problem with loose lips after downing a Mister Luchador's Hurl and Swirler."

"A what?"

Demo pointed at his drink.

"Ah." Spy considered him for a moment. "…You found something."

If Demoman looked any smugger, all the hot air in his head would lift him right off the ground and throw him into the stratosphere. "That I did."

Demo quickly recounted his conversation with Maria, where he'd scraped up every detail he could without making it obvious he was fishing. Leaving tonight she had said, to make it to Purisima before "important business" tomorrow, and she was just so sad about having to miss the last day of her niece's quinceañera, but Sabine had absolutely insisted.

"Are you sure about the timing of this?" Spy pressed. "The deal isn't going down until Tuesday, why would she need to leave so soon?"

"Ah, that's when the shipment's getting here," Demo pointed out.

"…But it needs to leave tomorrow morning," Spy finished. Of course, he'd been focusing all on the wrong end of things. "Purisima is a small border town, there can't be many places where a deal this large could go unnoticed. I can notify Pauling right away." He took a step away, back inland, back toward the hotel, but stopped. Turned to the Demoman. "Well done, DeGroot. This was excellent work."

"Ach," Demo shrugged, smile playing at his lips. "Figured you brought me along for some reason."

Spy returned it. "That I did."

"-That narrows to one highly probable location which I recommend you check out personally, and two less probable locations that you may want watched by someone you trust," Spy finished into the mobile phone. He wasn't blithe enough to trust his room's line wasn't tapped, but thankfully Pauling had enough foresight to provide him with serviceable communications.

"Thanks Spy, this is great info," Pauling said genuinely, her voice still tinged with that barely contained exhaustion. Pauling was the sort of women was never quite cheerful, instead having only lessening degrees of put-upon. "Should be able to get down there tonight."

"Wonderful. Is there any more assistance I can provide?"

"No, no I got it from here. Enjoy the rest of your vacation, you earned it."

"…Thank you Pauling," he finished, a bit awkwardly.

Strange instructions when it came to BLU. It was odd to suddenly have nothing to do but relax until the job was finished.

The awkwardness was felt on the other line as well. He waited a half-minute in silence, but when Pauling still hadn't hung up, he asked, "is something the matter?"

"No it's just…" The sound of the phone being adjusted against a shoulder. "You just sound…happy."

"Do I?" Spy didn't quite know what to make of that.

"Yeah just like…lighter or something. I don't know. We're always talking about work, and I never really hear you be…you know, what, never mind I don't know what I'm talking about. Just glad that you're taking a break every now and again."

"You should listen to your own advice, ma copine," he chuckled slightly.

"I take a break, we're all dead. Oh! Speaking of, gotta run! See you when you get back Spy."

"Au revoir," Spy replied, but the line was already dead. He tucked the mobile back into his bag.

An odd conversation. Pauling wasn't wrong per say, he did feel…more at ease than he usually did during a mission, but it still puzzled him how she had picked that up before he had. Spy couldn't get it out of his head as he made his way back to the party, and so it was in a distracted state that he finally met up with Demo again and found himself dragged into conversation.

Maria, with various other guests swarming around like the gnats amidst the open flames, had once again ensnared Spy's companion. Some of the hangers-on Spy recognized from the piano recital, some he did not, but if they were close with Maria then he assumed they were at least tangentially employed by Arnett as opposed to his business relations.

"Do tell us how you met," the question hit Spy in the side of the head, fielded by one of the assembled. "You're a bit of unlikely pair, if you don't mind me saying."

"Ah," he said, unthinking. He hadn't even seen who. Why was he so damn distracted? "Well…"

"We were both visiting stateside, actually," Demo cut in suddenly.

Spy looked up at Demo. At some point during the conversation his arm had found itself around Spy's waist. When had that happened?

When Spy didn't offer any help, Demo went on, "mutual friend o' ours, introduced us while I was…on a business trip, you ken. Only thing was, I'd been transporting a lot o' supplies around that day, back and forth, worn out as the devil's bunny slippers, and by the time we met I was bone tired. Making mistakes."

Spy remembered. It came upon him suddenly, that day he hadn't thought about in years, Pauling showing him the empty warehouses where they'd pick up fighting in a few short weeks. He himself had been jetlagged and fatigued, wanting nothing more than to get these formalities over with and curl up in his hotel room, when out from one of the seemingly endless rooms came a huffing man in a blue uniform.

"Our friend calls me over, exchange names 'n stuff, but I had thought I'd had a few more days to get all my components sorted before folks started showing up. So my bloody hand is sweating, and here's this real gorgeous man in a fancy suit shaking it, and already feel like I'm making a right fool of myself, when suddenly-" Demo made a slow whoosh in his throat, an appropriate hand-motion to accompany it. "Huge explosion back the way I'd came. Hadn't secured one of me crates properly, tipped over and took out the whole north wall. I start panicking, she starts panicking, we're all in a real tizzy over all this property damage-"

"And he turns to me and says, 'I swear this never happens to me'," Spy finished.

On cue, their audience laughed, a perfect punch line to a perfect party story, as recited like they had told the tale a hundred times. But the truth was they hadn't, and Demo blinked perplexedly at Spy, as though surprised he'd chosen to cut in at all.

"I had just come from a very long day myself," Spy went on. "Perhaps it was the exhaustion, but in that moment it was the single funniest thing I ever heard. I couldn't stop laughing for nearly twenty minutes. I'm afraid I was terribly unhelpful as the others tried to sort out the mess."

Satisfied, the question asker—who Spy could now identify as the woman holding a margarita glass with an entire pineapple hanging on the end of it—used it as a chance to launch into her own story about the last time she had been to the States. Gradually, the conversation moved on, and Spy and Demo were allowed to shuffle away to one of the quieter corners of the party.

"I don't remember saying that," Demo admitted privately. "I don't remember most of what I did or said that day but…er…I dunno. I honestly thought you were laughing at me."

Spy paused with his pina colada halfway to his mouth. "Laughing at you?"

Demo shrugged, and Spy swore he had a guilty bite to his lip. "Could've just been how I'd come to remember it over the years. All I know I felt like a right idiot that day, that you thought-" Demo stared down into his own drink. "Never mind."

"…Consider it neverminded," Spy replied. He thought it the kindest thing to say in the situation.

They sipped at their respective beverages, watching the other guests sway about, catching no sight of Arnett despite it all. Eventually it was clear the night's events were winding down, though Spy was sure that most of these people would still be up and partying for another few hours at least. He and Demo blended in with the early departures, and made it back to their room in no time.

"Well," Spy said, tapping the sand out of his shoes. "That was certainly a much better day than the last."

"Mm," Demo replied, which raised alarms in Spy's head. It had been, hadn't it? At least it seemed like Demo had been in a much better mood today.

"Our job is done," Spy added for something to say. "Mostly thanks to you. You've certainly earned the bed this time around."

What Spy assumed was a melancholy mood suddenly morphed into a cough to Demo's fist. "Ach no, you dunnae have to do that."

"You don't want it?" Spy raised an eyebrow. "I assume the reason you declined yesterday was because you didn't want to start an argument."

"No, I…" Demo rubbed his neck. "Alright, maybe yes. But you can still have it. You're still persnickety 'bout these things, I know that."

"I don't mind Demo, truly." When Demo still wouldn't look at him, he said, "if you really must be a martyr about this, the bed is awfully spacious. I'm sure we can both fit comfortably."

Demo's spine straightened as his head snapped to Spy. "I er…you don't have to do that."

"Very well then," Spy shrugged. He crossed over to the armchair in a few strides.

Demo grabbed his arm as he passed. "Ach fine, we'll do it your way. Just don't go about kicking me in the middle of the night."

"Why on Earth would I do that?"

"I saw you last night, remember? I know you're a damn twitchy sleeper."

Spy smiled. His forearm was still pressed into Demo's hand, skin on skin, light warmth bleeding through in their air-conditioned room. "In that case, I will do my best."

Despite what Spy had observed, the bed seemed to shrink as soon as they were both under the covers. The processes of settling down for the night involved a few bumped elbows and knocked knees, and quiet sorrys on Demo's part whenever it happened. You would think they were boxing each other with how apologetic he was being. There was a brief exchange of reproachful eye contact when Spy put his precautionary balisong under his pillow, but nothing was said on the matter, and then all of sudden the pair were motionless in the dark.

Demo had taken the side with the mouse painting. He could have it for all Spy cared.

The minutes ticked by. Spy attempted to lull his brain into to emptiness that would bring about a steady heartbeat, but he kept losing his meditation after only a few minutes of trying, dropping it in the sink and picking it back up again as he tried to resolve what had been playing across his consciousness.

"Demo," he began. The change in breathing to let him know Demo was listening. "When they asked how we met. You remembered right away."

"Aye. Guess it left an impression on me."

Spy opened his mouth, but again, like on the beach, the words would not come. And he had been asked to pay it no mind, so maybe he should do just that.

"I see," he surrendered. "That was all."

"…Alright Spy. Night."

"Marcel."

"Hm?" Demo lifted his shoulder, white sheet coming with, profile adjusting accordingly.

"You are free to call me by my name when not on base."

"Oh. Thanks." Demo rolled back over. "…Night."

Spy found himself pressed against something warm. Still half asleep, his arms snaked forward, seeking out the small bit of comfort and curling his arms around it, thinking contentedly that it was quite nice to hold someone again. The oddness of that thought didn't hit him until a half-hour later, when he woke more fully to find he had wrapped himself around the Demoman's midsection.

He was aware of his predicament just long enough to realize it was an issue, but unfortunately not long enough to extract himself before Demo rolled over and threw an arm over Spy's side.

"Merde," he mouthed silently.

Demo was truly a heavy sleeper not to notice that their faces were practically pressed against each other, warm breath tickling Spy's face. Softly, Demo murmured something in his sleep. Experimentally, Spy wiggled underneath the arm, but Demo took no notice. In fact, his arm constricted even tighter, pulling Spy toward him, causing warmth to prick the Spy's ears.

"M th grassman…" he snuffled into Spy's shoulder.

Quickly, but very, very carefully, Spy began to detach himself, cursing whatever foolish notion had made him propose sharing a bed with a coworker. It was uneasy going, as every casual sniffle from the Demoman caused Spy to seize up, afraid he'd been 'caught', whatever that meant. Despite his reputation, he was not well practiced at slipping out of someone's bed without notice.

Finally, he was able to sit up and scoot a distance away that gave him some plausible deniability. That didn't ease his embarrassment, however. He knew that recent breakups could do that to a man, make one clingy and touch-starved, but he never thought he would fall prey to such things. If he had, he never would have suggested this in the first place.

No matter how nice that warm arm on his back had been.

How utterly embarrassing. He patted himself on the cheeks several times, trying to get a hold of himself. He would just have to wake up a bit more, that would put him back in his right mind.

"Dinnae take you for a brandy-drinker," was the first thing Demo said upon waking.

"Mm. Well I found I needed something strong this morning," Spy said, swirling his glass as he gazed out the window. They were not esteemed enough guests to deserve an oceanside view, but the vista of the city was still enthralling, a budding little tourist town that was already tugging at its lead.

"What's with the mask?"

Spy blinked, and reached an absent hand to find it was indeed hugging his neck. He hadn't worn it all weekend, yet at some point during his morning routine he must have slipped it on. "Force of habit, I suppose." He carefully removed it, and set it on the nightstand.

Demo looked about to say something. His hair was tousled slightly, a curl hanging down over his good eye, and the light Spy didn't block from the window made compliments of Demo's carved features. He blinked against the sun, and then dropped his shoulders, surrendering whatever commentary he'd been about to provide.

Just as well, since there was a knock at the door.

"I took the liberty of ordering us breakfast," Spy explained to Demo's raised eyebrow. He opened the door to the attendant. "Merci."

"Crepes?" Demo asked.

"What can I say? They came highly recommended."

Demo smiled, and stood to help Spy set down the plates.

It was odd, to be so still on a mission. Almost, as Pauling had said, like it was a proper vacation, where there was nothing to do but drink orange juice and sit in a slowly brightening room while the clinking of forks went on.

"So how do you like 'em?" Demo asked as Spy chewed a mouthful of crepes.

He paused. The crepe had a consistency of rubber. "They're horrendous."

Demo laughed uproariously, and Spy thought that, yes, this truly was the better way to spend the morning.

"You simply must come with me the next I return to Marseille," Spy said, gesturing with another lump of the soggy mess on the end of his silverware. "I will introduce you to real French crepes. You'll never be able to stomach this slop again."

"What am I going to do when I go home then?" Demo chuckled. "Never eat another crepe again?"

"Trust me mon ami, it will be worth it."

There was a twinkle in Demo's eye. "Well then, I suppose I have no choice but to take you up on the offer."

What were they doing? Spy wondered. It was something, he was sure, unless he'd completely lost his mind, which considering the men he counted among his friends maybe he had. Still, he found he couldn't complain as he and Demo exchanged more scathing commentary over Arnett's lackluster catering.

"Well, if we got nowhere to be," Demo mused, slipping out one of the little brochures that had been helpfully left on their kitchen counter. "Learn to Walk on Coals, there's something. Useful life skill. Or, hey! Windsurfing! Wasn't I just telling you about the windsurfing?"

Spy, his brandy now finished, sipped at his fresh cup of coffee. "Well it sounds like you'll have your day full, DeGroot."

Demo's smile fell slightly. "Ah. You're heading off again, then?"

Spy hesitated. Now, not only was he a man who could be cowed by sad looks, but apparently just slightly disappointed looks as well. Or maybe, only when they were looks from one particular man.

Spy offered composed nonchalance over his cup. "…I suppose there's no harm in accompany you on your excursions."

Demo beamed. "Great!" He slapped down the brochure on the table between them. "What'd you think about getting the Frolicking Follicle Special?"

"A massage?" Spy wrinkled his brow. "Having a bunch of strangers touching you is your idea of relaxing?"

"They're professionals lad, I'm sure it won't be weird."

It was extremely weird.

Spy kept fidgeting under the masseuse's touch, occasionally slipping into a moment of relaxation before some particular twist would make him think a knife was about to be shoved in his back. Eventually he waved her away, and opted to sit on the table instead.

Demo, on the other hand, had done nothing but indulge, to the point where it seemed like every motion was making him moan in a rather unseemly manner. It had actually been rather distracting, another reason Spy hadn't enjoyed his own. Thankfully he had stopped eventually, though now that Spy was up and looking at him…

"Merde," he shook his head. Demo had fallen asleep, breathing deeply enough to shuffle the hot rocks placed along his spine.

What was even the point if he was jus going to sleep through the whole thing? Still, Spy couldn't bring himself to wake him. He instead breathed in the thick air, looking around the steam that gathered in corners of the room, trying to obtain that reprieve the guidebook had so confidently boasted. Instead, he felt disquiet. There was no one but them in the room and yet Spy still felt a presence about them, the sensation of being watched.

He pursed his lips. In his profession, ignoring such feelings was a fast route to an early grave, but what else was he to do about it? He should really just relax…take in warm air…

Spy sighed. Tying the towel around his waist, he went to go double-check the walls for cameras.

"They should give me discount on the cucumbers," Demo said in the mud bath later, (a luxury which Spy had also declined, instead watching from the lip of the pool. In his opinion, the words "mud" and "bath" shouldn't be anywhere near each other.)

"I'll be sure to ask them to reimburse the peso," Spy hummed.

"Nah, dunnae bother," Demo waved. Unsatisfied with the slice of vegetable that kept sliding down his face, he picked it off his socket and crunched it. "Ah. See, everything's got a use."

"I am lucky to be imparted with such wisdom."

"So. What next?"

They did end up taking those windsurfing lessons, though Demo wound up belly flopping hard many a time over the course of the hour. (My nipples are still there, right? Please tell me they're still there. Ach, if feels like me whole front half got flayed by a sandbelt.) There was time for bowling, a wine tasting, (only one of them was actually interested in the tasting aspect of it), and a return to the ballroom for their social obligations. All the while Spy still felt it: the prickle on the back of his neck, the eyes of ghosts along his profile.

"Have you seen Arnett today?" Spy asked, watching the birthday girl as the last days' festivities unfolded.

"Not a hair," Demo said, downing his scotch. The waiters had stayed close to the Demoman all throughout the afternoon, likely since he kept relieving them of their drinks faster than they could pass them out. They must have looked to him as a beaver sees a rushing stream. "What's even funnier is that this is the first time I've seen his daughter, even though it's supposedly her party."

"Indeed, it is odd." Spy sipped his own drink out of politeness. By chance, he noticed it was Demo's favorite brand. Funny. No wonder he was downing the concoction. "Maybe her father doesn't want to involve her in the family business."

He watched her open a gift. Something gold, flashy. Likely nothing of interest to a sixteen-year-old girl. Their own offering was equally frivolous, but such was their pass for getting through the door. Across the room, Spy watched idly.

"So ends the extended weekend," he mused. "Back to bombs and balisongs tomorrow morning."

"Hm. Yeah."

"Well, it was nice while it lasted. If we phone from the airport, we can see how the bust went."

"…Aye."

"Are you feeling alright?"

Demo had a sheen of sweat coating his brow, reflective in the hot lights as Spy look up at him.

"I er…" Demo's Adam's apple bobbed. "Might need a glass of water."

Spy was about to let him go get one, until he saw his friend stumble as soon as he stopped leaning on the wall. Quickly, Spy darted forward, fast enough to slip Demo's arm over his shoulder and keep him on his feet. Not only was he sweating, his eye was unfocused, looking out like he'd forgotten where he was.

"You must have been putting those away faster than I thought," Spy noted, keeping his voice even, all the while a dark tumult began to expand in his gut.

He tried to squelch it. To keep it from rising to overtake them as they stepped out of the party and into a dim side hall, much like the ones Spy had infiltrated that first night. He was doing an admirable job of keeping it under wraps until-

"Marcel." The hand on his back dug nails into his jacket. "The drinks…"

Panicked calculations flared up again. Poison, his heart thumped. He had antidotes for a few of the most common kind up in his bag, but they needed to get there now if they were to be of any use. Pivoting away from the kitchens, he lurched them both toward the elevators. Demo didn't protest. Almost all of his weight was on Spy now.

Which made the fist that came out of the darkness and into Spy's jaw terribly inconvenient.

The pair went staggering. The only thing that kept Spy from being overpowered was the fact that he managed to drop the man he was carrying instead of going down with him in a tangle of limbs. The Demoman hit the ground hard, but apologies could be made later; now, there were men surrounding him, pressing their advantage as Spy saw his avenues of escape cut off.

His knife flicked out, but it caught nothing but sleeve as his first assailant attempted to follow up the attack. He knew he was backing into a different man as he retreated, but he pretended not to notice, not until the very last second when he swung and dug where he guessed the neck to be.

There was a gargled a scream. Close enough then.

There were still three left, three on one as Demo tried and failed to push himself off the floor and Spy couldn't quiet the cry of poison poison poison still chanting at the back of his mind. Three on one and the hall was so dark yet his attackers eyes had obviously already adjusted-

The figures to his left and right moved as one. He could block the blow to his head but not his gut, and the winded sensation was powerful enough to double him over, his own retaliatory attack as useless as his now reeling lungs. The next blow was a knee against the same place, and then again, and again. He stabbed the offending leg because it was the only thing he could locate.

Someone—he no longer had the capability to discern which limb belonged to whom—kicked him in the side of the head. His wrist made a horrible noise as the blade was removed from his grasp. He might have tried to get one more good stab with it, but at that moment he was picked up by the neck and slammed back down. Everything went dark.

His guts felt like they'd been through a meat grinder.

The pulling at his chest let him know he was restrained, and the throbbing all the way up his arm let him know his wrist was broken, but he didn't open his eyes to confirm. Instead he began to catalogue, to catch his mind up with his body, to feel the bruises that indicated they hadn't stopped beating him after he'd been knocked out. The lolling of his neck meant he was sitting upright. By his spine's ache, he'd been doing that a while. His ribs were bruised and his lips were swollen, but the pain was the gentle thump of livable instead of the stabbing abrasion of not.

With that out of the way, he began the ordeal of prying his lids open. Florescent light streamed through his lashes, and he absorbed the room around him. Pipes. Gray. The featureless bricks could have been any basement, but someone had left a monogrammed hotel towel on the damp floor. Still in the same building, then.

But there was another thing in the periphery of his senses, a weight on the back of his head that he had been denying. He turned, the bunched muscles in his neck straining with the motion.

"Demo," he prompted. "DeGroot. Come now, you've already had one nap today, and it's a very inconvenient time for you to have another."

The Demoman did not move. Spy's heart beat against his battered ribcage. They wouldn't bother to tie him to a dead man, they wouldn't, it was drugs not poison they got him with, please let it be drugs-

"DeGroot," Spy repeated. "Tavish."

Demo groaned. A shaky breath Spy hadn't realized he'd been holding escaped him.

"You're alive."

"Don't bloody feel it," Demo mumbled. "Ach, me head…"

"It's going to be the rest of you too if we don't think of something soon."

Demo lifted his chin, the processes of righting himself pulling on their shared restraints. He gazed around the room, taking in what Spy had. "Well," he observed. "This is the tits, innit?"

"I've been in worse."

"That makes one of us. Usually I blow the bastards up before I get in situations like this."

"Well, we can't all be so lucky."

"Ha!" Demo's bark was small in the dead air. "Maybe you should take up demoman-ing, then."

Despite everything Spy found himself in, the throb in his jaw, the stagnant water around his shoes, the ever looming threat of what was coming next; he found himself smiling, minutely, and to more than himself. He said, "I would make a terrible demoman."

"Aw bollocks that!" Demo declared. There was a touch of wooziness still in his voice, but whatever they had dosed him with was clearing out. "I could teach you. The DeGroot line's been perfecting our training for the last seven generations: all we'd need is a bit of grain dust, a slingshot, and an orphanage I could ditch you at for the next half-decade or so."

Spy couldn't help but chuckle at that. Something about the man beside him was actually helping his racing pulse, and miracle of miracles he felt the panic begin to slide away.

Feeling the most clearheaded he'd ever been in a while, Spy realized, "they didn't find my extra file. Quickly! If you can reach it, we may still be able to get out of this mess."

"Aye, I can do that."

"Good. It's sewn into my cufflink- no, the other arm- ahrg!" Spy hissed as Demo began to pick at the hidden pocket. "H-hurry, we do not know when they will be back, and I would prefer to be out before the torture begins." More twisting. "Tavish hurry."

"I-I'm trying," Demo stammered. "I think your wrist is broken…"

"I know it's broken but you need to-"

The file popped loose just as footsteps sounded outside. The reverberations indicated it was a stairwell, closing in, thumping like a heartbeat. They were out of time.

Demo could saw while Spy kept them busy, but they would have to pray their captors wouldn't notice. The footsteps grew louder, several of them, and Spy took their last few precious seconds to dig his uninjured hand into the bindings. He found Demo's palm, sweat covered and clammy, and squeezed.

After a brief hesitation, Demo squeezed back.

"So wonderful of you to stay another night, gentlemen," Arnett said as the door swung in. "And here I thought you would be leaving along with the rest of the guests."

Spy smiled as well as he could with his split lip. "Well, how could resist monsieur, when you've been so accommodating."

That was it. Keep the man's focus off the Demoman. Trust that they would both make it out of this alive.

"You're a very tricky one, you are." Arnett began to walk around the room. There were two others with him, younger and more built than their boss. It was an unlikely fight, but not impossible. Arnett was still talking. "So many faces, so difficult to tell who is friend and who is foe, who might be tripping my alarms in the middle of the night."

"Very sophisticated alarms," Spy mused. "I hadn't even noticed."

"That's good to hear. I like feedback from my guests. Even snakes like you, who take advantage of a man on the day of his daughter's birth."

Demo was making slow but steady progress, Spy could feel the constriction around his hands lessoning. More time. More time, that was all.

"But you." Arnett was no longer speaking to Spy. "I spent so much time, sending my boys to dig up on our man of mysteries here, when I should have been looking at you."

Arnett was now crouched in front of Demo, right at eye level, freezing the Demoman in place except for the barest twitch of his fingers.

"You stick out a lot more than your friend here, Tavish Finnegan DeGroot, born in Ullapool Scotland, wanted in three countries for nine counts of malicious property destruction and four counts of murder."

"Just the four?" Spy attempted to pull the conversation his way, off his stricken friend.

Arnett ignored him. "And no husband on record. Funny that. No husband, but Builder's League United's been paying your checks for the past six years." The man's voice was cool, laced with venom, just like the snakes he wanted to root out. "So BLU. Where's my fucking box of Australium?"

"I don't-" Demo began.

Arnett's fist shot out. Spy knew, because when it collided with Demo's face, his head whipped back and cracked Spy's skull. It took everything to channel his cry into a gasp of pain instead of a call of concern. He let the sudden distortion numb him. He blocked out the sound of choked gasping behind him, the attempts at breathing through cracked cartilage.

Fine shoes stepped across the filthy ground. Arnett had now made a full circle of the room, arriving back within Spy's spinning vision. He stepped closer. "Where did your associates take my product?" His voice was barely above a whisper. His breath smelled like brandy.

Almost there. Spy could feel it, the looseness around injured hand. Just a little more.

"I am not privy to that information," Spy said plainly, the pain in the back of his head making his eyes water. He wanted to hold Demo's hand again. He wanted just a few more minutes.

"You know," Arnett breathed, still softly, cold eyes locked on Spy's. "I usually don't indulge this sort of thing. It is just my job, you see. But you BLU fuckers killed my sister so…"

Again his hand darted forward, only this time a knife was clenched in his thick fingers, blade so sharp it buried itself in Spy's shoulder with barely a sound.

"I almost hope you don't tell me. Then this'll last longer."

"Marcel!" Demo yelled as Spy screamed, the edge slicing through meat and nicking itself on bone in an instant.

There was more yelling, distant as the reverberations of pain made their way through Spy's ears, and it was almost funny. The only thing he could think to himself was, it appears I was right about his fondness for knives.

The tangles around his hands came loose. Not yet fallen. Arnett was talking again but the only thing Spy cared about was a thumb placing the file into his palm. It was a nod of understanding. An act of trust.

"…So I think I'm going to enjoy killing you," Arnett finished.

"Likewise." Spy sprang forward, jabbing the file underneath his jaw.

At least he won't be talking anymore, Spy thought as Arnett fell back gasping, the instrument shoved upwards and pinning his mouth closed. But Spy didn't have time to finish the job, as both goons sprang to action before their boss had even reached the floor. Spy wasted no time, gripping the hilt of the blade still embedded in his shoulder and ripping free.

The hunting knife was nearly as long as Spy's forearm as he brandished it in front of himself. The first man took no heed. Maybe he should have.

He wound up with three stab wounds to the gut and one final backstab delivered while he was still bent over. He received no help from his friend, who had been tackled with the first step he had taken towards Spy, and was having the shit beat of him by a now liberated Demoman. There was a pause, Spy panting, the new wounds blinding him as he tried to grasp the situation and think how best to help Demo's fight, but he didn't get a chance to move. Another body crashed into him, and his mind whirled, wondering who-

Arnett lifted him up by the front of the jacket and slammed him down, redoubling the stun already applied to the back of his head. The smuggler was dripping blood, frothing pink from this mouth, struggling to keep Spy's knife from reaching up at him once more.

Spy strained, but Arnett only wrenched harder, their strength tested against each other as his eyes burned down in pure hate. The creases in his face seemed to have deepened, striking him like demon, nails burying in Spy's arm like claws. He shifted weight onto Spy's broken wrist. Spy screamed. His grip on the knife was loosening, he was losing the battle-

Demo came charging into view, swinging one of the heavy metal chairs down onto Arnett's back.

There was an earsplitting crack. Whatever Demo had hit, it was obviously important. Arnett slumped. Spy jammed him in the side of the neck for good measure.

With the last strength in his good arm, Spy pushed the body off him, and let Demo help him to his feet, looking around as he did so. There were splashes of blood now coating most of the floor, two toppled chairs, and three corpses slumped in various states of brutality. As Spy tried to move, he found that Demo was the only thing keeping him upright, dizziness threatening to take him again. A good portion of that blood was his, after all.

"Christ," Demo huffed as he looked at Arnett's body. "Still think you've got the better occupation?"

Spy laughed. It hurt his chest, the one still encased in Demo's forearm as his fiend tried to keep him from sliding back to the floor, but still he laughed. "I'm not sure. Maybe it ends like this from time to time, but certainly the lead up was pleasant, no?"

"Luxury spas and free drinks at the bar?" Demo smiled. "Can't think of much better, actually."

They caught their breath in between comments on things that weren't particularly funny, just that the air was contagious with snorting and soon they were laughing at nothing but themselves, relief pouring like liquid down Spy's spine, his arm around Demo's shoulders as he attempted to bring himself upward. Breathless, he caught the man's eye, and managed to stop chuckling long enough to shoot Demo a glance he hoped conveyed all his appreciation. Demo returned it with a kiss, catching Spy's mouth with his as they both forgot to breathe all together.

Demo pulled back blinking, pausing just long enough for a guilty little smile to come to his face. "…I hope I was reading that right."

"…Very right," was all Spy could say. Stupid. He struggled for something better, more eloquent to let Demo know- "you just happened to beat me to it."

Demo grinned. He traced a thumb over Spy's lip, wiping away a drop of blood. "Let's get you out of here, aye?"

"You too," Spy noted of Demo's broken nose. "Do think we'll be allowed elsewhere in the city, or does murdering the wealthiest hotel owner in Cancun put one on some sort of blacklist?"

"Guess we'll find out," Demo said, as he helped Spy towards the stairs. "What do we tell Pauling about all o' this?" He jerked his head back at the crime scene.

"Just that we had a very exciting vacation."