The two staggered to a stop, not thinking to question why the other was also spending their Friday evening sprinting to the RED-BLU border. Sniper waved frantically; Spy practically vibrated with stiff tension.
"RED's all coming right now -"
"My team is approaching at inebriated speed -"
"Damned fools think -"
"Absolute imbeciles that they are -"
"It's my own bloody fault, I never should've opened my -"
" - I perhaps did not control the situation as well as -"
"You're a snake but -"
"You're uncouth and unhygienic but -"
" - something I wouldn't wish on my worst -"
" - enemy, that would be you if that isn't abundantly obvious -"
"If he finds you, Medic's swearing he'll -"
"in the refrigerator - "
"...with an actual torch and pitchfork!" they chorused, then stuttered to a gasping halt.
They stared at each other a moment, and silence bloomed.
But then the moment broke with the sounds of shouts coming from their respective bases. Torches bobbed in the growing twilight. Pitchforks gleamed.
Spy reacted first. He whipped around and with a firm hand on the small of Sniper's back shoved the two of them down to crouch behind one of the ubiquitous piles of half-rotted crates.
He hissed, "Give me your hand."
Sniper's hand seemed to reach out all by itself without any (fully warranted) caution.
Spy fiddled with his cuffs a moment, then wrapped and buckled his own inviswatch around Sniper's wrist.
"I have no idea who you might be invisible to with this, if anyone," he said. "So keep to the shadows. Press this button here, then here." His fingers lingered on Sniper's wrist.
The shouts were getting uncomfortably close.
"What about -" Sniper began, frowning.
"No time for unimportant details," Spy interrupted, all of his usual pretenses evaporated. "Get to your van and drive out in the desert until all this calms down. I trust you can survive well enough out there." It wasn't a question. "Quickly now, you get nine seconds."
Sniper looked back at him with a dry, sad little smile. "Believe me, I know. Stay safe."
He pressed the buttons, and faded from sight. A warm, invisible hand briefly grasped Spy's shoulder, then vanished as well.
Spy felt the top few layers of tension slide off him and, taking a breath, pulled out his disguise kit and a certain, very special package.
It was time for Escape Plan G.
—-—
Some time later, Spy ducked around the corner of a dilapidated barn and sagged against the wall for a moment, hands reaching automatically for a cigarette. The shouts behind him were getting louder, but not closer; probably a good sign overall. He'd never thought he'd actually have to use Escape Plan G.
"So long, duffers," said Spy, enjoying the exceedingly non-Australian way he rolled the 'r'. He would have to inflict that on Sniper when he next had the opportunity.
Which, come to think of it, might be some time; if he had half the sense he was born with, he was miles away already. Spy's heart sank.
"Shut up," he told it. "That outcome is the point of all this."
Spy would just have to lay low alone somewhere for a few days. He wasn't sure if he could answer any awkward questions after what he just did.
His hands were still patting his pockets, without success. Now where was his lighter…
A red dot appeared in the dirt a few feet away and flared in intensity. Little bits of dead leaves burst into flame and vanished.
Spy paused. "I see," he said.
Very carefully, he stepped forward and poked his cigarette into the beam. It promptly ignited.
Just as carefully, he stepped back. "Many thanks."
The laser faded into its normal friendly spot of light - and when had Spy started thinking of it as friendly? - and gave a little wiggle. It slowly trailed away from Spy, off to the southeast, and rested on a log. It wiggled again.
Spy pretended to look put-upon. "Oh, very well," he said, and followed it.
In the tension and chaos back there, there had been a moment or two where he thought he'd seen that dot, and the part of him that wasn't worrying was pathetically comforted by it. It suddenly hadn't just been Spy alone against them all.
The dot led him to the base of a stone outcropping (what were they called, hoodoos?). He hadn't seen anyone on top during the approach, but when he arrived Sniper was looking down at him.
"Care to come up?" he called, and tossed down the end of a rope.
"Why are you not gone, bushman, this is the height of stupidity! Even for you," Spy added belatedly, but his heart wasn't in it.
Sniper chuckled. "Our respective teams have enough on their plates. I think whatever you did to them made them forget about the two of us entirely." He jerked his head in the cacophony's direction. "Come see for yourself."
—-—
Sniper gave him a hand up on the last few steps, though from Spy's expression it was as though it had destroyed some small part of his fastidious, proud little soul to accept help of any kind.
Speaking of, Sniper hurriedly averted his eyes from the shockingly muddy state of Spy's spats. He had a feeling the man would hate being observed in anything but his best. He slept in 3-piece pajamas, for god's sake.
Spy sat down with a sigh, his back against the trunk of the knotted scrub tree. "I don't suppose you have proper wine glasses stashed somewhere on this forsaken rock?" he asked, drily. He reached into his suit jacket and somehow pulled out an entire wine bottle. "No?"
"Why…? How…?"
"I was in rather a rush to leave the base, you see," Spy said, and sighed again. "Truly, I am living among barbarians."
With a surprisingly expert twist, he popped out the cork with his teeth and spat it over the side, then took a swig.
"Absolute barbarism," he muttered, and passed the bottle over.
Bemused, Sniper took a pull himself and passed it back, brushing an errant drop off of his mustache. "Not bad," he said. "Generally prefer Loire whites meself."
Spy scoffed, and waved a hand. "Naturally. I was under a certain amount of duress at the time and didn't have the time to properly evaluate my options."
"I sure hope you think about that next time."
"But of course, I shall not fail so egregiously in the future. Provided you do not forget the wine glasses again. The good crystal, mind you!"
Sniper had to give a little snort at that, and Spy's surprising good humor permitted a brief smile to sidle across his face. They shared a long look, and Sniper's heartbeat pounded in his ears.
The sounds of multiple sentries firing at full blast echoed up to him.
"Ah right," said Sniper, breaking eye contact. "That."
—-—
"Lay down and creep up to the edge," said Sniper, handing him the scope. "Best not to present a profile if we can help it. Though they have calmed down a bit since you left."
Spy tried to focus through the little magnifier. "Verdomme, this is difficult to see anything through. How are you not blind?"
"Believe me, I'm getting there."
The Engies had set up a horde of sentries, all apparently without ammunition, and were riding them like bulls as the poor machines tried desperately to track and shoot all the opponents around them.
The two Soldiers were screaming incoherently, brandishing shovels and slowly chasing each other in circles. They looked happy enough.
Ignoring all this, the Demomen stooped over the ground, using their pitchforks to - Spy squinted - were those organic chemistry diagrams they were drawing in the dust? He'd hoped he wouldn't have to see those again in his lifetime. Not after what he'd made sure happened to Mrs. Boucher from Biologie.
"Hmm," said Spy, spotting the small blue figure gesticulating wildly at the RED Spy, who was rubbing his forehead. "I do believe BLU's Scout is attempting to defend his mother's honor."
"Oh, he was doing that earlier," said Sniper. "I think at this point they've progressed to your Scout listing all the ways our Spy's been insufficiently appreciative of the handmade knit balaclava his Ma gave him for Smissmass."
"I've never seen him wear anything of the kind," said Spy, considering.
"Exactly Scout's objection. Maybe it's just been too hot out here, but you can't just toss away a piece of yarnwork like that. It's hours of love and labor!"
Clearly, Sniper had strong opinions about this. Spy tucked away this knowledge for future use.
"If we go to Snowycoast as threatened, he'll have opportunity enough. Perhaps he'll be properly chastened by this lecture."
Sniper huffed. "If he ain't, I'm sure Scout will be happy to give the ear-bashing another go."
Spy silently wished his counterpart luck with fatherhood and turned his gaze elsewhere.
He almost didn't see the other Scout, who was unusually still. The BLU Sniper was showing him the stoic little chameleon he kept in his rooms, petting down its back with a gentle finger, and the Scout seemed absolutely absorbed.
Abruptly, he leapt to his feet and zoomed off, then zoomed much more carefully back. He was cradling something red-brown and bedraggled in his hands, and he offered it up to BLU Sniper in mute appeal. The older man bent thoughtfully over the little furry bundle.
Meanwhile the Medics, being sensible men of medicine, were naturally brawling like infuriated cats. Bits of lab coat and spectacles flew as they rolled and clawed at each other. They rolled over the Demomen's diagrams, destroying them utterly, and the two Demos shouted and dove after them for vengeance. Seeing this development, the Soldiers seemed to take it as a challenge and, foaming at the mouth, joined them.
Without even pausing for breath in the tirade, Scout and Spy sidestepped the fracas as it rolled by. Spy now seemed to have gotten a second wind and was attempting to defend himself, which just made Scout talk louder over him.
The bawling brawl collided with the Engies, and the sentries tumbled like dominos and exploded. One man rolled up his sleeves and prepared to jump into the fray, and the other put a hand on his shoulder, pointing back to where two deck chairs were set up with a view of the fight. The first Engie didn't seem to appreciate the touch, jerked away, and started arguing; the second Engie argued back, and within seconds they were enmeshed in their own fight, soon absorbed by the larger ball of insanity.
In their own little world, the two Pyros were sitting cross legged, cheerfully slapping each other in the facemask. Slap-slap, slap-slap, slap-slap…
And the Heavies stood like the gravitational centers in the middle of the chaos, paying no apparent mind to the swirls and eddies of violence around them. They were arguing about something or other - in Russian? - with the slow patience of men ready to declaim all night.
"Our teams appear to be handling things better than expected. Do you suppose the Heavies are arguing about gun maintenance or literature?" Spy mused. He wondered if the two had ever actually met in conversation before. Things tended to get loud on the field when a Heavy revved up.
"Here, give me a gander." Sniper wriggled up next to him, and Spy proffered the scope. As he peered through the lens, Spy took the opportunity to watch Sniper in this unguarded moment. It was almost like old times, in the long moments of patience before either of them acted. But - and at the thought a surprisingly fierce joy rose in him - he was done with that now. Respawn or not, Spy refused to play with Sniper's life any more. The thought was liberating, and terrifying.
Sniper chuckled. "Neither. They're debating ballet. I've never seen our Heavy look so happy, he and our Spy exhausted the topic ages ago and he's had no one to debate the finer points of the Vaganova Method with."
"You read lips in Russian?" asked Spy, surprised.
"I read lips in plenty of languages," said Sniper. "Can't always speak 'em proper, but you get a lot of practice watching people in my line of work. The Russian, though - had a few years contracting with their mafiya. You pick it up."
They were elbow to elbow in the dirt as Sniper squinted into the distance, a solid wall of warmth at Spy's side in the gathering cool of twilight. Spy marveled a moment at how the bushman seemed to have no difficulty relaxing within knife range of someone who betrayed and backstabbed him as a matter of both business and proclivity. An unaccustomed wave of shame washed over him. He really had let things escalate a little too much in that idiotic feud of theirs.
"Russian, eh?" he said. "Know any good obscenities?"
A smile quirked. "Do I ever! That's practically half the language, far's I can tell." He leaned closer, grey eyes shining over the rims of his glasses, and Spy couldn't help but sway in to match him. "Let me tell you about матерные слова."
A/N:
Huh, RED's here too? Weird...
Don't mind me, just stuffing my entire fist into my mouth to make sure I don't make any "Return of the Machina" puns in-text.
Fun fact: During this fic, Spy has disguised as (or mentioned disguising as) every class, with a few more than once. Just a little game I played with myself while writing - see if you can pick 'em all out!
—
Verdomme - Dutch; "damn," lit. "damn me."
Vaganova Method - Russian ballet technique/training method for ballerinas. tl;dr the Heavies are giant nerds
матерные слова (maternyye slova) - Russian; the category of obscenity/swear words
bingus1man - This is one of my favorites too! One of the first scenes I actually wrote, too (at least in its original draft) because it was so clear in my mind. I do love Team as Dysfunctional-but-trying-to-help Family
Scunt Fanfiction (nice new name lmao) - I'm sure if you asked Spy, he'd be like "Umm the explosion threw us into this position? If I could I wouldn't be touching this filthy idiot at all, even if I suppose it's a little nice to die with good conversation." Whereas Sniper at this point is like "Hell yeah, dying cuddle time! Wait shit can't give myself away, time to banter."
coolguy3 - haha yes, pretty much every time Spy comes to a conclusion in this story it is Extremely Incorrect in a way that comes back to bite him. It takes a lot of repetition to get it through his head, but I think even his ego is starting to take a beating at this point. Spy loathed being stuck in the fridge, but I think it might destroy Sniper utterly to be trapped like that!
