Spy woke in the predawn light with a full bladder, an aching head, a mouth that tasted like something died in it, and a heart full of despair.
Another sleepover, she thought with disgust, staring up at the camper's ceiling. God, she was pathetic. So much for staying away to prevent herself from getting into emotionally dangerous situations. Sniper had noticed her reduced presence these past two weeks, too. So much for that plan.
Spy had been so, so obvious last night. No tangentially sapphic woman could have possibly missed the truth, unmasked, on her face. Spy had seen it herself, many a time, on the faces of her targets; the flush, the vulnerability, the avoidance of eye contact, the unthinking smile, the pursuit of physical contact, the adoration so poorly concealed as to be naked - yes, she was fluent in the language of female attraction.
Not that she needed the reconfirmation that Sniper was as straight as one of her arrows. No, Sniper was merely a gallant, sweet…friend. 'Merely.' And why couldn't Spy be happy with that?
The flaw was in her. If she had been straight - or even possessed of any modicum of self-control - the platonic touch would've been enough. The friendship would've been enough.
There was a warm weight on her side.
Putain de merde.
Spy glared at the ceiling and fought with herself. Should she observe everything meticulously so she could relive the moment later, imagining it under different, better circumstances? Or would the wiser path be to ignore as much as possible so she would not taunt herself with what she could not have?
Curiosity, as they say, killed the spy. But she looked down anyway.
Sniper apparently slept in faded plaid men's boxer shorts and the old sleeveless undershirt she'd worn that other morning, weeks ago. She was sprawled half on top of Spy, with one long leg hooked behind Spy's knee. There was a scar arcing down over her thigh and over her knee, and Spy thought it was probably the reason behind the small limp she saw sometimes when Sniper was particularly tired.
Her face was, for some inexplicable reason, buried in Spy's armpit, and Spy had a few seconds of concern that she could not breathe in there. Then a few more seconds of panicked calculation of the state of her personal stench, which concluded with the tentative hope that the smell would not actually kill someone of Sniper's prodigious nose-blindness.
Her visible hand was stretched up to lay warmly on Spy's sternum, between her breasts. Spy looked at it, and simultaneously experienced the greatest appreciation for and loathing of the four layers of clothing between her skin and that hand.
But Spy then abruptly realized her own arm on that side was not only wrapped possessively around Sniper, but that her gloved hand had at some point crept itself under her shirt and now rested dangerously high up on her ribs.
'Warm,' it reported back, happily.
You are a predator, she told it, and herself. She hated the leather of her glove keeping her from feeling everything, but she hated herself more.
Moving with all the slow, desperate care she gave to disarming bombs, keeping her breaths slow and deep, Spy withdrew that hand, and that arm, and laid them innocently against the mattress.
At some point in the night, Sniper's sleep mask had become disarranged, perhaps in the same inexplicable series of events that ended up with her breathing armpit. Spy found it difficult to care, but when Sniper stirred, she still slipped on the balaclava with her free hand.
Her mind whirred, briefly, as Sniper's near leg curled tighter around Spy's and her far one stretched, then rolled its ankle with a series of crackling pops. The hand on Spy's chest curled, and traced its thumb along a seam.
Invisibility would be useless until she extracted herself fully from Sniper and the bed, but space was limited - could she throw herself out a window? She had a few knives on-hand, would suicide get her out of here and into Respawn quick enough? But no, that would be incredibly suspicious, not to mention rude. She had to play this out somehow as if she wasn't -
Sniper made a muffled noise, shoved her face deeper into Spy's armpit (ugh, why), paused in apparent confusion, and lifted her head.
She squinted blearily up at Spy and, for a long moment, her face was still and utterly unreadable. Spy could do nothing but match her gaze, tight-throated with the fear that Sniper might not recall the events that had deposited them in the same bed, that she might be recalling the RED Spy's insidious little remarks, that she was worrying that Spy might have manipulated her into doing something irrevocable the night before. And what an irony that was - for once in her life Spy had not intended to worm her way into a woman's bed. Spy wanted to be anywhere but here, in this trapped, endless moment of anxiety and self-loathing and self-destructive pleasure despite it all.
But Sniper blinked, and quirked her lopsided smile up at Spy. "Mornin', blanket thief." Little wisps of hair had escaped her braid and hung frizzily over her head.
"The pillows too, it would seem." Spy, pathetically, smiled back. "Good morning." Her stomach clenched, and she wished she could say it every morning, for the rest of her short, brutish life. The urge to reach up and cup Sniper's sleep-creased cheek and smooth down that tousled eyebrow with a thumb was so strong that her hand twitched upwards before she mastered herself.
This was actually worse than dying, she was certain of it. She felt like she could state that conclusion with some authority.
"I need a piss. You want a jar or are we being fancy today?"
God, even that was poetry coming from her mouth. Sweet mother, I cannot weave…
Upon reflection, she might still be a little drunk.
Spy gave her an ancient look. "I remain, as ever, 'fancy'."
Sniper huffed a laugh and wriggled out of bed. She rolled her shoulders, and her back muscles flexed in a way that made Spy think of -
Spy averted her gaze.
Somewhere, buried in her hazy and stultifyingly embarrassing memories of the previous night, she had gotten the distinct impression that Sniper had figured out that she'd been slowly fading on her - though thankfully, not the reasons why. There was no way to continue with their friendship without hurting Sniper, yes, but ending things seemed to be hurting her more. Sniper was already compromised, in her own way.
Sniper, she thought with a pang of awful love, was too cursedly perceptive sometimes. The slow-fade would've been the kindest way for both of them, and it was no longer an option. It was much like the Dead Ringer - that kind of tactic only really worked on someone like her the first time.
And ugh, she absolutely could not just up and say anything out loud. Sniper wouldn't understand why she was ending their friendship-cum-platonic-touch-exchange-arrangement unless Spy explained why, and if she explained why, Sniper would hate her, and if she didn't explain why, Sniper would be hurt and hate her anyway, and -
She was trapped. There was nothing for it; she had to continue with their friendship as if nothing was wrong (and yes, she certainly noticed and despised the selfish little frisson of pleasure that thought brought). No more lapses in mission discipline, she told herself firmly. And absolutely no more alcohol.
From now on, she was in disguise as a Spy that wasn't nursing a tendre for her best and - to be perfectly honest - only friend. That Spy wasn't carrying any torches for or even thinking lascivious thoughts about that friend. That Spy was satisfied with her lot.
There was a thump from Sniper's direction as something fell down, and Spy's headache flared with the noise. "Ah, piss, do you remember where I put my glasses? Or did you up and steal them off my face at some point?"
Spy had gone undercover for years-long missions before. She could do so again, surely.
"Ah, you know me and my nefarious intentions toward your glasses," she called back. She hauled herself upright to join the search, and briefly buried her face in her hands. "I'm terribly afraid you've caught me again."
Surely.
-—-—-
Spy tried.
She remained snobbish and sardonic, insouciant and irreverent; she teased Sniper as a catty friend might, and she exchanged platonic human touch, and she lied and she lied and she lied.
She reached for no more than was offered, and tried to be content.
But in the end, it was the smallest thing that betrayed her.
-—-
It was just their usual check-in at work.
"Ace, you're here," said Sniper from her seat by the window.
"You called me over with your laser-dot," said Spy. "There was a very promising back in my sights, too, so this better be important."
Despite her huffy tone, she sat down on the crate behind Sniper, draping herself over her with her chin propped on her shoulder in what was now a long-familiar arrangement. Just a bit of platonic human touch, because they were friends and nothing more, and that would have to be enough.
Sniper nodded. "Damn important. We finally got a new shipment of hats in, and everyone on our side was so desperate for variety that they threw just about anything on."
Spy sighed. "Oh, us as well. I was not able to get to the crate in time before some especial abominations escaped into the general BLU populace."
"Glad you understand the seriousness of the problem at hand," said Sniper, looking the least serious she'd been in her life. "So I'm gonna need your thoughts on what they're all wearing. I know you've been itching for the chance to let your opinions be heard, being a retirin' sort of person and all."
"Of course," said Spy. "You know me well; I am far too willing to let something politely pass rather than rock the boat. I am the soul of discretion and reticence, really."
"That's what I'm always saying!" Sniper exclaimed, and flashed her the little smile that invited Spy in on the joke, the same little smile that made the part of Spy that was no longer allowed to see daylight hum with pleasure. "Here, take a look at what RED Scout's got on."
She angled the scope so Spy could see the offending headgear, and Spy leaned her head against Sniper's to get a better look through the scope.
"Ah. Yes. The Banana." She said the phrase with all the curled-lip scorn she could muster.
"Yeah, mate, I really gotta wonder who makes this stuff, much less puts it in the crates."
"She looks like one those American sports mascots! Truly, only someone as fundamentally unserious and unthinking as your Scout would decide to stick her head through a giant foam banana."
"Do you think she lost a challenge to Demo again?"
"No, I think she won the bet. The Banana looks like something your Demo would enjoy as much as your Scout." She sniffed. "BLU's Demo, at least, has a consistent sense of taste, even if it is frankly bizarre."
"Bet. I'll ask around after work and we'll see who's right." Sniper tapped her head against Spy's and realigned the rifle as she searched for their next, unaware target.
Spy kept grousing, unwilling to let such a crime as The Banana go so easily. "At the very least, why did she repaint the foam to that ridiculous color? That child has far too deep a commitment to purple."
"Yeah, her whole room is painted that shade too." Sniper proffered the scope. "Can't claim to know much about the culinary arts, but is your Medic wearing one of those mushroom-lookin' chef hats?"
"It is called a toque and, unfortunately, yes. Not that the battlefield is any place for it." Spy looked at Sniper's puzzled expression, and tried to explain. "You see, she fancies herself something of a cook, but…"
"But?"
Spy shook herself away from certain mealtime memories with a suppressed shudder. "You know how they are known as the culinary arts? Let's just say, in equivalent terms she is perhaps closest to a surrealist. Or perhaps a cubist. There is perhaps an underlying logic to the…food…she creates, but it is a bit too, ah, creative for the average human stomach."
Sniper raised her brows and whistled. "Damn, we've got some pretty bad cooks over here, but more in an everyday, 'dump all the spices in to see what happens' kind of way, not in an eldritch way. Our Doc's a fair hand with baked goods, when someone reminds her to set a timer."
"Hm, and even when she forgets the timer, at least your Pyro's happy?"
"Precisely. Someone wins either way."
"Now the Heavy with her - I'll admit I was a bit confused -"
Spy sighed and shook her head at the folly of the young. "Truly, I would be the last to pooh-pooh a woman wearing a false beard, but that one really does not flatter her face. She needs something with a more angled cut, perhaps an included mustache to properly frame her mouth."
"I'll take your word for it," said Sniper, bemused.
Spy rolled a hand. "A beard has its place in a spy's arsenal - it can do quite a lot to add to the verisimilitude of the character one is playing. Though I find them itchy, personally."
"But if the beard is unflattering, wouldn't that be an even better disguise? Wouldn't people be almost embarrassed to look at your face, so they won't remember what you look like later?"
"Excellent observation!" said Spy, delighted. "We'll make a proper spy out of you yet, bushwoman."
Sniper let out a bark of laughter. "Hah! Yeah, nah. Watch me poison someone's champagne at some swanky swaray -"
"Soiree?"
"Yeah, that's what I said - and then get so nervous when someone tries to talk to me that I forget and drain the glass myself. The espionage community would take turns visiting my unmarked grave to point and laugh."
Spy fluttered a hand in exaggerated superciliousness. "Really, Sniper, if you think poisoning oneself is the worst faux pas I've seen in this business…"
Sniper laughed. "How comfortin'. But yeah, if I had to nod 'n smile at my targets before I'm allowed to get to business…oof, mate, that's shite. I'd rather just meet, shoot, and leave."
"It…has its moments," Spy allowed. "Good and bad. Though speaking of espionage, it's a good thing the other Spy is using the Cloak & Dagger today - if we even get a glimpse of that tacky harridan I shall need several hours to properly take her fashion blunders apart seam by seam."
"Y'know, you call her outfits preposterous and she calls yours dowdy, but to be honest I don't see much difference between the two of you's clothes," said Sniper, with a suspiciously blithe expression.
Spy gasped. "Bushwoman, how could you! You flay me with a single blow! We are sartorial worlds apart. Light-years distant in taste and style, cut and stitch and structure and cloth!"
"All just looks like suits to me, mate." No, she was definitely smirking, just the faintest hair.
Spy narrowed her eyes. She leaned close and purred in Sniper's ear (very much wishing she could take a teasing bite there to emphasize her point), "You think you can taunt me with your supposed ignorance, bushwoman? Let's see how you would appreciate your precious rifle swapped with the BLU Sniper's one day and see if you can find any difference there."
Sniper straightened. "You wouldn't! That would throw me right off, she probably doesn't even take care of the poor thing!
"They're both rifles, correct?" Spy made a taunting little moue. "I can't imagine there's any significant difference between the two."
Sniper gave a huff of a laugh. "All right, mercy! You two look very different, completely different styles, I can spot the difference in your cuffs…or something…from two hundred yards…"
"That's more like it," said Spy. "But you are not spared my wrath - I shall get you into something sophisticated one of these days."
Sniper snorted. "Good bloody luck there, mate. Last time I was in a dress - for camouflage, mind you - ended up getting my gun caught in one of the flounces and had to chase the target down on foot until I could get the damn shot."
Spy slipped her a sideways glance, amused. "I don't recall mentioning dresses."
"Well if the other option's your starched collars and fourteen layers of wool…"
"Not necessarily." Spy was content to let the question rest for now. She was already plotting - perhaps one of those wide, open collars that were so popular these days? A light cloth, breathable and flexible, but hard-wearing as a matter of course…pockets because Sniper liked pockets as much as Spy did… "Is that your opposite, on that roof?"
Sniper whipped the rifle up with the speed of a Wild West duelist. Then her shoulders relaxed. "Yeah, hasn't spotted me yet, looks like. Though I'll be damned if I knew what was going on with her headwear."
"May I see?"
It was a peculiar combination of a peaked hood and a bandana over the nose and mouth, both crossed by overlarge, irregular stitches.
"I really don't know what our Sniper was thinking," said Spy, shaking her head. "It's absolutely ridiculous-looking. Why the giant, lopsided stitches?"
"Maybe it's a gift from your Pyro? Ours is pretty good with handicrafts, but yours is more wordy, you said."
"That's the only explanation that makes any kind of sense. I can't imagine that she thinks she looks good in that." Spy sniffed. "Please put her out of her misery, if only briefly."
"Too bad I can't make a bullet say 'you look like a right prawn.' Though if I could I s'pose I would've used it on you ages ago." And she fired, cheekily letting any potential riposte on Spy's behalf be drowned by the sound of the shot.
As the thunder echoed through the room and the BLU Sniper slumped forward, Spy spotted their next victim.
"Ah, the RED Soldier -"
They both looked at her for a moment. "I…refuse to believe that came on the train."
"Yeah, it looks like she found it in a dumpster."
"And perhaps did not clean out the previous inhabitant before putting it on."
They continued in this vein for some time, and Spy had a rousing good time spitting cutting sartorial epithets at their fashion-inhibited coworkers.
There was an Engie's socks-with-sandals combo; a Heavy in what was clearly just a pajama set; a Pyro wearing a plunger; a bizarre assemblage of hawaiian shirts -
"Ah yeah, and me of course." Sniper said, flicking the brim of her new straw boater. "I know you're just being polite -" Spy snorted "- don't spare me either."
Spy drew back a moment to get a better look at the whole picture, and briefly locked up as several thousand different responses fought for her tongue.
What barbershop quartet did you mug, and how can I thank them -
Doesn't match anything you or anyone else has worn since 1915, but somehow -
Incredibly not your style, chère, but somehow entirely your style -
You could be wearing the stupid plunger right now and somehow still look good enough to eat -
I lose all sense of objectivity, of decorum, of sense, when I am near you -
Please do not look at me, I cannot -
T'as de beaux yeux tu sais?
The hint of pink at the tips of Sniper's ears and her increasingly stiff, blank expression told her she'd been thinking - and staring - too long.
"I suppose, compared to the travesties on the field today, I should be grateful for small mercies," said Spy, finally. "Even if said mercy is so small as to be microscopic."
Sniper grinned. "Ah, I knew you'd like it."
"With the fashion senses around here, a week-dead corpse could win if it promised not to wear an overlarge bow and a clashing paisley print."
"You realize what this means, right? Just last month you were giving me an ear-bashing for that Robin Hood hat." Sniper jiggled the shoulder Spy was leaning on, earning her a glare. "I'm winning."
Spy sniffed. "I must be rubbing off on you. That is all." She mentally sat on the idiotic innuendo that inevitably ensued.
She really should get up and leave. It didn't do to encourage the emotions-that-were-not-to-be-indulged. Now was the perfect time, since the conversation had lulled -
"What's worse, when the enemy has bad outfits or when your allies do?" There was perhaps the faintest thread of strain in Sniper's voice.
Spy considered this. "Hmm, difficult to say. On the one hand, I see the REDs a lot more than my team during the workday, but at least I get to desecrate their excuses for style after I kill them. Whereas it is somewhat suspicious if the worst of the BLU apparel keeps vanishing."
"Does that actually stop you?
"Of course not! I am more than willing to fall in the cause of making the team marginally less painful to look at." She pulled off a crisp salute that would've brought a tear to any Soldier's eye.
Sniper shook her head in what must've been sheer admiration. "Can't believe I ever thought you were cowardly."
"No no, I merely believe in picking my battles."
"Very sensible." There was that wink of a smile again.
Spy opened her mouth to ask what Sniper thought of her new hat in turn, and -
A horn blasted gratingly over the loudspeakers.
"Ah, damn, someone capped a point," groaned Sniper, slumping a little. "Don't they know how to have fun?"
"Clearly not," said Spy, with a world-weary sigh. "I suppose I shall have to go stab your Engineer while she's distracted by moving the teleporters."
"And I will not tell her that, if you promise to not walk through any of my sightlines in the meantime." So I don't have to shoot you, Spy heard. "Dacker?"
"D'accord, ma chacal."
And as she turned to leave, Spy without any conscious thought at all brushed her lips over Sniper's cheek. It was the habitual, unthinking, chaste sort of kiss she might have (in her odder fantasies) given a groggy partner at the breakfast table.
A millisecond later, Spy realized her error. A millisecond too late, because Sniper had inhaled sharply, her face frozen and flat and tense.
And Spy, globe-trotting assassin, ladykiller, lady killer, cunning and cruel and devious and cold -
- panicked.
In a moment, she was invisible.
In another, she was out the door.
By the third, she was already berating herself.
Incredibly disappointed that there was only one bed and no one made out even a little bit...who's writing this shit smh...
All hats mentioned are in-game cosmetic items (yes, even The Banana). Don't want to clutter up the A/N by naming them all, but special shoutout to the Anger, beloved by edgy Snipers in-game. Had to bring the boater back for a cameo too, of course!
-—-—-
putain de merde - French; fucking goddamnit (lit. 'whore of shit' lol thanks french)
prawn - Aussie; a fool
chère - French; dear, darling (feminine equivalent of the male cherie)
ear-bashing - Aussie; a harangue or talking-to
T'as de beaux yeux tu sais? - French; This is a classic movie line (some say The line) from 1938's Le Quai des brumes (The Quay of Mists). You can think of it as serving much the same role culturally as Casablanca's 'Here's looking at you, kid' or Gone with the Wind's 'Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.' It means something like 'Do you know you have beautiful eyes?' to which she of course replies 'Kiss me.'