They hit the floorboards hard, but Spy managed to convert some of the momentum into a punch to the Sniper's face. The aviators tumbled away, leaving a cut on her nose and lip.
It should've been a stunning blow, but the Sniper only bared her teeth. She was as silent as ever when it was time for actually fighting - Spy always did appreciate that about her. After so many years, there were only so many unplumbed depths of witty repartee.
Recovering, the Sniper managed to knee Spy in the crotch (which always made Spy's extremities briefly go numb with pain) and clawed towards where her machete had fallen in the crash.
But the outcome was never really in doubt. Within a minute, Spy was straddling the Sniper's chest, knife held sweet and shining against the woman's neck.
"I have a proposition for you, bushwoman," she said, tweaking her balaclava to sit straight again.
The Sniper had piercing, almost uncannily grey eyes, she realized. She'd seen them before, of course, filed away the information with the automatic reflex of her training. But she'd never really bothered to notice them consciously before.
Without moving her head, the woman managed to flick those eyes meaningfully down to point at the blade currently a hair's breadth from her neck.
Spy generously withdrew, and was rewarded by a punch to the solar plexus that drove the air out of her. As she wheezed, the Sniper knocked the knife out her hand and into a far corner, then flipped the two of them, sitting down heavily on Spy's abdomen to drive out even more air.
"I'm listening," she said, eyes glinting with an amusement that wouldn't have been visible if she'd still been wearing the tinted glasses.
Spy shot her the evilest look she could muster as she gasped for air.
"Same rules," she finally managed to wheeze. "Same rewards."
The Sniper considered this, retying her disheveled hair back into its usual low ponytail.
"One question," she said. "Why?"
"You did it wrong before," said Spy. "Obviously."
"Obviously," she echoed, in the same serious tone. Hey lips twitched, just slightly, and a drop of blood from her cut lip rolled down to her chin.
Spy didn't dignify that with a response.
"I s'pose my seven free bonzer headshots wouldn't have a Dead Ringer involved?"
That had, in fact, been Spy's plan, to use the faked deaths to give up nothing at all. "Naturally," she said, smoothly.
The Sniper seemed deep in thought. Perhaps it took that long for her three brain cells to come to quorum, Spy thought, intensely disliking the way that grey gaze seemed to pin her to the floorboards. She wished the Sniper would put on the stupid glasses again.
"Dacker," the Sniper said, finally, and rose. She extended a hand down to Spy.
Spy eyed it suspiciously, then creaked to her own feet unassisted. "I…beg your pardon?"
The Sniper nodded. "Dacker."
"Is this some kind of incomprehensible Australianism…?"
"Nah, mate, s'what you said last time. Dacker."
Spy paused. "D'accord?"
"Yeah." The bushwoman cocked her head. "Unless that meant something else? Some kinda swear?"
"No, that is…quite correct," said Spy, bemused. She hadn't really expected it to be this easy, even for someone of her skills. "Very well. D'accord."
They stood in awkward silence for a moment.
"You'll want to set your watch," said the Sniper. "Mine ain't the most reliable."
"Right," said Spy, feeling unaccountably off-kilter now that the moment she had schemed for had arrived. She set the watch.
The Sniper spread her arms, looking quite entertained by Spy's continuing discomfiture.
Spy steeled herself, and walked into them.
It was -
It was…good?
Enjoy it while you can, she told her hindbrain. This is all you're getting for a good while.
She could feel the Sniper's ribcage expanding and contracting with every breath - still a little quick, from their duel. She linked her hands loosely behind the Sniper's back, and the other woman did the same. Which was probably for the best, because Spy still felt two hairs breadths away from bolting.
It was still thoroughly awkward, too, which she could only attribute to the Sniper's inherent maladroitness. Spy had never been awkward in her life. Thankfully, the Sniper didn't try to make conversation - perhaps she thought this was just a different kind of fight - so Spy was able to focus.
Or, rather, not focus at all.
Because, as the alarm went off and she groggily blinked to awareness, she realized that all her normal well-oiled, constant whir of thoughts, all her nerve fibers normally exquisitely attuned towards sensing danger, opportunity, and potential witty one-liners…had quieted, just a bit, her mind gone (a terrifying, unnerving) calm. It had been a long time, she supposed, but she didn't think she'd been wound that tight.
But the alarm went off, and within a second Spy had extracted herself and gone fully invisible.
Sniper addressed the seemingly empty room. "I like a wrestle as much as the next merc, but you could've just asked, boofhead."
Spy snorted at this nonsense, and walked out with a spring in her step. She had an Engineer to haunt.
-—-—-
A few weeks later, Sniper tossed her machete to the side. "Got a proposition for you."
Spy was already flicking the knife away. "I am all ears."
-—-—-
A week after that, Spy, invisible, plucked the string of the bow in Sniper's hand. The other woman startled, then relaxed marginally.
"Same rules, same rewards." Sniper said, and nodded.
-—-—-
Sniper tensed suddenly in her arms, and Spy froze too, ears alert for approaching steps.
"Not- Not there," the woman said, voice strained.
Spy blinked, then hastily moved her hands away from - ah, that was the divide between the thoracic and cervical vertebrae, wasn't it. Where Spy usually…stabbed her.
"Understood."
Over the next few seconds, she could feel Sniper consciously, laboriously relax individual muscle groups. Spy kept her hands very still and light on her lower back. Finally, Sniper let out a long sigh, and the breath slipped down the back of Spy's collar, causing an involuntary little shiver.
Unbidden, the image of Sniper forty years older rose in her mind, a stiff old stick of a woman still flinching back from a touch to her upper back. Professional pride and unexpected grief warred within her. Was this truly to be Spy's legacy?
She frowned at herself. No, she knew what she was getting into when she started spying for a living. It was the family trade, after all - they all walked into it with open eyes. She could still recall the expression on her Père's face when he sat her down and said her favorite aunt would not be returning from her latest mission, and then, later, the expression on her Maman's when she said the same about him.
For those such as she, there would be no good life, no gentle retirement. Even RED's Spy was cursed to watch her two daughters die and kill and die again every day, which to Spy's mind was the worse fate. No, it was best to pass through the world as a ghost, pressing a thumb on the scales here or there, vanishing before her meddling could be noticed. It was the way of spies.
"Urk," said Sniper, and Spy abruptly realized she had been squeezing the other woman far tighter than was comfortable for either of them, face pressed into her shoulder hard enough to leave little spots floating in her vision.
She jerked away. "My- apologies," she forced out.
Sniper gave her a puzzled, thoughtful look, but only said "No harm done. She'll be right."
Spy must've looked dubious at this, because she added, "You ain't a Heavy, mate. You only cracked three or so ribs, so it was practically a welcome-home from my Mum."
Sniper winked, and walked back to her post by the window. "Now shoo, I've got foreheads waitin'."
-—-—-
"Thursday?"
Sniper's stride didn't falter as she walked back from RED's Respawn.
"I dunno, mate," she said, seemingly to the empty air. "Let me check my bloody social calendar. I'll ring my secretary."
"Pardon me for being organized," Spy huffed, and slipped around a corner as the Respawn door opened again.
-—-—-
"Repeat after me: Jarate is a war crime," said Spy, maliciously pleasant, and tightened her triangle chokehold. "I would drip on you further but we both know it would be pointless, you filthy animal."
She lit a new cigarette, and scrubbed at her mouth with a handkerchief. It didn't help. It never helped.
Sniper was turning blotchy from the blood being denied her brain. Her eyelids twitched, lashes fluttering as she clung to the edge of consciousness.
Spy rolled her eyes and let up just enough to let a bit of blood back in her carotid artery.
"Your…damn…thighs are a war crime," Sniper croaked. Her hands scrabbled feebly against one of said thighs at her throat.
"That was a terrible comeback. Do better or apologize for your urine crimes."
"Piss off or kill me proper."
Spy pouted. "You're no fun."
"Don't play with your food."
"Don't throw urine at your betters."
"Damn prissy c-"
Spy tightened her hold again. "I suppose we will have to agree to disagree," she said, blithely.
"Back in twenty…minutes," Sniper forced out.
"As will I. Kindly have a more civilized greeting next time."
"...habit…"
Spy sighed. "No doubt. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go make a frontal assault on your Heavy. This blouse is unsalvageable, you understand."
-—-—-
A single droplet of blood welled at the tip of Spy's knife.
"Tomorrow, perhaps?" she asked mildly, admiring that dot of red.
"Sure, around eleven," said Sniper, and slammed her head back against Spy's nose.
-—-—-
But the more they exchanged platonic human touch, the more Spy craved it.
At first, she restricted herself to once a week, but as time crept by, she found herself knocking on Sniper's doorframe-of-the-hour more and more often, following the craving like the scent of fresh bread on the breeze. Or Sniper's red rifle tracer-dot (previously a sight she associated with waking up in Respawn) would appear on her hand, drift down to make little circles at her feet, and lead her to the bushwoman's current perch.
Spy decided not to read too much into this acceleration. She had been parched for human touch, and apparently Sniper was as well. The sessions would doubtless get rarer as they figuratively drank their fill.
"I…" said Spy into Sniper's shoulder, feeling rather embarrassed, "I am not entirely certain who owes whom kills at this point."
Sniper shrugged. "Doesn't matter. They're boring, anyway, when you stand still like that. Feels like cheating."
"Very true," said Spy, relieved. "There really is no challenge when your opponent agrees ahead of time to be stabbed."
"Keep doing that knock when it's platonic-human-touch time, and don't when it's business as usual," said Sniper. "Nice and tidy that way."
"D'accord," said Spy, and vanished.
Similarly, she started forgetting to set the timer. A longer session one day meant a shorter one the next, surely. From that perspective, she was just being more efficient with their time.
-—-—-
Spy knocked twice on the doorframe of Sniper's current perch. "Bushwoman, are you busy? I propose -"
"Sure," murmured Sniper, not looking up from her scope. "Just a mo'."
For non-game-players - the Dead Ringer is a Spy item that, if someone damages you, makes it so you take a fraction of that damage, drop a fake body, and gives you invisibility and a speed boost so you can get the heck out of dodge. Don't ask me how it's supposed to protect you from a high-velocity bullet to the head, but that's game logic for ya.
Similarly, I'm choosing to interpret the in-game minicrits (increased damage) done against Jarate'd players as psychological damage leading to self-destructive behavior. Just my little joke..
A few readers who know WaLHBE well have noted that we've had a few echoic or parallel scenes here with that fic - great catches all! There are definitely more of those coming, though as we go along and the stories diverge they will get smaller - most are sneakier easter-egg-type points. On the one hand, some parts of this story are in dialogue with the original; on the other I really didn't want this fic to be subsumed by it. Do let me know if you find any of my little references to be a bit too on-the-nose :)
-—-—-
bonzer - Aussie; surpassingly good, great (a lil sarcastic in this case)
boofhead - Aussie; a fool or simpleton
Père - French; father
Maman - French; mother (mama)