By the evening, she'd killed the BLU Soldier twice and died ten times, but hadn't managed to catch the BLU Spy. Her only head shot had been an accident, the Sniper whispering advice in her ear and a chill running up her spine that jiggled her finger on the trigger. With each kill, he'd beamed at her, body yearning toward hers. He'd kept his hands to himself but for correcting her grip on the gun or passing the knife to let her notch the walls on his various nests. The walls were always heavily notched, and she found herself trying to count them. Hundreds. Thousands. How many people has he killed, she wondered. How many people before he came here?
In the minutes before the closing klaxon rang out over the desert, she let him have the gun to watch him. His fingers lingered on hers, and she looked at his face. He is… She didn't have a word for the terrible hunger blazing in it, an incandescence that transcended lust as she'd ever seen it. He is elemental, she finally thought, fingers loosening on the gun. He shuttered the expression quickly, taking the gun and turning toward the desert.
At the klaxon and the screeching of the crowd, she helped him pack the empty clips into his duffle bag, rolling up the foam mat and tucking it beside the clips. The language of his body was that of a man who was having a particularly good date—pride, possession, anticipation—he ranged ahead of her, pulling her along by the hand and beaming. The Sniper let go of her hand in the kitchen, planting a single kiss in the middle of it that ran through her like a shaft of ice and heat. She blinked up at him, shock freezing her, and he let her hand go with a fond grin.
The Cook fumbled her way through a simple macaroni and cheese recipe and plunked it on the table. She was exhausted, she realized. Really, genuinely tired. Her shoulders and back ached, muscles tight as the strings of a guitar and vibrating at the slightest sound. Something in her felt warped. Different. She didn't know what it was. No, she thought, that's not quite right. I don't want to look at it yet. But his face. The look on his face. A terrible glory. Transcendent. And I joined him. The blank spot was back again in her head. She didn't fight it, concentrating on shoveling one bite after the other into her mouth and chewing mechanically.
The Sniper announced her kills to the table around a mouth full of the pasta.
The Medic—she could see the news hit him. The look her turned to her was haunted, pale and full of a grief that stripped him of flesh and the distance of his habitual composure. The Heavy looked at his lover and her, something flickering across his face. The stare he turned to her was cold, but had an odd respect in it, as if she had suddenly become a variable in his private calculations. He nodded once, eyes steady on hers and hand on his lover's back. She nodded back. He sees me now, she thought.
The Heavy's fingers tightened on the Medic, on the private signs of distress that were telegraphing through his spine like the signal for a radio. Like a rock through a window, he thought, grinding his teeth. And still ignorant. If you break him, мышка, I will destroy you down to your shallow little soul, and I will take every one of them down with me if I must.
The Spy looked at them both, noting the cold tension on the Heavy's face, then spoke. "It merits a little celebration. I have just the right thing." He pushed his chair from the table, the wooden legs scraping against the concrete, and left the room quickly. She is still in shock, he thought. Bête does not quite understand it, but he does not understand such soft feelings. He fumbled with the keys in his pocket and pushed open the door to his room, stepping absently over the thin, grease-darkened tripwire strung across the doorway.
We cannot let her decide she feels guilty, he thought with a twinge of regret, opening his nightstand and poking through the contents, which clinked and rustled. Bête, if you had been patient… He sighed. But we must play the hand as it is dealt.
The Spy pulled out a small baggie, eyeing the mint-colored pills in it. They used to use this for therapy before they banned it in this godforsaken country. Let us hope that flooding her with pleasure will help us bring steel out of her, not shatter her entirely. His fingers closed around the bag, the plastic stretching as his hand convulsed with frustration. There is a process to this, Bête. We do not all come with the ability to kill easily. After a moment of deliberation, the Spy grabbed two bottles from the crate beside his desk. If you must hurry this up, he thought, we have to keep her too busy for regret. Or—he read the labels with resignation. It was really too nice a vintage for this—too drunk for it.
When the Spy pushed open the door to the dining room, he had a bottle in either hand, a small baggie dangled around the neck of one of the bottles. He held both hands up, moving his wrists to make the baggie swing, to draw her eyes to the movement. "Your choice, Vipere."
The Medic looked up, his lover's hand still on his back, and saw the baggie. His eyes widened, pulling against the tight skin of his temples. "Do you—"
The Spy cut him off. "You have your methods and I have mine."
Small green pills. The Medic knew what the Spy was doing. He had no military service of his own, but knew enough to guess at the process of convincing someone to become a killer. You're cleaning the Sniper's mess this time, he thought, his sarcasm taking on a hysteric chill. Indicated in therapy, changing the mind by forcing it open. I knew you were a clever, amoral man, but the chances you're taking... He stopped himself. Maybe it's an act of mercy. He knows what he's doing, much more than the tier.
The Medic looked over at the Cook, at the numbed expression on her face. I can't watch this. He stood up abruptly and left the room, leaving his full plate untouched. The Heavy walked into the kitchen, grabbing two glasses, and followed him.
The Spy watched the Medic go with a faint sigh of relief. Good, he thought. If we have to do this, we can't let you keep her questioning.
The Cook watched the bag swinging, shining in the overhead light, the crinkle of plastic hypnotic. "What's in the bag?"
The Spy turned a well-practiced, seductive smile at her, his lips curving up into a promise. "MDMA."
She blinked. "How did you get them? You can barely find the stuff for love or money anymore."
"Favors." He pulled a dull green tab from the bag. "Try one. You'll like it." The Spy paused. There are things even I won't do, he thought with a brief stab of anguish, and this comes so close. "Vipere, have you ever…" He let the words trail off.
"Yes, I have." She was still watching the bag, fixated on the relief it would offer. The Spy closed the distance between them with the same practiced smile and put the bottles on the table beside her, leaning against it with a graceful slouch that pushed the plates aside.
"You know how to fix any serious problems." The Spy made a gun with the fingers of his free hand and tapped it against his temple, still smiling. He turned his head, making a quick survey of the room. "Well, gentlemen, any other takers?"
The Scout shrugged, losing the pasta on his fork and stabbing another mouthful with a terse movement. "If you're offering. It's been awhile."
Favors. The Demo snorted. Yeh're a dirty bastard, yeh sneaky fuck. If I'd have known what yeh were planning ta do with it, I'd not have made it for yeh. "I'll take meh scrumpy."
The Spy looked over at him, a quick flick of his eyes and the tiniest shake of his head. Don't interfere. Don't make this harder.
The Demo's mouth flattened into a hard line, but he shrugged. At least it'll break the tension. The poor thing looks like she needs it. He turned, pulling his flask from the vest he'd draped over the back of his chair and unscrewing it. The Spy was still looking at him, a question in his dark eyes, and the Demo answered him with a small salute. Sometimes, he thought, yeh just have ta get out of yer head. The Spy sighed, relieved, and the Demo watched him over the flask at his lips. Yeh'd better be a bloody good croaker, yeh hound.
"I…. shouldn't." The Soldier looked at the pills. "I've been odd, lately." His eyes slid over to the Cook and away, the guilty expression on his face transparently miserable.
"Odd," the Scout said with a cackle, spit and fragments of pasta flying across his plate. "Solly, you've had more brains on you than a surgeon."
The Soldier glared at him. "I have been doing my duty."
"You have been doin' that duty with extreme prejudice, Solly. Live a little." The Scout stood, leaning over the table, and grabbed one of the dark green bottles beside the Spy. The Sniper handed him a utility knife without comment, folding open the small, attached corkscrew. With a grunt of effort, the Scout screwed it into the bottle and pulled the cork out with a pop. He filled the Soldier's glass. "Come on, tomorrow's an off day."
The Soldier looked down at the full glass, a pleading expression on his face. "I get weird sometimes."
"Solly," the Scout said with an uncharacteristically sardonic arch of his blonde eyebrows, "we're all weird and it ain't going to get any less weird if you drink. Shit, if something doesn't break the tension around here, weird is gonna be the least of our problems." Come on, you crazy bastard, he added in the silence of his mind. Get it out of your system before this hothouse turns real sour. If I gotta duck any more of your rockets, I'mma do something about it.
The Soldier straightened in his chair and reached for the glass. "To America!" He didn't wait for confirmation of the toast, draining the entire glass.
The Engineer looked around. "Count me out, kids." If this is going where I think it's going, he thought, I ain't sticking around to watch it. I've seen enough brainwashing to last me a life time on this job. His conscience jabbed him immediately, reminding him of a few of the devices he'd designed with the Medic and his father's notes. He finished the last bite of his dinner and chased it down with water. Picking his plate up, the Engineer walked it to the kitchen and pulled a tumbler from the cabinet, then wandered out of the room.
Beside him, the Pyro sat quietly, blinking in self-conscious isolation. The Spy looked over at him, suddenly realizing that he'd offered the heavily medicated mercenary a powerful disinhibitor and paled. Bon Dieu, he prayed in a moment of long-dead belief, do not let the boy ask. The Pyro met the Spy's horrified stare, catching the chagrin and terror in it.
He shrugged. "I can't with what I'm taking." I'm not a monster, the Pyro thought, annoyance peering out from under his medicated fog. I'm just weird. Weirder. Weirder than most of you. I know what you think of me. He looked down at the shapeless fire suit he'd peeled down to the waist, sweat drying in patches on his undershirt. I know what you all think of me. He realized he was grinding his teeth again, a medication side effect that had become permanent, and made himself stop chewing the air.
The Spy's relief made him weak at the knees for a moment. "Perhaps the medigun?"
The Pyro looked up with a startled smile. "I'll go get it."
The Spy turned to the Cook. "Just the one, Vipere," he crooned, opening the baggie and pulling a tab from it. She squinted at the tab between his fingers and he rolled it back and forth gently. Watch my fingers, Vipere, he commanded her silently. Watch my fingers and do not think about today or tomorrow. Do not think about what you have done or what you may yet do.
"How strong are these," she finally asked, voice soft. Back and forth rolled the little tab, his long, elegant fingers conjuring it and making it disappear again and again—a magician's fingers, she thought.
"Pleasant," he said, letting his voice become deeper. Be now, Vipere. Be right now with us.
Her eyebrows met and she looked up. What is he hiding? "That's not an answer, Spy."
The slick smile that slid across his lips was flirty, his thick eyelashes fluttering down over his eyes. "Pourrez voir des anges, petite," he murmured. The pill disappeared in his hand, pinched between middle and forefingers, and he gently stroked her cheek.
She stared up at him, thinking out the translation against the warm, coaxing pressure of his fingers before answering. "So they're very strong."
"Oui." His fingers wandered to her lips and behind him, the Soldier inhaled sharply. The Spy held up a cautioning finger without breaking his eye contact with the Cook. "Ouvrez tu bouche," he whispered, fingers putting the faintest pressure on her lower lip. When she opened her mouth, caught in his gaze, he put the pill on her tongue. "Avalez, petite." She dry-swallowed the tab with an absent grimace, watching a secretive smile burning on his lips. "Bonne fille," he murmured, hand on her face, and leaned forward to kiss her. "Bonne, bonne fille."
When he broke the kiss, her eyes were glassy. Dizzied, he thought with a satisfaction that was both professional and personal. If we must remake you, Vipere, we can at least make it enjoyable. This was once my profession, long before the company bought my services. I seduce, Vipere. See me and know what I can do.
"I'll take one," the Sniper said, watching the Spy and the enraptured look on her face. Sneak, you clever wanker. "This'll be fun."
"M'aussi." The Spy popped a tab in his mouth and washing it down with wine. Stronger for you, Vipere, than me, and for this I do not wish to be entirely sober.
The Scout looked around and decided to go back to his room, leaving his plate on the table with customary carelessness. Nope, I know that look and I don't want a show with dinner, he thought.
She's going to get hysterical when she has time to think about the fact that she's killed somebody. Everybody does but the really sick pricks. The Soldier's jaw rippled, disgust contorting his face, and he finished his first glass of wine with a single long draft. I know what you're up to, you sneaky French whore, he thought. It's necessary. But I don't have to like it.
He sighed. At least they're fucking honest in boot camp.
By common agreement, they went to the living room. The Demo and Soldier towed bottles, the Pyro towed the medigun, and the Cook, Spy and Sniper towed themselves, an anticipatory hush falling over them all that made their footsteps seem to echo more loudly through the hall. The Spy kept his fingers laced through hers, pulling gently, and they walked together with the Sniper following them. He led her to the couch, spinning her like a dancer and with a gentle push, sat her in the middle. The Spy took her right, the Sniper her left, leaving the Soldier and Demo to sit like bookends in the chairs. The Pyro stood for a moment, awkwardly trying to figure out where to sit, and finally simply sat down on the floor next to the fireplace. For lack of anything else to do, he set up a small pyramid of wood shavings and paper, and nursed a fire into life.
If nothing else, the Pyro thought, I'll have something comforting to look at. He scooted closer, turning toward the flames, and dragged the medigun close. Still staring at the flickering, dancing light, he switched it on and propped it up in his lap, under his chin. Haloed by the beam, he gave a quiet sigh of relief.
The silence stretched on for a time, punctuated by the crackle of wood burning and the clink and gulg of several people getting determinedly, seriously drunk.
"It always takes forever for these things to hit me," the Cook complained, staring at the fabric of the couch between her legs. There are little spaces there, she realized, little spaces in the weave where raised stripes made tiny pools of shadow.
The Spy giggled, his nerves rippling like the surface of a pond. "How long, Vipere, do you think you have been staring at the couch?"
She looked up. "Huh?"
The Sniper ran his hands over and over the fabric of his pants, languid eyes fixed on the flames and hunter's body finally at rest. The Spy, equally languid, curled and un-curled his hair around his fingers and watched her. "How long," he repeated, "do you think you've been staring at the couch?"
She found the question impossible to answer, a moue of distress making her pout at him. He looked at the dusting of freckles across her nose, drawing little lines between them in his head, her face a constellation. The Spy reached out, unconsciously, and traced a few of those lines with his thumb. Her face settled into an expression of quiet awe, and she turned toward him, nerves trilling tiny high-pitched songs under the whorls of fingers.
In one of the armchairs, the Soldier snorted. "Give them a little while," he said to the Demo, "and they'll be rolling around on the carpet."
"Give 'em longer and they'll be rollin' about on each other." The Demo held up his bottle, letting the last few drops hit his tongue and putting it down, regretfully. I'll give that sneaky peacock this much, he thought. That was a lovely bottle of wine. "I've got to go get another. Solly?"
"Yeah," the Soldier said, hand circling as he watched the figures on the couch. "More here."
The Pyro turned, looking at the four of them over his shoulder. This, he thought with a certain amount of regret, will end badly if I stay. They won't help me find the right boundaries and stay in them. He stood up, shouldering the heavy pack of the medigun. "Good night," he said shortly, and left before he could do any harm.
The Sniper, pulled out of his reverie by the Pyro's body passing between him and the fire, looked over at the Cook. "You killed him today," he said softly, pupils huge in the low light. "Was it good?"
She let a shiver that ended in a moan, face still captured by the Spy's fingers. The Sniper moved a little closer to her on the couch. "Can I tell you a secret," he whispered.
"What," she breathed, eyes fluttered closed against the champagne bubbles than ran through her with every movement of the Spy's thumb.
The Sniper leaned forward, resting his chin on her shoulder. "It's pretty fun almost all the time." She smelled like sweet musk under her sweat and he buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the perfume of her shampoo and beneath it, her smell. He grunted and reached out for the back of her neck, holding it still so he could keep his nose pressed to her scalp, eyes closed.
The Spy chuckled, thumb moving to sweep the tender skin of her cheek. "Get a little closer, Bête."
With a last deep sniff, the Sniper sat up, frowning, fingers still clasping the back of her neck. "You don't…." He pointed at the Spy with his free hand, then back at himself. "I'm the boss."
"Really, Bête?" The Spy cocked a single, sardonic eyebrow at the Sniper.
He could not hold a glare, the fine hairs on the back of her neck calling his attention back to her. "Sometimes," the Sniper murmured, and leaned in again. He could feel the great pulse in her neck with the edge of his forefinger, a small vibration that traveled his arm in waves. "All day," he whispered, her hair caressing his lips as they moved. "I've been watching you all day."
The Soldier pointed at the Spy and Sniper with a startled shout that echoed like thunder in their heads. "I knew it!" He sat up, leaning forward on his knees. "I knew the two of you were up to something together and it wasn't just her. You fight too much."
The Spy half-turned, making a face. "We do not advertise."
"You just did."
The Demo walked in, the neck of a bottle in each hand. He'd picked the Spy's door while he was distracted, expecting the trip wire, and relieved the man of the two most expensive bottles he could find. And now, yeh sneaky bastard, we're even. "What, he said, "no touching already?"
He handed a bottle to the Soldier and sat down, looking at the tableau before him: the Sniper had buried both hands in the Cook's hair, releasing it from her bun, and had his nose pressed to her scalp. The Spy watched them both, eyelids swollen, with a satisfied, proprietary smile. "Seems a waste o' perfectly good ecstasy."
"Negatory, but the Spy and the Sniper just confessed their love."
The Spy growled once without looking back. The Sniper looked around the room until he found the Soldier. "That's not what…"
"Close enough." The Soldier raised the bottle. "To Lady Freedom!" When he lowered it, he squinted drunkenly at the label, then looked over sharply at the Demo.
The Demo gave him a mischievous smile and held a finger up to his lips, then spoke chidingly to the Soldier. "Have yeh considered just drinking it?"
After a shocked moment, the Soldier grinned back. Spy's going to shit himself when he sobers up. "I am," he said, with mock indignation. "I'm just Americanizing it first."
The Sniper scooted over again, pressing the long line of his leg against hers and his chest to her back. "Too many clothes," he complained. "You're wearing too many clothes." All day, all day I've been good. Let me touch you. After a moment, he realized he'd said it out loud. There was a moment of silence. She froze, blinking. The Spy glared at him, then went back to gently stroking her face.
"Shhhh," he crooned and she melted back into them both, eyes closing again. "As one hunts fish with bare hands. Slowly and gently." The Spy brought his other hand to her face, cupping it so that he was barely touching her and brushed his mouth against hers with the ghost of a pressure. "Comme l'abeille dîne la fleur, Bête."
The Sniper blinked, mouth moving. Something about flowers, he translated with a frown of concentration, and fishing barehanded, which all boils down to patience, knowing Sneak. Except he's leaving out the part in barehanded fishing where you snatch it out of the water. He sighed and went back to running his fingers through the thick, heavy mass of her hair, body pressed against hers.
"Well, at least they're touchin.'" And at least she's nae frozen, but she may be a mass of rage later. I suppose, he thought, resignation making him slump in his chair, if any of us had ta coax her out and change her mind about the whole thing, it might as well be the gigolo. The Demo looked over at the Soldier. "Do yeh think if we mashed their faces together, they'd kiss some more?"
"I think I'd kiss her," the Soldier said. "Dunno about either of them, though."
The Cook turned her head, unbalancing the Sniper. "They're not bad," she said, words slowly dripping from her mouth. Her lips were bee-stung, a flush heating her cheeks.
If only yeh knew, the Demo thought with a wry twist of his lips. He looked over at the Soldier, the avid hunger on his face, and the slowly moving shapes on the couch. This is about to be a bit more sharing than I care to do.
"We're very good," the Spy purred and leaned past the Cook to press his lips to Sniper with the same slow, gentle brush that he knew would madden his impulsive lover. Squeezed between them, the Cook made a hungry little noise in the back of her throat, hands rising to the Spy's chest. The Sniper made a low groaning noise and grabbed the back of the Spy's head with one hand, the other tightening in the Cook's hair as she squeaked. The Spy pulled back and looked down, checking on her.
"Do yeh think we should leave?" The Demo looked over at the Soldier, smirking as he teased the man. Nae, that one's not likely ta move anytime soon.
"Probably," the man answered, his words slurring slightly, "but I ain't moving." The Soldier tapped the half-empty bottle against his knee with a thoughtful expression. "I've always wondered. I mean, I ain't a fairy." His words fell into the sudden silence like a stone, and he flushed as the Demo rolled an incredulous eye over to him.
The Demo could not have been more surprised if the door had burst open and an each-uisge had stepped through to take them all for a midnight ride. I'd never have known, he thought, stunned. But it's like yeh Solly to be this suicidal. "Have yeh seen their kill counts?"
"Lassie," the Demo said, "yeh might wanna move." If yeh've never been in a bar fight, he added silently, this may be yehr night. He moved his bottle to the side of the chair furthest from the couch. I'm nae sure I'd break it up, either, unless they both wade in.
The Soldier blinked as fear did the work of a good cup of coffee. The Spy and Sniper appeared to be ignoring him, but he had no doubt at least one of them had been paying enough attention to hear him. I'll pay for that later, he thought, a chill running down his back.
The Spy's hand snaked out and took a handful of the Cook's shirt, but neither man got up.
The Demo let the breath he'd been holding out, slowly. "Or not. Well, lads and lassie, I'm off ta bed. Solly, if yeh'll take my advice, yeh'll go to yours."
The Soldier looked over at the two men and looked down at his bottle, lingering in the chair. With an exasperated gesture, the Demo picked up his bottle and left.
The Spy turned his head slowly, eyes narrowed to malicious slits. "What did you wonder, Solly?" As his attention shifted, the Sniper started to rub at the tight muscles of the Cook's back, keeping her occupied while his partner dealt with the Soldier. She shifted uncomfortably for a moment, then let him work.
The Soldier shrugged, irritably, still staring at the bottle. "Nothing, Spy." I owe you the one punch, you sneaky fucker. One. Any more than that and I'll kick your skinny French ass.
A slow, nasty smile crept across the Spy's face. "Wondering what it's like, Solly?"
"I said I get weird when I drink." The Soldier stood up suddenly and nearly sat back down, fumbling for the chair arm, before slowly propping himself back up. "I'm going to go. I should have gone." He took a few, faltering steps toward the door before the Spy spoke, his voice silky and warm.
"Wanna try kissing me, Solly?"
The Cook and Sniper stared at the Spy, and then at the Soldier.
"I…." The Soldier flapped his hands, then gripped one hand with another and held them tightly in front of him. "I have to go."
The Spy rose from the couch, wobbling only slightly, and glided toward the Soldier, who stumbled backward until his back was pressed to the wall. "It's only a kiss," the Spy murmured, his smile growing increasingly barbed as the taller man paled. "Only a kiss."
He leaned in slowly, putting his hands on the wall on either side of the Soldier's head. "Do you want a kiss, Soldier?" The Spy's smile was vulpine. "A kiss from a fairy makes you a fairy, Solly. Behind all the bellowing, is there a fairy?" He leaned in until his breath feathered across the Soldier's cheeks. "Do you want to find out what it's like to kiss a fairy," he whispered.
The Sniper stopped rubbing, a similar, vulpine grin on his face.
"You could always escape me, Solly, but here you are," the Spy breathed. "Has it been killing you, Solly? Have you been awake at night wondering what it would be like, or have you been brave enough to try?"
The Spy's thick, dark eyelashes fluttered down over his eyes. "Aren't you going to run, Solly?"
The Soldier swallowed heavily, his eyes open wide, then grabbed the astonished Spy's shirt and kissed him with anguished violence. After a moment, the Spy let himself relax into it, his hands reaching down to cover the Soldier's wrists in case he lashed out. The kiss was not short, and Spy licked lazy little trills that mimicked head on the Soldier's tongue, stilling his violence and making him groan. When the Spy stepped back, still holding the Soldier's wrists, he smiled lazily. "Sweet like the first day of summer, Solly."
The Soldier took a deep breath, stunned. "I…that was not bad."
"Want to join us on the couch, Solly?" The Sniper fought the urge to laugh, but it was a near thing. Sneak never fights fair if he can help it. The thought was followed by a surge of hunger. I haven't watched him seduce another man in a long time. I haven't watched him seduce a virgin in a really long time. He looked down at the Cook, who was watching the Spy and Soldier with hazy curiosity. One of both. Sneak, you bloody amazing pervert.
The Soldier let himself be led to the couch and sat at the end of it, his eyes pleading. "I don't know what to do now," he said quietly.
At the sound of laughter, he looked over to see the Sniper giggling, a surprisingly high-pitched sound. The Soldier flushed, and the Spy made an inarticulate, annoyed noise. "Sorry," the Sniper said, winding down. "Let Sneak drive. He's good at this." The Soldier frowned at him, still embarrassed.
"Oi," the Sniper said, laughter still skipping in his voice. "Don't be offended, mate. He's just… very good. Let him tell you what to do." He picked up the Cook, scooting them both back before she had time to respond and laying her back against his chest. She froze, and he sighed. Right, like fishing and flowers and other slow shit. He picked up one of her arms and started to rub the knots from it. After a moment, she relaxed again.
The Soldier put his hands in his lap, looking anxiously at the Spy, who flicked them off and straddled him, putting his arms on the Soldier's shoulders and crossing them behind his neck. The Soldier's hands hovered, uncertain.
"Touch me. Touch me like I was her." The Spy turned his head and nodded at the Cook where she lay sprawled across the Sniper's chest, a particularly filthy grin on this face. She opened her eyes and made a questioning noise, a little grunt that went up at the end, and the Sniper picked up her other forearm, finding and soothing the knots in it.
The Soldier gingerly put his hands on the Spy's hips and looked at him. "Now what?"
"Now, I kiss you again." He bent down, pressing his lips to the Soldier's—at first slick, then harder, letting the kiss become hungry. The Soldier's arms tightened, wrapping themselves around the Spy, and he ate the Spy's low chuckle.
The Spy broke the kiss, leaning to the side away from the Cook and Sniper. "Do not get in the way of what we have to do," he hissed against the Soldier's ear.
The Soldier's arms tightened painfully around him. "I won't," he whispered. "But I don't have to like it."
With an ambiguous smile, the Spy trailed kisses down the side of his neck and the Soldier's arms loosened. "She will," he breathed. "Tell me, are you just here for her?" The Soldier took a breath, and the Spy opened his mouth, sucking at the side of the Soldier's neck. The Soldier groaned.
When the Spy let his mouth open, he whispered again. "I thought not. I will get to you and then I will get to her, and you can watch if you like. You can"—he nipped the Soldier, who shivered—"make sure we play nice." The Spy undulated, rubbing his groin against the Soldier who was already responding, and swayed back fluidly. "If you have not kissed a man," he purred, "have you ever been blown by one?"
The Soldier opened his eyes wide, his arms growing lax. "It's been a long time since anyone—"
That lazy little tart, the Spy thought, glancing over at the Sniper, whose hands were becoming restless. Best to distract and entertain before he chases her back into the ice. The Spy turned back to the Soldier. "Want one?"
The Sniper's hands froze with his breath, then he wrapped his arms loosely around the Cook. She snuggled into his chest and looked over at the other end of the couch. "Pretty," she said, curiosity sharpening her voice.
"I'll try." The Soldier looked at him, eyes wary.
The Spy smiled sweetly and stroked the Soldier's arms, following them slowly to his hips and in, finally resting lightly on to the buckle of the Soldier's belt. With a lascivious smile, the Spy pulled the belt from the loops on the Soldier's shirt and tossed it behind him. The Spy smoothed his hands down the Soldier's legs and stood, giving his pants a quick tug. "Off."
The Soldier wriggled out of his pants and watched the Spy warily. "No teeth, right?"
The Spy's half smile was mostly disbelief. "Not, Solly, unless you asked for it."
"Hell, no."
The Sniper put his chin on the Cook's shoulder to watch and she nuzzled the side of his neck. The Spy sank down to the Soldier's kneecaps and laid a soft line of kisses up the inside of his leg. The Soldier shifted, then pulled his uniform shirt and tank top off, throwing across the room. "Might as well," he said with an apologetic shrug.
The Spy smiled against the inside of the Soldier's thigh and huffed a gentle breath against him. The Soldier closed his eyes, fingers clenching on the couch.
"Bigger than I thought you'd be," the Spy remarked quietly, looking up the length of the Soldier's cock. Slowly, achingly slowly, he laid a second line of kisses up its length. The Soldier moaned quietly, watching him.
The Sniper rubbed the side of his face against the Cook's hair. "I love it when you do this," he said, watching the Spy's mouth move. The Soldier looked over with a worry that dissolved in a second line of light, brushing kisses. The Spy sat back on his heels, sardonic amusement playing across his face, and let his mouth hover just over the Soldier's swelling cock.
"Ask him," the Sniper said. "Ask him for it."
The Soldier looked down, eyes wild. "Please."
With a throaty chuckle, the Spy came up on his knees and licked the Soldier's cock from balls to head. The muscles in the Soldier's thigh shook and he shouted.
The Spy smirked and pursed his lips, making a muscular ring, then slid them slowly over the Soldier, who gave him a sobbing moan. The Soldier's arms came up off the couch and shook, muscles jumping beneath his skin. His head flew back, bouncing against the back of the couch. The Spy growled, muffled by the cock in his mouth, and rolled his eyes up to watch the Soldier's body tense as the Spy's head moved up and down.
"Can I—," the Soldier panted, and groped the air above the Spy's head.
The Spy pulled back just enough to respond. "Oui. Gently."
The Soldier fumbled through the air until he found the hair on the Spy's head, gripping either side of it, and thrust very carefully into the Spy's mouth. The Sniper throbbed in sympathy behind the Cook, provoking a low noise from her. "When he's high, Solly, he has no gag reflex. None. I've tried."
The Soldier's fingers flexed against the Spy's head, but he decided against it. The Spy laughed around his mouthful and reached up, squeezing the Soldier's hands. The Soldier took a firmer grip and started to bounce the Spy's head carefully up and down. "A few seconds longer," whispered the Sniper. "Just a few seconds."
The orgasm traveled up the Soldier's spine, rolling tension exploding from his mouth in a surprisingly high cry, blood throbbing in white stars behind his eyelids. The Spy lingered, throat working, and when he pulled back, had sucked the Soldier clean. The Sniper hissed, fingers digging into the Cook involuntarily. She looked up, alarmed, and he petted her absently.
The Soldier looked at the Spy, eyes unfocused. "I don't even…. I can't…."
The Spy wiped the corner of his mouth, sitting back on his heels with a pleased smirk.
The Soldier's eyes focused on the Spy's mouth and he shivered. "I can't sit across from you without thinking about your mouth. Jesus, how the fuck am I supposed to eat?"
"One bite—," the Spy said, leaning forward to lick the Soldier teasingly, "—at a time."
The Soldier wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "I can't figure out if I've sobered up or you just sucked the booze out of me."
"If you want, I can get you back up again." The Spy took the baggie from his pocket and shook it once at the Soldier, smiling at the double entendre.
"Sneak, I couldn't possibly. I could fuck, but I'm so goddamn tingly right now, I'd be afraid to have more."
"A compliment, Solly, that I greatly appreciate." The Spy stood up carefully, dusting his knees off. "And now," he said, "to our other problem." They looked over at the bemused Cook. Good, the Spy thought. Still floating.
The Soldier took a breath. "How will you—," and stopped at the Spy's raised finger. Really, the Spy thought wryly. If I had known you would respond this easily to a raised finger I would have used it on you every time you bellowed about your ridiculous country.
The Spy bent down, gently sliding the glasses from her face and put them on one of the empty armchairs. She blinked at him and he pulled at her arms, standing her up in the circle of them. He slid his arms down to her hands. "Vipere," he said softly. "Can you hear me?"
She smiled, an unfocused thing, and he put her hands on his face. She swayed gently and he jerked his head at the Sniper, who got behind her, gently clasping her shoulders.
The Spy pressed a kiss to one of her hands and she gasped. He rolled the edge of her sleeve up, following his fingers with his mouth and making her tremble, sagging back against the Sniper. No protest, he thought. No, not yet. He let his mouth follow one of her arms up, maintaining the same gentle touch to watch her as she swayed. The Spy reached her mouth and holding her face with both hands, went back to the teasing, faint brush of his lips. He could feel her smile, body becoming pliant. The Sniper shifted and he kept kissing her gently, letting a single hand drift down and tug her heavy sweatshirt off, millimeter by millimeter, handing it off to the Sniper to work her hands down through her sleeves and go back to holding her as he leaned back slightly and pulled it off.
Her brows met and she blinked, uncertain, but he went back to kissing her before slowly gliding his hand down again, tugging slowly at the sweat-soaked shirt beneath it. "Trust me," he whispered into her mouth. "You did so well today and we missed you so much." Her face softened and he felt a spiteful little wrench of guilt—it makes them believe you love them. It will make her believe for a night that you love her and she will let you do what you must.
The Spy rolled it up her body, handing it off to the Sniper to pull from her and returning to the same dizzying chain of kisses. He stroked the bare skin of her arms, seeking the spots that would elicit a shiver and faint moan. "So well, Vipere, so good." The Spy slid her arms around him, letting her hold on to him, transferring his hands so that he was stoking her back in gentle, lazy circles as he kissed her. She relaxed into him and he delicately unhooked her bra, leaning her back against the Sniper without breaking the kiss and pulling it off. He brought her body back to his and went back to stroking, keeping her skin buzzing and rippling under his hands.
The next part, the Spy thought, is where this could be difficult. One of his hands pointed briefly at her shoes and the Sniper took the hint, bending down and lifting one of her feet. She made a confused noise, drawing back, and he shifted his hands to her hair, still kissing her, cradling her skull. For a minor miracle, the Sniper was gentle, catching the Spy's mood.
We are going to have a chat about this later, sonny boy. The Soldier stared bloody murder at the Spy, then shifted uncomfortably on the couch, looking away. I know what this technique is and you are even more of a son of a bitch than I thought you were. Jesus.
Her socks followed her shoes, and she stood barefoot on the floor. With a gesture, the Spy called the Sniper close, making a stroking gesture in the air above her back. The Sniper nodded and started to stroke her skin gently, pressing his body to hers. When he reached for her breasts the Spy shook his head, still kissing her, and the Sniper circled around them with his fingers, staying away.
The Spy paused for a moment. Vipere, he said silently, I am sorry. He reached down, running a finger along the skin just above her jeans. She stiffened immediately, and the Spy started to whisper, smiling gently at her. "Bonne fille." Her eyelids fluttered, confusion on her face. "Détendez-vous, bonne fille," he crooned. "Délassez-vous." He kissed her eyelids, letting his lips linger as he stroked the skin, working millimeter by millimeter under the band of her jeans. "Vous êtes á la maison, petite. Ta maison. C'est ta maison." He slowly pulled the button from its hole, still running his fingers gently over the exposed skin.
The Soldier took a breath and the Sniper glared at him. The Soldier snarled at him silently, skin crawling. I'm here to make sure that snake doesn't do more than he has to, he reminded himself.
When she relaxed again, the Spy's stroking fingers found the zipper and loosened its teeth. She pulled back, starting to struggle, and he clasped her face in his, kissing again, a slow, languid thing that ran through her in a million tiny electric sparks, joining the warm current of the Sniper's hands as they stroked. "Tu es en sécurité," the Spy murmured, hand smoothing the fabric of her jeans and underwear down her hips. He caught the Sniper's eye and nodded at her breasts, warning him with a glance to be gentle, and rejoined the kiss, slowly smoothing the cloth down and keeping the skin warm as he moved. The Sniper let his fingers drift in, slowly, a tide advancing and receding, each time a little closer to her nipple. He breathed with her, against her, matching their breaths until she wasn't sure where his body stopped and hers began. The Spy knelt, pulling the jeans and panties free of her legs while the Sniper breathed with her, letting her lean back against him. When she didn't flinch, he made short work of stripping himself and pulled her into his body while the Sniper tore his clothes off.
The Spy hummed a wordless tune in the back of his throat, kissing her face in tiny, lingering kisses and led her like that back to the couch. The Sniper sat down first, letting the Spy gently, inexorably push her down until she sat in the Sniper's lap. He knelt in front of her, body still pressed to her fever-hot skin, and slowly feathered his lips down the side of her neck, waiting to see when she would flinch, if she would flinch. Her eyes opened when he traced the inside slope of her breasts and he murmured again into them, the words so quiet they disappeared as they were heard, melting into her skin. "En sécurité avec moi, petite."
The Sniper took up the tune, wordless and wandering, his chest vibrating with it, inflating and falling with the breath they shared. She floated, buoyed up by a warm tide, eyes closed. His eyes flicked up at the Spy, a question in them and the Spy made a quick gesture with his hand. Shortly.
The warm tide grew warmer, hands moving, the chest behind her rising and falling, and a wet warmth slowly constricting around her nipple. She moaned, body moving loosely, tide heating again, a voice in her ear repeating in the familiar language of her childhood that she was safe, that she was loved, that everything was fine and she was a good person. Warmer now again, her thoughts moved like faint dark shapes in the water, incomprehensible. Hands lifted her, hungry now, the words repeating and now she was repeating them. Safe. Good. Love.
She surfaced and the Spy kissed her down again, stroking her into thoughtless hunger, repeating the same words. She reached up for him, drawing him down into her body. "Hungry," he whispered in her ear and she repeated it, the word slipping like music from her, mirroring him and making noise now while he kept whispering in her ear. Safe and she echoed him. Good and she echoed him, the hunger drawing her up, the tide becoming more urgent. His eyes above hers, pupils large and dark, reflecting her face in his, the breathing behind her echoing hers and the Spy kissing her again, a wet pressure that went on and on, sweat making her slide against him and the chest behind her. Someone's hands closed on her arms, anchoring her, and for a moment she wanted to pull away but the tide came back, words echoing on either side of her as if they had passed through her, the world narrowing to a tension that kept rising, rising without breaking, her eyes rolled up in her head and the words still passing through her with the steadily louder sound of her pulse, breath growing ragged now. The voices called her by names, not her name and she whispered it. There was a moment of silence, and the voices called her name, one after the other, calling her slowly back as the tension began to break over her, the hands squeezing harder and she opened her eyes in time to scream into the Spy's mouth as she came.
He smiled at her, tiredly, sweat dripping from every part of his body and drew back to let her speak, still buried inside her. She blinked, her entire body thrumming and still hungry, its edge blunted by inarticulate warmth of being comfortable. "Come back to us, Vipere," he said, breathless. The Sniper kissed the top of her head, releasing his grip on her upper arms.
"If you wish to be useful," the Spy said to the Soldier, still staring at her face, "get water."
The Soldier swore, pulling on his pants, and padded out, barefoot.
"Still hungry, Vipere?"
She could hear him, but the words were still flowing around her, through her fingers, and she could not catch them. He moved gently and she reached for him, pulling him down and kissing him. He kissed her and pulled back again. "You must come back, Vipere. You must come back to speech for me." She reached for him again, confused, and he leaned back.
"Come back, Vipere, you have to be awake for this part."
She concentrated on speech, on words, grabbing at them until she could find something. She swallowed, throat dry, brow furrowed. "Here."
"Yes, Vipere, you are here."
"Thirsty."
The Soldier came back into the room, body tense with furious anger.
"Thirsty," she said, looking at him.
He bit his lip and stiffly bent to offer her the glass. She would have drunk the whole thing, but the Spy gently took it from her and polished it off. She let him have it because it made him happy, and he smiled at her, handing the cup back to the Soldier without looking.
"Vipere, for this part we must talk. Can you talk to me?"
She nodded and he beamed at her. She smiled, shyly. The Sniper shifted behind her again, uncomfortably hard.
"We're going to move now, so we can give our poor Sniper the chance to stretch." The Spy wrapped his arms around her and lifted, wrapping her legs around him and turning to sit on the couch, still inside her. She moved experimentally, and he chided her. "Not yet, Vipere."
The Sniper sat the rest of the way up with a groan, a hand rubbing at his lower back, then sank back down on the couch. She watched him, head cocked and curious. The Soldier sat down in one of the armchairs, radiating the desire to hurt someone.
"Vipere," the Spy said softly, thrusting once to get her attention. She looked down at him, a soft smile on her face. "Where are you?"
His familiar face—the long blade of his nose, the salt and pepper in his hair, lips smiling at hers—"home," she whispered, reaching out to touch his face. He pressed a kiss to her palm, eyes intent.
"Do you trust me, Vipere?"
"Yes," she said, tracing lines across his chest. The Soldier made a noise like a steam valve under pressure and she looked at him, confused.
"We're trying to help you, Vipere. We want to make you happy."
She smiled again, hair tumbling in sweat-matted waves around her as she moved.
"You were very good, today," he said, staring into her eyes. "You did a very good job today."
The tiniest wrinkle appeared between her eyes. The Spy moved with her, sending a wave of warmth up her spine and she gasped, watching him.
"You're only defending yourself, Vipere. It is a skill, a good skill to have." She looked down at the pleasure gathering on his face and he reached for her hips. Something in her mind twitched but was buried under the warm, honeyed tension that she could feel gathering inside her. "Simply a skill, nothing more. Nothing bad happens. Nothing permanent. There is just this"—he rolled his hips—"me and you and our friends."
His breath started to quicken and hers with it, still staring down as pleasure made his rhythm falter and hers with it. He kept his eyes open, staring into hers, keeping hers open as the tension broke for her, and then for him. She fell forward, hands on the couch, and he sat up, helping her slide off of him and cuddle down against him.
The Spy's fingers traced circles on her arm. "Are you still hungry, Vipere?" She reached for him and kissed him. He smiled tenderly at her. "Are you still hungry?" After a moment she nodded. "Always," she said, and a pair of hands turned her to face the Sniper, an odd expression on his face. He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her, gently, drawing back to look at her eyes.
She looked at him nervously and he kissed her again, the same wet pressure she remembered, pulling her so that she straddled him and she melted into his hands. From some distant place, she heard the Spy's voice. "Vipere, I am going to get more water. Don't worry, I'll be back."
The Cook would have nodded, but the Sniper's hands were on her face, their warmth stealing her breath and her attention.