The Sniper sat next to one of the Engineer's sentries, slumped against its flat top. It rocked his upper half back and forth as it surveyed the area. Three more beeps answered its calls. There were more in the halls, the bathroom, the kitchen—even the basement. The grounds outside were littered with them. In the Engineer's panic, he had built over two dozen and scattered them before falling back asleep. The Sniper couldn't blame him for being frightened, but it was overkill.
Not to mention that it had taken a few hours to get everyone back to sleep.
Nature's call had woken up the Sniper. He yawned, then pulled himself up. A quick visit to the bathroom had him sorted out. He squinted out the windows. Brilliant, soft light fell down the dam. He glanced at his watch. Eight. Much too late for him to be sleeping in. Then again, given the dark environment and the Engineer's little episode, he had some excuse for sleeping so long.
There was a creak that came from the control room. The Demoman headed towards the restroom, the same mission in mind. Both men nodded at each other. The Sniper waited outside, watching the sun climb higher and bathing in the heat that came through the windows. He smiled, then sank on his elbows again. He probably could have slept another six hours just sitting in the warm sunlight.
The Demoman re-emerged from the bathroom. "The wee man's still sleepin'."
"He needs some rest," the Sniper replied. He straightened his back, then turned to face the Demoman. "I'd say we all do."
"If you're done loungin' about in the sun like a fat cat, I could use your help." The Demoman snickered, then poked the Sniper in his stomach.
The Sniper pushed his hand back. "And what would that be?"
Patting the top of his head, the Demoman smiled. "I need to get some 'a this whacked off. Ain't battle appropriate. Neither are you, for that matter." He grabbed a strand of the Sniper's hair, then whipped it in front of his long nose.
The Sniper fussed with his hair, pulling the strand away from the Demoman. The explosives expert was right. His hair was much too long. He had enough problems trying to see behind him. The last thing he needed was for someone to come along and yank him by the hair. He froze, wondering if that was how those poachers had caught him. Or the reason why they had gone after him.
"Got a trimmer?" the Sniper asked.
"Aye," the Demoman replied. "Let me go fetch it from my things."
He returned in a short amount of time with an electric trimmer, a pair of scissors, a pick, and a comb. The Sniper pulled a trashcan from the bathroom and a chair and broom from the kitchen into the hallway. It probably would have been better to trim hair in either place, but he wanted the Engineer to find him as fast as possible, if he woke up. The last thing he wanted to do was make that man more panicked.
The Sniper tapped on the back of the chair. "Take a seat."
Tavish did so. He adjusted his turtleneck, then pulled the trashcan closer to the Sniper. "Don't go mad, mate. Just enough so it can't be grabbed, but enough to please the ladies."
"You've got it, mate," the Sniper smirked.
Over the years, everyone had learned to groom each other. It had made it easier to avoid unnecessary bills. It had been quite a while, but the technique came back quickly to the Sniper. He picked through matted curls, making sure the Demoman's hair was as neat and even as possible before he started buzzing through it. It was easier to trim him down with a spinning chair, but it wasn't hard to keep his hair even. Black, fluffy tufts fell to the ground.
"You're lucky you're not a sheep," the Sniper laughed. "Otherwise, I'd have to roll you on your back 'n shave your belly."
The Demoman wrinkled his nose. "Damn, man. We never knew each other well enough for you to go all Merino style on me!"
The Sniper blew a loose tuft off the top of the Demoman's head. It bounced off the Scotsman's nose, then landed on his lap. He picked the fluff up and tossed it into the garbage can. Within a few minutes, he had a nice, soft trim. When the buzzer went silent, he felt through his hair for any uneven ends. After checking himself out in the bathroom mirror, he returned with a smile.
"Not too bad," the Demoman smiled.
The Sniper shook his head. "Well, you mostly had it taken care of."
"It was part of my job description, bein' handsome and all," the Demoman grinned. He motioned for the Sniper to sit, then picked at a long, wild strand. "But this…this is a bit much, Mundy."
"Suppose nobody cared," the Sniper sighed. "Really, not even me."
Tavish had more work cut out for him. The Sniper hadn't trimmed his hair in over a year. There was a good six or seven inches that had to go. At least he had gotten the fixative out of his hair yesterday. That was going to make it easier to work with.
"Hope you don't mind if I use my comb," the Demoman said as he fetched his tools.
"Long as you don't have lice," the Sniper replied.
The Demoman snorted at him. "Right, mate. Out of the two of us, which one's more likely to get bugs—the prince, or the guy that lives in a van?"
"Lived," the Sniper corrected him. "Still haven't found my old home."
The Demoman tutted, then combed back a strand of hair. If the man could do nothing else, he could grow a thick head of hair. As he pulled and cut the thick waves, short strands began to curl up. It was like watching a duck's tail form beneath heavier locks. Within a short amount of time, the Sniper's head took on its old shape once more. He brushed it through, then gave the Sniper's shoulder two pats.
"You'll have to clean up your sideburns, but you're good to go," the Demoman said.
The Sniper ran his fingers through his hair. He smiled when he got to the ends. "Feels right. 'Preciate it."
As the Demoman went to clean off his tools, the Sniper swept up the pile of hair. It was amusing the way the two different types of hair fought to get into the dustpan. The Demoman's hair was easy to move around, but it wanted to cling to the broom's bristles. Meanwhile, the Sniper's hair was sticking to the ground, too slick to be forced any one direction. With a little effort, he had the floor cleaned.
The Demoman came back to pick up the trashcan. He propped the door open with his hip, then dropped the can inside. He stayed still for a moment, then watched the slender man haul the chair back to the kitchen. It was nostalgic to see him trimmed up once more. That little curl said so much about him. It was the one part that the assassin could never get to behave, something wild and carefree.
Tavish crossed his arms, then let old memories flood back. How much had he forgotten? The Spy drank his tea straight, no sugar. The Scout always had to have the television set on Saturday mornings, even if he had no show to watch. A wise man never walked into the Medic's infirmary after ten at night without a mortal injury because of what horrors were certain to lurk behind those locked doors. There were so many patterns and quirks that he had let go.
No. That had been stolen from him.
He opened his one good eye, then followed the Sniper to the kitchen. There was an unappetizing scent coming from inside. Cheap, instant coffee. Hardly worth drinking, at this point. Still, they needed caffeine for whatever they had to face today. He reached for a cup from the cupboards, then blew the dust out of it. It didn't take him long to pour a wretched cup of coffee.
Sitting down next to the Sniper, the Demoman patted his back. The man looked like he was lost in dark thoughts. Even as something as simple as a touch brought him back. He lifted sharp eyes, then smiled. "Yeah?"
"Just want to let you know that I'll never let you live that hair down," the Demoman snickered.
The Sniper lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Why?"
The Demoman chuckled, then prodded the Sniper's sternum. "Because I care, mate. And I want you to care too. No more of this lone wolf, sad sack, 'nobody cares' crap, okay? We'll always care 'bout you, whether we're here or not. So, keep it together, or I swear on my Dad's grave, I will shave you bald."
"Fair enough." The Sniper smiled, then mumbled his appreciation before he drank again. "Thank you."
It almost felt whole again. The Soldier's obnoxious boasts were missing, and the Heavy wasn't there to eat what worthless breakfast they could scrape together, but it was feeling like home. At least the Engineer's sentry's beeps kept the kitchen from being completely quiet. Both men smiled, then finished the worst cup of coffee they had ever had. If the Engineer was going to be paranoid and prepared for a fight, then so were they.
The Demoman sighed, then crossed his arms. "Two keys and a hat says that Gray gets here before lunch."
A wise man would have panicked at being locked in a stranger's hotel room. Even if the two women accompanying the confused salesman seemed to be nice, it still was off. Both women were looking him over like he was some kind of puzzle. A challenge waiting to be completed. He folded his hands, then gave them a perplexed look.
"Ladies?" the shoe salesman—their former secret agent—asked. "What is going on?"
The older of the two raised her hands. "Okay. Don't flip out. I've got something to show you."
That was easier said than done, considering what she fished out of her purse. It was a massive-barreled, custom engraved revolver with a rosewood handle. The man lifted his head and hands, then squirmed back. She realized her mistake, flipping the barrel down. With a little click and a spin, she emptied the gun of its rounds. Six bullets bounced out of its cylinder.
The woman tossed the gun up, then caught it by its barrel. She handed the now safe gun to the nervous man. "Take it. It's yours."
The shoe salesman was hesitant to snatch the weapon. He looked to the woman keeping guard at the door. She wasn't intimidating, seeing as she was perhaps a hundred and twenty pounds at most. Never-the-less, he didn't feel the need to make a fuss with her watching over them. If one woman was packing heat, the other most certainly was as well.
"Zhank you," the man said.
He took the gun by its grip. It slid into his hand, like an extension of himself. He had thought the gun would feel heavier, what with the large barrel and all. The grooves on the grip felt cold and smooth on his fingers. He kept the gun pointed away from both women, facing it towards the television set. He laid it on his lap, then started studying the etching on the barrel.
"Beautiful," he murmured.
It was hard not to be enamored with the fan-dancing vixen on the gun's muzzle. Long, easy swirls flattered her curvaceous form. They reminded him of something familiar, like the hypnotizing curls that flanked Mucha's women. The woman herself was fetching. He studied her legs for a moment, smiling as he did so. He traced the woman's hip and backbone up to her face.
That was when he dropped the gun. Another wave of uneasiness spread through him. "My gun, you say? But zhis is your visage, is it not?"
"What kind of dumb, narcissistic woman would put a picture of herself on her own gun?" the Scout's mother scoffed. "Geez, you chicken-legged jerk!"
The younger woman shook her head. "Keep on track."
"Sorry, Miss P," the Scout's mother apologized.
Their former Spy leaned to his left. He studied the woman at the door once more. "Miss P?"
"Miss Pauling," the Scout's mother explained. "She was your boss. Or worked for your boss. Something like that. And me—you know, I'm me."
The Spy's blank expression said it all.
The Scout's mother's face contorted. "Ah, come on! We've known each odher for over twenty years! You couldn't have…"
She stopped, realizing the folly of her question. Of course he could have forgotten about her. He had a marble in his head blotting out anything that ever had to do with his occupation. She crossed her arms, then threw her left leg over her right knee. She would just have to jog his memory another way.
"Let me guess. Amnesia?" the Scout's mother asked.
The former Spy nodded. He placed his left hand on the gun's barrel, tracing its curves with his fingernails. "Six years ago, I was headed to zhe Southwestern portion of zhe United States. To do what? I cannot recall. As far as I know, I received some sort of traumatic brain injury."
"And you never went to dhe doctors, right?" the little mother continued.
"Whatever did zhat to me? I was not sure I wanted to recall it," the Spy confessed.
Fair enough. Perhaps he wasn't wrong about that. Life fighting and dying for Mann Co. had to have been a brutal experience. The nature of it was a little bit beyond the Scout's mother's knowledge, but she knew all too well about the risks they took. She lowered her head, conflicted. What was she asking this stranger to do? Die for her again?
"Maybe you're right," the Scout's mother faltered.
Miss Pauling straightened her back. She was alarmed at this sudden turn. "What?"
The Scout's mother smoothed her skirt. "Miss P, I…" She scrunched up her face, then shook her head. "Give me a sec, okay? Feelin' a little mixed up, here."
The shoe salesman lowered his eyes to the gun in his lap. "You said zhat you have known me for twenty years, correct? Zhen, you know who I am?"
She worked hard to suppress laughing out loud, but still managed to snort out of her nose. Yeah, she knew the Spy, in every sense of the word. She fidgeted again, this time crossing her legs at her ankles. The buckles on her boots clinked together. Even something as simple as that made her smile again.
This was going to be difficult to bring him back, but she had to. He could decide to do what he wanted after that.
"We met in Boston a long time ago, during dhe war," the Scout's mother began. "I was out grocery shopping, and you were running from dhese thugs in black suits. Rude guy you were, jumping in dhe back of my car. Didn't even see ya dhere until I got home. My kids just about beat you senseless when dhey saw you crawl out."
The Spy's eyebrows lowered. "I was a thug?"
The Scout's mother shook her head. "Not really. Some kind of vigilante. You seriously don't remember dhat?"
The Spy massaged the ridge above his eyes. "No."
"We had all kinds of little adventures like dhat. Just happened to keep running into each other. On vacations, my second marriage to Dave, during holidays…" Sadness began to creep through the whole of her body. "When I lost Dave, you were dhere. Well, just a little bit afterwards. And I? I was out to here." She made a wide hemisphere around the front of her dress.
The Spy chuckled, though he caught himself. "Were you zhat large?"
"Don't you remember?" she asked. When he didn't answer, she launched into another story. "And dhen you came back in Spring. April. I was so big dhat I thought I was gonna pop. And trust me—coming from a woman who's carried twins twice, dhat's saying something. Hell, you just about had to bring dhat one into the world yourself!"
An awkward snort escaped the shoe salesman. He tried to hide his laughter in his right hand. Even if she wasn't getting through to him, the Scout's mother was at least making him laugh. That was a good start, at any rate. Any ground she could take was a step closer to getting her man back.
"You were always dhere. You had two dozen different faces and voices, but I always knew when it was you. Hell, I even knew when it was someone tryin' to be you." She lowered her head, her smile disappearing. "And I hope you'll forgive me when you remember what I did with that fella dhat looked just like you. Can't live down those pictures."
Miss Pauling's face flushed. She knew about them? The assistant had seen them quite a few times over the years. The damn things were used like currency and prizes amongst the teammates. Hell, there were even times where men surrendered their hats to get a hold of them. And while they certainly were…well, they weren't unattractive, it was hard to look someone in the eye after having seen those. She suddenly felt very uncomfortable. She should have confiscated or burned those damned photos.
The former Spy raised his eyebrows. "How did you know it was me, if what you say is true?"
"You had these safety phrases and words. Just something we kept between the two of us, in case something should ever happen," the Scout's mother explained.
"And what was the last one?" the shoe salesman asked.
The Scout's mother prepared to share the phrase but halted. She glared at Miss Pauling until the younger woman got the picture. The assistant plugged her ears and turned away from them. Smiling, the Scout's mother returned to the Spy's right ear, then cupped a soft hand around it. She whispered it into the Spy's ear, then pulled back, satisfied that it would work.
The shoe salesman gave her a blank look. "Nutmeg? Why nutmeg?"
The Scout's mother back-handed the Spy. "Idiot! You don't say dhe safe word out loud! Geez, who taught you how to be a double agent, anyway?"
"I don't recall!" the man huffed.
"Of course you don't!" the Scout's mother shouted back. "Dhat's because you've got some kind of big dumb mind control device in you, and no matter how loud I yell at you, you're not coming back until you can get both it and your head dislodged from your ass!"
The shoe salesman shot onto his feet. He responded just as cruelly. "Zhat is rich, coming from you. If you were able to keep your children under control, you would have stopped zhat youngest of yours from running off to zhe middle of a damned desert and enlisting in some god-awful war!"
His words were cold, sharp. Both she and Miss Pauling froze in his path, but for different reasons. Miss Pauling caught onto the peculiar change in the Spy's tone. Gone was the humble shoe salesman, and back was a haughty, critical agent. The Scout's mother couldn't believe something so harsh had come from him. He would have never spoken like that to her.
"You—" she managed to hiss.
"Yes," the Spy replied. "I went after your son to protect him because all I could zhink of when he ran off was zhat night in February when you sobbed in the kitchen as you stitched my wounds shut! Because I loved you as much as you loved me, and we both made terrible mistakes! And now, zhat child has paid for zhem!"
Now, all three kept stone still. The shoe salesman had no idea what the words coming from his mouth meant. Miss Pauling didn't know if she was witnessing one of the most romantic or toxic confessions she had ever seen. The Scout's mother wasn't sure if she should be wounded or not. Above everything else, she was optimistic. Her man was coming through. Even if he was angry with her, his true emotions were there. Affection he had tried his damnedest to bury over twenty years now bubbled to the surface, unrestrained and powerful.
"Je me sens malade," the Spy slurred.
Neither woman had to understand French to know what the Spy was saying. He collapsed onto his knees, his face pale. He wasn't going to make it to the bathroom in time. Miss Pauling grabbed a trash can, then tossed it towards the Scout's mother. She placed the bin under his head, then began massaging his back. He gagged, then threw up. She kept rubbing his back, waiting until he cleared his throat and stomach before speaking again.
He sank onto his left hip, then laid against the shoddy dresser. He stared long and hard at his paramour, his face pale and mortified. It was the face of a guilty man. He knew how terrible the things he had said were. He lowered his gaze, shielding his mouth. His breath had to be foul.
The Scout's mother raised his face. "Hey."
"Bonjour," the Spy replied. "I remembered zhe safe word."
"I'm glad," she said. She then lowered her head. "By dhe way—false alarm."
When he recalled what she meant, he leaned forward and bowed his head against hers. "Je suis désolé."
They had a good, long cry. One Miss Pauling couldn't bear to watch.
Author's Notes
I'm afraid I'll wreck the tone of that last part if I say too much here. Thank you for reading.