Deli Jane

"I know what it's like to be afraid of your own mind." "We don't even know how strong we are until we are forced to bring that hidden strength forward."

[delijaneworld]

DELI JANE.

Welcome.

Take a seat.

Stay for a while.

Good stories take time.

☕ Masterlist

📖 AO3

🌿 About

💌 Ask

currently obsessed with:

TRY HARDER, FRENCHMAN.

English isn't my first language, so thank you for your patience and understanding. ❤️

[delijaneworld]

Chapter 5 is here!! 😭🎉

It was supposed to go up yesterday, but my internet decided to disappear at the worst possible moment. 💀

Thank you all so much for reading, reblogging, commenting, and just being here. Every notification still makes me ridiculously happy. 💛

Anyway...

These two continue to make absolutely no progress whatsoever.

Or... do they? 🌝

Word count: 806

Chapter 5 – Aftermath

───

Soundtrack

♪ Dissolved Girl

Massive Attack

───

The motel room was exactly the same.

Same crooked fan.

Same peeling wallpaper.

Same unbearable heat.

And yet—

Something had shifted.

Not in the room.

Between them.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Neither of them spoke.

Mundy dropped his rifle onto the nearest chair with far less care than usual.

Spy noticed.

Interesting.

"You've got blood on the floor."

Spy glanced down.

A small trail.

"...Inconvenient."

"Sit."

"I believe we've already had this conversation."

"I'm not askin'.”

Spy sighed. "So dramatic."

"No."

Another pause.

"You're bleedin'.”

Spy removed his jacket with practiced precision. Slowly. Deliberately. Almost teasing. As though bleeding were little more than a minor inconvenience. Mick silently watched every move, staying nearby.

"I can manage."

"I know."

"...Then why are you still standin' there?"

"'Cause you're gonna pass out."

"I'm not."

"You look pale."

"I'm French.”

Mundy didn't answer immediately.

He simply disappeared into the tiny bathroom.

Water started running.

A moment later he returned with a damp towel.

Spy looked at it.

"...What is this?"

"Cold."

"...Remarkable observation."

Mundy pressed it into his hand anyway.

"Forehead."

Spy sighed dramatically.

"...You're treating me like I'm dying."

"You're bleedin'."

"...Again with that."

"Still true.”

–––

Mick placed the first aid kit near the Frenchman.

"...You have a first aid kit?" Spy looked almost fascinated.

"Yep."

"I didn't take you for someone so prepared."

"I hunt."

A pause.

"Things bite.”

–––

The shooter moved to sit next to the assassin on their shared bed. The Australian started to take off his gloves. Slowly.

Then looked at Spy. "Shirt."

Spy raised an eyebrow.

"...Buying me dinner first would've been the polite approach.”

Silence.

"...Spy."

Pause.

"...Fine.”

The first thing that came off was a vest. Then suspenders. Tie got loosened.

The heat became impossible to ignore.

Quietness.

Mick turned away.

Not out of embarrassment. Never that.

He busied himself with the bandages.

–––

Mick carefully reached out to examine the wound. Fingers clumsy but careful.

Spy barely reacted.

Almost.

Almost.

But the way he clenched his jaw said enough.

“Can you feel that?” Sniper looked up.

"I do."

"Good."

"...Disappointing.”

Mundy reached for antiseptic. "This'll sting."

"I've survived worse."

"You complain more than anyone I've met."

"I'm French.”

"Hold still."

"I am."

"No.”

–––

"Stop moving."

"I wasn't."

"You blinked."

"I blink gracefully.”

“It hurts.” Not a question. A statement. True statement.

"No.”

Pause.

Almost unnoticeable movement of Sniper's lips edges. "Liar.”

–––

Mundy started to wrap bandages around the Frenchman's torso. His hands were big. Clumsy. But still attentive and careful not to tighten too hard.

Spy found himself watching Mundy's hands. Built for rifles. Built for knives. Somehow… They handled bandages with impossible care.

Done.

"...Thank you.”

"Yeah.” Mick didn't even bother raising his head from the first aid kit.

Then Spy looked down. "You've wrapped half my torso."

"Stops the bleeding."

"Stops breathing too."

"Bonus.”

Spy reached for his shirt.

Stopped halfway.

"...Help."

The word came out quieter than expected.

Mundy looked up.

For a second neither moved.

Then the Australian simply took the shirt from his hands.

Held it open.

Waited.

Spy slipped one arm through.

Then the other.

"...There."

"...Efficient."

"So I've heard.”

–––

Silence settled over the room.

Five long minutes.

Only the old fan rattled overhead.

Too hot.

Too loud.

Somehow still comforting. And then—

"You hungry?" Mundy's voice sliced through the silence like a blade.

"No."

"Liar."

"...Perhaps."

"I'm gettin' food."

"You are impossible."

"So I've heard.”

Spy hoped his expression remained neutral. It probably hadn't.

–––

They finished their meal quickly. Trained to.

Spy looked better. At least a small healthy blush started to appear on his pale skin.

But he reached for his pack of cigarettes and lit one.

Mick noticed. "One.”

Spy didn't answer.

"Only one.” Mundy repeated.

Spy looked at him. "...Bossy.”

"Yep.”

The Frenchman didn't reach for a second cigarette.

Mundy reached across the table.

Without thinking.

Took the cigarette pack.

Spy watched him. "...Stealing now?"

"No."

The Australian simply slipped the pack into his own pocket. "...Temporary confiscation."

Spy stared. "...You're insufferable."

"So I've heard.”

–––

Evening. And this annoying Frenchman refused to rest normally.

"You should rest.” Mundy said the same thing hundreds of times.

"I've rested enough.”

"You got shot.”

"I got scratched.”

"...Spy.”

"...Yes?”

"We're stayin' in.”

"No.”

"No?”

"We're goin' to the pub.”

Mick slowly looked up. "...Why?”

"I refuse to let one bullet dictate my evening.”

"...You're unbelievable.”

"I've been told.”

Pause.

"...Fine.” The shooter's voice sounded like anything but agreement.

"You agree?”

"No.”

"Then why?”

"'Cause if I leave ya here alone, you'll do somethin' even stupider.”

Spy smiled.

A real one.

Small.

Barely noticeable.

"...Fair.”

–––

Mick held the door without thinking.

Spy stepped through.

Then stopped.

Looked back.

Just for a second.

Mick kept doing things like that.

Quietly.

Automatically.

As though looking after Spy came as naturally as breathing.

...

≤ Previous chapter Next chapter ≥

Dangerous.

[delijaneworld]

Chapter 4 is here! 🎉

The mission continues, the tension increases, and these two are still pretending they don't notice anything.

(They absolutely notice everything.)

More awkwardness, more banter, more Spy suffering because apparently that's his main hobby now. 🫡

Hope you enjoy! 💛

Word count: 1505

Chapter 4 – Close calls

───

Soundtrack

♪ Real Love Song

Nothing But Thieves

───

The next morning arrived far too early.

Spy blamed Australia.

The sun had barely climbed above the horizon, yet the room already felt unbearably warm. Somewhere outside, cicadas had apparently decided that silence was a personal insult.

Mundy was already awake.

Of course he was.

Spy watched him through half-lidded eyes as the Australian quietly checked the rifle he'd cleaned the night before. Same steady movements. Same infuriating patience.

"...You are aware," Spy muttered into the pillow, "that civilized people sleep past sunrise?"

"Nope."

"They do."

"They don't here."

"...Your country continues to disappoint me."

Mundy only chuckled. "Coffee?"

Spy finally opened one eye. "...Is it drinkable?"

"'Course not."

"...Excellent.” Spy accepted the steaming mug with visible suspicion. "...If this kills me, I shall haunt you."

"Fair.”

–––

Spy stood in front of the mirror. Tie was carefully tugged beneath a striped vest. Then came the jacket.

"You'll cook alive." Sniper looked up from his rifle.

"I would rather perish than look untidy."

"Weird priorities.”

–––

"Stand still."

"Why?"

"Because you look ridiculous.” Spy stepped to the shooter fixing his collar. Then stepped back.

And suddenly a realization hit him.

Why did he do that?

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Mundy's eyes.

Surprise.

Gone just as quickly.

But his face was as stoic as ever.

Neither of them said anything.

Then, almost as an afterthought, Spy brushed an invisible speck of dust from the Australian's shoulder.

A beat.

"There."

Mundy glances down. "Satisfied?"

Spy studies him for another second. "...Almost.”

Mick only rolled his eyes at this.

–––

They were almost near the café. Just cross the street and there's the place.

The mercs were crossing a fairly crowded street. And then screech of tires. The Frenchman didn't even understand what exactly happened. Mick grabbed the back of Spy's sleeve and yanked him out of the car's path.

No words.

Just a touch. And a grip.

They crossed the street.

Mundy let go of another man's wrist.

As they kept going to their destination.

"You do realize I am capable of crossing a street." Spy turned to Mick.

"Mm."

"...Then why?"

"You weren't lookin'.”

Then Spy remembered something and stopped, said quietly:

"If anything goes wrong..."

Mundy:

"Run."

Spy raises an eyebrow. "You remembered."

"You said it four times yesterday."

"...Good.”

–––

The old café was nothing like the places the Frenchman usually visited.

Old. Dusty. But thankfully better than yesterday's pub. At least it smelled like an actual coffee here.

They sat at the furthest table. Further from everyone.

Then… Sudden brush of knees. Nothing out of the ordinary. They sat together. It wasn't skin to skin contact. Just fabrics touched each other.

The table was small.

That was all.

Surely.

But their knees touched again. No one moved away. No one said anything. They just kept sitting.

–––

Their informant couldn't have been much older than Scout. And there was a lot of rumbling. Seriously mate, can we skip all this small talk and move to the point?

Spy was trying very hard to figure out when this conversation intended to reach its point.

Then a realization hit the French mind. Sniper's knee stayed pressed to his. And the most interesting part… Mick didn't even acknowledge this.

If it was any other day the Frenchman wouldn't even pay attention to it. But not now.

Usually people moved and flinched away from the assassin.

But this specific person…

Doesn't.

–––

After exiting the café they went to the street market.

Easier to notice the target and easier to pretend you are just tourists and not agents on a mission.

A stranger. Okay. Just keep the play.

"You boys ain't from around here."

Spy smiled politely, taking Mick's elbow rather automatically without a second thought. "Is it that obvious?"

"Accent."

Pause. Then.

"Married?" This question again. Spy kept insulting the Administrator in his head with all French curse words he knew. Which is a lot.

Spy already opened his mouth but Mick was faster again. This bushman…

"Yeah." So calmly. In this accustomed tone. Like it wasn't just a small stupid performance. But rather a well hidden truth. “He's my husband."

For perhaps the first time in years, Spy found himself momentarily speechless.

The local smiled. "How long?"

"Long enough." Quick. Calmly. And precisely. Like a bullet out of a rifle.

–––

"Your husband? Interesting choice of words." Spy tried to act nonchalant but the way he was trying to fix his cufflinks said enough.

"Worked, didn't it?"

"It did.”

Neither of them said anything else.

–––

And then. Another stranger. More cautious than the previous one. That was already a close call. With this they couldn't ruin everything.

"We're looking for work." Spy smiled politely. For the fifty times already.

"Together?"

"Naturally."

Stranger turned to Mick. "You don't talk much."

Mundy shrugs. "He talks enough for both of us.”

An elderly couple burst into soft laughter beside them.

–––

Spy decided to make sure that even insects would believe in their stupid play.

He started to make their distance smaller. Much smaller.

The Frenchman's hand between the shooter's shoulder blades.

It was a soft touch. Almost unnoticeable if you didn't pay attention.

Mick didn't react.

But moved a bit to hide the assassin with his broader and taller frame from too nosy and curious eyes.

Mundy didn't think anything about this. He did this without a second thought.

But Spy noticed.

And realized something dangerous for both of them.

–––

Guard squints. "...Have we met?"

Spy smiles. "I sincerely hope not."

The guard keeps staring. "You look familiar."

Pause. A very long one.

Spy's ready to keep playing.

"Mate." Mick interrupted. Annoyed.

Guard turns. "What?"

"My husband's been askin' ya questions for ten bloody minutes."

Spy freezes.

Guard blinks.

Mundy keeps going completely straight-faced.

"If ya wanna flirt with him, at least buy him dinner first.”

Everyone around him laughed.

The guard blushed furiously. "Piss off.”

Finally the guard looked away, losing interest in this strange couple.

The assassin tugged Mundy in a secluded spot.

"...Your husband?"

"Worked, didn't it?"

"...I'll allow it.” The Frenchman just let out a sigh.

–––

Another shout.

Then another voice.

Then " THERE!”

Spy still couldn't understand where the act wasn't enough. Smile was too polite and wide? Touches weren't intimate enough?

But being honest with bullets everywhere around them and running while lungs burned, this was the last thing which worried him.

Mon dieu.

But they both kept running. Now it wasn't only about an act and a smile.

"Left!"

"I know where I'm goin'!" Mick was out of breath too.

"Judging by today's performance, I have my doubts."

"Not now!”

Bullets were everywhere around them. One was just a millimeter away from hitting the shooter's shoulder.

Then another one. Rock near the Frenchman's head.

Spy pushed Sniper behind a large rock quickly. Followed close behind.

"Don't." Mick caught a French wrist.

"They're gone."

Mick didn't let go.

Listen carefully.

Then relaxed his fingers slowly.

"...Now they're gone.”

Spy fully sure of himself and the situation, carefully stepped out of their hiding spot.

Just a second.

Then the sound of a shoot.

Spy inhales sharply.

His hand flew to his side before he could stop himself.

"...Spy."

"Scratch.”

Mick knew at once it was a lie.

–––

They kept running. But after a few minutes…

Spy started to slow down.

Almost unnoticeable.

Mick noticed.

"...You're limpin'."

"No."

"You're literally limpin'."

"I prefer to think of it as walking elegantly."

"...Spook."

"Bushman.”

Mick didn't answer. Spy either.

Kept going back to the motel.

–––

Their destination for these closest hours is an old barn.

Got inside and closed the door.

Silence. Unexpected… Unknown…

Spy made a small step forward. Then another one.

And suddenly—

Mundy gripped the assassin's tie.

Too hard. Fabric screeched in protest.

Spy almost got pinned to the cold metallic wall.

"Release my tie."

Nothing.

"Bushman."

Nothing.

Then—

"Stop trying to get yourself killed."

Silence.

Spy frowned. "...Excuse me?"

Mick's grip tightened. "Every bloody time."

Another pause.

"I'm getting real tired of dragging your stubborn French arse out of trouble.”

Spy looked at him for a long time.

Very long time.

Only then did Spy notice.

His hands were shaking.

Not with anger.

With adrenaline.

–––

The Frenchman opened his mouth already in a silent attempt to speak.

But Mick noticed the blood on a white button-down. Tie was released.

Too quietly. Too out of character for the shooter.

Mick's eyes dropped to the blood seeping through the white shirt.

His jaw tightened. "...You're bleeding.”

Spy without a second thought. "It's nothing.”

"Sit down.”

"No.”

"Spy.”

For the first time.

Not " Frenchman”, not “mate", not " Spook.”

Just Spy. So calmly. So surely.

And exactly this forced the Frenchman to sit.

–––

They finally made it to the hotel.

Spy adjusted his tie automatically.

The knot had loosened where someone had grabbed it.

...

Strange.

Mick hadn't lost his temper when the mission fell apart.

He hadn't lost it when they'd nearly been discovered.

He'd lost it the moment Spy had been shot.

Spy stood perfectly still.

...

That was...

profoundly inconvenient.

≤ Previous chapter Next chapter ≥

[wishfulsketching]

Medic through the years~ (at least how I headcanon it)

Put it into pieces for possible better viewing idk

[bibbysstuff]

Good Boy

[wishfulsketching]

I did a Spy timeline while sitting at the dog park. EDIT: not really like "him exactly at the age of 30" kind of thing, more like around the age. I think Spy around 48ish, few years younger than Medic, at '68. But he worked with Administrator before the others

He loved his job at the start. Then it took its toll on him

[delijaneworld]

CHAPTER 3 IS HERE! ☀️

The undercover mission continues... and somehow these two are getting on each other's nerves even more.

Thank you so much for all the love on the previous chapters. I genuinely smile every time I see your comments. 💛

Hope you enjoy this one!

Word count: 1056

Chapter 3 - Heatwave

───

Soundtrack

♪ What the hell is happening?

Glass Animals

───

The drive back to the motel passed in unusual silence. Not an awkward one. Not even an uncomfortable one. Simply... different.

Spy watched the passing landscape through the passenger-side window without really seeing it. Red earth. Dry grass. An endless stretch of road disappearing beneath the headlights.

His attention kept drifting elsewhere.

Back to the driver's seat.

Mundy drove exactly the way he did everything else.

One hand resting lazily on the wheel.

The other tapping absentmindedly against the door.

Eyes fixed on the road.

Calm.

Steady.

Predictable.

...

Or so Spy had believed.

Now every glance, every casual remark from earlier replayed itself inside his head.

Drinks coffee that's basically poison. Hates mornings. Gets grumpy when people touch his things.

Not guesses. Observations.

The realization was profoundly irritating.

–––

Mick parked the van. Then grabbed his bag from the still-warm passenger seat.

And shut the door.

"Watch the step." Mundy simply warned without a second thought.

Spy frowned, not immediately understanding the warning.

Then his foot caught the cracked edge of the pavement.

He barely had time to register it before a firm hand closed around his elbow.

Steadying him.

Just for a second.

Then—

"Told ya.”

Then released the Frenchman's arm.

Spy looked at shooter's disappearing back. "Interesting.”

–––

The motel became strangely quiet after sunset.

Not quieter, exactly. The cicadas were still screaming outside. The old fan still rattled overhead as though each rotation might be its last. Somewhere beyond the thin walls, a television blared loudly enough for half the building to hear.

And yet—

Compared to the pub, the silence felt almost peaceful.

Spy loosened the top button of his shirt before immediately pretending he hadn't.

Australia was unbearable. The heat clung to everything. His clothes. His skin. His patience.

Across the room, Mundy was cleaning his rifle with the same infuriating calm he'd shown all day.

Spy watched him for a moment. "...Do Australians ever complain?"

The sniper didn't even look up. "Course."

"I have yet to witness such a miracle."

"We save it for things worth complainin' about."

"...Such as?"

"Tourists."

Pause.

“French tourists."

Spy just looked at him.

–––

Spy opened his book.

Read the same sentence.

Read it again.

And again.

Somehow the words refused to become a paragraph.

His eyes drifted across the room.

Mundy was still cleaning his rifle.

Spy looked back at the page.

He had absolutely no idea what he had just read.

–––

Frenchman quickly understood that reading was pointless. But he still needed something to keep his hands busy with.

He moved to the window and opened it.

Still not enough.

Closed it.

Still too stifling.

Moved to an old fan. It looked like one single touch could crash this poor thing. He switched it on anyway.

“Mon dieu…”

The fan protested with a sound that belonged in a horror film. Spy didn't even realize when he flinched so quickly out of an unexpected noise, but then quickly pretended that he was totally okay.

Then came one final, particularly horrifying noise.

The fan died.

Completely.

Mick finally looked up from his rifle.

About time.

Shooter simply stepped closer and hit an old thing two times.

The fan groaned. Coughed once. Then resumed spinning as though nothing had happened.

Spy blinked. “You fixed it."

"Hit it.”

“... Barbaric.”

"It worked.”

–––

Mick went to the refrigerator. Took out this single water bottle.

Made two sips.

Then walked over to the assassin and silently offered a drink.

No words.

Just actions.

The Frenchman froze for a second.

Then reached for the bottle and made a big sip. Enjoying the taste of cold water in his mouth.

Then handed the bottle back.

Silently.

Neither of them acknowledged the fact they'd just shared the same bottle.

Neither of them seemed to care.

–––

Blankets felt too heavy on a heated body. While sheets were sticking to a sweaty skin uncomfortably.

Both didn't sleep. Both looked at the ceiling. Both kept being silent.

"Can't sleep?” Mick turned his head to look at his partner.

"Obviously.”

"Come outside.”

"Is this an invitation?”

Pause.

"It's too bloody hot in here.”

"Ah.”

Of course. Hot. And Mick just offered hospitality in his town. And maybe trying to be a good friend.

–––

Spy sat down on the stairs of their motel. He's been waiting for Sniper for at least ten minutes, even though the shooter promised to come out three minutes ago.

Not like Spy actually cared to set the time… Not at all.

The air had cooled enough to breathe again. Finally, a soft breeze started to soothe an overheated skin.

The assassin took out one of his cigarettes and lit it, taking a slow drag.

He let out a small cloud of smoke from his lips. He looked around. Quiet. Finally a peaceful moment to recollect yourself and your thoughts.

And for the first time in ages his mind wasn't occupied with their mission. But rather with someone Spy had never expected to occupy his thoughts. This infuriating Australian refused to react.

Finally the shooter came up to his colleague.

Spy didn't even flinch. “Too hot."

"Yep.”

“Your country is trying to kill me.”

"Told ya.”

–––

A minute later, Mick patted his pockets.

Empty.

"Damn.”

Spy didn't even bother to turn around. Just took another drag.

Quietly, the sniper reached over. Took the cigarette. Took a slow drag. Held it for a second. Then handed it back.

"...Did you just steal my cigarette?" Spy still couldn't process what happened because another person would already receive a knife between their ribs.

"Yep."

"...You could have asked."

"You would've said no."

"...Probably.”

Mick took another two drags and then handed the cigarette back to its owner.

It was the same way. Their fingers touched. "Cheers.”

Then they both returned their attention to the desert stretching out before them.

–––

Ten minutes. Night covered them in a soft comforting blanket of silence.

“G’night."

One word. And Mick Mundy stood up and returned to the motel, while Spy took another drag and then looked at the cigarette between long fingers.

Spy had spent years learning exactly how close he could stand to someone before they stepped away.

Somehow...

Mick never did.

Spy looked down at the cigarette between his fingers.

Ridiculous.

It was still the same brand.

Still tasted the same.

And yet—

Somehow, it didn't feel entirely like his anymore.

≤ Previous chapter Next chapter ≥

[wishfulsketching]

Flirting with some women? Well that's a bit of fun.

Talking to a man who is a spitting image of the men you were compared to your whole life, which then left you feeling like you didn't belong and were weaker and less than everyone else?

Well...well that makes a man a bit jealous (insecure)

[wishfulsketching]

Remember: if you're hot, they're hot.

Hope knowing that makes the heat a bit more bearable

[wishfulsketching]

HOW WOULD HEAVYMEDIC AND SNIPERSPY GET ALONG

Same faction? No problem. Spy and Medic can bitch together and Heavy and Sniper can have a chill convo about hunting.

But then uhh RED Sniper introducing BLU Spy to his Heavymedic?

Or BLU Spy introducing RED Sniper to his Heavymedic.....?

Snipers and Spies kill Heavies and Medics the most in game so they ain't gonna be happy to see their enemy

(drawn during an art stream, thank you everyone who joined ! <3)

[wishfulsketching]

Some tf2 ladies and ships I enjoy. Just because

[delijaneworld]

CHAPTER TWO IS HERE.

The mission continues.

The room is still too small.

The heat is still unbearable.

And Spy and Sniper are still pretending this is nothing more than a professional arrangement. (They're not very convincing.)

Thank you so much for all the love on the first chapter — every comment, reblog and kind word meant more than you know. 🥹

Welcome back to Australia. ☕

Word count: 992

Chapter 2 - Playing Along

──────────

Soundtrack

♪Your Love

She Wants Revenge

──────────

Spy didn't sleep well.

Not because of the heat. Not because of the fan that seemed determined to die every five minutes. And certainly not because the man occupying the other half of the room snored.

He didn't. Unfortunately.

Silence left far too much room for thoughts he would've preferred to ignore.

–––

Spy stood perfectly still.

One bed. One bedside table. One tiny wardrobe. One bathroom. One ceiling fan that looked older than Scout.

"...This is unacceptable."

Mundy dropped his duffel bag onto the floor. "It has four walls."

"It has one bed."

"It has sheets."

Spy slowly turned toward him. "Do you enjoy making my life difficult?"

"Nah." The Australian scratched the back of his neck. "It just comes naturally."

Spy sighed so dramatically it probably shortened somebody else's lifespan.

He inspected the refrigerator as though it had personally offended him.

One bottle of water.

Wonderful.

Then he opened the bathroom door.

Closed it immediately.

“I've lived through wars.”

“Yeah.”

“Assassination attempts."

“Mhmm.” Mick was really busy with unpacking his bag.

“Three separate buildings exploding beneath me."

“Sounds rough."

“Yet somehow this is the worst accommodation I have ever experienced."

Mick's shoulders shook in a weak attempt of holding back a laugh. He was thankful that his back was towards the Frenchman.

–––

The room grew steadily hotter.

Even the fan seemed to be pushing warm air around instead of cooling anything.

Spy pulled at his tie. "...Mon Dieu."

The jacket disappeared first. Folded carefully. Placed over the back of the chair.

For the first time since they'd met, the assassin wasn't wearing it. The room suddenly felt smaller.

Mundy looked up. Only for a moment. Long enough to notice rolled sleeves. The white shirt clinging slightly to the Frenchman's back because of the heat.

...

Huh.

Mundy quickly looked away.

Nothing escaped Spy for long. Least of all a glance.

Interesting.

But the jacket stayed folded on the back of a chair.

"You hungry?" Sniper looked back at Spy.

"No."

"You have to eat."

"I refuse."

"You'll faint."

"I'll do it elegantly."

Mundy snorted. "We're goin' to the pub."

Spy frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"First contact."

"...Ah."

A pause.

"...Can I at least pretend to enjoy it?" Sniper asked hopefully, making the assassin turn to him with a blank face.

"Nope."

"...Cruel.”

–––

Just before Mick reached for a pub's doorknob.

"Wait.”

Sniper turned around. Frenchman came closer. Then fixed the Australian's shirt collar. Slowly. Calmly. As if he'd done it a hundred times before.

"We're supposed to know each other.”

Pause.

"Try looking less like you're about to shoot someone."

“I am about to shoot someone.”

“Later.”

Mick only snorted at this and rolled his eyes.

–––

The local pub was exactly what Spy had expected.

Dirty. Old. Dusty. Filled with cigarette smoke, stale beer and decades of bad decisions and the faint smell of something that had probably died weeks ago.

Spy was trying really hard to hold his face. Not flinching away anytime some drunken jerk reached out to stop him was even harder. The jacket was ruined. He was certain of it.

"Your partner?”

Spy raised his eyes to the person who asked him.

Spy smiled to himself. Something smug flickered behind his expression.

“Yes."

Sniper felt a hard stoic hand on his lower back.

Not the shoulder. Not the elbow. Lower back.

Mick flinched from an unexpected touch. Only for a second.

But didn't pull away.

Didn't blush.

Didn't say anything.

Just accepted.

Odd.

Most people instinctively stepped away.

Mundy hadn't even considered it.

Interesting. Again. Nothing. It was beginning to feel personal.

Spy was hoping for a reaction. Embarrassment. Shock. But this annoying Australian gave him nothing again.

–––

It was loud. Too loud.

Somewhere in the corner an old radio was playing. Someone was arguing about fuel prices. Someone else was playing cards. While another half of the pub had already started studying the newcomers a little too closely.

Spy hated this place more with each passing second. He always hated such places. Locals always asked too many questions.

“Haven't seen you two around before.”

Some man in his fifties dropped into the chair beside their table.

Spy forced the politest smile he could manage. “We are merely passing through.”

“Uh-huh.”

This man definitely didn't buy his lie.

“Business?”

“Something like that.”

“And how long have ya known each other?”

Of course. Here it fomes.

Spy mentally rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“Seven years."

Sniper raised his beer bottle to his lips.

"Eight.”

Pause.

Spy turned his head to his colleague and partner. Mick didn't even spare him another glance.

“Eight, then.”

“Thought so.”

The man nodded approvingly.

“Ya argue like an old married couple.”

“Disgusting.”

“True.”

They answered at the same time. The stranger burst into laughter.

–––

The silence lasted perhaps thirty seconds. It wasn't nearly enough. But it was bliss all the same. However it got quickly ruined.

“So what's he like?”

“Difficult.”

“Charming.”

They answered at the same time. Again.

Now the assassin studied him more closely.

Mick just kept sipping his beer. Calmly. Not worried about anything.

Like it wasn't something unusual. Just a normal moment for both of them.

“Which one is it?”

“Both.”

“Both.”

They said this at the same time again.

“And you?”

The stranger pointed a finger at Sniper.

“What's his deal?"

Spy already opened his mouth ready to answer.

But Sniper was faster.

"Hates mornings.”

“Reasonable.”

“Drinks ⁠coffee that's basically poison.”

“Efficient.”

“Smokes too much.”

“That's rich coming from you.”

“Gets grumpy when people touch his things.”

“Most people do.”

“Doesn't like being interrupted while reading.”

“Nobody likes—”

And then Frenchman froze and suddenly went quiet.

Because one deeply unpleasant realization hit him.

Mundy hadn't made up a single thing.

At all.

–––

The most unsettling part wasn't that Mundy remembered those things.

The most unsettling part was how easily he recalled them.

As if the information had always been there.

Filed away somewhere.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Without either of them noticing.

≤ Previous chapter Next chapter ≥

[delijaneworld]

Playlist Try harder, Frenchman 🎵

Chapter 1 – Go with the flow by Queens of the Stone Age

Chapter 2 – Your Love by She Wants Revenge

Chapter 3 – What the hell is happening? by Glass Animals

Chapter 4 – Real Love Song by Nothing But Thieves

Chapter 5 – Dissolved Girl by Massive Attack

Chapter 6 –

Chapter 7 –

Chapter 8 –

Chapter 9 –

Chapter 10 –

[delijaneworld]

MASTERLIST

ongoing

☕ TRY HARDER, FRENCHMAN.

An undercover mission in rural Australia forces Spy and Sniper...

01. The Bet

02. Playing along

03. Heatwave

04. Close calls

05. Aftermath

06. The Knife

07. Cracks

08. Without Thinking

09. Bad idea

10. Try harder, Frenchman

Playlist

────────────

one-shots

🍒 Cold Hands, Warm Hearts and Cherry Smoke – Unspoken Art of Staying

❄️ Merry Swissmas

────────────

coming soon...

[delijaneworld]

About

Hi!

I'm Deli Jane.

I write slow burn,

comfort,

angst,

and characters who communicate

through coffee,

cigarettes,

and terrible flirting.

Current fandoms

• TF2

• K-POP

• LOVE AND DEEP SPACE

•...

Requests:

Open

Asks:

Always welcome.

[delijaneworld]

WE MADE IT.

After months of outlining, rewriting, staring at Google Docs like it personally offended me, and bothering my friends with snippets...

Try Harder, Frenchman is finally here.

Thank you to everyone who waited so patiently. It genuinely means the world to me. I hope you'll enjoy this slow burn as much as I've enjoyed driving these two idiots into emotional disaster.

Happy reading. ❤️

Word count: 1269

Chapter 1 – The Bet

──────────

Soundtrack

Go with the flow by Queens of the Stone Age

──────────

The whole thing started because Scout couldn't keep his mouth shut.

Again.

"Yeah, right." Jeremy snorted, throwing his boots onto the table despite the immediate chorus of complaints from everyone else. "I'm serious. There ain't no way ya can charm everyone."

Spy didn't even bother looking up from his newspaper.

"Please, continue."

Scout pointed at him dramatically.

"See? That's exactly what I'm talking about! Ya keep acting like every person on this planet is one fancy sentence away from fallin' into your lap."

A smirk appeared behind the newspaper.

"Most are."

The room exploded.

"No."

"Absolutely not."

“That's bullshit."

"Language."

"Shut up, Doc."

Spy lowered his newspaper with an offended sigh.

"Philistines."

Engineer laughed into his coffee. Heavy looked genuinely intrigued.

"What about Sniper?"

The room went quiet.

Spy blinked.

Scout grinned.

That grin alone should've been enough warning.

"Oh, that's easy."

"No."

"Come on, Frenchie."

"No."

Scout pointed across the room.

Sniper was cleaning his rifle near the window, completely unaware that he was about to become everyone's favorite topic.

"Bushman's gonna shoot ya before ya even finish one of those creepy French compliments."

A pause.

Then another.

Slowly, Spy finally folded his newspaper and turned toward the sniper.

The Australian hadn't reacted.

Hadn't looked up.

Hadn't even acknowledged the conversation.

Interesting.

"Mon Dieu." Spy sighed dramatically. "You underestimate my charm."

"Try it."

Sniper never even looked away from his rifle.

Scout nearly fell off his chair laughing.

Engineer covered his face.

Even Heavy looked entertained.

Spy, however, remained perfectly still.

Because that wasn't an outrage.

Or annoyance.

Or embarrassment.

It was a challenge.

And worse—

The bushman didn't sound remotely concerned.

As if the outcome was already obvious.

As if he'd already won.

Spy narrowed his eyes.

Across the room, Sniper finally glanced up.

Only for a second.

Just long enough for their eyes to meet.

Then he looked back down.

Dismissed.

For some reason, that irritated Spy far more than it should have.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

---

Three days later, the Administrator assigned the two of them to a ten-days undercover operation.

Spy spent the first thirty seconds convinced it was a practical joke.

"Repeat that."

"You heard me." The Administrator's voice crackled through the speaker.

"A weapons trafficking ring operating in rural Australia."

Spy slowly turned his head.

Sniper was leaning against the wall nearby.

Completely relaxed.

Of course he was.

It was his country.

His desert.

His miserable, sun-scorched wasteland.

"Wonderful."

"You will pose as business partners."

Spy froze.

Across the room, Sniper finally looked up.

The silence lasted exactly three seconds.

Then Scout completely lost it.

"Marvelous," Spy muttered under his breath. "Exactly how I wanted to spend the next six weeks."

Not that it mattered.

The Administrator had probably heard him anyway.

The woman had a terrifying habit of hearing things she absolutely shouldn't have been able to hear.

"Any more good news?" he asked dryly.

"You are getting bold, Spy."

The assassin pinched the bridge of his nose.

Then proceeded to mutter something deeply impolite in French.

The Administrator wisely chose to ignore it.

---

The mission itself sounded simple.

Observe.

Gather information.

Track several weapon suppliers operating deep in the Australian outback.

Easy.

The only complication was their cover.

They weren't supposed to look like coworkers.

Or acquaintances.

They had to look comfortable together.

Like men who had spent years in each other's company.

Close enough to finish each other's sentences.

Close enough to share a room without anyone asking questions.

Close enough that the occasional touch, glance or laugh wouldn't seem out of place.

Spy hated it already.

---

The further they drove, the less civilization seemed interested in following them.

The endless highway stretched across the burning landscape until it disappeared into shimmering waves of heat.

Red earth.

Dry grass.

An endless blue sky.

The air itself felt brittle.

Spy had long since abandoned any hope of looking presentable.

And the worst part?

Mundy had insisted on taking his van.

"Less problematic transportation."

Those had been the sniper's exact words.

Spy glanced toward the driver's seat.

The Australian looked entirely at peace.

One hand rested lazily on the steering wheel.

The other drummed against the door in time with a song only he could hear.

Infuriating.

Life had a funny habit of making people eat their own words.

Sooner or later, Spy was certain the bushman would regret that statement.

Hopefully sooner.

---

Several hours into the drive, something unusual happened.

Spy fell silent.

Completely silent.

No sarcastic remarks.

No complaints.

No dramatic speeches about civilization.

Nothing.

Mundy noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

The sniper shifted ever so slightly in his seat.

Suspicious.

Spy almost laughed.

Apparently his constant commentary had become expected.

How unfortunate.

In reality, he wasn't paying attention to the road at all.

His thoughts had wandered somewhere far more irritating.

Specifically—

To the Australian sitting beside him.

The problem was surprisingly simple.

Mick Mundy refused to react.

Most people were predictable.

A compliment.

A smile.

A carefully timed touch.

Sooner or later, everyone reacted.

Some blushed.

Some became flustered.

Some practically threw themselves at him.

Mundy did none of those things.

He rolled his eyes.

Threatened violence.

Then carried on with his day.

It should have been irritating.

Instead...

It was fascinating.

The bushman was impossible to surprise.

Almost impossible to impress.

And somehow, that only made Spy want to try harder.

Because for the first time in years, someone simply refused to play.

And worse—

Spy was beginning to enjoy the challenge.

Perhaps a little too much.

Outside the window, endless stretches of red earth rolled beneath the burning Australian sun.

Inside the van, neither man noticed how often their attention drifted back to the other.

---

The motel looked exactly how Spy imagined a place in the middle of nowhere would.

A faded neon sign buzzed lazily above the office, missing two letters and threatening to give up entirely.

Dust clung to every surface, coating the porch railings, the cracked windows, even the lonely vending machine that had probably been empty since the previous century.

A row of identical doors stretched along the building, each opening directly onto the parking lot where Mick's van looked strangely at home.

The entire place smelled of hot asphalt, dry wood and sun-baked dust.

Somewhere nearby, cicadas screamed without mercy.

Spy adjusted his tie and stared at the building in silence.

"...You're joking."

Mundy killed the engine.

"Nope."

"I've seen crime scenes that looked more welcoming."

"Yeah?" Sniper grabbed his duffel bag from the back of the van. "Crime scenes usually have better air conditioning."

As if offended, the ancient air-conditioning unit mounted outside their room let out a metallic groan before falling silent.

Spy closed his eyes.

"I already hate this place."

–––

The woman at reception had messy hair and a smile far too cheerful for someone living in the middle of nowhere.

Spy still wasn't sure whether she was genuinely happy or simply immune to the heat.

Either way, she handed them a single key.

He chose not to think about it.

Not yet.

With what little hope he had left, Spy unlocked the door.

The room was cool.

Quiet.

Small.

His eyes landed on the bed.

One bed.

One.

Freaking.

Bed.

Spy quietly closed the door.

Waited.

Then opened it again.

No.

Still one bed.

He slowly turned toward Sniper.

The Australian glanced inside. "Hm."

Then walked in.

Spy stared at him. "...That's it?"

"What?"

"You don't see a problem?"

Sniper looked around the room once more. "No?"

Spy let out a long, defeated sigh. "I'm killing the Administrator.”

Next chapter ≥

[woncon]

Hi angel!

I just read your Fem!SKZ one-shot and 🫠🫠 please please pllleaaaseeee tell me you maybe, possibly, hypothetically, in the future, have plans to write about a spicy scene between y/n and Christine’s about that sexy thigh song? 👀 even if you don’t, pls lie to me so I can be delusional! ILY thank you for doing what you’re doing sweetness!

Drink water and take your meds ❤️❤️

Hi there, love!! 🩷🩷

I have good news for you: I do have plans. Somewhere, somehow in the future they'll come true. I love you too, have a wonderful day!!😚

[woncon]

(after nearly one year) it's officially a wip. just sayin' 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

a sneak peek;