Solitude : (Mature) The story takes place in Paris, after the Mann Co. years. Sniper goes on a world trip to take his mind off of his loneliness that, to his parents greatest regret, affect his mood quite badly. He stops in Paris on his way between Germany and Scotland, when a rude man bumps him on the street... (140k words, 50 chapters, completed)
Baguette Knife and Headshot Man: (Mature) During the Mann Co. years, Spy looks for his lady cat companion, Perle. It turns out that she had been visiting his Australian colleague. (180k words, 50 chapters, completed)
Fluffy requests from readers: (Some Mature chapters) 107 shorts of Sniper/Spy fluff and spice, requested by readers.
Solitude, But Two (Mature) : After a decade out of his job, the retired Frenchman is called again by no less than the Minister of Defense himself. There is a case to solve, that only Lucien can deal with. So he puts on his suit and tie again, and flies to Australia where his target is. He does a good job on his own, until a certain wild kangaroo barges into his mission, and his life. (Not a sequel to Solitude! 380k words, 108 chapters, completed)
Fluffy requests from readers, But Two (Mature - 10 shorts): Shorts of Sniper/Spy fluff and spice, requested by readers.
Un-alone (Mature - current project): Lucien gets some news from the other side of the Atlantic. He jumps into the first flight to Boston, but arrives too late. All he has now left, is his son, Jérémy. Meanwhile, Mundy accompanies his mother to visit his Uncle in New Mexico. Their paths will cross, in unexpected circumstances.
The Pink Panther: (Mature) lady BLU Spy/male RED Spy. The new BLU Spy is more secretive than his predecessor, but who cares? Until one day, when all the REDs except Spy go missing. (190k words, 61 chapters, completed)
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.
This year's TF2 summer update inspired me to draw Sniper's new hat. 🤠 That's a perfect excuse to add the detective Spy along for mystery noir vibes + romance ❤️✨
This is the first time Sniper has caught Spy wanking off alone without the motive of wanting to be found. He walks into their shared safehouse, setting his pack down, and hears quiet moaning from the bedroom. Sniper tilts his head, making sure he's heard right, and finds himself more puzzled and skeptical than intrigued. It sounds like Spy. And just Spy, hopefully. Sniper doesn't think Spy would bring someone else into the RED safehouse and neither does he think Spy could possibly be with another teammate.
Therefore, if Sniper is going to continue assuming things, those are the sounds of someone definitely jerking off without expecting company. Because Spy, when he wants to be caught, is loud and shameless, as if leaving hints and a trail of breadcrumbs isn't enough to get his offer across. There's usually a throaty embellishment to his moans that are very much pornographic and, to be frank, performative in a way that amuses Sniper just as much as it turns him on.
Hell, Sniper had never given the serious thought of Spy needing to masturbate like any ordinary bloke, on account of the bastard being charming and sleazy enough to easily tempt any poor bastard off the street if he wanted to get off.
Poor bastard like Sniper, on occasion. But that's beside the point.
This time, the grunts are subdued, the panting more natural, like when they're fucking on a a schedule with no time to be complicated or dramatic. Sniper approaches the door, footsteps silent. Still skeptical, especially when the door is ajar. It feels like a trap, and Sniper mentally braces himself for Spy to start laughing at him the moment he peers inside.
Rather than being posed on the bed in some lewd manner, Spy is hunched on the ground, fingering himself with one hand and jerking off with the other. He doesn't see Sniper at all, head bent to the edge of the mattress, grinding his forehead in what Sniper can only assume is frustrated horniness.
It's so typical that Spy would rather not get the bed dirty, though the lack of a towel on the ground suggests that… it'd been a spur of the moment decision. Along with the door not being all the way shut, it's like Spy couldn't wait to have a private moment. Only his trousers and jacket are off, thrown over the bed. The rest of his clothes rumpled, his gun holster dangling loosely off one shoulder.
"Please, please," Spy mutters, voice cracking as he hits some spot that makes him gasp, "Sniper, please-ah..fuck, more—" and the rest of his babbling dissolves into soft murmurs in French, pleading and cursing.
Heat floods to Sniper's face. He's heard Spy beg before, beg for him, but it always seems deliberate with the goal of working Sniper up into a near frenzy. Spy isn't the type to be needy like this, low and growling, fumbling his words inelegantly without that conniving spark in his eye.
Sniper stares. The movements of Spy's hands are slow. Indulgent. Gentle. Whatever Spy's imagination wants, it's the fantasy of Sniper being languid and patient even with if he's begging. Captivating enough, but Sniper averts his gaze to the floor, almost feeling like he should bolt to the exit when this ought to be practically any faggot's wet dream to have a man on the floor, begging for his cock.
But... it's begging in a sincere, private way that makes Sniper think he really shouldn't have seen this. Spy has teased and flirted, and has had meaningless sex with him so many times that Sniper can tell the difference when Spy wants to play, wants to be performing for an audience, and when he doesn't—and what that says about Sniper's feelings on the matter really isn't something he wants to get into.
Fuck. And he's got an erection now because it's still bloody sexy and also terrible and wildly unnerving, and so Sniper taps the door as politely as he can because it's too late to turn back now and he'd be an idiot to just leave.
Spy whirls around. As best as he can on his knees, anyway. One hand clenches into the bedsheet as his shoulders draw up. His other hand, the one around his cock, almost goes for his gun, clumsily missing where the holster should have been, now dangling around his elbow.
Sniper also feels like a different kind of idiot for not turning away. Spy seems too shocked and mortified to say anything.
Sniper doesn't blink. He raises an eyebrow.
"Don't wanna be presumptuous, but… you thinking 'bout me?" he asks, nudging the door a little wider so that he can lean against the doorframe.
There. A truce. Leave the question open to be treated like a casual joke. They both know he could have very well rubbed it in Spy's face, be so smug and insufferable that he'll never catch Spy desperately wanking off to him again.
Spy sits back, panting slightly. He shuts his eyes for a moment, wiping away a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his bare hand.
"Very irritating that I like to these days," Spy mutters, though he is blushing practically through his mask. Chest flushed, still erect, to which he purses his lips while glancing down at it in disappointment then back up and Sniper. "…You're here early."
About two days early. Hence Spy's decision to have a little session for himself. But Sniper is still stuck on Spy's sideways confession, matter-of-course and utterly wry; I like to these days.
Sniper's ears ring, blood rushing and pumping madly to his head, chest, cock, just about bloody everywhere, but he shrugs. "Contract cancelled. Asset couldn't front the cash so I walked."
"That's a shame," Spy says, getting slowly to his feet.
Spy's legs are shaky, knees carpet burned, dress shirt disheveled. He finally gives up having his gun holster on him, letting it slip from his arm to the floor.
"Well. I'm hoping maybe not," Sniper says, stepping in the room when Spy beckons him closer.
Spy looks him in the eye, unflinching. He doesn't do his over-the-top sex-crazed voice, doesn't moan deliriously for it.
He simply leans into Sniper and says, "Please fuck me. You already heard me begging."
And Sniper doesn't have it in him to keep Spy begging, which is a real problem. He's got all the patience in the world for shooting folks through the head but when it comes to letting Spy whine and become frantically desperate, Sniper can't do it for too long.
He caves, immediately, and barrels Spy into the bed.
Spy lets out a laugh, watching Sniper fumble with his belt.
"You need to work on this," he says, taking pity, and helps Sniper take off the rest of his clothes.
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.
Did this drawing back in january but im ngl i dont really like how it turned out lol
I dont rlly vibe with it for some reason, but since it took me so long to draw, i feel bad just never posting it anywhere lol. Maybe some people will like it here
Might delete in the future like i've did the three previous times i've posted this aha this drawing is cursed i hate it i hate these two die
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.
