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Alright day 1, which is musically inclined

Look, I had to make something using the song that inspired More Gun because hooooboy it just makes sense

#I do not know how to do the audio thing because tumblr is being fucky wucky #tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 Engineer #tf2 Spy #engiespy #practical espionage #engiespyweek #engiespyweek2022 #i drew this #jellazticious #Spotify

EngieSpy Week (2022) Day 1 - "Musically Inclined"

Also avaliable on Ao3 here.

In the aftermath of Spy’s date with death, when his prettied, lifeless body sunk beneath the earth to rot, so too would countless secrets. That night, or whenever his cruel mistress came for him, silk handkerchiefs would be ceremoniously dabbed to the sweat laden foreheads of politicians, conmen, leaders, businessmen and royalty alike as an offering to their good fortune, which had been so kind as to spare each and every one of them from the most lethal blade of all – one’s own misdeeds. Though Dorian revelled in the satisfaction of a quick, clean kill, he rather enjoyed watching the slow, maddening downfall of his enemies with a glass of wine in hand. Needless to say, no one would be mourning an assassin’s demise. If anything, his corpse would be drowning in hateful spit, smiling even in death.

But there was one secret he couldn’t allow to seep into obscurity, though it did make his stomach twist and flutter with embarrassment. Normally that unpleasant feeling alone was enough to goad him into keeping it quiet for good, but this was different, in a way he couldn’t quite explain. There was a tenderness to it, a softness that tickled his insides like the velvety tips of feathers. In his bitter, rotten age, he had thought that this fluttery sensation was no longer possible. But for once, Dorian did not mind being proved wrong.

He chewed the cigarette between his lips, though he was increasingly aware of just how bad this habit was becoming. He took a drag, leaning over the splintering balustrade, his gaze wandering over to the scene before him. Harvest, though its archaic nature disgusted and frustrated him in equal parts, also gave way to gold tinted moments like these, where even the madmen among them were blessed with peace, himself being one of them, of course.

The air still carried the stench of blood and agony from the day of war, faintly perceptible underneath the homely aroma of hay and crisp evenings. The ash of his cigarette joined it, poisoning it with his presence. He felt like a snake in the grass, observing his fellow men drink and be merry, though he wouldn’t dare to strike, teeth bared, he’d merely watch, as he always did, ready to hiss at the welcoming arms around his shoulders should the need arise. Many questioned why he bothered to show up at all, if he didn’t plan on joining in on the festivities, but his reasons were simple, painfully so.

A slight smirk lifted his lips as his eyes fell on Engineer, who sat by a makeshift campfire, guitar in hand. The charming strum of his beaten up, ageing instrument delivered sweet dreamlike fragments of the cigarettes of all the previous ceasefires. His secret, the only one he would dare to confess to – provided he had a wrench to his throat – was that he liked listening to Dell play. It did not suit a man like Dorian, or fit in with his more… lavish tastes, but he could not help but listen. In a way, the humble simplicity of it freed him of the burden of luxury, because he did not have to explain its appeal, or the exquisiteness of it. His playing was pleasant, and that was all there was to it.

Admittedly, the man himself was similarly pleasant. But unlike his instrument, he would not dare to call him simple, though one might be tempted to – his trained eyes could see the gleam of the blade hidden inside that false assumption. Dell had his own secrets, perhaps just as many as him. Sometimes, in the darkness of the night, when the warmth of the alcohol had hit his face, and his mind, he dreamt of hot breath against his ears, whispering all the things he wasn’t supposed to know. In those fleeting fantasies, Dorian’s own secrets unfurled oh so naturally, insulting his long years of training simply to earn the favour of another man.

Dorian exhaled rings of smoke, subtly attempting to get Engineer’s attention.

His eyes, the colour of polished moonstones, finally met his. “Enjoyin’ the song, Spy?”

“Enjoyingis too strong of a word.” He snickered, tapping the ash from the tip of his cigarette. “Tolerating is more accurate, I believe.”

“You reckon I’m gonna buy that?” His playing did not falter for even a moment. “Y’see, son, the thing about snakes is they’ve got a real pretty smile, and yours is no different. The way I see it, you’re lovin’ every second of this.”

He had him there, in more ways than one, and he was thankful that his balaclava hid the rising, embarrassed blush on his cheeks for the most part. “I was merely mocking you, labourer. Admittedly, your skill is a little… lacking.” He snuffed out his cigarette, discarding the butt in the grass.

“It was so doggone awful that you decided to stick around, ain’t that right?” Dell set his guitar down and approached him, leaning against the wood with a devilish grin.

“Oui, I could do better with my hands tied together.”

“Wanna bet, snake?” He chuckled, pulling the yellow cable from his belt. “I can tie ‘em up real nice for ya.”

He scoffed, the sound dignified and haughty, designed to demean Dell just a little before delivering the blow. He leant down, lowering his voice. “If you want to tie me down, labourer, it will not be with cheap, filthy cables and nor will it be in front of these imbéciles.”

As expected, he caught onto his suggestion quickly and played along, much to his delight. “Who says? Ya might think you’re above folk like me, but you’re kiddin’ yourself if you think I’ll be takin’ your orders.” His tone lowered, as if to beckon him. “Maybe it’d even be good for you. I could straighten out that nasty attitude of yours while I’m at it.” He tugged on the cables for effect, which made Spy nervous, but in that thrilling, intoxicating way, like a hand around his throat, squeezing just hard enough to tighten his lungs.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Dorian hissed. “You love me for it.”

“You’re forgettin’ who you’re talkin’ to. I solve problems, Spy, and you happen to be one of ‘em.” Dell’s accent danced, twisted, and curled in all sorts of wonderful ways and though he recognised the bait before his eyes, he wanted nothing more than to bite into it and feel the hook pierce his throat.

He glanced towards the battlefield, and moreover, the distant party raging on without them. Their comrades were far too invested in the arm wrestle between Heavy and a team of Scout, Demoman and Soldier to give them so much as a curious glance. He chewed his lip – due to the absence of a cigar – deciding whether to say the delicious set of words on his tongue, or to swallow them down for later.

“You think you can fix me like one of your mechanical toys?” His gloved index traced circles into the Engineer’s sleeve. “You are more than welcome to try.” He snorted, just a little.

“It’s settled then. Let’s get goin’.” He whistled for him, as if he were a dog.

Dorian wanted to interject and argue until his mouth ached, but he decided against it – there was simply no winning. He followed along, shooting a final glance to the abandoned guitar, which had fallen silent without its owner.