today my brother sent me a meme with charles from "the inchident" video and i sent him a voice note quoting it word for word... needless to say he now thinks i'm crazy
Rating: T
Note: Really super indulgent epilogue to crash dummy, because I have no self control.
Summary: problematic intimacy gap reverse uno trap card etc etc etc. Sniper says 'alright, bet' 12 months after being in the cuck chair, and also 'im calling you out, you piece of fucking shit'. If this was on ao3 I would tag it as fluff.
[One Year Later]
Sniper is about to doze off when Spy's hand brushes through his hair. It doesn't feel deliberate, more like Spy's got some twitchy fingers needing to do something, but that's a generous interpretation. Sniper allows the petting for a brief moment before he grunts and eases off from the bunk. His bare feet hit the floor, cushioned by the thin blankets they've kicked off during their afternoon quickie. The sheets are a damn mess again, damp with sweat and the usual filth that comes with sex. Sniper leaves Spy lounging on whatever clean part of the bunk that's left.
It's a good time as any to put on some tea, so that's what he does. Kettle's already on. He checks the water. It's enough without needing a refill. He hears Spy shuffle around for a cigarette, slapping a carton—meaning he's pilfered from Sniper's limited stash. The click of the lighter even sounds like his, though Sniper has no idea when or where Spy could've picked it off from him.
"Remember that time you fucked the target dummy?" he asks, lighting the stove with a similar round of clicks.
"How could I forget?" Spy says, taking a drag. He sighs, the smoke coming out in a wave over Sniper's head. "I should call her."
"Funny," Sniper says flatly, though he does smile. He turns to him, crossing his arms, and leans against the space between the kitchenette and bunk. "Been thinkin' about that night though."
"What?" Spy rolls his eyes up in thought. It takes him a couple of seconds to better remember. He snorts, tapping the cigarette over the ashtray perched on the side shelf. "For a whole year?"
He seems surprised but not overly concerned. Sniper has since figured that Spy mostly likes to needle and prod for the fun of it, until he sees what he wants, even when it's only an incomplete truth—and then is content to leave it be. They haven't tried anything like that since. Maybe Spy is aware that Sniper can only be pushed so far. Or pushed just slow enough. Over time.
"On and off," Sniper replies just as mildly, but he climbs back into the bunk. He braces over Spy, settling his weight, and brackets his hands at either side of Spy. Ceiling's too low for anything else, and it's not as if this is closer than having sex. "You asked, remember?"
Very rarely does he get Spy visibly uncomfortable. All Sniper is doing is looking down at him. But there's more in the backdrop of everything; he's letting Spy smoke his cigarettes, stay in his bed, stroke his hair. He's making tea for the both of them. He's staring down at Spy without his usual exasperation. Sniper has a fair guess on how he looks when they're in private and he has his eyes on Spy. Far from a blank-faced target dummy. Far from how he'd looked, watching Spy fuck a figment of both their imaginations.
To his credit, Spy doesn't look away, but when Sniper leans close, he can feel Spy try to edge back, pressing to the backboard, pillow caving in. His hand goes up, like maybe he wants to push Sniper off, but he pats Sniper's cheek. Lightly. Condescending. Sniper tilts his head, baiting Spy's fingers to still against his mouth, and grabs his wrist, pinning it down.
"You've waited too long," Spy says, as if his pulse hasn't picked up under Sniper's grip.
"Yeah? Just 'cause it ain't fun for you anymore? Don't got me on the backfoot?" Sniper says, forcing their fingers to thread together. He squeezes once and feels Spy fingers curl in return. Inevitable. Trajectory of a bullet fired a long time ago. "I'm pretty good at knowing how long to wait. I know when to take a shot."
Something hard flashes in Spy's eyes, but his expression remains playful. His hand relaxes under Sniper's warm palm. With a laugh, he wraps his free arm around Sniper's shoulders, pulling him in.
"Ah, so now you want me to call you pretty? Fawn over you? Ma chèrie, mon mignon, et n’importe quoi tas de merde?" he asks, voice dropping into some low parody of someone adoring and enamored, "Would you like that? Being my lady? Ah, you're so lovely-"
Sniper kisses him. Spy laughs into it until Sniper slows it down, his lips gentle over Spy's mouth.
It doesn't bother Sniper in the same way anymore, what kind of attention ties in with what or who he is—if being demure gets him softer kisses or being mean gets him bites that mark deep. It used to mess him up in the head when he thought the answer was so simple before meeting Spy, before they started playing their little games. The attention Spy gives him, whether it's open affection or veiled fondness through insults—Sniper can want it all, lady or not. He suspects that had been Spy's little red herring all along.
It all started on that damn chair. Watching Spy fuck someone he could want, someone cute and conciliatory, someone Sniper still thinks he will never be. Yet here they are. He's kissing Spy, affectionate and sweet, and Spy doesn't sneer at him for it. Doesn't make him stop. Sniper mumbles a little, unable to form the words proper, but he can sound happy. Spy's breath stutters.
By the time Sniper pulls away, Spy is panting, eyes wide. His arm around Sniper's shoulder slips off, down until it's just his hand resting at the back of Sniper's neck, ash from the cigarette dusting his skin.
"I also know how good you are at pretending," Sniper says. "Are you?"
He feels Spy's hand tighten. Not at the neck. Their hands, fingers still curled together.
Spy shuts his eyes. He shakes his head.
So quiet. No sugary taunts or mocking endearments. Funny how Spy's silence feels more like the truth.
"Yeah?" Sniper asks, and has to bite at the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He gives Spy another kiss, quick this time, and buries his face into Spy's neck. After his heart settles, he says, very quietly, "I think you've already made me yours. And I've already made you mine."
For a moment, Spy is still, barely breathing. Then he shifts, pressing a kiss to Sniper's temple, mumbling—and Sniper picks up an inelegant jumble of words; lovely, sweet, pretty. Clumsy. Embarrassed. Sniper listens to it all, though it doesn't last long.
Sniper lifts his head to the sound of the kettle spitting hot water. Spy abruptly stops. From his periphery, Sniper sees the exposed skin around Spy's eyes is red, chest and shoulders flushed bright. Spy quickly puts the cigarette to his mouth, turning away to puff while Sniper slides off the bunk.
He pours out for two cups and drops a bag of strong black tea in each. He can feel Spy watching.
Sniper hasn't seen it yet, but he already knows the look to expect by the time he presses the mug to Spy's hands.
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- ma chèrie: (feminine) my darling
- mon mignon: my cutie
- et n’importe quoi tas de merde: (roughly) and all that bullshit
JASON I LOVE YOU TOO 🥹🥹🥹🥺🥺🥺😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹🥴🤯🤧
