#pantspissedinreverse

[typingatlightspeed]

TF2 Big Bang 2025 - Poetry In Motion

When Spy learned that Heavy is fluent in French but doesn't speak it, he didn't expect it to become deeply relevant so quickly. A contract sees them deployed to a writers' retreat in France, Heavy as a mute poet and Spy as his doting husband and mouthpiece. Spy perhaps plays the role a little too well, and Heavy's not sure he can handle how it makes him feel. Also, there's an assassination plot somewhere in there.

Part of the 2025 @tf2bigbang! Ao3 Link!

(Edit: actually added the damn ao3 link lol)

Utterly delighted to be asked by my friends @littlegrayram and @pantspissedinreverse to work with them on this year's Big Bang! This fic was a lot of fun to write even if it totally ended up being way bigger in scope than I anticipated, lol. All the same I'm really happy with the result, and absolutely blown away by Gray and Nota's artwork for it, as well as honoured to have them illustrate my words!

Gray's piece can be found here! Nota's piece can be found here!

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Chapter 1

Morning on base was always a buzz of activity: nine mercenaries bustling about, getting ready to start their day. Breakfast was rarely a quiet affair, with everyone filing in to fill their plates and chatter amongst one another. Despite these truths, Spy himself was quite silent that morning.

He was perched at one end of the dining table, idly gnawing on some toast with jam and letting the last dregs of his coffee go cold as he pored over a piece of paper with a pen in one hand, deep in thought. He tapped the pen against the rim of his coffee then stopped abruptly, made to write something, stopped again, and tapped the butt of the pen against his lip instead as he reconsidered.

"What are you doing?"

It took a moment for Spy to realize he was being addressed, eyes turning before the rest of his head as he realized that Heavy sat beside him, looking at the paper with idle curiosity. With a sigh, Spy ran a hand over his masked head as though he were fixing his hair and leaned back, stretching his shoulders a bit. "I have a contract beginning tomorrow, and I'm going over last-minute preparation to ensure I don't forget anything. Supplies and such. I've found myself absentminded of late. Little things. I'm less sharp than I should be; it's probably lack of sleep." He hefted a soft laugh. "I'm sure I'm forgetting something, and it tasks me."

"Maybe you forget to get more coffee," Heavy mused, tapping his near-empty mug. "You need to sleep better, but this will help for now."

Spy nodded, conceding the point. "Perhaps you are right, mon ami." He set down the pen and lifted his mug, rising from his seat to go fetch a refill.

Meanwhile, Heavy couldn't help but lean over and look at the list. It was written in Spy's tidy hand, and entirely in French.

As Spy returned, Heavy leaned out of the way to allow him to sit, looking perplexed. "Something wrong?" he asked, then took a sip.

"What job make you need high-heeled boots and mini-skirt?" Heavy asked, somewhat incredulously.

Spy stopped mid-sip, staring with alarm at Heavy.

Heavy met his gaze with similarly wide eyes, suddenly nervous he was about to be chastised for being nosy. It took effort to keep his expression as even as he did, especially with the not-unpleasant mental image of Spy wearing high-heels and a mini-skirt careening through his head.

With considerable effort, Spy gulped down his too-hot mouthful of coffee, pointing at the line on the page Heavy had referenced. "You can read this?"

"Handwriting is very clean; is not difficult."

Spy jabbed his finger onto the paper, erupting into his native tongue, "You can read French?!"

"Oh. Yes." Heavy chuckled a bit, relaxing. "But impossible you have not read my file."

"Of course I've read your dossier! And nowhere on it does it list French fluency!"

"No. I mean that I am Doktor Mihael Alexandrovich Medvedev. I have PhD in Russian Literature."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Spy asked, continuing to speak French.

"Have you read Dostoyevsky? Tolstoy? Anything showing or written by Russian... eh... what is word? Aristokratija?"

Spy ventured a guess in English. "Aristocracy?"

"Yes, this," Heavy confirmed. "They speak French for much of history. So much writing of them use French. So as part of studies, I must learn this."

Spy frowned. "And why are you speaking English?"

"I understand French. Read, write, listen. I do not speak it. It feel clumsy in my mouth. When I need to think of what I am saying, as fast as I am saying it, I cannot. The words, they are stupid, slow, and make no sense if they do come out."

"But you write in French?"

"Writing let me think about words. Pick them right." He frowned, then gestured to the pen and paper, as if to ask for them.

Spy passed both over and watched as Heavy flipped the page over and wrote slowly, in a surprisingly florid hand. It took him a moment of patient waiting, but soon enough the giant passed the page back, letting Spy read its contents: "The speed of conversation makes me lock up, but with writing, I can do the language the justice that my mouth can't. A language so lovely doesn't deserve my brutish stuttering."

Looking up from the words, Spy locked eyes with Heavy, blue meeting blue in the dim golden light of morning filtering through the windows, and found himself almost cowed by the staggering intelligence he found in those pale, narrow eyes. He knew Heavy was educated; like they'd both said, he'd read the man's dossier. But to see it in action in such a casual fashion surprised Spy in a way that struck him with just a touch of awe.

And yet, he couldn't help but find it a bit charming: a powerful, brazen, boisterous man like Heavy, admitting to not wanting to sully his beautiful language by speaking without skill. "I assume you've never had much practice speaking it, then?"

"No," Heavy admitted.

Language barriers kept Heavy from showing them all the man he truly was under it all: a poet, a genius, a giant not just literal but of literary prowess. And here, even if only in text, one of those barriers had been pierced.

"Why didn't you tell me that we shared a language before?"

"Would you want to be pen-pals?" Heavy joked with a half-shrug.

"I could help you practice," Spy offered warmly, genuinely excited at the prospect. Not only would this open a new avenue of conversation with one of his more opaque coworkers, but an opportunity to speak his beloved mother tongue in casual conversation would be wonderful.

Opportunities for having conversations the rest of the team couldn't understand had its appeal as well. Few things more fun than being a bit catty in front of the people you're complaining about without them knowing.

"No," Heavy replied firmly. "Is embarrassing."

"You're sure?" Spy asked, returning to English. "I would hardly judge you; translating writing to sound is no small feat in French."

"No," Heavy repeated, leveling a hard look at Spy, warning him against trying again.

Sitting back, Spy slid the paper back over to himself and snatched the pen from Heavy's hand. Quickly, he jotted down a message: "In that case, I would like to accept your offer to converse by letter. The language barrier must be deeply annoying for you, since your English is still shaky." He slid it back over to the giant and waited for him to read.

Heavy looked up from the page and grabbed the pen back, then wrote down a simple reply: "I accept. Don't be angry with me when you're forced to read my inane ramblings. You've asked for this."

He sat the pen atop the page and slid it back to Spy, then stood, picking up his empty plate and stealing Spy's mug in the process, taking a long swig as he turned and walked to the kitchen.

Spy snorted a soft laugh.

*

"Change of plans." Miss Pauling tossed a dossier onto Spy's desk and folded her arms over her chest. "The contract you were supposed to be on tomorrow is dead."

Spy blinked owlishly at the manila folder sitting in front of him, then at the petite woman whom had stormed into his smoking room unannounced. "I had just finished my preparations; what happened?"

"The contract is dead," Pauling reiterated, with feeling. "That's what happened."

"Oh."

"Turns out the asset's been assassinated," she elaborated, sighing as she slumped onto the chaise nearby. "Third one this month, each one someone we've had eyes on about this refinery."

"You think the operation's been compromised?" Spy asked.

"No, we're airtight. I just think someone else is on the same trail we're on and hotter, and wants to cut us out of it before we get too close." Pauling rubbed at her temples; it was obvious from the dark circles under her eyes and the level of dishevelment of her hair that she'd been working around the clock and was running on fumes.

Spy tamped down the urge to offer the poor woman some tea and the chaise to catch a quick cat nap; he knew she'd refuse anyway.

"There's one person left with the information we need, before we have to start back at square one." Pauling gestured to the dossier, which Spy opened, revealing a photo of a woman and pertinent information. "French author Viktoria Beaulieu."

"The last asset's wife?"

"Widow, now. Though they were apparently estranged for a few years now," Pauling elaborated. "Mme. Beaulieu is scheduled to attend a week-long writer's retreat deep in the Landes Forest starting in two days. She's our last chance at this, Spy. So your new mission is to infiltrate the retreat, get close to her, and protect her from any possible threads while securing her cooperation."

Spy's eyes lit up reading the address of the retreat's campsite, nestled comfortably in the dense, manmade forests of southwestern France, just north of Basque Country. All the same, he couldn't help but demure at the assignment, "A week-long writer's retreat? Miss Pauling, I may have a silver tongue, but I'm not exactly an author. I assume then that I'll be inserting myself as staff?"

"I mean, you will be kind of an assistant to the author we're inserting with you," Pauling offered. "Next page." Spy turned the page only to be met with an image of Heavy, of all people, staring back at him. The rest of the contents of the page made up the details of a false identity, for one Mr. Bernard Dumont, poet.

"Because of Heavy's history in literature and the arts, plus his knowledge of French—"

"Did everybody know but me?"

"—he'll be playing the role of the author for this mission."

"You do realize he refuses to speak the language, yes?"

"That's your role. Heavy's cover is that he's recently mute, and since he doesn't speak French sign language, his doting husband has taken up the role as his mouthpiece when spoken word is necessary."

"His husband?! Can I simply not be his interpreter?"

"The cover was established to allow for the two of you to reliably obtain privacy when necessary and allow maximum flexibility from the staff."

"And a homosexual couple would be less inconspicuous than a man and his interpreter?"

"Which is less likely to raise eyebrows when you and Heavy need to touch base? Two lovers secreting away frequently to have some private moments together, or a man and his interpreter frequently disappearing from the proceedings?"

Spy sighed, having to concede the point. A romantic relationship would afford them more grace in needing to be alone and speak in hushed tones: a must when working with someone unused to subterfuge such as Heavy. "Fine."

"Your flight leaves tomorrow. I'm going to meet with Heavy next to let him know all about it and give him a copy of the file as well. I'd suggest you go over it thoroughly."

"But of course."

"You'll be compensated for the extra hassle, Spy, don't worry." Miss Pauling rose, straightening her skirt with her hands, and headed for the door. As she reached for the knob, she turned back with a crooked little smile, a reliable tell that she was about to attempt the car crash she called humour. "Try not to fall in love with your partner like in a spy movie."

Spy snorted, "I don't know which of us would make the more hideous Bond Girl. Though, I might be better able to make one of those skintight catsuits work. Do you think?" he asked, arching his back to present his non-existent breasts.

Miss Pauling giggled. "I mean, you're better at walking in heels than I am," she said, and slipped out the door as Spy's laugh chased her.

*********

Chapter 2

"You're sure you have it memorized?" Spy asked, eyes ahead as he steered their rental car down the long and winding road through the forest, Heavy sitting beside him scribbling something in a notebook.

Heavy sighed, setting down the book and taking off his reading glasses. He folded them neatly and slotted them into the breast pocket of his sweater vest. Spy had asked him twice already since arriving in France, and thrice on the transcontinental plane trip. "We are Amand and Doktor Bernard Dumont. Have been married five years and are very much in love. I have heat stroke last summer, and it paralyze vocal chords, so talking is difficult and embarrassing, so I do not like to speak. I do not know French sign language, so you speak for me. When I need to speak, I write down what I want to say and you say it."

"If only you had taken my offer to practice your French—"

"I would have one day of practice; would not help me sound like native speaker. And I would not have reason to bring husband with me, so you would not have reason to be here."

Spy sighed. "In spite of having to produce written works on demand and being unable to easily communicate, I still fear you have the easier job here. You don't have to come up with pet names and other trappings of an established couple." Looking out of the corner of his eye, Spy caught Heavy's gaze for a moment. "Do you have any preferences for how you would or would not like to be touched?"

"Touched?"

"We are supposed to be doting, loving husbands, mon ami. I'm going to be making physical contact frequently when we're in front of people, playing the romantic to sell how close we are, and prefer to be most of the time, so that when we need to secret away to discuss our work, it doesn't ring as unusual."

Heavy felt warmth in his cheeks, turning his eyes to the road ahead. He hadn't quite thought of that, of actually playing the role of a couple rather than just treating it as a known fact. The giant had a notoriously large personal space bubble, and the idea of Spy being inside of it constantly felt startlingly intimate. Just how much touching were they talking about, anyway? "...Will you have to kiss me?"

Spy chuckled at that. "Only if you want me to," he teased, hoping it would dispel the tension. It did not, and he could fairly feel the nervous energy off of Heavy. He shook his head and rejoined, "I wouldn't need to go so far in front of others, no. Not unless the situation truly called for it, which seems unlikely in this scenario. Though I may have to hazard a kiss on the cheek or the knuckles, I must warn you. And, of course, do not forget that you may have to faire la bise at times."

"The cheek kissing."

"Oui. It is not a greeting men do with strangers, so do not expect to be kissing everyone you meet. But it is common among friends, so be aware it may come up, depending on how close we get to people."

Heavy huffed a little at that. Kissing people as a greeting was something done between family, maybe very close friends, not the sort of casual acquaintances one would build up over a week.

Spy ignored the obvious annoyance the giant showed, trying not to chuckle at his grumpiness. "That said, I am perfectly fine with touch. I'm well experienced in such roles, so should you need to put your hands on me, do not worry. You have my full consent and cooperation."

With a long, deep breath through his nose, Heavy turned to look out of the passenger-side window, watching the trees go by without letting his eyes actually settle on details, a blur of brown and green. He couldn't focus even if he wanted to, putting all of his effort into not getting flustered at the idea of having a man hanging off of him and kissing him in front of people all week. It wasn't fair; how was he supposed to just treat that like it was a normal, everyday thing?

"This is fine."

*

When at last they came to where the retreat was to be held it was late into the afternoon, and neither man knew how close to any shred of civilization they remained. The little campsite was deep in the forest, with a single road to access it, and its parking lot sequestered behind a thick line of trees with a footpath leading to the main area of the camp itself. Gathering their bags, they trudged through and the site spread out before them. A series of small, quaint cabins dotted a mostly clear area of the forest, a few smaller trees smattered here and there for shade and aesthetics. Gravel paths led from the porches of each cabin to main walkways that lead between the site's offerings. A lake broke through the trees at the camp's north end, and a dining hall, mixed-use building, and outdoor pavilion dominated the main area of the clearing. Gravel trails leading into the woods here and there marked hiking trails, and dotted around the clearing but mostly closer to the cabins there were a few fire pits ringed with log seats.

A genteel man with long, grey hair pulled into a low ponytail and earth-toned linen clothing strode up the path to meet Spy and Heavy as they approached, smiling broadly as he spread his arms in welcome. "The Dumonts, I assume? Hello, hello! Welcome! I'm Ghyslain Laurent, the organizer of this little retreat. I hope you found the camp well enough?"

Spy smiled brightly, his affect shifting so suddenly it nearly sent Heavy off-balance. "Oh hello, Mr. Laurent! Yes, thank you. What a lovely place to hide away and create art!" He strode up to meet Laurent, setting down his bag to offer the man a hearty handshake. "I'm Amand, and this is my darling husband Bernard," he said, releasing his hand to gesture with an arcing arm to Heavy, who politely smiled and nodded, laden with the majority of their bags as he was.

Perhaps it was a small mercy that Spy had given him pack mule duty, so that he didn't have to physically interact with people immediately, his hands being full and all.

Lauren smiled and nodded graciously back to the giant, a flash of confusion crossing his face, immediately followed by understanding. "Ah, yes, I had almost forgotten that Dr. Dumont doesn't speak."

"Sadly. The loss of his lovely voice is a tragedy without compare, I'm afraid. But that's why I accompany him to these sorts of things. To put my chattiness to use on his behalf." Spy chuckled affably at his own self-effacing joke and picked his bag back up. "So, which cabin is ours, then?"

Laurent gestured to an empty cabin with a warm smile. "This one right here. You have total privacy, though unless you lock the door during the day, the staff will come in to refresh your beverages and towels. They're very good at staying out of sight and not bothering you, though."

"Lovely. Even though we're here to allow Bernard to write, some privacy is always appreciated," Spy hummed merrily.

"I'll leave you to settle in, then. Later this evening we'll be meeting in the lodge," he gestured to the mixed-use building, "for introductions and to officially begin the proceedings. I hope to see you both there!"

"But of course," Spy replied, and after Laurent offered them a goodbye and left, he turned to Heavy. "Ready?"

"As ready as I can be," Heavy murmured, once Spy was close enough to hear him. He tried not to pout at the smirk the rogue gave him as he led him to their cabin.

*

The cabin itself was charmingly rustic on its exterior, with a small porch bearing a pair of wooden chairs and a small table with a ceramic ashtray sat on it between them. Walking into the building, however, was a different story.

The interior was divided into two halves, separated by a door between, with two rooms each. The front held a startlingly modern living room, with papered walls in a dull shade of salmon pink, and a couch and two chairs in avocado green to perfectly clash. A dinged-up but friendly wooden coffee table sat between them, and against the wall was a writing desk upon which a dictionary, thesaurus, and notebook sat, ready for use, as well as a few stray pencils and a sharpener. The small side room sectioned off by a change in wallpaper and not much else was what could be described generously as a modest kitchenette. In reality it was little more than a sink with a kitchen dresser stood beside it, a mini fridge set into the bottom cupboard with a drip coffee maker, a small electric burner, and a kettle on its sideboard. Its upper shelves held mugs, sugar, honey, and an assortment of teas as well as a tin of coffee and a package of filters. Checking the fridge, Spy found a fresh carton of milk had been provided as well.

Passing through the door between, the mercenaries found the rear of the cabin occupied by the bedroom, bathroom, and toilet, which unlike the front were thankfully separated by doors. The bedroom itself was utilitarian, with a closet, a single dresser, a nightstand with a lamp, and a bed, nothing more. Spy supposed being able to iron his clothes was a luxury not afforded in such rustic environs. Both men set their bags down and set about unpacking.

Once his clothes were put away, Heavy set up his personal notebooks on the writing desk and tucked a smaller notepad into his pocket. He nodded, satisfied enough with the space, which sat beside but not directly in front of the window, so that he might enjoy the sunlight but not be distracted by whatever was outside.

Spy took the opportunity to sweep the entire cabin for mics and cameras, only finally deciding to speak once he was satisfied there were none. "So, do you plan to use your time to work on any existing projects?" he asked from the bedroom as he screwed the light fixture back into place.

"No. All of my writing is in Russian. Need to write French while I am here. Will need to share writing at workshops; that is what Bernard is here for."

"Ah, fair enough," Spy mused, climbing off of where he stood on the bed with a satisfied nod. He ambled into the living room and leaned against the door frame, watching as Heavy thumbed through the provided dictionary. "I appreciate how seriously you're taking this."

"This is not vacation; it is job. I have to do my job, and my job is to be French author."

"I appreciate your professionalism as well," Spy hummed, sauntering over to the giant and taking his arm, wrapping both arms around it as he slotted himself between it and the bulk of his body, smiling up at him adoringly. "I must do my job as well, then," he mused, petting the fluffy hair on the back of Heavy's hand.

Heavy flushed bright red, turning away from Spy and lightly jerking his arm away.

"Are you going to be able to play the couple, or will you keep blushing like a schoolboy every time I show you affection?" Spy asked, only a little bit of concern actually tinging his words.

"Stop teasing me," Heavy grunted, refusing to meet his eye. "I am not like you. Can not pretend to be in love with someone like it is nothing."

"How then will you be able to be my husband for this job, then? What about your professionalism?" Spy shook his head, eyeing the man critically. "Or are you going to have to fall in love with me?" He threw his arms wide dramatically, falling into a pose with the back of his hand pressed to his forehead, "Falling for a spy is such a dangerous thing, mon ami." And like that, he was wrapping his arms around Heavy's arm again, leaning in close, grinning like a predator. "Acting would be much safer for you."

Heavy grunted and shoved Spy away, making him topple into the hideous green chair with a laugh. "Stop fucking around," the giant grumbled, his face burning as he tried not to pout.

Spy snickered, the urge to be a little shit finally spent. If he couldn't make Heavy comfortable with all of it, at least he could make things a little less stiff between them. "I'm merely trying to make you relax."

"You are being pain in ass."

"I like to think I was being mischievous."

"Two things can be true."

Heavy met Spy's eyes, and the rogue could see the sparkle of mirth in them at that statement. It was like a storm finally breaking, all of the pressure finally erupting in a downpour that washed away all of the tension and animosity that had been building between them. He'd almost forgot the giant could be sarcastic, too.

He grinned up at him, no longer predatory, but entirely delighted.

Heavy offered him a hand—which he took—and hefted him up out of the chair. "We should go to meeting."

"Yes. Let's go, my darling," Spy cooed, chuckling as Heavy shook his head ruefully.

*

The lodge was much like the cabins in that its rustic exterior hid a relatively modern interior, with folding tables set out in a large square and folding chairs ringing it, allowing all who sat there to see everyone else across the empty space in its centre. Against one wall, some snacks and drinks sat, including a few bottles of wine in an ice-filled basin, chilling and awaiting guests.

Also awaiting guests was Laurent, who had a few notebooks in front of him, and was greeting everyone with a cheerful, "Bonjour!" as the authors slowly filtered into the room and took up seats. Upon entering, Heavy and Spy were greeted the same, with Spy replying with pleasant deference as Heavy merely nodded in acknowledgment. The giant was almost grateful to not have to directly interact with the near-bubbly organizer so much. Laurent's energy was pleasant, but seemed false, to him, like it was a mask he was wearing; just the same as Spy's ebullient replies. It seemed exhausting, and as a result so did the man himself. It was like Laurent was attempting to parody the giddy energy of Medic but failing miserably to capture the same endearing mania of his friend.

Perhaps the comparison was not helping Heavy's opinion. Or perhaps Heavy merely only had so much patience for that kind of personality in his life, and his closest friend had monopolized that resource for himself. Either way, Heavy peeled off to go fetch himself some juice and Spy some wine.

Spy took a seat opposite Laurent to spare Heavy the man's proximity, looking about to the other authors with pleasant neutrality. His expression didn't change upon spotting Mme. Viktoria Beaulieu two seats down from Laurent, but upon a glass of red wine being set down in front of him, a broad smile crossed his face. He turned that smile on Heavy as the giant took the seat beside him, looking to him for approval of the move. Spy merely laid a hand on his forearm warmly. "Thank you, my dear," he said gently, giving him a light squeeze. "Sweet as always."

Heavy snorted and rolled his eyes. He wanted to retort that the red was dry, but Spy would find out soon enough. Either way the rogue snickered at his reaction.

Once everyone had arrived and taken their seat, Laurent announced the beginning of the festivities. "Welcome, everyone, to our little literary retreat! I'm sure some of you know one another, but I'm also sure not everyone does, so to begin things, we're going to go around the table and offer introductions. Your name, a little something about yourself, and a small excerpt of something you've written recently. Be it a work in progress, something recently completed, or even what you plan to refine while you're here! Give us an idea of who you are through the art you make, if you will."

Slowly, the participants began introducing one another, offering a short bio, and reading excerpts of their work. The variety of genres and styles was broad, as could be expected from a workshop without a central theme, but Spy found himself quite surprised, regardless. All the same, nothing about the other participants struck him as particularly notable, save for the short, stout woman with greying blonde hair who had gone second after Laurent's announcement. Viktoria Beaulieu had all of the bearing of a woman who had lived a varied and interesting life, with dangling plastic earrings and her greying blonde hair pulled back into a low ponytail, dressed in flowing clothes in bright, solid colours. Spy fancied her the stereotype of an elementary school art teacher, as far as her aesthetic sensibilities were concerned. Her piece had been a half-finished poem about a bird being freed from a cage with a sheet always draped over it, always night, always sluggish and exhausted but knowing in its heart that daylight was just on the other side, if only it had the strength to take wing. It was rough, still in early revisions, she admitted, but quite telling for a woman who had just lost an estranged husband.

Through the other introductions, Spy found himself leaning against Heavy's arm, threading his own arm around it to snuggle into the man as he watched and listened, making note of each participant, their appearance, their shape, their voice, and their body language. He cared less about the nuance of their writing; that was for Heavy to pick up on. His expertise was in people themselves.

One poet squinted through glasses while reading, showing he needed bifocals but was either being stubborn about it or procrastinating. An author working on a mystery half-attempted accents when reading dialogue, seeming too nervous to articulate her characters' voices aloud, possibly feeling a little silly about the idea once she'd committed to the bit. Another poet was already three glasses of wine in, and sloppy as she read her work, which she had said was mostly finished, but it certainly didn't sound it, or perhaps she was just too drunk to get her words straight on their way out of her mouth.

When the introductions came to them, Spy gave Heavy's arm a hug before letting go and standing as each author had done on their turn. "Good evening." He gestured to Heavy, who remained seated but offered a half-wave and a nod of greeting at being indicated. "This is Bernard Dumont, and I am his husband, Amand. Bernard has been a poet since he was young, always a man of passion. It was his words, if I'm honest, that drew me to him in the first place." Spy laid a hand on Heavy's shoulder, turning to look at the man with utter adoration before looking back to the assembled group and continuing. "We do apologize for having to function like this, with my speaking for him, but last summer a lovely vacation to Greece ended in tragedy. Poor Bernard suffered a frightening case of heat stroke, which left his vocal chords paralyzed. His voice comes out in a terrible rasp now, and speaking is quite difficult for him in addition, so in public, I've taken up the task of being his voice. I've never known when to be quiet, so I'm well suited to the task." A soft rumble of laughter swept through the room politely at the joke. "As for an excerpt—"

Heavy tapped Spy on the hand that sat atop his shoulder and held up the small notebook he had pocketed earlier, open to a page. At Spy's surprised expression, he smirked.

Spy took the notebook with a smile, shaking his head. "I can't believe you really did have something," he admonished gently, swatting his arm with barely any contact playfully. "I was ready to have to apologize because of all of the travel." Turning back to the room, he set to reading the page aloud.

"The red earth sinks underfoot

Reaching, clawing between my toes

Grasping furiously for purchase

To creep up my ankles

To take hold of my legs

To drag me down

Pierce the surface

Sink through the clay

Crushing me grating me squeezing me

Through narrow holes and crevices

Until I am undefined

Spindled and mutilated

Mere shreds of myself

Wire-thin filaments of a whole man

"A whole man taken apart

Splayed out upon the soil

Organ after organ laid out in the map of a man

Veins charting thoroughfares as the red of the dust grows deeper

Borders creeping outward conquering nothing

My pieces sorted into useful tools with the rest discarded

"I can be given new form

New purpose

New words to speak and thoughts to think

If only I can listen hard enough

If only I can wrap my tongue around them

If only I can claw my way out of drowning

Under the red earth, this foreign soil

It is there for me to grasp

To replace myself

My old words are gibberish

My old thoughts static

They are not useful

"My tongue lies drying in the sun

While my hands grow calloused and my back bent

My words are like the croaking of vultures

Background noise and nothing more

But my hands can work, my back can strain

So I am useful."

Heavy let his eyes drift around the room as Spy read, appreciative glances from the other assembled authors letting him know he hadn't lost his artistic skill with written French. In particular, Viktoria appeared moved, hand over her mouth by the end, a mixed look of wonder and understanding written in her eyes. As Spy finished reading his words, he couldn't help but glance up at the man standing beside him.

Spy appeared almost as affected as Beaulieu was, eyebrows canted up just the slightest bit somewhere between sympathy and empathy, his pupils dilated enough to show true interest. Heavy's lips ticked up into a small smile at that. After all, the man had never seen his written work, regardless of language. It had clearly impressed Spy, and Heavy couldn't help a small feeling of victory at that.

With a slight bow, Spy tacked on an awkward, "Thank you," and took his seat, handing the notebook back to Heavy. He turned to the giant, who merely looked at him with hooded, knowing eyes and a beatific smile. It was the same kind of self-satisfied expression the man would wear after being told he'd been awarded MVP after a day's match. Heavy knew his skill, and was clearly pleased at getting to show it.

Spy couldn't even be mad at that. He was truly, honestly impressed. He smiled in turn, hefting out a soft little laugh as the introductions continued, and wrapped his arm back around the giant's, leaning back against his warmth as he tried to focus again on the few remaining authors.

He found it difficult. Instead, he kept turning over and over in his mind the words of Heavy's poem, the visceral images it evoked, and how to the rest of the room the red earth perhaps meant something primordial. But to him, it summoned the mental image of the New Mexico badlands. Of the gravel wars. Of bodies literally strewn across the red soil, blood soaking into it and creeping outward. Hands curled into fists, knuckles split and bleeding, Heavy's back arched and cocked at that crooked angle that allowed him to hold his beloved Sascha on his hip.

They were men brought there for what their bodies could do; put to use, and nothing more. Heavy was a genius, a poet, a doctor of literature, but on that foreign red dirt, he was just a body. He was just a tool in a war that had no need nor place for poets, speaking a language he barely knew.

Spy didn't realize he'd completely spaced out, fingers tickling repetitively through the fluffy hair atop Heavy's forearm until Laurent stood and thanked everyone for sharing, offering some florid words of hope that their time sequestered and working together will help them to rise to even greater heights of creativity or some such nonsense. Spy softly cursed, frustrated at his own distractedness.

The notebook slid across the table, back into Spy's view. A fresh page sat atop it, with, "Are you alright?" written quickly across it.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Spy nodded. "Yes, I'm fine," he assured Heavy with a pat on the arm.

Heavy took the book back and wrote something else, sliding it back over. "You've been staring into the middle distance and playing with my arm hair since you sat down."

Spy huffed at being so thoroughly called out. "I'm fine," he repeated, a bit huffy about it. He lit a cigarette and took a drag as if to punctuate the statement.

Heavy shrugged, but didn't press the issue. He wasn't about to question Spy's methods, even if it was getting distracting having the man pet him constantly. Once he'd stopped, Heavy felt like something was missing, and was frustrated to realize that the sensation had been a bit soothing to him. He could still feel phantom trails of those warm fingertips ghosting his skin.

I'm fine, he thought.

*

Following the workshop, dinner was served in the dining hall. It was a modest meal of roasted chicken, potatoes, and a salad, but the portions were enough that Heavy didn't see fit to complain. He was glad to see that it wasn't some extravagant multi-course affair like the stereotypes would have one believe of France, but he supposed that even if those were true, a camp in the woods would likely have to be the exception. All the same, the bread and butter served with the meal were both tantalizingly fluffy, which was enough to impress his modest standards.

After filling their plates from the buffet-style serving table and grabbing some wine, the mercenaries found seats at one of the round tables that dotted the hall, and settled in. Before they could even begin to pick at their meals, however, they gained company.

Viktoria Beaulieu walked up to their table, tray full of dinner in hand and a gentle smile on her lips. "Do you gentlemen mind if I intrude?" she asked warmly. "Or would you prefer your privacy?"

"By all means, please," Spy offered, standing to pull a chair out for her and helping her push it back in once she was seated before returning to his husband's side. "Sometimes we get so insular we forget to be social," he teased, giving Heavy a gentle touch on the arm.

Viktoria sighed, charmed by such romance. "You two are honestly precious. One writes, the other speaks, such sweet symbiosis! You're lucky to have one another."

Spy chuckled. "Would that every marriage be such a partnership."

"If only! My husband—my late husband—didn't understand that at all."

"Late? Oh, my condolences for your loss, madame."

Viktoria waved him off as she took a sip of her wine. "Don't be. We'd been long estranged. And he'd been fucking our maid for years." She snorted a laugh as Heavy snuffled, nearly choking on an ill-timed sip of wine. "Oh, so sorry, Doctor!"

Spy snickered as he offered Heavy a napkin to clean up the small resultant spill, the giant's rueful look only making him break into a proper laugh and apology of his own.

They soon tucked into their meals, chatting idly about the accommodations and food itself, and the various amenities the camp offered. Once Viktoria had finished her meal, she rose to go commiserate around the room with a farewell of, "With such an amazing introductory excerpt, I truly look forward to seeing more of where your writing takes you this week, Doctor."

Heavy waved a hand dismissively, and Spy picked it up immediately. "Please," he said, "call him Bernard. Doctor is entirely too formal."

"Bernard, then," Viktoria confirmed with a bright smile. "And you, Amand. Have a lovely evening, gentlemen."

"But of course, madame."

"Viktoria."

"Viktoria, then. Good night to you as well."

With that, Viktoria went to socialize, being waved over by the woman who'd gotten drunk before they'd begun, leaving the two men to each other. Heavy was picking at his small dessert of yogurt and berries as Spy turned to him, his lips pursed ruefully. The rogue tilted in, lips nearly brushing his ear as he whispered, "Nothing written in French yet my ass," in English. He sold the closeness of the gesture by pecking his cheek with a quick kiss, noting with some victory the pinkness that rose to the giant's cheeks.

Heavy merely shrugged a shoulder and turned to look Spy in the eye, a sparkle of mischief in his gaze as his lips curled away from a cheeky grin. He tilted in and bonked his forehead against Spy's, then went back to his dessert, holding back a laugh as Spy snorted out one in turn.

*

It was late into the evening by the time the mercenaries got back to their cabin, frogs chirring in the dark providing a backing band for the hooting of owls in the distance. Their door closed and locked behind them, Heavy headed for the bedroom to get changed into his pajamas.

Spy filled and stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray, then busied himself with setting the kettle on the burner and selecting a box of herbal tea from the shelf. "I admit I'm impressed how easy it was to get Mme. Beaulieu's attention. We're fortunate she found your poem so evocative." He deigned not to mention how evocative he found it in turn.

"Of course it was easy. I write it like this on purpose," Heavy said, walking out and taking a seat on the couch.

"Oh?" Spy asked, turning to look at the cozy giant, wearing a set of blue pajamas with pictures of little white bears in a pattern all over them.

"After Miss Pauling leave I read dossier she give me carefully. There is much information I must know. I see Viktoria is from Ukraine, and only move here in her twenties. She is fifty-two, grow up working class. She did not speak French before she move here after meeting husband. So she have to learn language in France, from the French, by living here. This is good for language learning sometimes, but make you feel alone. Very..." Heavy thought for a moment, trying to summon the right word. "Isolated. I know this. It is how I am learning English."

"Her French is perfect."

"Yes. She has lived here for twenty years."

Spy nodded, "That was in her dossier, yes. I suppose I glossed over the implications for her language acquisition when reading over her file." As the kettle whistled, Spy turned off the burner, poured each of them a mug, and dropped in a bag of chamomile tea and a dollop of honey. It made sense that Heavy's very recent history of immersive language acquisition and the difficulties thereof would make him uniquely aware of that detail of Beaulieu's dossier.

In stark contrast, Spy had always found language learning very easy, and had mastered French and Spanish at a young age, picking up English and Basque by necessity in his late teens during the war. He dabbled in a few others, but those were the four he could claim true natural fluency in. It was an entirely different paradigm, and one that had apparently resulted in somewhat of a blind spot, as he was coming to learn.

"So you wrote that poem that night, going over her file?"

"No. I write most of it on flight. Planes are tiny and not comfortable for sleeping for giant man. So I write poem to stop being bored and annoyed. And I finish it in car on way here."

Spy carried the mugs over, setting Heavy's in front of him on the coffee table before taking up the spot opposite in a chair. "And you custom wrote that poem for her?"

"Yes. But also, I have this experience. So it was easy; would get her attention."

"I think you may be better at this whole espionage thing than you let on, mon ami," Spy hummed against the rim of his mug.

Heavy shrugged a shoulder. "People are different. But people are also very much same."

Spy nodded at that and sipped his tea, letting the room slip into silence as he idly watched Heavy with perhaps a bit of awe.

*

"There is only one bed," Heavy announced with dismay, staring at the offending piece of furniture like he could scare it into splitting from a queen into a pair of twins.

"You didn't notice that earlier today when we were unpacking?" Spy asked with a smirk, shutting off the lights in the living room.

"Was not paying attention; doing other things."

Spy slipped into the bedroom and closed the door behind him with a soft click. "Are you just going to stand there grimacing at the thing or get into bed?"

With a squint, Heavy looked to Spy, then back to the bed. "I will take couch. This is fine."

Before the giant could bluster past him, Spy blocked the door and leaned against it, crossing his arms. "You'll do no such thing."

"You will take couch?"

"Neither of us is sleeping on the couch, Misha. We're sharing the bed."

Heavy pursed his lips and huffed a few short breaths, flustered. Spy tried his best to school his expression and not tease the giant for how cute the reaction was. In the shadows of the reading lamp beside the bed, he could almost make out redness spreading across his face. "We are not actual couple, we do not need to—"

"We do not know who here is whom, and whether we are being observed at any time. The curtains on our windows are not opaque. There are sightlines everywhere, and if we are to maintain our cover we need to maintain our cover," Spy stressed, unbuttoning his shirt. "With Beaulieu the last lead on this search of our employer's, and the rather final way her late husband was handled, this is likely a high tension operation for whoever is here to dispose of Beaulieu herself. The assassin will be concerned; they clearly know the Administrator's agents are on the trail. You and I are already unique and attention-getting with such an elaborate cover, in addition to your own stature. We need to come off as the most normal couple possible otherwise, especially with the chance of someone peeking in windows or setting cameras in unseen places. I've made sure there are no listening devices inside here, but I cannot account for everything that may be outside of these walls, including what may try to see inside of them. We need to be careful." Shrugging off his shirt, Spy folded it half-heartedly and placed it in a small laundry basket that sat beside the dresser. He tried not to notice how Heavy's eyes had flicked to and lingered for just a moment on his chest, undershirt be damned. "And if there is some kind of emergency in the night, what will it look like if someone has to bust into the cabin? There are too many variables to consider when there is one simple solution to all of them."

Heavy's frown grew progressively more severe as Spy elaborated, the knowledge that he had lost the argument before it had even begun settling on his brow. "Fine. It will be cold at night anyway," he deflected sullenly.

Spy tugged his undershirt free and deposited it into the basket, circling around between the giant and the bed. "Don't worry," he offered, a smirk already slithering across his lips, "we don't have to cuddle."

"You like to make me flustered," Heavy grumbled, now visibly red even in the dim light. "Stop it."

"I'll stop when it stops being fun," Spy teased, his breath catching as one of Heavy's massive hands came to rest on his chest, splayed out and so large that his thumb and pinky spanned its entirety and then some. It was warm, and with what seemed like no effort at all, Heavy shoved him backward onto the bed. He landed with a soft bounce and looked up at the giant towering over him. Spy felt his own cheeks grow warm at the sight, at the way he lay sprawled out in front of him, unable to look away from those glacial blue eyes, which scanned the supine man's half-naked body then widened in realization of what this might look like as he met his gaze.

Heavy turned away abruptly, making for the bathroom. "Put on pajamas and go to bed. I am going to brush teeth," he grunted as he beat a hasty retreat.

Spy merely lay there for a moment, his head flopping to the sheets, staring up at the ceiling. He could still feel the warmth of Heavy's hand on his chest, the burning in his face, the sudden rush as he looked up at the massive man who had pushed him down on the bed, their bed.

*********

Chapter 3

Spy awoke to the sound of chirping birds and the creeping light of the morning sun bullying its way through the too-thin curtains and directly onto his eyelids. He scrunched up his face and rolled over, only for the smell of coffee to tempt him to wakefulness.

The bed was empty, Heavy's side already cold. He must have been up for a little while, then. Spy found himself stymied by that, surprised he hadn't been woken up by the giant man beside him climbing out of bed and tending to his morning needs. He must have been dead to the world to miss that, and as he squinted in the morning light, Spy realized he felt far less bleary than rising from his slumber typically brought. He'd actually slept well; amazingly in fact. Far better than he should have while on a mission.

Typically the hyperarousal brought on by missions kept Spy a light sleeper, ready for anything. But last night sleeping back to back, he slept deeper and more restfully than he had in a long time. He elected to cease interrogating any further the thought that he felt safe with Heavy in his bed.

With a stretch and a yawn, Spy kicked off the blankets and swung his legs over the side, feet landing softly on the wooden floor. He scrubbed at his face, muttering, "I need to be a little less in-character."

Spy lifted his head from his hands at the sound of the floor creaking to find Heavy walking into the room holding a mug of hot coffee.

"Good morning. Coffee?"

"Yes, merci," Spy replied, taking the mug with both hands and blowing gently on the hot beverage before hazarding a small sip. "I'm surprised you're up before me."

"Cannot sleep in," Heavy admitted. "And you were sleeping so deeply, I let you sleep a little more." He stood there already dressed and shaven, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. "Bathroom is yours," he added as a means of egress, leaving the room and closing the door behind him to give Spy some privacy.

Spy sipped his coffee again and scrubbed the crust from one eye with his finger. "Merci."

Heavy realized he'd been neglecting his own coffee at the sound of the bedroom door opening. He'd spent his morning at the writing desk, scratching down some vague ideas in a notebook, free-associating to brainstorm something to bring to the workshops. He'd never been a fan of deadlines when it came to his creative output, which had always been more of a hobby than anything. His doctorate was in literature: analysis and themes. Now, being called upon to produce works, he was finding himself spinning his wheels a bit as to what to even write about.

With a sigh, he took a moment to actually gulp down some of the now-tepid beverage as Spy emerged from the bedroom—showered, shaven, and dressed—and washed his empty mug in the sink. His task finished, Spy sauntered over and laid his hands on Heavy's shoulders, peering over him at the notebook on the desk.

Heavy tensed a bit, reminding himself that Spy was merely trying to stay in the touchy-feely habit. He'd heard him muttering something about being in-character earlier, after all.

"Fire, burning, heat, scalding, brush of skin," Spy read a few of the words that hadn't been scribbled out, contextless concepts tossed onto the page.

"Can I help you?"

"How is it going?"

Heavy huffed a breath. "I am not very good with an audience," he said, a bit of mirth in his voice.

A soft laugh slipped through Spy's nose, and he gave Heavy's shoulders a light squeeze. "Well good news: the morning is yours. In a few hours is the day's workshop, and after that lunch. So I'll give you your privacy until then," he assured him. "I'll take the opportunity to stroll the grounds in daylight and get the lay of the land, do some reconnaissance. Maybe socialize with anyone not using their morning to write."

"This is fine," Heavy replied, then downed the rest of his cold coffee. "Before you go, will you put kettle on? Want to make tea."

"Are you going to let that get cold too?" Spy teased.

"Maybe," Heavy sniffed. "Maybe."

Spy chuckled at that and gave Heavy's shoulders another squeeze. "But of course, mon choux ourson." Letting go, he went and filled the kettle, setting it on heat before heading out the door with a jaunty, "Bisous!"

Heavy sat there staring at the wall—or more accurately, into the middle distance. Spy was staying in-character. He was keeping up the mask, to make it easier to wear it in front of others. If he was 'on' all the time he wouldn't have to spend the effort to switch it on and off. He'd explained as much.

Knowing Spy's method didn't stop Heavy's face from burning. It didn't stop the warmth from those small, delicate hands from lingering on his shoulders. It didn't stop that little pet name, 'my sweet teddybear,' from ringing in his ears.

Taking a deep breath, Heavy shook his head. He flipped to a new page in his notebook and began writing.

*

The morning dew was just beginning to evaporate as Spy exited the cabin and took a deep breath. The air smelled like loam and growth; such a nice change from the dry, dusty climate he'd grown accustomed to in the Badlands. While Sniper and Engineer would argue that the scrublands and deserts had their own rustic charms, Spy couldn't imagine preferring it to lush green and dappled light sifting through the trees.

The soft crunch of Spy's loafers on the gravel paths seemed so loud against the quiet of the morning, where the ambiance was dominated by the singing of birds and little else. No other campers seemed to be out and about, either sleeping in or taking the morning to write, like Heavy had. Breakfast was already over, but how many of the authors on-site had roused themselves early enough to patronize it, Spy couldn't begin to know.

Green seemed to encircle the camp, closing it off from the world, sequestered and isolated. Were it not so cozy, it might have been oppressive, and as Spy scanned the area, he noted how carefully curated the camp's sightlines were to ensure that closed-off feeling. The parking lot separated by a line of trees, the winding paths into and out of the woods, the way even the staff's quarters on the other end of the camp were also tucked away behind a line of trees, to keep them out of sight and out of mind while they weren't serving meals or running towels, toiletries, teas, and coffees to the cabins. Spy's eye was caught by one such staff member: a short, stout woman with curly hair tied back in a ponytail, carrying a box under one arm, which looked to be laden with boxes of tea bags and tins of coffee, as well as some cartons of milk. She knocked on a cabin, heard no response, and let herself in upon discovering the door unlocked to restock the kitchenette.

Spy couldn't imagine how anyone had used up enough to need a restock already, but he supposed constant refills were part of the experience. The place was a glorified resort with a bucolic facade. Everything was provided, nothing difficult or challenging to distract the campers from their workshops and creative endeavours, sequestered away from the world and their places in it. The rustic exteriors of the cabins lent a feeling of being out of time, only the ventilation systems atop the kitchen marring the illusion at all.

Honestly, it put Spy on edge, the artifice of it all. It made puzzling out possible routes of ingress or egress difficult, and those prized sightlines meant a nightmare for figuring out where the barrel of a rifle might peek through the trees. His eyes swept every building, every signpost, every suspicious rock and tree, alert for cameras, microphones, emergency lights, or worst of all: roosting positions for snipers.

He had no idea where any attempt on Beaulieu would come from. Her late husband had been stabbed in the street by a passerby who had disappeared into the crowd, a knife jammed up under his ribs to punch a hole in his lung with practiced precision. He was dead before help could possibly arrive.

Would the woman receive the same brazen approach? Something so up-close and personal would be messy, and difficult in such an insular environment. It would be likely to be another camper over staff, based on how little contact staff has tried to maintain with the campers thus far, staying unobtrusive. Planning an assassination would encourage one to be around their target somewhat, to establish behavioural patterns and a timetable for when they would be isolated.

Would it be more careful, more stealthful? Any sniping would have to be done from relatively close, the forest too dense for clear line of sight at any useful depth. A ghillie suit and clever positioning could serve the task, but as isolated as the camp was, escape for the assassin would be difficult. Any motor vehicle would be heard coming a mile away, and escaping on foot would be a ridiculously long trek back to anywhere. He snorted at the thought of a sniper in a ghillie suit with a rifle slung across his back bicycling up the gravel road that had led to the camp, pedaling furiously to try and get away.

The food was all served buffet-style to the group at meals, so any attempts at poisoning would have to be up-close and personal, unless the assassin were willing to pile up more than one corpse. Which was possible, but a lot of extra work, so unlikely if they were trying to be surreptitious about it in the first place. Otherwise, running into the dining hall with an assault rifle would accomplish the same thing, just far more dramatically.

After a bit of wandering, Spy made his way out to the lake, which sat away from the rest of the camp, secluded behind another line of trees with just a single path breaking through to lead him there. The lake itself was modest in size, its shore line made up of tan sands and smooth little rocks, stretching longer on the side that adjoined the camp. Forest surrounded the whole body, providing still more seclusion for the campers looking to spend time on the water. A small boat house sat beside the path leading in, with a few canoes and oars racked on its side. At the end of the path, a low dock extended for three or four meters out into the water.

It was quiet; the soft sounds of mostly-still water lapping at the dock's support posts joining the chorus of birds in providing a beautiful if almost cloying ambiance. Spy checked his watch and decided to kill some time before heading back to the cabin. After all, he had to play the bored husband with little to do. The fact that he was a bored spy with little to do helped sell it, he supposed with amusement.

Spy strolled to the end of the dock and took a seat, removing his loafers and setting them next to himself as he let his legs dangle over the edge, his toes just barely tickling at the water's surface. It was chilly, but not awfully so. With a deep breath of the humid, woodsy air, he withdrew his cigarette case and lighter from his pockets and lit up a smoke, taking a deep drag before tucking them back away.

Small rings disturbed the surface of the lake where Spy's toes touched it, echoing out a bit before fading away. He kicked idly, watching the water ripple and shift with the mild interest of someone with little else to do but sit there, smoke, and stare.

He thought of the visceral imagery of Heavy's poem from yesterday. The red earth. The organs strewn. The man picked to pieces and discarded save what could be useful to other people. His hands. His back.

How did he feel about this job? About what had been deemed useful here? Surely his mind was what he'd been assigned this contract for. That was something, yes? But what about his heart? Was that not where such agonies truly lived? Or was it merely a cold reality for him?

He couldn't imagine the man summoning such bloody words without an ache in his heart, in his soul.

And yet his tongue lay with the rest of him, rotting in the desert sun.

Spy took a deep drag. But that was Heavy's fault, was it not? If only he hadn't been afraid to speak French for all of these years, he'd have the practice to talk for himself here. Spy scoffed. What practice would he have, though? Other students, also wrapped up in their own studies? Post-revolution Russians seemed an unlikely fit for wanting to speak the language of their former aristocracy, so he could hardly just go to a cafe and strike up a conversation. And it wasn't like he'd taken many jobs in French-speaking countries.

And even if he had, would they have deigned to give him that chance? That practice? Or would they just throw out everything but his hands, his back?

Why hadn't Heavy told him sooner? They'd worked together for years! He could have helped him!

Heavy had known the language for decades before they'd even met. What expectation could he have of that? Or motivation, by that point? What sense did it make to approach a native speaker—one notorious for being haughty and standoffish—and ask to practice a language he'd been fluent in for so long? It was a ridiculous thought.

Spy wondered how many things he'd muttered to himself that Heavy had understood. Considering his propensity for snark in his mother tongue, that either meant that the giant was very good at hiding his laughter, or that Spy wasn't nearly as funny as he thought he was.

No. Spy couldn't bear that if it were the truth.

The crunch of footsteps on gravel dragged Spy from his reverie and he turned to see Viktoria Beaulieu approaching, a frankly ridiculously large mug clutched between her long fingers. It looked handmade, not quite level on top and glazed an uneven gradient of teal at its rim to white at its base. It steamed gently, and he had to wonder if she'd fit the entire kettle's contents into it.

"Good morning, Amand," she greeted a bit bashfully, as though she'd been caught misbehaving merely by being heard in her approach.

"Good morning, Viktoria," Spy replied warmly, turning and tucking one leg up onto the dock, letting the other hang over the water.

"I hope I'm not intruding."

"Not at all."

With a smile, she walked to the end of the dock and sat down next to him, crossing her legs under herself and settling her mug—which was half-empty of black tea—in her lap. "How are you this morning?"

Spy took a final drag and stubbed his cigarette out on the dock, tucking the butt into his case for later disposal. "Well enough, if just a touch bored. Bernard is working, so I figured I'd stretch my legs so that I could resist the temptation to bother him constantly. After all, the whole point of this retreat is to get some peace and quiet to do some writing, no?"

Viktoria laughed. "That's true."

"Unfortunately taking me with him means Bernard risks getting about as much peace and quiet as he does at home, which I dare say is precious little," Spy chuckled. "He says it's like owning a two-metre tall cat."

"Have you taken to lying across his books while he's trying to write, then?"

"Only once or twice," he admitted with a shrug, grinning as she barked out a laugh around the rim of her mug, just about to take a sip.

Spy grinned, turning his attention to the mug in her hands. "I take it the mugs here aren't to your liking?"

Sheepishly, Viktoria finished her sip and set the mug down on the dock. "I like to make one big mug of tea at a time rather than keep getting up from my writing and making new cups all day. Temperature doesn't bother me. I'm not much of a coffee drinker, but I adore tea. So I brought my lucky mug from home, knowing I'd need it."

"And here you've still gotten up from your writing with it," Spy teased, earning a swat in his general direction.

"Quiet! I can have my big mugs of tea even when I'm not writing, thank you," she harrumphed jovially. "Does Bernard have any rituals like that, other than not wanting to be bothered?"

Spy thought about that. It would be simple to make something up, but whether Heavy would remember to go with it once informed was a different story. Instead, he tried to remember any details he'd gleaned about Heavy from their years working together.

"He tends to be reclusive when he writes," Spy explained, looking down at the water in the image of wistfulness. In reality he was searching for scraps. "He likes solace, but also silence. Noise distracts him easily, which is rather funny considering before the heat stroke stole his voice, he was such a booming, boisterous man."

"Really? Him? He seems so shy."

"Really," Spy confirmed, adding a touch of sadness to his voice. "He's always been relatively quiet and reserved, of course, but when he's feeling gregarious, he shows it in great measure. You could feel his laughter in your own chest. And when he sang it was never particularly good, but his joy was infectious." Spy sighed a little, thinking to earlier when he'd peered over Heavy's shoulder at his notebook. "But I'm getting off track. Other than silence and privacy, he tends to brainstorm quite a bit when putting word to page. He writes down disparate ideas, sometimes just single words or concepts, until he lands on something that feels right, scratching out what doesn't rather than erase them. He also quite enjoys his tea while he writes."

"We certainly have that in common," Viktoria mused with a soft laugh.

"I've always been a fan of hot beverages," Spy admitted, "though I prefer some nice espresso to tea. Both are delightful, however."

Viktoria rolled the cup between her hands a bit, nodding in understanding. "I'll have to have you two over for tea sometime this week, then! I didn't bring any of my own from home, but the selection here is surprisingly good!" With a deep breath, she slowly climbed to her feet, regarding the seated Spy with a smile. "In the meantime, I should get some writing done before lunch, shouldn't I?"

"Allegedly, if you care about the workshops," Spy chuckled. "Good luck with it."

"I'll need it," she laughed, tossing him a farewell and heading off, leaving Spy to turn his eyes back to the water.

Booming, boisterous, gregarious. You feel his laughter in your chest. His joy is infectious.

All accurate descriptions of the Russian giant. Spy couldn't help but think of Heavy's silly songs on the battlefield, or the way he would make jokes and cheer for his team when things were going their way. The way he would talk to his gun, or his sandwich, if not to amuse the others, then to get a chuckle out of himself. The way he spoke in third person sometimes as an affectation in stubborn spite of how it made his grasp on English sound. The way he would smirk when Scout was up to his usual bullshit, or laugh uproariously at Medic's gruesome tales of malpractice. The way he was subtly sarcastic when nobody expected it, leading to denser mercs like Soldier taking him at face value sometimes. The way he would pout when he wasn't getting his way, or try to play the stoic when it was deeply easy to read his face.

The way he would flush bright red and get grumpy every time Spy touched him casually, or called him cute names.

Spy pursed his lips, simultaneously surprised and dismayed with the direction his train of thought had turned. He lit another cigarette and took a long, deep drag.

*

The scratching of pencil against paper and Heavy's own slow, even breaths were the only sounds within the cabin. While the birds and bugs and breeze filled the outdoors with their whispers and songs, the walls of the cabin did well to keep them all muted, leaving Heavy's ears filled with only the sound of his own work.

It was almost uncanny. He was used to noise. It had filled his entire life. His sisters playing, or fighting, or play-fighting. His mama scolding them for the latter two. The team, also playing, fighting, or play-fighting. Engineer scolding them for the latter two. Some things didn't really change, simply found new shapes to occupy. A small smile tugged at Heavy's lips at the thought.

His mind was wandering. Perhaps it was time for a break. He took off his reading glasses and leaned back in his seat, ignoring its groan of complaint as he bent back to stretch his spine and shoulders out, the joints popping softly. With a grunt, he picked up his mug and downed the last of his long-since cold tea, half-forgotten in his focus. As he set it down, he barely caught the soft sound of footsteps on the porch.

He knew it was Spy. Nobody else walked that quietly, that casually.

"Bonjour!" Spy called as he entered, a bit surprised to see Heavy watching the door, waiting for him. "Ah, here I was worried I'd be sneaking up on you," he joked, closing the door behind him.

"You were," Heavy assured him. "Was taking break. Sitting over desk for too long make shoulders stiff."

"Glad to see you're taking care of yourself, then," Spy hummed. "I did a walk of the area, mapped out the perimeter and sightlines, got a general idea of what we're dealing with as far as the camp itself goes. We're unlikely to be dealing with a sniper, which means more than likely whoever is here to kill Mme. Beaulieu is here on-site, assuming there is in fact an assassin at all."

"Any idea who?"

"Not sure yet. Nothing has set off my alarm bells, but the week is still young. I also spoke with Mme. Beaulieu a bit. She seems quite enamoured with our relationship."

Our relationship. Heavy chafed at the way Spy blended their cover into how he spoke of real things.

"She's quite fond of tea. Says she wants to invite us to her cabin sometime. Asked about you a bit, as well. That poem you wrote truly struck a chord with her; well done."

Heavy scoffed, even as a smile pulled at him. He waved off the compliment, making Spy laugh.

"I hope your morning was as productive as mine?"

Looking down at his notebook, he shrugged a shoulder noncommittally. He wasn't exactly happy with what was on the page yet. "I write some. But mind is heavy, like lead weight. Poem is still stupid. Not worth reading."

"Don't worry too much, mon ami," Spy offered. "After all, it's for our cover. And the whole point of this gathering is to be a workshop, right? It doesn't need to be a finished, polished piece."

Heavy chewed on that for a moment, his features settling into a stubborn scowl.

"Let me guess: you're a bit of a perfectionist, aren't you? Don't like people seeing unfinished work?"

With a soft huff, Heavy replied, "It is obvious?"

"It's an impulse I understand," Spy explained warmly, trying not to make Heavy feel like he was cold-reading him. "But here, you aren't Dr. Medvedev. Yes, this is something you're working on, but the attribution to them is to Dr. Dumont, a completely different person. Maybe if you look at it that way, it'll help you be less attached to the incomplete nature of the piece?"

Heavy gave another half-shrug, nodding to pacify the other man. It still didn't make him feel any better. After all, none of these people knew him, but Spy knew him. Spy knew that these words were from his pen, and he didn't like the idea of letting him see his work incomplete. Letting his jaw rest, Heavy elected not to speak that thought aloud.

*

Settling in at the workshop, Spy armed himself and Heavy with some coffee and settled in as Laurent launched into a welcoming spiel, thanking everyone for attending and hoping everyone's night and morning were pleasant and inspiring. It was mostly patter, but he delivered it with a level of enthusiasm that showed it was earnest. Spy wasn't sure whether it would have been more or less annoying if it were all for show.

After a bit of idle discussion, Laurent smiled to Heavy, extending a hand to the giant. "Last night I started at my right, so how about we start across the table this time? Dr. Dumont, are you willing to share what you have so far?"

Heavy froze up a bit, having almost been able to let himself forget that he was about to have his new, barely-begun poem put on display. His mouth drew into a grim line.

Spy pat him on the shoulder gently, tugging the notebook out from under his massive hand with no small effort. "Now, my darling, don't be shy."

"Yes! These workshops aren't for showing off, Doctor. They're to get constructive feedback to help you better mold the raw clay of your work into the beautiful sculpture it will become!"

Heavy took a deep breath through his nose and looked down to Spy, meeting his eyes.

Spy's smile softened. He looked up at Heavy with an expression of pure faith. "Bernard?"

Heavy sighed and let go of his notebook, allowing Spy to take it and stand. He couldn't bear to watch, keeping his eyes on the floor as the rogue cleared his throat and began to read aloud.

"Lay your brand against my flesh and sear yourself into me

Leave your mark in red and sloughing skin

Where the heat lingers long after your touch has lifted

And I remain, changed irrevocably

"Fingertip flashes fanning flames

Lips leaving bubbling blisters

Cleave yourself to me and set me ablaze

Let me bathe in your heat

In the agony of your merest touch."

When he was finished, Spy sat, handing the notebook back to Heavy so that he could take notes as others offered their suggestions and criticism. He didn't really hear any of it, drowned out by the words ringing in his ears, first in his own voice, then in what he imagined Heavy would sound like speaking them.

This was what Heavy was nervous about showing? Something so raw, so evocative? Just a few hours and already he was this far? He found himself unable to keep from stealing glances at the giant's stony neutral expression, almost in shock at what the man's mind could conjure.

What would his poetry look like if he'd had time? If he were writing in his native tongue? If he were writing for himself, and not compelled by an assignment to put pen to page? What did the poems penned and kept in the desk in his quarters look like?

Spy found himself tumbling headlong into complete awe, trying to smile placidly as the other authors did their readings and criticism, but unable to muster even the slightest bit of attention. Not as he reeled as he thought of the burning, yearning, aching words Heavy had put to page, the orgiastic, ecstatic agony that sounded as much like the wailing and gnashing of teeth as it did a plea for deliverance.

*

As Heavy sat across from Spy at a small table on the edge of dining hall, he smirked at the way the smaller man suddenly jolted, as if startled from a nap in spite of his eyes having been wide open. He'd been staring off in thought, poking idly at a piece of fruit on his plate with his fork. Heavy wanted to ask if he was okay, but merely offered a raised eyebrow in question.

"Sorry," Spy said quickly, straightening up in his seat and snapping back to reality. "I found myself lost in thought."

Heavy tilted his head to the side in question.

"I was thinking about your poem. Or, what you've written thus far."

That deflated Heavy a bit, and he settled in, hoping Spy wouldn't elaborate.

Spy elaborated, "I must admit, I was stunned. Your words, your subject matter, they speak of such desire, such forbidden urge, but such fear, I... I was captivated."

Heavy scoffed and reached for the buttered bread on his plate. Spy's hand struck out to snatch him, his delicate fingers curving around the giant's own to still him. His other hand came up to join it, grasping the bear's paw between his comparatively tiny hands. Heavy looked down to Spy with wide eyes, feeling his face grow hot as the rogue locked onto his gaze with blue intensity.

"I mean it. Take a compliment; you know how rarely I give them in earnest."

Heavy froze for a moment, surprise written in his eyes. He had never seen Spy look so serious. The man looked like he was delivering life-or-death news with how sharply and fiercely his gaze held him. With a soft huff, he smiled in reply. Fine. He nodded, acknowledging him.

"Oh, Bernard! There you are!" Viktoria walked up, lunch in hand and a bright smile on her face. "I just wanted to say—" Upon rounding the table and seeing the two men holding hands, she hesitated, looking between them sheepishly. "Oh, am I interrupting?"

Heavy watched Spy's affect change, like a switch being thrown, as he turned his attention sunnily to the woman at their side.

"Oh, not at all," Spy replied, giving Heavy's hand a squeeze. He let go and shifted to the chair next to Heavy, pushing right up against him and leaning against his arm. He gestured across the table. "Would you like a seat?"

With a sheepish giggle, Viktoria took the offered seat, setting her tray down on the table and settling in. "Thank you. I simply had to speak with you, Bernard," she said, wrapping her fingers around her oversized mug full of hot tea. "Your poem is ringing in my ears; I can't get it out of my mind!"

Spy hummed in agreement. He couldn't, either.

"I know I gushed about it at the workshop, but I just needed to tell you how stunning your use of visceral imagery in your work is. Like you're tearing the very words out of a wound in your chest to crush them onto the page! I really look forward to seeing how this piece develops, and I hope to see more of that imagery in the rest of it. It's absolutely one of your strengths. Your work is so... bloody."

Heavy nodded. Yes. All of his work was very bloody.

"And I rather like that about it."

Heavy smiled, nodding a bit more gratefully for her kind words, and tugged his notebook and pen from his pocket. He scribbled down a few sentences, then pushed it over for her to read.

"Thank you deeply. I worry my work's a bit more vulgar than I intend, but there's something to be said for the power of vulgarity, as well. I enjoyed the direction your new piece appears to be going, and look forward to seeing the plot begin coming together."

"Oh, thank you," Viktoria replied, sliding the book back over. "I've been having a terrible time with this piece and the idea overall. I worry my work's been awfully flat as of late. Which stands to reason, with all that I've been dealing with in my personal life draining me. So much stress, and then I learn right before I leave for this retreat that my husband's passed away." She scoffed and took a sip of tea.

Heavy laid a hand over his heart and offered a solemn shake of his head.

Viktoria rolled her eyes and waved him off, setting down her mug. "Honestly, his death is almost a relief. He was caught up with some nasty people, and I refused to get dragged into it."

A shame, Heavy thought, that she was absolutely being dragged into it.

"It came to get him in the end. It's tragic, but he made his own bed years ago. I'm actually hoping now that all of that isn't hanging over me, that I can breathe a little more freely now and enjoy my time at the retreat with a clearer head. Especially since my daughter is handling the estate, wonderful woman that she is. Oh, but look at me telling you my life's story."

Heavy held up a hand and shook his head, as if to tell her it's no worry.

"It's no trouble," Spy agreed. "Bernard often says that a heavy mind is like a lead weight."

A little smile tugged at the corner of Heavy's lip at that, and he nodded in agreement. With a grin, Spy cuddled up against him, making him blush fiercely in spite of himself.

Viktoria giggled at the sight. "The two of you are so cute together. How long have you been married?"

"Five years, though we dated for two before that," Spy replied, easing off the cuddles a bit. "And about six months of will-we-won't-we that, looking back, is frankly embarrassing."

"And still affectionate as newlyweds," Viktoria teased.

Spy grinned at that, looking up at Heavy adoringly and making the giant shake his head with a rueful smile. "I'll admit, we're very lucky."

Heavy couldn't tear his eyes away from Spy's, even as the man began to tease at the hair on the back of his hand. There was something expectant there, like Spy was waiting for Heavy to make a move for once, to help him sell the damned lie. Which was fair enough; the man was constantly petting and cuddling him, with Heavy largely sitting there and tolerating it. It might have looked a bit stiff or one-sided to an outside observer. Especially for a couple who had been together for seven years, apparently.

With a thick swallow, Heavy brought his other hand over, gently brushing the side of Spy's jaw with one knuckle gently. He hoped it sold the sappy scene, even as his hand trembled in spite of himself. He watched Spy's eyes widen just a bit before he leaned into the caress, looking almost disappointed when it was quickly gone.

"Ah, romance!" Viktoria hummed, seizing her fork and giggling as the men blushed and began busying themselves with their lunch.

*

The stroll back to the cabin from lunch was quiet. Heavy by necessity, but Spy seemed less chatty than he had been. There was something about the silence that felt comfortable. Like nothing needed to be said.

It felt nice to Heavy, just a moment of peace where they could enjoy the walk, no artifice, no talking about the mission, no bickering, no teasing. Since he had touched Spy at lunch, the man had gotten quieter, and he wondered if he had finally quelled some unspoken expectation the man had that he would play along more overtly with their cover roles.

Or maybe he was just as stunned as Heavy had found himself in the moment, the gentle rasp of stubble against his knuckle making something flutter inside him.

Heavy hefted out a sigh through his nose, rueful. He was being ridiculous. After all, this was all for pretend, even if it did feel nice. Even if it had been an infuriatingly long time since he'd felt the touch of a man. Even if he could still feel the phantom press of Spy's lips to his cheek from the evening prior. Even if he did feel like he was losing himself in it a bit.

On their way, they passed a member of staff leaving a cabin, a box of tea bags and coffee tins tucked under one arm. She smiled and nodded to them as they passed, her curly hair bobbing with the motion. They returned the silent greeting, and Heavy was struck with the thought that they should be keeping up the charade.

Yes. That was the reason he reached out to Spy, grasping at his waist and tugging him close against him as they strolled. Spy let out a soft sound of surprise before fairly melting into his side with a hum, letting himself be pressed against the giant, his warm arm wrapped around him and settled on his hip. Spy threw an arm behind him, curling around Heavy's waist, his fingers settling in one of his belt loops lazily.

They continued the rest of the way without a word.

*********

Chapter 4

Spy awoke in the grey of pre-dawn to the chirping of birds, swaddled in warmth and comfort. It took him a long moment in the bleary twilight of extricating himself from slumber before he realized that he lay in Heavy's arms, one beneath his head as a pillow, outstretched across the bed, while the other wrapped around him, holding him close, his back against the giant's belly. The warmth of his body soaked into him, leaving him feeling comfortable, safe, and before his higher brain functions could come to bear and tell him exactly why this was perhaps a problematic situation, his eyes fluttered closed and he drifted back to sleep to the soft sounds of Heavy's steady breathing.

*

Heavy awoke once the sun rose some time later, Spy's hand atop his hand, his arm curled around the smaller man, holding him close. He froze, eyes snapping open wide, holding his breath as he realized he was spooning Spy. There was no gap between their bodies, pressed flush together. And Spy was absolutely cuddled up against him, holding his arm close against him in his sleep like he was clutching a teddybear to his chest.

He was out like a light, boneless save for the grip he had on Heavy. Heavy couldn't bear to disturb him. Not with how poorly he notoriously slept. Perhaps Spy's playfulness in all of this was what the man was like with a proper night's sleep for once? Either way, Heavy decided to let him have a few more minutes, looking down at Spy's face, taking the chance to inspect it.

He'd barely seen Spy's face before in the few years they'd worked together. Just glimpses in the shower; the man staying masked at all other times on base. It was a shame. He was handsome. Even slack in slumber, his high cheekbones, distinctive nose, and sharp jaw cut a dashing figure.

Heavy thought back to Spy grasping his hand in both of his at lunch, his sparkling blue eyes turned up at him. He had to look away from his sleeping coworker, too overcome by the memory. It was frankly unfair for Spy to be so handsome while they had to play this stupid game of pretend.

The soft jerk of Heavy turning his head was enough to rouse Spy, who came to muzzily, only to freeze much the same as the giant had moments earlier. They were still cuddling, bodies wrapped together in warmth and comfort. It was no surprise, but now he finally had to face that it was indeed reality and not just a very pleasant dream. He let go of Heavy's arm jerkily—letting the giant pull it away—and huffed out a stiff, "Good morning, Heavy."

"Good morning," Heavy mumbled, leaning away to break contact, giving Spy the out to climb out of bed and make for the bathroom in record time.

At the sound of the shower running, Heavy let out a heavy sigh, grateful for the space of sound to shake out the discomfort of their awkward awakening. He should have just let go of Spy, even if it woke him up, rather than let him suffer the indignity of waking up to being cuddled by his comrade. It was already an uncomfortable and too-personal assignment to begin with; he didn't need the giant to appear to be making actual advances on him.

Sitting up, Heavy swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the cool, wooden floor. He buried his face in his hands and let out a soft growl of frustration. He wasn't making advances on him. He wasn't trying to do anything untoward in bed.

Even if a little part of him quite liked how Spy felt in his arms, remembered stubble against his knuckle, that stubble brushing his own cheek as those warm lips pressed to it, those sparkling blue eyes looking up at him as he lay supine on the bed. Heavy imagined awe in his expression, his cheeks tinged pink, Spy's limber body pushed down with a gasp and a giggle, his lips parting in a gasp as Heavy climbed atop—

Heavy jolted to his feet and stormed out to the kitchenette to make some coffee.

*

Water beat at Spy's scalp, running in rivulets down his neck, shoulders, and back, hot enough to redden his skin. He faced away from the showerhead, eyes firmly shut, grimacing against the heat and letting it try and clear his head.

He remembered waking earlier, finding himself in Heavy's arms, and falling back asleep. He remembered that warm comfort and deeming it good, safe. What the hell was wrong with him?

He was no stranger to sharing a bed with a man, let alone getting much, much closer than they had the night prior, but this wasn't some fling with a mark or a random pretty face. This was sleeping, content and cuddled, in the arms of his coworker, and not moving to stop it once he'd realized what had happened. That was the real issue. People reach out to one another in the night all the time. It wasn't the first time he'd been held by someone he'd shared a bed with by accident.

But it was the first time he'd let it continue, almost selfishly for his own comfort. The breach of professionalism alone was mortifying.

Worse, it confirmed his slowly creeping concerns over his own commitment to the bit. After all, Heavy was handsome, with chiseled cheekbones and a strong jaw, a hawklike nose and piercing eyes. He was big, and broad, and had biceps as big as Spy's head.

Spy wasn't made of stone. He knew his coworker was gorgeous.

But perhaps in his insistence in playing the part of the doting husband he'd been taking it too far? He'd teased Heavy about falling for him, but was he working himself into a crush instead?

No, that was ridiculous.

Lay your brand against my flesh and sear yourself into me

Leave your mark in red and sloughing skin

Where the heat lingers long after your touch has lifted

And I remain, changed irrevocably

Spy thought of the way Heavy's hand caressed his jawline, looking into those glacial, hauntingly blue eyes. Of the way he tugged him to his side with so little effort. His hand resting on his hip. He imagined it there still, dwarfing him, holding him firmly. Moving him, spurring him to motion.

Fingertip flashes fanning flames

Lips leaving bubbling blisters

Cleave yourself to me and set me ablaze

Let me bathe in your heat

In the agony of your merest touch

Spy leaned against the wall of the shower, biting his lip as the visceral imagery of Heavy's poem took shape in undulating bodies in his mind, in threaded fingers and lingering kisses. His hand strayed low, and he prayed that he might bring himself some relief from his distracting dilemma.

*

When Spy stepped out of the bedroom, showered and dressed, he noticed half a pot of coffee waiting for him on the kitchenette. Heavy was at the desk, hunched over his work and halfway through his own mug, which steamed quietly in the relative silence of the cabin.

"Merci," he mumbled, pouring his mug and drinking half of it down quickly.

"Workshop is after lunch," Heavy said noncommittally. Spy could tell from the tension in his posture that he was trying very hard to not look affected by the way their morning had started. He imagined that he was probably looking similarly out of sorts.

He moved to walk over, give Heavy a pat on the shoulder before leaving, but stopped. His tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip. No. No, he probably shouldn't touch Heavy right now. For the other man's sake, but also his own.

Some space would be a good idea for both of them. He chugged down the rest of his coffee and sat the mug in the sink, unwashed. "I'll be back to meet you for lunch," he said, trying not to sound too stiff. "I should be down at the lake, if you want me."

The air left the room at the uncomfortable way Spy had phrased that.

If you want me.

Did Heavy want him?

What did Spy want?

Spy left without another word, granting Heavy the mercy of not stretching it out any further, shutting the door gently behind him.

Heavy's removed his reading glasses and set them to the side as his forehead dropped to his notebook and he let out a soft groan of frustration.

*

When Spy arrived at the lake, he found the dock already occupied. Viktoria sat there, cradling her massive mug and chatting idly with another woman. She was younger, her dark brown hair cut in a fashionable bob, and she wore a pair of chunky, plastic-rimmed glasses. Her lipstick was the colour of fresh blood, and though it was garish it did match the intense red of her blouse, a pop of colour in an otherwise black outfit made up of a long skirt and a cardigan. Her style made Spy think of moody bohemians who perched at cafes and commiserated about half-done manuscripts that they never intended to finish, but spoke of like they were veterans of publishing.

In short, she read to him like a poser.

He hesitated a moment. He'd been hoping for some time alone. Some time to just sit with himself and deal with whatever the hell was going on inside of him. He had a job to do, but fuck would it be so much easier if pretending to be a loving husband still felt like it was just pretending.

Before he had time to turn tail and find somewhere else to be pensive and miserable, Viktoria noticed him and waved brightly. "Amand! Good morning! Please, come join us! Odette and I were just talking about you and Bernard."

Merde.

With no small amount of effort, Spy switched 'on', dragging himself kicking and screaming down the dock in the form of a casual saunter and a warm smile. "Good morning, ladies. I was worried I would be intruding." As he reached the end of the dock he took a seat with them, crossing his legs under himself. "And talking about us, no less? I hope nothing too sordid."

Spy recognized Odette as the woman who'd gotten drunk before the introductory meeting, and had been almost as much a frequent companion to Viktoria as he and Heavy had become. She was holding a mug of black coffee that she was slowly sipping on. She looked almost jittery, and he wondered how many of those she had already drunk thus far that morning.

A particularly mean part of him wondered if it was merely delirium tremens.

"Viktoria mentioned she'd invited you two over for tea," Odette explained, looking at Spy through hooded eyes. She was visibly less enthusiastic about their guest than her friend was, and it made Spy's instinct to push others' buttons threaten to rear its ugly head. "We've been making similar plans, in fact."

"Oh yes, we do need to decide on a day and time for that, don't we, Viktoria? After all, we only have four days left to enjoy one another's company."

"Not enough, to be sure," Viktoria hummed. "How about tomorrow evening, before dinner? That way we have some time after the workshop to do a bit of writing based on our feedback beforehand."

"Splendid!" Spy chirped merrily. Good, time alone with both Heavy and Viktoria away from prying eyes would be a perfect opportunity. Much easier to protect an asset from a possible assassin if you can pull her aside and let her in on the charade. Or at least her place in it. Either way, securing her cooperation was part of their goal.

"Oh, and what about you, Odette?" Viktoria asked, gesturing to her friend. "Shall we make it a tea party?"

Odette's mouth drew into a line for just a flash before she forced out the fakest laugh Spy had ever heard. "Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude," she demurred, waving Viktoria off gently. "You and I can have tea some other time."

Yes, some other time, Spy thought, trying not to grind his molars lest he open up a cyanide capsule or possibly the miniature winch he kept at the very back. He needed Viktoria alone, unobserved, unaccompanied.

"Nonsense," Viktoria giggled. "It'll be lovely! I know you don't write until after dinner anyway, Odette. It's not like you'll be busy. And Amand and Bernard are such sparkling conversationalists; you simply must!"

"Only one of them speaks," Odette grunted out, faltering in her politeness.

Spy smelled blood in the water. "And yet my darling Bernard can still hold a room rapt."

Odette shot him an annoyed glare. "Fine, then. Tomorrow before dinner it is."

Spy smiled pleasantly at her, glad to have gotten under her skin. Internally, he was screaming, cursing, and kicking over furniture in a massive tantrum.

*

At lunch, Heavy and Spy found themselves left alone, Viktoria and her big mug having been called to a different table by Odette, eager to chat about something or other. Which left the two mercenaries alone, looking down at their food rather than risk a glance at one another, the silence between them deafening.

It was too much to bear.

"So, how did writing go this morning?" Spy ventured, not looking up from his plate.

Heavy scribbled a messy, "Fine," onto his notebook and set it on the table for Spy to see.

Spy's lips drew into a line. He should have known better. If there were ever anyone good at not talking when he didn't want to, it was Heavy. He sighed, hanging his head before combing back his hair and trying again. "I understand things may be... awkward. But we do need to continue to keep up appearances."

Heavy leveled a hard stare at Spy, but looked away when the rogue met his gaze. He shook his head and wrote, "Then talk to me. It's not like I can have a good conversation this way anyway."

That pushed a soft laugh through Spy's nose. "If only you could speak your mind."

"If I could, there would be no reason for you to be here," Heavy wrote. "My silence is your job security."

That managed to wring a proper chuckle out of Spy. "I like to think I'm good for more than just being your interpreter." He laid his fingers atop Heavy's hand which held his notebook, and the giant tensed in reply. Letting his own hand fall away, Spy murmured, "Sorry."

With a huff, Heavy wrote, "It's fine. It's your job."

"Yes," Spy hummed, a little sadly. "My job."

*

"Lay your brand against my flesh and sear yourself into me

Leave your mark in hot and sloughing skin

Where the heat lingers long after your touch has lifted

And I remain, changed irrevocably

"Fingertip flashes fanning flames

Lips leaving bubbling blisters

Cleave yourself to me and set me ablaze

Let me bathe in your heat

In the agony of your merest touch

"Burn the air from my lungs

And fill them with smoke

Gasping, urgent, clawing

Grasping, undulating, caressing

Until I only breathe to speak your name

"Your caresses carve through me

A forest fire raging

Destroying all in its path

Leaving blackened ash and desolation

Leaving white and aging scars in my skin

"What may I become

Engulfed by your body

Blazing bright or guttering sparks

I fear to know

Yet I arrive on moth's wings."

Spy's mouth ran dry as he spoke the final words of Heavy's draft, feeling heat in his face as the words echoed in his skull. He thought about Heavy's arm around him as they walked. As they slept. The lingering sensation of pressure and heat. The way Heavy's hand tensed, ready to shrink away from his at lunch, the warmth under his fingertips taken away so swiftly.

He wondered if Heavy was the type to put himself into a character and write from that perspective, or if he was the type to write from experience. He had played off his first poem—the one to catch Viktoria's ear—as just working his crowd. But he'd said as much that he had the experience. He knew what it was like. He knew those feelings, that agony, and he wrote of his work in the red clay of the badlands: a detail only Spy would truly understand.

So what of this poem?

What of this desire? This yearning? This fear? This hesitance? This lust?

He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with smoke, and imagined a hand at his throat and the gentle murmur of his name in a Russian accent. *********

Chapter 5

Spy awoke in the dark of night, his eyes creaking open as a chill brushed his back. He reached behind himself to feel around for Heavy, but found himself alone in bed, the rest of the blankets bunched up behind him in a pale imitation of the giant's bulk. Heavy had tucked him in and snuck off.

Blearily, Spy sat up, wondering where he could have gone. He scrubbed at his eyes and climbed slowly out from under the covers. Padding barefoot out to the living room, he found the cabin completely empty and frowned, worry beginning to reach its tendrils into the cracks of his mind. He ducked back into the bedroom, dressed hurriedly, and walked out the door into the pre-dawn dark.

The rest of the afternoon and evening had been quiet, but far less pregnantly so than their morning had been. Perhaps it was their conversation at lunch breaking the ice, perhaps it was Heavy's poem doing the talking for them, but the tension of the morning had mostly bled away over the course of the day.

Which only put Spy further on edge upon waking up alone.

He checked his watch; it was a little after four o'clock. The sun was almost two hours from rising, and the forest was still filled with the chirring of frogs and crickets, soft distant hooting of owls punctuating the din every so often.

Rounding the porch of the cabin, he took in the sight of the rest of the camp, punctuated by trees and buildings here and there. On an outer edge of the open area's footpaths, he saw a ring of log benches illuminated by an orange glow. One of the fire pits was hosting a small, modest flame, and Spy could see Heavy's unmistakable outline in its light. With a curious tilt of his head, he took a deep breath and walked over, resisting the urge to jog the distance, forcing himself into an amiable saunter. The last thing he wanted was to betray how worried he'd been when he'd woken up alone.

*

Heavy sat hunched forward, holding his pocket notebook and scribbling words onto it. Every so often he flipped the page over and wrote something down on the next with purpose before flipping back and scribbling some more. As he noticed Spy arriving, he sighed heavily through his nose and sat back, stretching his shoulders, acknowledging his presence.

"Are you alright?" Spy asked, keeping his voice soft as he approached close enough for Heavy to reply without being heard by others.

"I am fine," Heavy replied simply. He kept his eyes on the fire.

He was clearly not fine. "May I sit?" Spy asked, gently.

"This is fine."

Spy frowned, but sat anyway, scooting up beside Heavy to lean against him so that if any outside observer happened to be awake, they'd see two lovers having a romantic moment. "Merci."

As Spy leaned against him, Heavy tensed. "Can I just be Heavy right now?" he asked.

"If we stay quiet, it should be fine. This close, we can keep our voices low."

"Not what I mean," Heavy replied with frustration. He scooted away from Spy on the bench, away from the warmth of his body against him. "Sick of being Bernard."

Spy reeled back a bit in surprise as the giant left his side. Sick of being Bernard? "It's what you signed up for—"

"It is not. Heavy sign up to write poems and find assassin and get lady to give Miss Pauling information. I sign up to pretend to be man who can't speak; who has husband who speak for him."

"So then how is this not what you signed up for? That's exactly—"

"I did not sign up to be played with," Heavy hissed, cutting him off again.

"What?"

"I did not sign up to be Spy's plaything. The teasing, the touching, the cuddling. It is maddening! Yes we are supposed to play husbands, but you must be so... romantic about everything! What should I do? I'm not like you! I cannot just do things like that! Like an actor! I can't just be romantic like it is switch I can turn on and off!" Heavy swiped his hand over his bald head, rubbing at his scalp for a moment, letting a heavy breath puff through his noses. "You hang on me, hold my hands, play with fingers. You cuddle me, show me this tenderness, even kiss me, and none of it is real! It is driving me mad!"

Spy reeled at the outpouring of emotion, eyes wide, lips parted in startled shock. "Heavy, what—"

Heavy pocketed his notebook and pen and scrubbed his hands over his face, hunching forward again, as though he wanted to curl into a ball in front of him. "I can tell myself it is not real. Over and over. I can remind myself this is just act. But every single touch burns me. Because some stupid, stupid part of me wishes it was real." His voice wobbled, and he turned to look at Spy through the corners of his eyes, not quite able to face him. "I did not mean to hold you last night. But when I wake up holding you, it is hard for me to let go. You are there asleep, safe in my arms, and I think you are beautiful. And I want to pretend for me for once."

For him.

Spy jawed at the air, unsure what to say to such open sentiment, to the wounded animal that was the giant sitting before him, vulnerable, spilling his guts onto the red earth for him to pick and choose amongst. "Heavy..."

"Poem is for you," Heavy said simply. "All of it. For you. You are burning me alive with every single touch and I do not know how much more wick my candle has left before I am melted away. I am going mad. And I hate this. And I want it to be over. But now it is too late because you know. And I know, and I feel it, and it has cut hole into my heart and made nest there. And I will never be able to escape it." He turned his eyes back to the fire, unable to bear looking at Spy's stunned face any longer. "Every time we see each other on base. On field. At dinner. In shower. I will think of you holding my hands at lunch. Or kissing my cheek. Or sleeping in my bed. In my arms. And that will never go away, and I am saying all of this and I can never take it back and I just want to go home." He huffed in a soft breath, rueful, like he might burst into tears.

The confession struck Spy dumb, leaving him jawing at the air, his command of four different languages somehow unable to summon any words to mind that could be assembled into a proper response. He'd known Heavy was uncomfortable with the touching, but he couldn't have imagined it was because they meant something to him! That Spy wasn't the only one falling.

"Why?" Spy fairly whispered. "Why didn't you say something?"

Heavy's jaw set, his brow furrowing, and his nose wrinkled as he grimaced. In an instant, agony hardened into rage, and every muscle in the man's body tensed and bulged. In spite of the flash of flame, his eyes grew cold as they turned directly on him, staring into him like glacial ice. "What am I to say?! How can I be more obvious?!" he snapped. "A loving husband can put hands on shoulders, clap on the back, just sit beside! Does not need to be lovebird romance constantly! Amand and Bernard have been together for years, so why is Spy acting like he has brand new boyfriend? It is ridiculous!" He rose from his seat, pulling himself up to almost six and a half feet of broad, powerful menace. "No more. I am dying inside and you tell ME that I am at fault?!"

Before Spy could recover, Heavy stormed off in a huff, leaving him sitting there stunned as he stomped into the dark, headed for the cabin. Spy watched him leave before burying his face in his hands, slouching over on the bench with a ragged sigh.

He had fucked up so, so badly.

*

Heavy slammed the door to the cabin as he entered, kicking his boots into the kitchenette with a bang that dented the minifridge. He resisted the urge to put his fist through the wall, grinding his molars as he forced himself to stop having a tantrum like a child.

He'd poured his heart out to Spy. He'd told him everything. He'd ripped himself open and held open his ribcage for inspection, and Spy had spit into the bloody cavity.

Why didn't you say something?

Like it was a simple matter to tell your coworker, a notoriously handsome and charismatic man, to please stop pretending you're in love with me because I'm falling in love with you. To please stop making me feel so cherished and adored and attractive because I know you don't feel that way but my heart can't stop leaping every single time. To please stop giving me glimpses of a happy life together that more and more I want but know I can't have.

Stupid.

But he should have said something. He should have been plain and forthright with Spy, set a damned boundry rather than simply pout and soldier on. And now because he couldn't bring himself to be upfront, and because Spy refused to take his discomfort seriously, everything was changed irrevocably.

Heavy should have known better.

But he was stupid.

And his heart was even stupider.

He was shaking, his hands trembling as he clenched them into fists over and over, digging blunt fingernails into his palms to try and eke away the urge to destroy something the way he felt destroyed. To grab something fragile and mangle it into the image of his own broken heart.

He settled for slumping into the chair of the writing desk and grabbing a pen.

But not without taking a moment to fold his arms atop the desk and drop his head into them, grimacing and sniffling and so, so tired.

*********

Chapter 6

Flames danced and curled, reaching skyward even as they guttered and died, kicking sparks as, unfed, untended, they withered away to mere red cinders hiding in the gashes they'd burned into the charred, white, ashen wood. Spy stared into those flames, those cinders, those ashes the whole while, watching it die, watching it fade, as behind him, the sun slowly crept above the horizon, bathing the dark and grey land in its warm glow. Distant flame, searing against his back like a burning stare, making Spy feel like the heavens themselves had turned their disapproving gaze upon him.

Still, he watched the logs in the fire pit as the cinders died away and the fire was no more, leaving just him and his thoughts as frogs and crickets gave way to birds, filling the forest with a different din of sound to fill his ears with sweet nothings.

He wished he'd felt numb. Numb he could handle. A dullness and distance from the situation. Spy wasn't any stranger to broken hearts, having inflicted them upon others too many times to escape the adjective "cruel" from applying. But here was different. This wasn't a case of wining and dining some mark for a job. Or a fling with a pretty young thing to spend some of his free time.

This was a heart he hadn't meant to break.

And his own heart had become collateral damage.

The ache in his chest was a physical, palpable thing, and his guts remained clenched up in a way that nauseated him. He wished he could retch, to double forward and vomit up this pain, like it could give him some relief, some escape from the guilt.

He was a fucking spy. Guilt shouldn't even be part of his vocabulary.

And yet he kept seeing the look in Heavy's eyes. The quaver of his voice. And his own stupid voice spilling from his lips asking perhaps the most idiotic thing he could have, saying the absolute wrongest thing, and waves of revulsion washed freshly over him, tumbling him over in the surf.

Was there a way he could even make this right? Was there a way to apologize that wouldn't be tainted by the fact that he'd been so ignorant in the first place? Would Heavy even care to accept it?

He was right, after all. There was no going back from this. No taking it back. Everything had changed, in too many ways. Working back on base would be nightmarish going forward.

And all the while, Spy would be tormented. Wondering what could have been.

If those touches, those caresses, that cuddling in the night could be real.

Movement caught his eye, finally dragging him from his self-loathing reverie to look out over the camp, which he only now realized was green and lush with morning dew. Campers were beginning to stir, and the curly-haired staffer with her box of teas and coffees was out and about, slipping in and out of cabins as their occupants trundled out to breakfast.

He watched as Odette left her cabin, wearing some hideously mod green and white affair with plasticky dangling earrings and round, chunky sunglasses like it were bright enough out to justify them. He really couldn't hate her fashion sense enough.

She approached the curly-haired staffer on her way between cabins and waved her down, talking to her about something and gesturing to the box she held. The staffer nodded, reached into the box, and handed her a few assorted boxes of tea bags with a smile. Odette nodded in thanks and hustled back into her cabin quickly.

More tea, huh? Spy lit a cigarette and took a puff. Probably for the best. The woman could use less caffeine.

*

The morning came and went with Spy chain-smoking and people-watching from his perch. Authors and staff puttered around on their various tasks for the day, mostly uninteresting. He noticed Laurent liked to walk out to the parking lot after breakfast. Perhaps he walked the road that lead away from the camp for exercise, instead of the paths where everyone could see? There would be more solitude that way.

Spy made a mental note to tail him tomorrow.

Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, Spy felt a little more centred at that thought. He was here for a mission. Not to have... whatever he was having with Heavy. He needed to stay focused. A woman's life hung in the balance, and what's more: his contract payoff.

Maybe a big wad of cash once they had this mission in hand would help Heavy forget it all? Spy doubted it. He sighed, put out dregs of the cigarette he was smoking, and lit a fresh one, tossing the butt into the fire pit.

*

When the workshop came, Heavy had missed lunch entirely, sequestered in his cabin without leaving until required by his job. When he arrived at the lodge, Spy was seated already, a plate with a sandwich on it and a glass of milk on the table next to him, ferreted away from the lunch service and waiting for Heavy. He pursed his lips and looked to Spy, who glanced at him out of the side of his eye. He nodded a thanks, stiff and impersonal, and sat beside him, leaving space between.

The tension between them was like a physical object, pushing upon them, forcing them apart, sparking and stinging and shuddering with its own restrained energy. Spy felt like he was drowning. When Heavy's turn came up in the workshop, the giant slapped his pocket notebook down on the table in front of him expectantly, returning to eating his sandwich slowly.

Spy stood, taking the notebook and clearing his throat. The page contained but one stanza, with a note atop that it was part of the poem he was working on.

"Consume me in your raging inferno

Drowning in the lava spilling from your lips

Dripping and searing all that it touches

Cooling into stone

Practical

Purposeful

Hard and unyielding

Unfeeling."

Viktoria looked struck by the new direction of the poem, but nobody ventured to comment, save for some assorted bits of praise for the imagery. Spy sat, putting the notebook in front of Heavy, and doing his level best to school his expression and not drop his face to the table in utter defeat. He needed to do something. Anything. But what could he do? He needed to get Heavy alone, to try and ameliorate the situation, but how could he even attempt? If he confessed how he felt to Heavy—as messy and confused as his own feelings were—would Heavy even believe him? Or would he be convinced it was yet still more artifice? More pretend?

More lies from a professional liar?

*

Returning to the cabin after the workshop, Heavy threw his notebook onto his desk before turning to Spy, who was creeping in behind him, tail between his legs. "You say yesterday Viktoria invite us for tea."

Spy startled, surprised the man would even deign to speak to him. "Y-yes. We're expected soon."

With a sigh, Heavy snatched his larger notebook to use to communicate, a pen tucked into its spiral binding. "Let us go, then. This is chance to convince her to work with us."

"Of course," Spy replied, not bothering to mention Odette. Heavy was stating the obvious, but it was also a statement of intent. He was done with pleasantries, with the illusion. He wanted to do his job and go home, like he'd said.

They left the cabin together, each putting on his most pleasant neutral expression as they walked to Viktoria's cabin. Unlike previous days, they were out of step, Heavy leading slightly with Spy trailing behind him. He watched the giant's shoulders shrug self-consciously, like he expected a knife between them.

As they approached, Odette passed them, headed the other direction from Viktoria's cabin. Spy's eyebrow quirked at that. "Ah, Odette! Will you still be joining us for tea?" he asked, making her stop in her tracks like she'd been caught misbehaving.

Whirling on the ball of her foot, Odette's expression swiftly morphed into a saccharine smile, pleasantly pinched in the way only someone who was deeply annoyed could muster. Spy knew the expression; he wore it often around much of the team. "Oh, unfortunately I'm just so behind on my work, so I'm going to have to join another time. It's just awful, but I really need to get some more on the page. I'm sure you understand," she replied, waving them off. "Have a lovely time! Kisses!"

"But of course," Spy replied, pursing his lips in annoyance.

They continued on all the same, and as they arrived at Viktoria's cabin, Mme. Beaulieu herself was also just arriving, her notebook clutched under one arm. "Oh, Amand! Bernard!" she called, hurrying over to greet each with a kiss on either cheek. She lead them up the porch, opening the door for them. "My apologies; I got caught up talking to Laurent after the workshop. Please, come in!"

"Thank you," Spy hummed, following Heavy inside and taking a seat beside him on the couch.

"Have either of you seen Odette?" Viktoria asked as she puttered over to the kitchenette and put the kettle on.

"She hasn't told you? She won't be attending. Said she wanted to catch up on work." "Oh, that's just like her; so flighty, it seems. No, she hadn't said anything."

Spy hummed in thought at that. "I had assumed; she'd come from this direction when we saw her."

"Ah, I see," Viktoria chuckled as the kettle whistled. She pulled it off of the hot plate and began preparing a mug for each of her guests and her big big mug for herself, laden with several tea bags. "I mean, you saw me just arriving as you did, so we must have just missed one another."

"Fair enough," Spy mused, filing that information away. He'd need to rummage Odette's cabin tomorrow while she was out.

Viktoria brought over two steaming mugs of tea and set them on the coffee table, then fetched her own before sitting down. "I hope you gentlemen enjoy the tea. Since it's kind of late in the afternoon I forewent something caffeinated in favour of something fruity. This is a lovely little berry tea that I was supplied with on my refill today, and I've just been so excited to try it! I love black tea, but sometimes you just want something warm and fruity."

Spy chuckled warmly, picking up his mug in both hands. "Truly, I often find myself wanting something warm and fruity," he teased, leaning to look pointedly at Heavy, who rolled his eyes at the awful joke.

Viktoria barked out a laugh at that, waving him off. "Oh Bernard, is this what you have to put up with? You're a saint!"

Heavy scribbled something down quickly and handed the notebook to Viktoria, who read: "It may be uncouth to say, but his mouth has better uses." 

She sputtered, erupting in near-cackling laughter. "Bernard!" she chastised, slapping the arm of her chair. "I see why the two of you are made for each other!"

Heavy and Spy shared a look at that, and Spy busied himself with a sip of his tea.

Heavy held the mug to his nose and took a deep breath of the warm vapors, its fruity aroma soothing him. Until—

Wait. What was that smell? It was acidic, and vegetal. Not at all fruity like the rest of the berry aromas. It almost smelled like... tomatoes?

He looked to Spy beside him, swallowing a sip with a soft sigh.

Tomatoes.

"Tomatoes!" Heavy barked, realization hitting like a kick, "STOP! DO NOT DRINK!"

Viktoria startled at the giant's sudden roar in English, her mug slipping from her fingers to tumble to the floor, spilling hot tea all over.

Spy froze dead, looking wide-eyed up at Heavy, only for the giant to wrench the mug from his hands. "What?!"

"Something smells wrong about tea. It smell like tomatoes."

Spy snatched the mug back from Heavy and took a long sniff, his stomach dropping. "Tomatoes." He looked up at Heavy. "Belladonna berries."

Heavy's eyes widened in panic.

"What?! Bernard, you can talk?! What's going on?!"

"The tea's been poisoned," Spy explained, digging in his pocket for his cigarette case.

"WHAT?!"

"I'm sure you're aware your husband's death was no accident, Mme. Beaulieu. He was assassinated for his ties to that Australium refinery, right before our employer was able to make contact with him in regards to information he has relating to it. And now someone is coming after you."

"The refinery? Your employer?! Who are you?!"

"We're spies," Spy explained matter-of-factly, pulling out his cigarette case finally. "We're under the employ of Reliable Excavation and Demolition, here specifically to protect you from anyone who would do you harm. As well as attempt to secure your cooperation, being the sole person remaining alive with access to the information our employer needs." Spy frowned, his tongue beginning to go a little numb as he spoke. He knew how strong belladonna was, but witnessing it in action was no small thing. Hopefully exposure through one sip of tea would be easier to control than eating a whole fresh berry or leaf. "S'cuse me," he added.

"So all of this has just been to get at me?  And someone's poisoned my tea bags?" Viktoria asked, carefully climbing to her feet and picking up the fallen mug.

"Just so," Spy replied simply.  "Though I did quite enjoy our conversations, if it's any consolation, Mme. Beaulieu."

"This is ridiculous," Viktoria growled, shaking her head as she regarded the puddle of poison on the floor around her.  "I thought I was finally free of my absentee husband, but his shit keeps coming after me from beyond the grave!"

"Tragically, I'm afraid.  But I promise you, we will not let any harm come to you," Spy assured her as warmly as he could muster as a headache began to throb behind his eyes.

"You swallowed the poison," Heavy said, his voice sounding so meek, so quiet in the sudden fear that bubbled up inside of him.

"Just a sip," Spy replied. His words slurred just a bit, his tongue clumsy in his own mouth, and he could feel his heart beginning to race. Heavy watched in horror as his pupils dilated wide enough to almost black out the blue of his iris. "We must hurry. I'm willing to bet Odette planted these bags before we saw her, and is going to make an escape!"

He surged to his feet, intent on storming out of the cabin, but found his legs giving out from under him, sending him tumbling backward. Heavy caught him as vertigo slammed into his head, making everything spin and feel like it was falling away from under his feet.

"Amand!" Viktoria yelped.

"You are poisoned," Heavy insisted, laying Spy down on the couch.

Spy snatched Heavy's hand, taking it in both of his as he leveled his shaky eyes on Heavy's. "Find Odette."

"What about you?"

"Amand—or, whoever you are," Viktoria pleaded, "We need to get you to a hospital!"

"We have more pressing matters to attend to," Spy said.  He released Heavy and snapped open his cigarette case. He withdrew a cigarette with a black band clapped the case shut. Cracking the filter off of the cigarette, a loud click revealed that the paper was merely a disguise to hide an ampoule inside. Spy upended the thing over his open mouth—a thick, sludgy black substance pouring out and onto his tongue—and swallowed its contents with a grimace. "I just swallowed a concentrated tincture of activated charcoal. It should stop the poison before it kills me." He dropped the ampoule, his hand coming to rest on Heavy's cheek. God, in spite of everything, he leaned into it. If only Spy could tell the flutter in his chest apart from the belladonna that had reached his bloodstream making his pulse race. "I'll be okay."

Heavy gave his hand a squeeze and rose, storming out the door without a word.

*

Odette looked up from her writing with a startle at the sound of boots on her porch just a moment before screaming in abject terror as her door slammed into the room, punched off its hinges by an incensed Bernard Dumont.

She whirled out of her seat, and a throwing knife barely missed Heavy's head, sinking into the shelf of the kitchenette beside him, Odette's arm outstretched. "What the fuck?! I knew you two weren't who you said you were! A giant mute homo poet, sure. I believe that!" she barked.

"You poison Viktoria!" Heavy bellowed, grabbing her chair and lifting it, ready to throw. "Coward!"

A small smile curled the edge of Odette's lip. "So you can talk!"  She chuckled, shaking her head ruefully.  "Business is business," she added with a half-shrug, matching his English. "But I did nothing of the sort. I don't work with poison. Too many variables." As if to punctuate her statement, she slipped a balisong out of her sleeve, twirling it open with a few clicks and clacks.

"You're saying it wasn't you?"

"I'm saying your busybody husband's been stymieing my every attempt at getting Beaulieu alone, yes!" she spat, flipping the knife closed. "Are we done here?"

Heavy threw the chair aside and scowled. "Don't try to run. I will find you if you do," he sneered. Without waiting for a response, he tromped outside, a pit widening in his stomach. Their cover was blown, Viktoria was targeted and, worst of all, Spy was poisoned! He could die! And the last conversation they'd ever had was—

Shaking his head, Heavy dismissed those thoughts. He scanned the site as he let his feet take him back to the cabin, looking for anything or anyone amiss. Then, he saw her.

Hurriedly entering his and Spy's cabin was the stout staffer with the curly hair. Spy had mentioned that she seemed to be the designated kitchenette stocker. Her. It had to be her. He charged.

*

"I must help him!" Spy grunted, fighting to his feet, wobbly as a newborn fawn. "I have to!"

"Amand, please!" Viktoria pleaded, trying to urge him back down onto the couch. "You've been poisoned! This is an assassin!"

"Which is precisely why I can't risk letting him do this alone," Spy replied, grasping her by the shirt and trying to pull himself up.

Viktoria frowned and shook her head with a sigh. "Come on," she huffed, throwing his arm over her shoulder to support him. They shuffled out onto the porch, looking around for any sign of commotion. A few campers had heard all of the noise and were peeking out of their own cabins. All eyes seemed to fall on the quarters of the Dumonts, the door of which had been just slammed shut.

"There!" Spy said, limply pointing, panting for breath.

"You're sure you—"

"I can't lose him," Spy replied, looking to Viktoria pleadingly. She could see the ache in his eyes, and thought of how they would look up at Bernard with such adoration.

She nodded, understanding, and adjusted her grip on him. "Let's hurry, then."

*

The cabin door had been locked from the inside. All of the ruckus from Odette's cabin must have alerted her. Heavy's nostrils flared as he took a few steps back and shouldered into the door, slamming it open hard enough to crack the doorframe where the hinges were anchored. He grabbed the door and yanked it back to shield himself against any attacks from the living room. He'd been lucky once already, and didn't expect a repeat performance.

Silence greeted him, the living room and kitchenette empty. He scowled in dismay, eyes darting around the meager hiding spots available. She had to have fled to the bedroom. Steeling himself, he approached slowly, his boots infuriatingly noisy on the creaky wooden floor. The door was ajar, the room behind it as dark as the sheer curtains would allow, and he tapped it with his fingertips to urge it open. Slowly, he entered, turning to face the room as he swept around the door, scanning for movement.

The bed was still unmade from when Spy had crawled out of it before dawn, the covers stuffed up against where his back was to give the sleeping man the illusion of Heavy's presence. Even amid the adrenaline of the situation, Heavy couldn't help the gnawing sense of guilt that suddenly crept into his gut at the sight. Spy had pissed him off so much, tormented him seemingly without grasping it, but God, he was poisoned. He was poisoned and he could be dying and Heavy had spent the wee hours of the morning yelling at him rather than just fucking talking to him like a goddamned adult.

What if that was the last conversation he'd ever get to have with Spy? Heavy couldn't bear it.

He clenched his jaw and began checking under the bed and inside the closet, as thoroughly as he could. There was no back door to the cabin, so she had either fled out the window, or—

Heavy didn't hear the bathroom door open. What he did hear was that creaky hardwood floor giving a squeak of protest underfoot just in time to whirl around and slap a pillow in the way of the oncoming blade of the straight razor from Spy's shaving kit, parrying it to the side, sending it clattering to the floor as it slipped from the hand of the curly-haired staffer. She sneered, diving for it, but Heavy was ready this time. He kicked the blade under the bed and shouldered into her, knocking her away from him and into the far wall with a thump. He tossed the pillow aside and charged, bringing his fist to bear.

With a whirl to the side she dodged, and the giant's fist punched a hole into the wall, breaking most of the way into the bathroom in a spray of shattered wood. It gave her pause, looking to the hole beside her, the hole that could have been her, and she bolted for the bed, hopping unsteadily up onto the mattress to kick the other pillow at Heavy as he turned, obscuring his vision just long enough for her to seize the lamp off of the nightstand and yank it out of the wall, taking its cord in both hands.

As Heavy shoved the pillow aside, he was greeted with the sight of the lamp swinging at him. He reacted too late, catching the tangle of metal and glass across the face, the bulb shattering against his forehead as the base slammed into his cheek with a sharp sting of pain. He reeled to the side and felt heat on his face as shallow cuts in his forehead immediately began to bleed, but had no time to do anything about it. The woman launched off of the bed onto him, looping the lamp's power cord around his neck and pulling, hanging off of his back and letting the plastic-clad wire dig into his throat and cut off his air.

Heavy thrashed, clutching at his throat, unable to dig his fingers under the wire for relief. He turned this way and that, trying to shake her off of him, but she drew up her knees and pressed them into his lower back, jerking backward with all of her weight. Blood dripped into his eyes, and he could taste the iron on his lips as the pressure began to pound in his head, his chest burning for air as he scrambled. He slammed his back against the wall, trying to dislodge the woman, snarling as he heard her grunt follow up with a laugh.

He needed to get her off of him. His heart pounded in his chest, and he only had so long before lack of oxygen would sap all of his strength. Already, he was feeling it begin to wane. If he could just get her outside, she'd be forced to run. There would be witnesses he could—

She jerked her knee hard into his kidney, forcing a cry from him, and what little air he had left. No time to think. Just do. Heavy lurched out of the bedroom into the living room in a desperate bid to get outside. It was only a few steps, he just needed to—

Viktoria.

Viktoria was standing in the doorway. Why was Viktoria here? She was in the way! She needed to move! Heavy's brain grew fuzzy in horror, and blackness began to close in on his vision. He stumbled and sank to his knees, his legs feeling like jelly. Why was Viktoria here? She was supposed to be safe with Spy! Was he hallucinating? He didn't think suffocation caused that.

Viktoria winced, and he heard a scream, and he fell to his hands. And just like that, air rushed into his lungs, a short wave of nausea washing over him as he gasped and coughed and grabbed for his throat.

Behind him, even over the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears, he heard the soft whuff of an invis-watch cloak deactivating. And the woman's weight on his back fell away as she sank to the cabin floor with a wet thump. He turned to see Spy there behind him, holding his balisong, which dripped with blood. He smiled, his face covered in sweat, and dropped the knife, falling backward against the wall by the door to the bedroom, upon which he had been propped and waiting.

"Amand!" Viktoria cried, rushing to his side as Spy slid slowly to the floor, panting.

"I'm fine," Spy assured her. He looked to Heavy and stretched out a hand. "Are you alright?"

"Spy, you save me," Heavy murmured, pushing himself up onto his knees and looking between the rogue and the dead assassin laying on the floor between them.

"I couldn't lose you," Spy said simply with a sad smile. "I owe you an apology, after all."

"Don't say stupid things," Heavy replied with a rueful huff of a laugh, climbing to his feet. He walked over and helped Spy up, diverting him to the couch to lay him down. "You are okay?"

"I'll survive," Spy assured him. "Though I should probably have my stomach pumped sometime today, just for thoroughness' sake."

"Oh, this is all?" Heavy laughed, rolling his eyes. He took Spy's hand in his.

"More importantly, we need to get our things, Viktoria's things, and get out of here as soon as we're able. I do believe our cover has been fully blown."

Heavy shook his head. "Rest for a moment first."

"It's a shame, really, that our retreat is cut so short. I was quite enjoying the workshops," Spy mused, squeezing at Heavy's hand. "I was hoping to read the rest of your poem, when you were finished."

With a soft laugh, Heavy looked to the desk where his notebook sat. "Poem is finished," he said. "I finish it today. Not the stanza you read today, though." He looked to Viktoria, who nodded in understanding and fetched the book for Heavy. "You are sure? Could use more refining," he teased.

Spy smiled warmly up to Heavy. "Please."

Heavy took a deep breath, and instead of handing the book to him, read from it himself in halting French.

"Lay your brand against my flesh and sear yourself into me

Leave your mark in hot and sloughing skin

Where the heat lingers long after your touch has lifted

And I remain, changed irrevocably

"Fingertip flashes fanning flames

Lips leaving bubbling blisters

Cleave yourself to me and set me ablaze

Let me bathe in your heat

In the agony of your merest touch

"Burn the air from my lungs

And fill them with smoke

Gasping, urgent, clawing

Grasping, undulating, caressing

Until I only breathe to speak your name

"Your caresses carve through me

A forest fire raging

Destroying all in its path

Leaving blackened ash and desolation

Leaving white and aging scars in my skin

"What may I become

Engulfed by your body

Blazing bright or guttering sparks

I fear to know

Yet I arrive on moth's wings

"Take me

Burn me

Consume me

Coax new life from my red and wounded earth

And be the warm sun on my face

As you hold it between your gentle hands."

Spy watched Heavy speak in awe, listening intently, drinking in every word, every sound, and was sure now that the flutter in his chest wasn't just from the belladonna. When Heavy was finished, Spy was the one who now felt breathless. "Heavy, I..."

"Like I say before, poem is for you," Heavy said, with tender trepidation in his voice. "Is... how I feel."

"Heavy," Spy breathed, feeling dumbstruck, words tumbling uselessly in his head, none of them feeling good enough to respond with. He settled for humour, a soft smirk pulling at his lips. "How am I supposed to follow that act? A simple 'me too' can't hope to compare to that!"

Heavy's lips pursed into a line, mirth in his voice. "You can try, yes?"

"I can, but I'm terribly weak. If you could come closer," Spy beckoned. Generously, perhaps expectantly, the giant leaned in, and Spy gathered himself up enough to pull him down for a kiss.

Their lips met softly, gently, chaste at first before neither could hold himself back and wrapped his arms around the other, crashing together in a fit of passion and heated, hurried breaths.  Beside them, they heard the soft sound of Viktoria cooing at the display of affection. When they parted, they looked into one another's eyes, uncaring that Heavy's blood, running down his face and slowly clotting, had smeared onto Spy's brow and nose in the furor of the moment.

"I feel the same," Spy finally replied with a soft laugh, feeling so safe wrapped in the giant's embrace. He pressed his nose to Heavy's, pecking him with another short kiss, only to add, "You weren't exaggerating, though. You really do need to practice your French."

Heavy barked out a laugh at that, reeling back a bit before closing back in, pressing another kiss to his lips. "So you do not want to be pen-pals after all?"

"I would much rather be your private tutor," Spy hummed. "I'll show you how to move your mouth properly."

Heavy grinned. "Are we still talking about speaking French?"

[markingatlightspeed]

13 and 15 for the ask game?

13. What’s something you learned recently?

I've been watching the commentaries for Dragon Ball Z Abridged and learned that Chris Sabat, the voice of Vegeta, Piccolo, and others (as well as voice of Cell, Dameon Clarke and beloved late voice of Frieza, Chris Ayers) is a big fan of DBZA, which is pretty cool. Also that he's a cool guy, which makes me smile.

15. What’s a piece of advice you find yourself giving a lot?

Three big ones that seem to come up the most, in no particular order:

Your life isn't over after your 20s. Tbh it mostly is just starting to begin, then. In your 20s you're figuring out how to be yourself and how to navigate the world, now that you've figure out how to be a person at all (which is what your childhood is for), and you're gonna make mistakes, struggle, feel lost and awkward and overwhelmed. Your 20s are for getting your bearings; don't put pressure on yourself to have shit figured out or to be on some grindset or some shit or be succeeding. Put one foot in front of the other, gather experiences and try to learn from them, and remember to reach out for help and wisdom of those who've done it already, so you know how to avoid the worst pitfalls. By the time you come out the other side you'll have a better idea of how to handle shit, and have the peace that comes with a much stronger idea of who you are and your place in the world. Anyone who "has their shit together" in their 20s had the head start of a crazy support network (especially financially) or are burning themselves at both ends and ready to crash. Comparison is the thief of joy.

No job is worth dying for. No job is worth destroying yourself for. No job will reward you for the blood you shed proportionally. You will just be used up and discarded for the next person to drain dry. This isn't to say don't try. Put in your best effort. But your best effort doesn't mean breaking your back and cutting off pieces of yourself. This isn't some anime plus ultra shit. Put pride in what you do, and in the effort you put in, and don't make more work for other people, but establish firm boundaries with your work, or else it will kill you and toss you in a ditch with all the rest. Even if to your immediate coworkers you're a person, to The Machine you are just a number. Give only what you get back.

If you have to fight a relationship in order to keep that relationship, it's not worth the fight, nor worth keeping. Whether that's a romance or a friendship or ties with family, if you're constantly chasing someone who's supposed to be reciprocating, and they refuse to meet you in the middle, then they're never going to. Fighting the outside for a relationship sometimes has to happen, but if you're fighting the other person you're trying to keep in your life, why are you trying to keep them in your life? Value yourself. End it. Cut them off if you have to. Romance, friendship, and filial love are all supposed to be kinds of partnerships. Reciprocal. Fulfilling for both parties. I'm not talking about labour or ability, I'm talking about engagement. If it feels like you care more than they do, then what are you even doing here?

Hope those are good wisdoms for you, verbose though they may be.

[markingatlightspeed]

I wanna see your essay about the hitchhikers guide now, you made it sound epic as fuck in your reblog

Lord I have no idea of evidence of it even still exists. A few years ago I threw away most of the shit I had saved from school, and even if I have the 3.5" floppy it was saved on I don't have a computer with a floppy drive rn. Need to get one, tbh.

Like, it wasn't a lifechanging essay or anything, but I put a lot of work into it as an 18 year old, and it was about how Hitchhiker's Guide presents the question of life, the universe, and everything, gives a nonsense answer, and asks you what the question even is, and how the philosophy of those books boils down to the fact that nothing really matters, and there's no great plan or grand scale, just what we do with the time and opportunities we have, and what it means to us. Nothing matters, so let's have a good time while we can.

Reading those books as a heavily anxious teenager still conflicted about whether I actually believed the religion I was nominally raised in or whether it was just a comforting lie I told myself because I feared the possibility that this is all we have really fucking rewired my brain in a lot of ways, most of them good. I like to think I'm a chiller, kinder, more adventurous person because of those books. The world is poorer for having lost Douglas Adams, especially as young as he was. (He died age 49, like the year before I cracked into his books for the first time.)

[markingatlightspeed]

yippee!! hi luna!!

Lol hello Nota!