Chapter 7. 🌿
Sometimes the quiet chapters say the most.
Today's menu:
☕ awkward realization
👀 prolonged eye contact
🤏 accidental domesticity
🌝 denial
Enjoy. 🫡💛
Word count: 846
Chapter 7 – Cracks
───
♪ Figure It Out
Florence Road
───
Morning sunlight spilled lazily across the motel room.
The heat had already settled in.
Australia, as always, showed no intention of apologising.
Spy adjusted the cuff of his shirt before reaching for his cigarette case.
Empty.
...
"Bushman."
A rustle from the bathroom.
"What?"
"...You stole my cigarettes."
"Nope."
"You absolutely did."
Another pause.
"...Check your other pocket."
Spy frowned.
...
They were there.
He looked toward the bathroom.
"...I dislike that you know where I keep them."
Mundy's voice drifted through the half-open door.
"Ya've got too many pockets.”
–––
Spy reached absentmindedly toward the bedside table, expecting coffee.
His hand stopped halfway.
Coffee.
Already waiting.
Still warm.
...
He looked across the room.
Mundy was cleaning his rifle.
Without even looking up, he muttered,
"Drink it before it gets cold."
...
"...You are becoming alarmingly efficient.” Spy glanced at it. "...Still trying to poison me?"
"Yep."
"...Consistency is admirable."
"So I've heard.”
Spy reached for his coffee.
Mundy looked up.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them acknowledged it.
They never did.
Somewhere along the way, looking at each other had become strangely easy.
Looking away had become the difficult part.
–––
The same street market. Spy held a stoic expression. But his wound beneath his shirt ached a bit as a silent reminder.
They kept working. Watching faces. Listening. Blending into the crowd.
But the Frenchman paid a lot of attention to things which shouldn't occupy his mind at all.
–––
Spy frowned.
They had crossed three streets already.
Every single time—
Mundy had taken the outside.
Without looking.
Without thinking.
...
Spy couldn't remember when he'd first started noticing it.
Interesting.
–––
Someone brushed roughly past them.
Before Spy could react—
Mundy's hand landed lightly against the middle of his back.
The touch had lasted less than a second.
Practical.
Automatic.
Guiding him forward.
Then disappeared.
Like nothing had happened.
...
Spy couldn't remember when it had started feeling natural.
...
He hadn't even realised they'd become separated.
–––
Spy stood near some old shop and lit another cigarette.
A familiar voice came from beside him.
"Thought we agreed on one."
Spy exhaled slowly.
"We did."
"And?"
"I've decided agreements are optional."
Mundy sighed.
Reached over.
Took the cigarette straight from Spy's fingers.
One drag.
Another.
Then handed it back.
"There."
Spy stared for a moment before taking the cigarette back. Their fingers brushed.
Neither of them commented on it.
Once upon a time, one accidental touch would have earned at least three sarcastic remarks.
Not anymore.
"...Did you just steal my cigarette?"
"Borrowed."
"...You're insufferable."
"So I've heard.”
Spy then stubbed out his cigarette silently.
–––
Spy pinched the bridge of his nose. Long night.
Too little sleep.
Too much heat.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
A paper cup appeared beside him.
"...Again?"
"Coffee."
"I can see that."
"Drink it."
Spy sighed dramatically. "...Bossy.”
–––
They headed to the same café they'd been visiting all week. And suddenly… Spy caught himself watching.
Again.
Grey eyes.
Sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Hat pushed back.
Sunburnt forearms.
...
Mundy looked up.
"...What?"
Spy blinked.
"...Nothing."
"You've been starin'."
"I have excellent eyesight.”
The assassin's expression softened as he noticed the exhaustion in Mick's face.
Mundy rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Almost absent-mindedly.
Spy frowned.
"...Didn't sleep?"
"'M fine."
"That wasn't my question."
A pause.
"Couldn't.”
Spy said nothing.
He simply reached for the coffee pot when the waitress walked past.
A second cup appeared in front of Mundy a minute later.
Neither of them mentioned who had ordered it.
–––
Spy lit another cigarette.
"You're smokin' more."
"I'm smoking exactly the same amount."
"You've had four today."
Spy looked offended.
"You counted?"
"No."
Pause.
"...Five.”
The Frenchman let out an annoyed sigh and a small cloud of smoke. "...I'm beginning to regret teaching you observation.”
–––
The assassin was paying more attention to the crowd than to the road beneath his feet. He didn't notice a sticking out tree root. So of course he stumbled. But was stopped by a familiar hand.
"You alright?"
"I'm perfectly—"
Only then did they both notice.
Mundy was still holding his arm.
The warmth lingered for a heartbeat longer than it should have.
Strange.
Neither of them seemed particularly eager to be the first one to move.
Only then—
He let go.
"...Right.”
–––
An old bleaching sight of their motel could be seen. They went in complete silence and then—
"You've gone quiet." Mick was the one to break the silence.
"I always speak when necessary."
"That's unlike ya."
Spy frowned.
"...Was that an attempt at humour?"
"...Maybe."
"...Don't do it again.”
–––
They were finally home. In their room.
Spy took off his watch and placed it on his bedside table. And then he noticed something strange…
Spy stared at the glass for a long moment.
...
He hadn't asked.
Mundy hadn't offered.
He'd simply remembered.
...
That was...
Habit.
They both kept noticing things.
Grey eyes.
Rough hands.
The smell of coffee.
The way Mundy always reached for the door first.
The way he noticed when Spy was tired before Spy did.
...
That...
Was becoming inevitable.
Neither of them seemed willing to stop it.
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