First time submitting anything outside of Tumbl-r - this is still somewhat of a work in progress, so comments/suggestions/crit welcome. And yes, it's a little short, but it's part of a series, with more to come. ---------------------------------------------------------------- PART ONE: Sunburn There it was again, that barely perceivable tingle just at the nape of his neck, like static dancing over the short, dark hair that trailed into the collar of his serviceable red shirt. Sniper cursed lowly, wondering when the other symptoms of this aching, beautiful, terrible disease would crop up, slowing his trigger finger and throwing his aim to the four winds. Because, really, he couldn’t decide which of them was worse - the sweating, the shaking, the shortness of breath, or the way his mouth went dryer than a sandstorm in the Outback every time he caught a glimpse of his teammate through the scope of his rifle. Or at all, for that matter. On the field, in the mess hall, whenever the RED spy stepped out of the darkness that shrouded him and into his field of vision, the Australian couldn’t seem to fight the gravitational pull between his eyes and the other man’s sleek form. More than once he was glad for the reflective shades that hid his gaze, but even then he wasn’t sure it was as effective as he assumed. Sometimes, his looks were returned, with a slight smile trailing over the spy’s sharp features as he faded back into nothingness. At first, he wanted to call it envy. The Frenchman was shite with a gun, of course, but the way he handled that thin, deadly knife of his was elegance defined. A dance of death, to put it poetically, as the finely honed blade spun between and over his knuckles with that certain flamboyant flourish. Even outside of battle, it was never far from his hand, neither it nor those damned black clove cigarettes he insisted on smoking that seemed to permeate every garment he owned and left a near-intoxicating trail of warmth and spice behind him. But it couldn’t be envy that made him wonder if the other man tasted as good as he smelled. Swearing again, Sniper reached to adjust his hat, scowling at the thin sheen of sweat that had formed under the brim. Just as he had tried in vain to label the strange twinge in his chest that formed every time Spy was near as envy, he blamed his perspiration on the conditions in his nest. It was far hotter than the crisp seventy-two degrees their engineer had cheerily claimed it was, wasn’t it, he told himself. The sun was just beating down on him at the wrong angle, getting into his eyes, surely that was the problem. His shaking fingers? Caffeine jitters. Dry mouth? Dehydration, maybe. Why, nothing about the way he’d been feeling could be caused by that no-good, slimy frog, he assured himself. He almost believed it. Lost in his own thoughts, he failed to notice that the sun’s offending rays were gone, blocked by the menacing shadow of BLU’s Spy, until one shadow became two and his RED counterpart was wiping the blood from his butterfly knife as he kicked the enemy’s limp body over the side of the rail. Neither of them looked as the corpse fell. The sniper frowned as he turned to face his teammate, leaving his rifle balanced delicately on its tripod and attempting to look as disgruntled as he could. Spy’s barely readable expression was another story entirely, however. His slate grey eyes were focused on the bushman before him, brows furrowed under his balaclava. “What has gotten into you lately, Monsieur? I simply cannot carry on rescuing you like this…,†the Frenchman chided, his ever-present smirk fading by just a few degrees, though he fought the change and righted it as he trailed off, waiting for the sniper to explain himself. Sniper simply scoffed, peering up at the other man over the rim of his aviators. “I don’t need ya to rescue me, Spook, I just…the sun was in my eyes, is all,†he answered, with a lame half-shrug. “If ya hadn’t showed, I’d have still managed ‘im on my own, no worries.†The red-clad spy was having none of his excuses, however, and leaned down, lowering his voice just enough that any of their teammates would have to strain to catch the faint murmur of his words. “If it was just the sun, mon ami…you had best be careful not to get burned,†he muttered, low and laced with just the barest trace of his usual venom, even as his thin lips curled into a predator’s grin. And just as quickly as he had come, he was gone, cloaked and away down the stairs to resume his own day’s work. The Australian blinked, just once, and remembered to breathe, not having realized he’d stopped. Laying himself out behind his rifle once more, he fought the shaking of his hands and sighed deeply to steady himself. He’d been wrong, it wasn’t envy. It wasn’t jealousy, it wasn’t some petty grudge over kill counts, it wasn’t hatred or even dislike of any sort whatsoever. And as he took aim, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger, he snorted out a slight chuckle in spite of himself, watching BLU’s Medic stiffen and crumple under the force of the bullet exiting the back of his skull. It wasn’t the realization of just what that nagging, sweetly sickening feeling was that hit him the hardest. It was the simple knowledge that not only was he attracted to a man, his own teammate, and a Frenchie to boot, but that the spy was aware of it and confident enough to tease him…that slammed into his chest and brain harder than a long-distance round ever could. The warning was useless, he thought to himself, reloading and waiting for his next target to present itself. He’d already been burned.
You have my full attention.
>>2 Then I better not let you down, hm? Here's the second part. I should have the third up around this time tomorrow. ---------------------------------------------------------------- PART TWO: Butterflies and Hurricanes Another battle won, another day over, the spy thought to himself as he padded quietly down the hall from the resupply room, sliding his cigarette case from his pocket to pull a much-needed smoke from its confines and lighting it huffily. Another fight spent wasting his time lingering near the sniper’s favourite blind and watching him sit there like a deaf duck as the enemy spy lurked behind him. One of these days, he really should let him backstab the incompetent bushman, to teach him a lesson and wipe that ridiculous excuse for a grin off his face. Merde, what kind of way was that to look at another man? He supposed that was a rather hypocritical thing to say, however, considering how he occasionally allowed himself to return those silly smiles with the slightest upturn of his own lips. Just a glance, really, a token acknowledgement. He didn’t want the dirty Aussie to embarrass himself too greatly, after all. Surely their teammates had noticed by now, the looks they exchanged, even if they hadn’t quite come to the same conclusion as himself. The conclusion that the sniper was, in the very least, fascinated by him, and perhaps a great deal more, if the hitch in his throat and the way he’d nearly stumbled backwards like a scared rabbit when he’d whispered in his ear were any indication. Of course, that wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. He could deal with someone wanting him, he supposed. He’d had enough admirers in his time to appease his own vanity, but it amused him endlessly that the man had never even seen his face and yet seemed to watch him like a schoolgirl with a crush. He could even admit to leading him on a little, moving just so in order to catch Sniper’s eye, lowering his tone to a silken murmur when it was only the two of them in the mess hall, just to see the look on his face. It had all started as a game he played with himself, something to pass the time between battles. It wasn’t meant to become the monster it had, rearing it’s head at the worst moments, invading his mind with thoughts he desperately tried to push away. He wasn’t supposed to feel like he did. A spy wasn’t supposed to feel at all. He was a seasoned assassin, a trained killer, master of subterfuge and stealth, not some lovestruck idiot pining and sighing over a handsome man who would never, on his own, make the move the spy wanted him to make. It wasn’t that he was worried over the sniper’s maleness, no…it wasn’t the physicality of it that frightened him to his very core. It was the feeling of loss as his self-imposed detachment was slowly slipping away, revealing something long forgotten and reminding him that he himself was a man, with needs, with desires and feelings and wants he had buried so deep in his own being that even the brightest lights in his life had never reached, never even grazed the surface. It pained him. He couldn’t sleep. He was utterly and helplessly in love, and he was wretched over it. He couldn’t stop toying with the other man, but oh, he should. He couldn’t tell him he didn’t want him when he did, but it was the right thing. Just tell him and let him down easy. Tell him he wasn’t and would never be interested, and hope that the sniper simply looked at him as though he’d lost his mind, insisting that he wasn’t interested either. That would be the easiest way it could play out, and it would all be for the best. Ah, it hurt even to think about, but it would go away. It always did. From an ache to a dull throb to a dusty memory. Even if it was a lie, he could live it. He’d spent his life pretending, after all, from his younger years growing up in Avignon to the day he’d signed his latest contract, and all the assignments in between. He’d been a baker, a singer, a driver, a lover, and a killer, but all of them merely roles. If times had been different, he’d have been a successful actor, just as his mother had always wanted. And yet he’d lied to her as well, so much, with his reassurances that the family name would pass on even after his brother perished in some foul trench during the war, buried without ceremony, never to know his wife’s tender touch again. Promised her he would be fine, as he patted her hand and watched her fade away, unable to even shed a tear as she followed Baptiste in death not a month later. Every promise he had ever made, he had broken; every cover-up story as eloquent as the last. He was fine. He needed nothing, and no one. Pacing in front of the doorway to the mess hall, he rehearsed what he would say. He would be cordial, aloof, and cool, his usual calm soothing the other man and preventing a scene. Damn his heart. Damn love. Damn… “Eh, Spook, ya got a sec?†came the last voice he wanted to hear. Like a butterfly in a hurricane, his thoughts scattered apart and flew far from him as he turned to meet the sniper’s honest brown eyes. Damn those eyes. “Oui.â€
This is certainly interesting. Continue.
I like the rose-tinted thing going on. You have my attention as well.
Well hello... I'm usually not as much of a fan of RED Spy/Sniper but here I am just completely sucked into this story regardless of what colour suit he's wearing... Please, do continue. I'll just wait here.
Please, please, keep writing!
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Thank you all so much for the encouragement. In fact, I love you so much, I fixed the glaringly awful end of this part and reposted instead of giving you something I wasn't quite happy with. ------------------------------------------------------------------ PART THREE: Spit It Out It had taken almost all of the nerve he could muster to speak up at all, and now that the spy had turned to face him, those hooded grey eyes flicking up to lock briefly with his own, it took the rest of what Sniper had just to keep standing there. He figured he looked every inch the oaf the Frenchman considered him, holding his hat over his chest as though his clenched, white knuckles were the only thing keeping his heart from bursting through his ribcage to land still thumping on the ground between them. Swallowing thickly, he focused his gaze there, on the dusty floor. “I was…thinkin’ about what ya said out there,†he continued, one boot scuffing the dirty planks underfoot. Not the most elegant thing he could have said, no, but he was pretty sure the spy didn’t expect it from him. Fancy wasn’t his way. “Oh?†was all the red-suited man said evenly in reply, shifting his weight casually. Too casually. Sniper was no expert on body language, but he’d be damned if the spook didn’t seem just a little on the nervous side himself. Better keep going while the going was good. Loosening his death grip on his already-abused hat, he looked up again, glancing at the other’s face but only enough to catch his expression sidelong. There was no challenge in his eyes. “Yeah. And I decided that…it’s a little too late ta be warnin’ me about the sun, mate. M’already…well….†Shit. He faltered, not sure how to put it without seeming obvious. The spy was silent for a long moment. Sniper was sure he’d said the wrong thing, and opened his mouth to excuse himself, turned to leave, when the Frenchman finally answered. “Then perhaps you should invest in a tube of sunscreen, Monsieur Sniper. I am sure our dear Medic can procure it for you,†he said quietly, stumbling uncharacteristically through the last few words. Was he… Peering over each shoulder, just to make sure none of their teammates were in earshot, the sniper shook his head and took a step closer, lowering his own voice to something just above the other man’s own near-whisper. Where it lacked the spy’s clear, velvety smoothness, it more than made up for it with the harsh, husky, and undeniable undertone of want. Need. And something else that even Sniper himself wasn’t sure about. “I don’t think sunscreen’s gonna help this burn, Spook. Ain’t the usual type, yeah? S’more…personal than that, if y’know what I mean. An’ I’d put good money on you knowin’ exactly what I mean without me sayin’ it at all,†he purred, reaching out to gently place a hand on the spy’s shoulder. Before he could react, the Frenchman had recoiled as though burned, eyes narrowed, thin lips downturned in an angry line. “I am afraid you’ll find I am not as knowledgeable about this burn of yours as you say, mon ami,†Spy spat in what amounted to little more than a hiss. “Do not be so familiar with me. You do not know me. I do not know you. And if you are insinuating that I have some interest in you beyond what our mutual employer demands, then you are sorely mistaken.†Sniper took a step back as well, but leaned forward again just as quickly, responding with a quiet growl of his own. “I aint’ insinuatin’ anything, Spook. Don’t yank me around, I’ve seen the way ya look at me, same as how I look at you,†he muttered. Flippantly, the spy waved one gloved hand, clucking his tongue softly. “I did not want you to feel bad. Your intention is obvious, that much I will give you. But no matter how it breaks your little heart, bushman, I am sorry to say that I can not…return this odd infatuation you have developed for me. Spare yourself the hurting and move on.†Before he could say another word, the Australian’s fist had risen seemingly of its own accord and connected solidly with the spy’s jaw. Hard. Sniper didn't spare the second it would have taken to watch the other man slam into the wall behind him, as he turned on his heel to stalk angrily away. "Oh believe me, mate, I will. Don't bother savin' me anymore," he snarled over his shoulder, boots thudding heavily down the narrow hall. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
I like Spy's reaction. He looked like just what a spy is.
Has being cruel to be kind ever, EVER worked out properly? I don't think so, but I'm interested to see it fail just here.
Yeeesh. Not sure how this will work out now. Poor Sniper though...
>>10 Heh, I tried to paint the best picture of him I could. Glad to see it was pretty effective. >>11 It's not a nice way to go about things, no, but relationships are often like that. It may not work out properly, per se, but Spy's got a couple of aces up his sleeve, heh. >>12 He's a tough one, and as stubborn as he is, he's probably not going to stand by what he's said there. There's a lot more of this story to go, and hopefully I'll get the next part up tonight.
I'm curious how this will turn out. Please continue when possible!
Yay, more! Oh, Spy... I look forward to seeing how this mysterious plan works...
The Spy has a plan... As long as he stops being a dick to the Sniper... and it ends in sexings.
you have my attention so fully right now. My only complaint is that Sniper seems too quick to forgive and Spy seems too quick to say "I'm sorry". Draw it out a teensy bit more. But besides that? Do want.
>>19 I'd been wondering if the pacing was a little off, and before I start the next part, I'll probably go back and read through the whole thing again because you're quite right - it does read a little "too soon". I'm not exactly expecting their respective plans to go off without hitches, however, so hopefully I can convey that without having to change anything. But this was a rather ambitious project for me, probably the biggest piece of writing I've ever challenged (considering that it's only part of a larger story itself, and I've got so much more to go), so even if I do end up having to go back and smooth out the lumps, I won't feel too bad - I'll just post up everything again nice and neat once this particular story is done.
Hm. If the Spy actually didn't feel the same way this would be grade-A stalker behavior. But since he does... Wank yourself into a coma sniper.
Mmm, solo Sniper times...
>>21 there are no words for the laughing fit that mental image caused. Both somebody stalking the professional stalker and the wanking into a coma part. Ow. My poor cheeks. Too much grinning.
>>21 Stalking the stalker - I love it. Luckily he's got a good idea that Spy does indeed have a bit more going on there than he's letting on, otherwise it'd be another rapefic in the making, heh. Aaaaaand because I'm never happy with anything, I revised the two most current parts to fit with the timeline of the story as a whole. Better pacing maybe? ---------------------------------------------------------------- PART FOUR: Mercy It could have gone so much better. The ache in his jaw was nothing compared to the clenching in his chest, and he smiled to himself despite it, a mask thicker than any flimsy fabric. He waved politely to his teammates as he passed them, impeccable manners hiding his pain. Any inquiries as to the angry bruise blossoming over his cheek were waved away, explained as just a little leftover from the battle. He didn’t want to cover it, or allow the Medic to soothe it away with his Medigun. His own pride would not let him. Slipping quietly into his own quarters, he shrugged out of his jacket with a sigh, hanging it neatly on its padded hook and quietly settling on the edge of his small single bed. It was really little better than a cot, but he’d appointed it and the rest of his room as lavishly as he could. The pillowcase was cool on his cheek as he gently pressed his face to it, not even bothering to take off his shoes as he huddled miserably on top of the thin comforter. He was such a fool. It wouldn’t have been so bad to go along with him, would it? Continue the game that had long since ceased to be a game at all…kiss him, maybe, or more, if that was how it went. They were both professionals, with shockingly similar skill at being unnoticed, and no one would ever, ever know. Instead of alone, he could be in those arms, touching, feeling…even the thought of it burned in him, where he’d expected it to be merely a flicker by now. It couldn’t be that simple, though, could it? It simply had to rage like a bushfire out of control, coursing through his veins, his thoughts, all of it screaming “whyâ€. With a glance to assure himself he’d locked the door, he sat up with a heavy sigh, reaching to smooth a hand down his waistcoat and over the cold, metallic belt buckle just beneath. He shouldn’t, not after that, he had no right to be so aroused, especially knowing he had likely hurt the sniper in ways the other man would never show. But he couldn’t resist. What if he hadn’t said no? What if…. It took seconds for him to unbuckle his belt, slide down the zipper of his fly, and impatiently yank off his gloves with his teeth, and even then it was too long. He nearly bucked into the warmth of his own hand, imagining it to be rougher, calloused, and larger. Behind closed doors, there was no place for shame, and just for that moment, he let his fantasy guide him. As he murmured soft encouragements in his native French, the vivid picture of the sniper’s face he’d called to mind scowled, and he grinned, apologizing and whispering their equivalents in English. More. Please. Yes. He teased himself with long, nearly hesitant strokes, to mimic the touch of an inexperienced lover. Lifting his left hand, he guided the other, voicing his approval with a low groan and panting softly as his pace increased. Flitting caresses in all the right places thrilled him, and he shivered, wishing he had a name better than merely “sniper†to choke out as the feeling washed over him all at once, and all too soon. Release claimed him quickly, and he was left shaking like the adoring virgin he had never been. Even as the sticky mess he’d carelessly allowed to ruin his tailored pants and waistcoat cooled, he lay there, ostensibly to catch his breath. Dry cleaning would take care of his suit, but even momentary pleasure could not cure the emptiness within him. He wanted to go to the sniper, apologize, explain, but how could he, when the situation would not change? No matter how he justified it to himself, he was the same person he’d been an hour ago, someone who’d walked away from every lover he’d had, and for so many reasons. To keep them safe from his enemies. To protect them from his lies, pretty words that meant nothing as he had cared nothing for them. But first and foremost to protect himself, his pride, and the façade that he could not afford to let slip. Besides, he knew the other man’s temper, and it was well-earned. It was simply too soon, and would only anger him more, while painting himself to be even more a fool than he felt. A good card player knew when to fold, and this was his time. Only his memories could soothe him now, and dreams of what could have been. Looking up at the ceiling, he decided against mustering up the energy to clean himself off and sighed, his misery returning tenfold and the warmth in his belly fading into cold dread. He still had to see the sniper around the fort, during battles, and even though they both kept to themselves, he was sure they’d bump into each other at what amounted to the very worst times. He honestly debated skipping dinner, to avoid any uncomfortable conversation that was likely to crop up, and only decided against it knowing the others would be suspicious if he didn’t show. His spare suit would just have to do. ---------------------------------------------------------------- PART FIVE: Rules Don’t Stop Me Anyone with eyes in their head could tell that Sniper was upset, slamming the door to his van hard enough to make the whole thing rock on its tires. That is, they could if they’d been looking - most days, they just left him alone, the way he wanted it. He came to the base to eat, sit through mission briefings, and put up with Medic’s constant checkups, but besides that, little else. The camper was his home, lived-in and well-loved, as much a part of himself as his rifle. No one invaded his privacy, and he was content with that, spending his time outside of battle with a cup of coffee and the sound of whatever records he could scrounge up and set on his decrepit old record player. Music was far from his mind, however, as he flung his hat across the van and paced the length of it, running a hand through his chair. How dare that greasy, sleazy Frenchman fuck with him that way! It had been so hard, trying to buck up enough to approach him with something that could have easily gotten them both in trouble, or at least himself nearly laughed off the team, and then the spook had practically spit in his face. Not interested. He’d just been playing some twisted game, baiting him like a wild animal, and he’d fallen for it. How could he be so stupid? Settling down on the tiny couch, he ignored the creaking of the loose spring and propped his feet on the armrest, kicking off his boots with a surly huff. He couldn’t even think straight, he was so angry…but even then, his thoughts turned to the beginning of their short conversation. Why had he been so nervous? It wasn’t like the deadly, precise spy to stutter, to not look at him when they spoke. And even as he’d delivered those hateful words the same way he’d place a carefully calculated knife stroke into an enemy’s back, he’d seemed almost sad, if that was the right word for it. Like he’d regretted them before they’d even left his mouth. It’d be easier to just drop it and let it go, and he knew it. Spare himself the hurt, as the spy had said. He wasn’t one for overthinking things, and usually, he’d do just that - move on. No use poking at an angry snake, after all. Yet something just niggled at the back of his mind, because something wasn’t right. He’d seen it in those grey eyes, something lingering. Something else he wanted to say. Unfortunately, that little epiphany did nothing to improve his mood. And he’d thrown his hat just a bit too far to reach, so unless he bothered to stand up again, he’d have to go without a smoke until he did. With a sigh, he propped one arm behind his head and leaned back. A nap would just have to do for now, and maybe he’d feel a little better before dinner - with any luck, he wouldn’t even see Spy in the mess hall, and be able to enjoy his lukewarm food in peace. But even as he closed his eyes, a twinge in his chest reminded him that he’d been quite enjoying the other man’s company during meal times. The two of them were generally the last ones left, preferring to wait until the noisier of their teammates had finished and moved on either to the rec room or their own quarters, and as such, they’d had the dining facilities pretty much to themselves. The spy always seemed more at ease when it was just them, his voice lower, his accent thicker, and it was from those times that Sniper had first gotten the inkling that the Frenchman was possibly interested in something more than his friendship. That voice…this was the wrong time to be fondly recalling something ridiculous like that, he thought. He was angry, furious, livid and whatever other words one could use to describe the feeling of being utterly pissed off. And yet something in him stirred, and he absently reached down to cup one hand over his crotch with a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan. After all that, he still couldn’t fight whatever it was that pulled at him, turning his world on its head and filling him with such a powerful yearning for another man. What would his parents think? They wouldn’t like that either, no, they’d have him put away somewhere if he was back home, try to fix him. Throw women at him until they broke him of it, because it just wasn’t natural. Natural or not, that stirring “something†demanded to be taken care of, pressing uncomfortably against the inside of his pants until he parted them and pulled it free. God save him, he was already so hard, and he abandoned his usual method of having a nice, leisurely wank to pump himself roughly, cursing under his breath all the while. He hated it, that he wanted something he couldn’t have. Wanted to pin the spy down, yank off his tie, slide his hands under his shirt, kiss him silly and put things in places he’d have never even considered before. Maybe even let him do the same. He’d break all the rules, because they’d never stopped him before, and if he could have just had the chance…. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror he used to shave, he almost didn’t recognize what he saw there. He was worked nearly into a lather, his face red, hand flying furiously over his cock as he tugged and caressed in turn. It wasn’t like him, to be embarrassed over something like that, but it occurred to him that if he had indeed had that chance, the image before him was what the other man would have seen. Long legs spread wide, pants hanging uselessly from the one he’d hurriedly propped up on cushion, his shirt half-unbuttoned, sunglasses pushed up his sweaty brow…would he have liked what he saw? Running his free hand down his chest, he imagined that he would, and it wasn’t long after that release claimed him, arching his back and curling his toes as he managed little more than a thick, guttural groan. The rush had cleared his mind, but his chest still ached, an awful, uncertain feeling that left his body sated and his heart torn. Even if it hurt, he still wanted the spy in more ways than he cared to admit, and wondered what had happened to make him react so volatilely. He couldn’t just sit back and let a few sweet words smooth everything over, though, oh no… and he surely wasn’t going to apologize for hitting him, because the bastard had deserved it – he’d do it again, no regrets. It would take more than an apology from the other man to earn his forgiveness. He’d let the idea roll around a little. Consider it, maybe, if he tried hard enough. Maybe it was a little desperate, setting himself up for heartache all over again. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that look the Frenchman had given him that seemed so contrary to the venomous words he’d spoken really did mean something. Pulling himself up, he straightened his shirt and tucked himself back into his pants, buttoning them and grabbing his boots as he headed for the door. Maybe they weren’t done with one another just yet.
Heartstarter, you've spoilt me with your daily posts. I'm waiting with bated breath for the next chapter.
>>25 It's coming along and should be up either tonight or tomorrow. I had to take a day off to skip ahead and write something ridiculously mushy for V-Day, heh.
oh yes... do go on heartstarter...
Oh, what a lovely, interesting story! I can't believe I've only stumbled upon it now.