1 . Name: Ze Doktor @ 2011-06-04 01:41

This is for Rasp. I know I promised stripping, but I kinda went... well, more than a bit off the rails with this one. It's not all that porny, but I'm keeping it here just in case.

Hope you enjoy it.

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He tells himself that it's just professional curiosity. It's part of being a Spy, after all; he needs to know about everyone, even his own teammates. He wouldn't use the information against them, of course, because despite his underhanded methods, Spy is still on their side.

It's part of the job, more than anything else. He's had years of watching other people, reading their body language, listening to the things they don't say. It's second nature, to a good Spy at least. Besides, there should always be someone around who knows exactly what's going on and how everyone feels, and he doesn't think there's any better man for the role. A brief word here, to take the wind out of one of Soldier's rages, a little gesture there, to deflect Scout's lunacy; he helps wherever he can, and he doesn't expect to be noticed or thanked. The result is that the team works well together in battle, and that's reward enough.

Spy prides himself on being able to read people as easily as he reads his native French. The team are so familiar to him now that he can almost tell what they're thinking by the way they move. He sees the way Medic stares at Heavy before a fight, and he knows the stiff German has a heart underneath his cold manners. He hears the way Engineer laughs when he makes a good kill, and he knows that there's a mean streak a mile wide behind it in spite of the man's pleasant, optimistic attitude. He senses the grim determination in Soldier's stance when he rushes to take a point, and he knows that the American might be crazy most of the time, but in battle he is completely sane.

And yet, for all his skill and experience, there is still one he cannot decipher.

Sniper has only been with them for a few months. He's a loner, as far as Spy can tell, come straight from the empty depths of the outback with nothing but a rifle and a beat-up camper van. He keeps to himself to a ridiculous degree, avoiding all contact with the rest of the team most days. He doesn't answer questions. And nothing in his voice or his body gives away what's going on in his head.

It's a little irritating. Spy's even gone through his file, which was a waste of time for how plain it was. He's a bushman, for god's sake – there should have been something interesting there, but all it has is a little personal information and history. He's spent years hunting dangerous predators on various game reserves. His parents live in Sydney. Useless, irrelevant things.

Spy watches him more than any of the others. He keeps looking for a clue, a sign, anything that might suggest what kind of man he is. There's little enough to go on. He's mostly polite, and quiet. He washes his own dishes and mug, and eats whatever is given to him. He doesn't join in conversation, or make any indication that he's listening unless he's spoken to. Spy tries to get him talking, but his responses are short, and he always excuses himself and leaves.

He hates any form of physical contact too, it seems. Not even a friendly touch is welcome; Sniper flinches, as if he's been burned, glares at the offender and moves away. Heavy doesn't try to hug him in enthusiastic celebration anymore, not since the time he pulled his kukri and threatened to gut him in a rare outburst of emotion. Spy wonders if it's because he's spent so long out among dangerous animals, where a touch might mean death. It's bizarre; another facet to a puzzle that he can't ignore.

During battle, he barricades himself into his nest. Anyone who comes near him gets shot, whether friend or foe, as Spy learnt one day. All he got in exchange for the Respawn headache was a muttered apology at dinner that night, and a brief explanation that Sniper took no chances when it came to possible enemy Spies in disguise.

Spy should just let it go. He calls it professional curiosity, but deep down, he knows it's because he's getting obsessed with the mystery of it all. Somewhere, inside the shell that Sniper has closed around himself, there is a living, feeling human being, and Spy wants to know him. It's already grown into something more than wanting a friendship, and that certainly isn't healthy, but he can't help it.

He knows he's gone too far this time, and if Sniper finds out, he'll probably... no. He doesn't know what he'd do. Spy can't predict anything about him, which makes this even more dangerous, but he's getting desperate.

Sniper has a routine, of sorts. Late at night, long after the rest of the team have used the showers, he goes into the locker room and bars the door behind him. He comes out after an hour with damp hair. The team doesn't care; Pyro does the same, and what does it matter if they do it when it's quiet? But Spy wondered what he would see, if he was there, and it's taken him a few weeks to get the courage to risk it.

His cloak will hold, as long as he keeps the movement to a minimum. He stays hidden, crouched beside one row of lockers, and waits. The floor is freezing, but it's about the most comfortable he can be while still being stealthy, and who knows how long Sniper will be?

An hour and a half, and Spy has almost given up hope when Sniper walks in. He freezes by reflex, but it's alright – he can't see him, and Spy knows everything about being silent. He watches him close the door and lock it, then lean against it and sigh in relief.

It's such a human thing to do that Spy can't quite believe it's the same man.

He walks to his locker, and suddenly it really is like watching another man entirely – whatever mask he's been hiding behind is gone now, replaced with someone far more real. Sniper sits on the bench and pulls off his hat and sunglasses, and tucks them neatly to one side. His eyes are very blue, and his hair is flattened a little; Spy wants to ruffle it affectionately, smell it, stroke it and play with it. He could die in those eyes, if they were looking at him with the warmth they had now.

Sniper stretches out his legs, rubs his hands over his face and yawns, then tugs off his boots and socks. He stands up. Spy lets his gaze follow the line of his body, the length of his limbs. He is fascinating to see like this, after months of knowing next to nothing about him. Sniper unrolls his shirt sleeves, and slips his glove and watch off his hand. He leaves them with his hat.

The jacket slips off his shoulders and falls to a heap on the ground, and Spy can't help feeling very voyeuristic. Part of him wants to leave, somehow, even though he half-expected this, but another part of him wants to see everything, to drink in the details of Sniper's flesh and imprint them on his memory. He wants to remember, so that when they're having dinner tomorrow, he can look at his teammate and enjoy the fact that he knows a little of his secrets.

The shirt follows. He lets it slide off his arms slowly, not really caring where it ends up, and the look on his face is one of almost filthy pleasure. Sniper's naked to the waist now, and it's one hell of a sight. He half-turns away from Spy, so he can see his back and admire the muscles that flex in his shoulders. He's got a striking tattoo – an aboriginal crocodile that runs down his spine, and whose tail curls around his hip and disappears under his belt. His few faint scars tell their own stories; a ragged animal bite, a clean slice from a knife, a round bullet mark. Spy feels his fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and stroke his tanned skin, and trace the intricate lines of the ink. He wants to touch, and knows he can't. He wants to taste, and has to clamp his mouth shut to stop himself from making a sound.

The belt comes loose, and his pants fall into a puddle around his ankles. The heat rises in Spy's face; he's not wearing any underwear at all, and damn but the thought is fiercely arousing. All the time he's been with the team, the few times he's spoken to Spy, there's only been one thin layer of cloth between his... between him and the air. And now he's bare, and his flesh is prickling in the chilly air, but Sniper runs his hand across his stomach and sighs, blissfully, as if he's just been released from a prison. He's enjoying the sensation of being naked, Spy realizes; he looks so happy, just standing there with his arms tucked around himself and his head tilted back, eyes closed. He's smiling, just a little, and Spy's never once seen him smile before.

His breath is slower, more relaxed. Spy watches him stretch his arms up over his head, working out the muscles in his shoulders and neck. He pulls a towel out of his locker, and walks around to the showers.

Spy doesn't dare move a muscle as he passes by his hiding spot, but it's getting so, so hard to keep still, and stop his hands from reaching out and letting his fingertips trail across Sniper's hip, following the dark lines of the crocodile. The twisting, serpentine design just reaches the hair of his crotch, and there's another smaller tattoo circling one of his nipples – a delicate Western motif of a snake eating its own tail. From the back, he's merely very attractive; from the front, he's the stuff that Spy's dreams are made of, in the cold heart of a lonely night.

He disappears into the showers, and his scent hangs in the air like Arabian perfume. It smells like sweat, and wood, and very faintly of gunpowder. Spy whimpers softly, feeling heat and electricity crackling through his body. Maybe if he steals an unwashed shirt, he can hold it to his face and breathe in that scent and pretend that Sniper is the one touching him, caressing his skin, and holding him close.

The cloak is only fully effective when he's still, but he's hurting with desire now and he can't pass up the chance to watch Sniper in the shower. Spy shuffles forward carefully, silently, and presses himself flat against the wall as he creeps around the corner to get a better view. It's a risk, he can't deny that, but oh, the reward is more than he could ever hope for; Sniper is standing with his back to the jet of water, steam clouds rising around his body and thin rivulets trickling from his shoulders to his groin, his fingers working through his hair and his head thrown back like a woman.

The sound of the shower is all that hides Spy's laboured breathing, but Sniper is in his own world now. He washes slowly, taking a visceral and undeniable pleasure in rubbing the soap across his skin, frequently turning his face to the water and letting it flow over his lips and the tip of his tongue. The first time Spy hears a faint, wanton moan, it's almost enough to stop his heart right then and there.

Sniper isn't done when the last of the soap has vanished down the drain. He stays under the water, leaning against the cold tiles, half-turned into the wall. Spy can't understand what he's doing until his free hand smacks against it wetly, and he groans with desperate need. His other arm is moving rhythmically, slowly, and every action makes Sniper's body arch a little more.

Oh god, please turn around, Spy thinks as he slides down to the floor. He curls up there, both hands trying to hold down the heat in his groin. He can't look away, not even with the clear danger that his cloak might fail in the damp air. All he wants to see is Sniper's face as he presses slack-jawed against the tiles, moaning and shivering and begging for more.

He gets his wish. Sniper rolls onto his back, spreading his legs and giving a soft, muffled cry as his hand speeds up. He's alternatively clenching his teeth and gasping for breath as he pleasures himself, a lovely red blush spreading over his cheeks to match the color of his engorged member. His other hand teases his nipples, squeezing and pinching, and stroking that odd snake tattoo. Spy can't move another fraction of an inch without seriously jeopardizing his cloak, no matter how much he needs to start jerking himself off, no matter how much he wants strip off his clothes and run his tongue over every inch of Sniper's body under the spray of the shower. It's agony and ecstasy at the same time; painful, and so darkly wonderful.

When Sniper comes, he gives an agonized whimper and thrusts forward involuntarily, and the water washes his orgasm away. He shakes and arches his back, and all Spy can see is his face as he bites his bottom lip to hold back any louder sounds. He leans back against the wall, chest heaving; Spy can just make out the flicker of his pulse in his neck. He's finally so real, vulnerable and human.

Spy's never wanted another person so much.

Sniper stays in the shower for another five minutes. Again, he wraps his arms around himself, leans against the wall, and looks so utterly content that Spy can't make the connection between this man and the distant teammate he's been watching for so long. He turns off the water regretfully, and snags the towel to dry himself; again, there's a hint of pleasure when he rubs the fabric across his skin. Spy's still trembling, using every shred of willpower he has to stay still and silent, torn between wanting Sniper to leave immediately and wanting him to stay forever.

He walks back to the locker to get dressed. There's a hint of reluctance as he pulls his shirt back on, a faint thread of distaste for the cloth enclosing his flesh once more. The towel is neatly hung up to dry. He doesn't bother rolling up his sleeves again, or putting his hat back on – his hair is still wet, after all. The ubiquitous sunglasses return to his face, and Spy can already see him starting to retreat into himself once again.

Sniper walks to the door. He passes within an inch of Spy, who begins to pray desperately – but it's fine, he's still hidden, luck being on his side. The smell of fresh soap wafts past him. The impulse to touch surges again, but he's in control of it now, and he doesn't move.

He faces the door. His shoulders are tense, as if he's preparing for a battle. He settles his features, and the mask returns; cold and lonely, a cage for the free spirit within. It's heart-breaking to watch.

He's gone. Spy waits for the footsteps to fade before he lets his cloak drop and stands up shakily. He stumbles back to his own room, and locks the door behind him, his mind a mess of questions he will probably never have the answers to. Still, he needs his own release, and at least what he has seen will help with that.

Spy imagines his body under the water, and the look of happiness on his face. It's a privilege to have witnessed him, naked in more ways than one. Spy wants to know why he's closed off, and knows he doesn't have the right to ask. He wants to hold him and not be pushed away, and knows it'll never happen. It's his own hands that stroke his skin, that grip the heat in his groin and play with his nipples, but in his mind it's Sniper doing it, just like in the shower. He turns his face into the pillow to muffle his voice as Spy cries out his name. The memories are enough for him to reach a powerful climax, but it's bittersweet at best.

The next day, he still watches Sniper as he quietly eats dinner. There's no trace of the man with the crocodile tattoo who's currently possessing Spy's mind. Spy knows he can't go back to the locker room again, because the temptation – and the risk – is too great. He wonders if there's some way to break into that shell gradually, some way to earn Sniper's friendship, but he has no idea how to go about it.

He still watches, in the meantime, and catches a mere flicker every now and then of warm, blue eyes.