1 . Name: Anonymous @ 2011-08-04 00:05

Cuz there isn't enough Soldier/Spy hanging around.
-
“YOU’VE FAILED.”

Spy covered his face, mortified, as the RED team began cheering. It was BLU’s fifth loss in a row and the humiliation of defeat was becoming bitterly familiar. He lifted his head to see REDs strutting back to their base with the air of conquerers, and turned back towards his own. It was 5 PM local time, but the sun had already sunk below the horizon. The cloudless October sky was a sure sign it would be a cold night.

“Tabernak,” he muttered and trudged inside with his hands tucked into his armpits.

The sudden warmth and bright lights were both welcome and irritating. Spy screwed his eyes shut and tried to clench his hands into fists, but they were still too cold. He passed the conference room, which was still empty, but he knew from past experience that the team would soon gather there to shout and argue over their latest loss. Since everyone but himself had respawned after their last ill-fated attack, they would already be preoccupied with blaming each other.

Spy turned the corner and slipped into the shower room. He was wet, cold, and had lost sensation in his feet. A hot shower was much overdo.

He sat on a nearby bench and tried to slip his shoes off, but his feet were numb and clumsy. “Fuck you,” he said petulantly, and bent over to undo his shoestrings. They were wet and reluctant to unknot, and nearly as stiff as his fingers. When he pried them off, he saw rather than felt the unpleasant way his wet socks clung to his feet. No wonder he had lost feeling. Shaking his head, Spy rolled up his pants and coaxed his sock garter down his calf.

The quality of silence changed. Spy glanced up to see Soldier staring at him, boots in one hand, shovel in the other.

“Oui?” He peeled the rest of his sock off and laid it out across the bench. “I’m not going to dat stupid war room, if dat’s why you’re ‘ere.”

Soldier cleared his throat awkwardly. “Negatory. The situation has been already been analyzed.”

“Dank Christ for small mercies,” Spy said and rolled up his other pant leg. His fingers were ablaze with pins and needles, but it was easier to pry the garter off of his leg. He managed to slip the sock off and laid it out neatly besides its counterpart on the bench. His feet were white and waxy.

“Frostbite,” Soldier observed and swaggered inside, tossing his boots to the side.

“Dank you, I ascertained as much.” Spy tested his weight and grimaced. If it had been painful, he could have endured it, but looking at his feet and not being able to feel anything was extremely disconcerting. He sighed heavily and reached inside his jacket for his disguise kit. The metal casing was so cold it felt sticky. He managed to pop a cigarette into his mouth before he heard the tell-tale squeal of water through the pipes. He glanced over his shoulder to see Soldier bent over the single bathtub in the room and plugging the drain. He curled his lip in annoyance and concentrated on finding his lighter. Although he had no intention of using the bath, it sounded so much nicer than a shower, and he felt an irrational spike of resentment towards Soldier for thinking of it before he had.

His Zippo was slim, polished steel with PLAY DIRTY inscribed across the front. A gift from a previous acquaintance in Vietnam. He flicked the lid open and hunched protectively over his cigarette. It took three tries, but a small blue flame uncurled like a sleepy animal. He inhaled deeply as the first rush of nicotine hit his system and used his thumb to push the lighter shut.

“Hold on, son. I need a light.”

Soldier walked up from behind Spy, swung his leg over the bench, and sat down. He had discarded his uniform and wore only a muscle shirt and blue combat fatigues. He plucked a cigarette from the carton strapped against his helmet and held it out.

“Fine.” Spy flicked open his Zippo again. That time, it lit on the first try.

“Thanks, Frenchie.” He sat back and took a long drag on his cigarette. “You gonna do something about your feet?”

“Eventually.” Spy didn’t bother to correct his country of origin. “It’s not dat bad.”

“Hmm.” Soldier bent over and jabbed his cigarette into Spy’s left foot.

“Fuck!” He jumped and teetered onto his side, elbow landing on one of his soaked socks. “What de ‘ell?” He screamed angrily.

“Did it hurt?”

“Of course it fucking did!”

“Then you’re right.” Soldier retrieved another cigarette and lit it off the end of his old one.

Spy stared at him incredulously, then rubbed the small burn below his ankle. “I ‘aven’t had dat done to me since Vietnam.” He shifted his weight and managed to cross his legs. “Shit, dat ‘urts.”

“You were in Nam?” Something close to admiration tinted Soldier’s tone. “Thought so.”

“Why do you say dat?”

“That lighter. All the boys were doing it.” He laughed, a quick but not unpleasant sound. “Used to put rank on them, then some nancy decided he wanted to be different and put a naked woman on his instead. Like watching girls titter over a new goddamn dress.”

Spy glanced at his Zippo and shrugged. The American pilot he had taken it from had been a simple looking boy. Handsome, even, had a pitchfork not been embedded in his face. “Sometimes it ‘elps de young ones.”

Soldier grunted, expression full of contempt. “Need guts and balls; not some sissy lighter.”

“Ha!” Spy lifted his leg to examine his foot. “If you steady de mind, you can steady de ‘and.” He curled his toes experimentally and winced. “Or so de say.”

“Sounds like horse shit,” Soldier said with finality and eased himself off the bench.

“Oui.” Spy tucked the lighter back into his inside pocket, although the pilot’s butchered, bloodless face never quite left his mind. “Now, if you will excuse me….” He gasped as Soldier’s hands forced their way under his armpits and jabbed his ribs. “What de fuck?” He look over his shoulder to see the other man wearing a look of utmost concentration. “What are you….” The air was squeezed out of him as Soldier physically lifted him off of the bench, carried him the six feet between it and the bathtub, and plunked him feet-first into the water.

They were nearly of a height and though Spy was a compact man, it was no small feat. His stomach flopped with exhilaration before his feet touched water.

“My suit! You son of a bitch!” Spy instinctively lifted one foot and arched backwards, but the tub’s bottom was slippery and he fell in fully clothed. A tidal wave of suds smacked him in the face and he screwed his eyes shut. The water felt comfortably warm, but his feet burned as if it was boiling hot. He surfaced, spluttering, only to hear Soldier laughing behind him.

“Take it like a man, Frenchie,” he brayed from somewhere to the left, “it’s just a bit of water.”

Spy hissed like an angry crocodile. The soapy water stung his eyes, but he managed a glare at Soldier. “Fuck you!” He twisted his body so his knees bore the brunt of his weight, and gripped the bathtub’s sides to ensure he didn’t slip again. “What is wrong with you?”

Soldier wore a shit-eating grin and sat on the bathtub’s edge to swing his legs around and soak them in the water. He bent forward and pulled Spy’s jacket side to reveal a soaked vest and tie, which clung to his chest. “You look like an A-cup at a tittie bar.”

Spy looked down to see his nipples were visible through his wet clothes. “Don’t touche me,” he growled, and righted his sodden jacket. It was a testament to how long he had been chaste that Soldier’s indelicate touch could give him goosebumps. He tried to stand up, but his feet burned white-hot in protest, and he was left to flop back in the soapy water like a child. “Tabarnak.”

“Have to thaw ‘em out, Frenchie.” Soldier took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled a toxic plume of smoke. His helmet tilted at such an angle that one of his eyes peered from underneath it. “Tell me something.”

“Depends on what it is.”

Soldier averted his gaze. “Saw that soldier son of a bitch corner you. How’d you escape?” His mouth quirked. “Unless you surrendered like a French sissy.”

“I am Quebecois,” Spy corrected, “and I escaped by killing him.”

“Huh.” That stumped the American for a moment. “How?”

“With my knife.”

“You lying shit.” Soldier crossed his arms. “My johnson is bigger then that thing.”

Spy smiled enigmatically at him. “A man who feels safe is easy to kill.”

Soldier shifted so they nearly faced each other. After a long moment, he said, “Horse shit.”

“You really believe dat?” Spy leaned back to prop his arms on the tub’s edge, elbow nearly touching Soldier’s hip. “It’s not so ‘ard to kill a man without weapons.” He watched light play off of the suds. “In fact, with ‘im so close to me, it was I who ‘ad de advantage. And I used it.”

“You’re lying, Frenchie.”

Spy shot him an irritated glance. “Why do you say dat?”

“I find it EXTREMELY unlikely that a snail eating ho-mo-sexual like you could possibly beat an American soldier face-to-face!” Soldier’s jaw jutted out belligerently, eyes bulging beneath the lip of his helmet.

“I am not a ‘omosexual,” Spy replied fiercely.

“Real convincing.”

“You know what ‘appens to dem.” He met the American’s stare without flinching. “Are you really going to pull dat shit with me?”

“I’ll do what I goddamn please!” He uncrossed his arms and tossed his spent cigarette onto the floor.

Spy looked away and didn’t deign to respond.