1 . Name: Anonymous @ 2013-11-10 00:56

Filled for the promptfest, Soldier/Spy, Soldier was aghast when he found that the Statue of Liberty was French, as it says on the tin, I tried to make it a pairing, but... that was difficult, very difficult.


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“What? I thought everyone knew that!”

The Soldier was so stunned by this revelation, he could not articulate much more than sputters for several seconds. “That is a lie,” he finally exclaimed, “and you all know it! I will not tolerate any filthy communist slander of our Lady Liberty! She is as 100% American as rocket-jumping. There is absolutely no possible way, I repeat, no way, she could ever be French!”

The only woman he would unquestioningly give his heart and soul to, the bronze green goddess of his beloved America, actually built in the land of cheese-eating surrender monkeys, designed by one of them. As if the cowardly French knew anything about the value of freedom! The very thought of such sacrilege made sparks scatter from his eyes, steam visibly rising from his flushed skin. But the Spy was laughing so hard, he was actually snorting and then coughing from how hard he was snorting, and the Engineer was slapping him on the back as he tried to recover his breath.

Grinding his teeth, Soldier turned to the Engineer, mutely asking support from his fellow American, but the other mercenary shook his head with a wry grin.

“It’s true, I’m afraid,” he said. “Seen the blueprints myself in the university archives, all French-”

Any further attempt at reasoning was immediately cut short by Soldier launching into another tirade about that omnipresent communist agenda attempting to squash citizen morale with untruths and fabrications.

Behind them, the Spy started howling with laughter again. He had not counted on telling the truth to be so rewarding, but life with the Soldier always had its surprises.



The Soldier shot him a few suspicious glares every now and then as they passed each other in the hallways of the base, but that was nothing out of the ordinary for the Spy. After it seemed the incident had been forgotten by the rest of the team, the Spy began looking forward to his romantic weekend with the BLU Scout’s mother in Boston. He had made a dinner reservation at a classy restaurant for just the two of them, where he would offer her a beautiful gold necklace as a token of his admiration, and then whisk her off to spend a night and possibly most of the morning making love in a luxurious hotel room. Not quite a night on the Champs Elysees, but at least it was better than trying to de-raccoon his cabin in the Badlands.

Having arrived safely in Boston, the Spy collected his luggage and was hailing a taxi outside the airport when a van roared down the streets right in front of him, the door sliding open and burly arms hauling him inside. Fighting instincts quickly took over, and the Spy managed to break a few bones with well-placed knees and elbows before someone thought to slam the door on his hand and tackle him to the floor of the van, bellowing “SCREAMING EAGLES!”

Horrified, the Spy realized he had just been kidnapped by his team, who had followed him here wearing haphazard civilian disguises cobbled together from the shipments sent in by Mann Co. There was the Medic, driving the van like the madman he was, the Sniper in the passenger seat holding a street map of Boston upside down, the Demo nursing a bruised eye socket and the Scout a bloody nose, the Pyro and the Engineer and the Heavy watching him anxiously as the Soldier put him in a choke-hold and gave him a noogie.

“What did I do to deserve this?” he groaned despairingly.

“All right men, back in your seats,” the Soldier barked out, once he felt the Spy had been sufficiently cowed, “we’re going to New York City!”



After four hours of travel in a confined space crammed full of nine healthy men (or whatever the Pyro was) whose diets consisted mostly of protein, the team finally arrived in the bustling big city. The Spy’s hopes of escape wilted with each passing hour, and were laid to rest once he caught sight of their destination.

The staff working the ferry at Ellis Island had seen their share of colorful characters visiting the Statue of Liberty, but none so strange as the nine people wearing outlandish hats that made even the most hardened New Yorker gape and stare. Their pleas to stand down and disarm went largely unnoticed by the tourists, who piled, fully armed and wholly hatted, onto the ferry as if they owned it.



The Soldier’s frown deepened as they toured the museum, listening to the quaking tour guide assigned to tag along with their little group. The Statue’s French origins became irrevocably undeniable to all, and some of the men smiled when they thought the Soldier wasn’t looking. As much as the Soldier would have liked to punch the lies out of the tour guide’s skinny libelous throat, he admitted to having reservations of over spilling an American citizen’s blood at Lady Liberty’s feet. Instead he kept his silence and concentrated his stare at the Spy’s back, focusing the full brunt of his hatred to that knob of spine peeking above the pressed shirt collar.


Several steps later, the team made it to the viewing room at the Statue’s Crown from where the harbor and city lay far below their astonished gazes.

“Well? Are you convinced now?” the Spy asked lightly. “May we go back to Boston? I do have an appointment to keep.”

The Soldier glared at him, unwilling to concede anything just yet. The Spy chuckled under his breath, too amused to remain truly annoyed.

“You can tell me, Soldier,” he teased softly. “I promise not to rub it in your face too much.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” the Soldier growled, not entirely ignorant of how close they were standing, practically breathing each other’s air. He straightened up, an act of defense against the Spy’s increasing encroachment into his personal space, which of course only drew the Spy closer.

“Mmm, yes, I would. Shall we then?” the Spy murmured, slipping out of sight with a flick of his watch.

Tracking the shimmering silhouette that danced ever out of his line of sight, the Soldier followed the scent of cigarettes and cologne out of the room, to the base of the ladder that led to the statue’s torch. He circled the ladder, sniffing warily, then heard an overly nasal laugh mocking him from above.

“Aren’t you the slimy little sneak,” the Soldier grumbled, scaling the ladder after the Spy.



There was hardly enough room for one person in the little hatch that led to the torch platform, but that did not prevent the Soldier from bulling his way through to the Spy’s side. From that splendid vantage point, the Spy continued his taunting, sniggering in response to the Soldier’s ill-tempered bluster.

“By your absurd excuse for logic, that would make me American.”

“And you are!” the Soldier declared hotly, daring the Spy to deny this fact as well.

The Spy rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Soldier, please. Open your eyes, look at me, for once in your life.”

Their gazes met, and though the Soldier did his best to stare the Spy down, he found himself at a loss; for words, for purpose. For the Spy had thrown him off his rock, his center, his faith, sent his world crashing out of orbit with an off-handed comment that fateful day. Even here, at the apex of his beliefs, through the heart of Lady Liberty herself, he could not quite regain his footing.

“You’re right, Spy,” he said at last, breaking off eye contact first.

The Spy mouthed ‘thank you’ to the heavens.

“You… you could use a little more American in you,” the Soldier continued, sounding slightly emboldened.

“I…What?”

Now the Soldier was grinning, the wide wolfish smirk of assured victory, and the Spy realized, a little late, how he had been straddling the Soldier’s hips for the past three minutes.

“Or maybe a lot more.”

“Mon dieu.” The Spy’s eyes widened as something very hard, very insistent, made itself known against his backside.

“I’ll do you all right, don’t you worry.”

Frantic, the Spy tried to slide back down the ladder, but the Soldier shoved him bodily against the platform, his impressive erection digging pointedly into the Spy’s ass. Thus trapped, he attempted to wriggle away, which only aggravated the Soldier’s enthusiasm.
And for the second time that day, the Spy knew true despair, the sort that could only result from being manhandled by the Soldier. Though the ensuing groan was of a much different nature, the low and needy sound of someone being introduced, at great lengths, and quite literally at that, to the power and force of the indomitable, unstoppable, absolutely boundless American spirit.

“OH SWEET LIBERTY!”

Sweet liberty, indeed.