>>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.