Archive of Our Own ^beta

He always woke first when they shared a bed. 

It was always his bed they shared, too, since he always refused to spend a night in that broken-down junkheap of scrap that Sniper called a vehicle. He had once quietly assumed that the Aussie was just a deep sleeper, but after just as many infrequent nights shared together, Spy realized that Sniper was becoming far too comfortable in his bed. The Bushman probably needed some sampling of a more refined taste, of 1000-count satin silk–Spy was doing him a favor. And in particular, the proper mattress would do leagues better for his slouch-ridden posture and the pain the professional assassin complained about in his shoulders. He'd thankfully already gotten Sniper into a habit of at least showering before throwing himself on the bed. 

The next he'd have to work on is the man's choice of scent, that being the constant companion of grime and sweat and blood. Perhaps it wasn't so much a choice, but rather a slight hazard of their working environment; a battlefield of constant killing, death, and respawn. And yet Spy himself still found the time to prepare and maintain good personal hygiene. 

He knew Sniper liked the scent of his cologne. 

The other RED lies on the bed still and sleeps soundly. His neck is turned slightly, exposed and vulnerable. A dark shadow of scruff lies visible on his hardened jaw. Lips parted slightly, moving with almost a faint whistle of each sleeping breath. His dark auburn hair is cropped short to his skull, and his eyes are closed, not that Spy usually spots them behind the Sniper's shooting glasses. But, Spy knows they’re a shade of earthy brown, he’d spent a long time looking at them. 

Here, now, Sniper is just a man. Not a nameless contract, not even a RED. 

Spy isn't even wearing his mask, so he shouldn't refer to himself as one either. They were just two men, sharing a bed, sharing a night, sharing a moment of intimacy and want and lust and… 

The Frenchmen frowns, though no one can see. How fortunate that was, because he could think of several mercenaries in their company that would kill to see the man without the balaclava. He doesn't wear the mask when he sleeps because he wants to feel the coolness of the pillow on his head. During the fight, the covering could get quite suffocating. He never complains, though. As clunky and awkward as it is, the mask is the one deterrent he has left from keeping a certain young merc from knowing the truth. The thought makes him pause, as his frown remains. So goes his mind and that line of thinking, the one that always makes him want to hide and leave others guessing. He prefers not to leave himself vulnerable. At least, he tells himself that over and over again. 

He runs fingers through his hair, trying to forget that the strands of his temples have long started to gray and white. He's not as young as he used to be, he tells himself that often, too often. His hand rolls down to his neck, where discolored skin and evidence of the night's previous activities remains. The man beside him was a far from gentle partner, and his tastings were almost akin to a feral animal going after prey. His lips were clumsy, wet, and sloppy, only driven by hunger. It was good that Spy himself had the stamina to keep up. 

Sniper shifts slightly in his sleep, but he still doesn't wake, even with the accompanying stretch and slight growl of his moving body. 

Spy watches the man in silence. It's been a long time since… he'd stayed with one person for so long. One night had turned into another, then several nights turned into a regular occurance until Sniper was staying in his room more than his own shoddy camper. They didn't dare give what they had a name. 

There was practicality to it, an extraordinary coincidence, meeting someone who could check all his very certain boxes. Considering the circumstances, he didn't have much other choice. In reality, the other option was being no one at all. Before his time here among the REDs and this contract, he'd thought he was content with ‘no one at all.’ 

He thought he was above looking for someone, that he didn’t need anyone, anymore. He was too old for that kind of life, of settling down, of finding someone to share a bed with, something more. That was all he considered of it, at the moment; sharing a bed, nothing more. He didn’t want it to be anything more. 

Does Sniper think the same?

Without realizing it, Spy’s shoulders sag and he knows his overthinking has done the better of him again. He’s good at that; comically good at it, perhaps.  He hasn’t even checked the time. There’s only so much left, after all. 

He’d give himself a few more minutes before he’d start getting ready, get himself his morning smoke and wait for Sniper to finally rouse and gather his clothes from off the floor. Not long after he'd leave, they’d meet in the common area with the rest of the team, neither acknowledging the night they had before, with Spy carefully hiding hickeys and love bites underneath his suit and mask, waiting for them to disappear with the first trip to respawn. Perhaps it was Engineer’s turn to prepare breakfast for everyone, eggs and bacon and hearty pancakes that Scout would gulp down in a matter of seconds like the boy was starving. Medic would be kind enough to prepare coffee, a roast that Spy still needed to make note of the ingredients for. But all too soon, Soldier would barge in, loud as a bugle, letting everyone know that their day was about to begin. 

A trip to the Spawn room later, Heavy would prepare his minigun, Demo would count and recount his bombs, and Pyro would gleefully make sure that there was enough fuel for their flamethrower. In the back of the room, Sniper would carefully clean his rifle, making sure he had enough bullets to last for the day. 

It was during one of those mornings, not long ago, Spy had found himself watching the rather stoic mercenary among them as he chambered a round, aimed, and then inspected the weapon. His hands were rough with calluses, but they were always careful with his guns. On his thumb, there was a slight discolored bruise right on the bed of his nail, a sign that even the best among them could get his fingers caught in a gun jam. He didn’t think that day Sniper had noticed him watching, but then the man had raised his head, his glasses had been off, and a shade of warm, earthy brown looked to Spy with unspoken surprise. 

The acknowledgement was quick and simple. Suddenly, the Sniper curled up just one side of his lips into a half smirk, accompanied by a single scoff. 

Spy had rolled his eyes, the announcer’s voice rang clear that it was time for the round to begin, and neither looked at each other again that day. 

Not until the day was over, the battle had been won. During the team’s post-match celebration, Spy kept looking for those earth hues behind shaded lenses. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. That day, Sniper had also been looking for him. 

Then they both found themselves sharing a bed. Then, they found themselves doing it again and again. 

He lights his cigarette and the smoke trails lazily in the air. He doesn’t want to think about how long this could last, but he can’t help it. His mind wanders, as it always does. He’d leave first, probably. He’s used to leaving people behind. It’s easier to think that people are better off without him–that’s how he justifies leaving. Who would want to stay with a man who’s only good at pretending to be someone he’s not? He takes in another long breath of smoke, then lets out an even longer, quieter sigh. 

Sniper stirs again and the movements are too deliberate, he's finally waking up. He stretches, scratching his hair with a rough hand. 

“Mornin’,” Sniper says with a yawn. 

“Bonjour,” Spy replies. 

They sit in silence for another long moment. Spy keeps breathing in the smoke. 

“Mail day’s today ain't it?” Sniper comments. 

Letting out another cloud of smoke, Spy raises his head toward the other man. “Are you expecting a letter?” 

“I know you ain't.” 

A smirk and a short scoff, later, Spy is rolling his eyes. 

Sniper lies on his side, letting his head rest on the pillows. “Might get a call from my folks later,” he mutters. 

“Hm?” 

“It's m’birthday.” Sniper grumbles, still half asleep.  

Spy pauses, he holds in his look of surprise, remaining instead with something more reserved, dignified. 

“Before you go asking,” Sniper raises a hand to wave off the Spy’s narrowed gaze, “Yeah, I'm old, just like you, Spook.” 

A birthday. Of course, Sniper wasn’t the type to celebrate. Spy hardly celebrated a birthday himself in the past several years. There wasn’t much to celebrate, another year of life was just a ticking clock til death. Even Respawn couldn’t save someone from that inevitability. He didn’t like being reminded that one day it would catch up to him. He lived a long life of regrets and closed doors, missed opportunities and countless more. 

What was he doing here, except trying to make up for lost time? 

Scout’s birthday was coming soon as well.. 

He puts out his cigarette and leans back over Sniper, the man doesn’t move, and instead stretches his neck so Spy can  brush his lips against his ear. 

“Joyeux anniversaire.” Spy says quietly, and he ignores the creases of another smirk forming on Sniper’s face. The moment doesn’t last, and Spy is already pulling away when Sniper moves once more. 

“Now that,” Sniper’s voice is low, like a raspy growl, “ain’t fair at all.” 

It’s Spy’s turn to smirk, shaking his head. He’s already got another cigarette in his hand, and the smoke fills the space between them. He’s thought too much already, and the day hasn’t even properly begun. In fact it wouldn’t begin at all as long as the two of them stayed in bed. Though, maybe that wasn't such a bad idea either. He muses a moment, letting the smoke fill his lungs. There were no such things as ‘sick days’ when working for RED, that was never part of the contract. 

So that meant, the day really had to begin. 

Sniper was already standing up, gathering his clothes from the floor once again. Spy watched, and Sniper knew he was doing that. Vest slipped on, tilted hat on his head, shaded lenses once again obscuring those earthy tones from view. 

But it won’t be long until he sees them again. 

“What are you smiling about?” 

Sniper’s already at the door, the usual frown plastered on his face. 

Holding his cigarette between his fingers, Spy shrugs his shoulders. “I was thinking.” 

“About?” 

Spy lets the statement settle as Sniper waits for a reply. “You don’t need to know.” 

Sniper’s frown turns into a pout. His growl is like an unamused groan, low and deep in his throat. “Damn Spook.” He mutters and then, he leaves, latching the door behind him.