Deli Jane

Chapter 6 – The Knife

───

♪ C'mere

Interpol

───

Morning came slowly.

Not because Australia had decided to be merciful.

Because neither of them seemed particularly eager to move.

The room was already warm.

The old fan complained with every rotation.

Outside, cicadas screamed like tiny engines refusing to die.

Inside—

Silence.

Not awkward.

Not comfortable.

Just familiar.

Spy stood in front of the cracked bathroom mirror.

White sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.

His tie already discarded over the armchair.

The razor moved with practiced precision across his jaw.

Across the room, Mundy sat in the only chair by the window.

One boot resting against the opposite knee.

The Kukri balanced across his lap.

Stone slid slowly along the blade.

Shhk.

Shhk.

Shhk.

Spy listened for another minute.

Then sighed.

"...Bushman."

Another scrape of steel.

"What?"

"...If you insist on murdering that poor knife, kindly do it quieter.”

–––

The Frenchman finally finished his shaving, wiping his face with a surprisingly soft towel. He stepped out of the bathroom and saw Mick. And his awful posture.

"You're ruining the edge."

"Works."

"Barely."

"Still cuts."

"So does a shovel.”

Mick turned his head to look at Spy. "...Did ya just compare my Kukri to a shovel?"

"I was being generous.”

Mick kept doing what he felt right while the poor assassin just rolled his eyes.

Then the shooter smirked just to annoy his partner more. "It kills people."

"So does falling off a roof."

Pause.

"I still wouldn't recommend it.”

"Funny."

"I wasn't joking." The Frenchman crossed his arms.

"Sure."

"You're holding it wrong."

"Been usin' knives longer than you've been complainin'."

Spy raises an eyebrow. "...Impossible.”

–––

That was some kind of torture for Spy. He couldn't hold back anymore. Stepped to Mundy and took the Kukri from Australian's fingers. "Give me that."

"Oi."

"No."

"Frenchman."

"Bushman."

"That's my knife."

"Not anymore.”

This weapon felt different in French fingers… Bigger. More uncomfortable. Felt strange.

"Too heavy."

"It's supposed to be."

"Crude."

"Practical."

"Barbaric."

"Australian.”

Mundy successfully returned his weapon.

–––

Watching Mundy butcher perfectly respectable knife work was becoming physically painful. But what exactly did he expect from a shooter? They'd known each other long enough for Spy to know one thing: close combat had never been Mundy's strength.

The shooter tried again. And again. Stubbornly. Not agreeing to give up.

The assassin couldn't take it anymore. Let out an irritated sigh.

"...No."

"What?"

"Everything.”

–––

Clearly, intervention had become necessary.

So the Frenchman decided to step in.

Spy loosened his tie, tossing it onto one of the armchairs before glancing over at his colleague.

Sniper was in the middle of practicing close combat with his Kukri or at least attempting to - which immediately earned an irritated sigh from the Frenchman. "Bushman, qu'est-ce que tu fous?"

"Mate, you'd be shocked, but I didn't understand a bloody thing ya just said."

Mick answered with a smug grin.

Spy rolled his eyes and stepped closer. "Your posture is awful. Who taught you how to hold a knife?"

Mundy heard footsteps behind him.

Before he could turn—

A hand settled lightly against his lower back, while the other adjusted the angle of his wrist.

"And this?" Spy scoffed softly. "You call this a knife? Mon dieu... this is an insult to the weapon."

Leaning over Mundy's shoulder, the assassin plucked the Kukri from his hand and tossed it carelessly onto the armchair beside his tie.

Spy drew one of his knives from his sleeve with practiced ease. Slowly. Carefully. With practiced elegance. Mick couldn't help but stare.

"...Didn't know ya carried one of those."

"Of course you didn't."

"How many?"

Spy paused.

"Enough.”

"...Tiny." Mundy couldn't stop himself from saying something insulting towards the Frenchman's weapon.

"...Elegant."

"Looks expensive."

"It is."

"...Figures.”

The assassin slipped one of his own knives into the sniper's palm.

"Now," he murmured near Mick's ear, "We can practice properly."

Sniper swallowed sharply.

He could swear he felt a shiver run down his spine…

"Again," Spy said quietly.

Mick obeyed.

"Too stiff."

Another correction. Fingers around his wrist.

"Relax."

Another step closer.

"You're fighting the knife instead of letting it move."

Mick wasn't sure what demanded more of his attention.

The blade.

Or the voice just behind his shoulder.

"Focus, Bushman."

"...Hard to."

"What?" Spy didn't quite understand what exactly was hard.

Mundy hesitated just a fraction too long. "...Knife's different.”

Spy felt the way Mick's muscles tensed. Then felt the tension settle across Mundy's shoulders.

"Relax your shoulders.”

Mundy didn't move.

The assassin's hands lingered for a second, easing the tension from his shoulders. "Better.”

Pause.

"But still not enough.”

The constant corrections were beginning to get on the shooter's nerves. "Ya always this picky?"

"Only when someone insists on insulting perfectly good knives.”

–––

Mick moved his wrist. Almost perfect.

Spy's lips corners twitched in a small approving smile. "Better.”

Mundy didn't turn around. "...Feels lighter.”

"Because it is.”

"...Feels different.”

A pause.

"Good.”

Then too quietly.

"You're shaking.” Near the ear. With a thick French accent.

Sniper froze. "...No.”

"Yes.”

A moment of silence.

"...Too much coffee.”

The Australian made another move and bumped his shoulder against the Frenchman's. Not intentionally. Just a foot slipped.

"Careful."

"Thought ya said to relax."

"Not that much.”

–––

"You know, bushman, you react terribly for someone who claims he doesn't enjoy flirting.” The assassin smirked, knowing he annoys his partner.

A pause. Very long one.

Then Mick turned around. Looked deadly in those grey eyes. And his lips twitched into a most sincere small smile. Not a smirk. Not a grin. A smile.

"Who said I don't?”

Pause.

"...Breakfast?” As though nothing unusual had happened, Mundy picked up his hat and walked out, leaving the Frenchman alone.

Spy stood perfectly still.

...

For the first time since the mission had begun, Spy couldn't tell whether he'd just won...

...or walked straight into a trap.

Unfair.

Chapter 5 – Aftermath

───

Soundtrack

♪ Dissolved Girl

Massive Attack

───

The motel room was exactly the same.

Same crooked fan.

Same peeling wallpaper.

Same unbearable heat.

And yet—

Something had shifted.

Not in the room.

Between them.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Neither of them spoke.

Mundy dropped his rifle onto the nearest chair with far less care than usual.

Spy noticed.

Interesting.

"You've got blood on the floor."

Spy glanced down.

A small trail.

"...Inconvenient."

"Sit."

"I believe we've already had this conversation."

"I'm not askin'.”

Spy sighed. "So dramatic."

"No."

Another pause.

"You're bleedin'.”

Spy removed his jacket with practiced precision. Slowly. Deliberately. Almost teasing. As though bleeding were little more than a minor inconvenience. Mick silently watched every move, staying nearby.

"I can manage."

"I know."

"...Then why are you still standin' there?"

"'Cause you're gonna pass out."

"I'm not."

"You look pale."

"I'm French.”

Mundy didn't answer immediately.

He simply disappeared into the tiny bathroom.

Water started running.

A moment later he returned with a damp towel.

Spy looked at it.

"...What is this?"

"Cold."

"...Remarkable observation."

Mundy pressed it into his hand anyway.

"Forehead."

Spy sighed dramatically.

"...You're treating me like I'm dying."

"You're bleedin'."

"...Again with that."

"Still true.”

–––

Mick placed the first aid kit near the Frenchman.

"...You have a first aid kit?" Spy looked almost fascinated.

"Yep."

"I didn't take you for someone so prepared."

"I hunt."

A pause.

"Things bite.”

–––

The shooter moved to sit next to the assassin on their shared bed. The Australian started to take off his gloves. Slowly.

Then looked at Spy. "Shirt."

Spy raised an eyebrow.

"...Buying me dinner first would've been the polite approach.”

Silence.

"...Spy."

Pause.

"...Fine.”

The first thing that came off was a vest. Then suspenders. Tie got loosened.

The heat became impossible to ignore.

Quietness.

Mick turned away.

Not out of embarrassment. Never that.

He busied himself with the bandages.

–––

Mick carefully reached out to examine the wound. Fingers clumsy but careful.

Spy barely reacted.

Almost.

Almost.

But the way he clenched his jaw said enough.

“Can you feel that?” Sniper looked up.

"I do."

"Good."

"...Disappointing.”

Mundy reached for antiseptic. "This'll sting."

"I've survived worse."

"You complain more than anyone I've met."

"I'm French.”

"Hold still."

"I am."

"No.”

–––

"Stop moving."

"I wasn't."

"You blinked."

"I blink gracefully.”

“It hurts.” Not a question. A statement. True statement.

"No.”

Pause.

Almost unnoticeable movement of Sniper's lips edges. "Liar.”

–––

Mundy started to wrap bandages around the Frenchman's torso. His hands were big. Clumsy. But still attentive and careful not to tighten too hard.

Spy found himself watching Mundy's hands. Built for rifles. Built for knives. Somehow… They handled bandages with impossible care.

Done.

"...Thank you.”

"Yeah.” Mick didn't even bother raising his head from the first aid kit.

Then Spy looked down. "You've wrapped half my torso."

"Stops the bleeding."

"Stops breathing too."

"Bonus.”

Spy reached for his shirt.

Stopped halfway.

"...Help."

The word came out quieter than expected.

Mundy looked up.

For a second neither moved.

Then the Australian simply took the shirt from his hands.

Held it open.

Waited.

Spy slipped one arm through.

Then the other.

"...There."

"...Efficient."

"So I've heard.”

–––

Silence settled over the room.

Five long minutes.

Only the old fan rattled overhead.

Too hot.

Too loud.

Somehow still comforting. And then—

"You hungry?" Mundy's voice sliced through the silence like a blade.

"No."

"Liar."

"...Perhaps."

"I'm gettin' food."

"You are impossible."

"So I've heard.”

Spy hoped his expression remained neutral. It probably hadn't.

–––

They finished their meal quickly. Trained to.

Spy looked better. At least a small healthy blush started to appear on his pale skin.

But he reached for his pack of cigarettes and lit one.

Mick noticed. "One.”

Spy didn't answer.

"Only one.” Mundy repeated.

Spy looked at him. "...Bossy.”

"Yep.”

The Frenchman didn't reach for a second cigarette.

Mundy reached across the table.

Without thinking.

Took the cigarette pack.

Spy watched him. "...Stealing now?"

"No."

The Australian simply slipped the pack into his own pocket. "...Temporary confiscation."

Spy stared. "...You're insufferable."

"So I've heard.”

–––

Evening. And this annoying Frenchman refused to rest normally.

"You should rest.” Mundy said the same thing hundreds of times.

"I've rested enough.”

"You got shot.”

"I got scratched.”

"...Spy.”

"...Yes?”

"We're stayin' in.”

"No.”

"No?”

"We're goin' to the pub.”

Mick slowly looked up. "...Why?”

"I refuse to let one bullet dictate my evening.”

"...You're unbelievable.”

"I've been told.”

Pause.

"...Fine.” The shooter's voice sounded like anything but agreement.

"You agree?”

"No.”

"Then why?”

"'Cause if I leave ya here alone, you'll do somethin' even stupider.”

Spy smiled.

A real one.

Small.

Barely noticeable.

"...Fair.”

–––

Mick held the door without thinking.

Spy stepped through.

Then stopped.

Looked back.

Just for a second.

Mick kept doing things like that.

Quietly.

Automatically.

As though looking after Spy came as naturally as breathing.

...

Dangerous.

Chapter 4 – Close calls

───

Soundtrack

♪ Real Love Song

Nothing But Thieves

───

The next morning arrived far too early.

Spy blamed Australia.

The sun had barely climbed above the horizon, yet the room already felt unbearably warm. Somewhere outside, cicadas had apparently decided that silence was a personal insult.

Mundy was already awake.

Of course he was.

Spy watched him through half-lidded eyes as the Australian quietly checked the rifle he'd cleaned the night before. Same steady movements. Same infuriating patience.

"...You are aware," Spy muttered into the pillow, "that civilized people sleep past sunrise?"

"Nope."

"They do."

"They don't here."

"...Your country continues to disappoint me."

Mundy only chuckled. "Coffee?"

Spy finally opened one eye. "...Is it drinkable?"

"'Course not."

"...Excellent.” Spy accepted the steaming mug with visible suspicion. "...If this kills me, I shall haunt you."

"Fair.”

–––

Spy stood in front of the mirror. Tie was carefully tugged beneath a striped vest. Then came the jacket.

"You'll cook alive." Sniper looked up from his rifle.

"I would rather perish than look untidy."

"Weird priorities.”

–––

"Stand still."

"Why?"

"Because you look ridiculous.” Spy stepped to the shooter fixing his collar. Then stepped back.

And suddenly a realization hit him.

Why did he do that?

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Mundy's eyes.

Surprise.

Gone just as quickly.

But his face was as stoic as ever.

Neither of them said anything.

Then, almost as an afterthought, Spy brushed an invisible speck of dust from the Australian's shoulder.

A beat.

"There."

Mundy glances down. "Satisfied?"

Spy studies him for another second. "...Almost.”

Mick only rolled his eyes at this.

–––

They were almost near the café. Just cross the street and there's the place.

The mercs were crossing a fairly crowded street. And then screech of tires. The Frenchman didn't even understand what exactly happened. Mick grabbed the back of Spy's sleeve and yanked him out of the car's path.

No words.

Just a touch. And a grip.

They crossed the street.

Mundy let go of another man's wrist.

As they kept going to their destination.

"You do realize I am capable of crossing a street." Spy turned to Mick.

"Mm."

"...Then why?"

"You weren't lookin'.”

Then Spy remembered something and stopped, said quietly:

"If anything goes wrong..."

Mundy:

"Run."

Spy raises an eyebrow. "You remembered."

"You said it four times yesterday."

"...Good.”

–––

The old café was nothing like the places the Frenchman usually visited.

Old. Dusty. But thankfully better than yesterday's pub. At least it smelled like an actual coffee here.

They sat at the furthest table. Further from everyone.

Then… Sudden brush of knees. Nothing out of the ordinary. They sat together. It wasn't skin to skin contact. Just fabrics touched each other.

The table was small.

That was all.

Surely.

But their knees touched again. No one moved away. No one said anything. They just kept sitting.

–––

Their informant couldn't have been much older than Scout. And there was a lot of rumbling. Seriously mate, can we skip all this small talk and move to the point?

Spy was trying very hard to figure out when this conversation intended to reach its point.

Then a realization hit the French mind. Sniper's knee stayed pressed to his. And the most interesting part… Mick didn't even acknowledge this.

If it was any other day the Frenchman wouldn't even pay attention to it. But not now.

Usually people moved and flinched away from the assassin.

But this specific person…

Doesn't.

–––

After exiting the café they went to the street market.

Easier to notice the target and easier to pretend you are just tourists and not agents on a mission.

A stranger. Okay. Just keep the play.

"You boys ain't from around here."

Spy smiled politely, taking Mick's elbow rather automatically without a second thought. "Is it that obvious?"

"Accent."

Pause. Then.

"Married?" This question again. Spy kept insulting the Administrator in his head with all French curse words he knew. Which is a lot.

Spy already opened his mouth but Mick was faster again. This bushman…

"Yeah." So calmly. In this accustomed tone. Like it wasn't just a small stupid performance. But rather a well hidden truth. “He's my husband."

For perhaps the first time in years, Spy found himself momentarily speechless.

The local smiled. "How long?"

"Long enough." Quick. Calmly. And precisely. Like a bullet out of a rifle.

–––

"Your husband? Interesting choice of words." Spy tried to act nonchalant but the way he was trying to fix his cufflinks said enough.

"Worked, didn't it?"

"It did.”

Neither of them said anything else.

–––

And then. Another stranger. More cautious than the previous one. That was already a close call. With this they couldn't ruin everything.

"We're looking for work." Spy smiled politely. For the fifty times already.

"Together?"

"Naturally."

Stranger turned to Mick. "You don't talk much."

Mundy shrugs. "He talks enough for both of us.”

An elderly couple burst into soft laughter beside them.

–––

Spy decided to make sure that even insects would believe in their stupid play.

He started to make their distance smaller. Much smaller.

The Frenchman's hand between the shooter's shoulder blades.

It was a soft touch. Almost unnoticeable if you didn't pay attention.

Mick didn't react.

But moved a bit to hide the assassin with his broader and taller frame from too nosy and curious eyes.

Mundy didn't think anything about this. He did this without a second thought.

But Spy noticed.

And realized something dangerous for both of them.

–––

Guard squints. "...Have we met?"

Spy smiles. "I sincerely hope not."

The guard keeps staring. "You look familiar."

Pause. A very long one.

Spy's ready to keep playing.

"Mate." Mick interrupted. Annoyed.

Guard turns. "What?"

"My husband's been askin' ya questions for ten bloody minutes."

Spy freezes.

Guard blinks.

Mundy keeps going completely straight-faced.

"If ya wanna flirt with him, at least buy him dinner first.”

Everyone around him laughed.

The guard blushed furiously. "Piss off.”

Finally the guard looked away, losing interest in this strange couple.

The assassin tugged Mundy in a secluded spot.

"...Your husband?"

"Worked, didn't it?"

"...I'll allow it.” The Frenchman just let out a sigh.

–––

Another shout.

Then another voice.

Then " THERE!”

Spy still couldn't understand where the act wasn't enough. Smile was too polite and wide? Touches weren't intimate enough?

But being honest with bullets everywhere around them and running while lungs burned, this was the last thing which worried him.

Mon dieu.

But they both kept running. Now it wasn't only about an act and a smile.

"Left!"

"I know where I'm goin'!" Mick was out of breath too.

"Judging by today's performance, I have my doubts."

"Not now!”

Bullets were everywhere around them. One was just a millimeter away from hitting the shooter's shoulder.

Then another one. Rock near the Frenchman's head.

Spy pushed Sniper behind a large rock quickly. Followed close behind.

"Don't." Mick caught a French wrist.

"They're gone."

Mick didn't let go.

Listen carefully.

Then relaxed his fingers slowly.

"...Now they're gone.”

Spy fully sure of himself and the situation, carefully stepped out of their hiding spot.

Just a second.

Then the sound of a shoot.

Spy inhales sharply.

His hand flew to his side before he could stop himself.

"...Spy."

"Scratch.”

Mick knew at once it was a lie.

–––

They kept running. But after a few minutes…

Spy started to slow down.

Almost unnoticeable.

Mick noticed.

"...You're limpin'."

"No."

"You're literally limpin'."

"I prefer to think of it as walking elegantly."

"...Spook."

"Bushman.”

Mick didn't answer. Spy either.

Kept going back to the motel.

–––

Their destination for these closest hours is an old barn.

Got inside and closed the door.

Silence. Unexpected… Unknown…

Spy made a small step forward. Then another one.

And suddenly—

Mundy gripped the assassin's tie.

Too hard. Fabric screeched in protest.

Spy almost got pinned to the cold metallic wall.

"Release my tie."

Nothing.

"Bushman."

Nothing.

Then—

"Stop trying to get yourself killed."

Silence.

Spy frowned. "...Excuse me?"

Mick's grip tightened. "Every bloody time."

Another pause.

"I'm getting real tired of dragging your stubborn French arse out of trouble.”

Spy looked at him for a long time.

Very long time.

Only then did Spy notice.

His hands were shaking.

Not with anger.

With adrenaline.

–––

The Frenchman opened his mouth already in a silent attempt to speak.

But Mick noticed the blood on a white button-down. Tie was released.

Too quietly. Too out of character for the shooter.

Mick's eyes dropped to the blood seeping through the white shirt.

His jaw tightened. "...You're bleeding.”

Spy without a second thought. "It's nothing.”

"Sit down.”

"No.”

"Spy.”

For the first time.

Not " Frenchman”, not “mate", not " Spook.”

Just Spy. So calmly. So surely.

And exactly this forced the Frenchman to sit.

–––

They finally made it to the hotel.

Spy adjusted his tie automatically.

The knot had loosened where someone had grabbed it.

...

Strange.

Mick hadn't lost his temper when the mission fell apart.

He hadn't lost it when they'd nearly been discovered.

He'd lost it the moment Spy had been shot.

Spy stood perfectly still.

...

That was...

profoundly inconvenient.

Chapter 3 - Heatwave

───

Soundtrack

♪ What the hell is happening?

Glass Animals

───

The drive back to the motel passed in unusual silence. Not an awkward one. Not even an uncomfortable one. Simply... different.

Spy watched the passing landscape through the passenger-side window without really seeing it. Red earth. Dry grass. An endless stretch of road disappearing beneath the headlights.

His attention kept drifting elsewhere.

Back to the driver's seat.

Mundy drove exactly the way he did everything else.

One hand resting lazily on the wheel.

The other tapping absentmindedly against the door.

Eyes fixed on the road.

Calm.

Steady.

Predictable.

...

Or so Spy had believed.

Now every glance, every casual remark from earlier replayed itself inside his head.

Drinks coffee that's basically poison. Hates mornings. Gets grumpy when people touch his things.

Not guesses. Observations.

The realization was profoundly irritating.

–––

Mick parked the van. Then grabbed his bag from the still-warm passenger seat.

And shut the door.

"Watch the step." Mundy simply warned without a second thought.

Spy frowned, not immediately understanding the warning.

Then his foot caught the cracked edge of the pavement.

He barely had time to register it before a firm hand closed around his elbow.

Steadying him.

Just for a second.

Then—

"Told ya.”

Then released the Frenchman's arm.

Spy looked at shooter's disappearing back. "Interesting.”

–––

The motel became strangely quiet after sunset.

Not quieter, exactly. The cicadas were still screaming outside. The old fan still rattled overhead as though each rotation might be its last. Somewhere beyond the thin walls, a television blared loudly enough for half the building to hear.

And yet—

Compared to the pub, the silence felt almost peaceful.

Spy loosened the top button of his shirt before immediately pretending he hadn't.

Australia was unbearable. The heat clung to everything. His clothes. His skin. His patience.

Across the room, Mundy was cleaning his rifle with the same infuriating calm he'd shown all day.

Spy watched him for a moment. "...Do Australians ever complain?"

The sniper didn't even look up. "Course."

"I have yet to witness such a miracle."

"We save it for things worth complainin' about."

"...Such as?"

"Tourists."

Pause.

“French tourists."

Spy just looked at him.

–––

Spy opened his book.

Read the same sentence.

Read it again.

And again.

Somehow the words refused to become a paragraph.

His eyes drifted across the room.

Mundy was still cleaning his rifle.

Spy looked back at the page.

He had absolutely no idea what he had just read.

–––

Frenchman quickly understood that reading was pointless. But he still needed something to keep his hands busy with.

He moved to the window and opened it.

Still not enough.

Closed it.

Still too stifling.

Moved to an old fan. It looked like one single touch could crash this poor thing. He switched it on anyway.

“Mon dieu…”

The fan protested with a sound that belonged in a horror film. Spy didn't even realize when he flinched so quickly out of an unexpected noise, but then quickly pretended that he was totally okay.

Then came one final, particularly horrifying noise.

The fan died.

Completely.

Mick finally looked up from his rifle.

About time.

Shooter simply stepped closer and hit an old thing two times.

The fan groaned. Coughed once. Then resumed spinning as though nothing had happened.

Spy blinked. “You fixed it."

"Hit it.”

“... Barbaric.”

"It worked.”

–––

Mick went to the refrigerator. Took out this single water bottle.

Made two sips.

Then walked over to the assassin and silently offered a drink.

No words.

Just actions.

The Frenchman froze for a second.

Then reached for the bottle and made a big sip. Enjoying the taste of cold water in his mouth.

Then handed the bottle back.

Silently.

Neither of them acknowledged the fact they'd just shared the same bottle.

Neither of them seemed to care.

–––

Blankets felt too heavy on a heated body. While sheets were sticking to a sweaty skin uncomfortably.

Both didn't sleep. Both looked at the ceiling. Both kept being silent.

"Can't sleep?” Mick turned his head to look at his partner.

"Obviously.”

"Come outside.”

"Is this an invitation?”

Pause.

"It's too bloody hot in here.”

"Ah.”

Of course. Hot. And Mick just offered hospitality in his town. And maybe trying to be a good friend.

–––

Spy sat down on the stairs of their motel. He's been waiting for Sniper for at least ten minutes, even though the shooter promised to come out three minutes ago.

Not like Spy actually cared to set the time… Not at all.

The air had cooled enough to breathe again. Finally, a soft breeze started to soothe an overheated skin.

The assassin took out one of his cigarettes and lit it, taking a slow drag.

He let out a small cloud of smoke from his lips. He looked around. Quiet. Finally a peaceful moment to recollect yourself and your thoughts.

And for the first time in ages his mind wasn't occupied with their mission. But rather with someone Spy had never expected to occupy his thoughts. This infuriating Australian refused to react.

Finally the shooter came up to his colleague.

Spy didn't even flinch. “Too hot."

"Yep.”

“Your country is trying to kill me.”

"Told ya.”

–––

A minute later, Mick patted his pockets.

Empty.

"Damn.”

Spy didn't even bother to turn around. Just took another drag.

Quietly, the sniper reached over. Took the cigarette. Took a slow drag. Held it for a second. Then handed it back.

"...Did you just steal my cigarette?" Spy still couldn't process what happened because another person would already receive a knife between their ribs.

"Yep."

"...You could have asked."

"You would've said no."

"...Probably.”

Mick took another two drags and then handed the cigarette back to its owner.

It was the same way. Their fingers touched. "Cheers.”

Then they both returned their attention to the desert stretching out before them.

–––

Ten minutes. Night covered them in a soft comforting blanket of silence.

“G’night."

One word. And Mick Mundy stood up and returned to the motel, while Spy took another drag and then looked at the cigarette between long fingers.

Spy had spent years learning exactly how close he could stand to someone before they stepped away.

Somehow...

Mick never did.

Spy looked down at the cigarette between his fingers.

Ridiculous.

It was still the same brand.

Still tasted the same.

And yet—

Somehow, it didn't feel entirely like his anymore.

Chapter 2 - Playing Along

──────────

Soundtrack

♪Your Love

She Wants Revenge

──────────

Spy didn't sleep well.

Not because of the heat. Not because of the fan that seemed determined to die every five minutes. And certainly not because the man occupying the other half of the room snored.

He didn't. Unfortunately.

Silence left far too much room for thoughts he would've preferred to ignore.

–––

Spy stood perfectly still.

One bed. One bedside table. One tiny wardrobe. One bathroom. One ceiling fan that looked older than Scout.

"...This is unacceptable."

Mundy dropped his duffel bag onto the floor. "It has four walls."

"It has one bed."

"It has sheets."

Spy slowly turned toward him. "Do you enjoy making my life difficult?"

"Nah." The Australian scratched the back of his neck. "It just comes naturally."

Spy sighed so dramatically it probably shortened somebody else's lifespan.

He inspected the refrigerator as though it had personally offended him.

One bottle of water.

Wonderful.

Then he opened the bathroom door.

Closed it immediately.

“I've lived through wars.”

“Yeah.”

“Assassination attempts."

“Mhmm.” Mick was really busy with unpacking his bag.

“Three separate buildings exploding beneath me."

“Sounds rough."

“Yet somehow this is the worst accommodation I have ever experienced."

Mick's shoulders shook in a weak attempt of holding back a laugh. He was thankful that his back was towards the Frenchman.

–––

The room grew steadily hotter.

Even the fan seemed to be pushing warm air around instead of cooling anything.

Spy pulled at his tie. "...Mon Dieu."

The jacket disappeared first. Folded carefully. Placed over the back of the chair.

For the first time since they'd met, the assassin wasn't wearing it. The room suddenly felt smaller.

Mundy looked up. Only for a moment. Long enough to notice rolled sleeves. The white shirt clinging slightly to the Frenchman's back because of the heat.

...

Huh.

Mundy quickly looked away.

Nothing escaped Spy for long. Least of all a glance.

Interesting.

But the jacket stayed folded on the back of a chair.

"You hungry?" Sniper looked back at Spy.

"No."

"You have to eat."

"I refuse."

"You'll faint."

"I'll do it elegantly."

Mundy snorted. "We're goin' to the pub."

Spy frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"First contact."

"...Ah."

A pause.

"...Can I at least pretend to enjoy it?" Sniper asked hopefully, making the assassin turn to him with a blank face.

"Nope."

"...Cruel.”

–––

Just before Mick reached for a pub's doorknob.

"Wait.”

Sniper turned around. Frenchman came closer. Then fixed the Australian's shirt collar. Slowly. Calmly. As if he'd done it a hundred times before.

"We're supposed to know each other.”

Pause.

"Try looking less like you're about to shoot someone."

“I am about to shoot someone.”

“Later.”

Mick only snorted at this and rolled his eyes.

–––

The local pub was exactly what Spy had expected.

Dirty. Old. Dusty. Filled with cigarette smoke, stale beer and decades of bad decisions and the faint smell of something that had probably died weeks ago.

Spy was trying really hard to hold his face. Not flinching away anytime some drunken jerk reached out to stop him was even harder. The jacket was ruined. He was certain of it.

"Your partner?”

Spy raised his eyes to the person who asked him.

Spy smiled to himself. Something smug flickered behind his expression.

“Yes."

Sniper felt a hard stoic hand on his lower back.

Not the shoulder. Not the elbow. Lower back.

Mick flinched from an unexpected touch. Only for a second.

But didn't pull away.

Didn't blush.

Didn't say anything.

Just accepted.

Odd.

Most people instinctively stepped away.

Mundy hadn't even considered it.

Interesting. Again. Nothing. It was beginning to feel personal.

Spy was hoping for a reaction. Embarrassment. Shock. But this annoying Australian gave him nothing again.

–––

It was loud. Too loud.

Somewhere in the corner an old radio was playing. Someone was arguing about fuel prices. Someone else was playing cards. While another half of the pub had already started studying the newcomers a little too closely.

Spy hated this place more with each passing second. He always hated such places. Locals always asked too many questions.

“Haven't seen you two around before.”

Some man in his fifties dropped into the chair beside their table.

Spy forced the politest smile he could manage. “We are merely passing through.”

“Uh-huh.”

This man definitely didn't buy his lie.

“Business?”

“Something like that.”

“And how long have ya known each other?”

Of course. Here it fomes.

Spy mentally rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“Seven years."

Sniper raised his beer bottle to his lips.

"Eight.”

Pause.

Spy turned his head to his colleague and partner. Mick didn't even spare him another glance.

“Eight, then.”

“Thought so.”

The man nodded approvingly.

“Ya argue like an old married couple.”

“Disgusting.”

“True.”

They answered at the same time. The stranger burst into laughter.

–––

The silence lasted perhaps thirty seconds. It wasn't nearly enough. But it was bliss all the same. However it got quickly ruined.

“So what's he like?”

“Difficult.”

“Charming.”

They answered at the same time. Again.

Now the assassin studied him more closely.

Mick just kept sipping his beer. Calmly. Not worried about anything.

Like it wasn't something unusual. Just a normal moment for both of them.

“Which one is it?”

“Both.”

“Both.”

They said this at the same time again.

“And you?”

The stranger pointed a finger at Sniper.

“What's his deal?"

Spy already opened his mouth ready to answer.

But Sniper was faster.

"Hates mornings.”

“Reasonable.”

“Drinks ⁠coffee that's basically poison.”

“Efficient.”

“Smokes too much.”

“That's rich coming from you.”

“Gets grumpy when people touch his things.”

“Most people do.”

“Doesn't like being interrupted while reading.”

“Nobody likes—”

And then Frenchman froze and suddenly went quiet.

Because one deeply unpleasant realization hit him.

Mundy hadn't made up a single thing.

At all.

–––

The most unsettling part wasn't that Mundy remembered those things.

The most unsettling part was how easily he recalled them.

As if the information had always been there.

Filed away somewhere.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Without either of them noticing.