Solitude : (Mature) The story takes place in Paris, after the Mann Co. years. Sniper goes on a world trip to take his mind off of his loneliness that, to his parents greatest regret, affect his mood quite badly. He stops in Paris on his way between Germany and Scotland, when a rude man bumps him on the street... (140k words, 50 chapters, completed)
Baguette Knife and Headshot Man: (Mature) During the Mann Co. years, Spy looks for his lady cat companion, Perle. It turns out that she had been visiting his Australian colleague. (180k words, 50 chapters, completed)
Fluffy requests from readers: (Some Mature chapters) 107 shorts of Sniper/Spy fluff and spice, requested by readers.
Solitude, But Two (Mature) : After a decade out of his job, the retired Frenchman is called again by no less than the Minister of Defense himself. There is a case to solve, that only Lucien can deal with. So he puts on his suit and tie again, and flies to Australia where his target is. He does a good job on his own, until a certain wild kangaroo barges into his mission, and his life. (Not a sequel to Solitude! 380k words, 108 chapters, completed)
Fluffy requests from readers, But Two (Mature - 10 shorts): Shorts of Sniper/Spy fluff and spice, requested by readers.
Un-alone (Mature - current project): Lucien gets some news from the other side of the Atlantic. He jumps into the first flight to Boston, but arrives too late. All he has now left, is his son, Jérémy. Meanwhile, Mundy accompanies his mother to visit his Uncle in New Mexico. Their paths will cross, in unexpected circumstances.
The Pink Panther: (Mature) lady BLU Spy/male RED Spy. The new BLU Spy is more secretive than his predecessor, but who cares? Until one day, when all the REDs except Spy go missing. (190k words, 61 chapters, completed)
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Morning sunlight spilled lazily across the motel room.
The heat had already settled in.
Australia, as always, showed no intention of apologising.
Spy adjusted the cuff of his shirt before reaching for his cigarette case.
Empty.
...
"Bushman."
A rustle from the bathroom.
"What?"
"...You stole my cigarettes."
"Nope."
"You absolutely did."
Another pause.
"...Check your other pocket."
Spy frowned.
...
They were there.
He looked toward the bathroom.
"...I dislike that you know where I keep them."
Mundy's voice drifted through the half-open door.
"Ya've got too many pockets.”
–––
Spy reached absentmindedly toward the bedside table, expecting coffee.
His hand stopped halfway.
Coffee.
Already waiting.
Still warm.
...
He looked across the room.
Mundy was cleaning his rifle.
Without even looking up, he muttered,
"Drink it before it gets cold."
...
"...You are becoming alarmingly efficient.” Spy glanced at it. "...Still trying to poison me?"
"Yep."
"...Consistency is admirable."
"So I've heard.”
Spy reached for his coffee.
Mundy looked up.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them acknowledged it.
They never did.
Somewhere along the way, looking at each other had become strangely easy.
Looking away had become the difficult part.
–––
The same street market. Spy held a stoic expression. But his wound beneath his shirt ached a bit as a silent reminder.
They kept working. Watching faces. Listening. Blending into the crowd.
But the Frenchman paid a lot of attention to things which shouldn't occupy his mind at all.
–––
Spy frowned.
They had crossed three streets already.
Every single time—
Mundy had taken the outside.
Without looking.
Without thinking.
...
Spy couldn't remember when he'd first started noticing it.
Interesting.
–––
Someone brushed roughly past them.
Before Spy could react—
Mundy's hand landed lightly against the middle of his back.
The touch had lasted less than a second.
Practical.
Automatic.
Guiding him forward.
Then disappeared.
Like nothing had happened.
...
Spy couldn't remember when it had started feeling natural.
...
He hadn't even realised they'd become separated.
–––
Spy stood near some old shop and lit another cigarette.
A familiar voice came from beside him.
"Thought we agreed on one."
Spy exhaled slowly.
"We did."
"And?"
"I've decided agreements are optional."
Mundy sighed.
Reached over.
Took the cigarette straight from Spy's fingers.
One drag.
Another.
Then handed it back.
"There."
Spy stared for a moment before taking the cigarette back. Their fingers brushed.
Neither of them commented on it.
Once upon a time, one accidental touch would have earned at least three sarcastic remarks.
Not anymore.
"...Did you just steal my cigarette?"
"Borrowed."
"...You're insufferable."
"So I've heard.”
Spy then stubbed out his cigarette silently.
–––
Spy pinched the bridge of his nose. Long night.
Too little sleep.
Too much heat.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
A paper cup appeared beside him.
"...Again?"
"Coffee."
"I can see that."
"Drink it."
Spy sighed dramatically. "...Bossy.”
–––
They headed to the same café they'd been visiting all week. And suddenly… Spy caught himself watching.
Again.
Grey eyes.
Sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Hat pushed back.
Sunburnt forearms.
...
Mundy looked up.
"...What?"
Spy blinked.
"...Nothing."
"You've been starin'."
"I have excellent eyesight.”
The assassin's expression softened as he noticed the exhaustion in Mick's face.
Mundy rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Almost absent-mindedly.
Spy frowned.
"...Didn't sleep?"
"'M fine."
"That wasn't my question."
A pause.
"Couldn't.”
Spy said nothing.
He simply reached for the coffee pot when the waitress walked past.
A second cup appeared in front of Mundy a minute later.
Neither of them mentioned who had ordered it.
–––
Spy lit another cigarette.
"You're smokin' more."
"I'm smoking exactly the same amount."
"You've had four today."
Spy looked offended.
"You counted?"
"No."
Pause.
"...Five.”
The Frenchman let out an annoyed sigh and a small cloud of smoke. "...I'm beginning to regret teaching you observation.”
–––
The assassin was paying more attention to the crowd than to the road beneath his feet. He didn't notice a sticking out tree root. So of course he stumbled. But was stopped by a familiar hand.
"You alright?"
"I'm perfectly—"
Only then did they both notice.
Mundy was still holding his arm.
The warmth lingered for a heartbeat longer than it should have.
Strange.
Neither of them seemed particularly eager to be the first one to move.
Only then—
He let go.
"...Right.”
–––
An old bleaching sight of their motel could be seen. They went in complete silence and then—
"You've gone quiet." Mick was the one to break the silence.
"I always speak when necessary."
"That's unlike ya."
Spy frowned.
"...Was that an attempt at humour?"
"...Maybe."
"...Don't do it again.”
–––
They were finally home. In their room.
Spy took off his watch and placed it on his bedside table. And then he noticed something strange…
Spy stared at the glass for a long moment.
...
He hadn't asked.
Mundy hadn't offered.
He'd simply remembered.
...
That was...
Habit.
They both kept noticing things.
Grey eyes.
Rough hands.
The smell of coffee.
The way Mundy always reached for the door first.
The way he noticed when Spy was tired before Spy did.
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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...
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It was supposed to go up yesterday, but my internet decided to disappear at the worst possible moment. 💀
Thank you all so much for reading, reblogging, commenting, and just being here. Every notification still makes me ridiculously happy. 💛
Anyway...
These two continue to make absolutely no progress whatsoever.
Or... do they? 🌝
Word count: 806
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.
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The mission continues, the tension increases, and these two are still pretending they don't notice anything.
(They absolutely notice everything.)
More awkwardness, more banter, more Spy suffering because apparently that's his main hobby now. 🫡
Hope you enjoy! 💛
Word count: 1505
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.
