scenes from a crime

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Spy hadn't woken up yet. It was past his usual time. Sniper didn't know what to do, laying there stupidly in the bunk, pressed against the wall and Spy. The first rays of sunlight were hitting the head of the bunk, an angled strip of oozy liquid light cutting across Sniper's eyes and Spy's bare shoulder. Sniper blinked, shifted with the intent of jostling Spy, and waited for him to wake up complaining about the sun or the time or Sniper being too restless.

It worked, a little. Spy's brow furrowed, jaw clenching, and the corners of his mouth pinched with the sort of unconscious unhappiness that somehow didn't surprise Sniper. Spy was a miserable bastard, all of it for expected reasons when it came to being a mercenary. For all of his dry humor and shit-stirring jokes, Sniper knew any mirth Spy showed likely didn't come from a joyous place.

Spy opened his eyes, tired, and Sniper suddenly felt bad waking him up so gracelessly. Outside of work, they only used each other for a bit of entertainment and fun, and Sniper felt that this wasn't his best moment at being enjoyable. He could've afforded to let the poor sod sleep in for at least thirty more minutes. Half an hour of staying still was nothing.

Spy's eyes drifted shut again, but the way he pushed his head more into the pillow gave away that he was somewhat awake. It was the slowest Sniper had ever seen him claw out of sleep. Usually Spy needed very little to get out of bed, especially one as small as Sniper's bunk.

Ah, well. What was done was done. Sniper reached over, taking Spy by the shoulder to gently shake him.

"Up and at 'em, Spy. You'll be late for work at this rate," Sniper said, which was true. Spy took more than an hour to primp and get his weapons ready.

That did the trick. Spy's eyes opened again, unseeing from the last remnants of sleep, but he lifted his head to turn his cheek to Sniper's hand, pressing lightly for more.

Sniper had his palm cupping Spy's face before he knew what was happening, thumb brushing against Spy's downturned mouth. Spy glanced up at Sniper, eyes still glazed, still unfocused, but he smiled. Small, almost hidden thing, but Sniper could feel it on his thumb. He knew the curve of it, like the trajectory of an arrow, nearly straight.

It had Sniper thinking—what was that, what was that? It was like looking at Spy through the scope when he thought no one was watching. Something about him being unreachable. Untouchable. He shouldn't be smiling at Sniper like that. There was no reason for it. That seemed like a mistake. Spy must have been dreaming about something good and better than this.

And then it was gone. Spy's expression sharpened as full consciousness settled. He blinked at Sniper with real awareness, not with some kind of leftover dream, and went back to looking tired and bone-deep unhappy in a way that Sniper knew there was no real fix for.

"Salut toi. Merci," Spy mumbled, yawning. He put a hand up, holding Sniper by the wrist to keep it in place. With a kind of thoughtlessness that was going to haunt Sniper for a while, he pressed a quick kiss to the inside Sniper's palm before propping himself up on one elbow. He squinted at the clock from behind his shoulder. "Damn, I must have been exhausted last night."

Sniper withdrew his hand. His back was pressed against the wall, as far as he could get. He didn't even know he was doing it until the back of his heel collided with the wall with a soft thump. "No worries."

Spy didn't seem to notice, turning away to slip down from the bunk with his usual deftness. He gathered his things—dress shirt, trousers, watch—and started putting them on briskly.

"Don't get up on my account," Spy continued, noticing that Sniper was still frozen on the bunk. He let out a small huff, more amused than offended. "I'll see myself out."

----

Sniper spits Spy's back molar out. It lands on the floor in two pieces, bouncing like dice, and rolls underneath one of the chairs. "The bloody hell is that? Oh, fuck me, that's rancid-"

What is actually impressive is that Sniper had managed to unscrew it with his tongue in the first place. Spy feels the empty socket with his own tongue, rubbing the side of his mouth to ease the soreness of his bitten lips now that they aren't violently kissing each other. There's a second tooth missing that Spy suspects has been broken off and swallowed. He glances around on the floor and luckily finds it at the opposite side of the room.

"The things you do with your tongue. No wonder you've a talent for cocksucking," Spy says, grimacing. "Merde."

Sniper starts spitting, making childish bleh-bleh noises that kill the mood faster than actually taking out two of Spy's teeth in the middle of foreplay.

"What the hell was in that? It's awful. Even cyanide tastes better than this," Sniper groans, going to sit at the edge of Spy's bed in the event of whatever poison he had ingested would send him to the ground.

"You'll be fine," Spy says, rolling his eyes. He starts redoing the buttons of his shirt. His vest is on the floor, tossed off in the heat of the moment. Meanwhile, Sniper remains shirtless, pantsless, and yet full of complaints.

"What, did I get your tiny wine capsule? It tasted like shit," Sniper says, nose still wrinkled.

"It might have been the tooth with the aphrodisiac," Spy replies, reaching for the vest.

Sniper darts up to his feet. He puts both hands on Spy's shoulders, keeping him in place. "The what?"

"The serum that makes you want to fuck like a madman," Spy explains, shrugging Sniper's grip off. He puts on the vest.

"Don't get bloody smart with me, wanker. I know what aphr-" Sniper drags a hand down his face. He glances at his watch with an air of resignation. "Fuck. For… for how long?"

"Only half an hour then I suspect you would pass out from exhaustion, which is the actual benefit for real-world use," Spy says, settling his gaze on Sniper. There's a red flush starting to form across his cheeks, much more brightly than it had been during their initial kissing.

"Wait, wait. You'll not help me with this?" Sniper asks, finally noticing that Spy is dressing himself. He steps closer, arm coming around Spy's waist. It has all the appearance of feeling affectionate, save for Sniper's expression being incredulous. "We were gonna root anyway so why are you trying to leave? Prick."

"You've bitten my lips. Taken out my teeth. And now you're gripping my ass so hard I fear I won't be able to sit, and not for any reason that is actually fun," Spy says, scooting back into Sniper's squeezing palm. "So I would hate to imagine what you'll do under the influence of an aphrodisiac." He leans in so that Sniper can feel the breath of his silent laughter against his cheek. "You'll kill me."

Sniper's pupils have gone wide and dark. His death grip on Spy's ass relaxes, but only so that he can run a hand under Spy's vest. His touch is light. Gentle. Perfectly restrained.

"I'll behave," he growls, making Spy shiver.

He sighs, reaching up to touch Sniper's burning cheek.

"No need. There's an antidote," Spy says solemnly. "You'll have to get it though."

"Ugh, don't tell me," Sniper grumbles, eyes going to Spy's mouth again.

Spy laughs again and opens wide.

———————————

"Crikey. Finally," Sniper gasps, heaving for breath half an hour later. "I think that's it. I'm all wore out."

The bedsheets are soaked. Sniper's entire body is covered in bruises and teeth marks—they've managed to get one more tooth capsule out of Spy before the entire affair got out of hand. By then, neither of them seemed to mind riding the rest of the serum effects out. Spy stretches over him, brain pleasantly fuzzy and satisfied. His body is also covered in bites and scratches, but he can't seem to care at the moment.

"How come the antidote tastes so good and the aphrodisiac tastes so bad?" Sniper asks, grunting as Spy settles over him.

"That was probably the tooth with the wine," Spy mumbles sleepily.

"What?"

"You already took the antidote. The first tooth," Spy continues, rubbing his face into the crook of Sniper's sweaty shoulder. His mask slips upwards. "The one that tasted like shit. That was it."

"What?" Sniper repeats, automatically tugging the hem back down Spy's neck in habit, "Then what about the—holy fuck, you bleedin' snake. You swallowed it! You were the one fucked up on the aphrodisiac!"

Sniper shakes him by the shoulders, smacking his head, but that only makes Spy tip to the side so that he can give Sniper a clumsy wet kiss.

"Yes. Fucked thoroughly," Spy says, words slurring happily.

------

Sniper opens the door to the camper to let Spy in. It's morning on their day off so he finds it quite reasonable to still be barely decent in his boxers with toothpaste foam in his mouth.

Spy makes his opinion known with a raised eyebrow.

"It's past ten," he says, stepping in. "Even for you, that's late."

Spy, of course, is already dressed, sans his jacket draped neatly over his arm. In his other hand is a thermos. Likely for coffee, considering Spy is already reaching for the cupboards to pull out two mugs.

Sniper waits for the autolock to finish whirring shut before he turns around to spit the toothpaste in the sink and give his mouth a quick rinse with a handful of water.

"The code in is 0-0-3-4," he tells Spy. "In case you ever wanna pop in and I'm still dozing."

The sound of the mugs awkwardly clinking on the counter is the only indication of Spy's surprise. When Sniper glances at Spy's hands, they are steadily pouring the hot coffee in each cup, steam wafting upwards. From the smell alone, Sniper can tell it's the good strong stuff, not from the scalded communal pot and more likely from Spy's intricate pour-over set up.

"Even if I'm not in, I don't mind," he adds, watching as a single drop of coffee drips over the countertop.

"Is it because you don't want to get up from your bunk to unlock the door?" Spy asks, quickly wiping the drop away with one of the dish towels.

"Nah. Just thought it'd be easier for you," Sniper says, reaching for one of the mugs. He takes a noisy sip, attempting to taste the delicate notes of whatever bean that Spy had managed to illegally import. Unfortunately for him, his only conclusion is that it's coffee—smooth and pleasantly bitter—but he doesn't really have the right words to describe the nuances other than, "This is pretty damn good."

"I'd rather break in," Spy says, ignoring the compliment, "Or hack the pinpad."

"Yeah, and I'd rather not replace the pinpad every time you sap it," Sniper replies, taking longer sip. He holds up the mug. "Where did you get the beans from?"

"Singapore. I thought you might like it. They've just elected their first prime minister. The beans are from the official luncheon menu," Spy explains. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't mind asking permission to visit then. I shouldn't have the code."

"Always 'preciate a good ol' British separation," Sniper mumbles, savoring the coffee more. He sighs, nudging Spy to take up his own mug. "And I don't see why not, seeing as you already know it. I get that you're bein' polite in pretending that you don't so I'm formally telling you now it's zero, zero, thr-"

"That's only saving sensitive information to use in emergencies, or if I have to blackmail you," Spy says, gripping his mug so hard Sniper can hear the leather gloves strain.

"You'll not accept an indefinite open invite then?" he asks, prodding Spy's mug upwards.

"I can't give you the codes and keys to my room," Spy says, steadily looking him in the eye.

"Not askin' for an exchange," Sniper says, pushing the warmed rim to Spy's lip. "Plus, don't think I got enough pockets to hold all six hundred of your room keys."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's three keys, five codes. Sometimes a breathalyzer," Spy corrects, voice going muffled as he speaks into the mug.

Sniper tips the cup for him. Finally, he hears a grudging sip and sees the bob of Spy's throat as he swallows. He sneaks a peck on Spy's cheek while he's got Spy distracted. Even through the mask, Sniper can feel on his lips that Spy is warmer than usual.

"It is pretty damn good coffee," Spy admits, taking another sip to block his face with the mug.

Not that it hides his smile much. Sniper steps away to slide into the dining bench. He props his chin into the palm of his hand.

Spy’s got a thing for curvy sheilas with black hair and tall blokes with a specific sharp way of dressing. People who wouldn’t normally catch Sniper’s interest has his eyes wandering, and Sniper knows it’s all Spy’s heart. It's unexpectedly shallow and vapid yet utterly human. Even Sniper can't begrudge Spy for that, though he assumed such interests were above Spy.

But sometimes Sniper will pass a dark haired lady in a blue dress and his heart goes all sideways and achy, like it’s stumbled on itself and is going to collapse—and then two seconds later it’s gone, and Sniper is left mildly annoyed.

So Spy’s got a special used-to-be someone that he can’t have. Not surprising.

Spy’s scared of Pyro. Maybe fear is the wrong word for it, but Sniper can feel Spy’s heart in his chest, the way steady rhythm picks up in Pyro’s presence. There's a general uneasiness, a touch of irrationality behind it. Sniper shakes out his wrists to loosen his hands, keep them from clenching, wanting to flick a cigarette.

Another annoying habit that Spy has—shaky, twitchy hands when he’s on edge. Stupid. Not like Medic swapped their brains or limbs out, but the heart apparently controls more than Sniper thinks.

------

It feels like ooze in his chest, valves all gummed up set to a foreign beat that doesn't seem to pump the blood right. Sniper feels it sloshing through his arteries, head to toe, and it makes him have the shudders. Fuck, and he hates it when he can't manage to keep still.

"Ain't right having parts that don't feel like they belong to you," he says, when he and Spy catch each other in the break room. "How the bloody hell do you not feel bothered?"

Spy glances at him. He seems puzzled by Sniper's entire question but then he starts laughing in the middle of exhaling his cigarette, billowing smoke from his nose and mouth. His smile has a mean edge to it, no mirth and all self-disparaging.

"Well, I suppose it's second nature for me," Spy says sardonically. He thumps his own chest with the flat of his palm, like he wants to smack Sniper's heart out of his ribcage. "Isn't it obvious? I ended up making a career out of it."

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