same-type attack bonus

“I'll show you sloppy,” Sniper growled, trying to throw him off but RED Spy accommodated the movement with an easy roll of his hips and a hand that pressed down on Sniper's shoulder to ruin his leverage. 

“Oho, will you?” RED Spy asked, amusement clear. A gloved hand came to Sniper's face and he tried to bite. No luck, RED Spy gripped his jaw and ran a thumb over his cheek, smearing his own saliva across his skin. 

“I could be tempted,” RED Spy admitted, and Sniper felt a rush of blood in his ears again. What? 

That butterfly knife was suddenly right in front of him and Sniper flinched back. 

“Ah ah ah, don't move carelessly, we wouldn't want you to get hurt now would we?” said the man who hurt him every day and was paid to do it. “Open your mouth. Lick.” 

“You're crazy,” Sniper said even as a part of him wondered at how the metal might feel against his tongue. After all these deaths, had the taste of his own blood sunk into the metal? Or would the metal's own taste be so similar that he couldn't tell one from the other? 

“Close the blade,” Sniper bargained. 

The blade moved and Sniper half expected to wake up in respawn but instead the closed knife was pressed against his lips. It was cold. 

“Go on,” RED Spy said. 

Hesitantly, Sniper licked the knife. As expected the sharp tang of metal flooded his mouth. The wood handles were less cold, creating an interesting contrast. It smelled metallic, bloody, but there was a hint of oil, he wasn't sure if it was from servicing the hinge or from RED Spy's leather glove. The warm leather scent was tantalisingly close. Sniper licked, and licked again. 

RED Spy was watching, piercing blue eyes meeting Sniper's as he stopped the little kitten licks of the knife to open his mouth more fully, to coax the knife in to sit on top of his tongue. RED Spy didn't say anything but there was a slight shift of his weight on Sniper, and a deliberateness to his breathing. 

Sniper closed his mouth around the knife, letting his eyes close as he swirled his tongue around it, moved his lips against it. He liked having something in his mouth, a cigarette, the lip of a beer bottle, a blade of grass, so there wasn't anything that special about the knife except it being, y'know, a knife, and RED Spy's reactions. 

RED Spy was being weird. Intense. The balaclava broke up his face so it was hard to read more subtle expressions but he was watching Sniper with his full attention. 

“You like this,” RED Spy observed, and his voice had an unfamiliar deep and husky note to it. A slight panic rose in Sniper's chest when a gloved hand landed on his head, but all RED Spy did was pet and stroke and ruffle his hair as he sucked and licked and mouthed at the knife. That was nice. His head just being moved about, the pressure and sensation of fingers running through his hair and scratching at his scalp. Sniper sighed contentedly in between lapping and working the knife with his mouth. The hand moved to grip the back of his neck which should have been alarming but felt even nicer. 

“VICTORY!” the speakers blared and Sniper startled and would've choked on the knife if it weren't so quickly pulled back by RED Spy. Shit, he really lost his head there, was that announcement for RED or BLU? He was definitely going to die— 

The pressure on his back and the touch on his neck vanished, and Sniper turned to look but RED Spy was already out the door, and there was the sound of a cloak being activated. There was nothing to suggest the enemy spy had been here except the lingering warmth on Sniper's back and the dark spot on the floorboards left from his saliva. 

She blinked at him and looked down at what she was holding. 

“A body bag?” she offered. 

“No, I mean, and I don't mean this in a rude way, alright, but what's that on your face, Miss?” 

“Oh! This,” she raised a hand to touch her moustache. “A false moustache? Like a wig! But for your upper lip.” 

Huh. If he'd had a moustache like that, he'd have been the envy of every teenage boy in his hometown growing up. Every man as well. Hell, maybe in the next town over, even. 

“Can you get me one?” he asked. 

She frowned. 

“I'm not sending you on an undercover mission,” she said, crossing her arms. 

“Yeah, that's not what I'm asking. Can you get me one? I'll owe ya.” 

She must have sensed he was serious, because she dropped her arms. 

“... sure? Uh. Anything in particular? Style, colour, so on. Do you need the glue as well, and I guess the applicator too? And the remover? Though I guess knowing you, you'd just peel it off and pluck at the build up if you have to.” 

Sniper felt slightly overwhelmed. 

“... brown?” he replied after a long pause. 

To her credit, she didn't press him. 

“I'll send you a kit after this mission,” she promised. 

He nodded gratefully and they got to work. 

=== 

Miss Pauling was good on her word and sent a box in the next weekly mail. 

Sniper grabbed it as quickly as he could without raising suspicion, though he probably didn't succeed since Spy raised an eyebrow and smirked at him. He still managed to save it from a nosy Scout, and a Soldier who wanted to ‘screen’ everything for commie something or the other (aka tear open every package and randomly destroy a few). 

In the privacy of his caravan, he opened the package gingerly. There was a fine wooden box, with a metal clasp holding it shut, and when he opened that, there was a mirror set in the lid, four false moustaches, a little bottle of special glue, a little brush, and a little bottle of remover. All of the moustaches were dark brown— bless Miss P— she'd matched all of them to his hair colour exactly. 

He used the little brush to brush glue onto the back of the second biggest moustache, left it for a few seconds as per the instructions, before carefully applying it to his upper lip. 

A little adjustment, a little coaxing the hairs to sit properly and it was a very handsome moustache. The match to his hair colour and face was perfect. 

He turned his head this way and that, admiring his reflection. The moustache he had picked out wasn't as majestic as the one Miss Pauling had worn, but it was more realistic, and still very handsome. He looked like someone who could walk into a pub and some sheila might nudge her mate and say now there's a sexy guy. 

He couldn't stop touching his face, stroking the lower half so the moustache sat nicely. He couldn't stop grinning like an idiot. 

He checked to make sure no one was looking and stepped out to go sit in the driver's seat. There he angled the rear-view mirror so he could see himself. He'd seen himself from this angle a billion times from all his years on the road. It made this feel more real somehow. He looked— 

He looked like a dinkum Aussie. 

He started laughing, pure disbelief and joy. When did he last feel like this? Had he ever? 

On impulse, he left the base, driving into the sunset in the desert. He had the window down and he could feel the breeze in his new moustache and that made him laugh again. 

He took the familiar roads to the payphone and dialed the number that he'd been given when he first got the RED contract. 

“Hi,” Miss Pauling said, voice clipped and short. Gunshots. “Sniper, this isn't a good time.”

“Oh, sorry. When's a better time?” he asked. 

More gunshots. Yelling. Possibly footsteps, or blunt force trauma. Louder gunshots. Silence. 

“Actually, now's fine,” she amended. “What do you need? You wouldn't call for no… rea—son." That was her lifting something heavy mid-word. “Please tell me it's important. Like worth at least two extra body disposals important.” 

“It's important to me,” he said. “I wanted to say thank you, for sending the kit. I—” his hand went up to stroke his moustache and he smiled. “I appreciate it. And you. Thanks.” 

There was perfect silence over the line. Her perpetual multitasking was stopped dead for a long second before it started up again. 

“Oh, um, thanks! Wait no, what do you say when someone thanks you again— ah, right. You're welcome. Or thanks for thanking me, that works as well. I appreciate your appreciation.” She laughed awkwardly. “Can you tell I don't say this often?” 

“I'll repeat it if you want,” he said fondly, leaning on the payphone. “Thank you, Miss Pauling. It means a lot.” 

A bit more of that embarrassed, pleased but uncomfortable silence, but a shorter one this time. Then, Miss Pauling took a breath and a smile was audible in her voice. 

“You're welcome, Sniper.”