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I must ask about your moustache (Sniper & Pauling, oneshot)
935 words
Tags: Friendship, body joy, wholesome, affirming interactions, implied body dismorphia, tf2 fantasy Australia masculinity beauty standards and gender worldbuilding, my roots are gen/crack comedy and honestly it shows
===
Sniper showed up for the standalone mission briefing woefully unprepared to see Miss Pauling like this.
On her lip was the most magnificent moustache he'd ever seen. It was full, had a healthy shine, perfectly shaped without looking weighed down by product. It stopped him in his tracks.
“What's that?” came out of his mouth without quite making it through his brain.
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.
