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Chapter Text

    Burlap.

    That was the first thing you sensed when you came to. You recognized the smell from the sacks of flour in your kitchen, and the texture faintly on your lips. 

    The only thing you remembered before this was a rag being pressed to your mouth and nose. One with a strange odor.

    You had read about scenarios like this in novels under your covers, meant to be saved for the motion pictures, with a perfectly matched, Hollywood starlet couple playing damsel and hero.

    Much more glamorous than your current situation.

    You were covered in sweat and, given the room's temperature & the fact that you were lying on the concrete floor, you were freezing. You didn't even risk opening your eyes, partially because you worried what would happen once whoever put you in this situation realized you were awake, partially because you hoped that this was all just a horrible nightmare.

    Unfortunately, as indicated by the sounds of voices faintly coming into focus, an arm yanking you up and the burlap sack getting ripped off your head, this nightmare was real.

Chapter Text

SOMEWHERE IN THE NEW MEXICO DESERT - DECEMBER 16TH, 1971, ??? PM

    It's a simple job, really.

    Since his employ under Mann Co. began, The Spy didn't make a habit of taking offers for outside work, especially jobs without a lot of details. Still, with the stalemate in tact, he wouldn't sniff at a little cash on the side.

    For the first time in 50 years, snow fell on the Jornado del Muerto. Cold fronts weren't unexpected, but it had never gotten so bad that Sentries were freezing over. Pyro's weapons were basically unusable. Mann Co., for once acting sensibly, decided to put the ceaseless turf war on hold until the Winter passed. 

    It was the first time the men truly had downtime. The Frenchman driving the powder blue Pantera had gotten sick of it. One can only entertain themselves with old articles and cigars in the smoking room for so long. He needed a distraction.

    So he found a simple job. And if the woman tied up in the trunk was any indication, it was going rather well.

    All he had to do was seek out an...asset. Not quite a mark, but a piece of leverage for his client. Why? He couldn't say. In this particular instance, the less questions, the better. 

    He simply staked out the young woman he was tasked to find, walking by herself on her way home. Child's play. He didn't even need to get his hands dirty; one chloroformed rag later, and she gracefully fell into his arms. The extra restraints may have been excessive, but one can never be too careful.

    All the job entailed was delivering the asset to the client, alive. Simple, quick, clean and easy. Mann Co. and the other mercs would be none the wiser.

    He finally happened upon his destination: an old warehouse unoccupied by anyone, save for any residual ghosts and whoever arrived earlier in the cars out front.

    The suited gentleman got out of the driver's seat and made his way around the the trunk, popping it open & surveying the girl inside. She must have been asleep the whole time, which he figured was for the better. She almost looked peaceful.

    Getting attached to the mark was never a great idea. But he figured he could do her the simple courtesy of being humane. She'd be traumatized enough when this is all over, it couldn't hurt to try and mitigate it some. He is a gentleman, after all.

    He carefully maneuvered her neck, sack over her head tied just tight enough that it still wouldn't choke her, sitting her into an upright position, her head lolling onto his shoulder. Cute. He scooped up her legs & torso and closed the trunk with his extended elbow, all with the grace and dexterity of a newlywed taking their bride home. He chuckled at the irony of it all.

    Making his way into the complex, he thought perhaps it was be prudent to use his Cloaking device. However, those who were in there knew he was coming, and he figured (hoped) there wouldn't be any surprises. 

    Slowly but surely, he found the room he was looking for.

    Three men in suits stood upright with their backs to him, parallel to, what looked to be, a man & a woman, tied in a similar fashion to the girl in his arms, propped on their knees and rattling off a series of confused pleas. Two of the men were in black suits, well-fitted for their large frames; slightly bulkier than the Spy (although he wasn't anything to sneeze at), but around his towering height. However, theirs clearly weren't as immaculately tailored as the man in the middle's. Donning a white suit, crisp and blinding, standing with a cigar in one hand and the other in his pocket, likely where his pistol was, it was the kind of look that screamed, "I'll be more emotionally burdened by you getting blood on my suit than me putting a bullet in your head." 

    Spy knew his type. On a surface level, the don may not seem too dissimilar to himself. But he knew the differences. There was no class to the mafioso's presentation, no flair, just money to create enough of a farce of it. All the same, his opinions weren't what the job was about, so he bit his tongue. 

    He laid down the body of the girl on the floor, delicately, so as not to alert the men to his presence. He wouldn't admit to himself that he did, on some level, want to be gentle with her. She had no idea what she had been dragged into.

    Once stood back upright with the girl's unconscious form at his feet, he cleared his throat and let his quiet introduction echo off the walls.

    "Gentlemen."

    The three suited men turned around, White Suit speaking up first. "Took ya long enough. Is she alive? Precious cargo not get too banged up on the way?" he said with a lecherous chuckle.

    "The effects of the chloroform should be wearing off prochainement," Spy replied in his unmistakable Français dialect. "She'll be awake soon enough."

    "Alright then, let's get this over with. You two, listen up," his voice boomed as he removed the sacks from the head of the two on their knees, "I'm gonna keep this short and sweet. All I want is what I'm owed, understand?"

    The man piped up first, albeit dazedly, "Wuh...what are you..."

    He was rewarded with a backhand. "Don't play dumb with me. C'mon, use whatever ya got between your ears: my guys and I are part of an organization. That organization gives out advances to folks who need 'em. You met up with a friend of ours and took out a loan from us 3 months ago, correct?"

    Through her fog, realization plastered itself across the woman's face, "...Lawson Lenders? That company Jonathan works for?"

    "So ya do remember!" White Suit patronizingly replied, "Aw, she's a real keeper, Terry, it's hard to hold down the smart ones."

    The man, trying to fight his daze, replied, "How do you...how do you know my name? Who are you?"

    "Me? Just the guy ya owe money to. Nothin' more, nothin' less. But, as you can see," he joked as he turned his empty pocket inside out, "we haven't received our payment. Ya mind explainin' why that is, Terry?"

    "I...I was going to pay it off. But the interest kept compounding...I did some things I'm not proud of, trying to get the amount to come down...I was so close to paying it off, I swear!"

    "Mmmh, see, I want to believe that, Terrence, I really do. Unfortunately, Johnny-boy is a bit of a blabber mouth. He let me know, after that last botched job...y'know the one in Reno?"

    "Terry...You told me that was a business trip..." the women said solemnly.

    "It was...of a sort."

    "Tch, ya shouldn't lie to such a pretty lady," White Suit said with a mocking pout, "Although, after that robbery went so sideways you could roll a marble on it, I might keep that to myself, too. Anyways, John told me ya thought about takin' what money ya had and fleein' with your family up across the Canadian border. That sound about right, Terrence?"

    The man on the ground took a deep breath before admitting, "...Yes."

    "Oh god," his presumed wife exasperatedly said under her breath.

    "Unfortunately, my boy, ya may be leaving one member short," White Suit said as he yanked the arm of the girl up and ripped the burlap off her head. "Unless ya wanna lug your daughter's corpse across the border." He whipped the pistol out of his other pocket and pressed it in the back of her skull.

    "OH GOD, PLEASE NO!"

    "NO, STOP, PLEASE, I'LL DO ANYTHING!"

    The girl was still stirring to consciousness as the married couple pleaded for her life, "Whe...Where am I? What's going...on?"

    White Suit tapped the gun on the side of her head, "Catch up, sweetheart. That," he said as he took her chin, facing it towards the barrel, "is a gun. You are being held for ransom. As leverage. Your dear old daddy's gotta pay up, or you're about to have a nasty headache."

    The girl's pupils dilated, eyes transfixed on the barrel. From behind her, the Spy could see her expression, still trying to parse exactly what was going on. 

    Terry begged, "Please, whoever you are, whatever you want, I'll do anything, just don't hurt dolly, please!"
    
    "Sweetie, don't worry," the wife imparted, "we'll get you out of this, everything will be okay."

    "Don't write checks ya can't cash, Linda," White Suit interjected, the woman, presumably named Linda, reacting with equal shock that this man also knew her name. "Whatever I want, huh? I can think of a few things. But I think I've got a compromise that'll be to your likin'. And let's not forget what's on the line before ya agree to this...or don't," he said, gesturing to the gun in the young woman's face. "You, Terry, will be under my direct employ until your debts are paid off. Whatever I ask, ya do it. And I mean, whatever I ask. Need a coffee, ya fetch it. Need someone killed, ya do it. Capisce?"

    "I...I..."

    "Oh, and you're gonna be under our 'care' for the time bein'. You'll never be out of his," he said referring to the Spy, "sight. Sorry, Linda, apologies if it gets a little lonely while he's gone."

    The couple looked at each other, then at the young woman in front of them

    "I...I'll do it..."

    "No! Terry, please, there has to be some other way," Linda tried to reason, to no avail.

    "Wait." The voice of the young woman rang out, silencing the other two. Her face still turned to the side, Spy noticed a change in her facial expression. For once, he couldn't quite glean the meaning of the look on her face. Nor could he have guessed what she would say next.

    "...Take me instead."

    Everyone in the room stood shocked, until White Suit chimed in. "What was that ya said, young lady?"

    "...I said...take me instead."

    He seemed frighteningly intrigued. "Care to elaborate?"

    She took a deep breath, gathered her thoughts and slowly spoke. "...You referred to me as leverage...right? Let him go home, and keep me as leverage. He doesn't want any harm to come to me, so...he'll do exactly what you ask."

    "DOLLY, NO!"

    "SWEETIE, DON'T DO THIS."
    
    "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING!"

    "PLEASE, SWEETHEART!"

    White Suit had a toothy grin on his face, getting way too much satisfaction out of seeing the pleading of two desperate parents. "Interestin'. Little lady, I'm in the business of makin' deals, and I know, for certain, nobody makes a deal this shit unless they got somethin' worth bargainin' for. So...what's that for you?"

   "...If he works for you...there's no guarantee for his safety...or his life. If I go in his place, you'd have no choice but to keep me alive, right? ...For 'leverage?'" She said it all so matter-of-fact-ly. Even throwing in a snide comment under her breath: "Not very good leverage if the hostage is dead, right?"

    Spy felt a strange twisting in his stomach at White Suit's smug expression. More than that, he couldn't believe what he was hearing out of this girl's mouth. Was she seriously trying to barter with a man that had a gun in her face? Let alone a mafia don? Either she had guts, nothing to live for, or the chloroform not fully out of her system. Did she even understand what it might entail, being a hostage to the mob? She'd be lucky if she made it out alive, let alone ever saw her family again.

    Unfortunately, White Suit was all too fond of the prospect.

    "Sounds like a deal. Pleasure doing business with ya, Miss." He pocketed the pistol and alerted his two bodyguards. "Get them outta here."

    The couple began screaming "No"s and "Please"s, mixed with Terry tearfully imparting, "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," before the two were chloroformed and picked up to be carried out.

    "Get 'em back to their house. Make sure no one knows you were there. And put one of our guys on watch to make Terrence doesn't skimp out on us again."

    The two men carried the couple out while the girl stayed knelt. The Spy led the two men out of the room, turning around and seeing the young lady's front for the first time.

    She was beautiful. Even after the turmoil she had just undertaken, she was particularly striking. The few windows to the room let in the only light in the room, the moon's glow bathing the dingy warehouse floors. The way they framed her form, caught the subtle lines around her face, bouncing off her jaw and collarbones, the image almost resembled a tragic Baroque painting. 

    Her face was frozen in a state of numb horror. She couldn't utter any words after her bargain, and all she could do was stare into the middle distance, the gravity of what she had done slowly dawning on her. The thought crossed the Spy's mind; she didn't even get to say goodbye.

    And this is exactly why, his priorities chiming in, you don't get attached to the mark.

    Fortunately for his nagging conscience, White Suit interrupted his train of thought. "You'll forgive us, Miss, but you're not supposed to know what locations you're being taken to and from. Besides, a nice little nap should do ya some good. You," he commanded, snapping to instruct the Spy to sedate the girl. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, or inform the brute that he was not a dog to be ordered around. He still hadn't received the payout.

    He approached the young lady, her not even flinching as he knelt down and covered her mouth with the now-familiar rag. She faded to unconsciousness and slumped into the Spy's chest, the action making the gentleman instinctively put a hand on the small of her back, as if to comfort her. The image was so quaint; it felt like a crude joke.

    "Finish her off."

    The Spy was broken out of his trance by White Suit's barking order. "Pardon? I thought she was supposed to be leverage?"

    "You're not serious, are ya? Terrence is never gonna pay off that debt. They never do. How else do ya think I get my labor?"

    Of course. Why on Earth would someone like him make a deal in earnest?

    "And a guy like me, I don't like any loose ends. The girl will be just another dead weight."

    The Frenchman forgot to conceal his reaction to that sentiment, clearly not taking kindly to it.

    "Aw, don't tell me you're gettin' soft on me, are ya? Over some arm candy?"

    Spy had to think, and fast. He wasn't sure why, he just had to.

    "Non, Monsieur." he deflected as he laid the girl down on the ground, "Just wondering if this is the best place to get the job done. Anywhere with walls and floors will show...evidence, so to speak. Hard to get a stain out of concrete, oui? Blood can be cleaned with bleach, but we don't have any on hand..." he trailed off, trying to move White Suit in the right direction.

    "Alright, well ya got miles of desert around ya. I'm sure no man's land is the perfect place for getting your hands dirty."

    Spy grinned, satisfied that the brute played right into his hands. "Excellent suggestion, mon ami. I'll make quick work of it."

    In what couldn't have been more opportune timing, the don's watch went off. "Agh, I'm late for a meeting. I gotta be off, but I trust this," he pulled out a wad of cash, "will be enough incentive."

    Ever the gentleman, he replied, "It would be my pleasure," as he tucked the cash in his suit pocket.

    White Suit turned heel and left for the door, "Don't spend it all at once. You two have a fun evenin'." The tawdry joke hung in the air as he shut the door behind him.

    The Spy sighed, losing the calm demeanor and surveying both the scene in front of him, as well as his options. 

    It's so simple. She's a mark. Execute the mark. It's not any different than his jobs before. So why was he struggling with this one?

    Her words rang in his ears. She didn't have to do that, to sacrifice herself. To know she'd have done that in vain, only to be gunned down in the middle of nowhere by his hand...Much as he didn't want to admit it, it weighed on him.

    "What am I going to do with you, mademoiselle?"

    As he stood over her form, the Baroque painting bathed two opposing figures in its clashing light.

    He made up his mind.

    It'll be simple.

    Just don't get attached to the mark.

Chapter Text

??? - ???, ??? PM

    You woke up with a blinding headache.

    Then again, maybe it was the sunset that was blinding you.

    You saw it slowly peer in from the backs of your eyelids, beginning to make out the shape of it outside the car window.

    Car...window...?

    Where were you, exactly?

    Last you remember...oh. Right.

    However, you didn't quite know what going in his place would entail. You thought you'd be waking up in whatever the mob equivalent of a dungeon is. Instead, you were in the plush passenger seat of a stranger's car, with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You weren't even tied up anymore. You watched as snow fell on the dirt and sand that stretched for miles, wondering how far you must be from home.

    Your neck still felt a bit sore from what had previously transpired, but you made the effort to turn your head to see who was in the driver's seat.

    Your captor. That man in the blue suit and the ski mask.

    You should be infuriated at him, scratching his eyes out, wrestling the wheel out of his grip. But you didn't even feel animosity towards him in this moment. All you felt was confusion. 

    "Where am I?"

    The man in the blue suit only slightly reacted to the realization that you were awake, never taking his eyes off the road. "For your own sake, the less you know the better."

    Is that a French accent you detect? What was he doing all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere?

    You huffed and leaned back into the seat. The blanket did give you some comfort, and you tugged it further shut around your body. But you were confused as to why he even gave it to you.

    "I carry a few of those in the trunk, just in case I need some cushion for any valuables," he responded to your action. Can this man read minds too?! "I saw you shivering as we left; especially with the snow coming in, you may catch your death if you don't stay warm."

    "Why would you care?"

    "Because, as of today, you are under my watch. I would assume you would like to stay alive, oui?"

    "...I'm just...confused, I guess. I thought I was being held hostage by...that man—"

    "I told you, mademoiselle, the less you know the better."

    He so briskly cut you off. The pieces were starting to come together. If you weren't supposed to know where you were going, why would he have let you wake up when you hadn't reached your destination? Why was he letting you sit in the passenger's seat, instead of in the trunk like you suspect you were initially held in? Why did this not look at all like where a loan shark's headquarters would be?

    "Did you...kidnap me?"

    The driver chuckled. "Bit of a garish way to put it. The brute who put a .22 to your head was the one who orchestrated your initial kidnapping, and I removed you from him. You could say I kidnapped you from the kidnappers."

    "...Why? This doesn't make any sense—"

    "And I would suggest you stop trying to make sense of it. It won't do you any good."

    "But—"

    "You're only task, from now on, is to stay alive. That is all. Me comprenez-vous?"

    For the first time, he met your gaze. He had greyish blue eyes that were an enigma unto themself. You get the impression that this man had walls upon walls of defenses up to keep people from gauging his true emotions. His strong jaw seemed slightly clenched, and you guessed he may be annoyed at your badgering, so you thought to let it go.

    His gaze softened some at your defeated expression, and he toned back the severity. "My apologies. You must be exhausted after the events of the day. Feel free to sleep, we are still a way's out from our destination," he said as he faced once more towards the road.

    What other options did you have? You returned your gaze to the endless desert outside, and let the lull of the drive relax you to sleep.

    When you finally awoke, night had fallen. You were outside of a building, but trying to make out the sign in the dark proved futile. The most you could garner was a large blue B.

    The passenger door opened, and your mysterious masked driver used his hands to guide you to standing, avoiding hitting your head on the car roof. You were a bit wobbly as you stood, but his arms kept you from falling. It made you wonder how strong he actually was; his suit didn't give much of his frame away, other than that he dwarfed you in height. The kind of strength that could be hiding, how easily he could take someone out if needed, including you...it sent a chill down your spine.

    "The rest of the men should be asleep, but do your best to remain quiet. I will alert them to your presence, but it would be best if we don't make a scene."

    You nodded in agreement, grabbing his arm both for leverage and protection. You noticed he may have been a bit taken aback by this, pausing for a moment before placing a reassuring hand over yours, ghosting over your knuckles lightly with his thumb. You didn't dare ask what men he was referring to, but you got the feeling it was not the mobsters you were expecting. And you being caught off guard last time led you to this mess in the first place. If the paranoia was starting to seep in, you figured this wasn't necessarily an inopportune time.

    You followed him as he led you into the building, through its hallways and towards, what you assume, was some kind of common room/kitchen. At least, the smell indicated as much. Though you could probably stand to eat something, you didn't think you could stomach it. Although, it did puzzle you. The smell was that of food that had been cooked recently, which wouldn't make sense if the people who lived in this building were asleep.

    As you began to approach the room, you heard raucous voices, and you started to make out figures in the dim light.

    A group of eight men, donning similar blue shades to your companion, were standing around shooting the breeze, finishing, what looked to be, something barbecued. You were still a bit delirious given...well, everything, but you could swear you were hearing a Texan accent, something East-coast-adjacent, some you assumed were European and...was that Australian? Where does an organization find such a collection of characters? And how was your captor associated with all of them?

    The two of you were about to pass the room, quietly making your escape, when you heard a...Scottish(?)...(You think?)...accent bellow out towards your bodyguard.

    "Ah, there ya are, lad! Everyone was wondering where ye had dawdled off...to..."

    A man with a beanie and an eye patch made his way towards you two, his introduction trailing off as he noticed you in tow. Even if he hadn't had a whiskey in his fist, the smell would carry for miles. Still, it wasn't all together unpleasant, reminding you of home some. You weren't sure what he what he was trying to parse on your face. He looked friendly. Any other time, under any other circumstances, you may have found it fun to sit down and have a drink with him, but all you could do right now was stare like a deer in headlights.

    You noticed behind him, that the other men also quieted down, putting down their various cutlery to come closer to you, presumably to confirm you weren't a wandering spirit. Your legs reacted before the thought of danger crossed your mind, immediately dodging to hide behind the suited man who brought you here. You weren't sure if that would do much to protect you—you didn't even know the man—but the action was enough to make the others stop their movements. Had you appeared that obviously startled?

    "Care to explain anythin', mate?" the Australian accent chimed in. You placed it as coming from the left side of the room, where a man with aviators was leaning against the kitchen counter, the only one who hadn't moved from their spot. Who on Earth would wear those things at night, in a dimly lit kitchen? More importantly, what was with that tone? You didn't know if psychoanalysis would help you right now, but the residual paranoia made it impossible to avoid; he said it in a way that implied frustration, but not shock, like this is a routine problem for your cohort. What kind of man had dragged you here?

    "In due time, mes amis," your companion quickly deflected, "For now, my friend has had a bit of a long day, and I'm sure she would prefer some rest an opposed to an interrogation. If you'll excuse us."

    All you could do was silently stare at the floor, nonverbally apologizing for an inarguably terrible first impression. He scooped your other arm up in his opposing one, keeping his body in between you and the strangers. You had to trust, for now, that he'd keep you safe.

    After what felt like an eternity, you made your way to a hallway of innocuous doors. The man quickly explained, "We have one spare room; not too many accommodations, but if it helps, I think this bed is slightly more comfortable than our standard issued ones. It's right across from mine, so I'm not too far away if you are in need of anything."

    He opened the door and showed you inside. Certainly, the room wasn't retrofitted with comfort in mind, barren and almost militaristic, but you could hardly complain right now. The fact that you had a bed to sleep in was probably nothing short of a miracle. You followed him in, but could do nothing except for freeze at the side of the bed. You tried your hardest to not resign yourself to despondency, but your brain wanted so badly to run from the trauma, bury it, and save you from fully seating into the realization.

    "Each room has amenities, like a shower and standard toiletries. I imagine you'll want to wash les peches of the day off of you, so make use of as much water as you like. We tend to use this room as a spare closet, since it is almost never occupied, so feel free to borrow any clothes for the time being. You can find them in that dresser on the wall."

    You wished you could have conveyed that you understood. That you were thankful. That you implicitly knew this must be a massive favor he was doing for you, most likely at some risk to himself. But nothing came out of your mouth. Merely just the quiet, beleaguered breaths of someone desperately trying to hold their shit together.

    The blue suited man clearly took notice. He stopped his spiel long enough to move towards you, every sueded footstep crisp and loud in your ears, in a way you had never experienced sound before. You figured that was enough to infer that the room was probably insulated. Soundproof. Easy to hide anything suspicious. Like you.

    You saw his figure stride towards you, slowly take your hands in his, and just gently hold them, giving them a light squeeze of reassurance. He said nothing; you both knew there was nothing he could say to make this better, at least for the moment. Still, the simple gesture was appreciated, even if you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze. Through his hands, it felt like he wanted to pull away; not to shy from you, but to move them somewhere else, maybe to give your shoulder a reassuring pat or to rub your head to console you. He was hesitating. You could sense he didn't want to further addle you. You wondered if that was a new feeling for him.

    His gentle timbre interrupted your train of thought. "Any time you get hungry, help yourself to whatever you can find in the fridge. It's not much, but we all have base level cooking skills; fix something up if need be. I cannot force you to come out and eat, nor will I, but I would reiterate and implore what I told you earlier."

    Your only task. Stay alive.

    "I will try to make this as painless as I can, d'accord? I am serious; anything you need, I will try to accommodate. I know you have no reason to put your trust me, but I'll try my best to earn it all the same..." He trailed off, you uncertain what made him get distracted. "My apologies, mademoiselle," he said as he gently lifted your chin, "Not very gentlemanly of me, I never asked your name."

    You spit it out, a bit abruptly. Your faculties betrayed you; you didn't have the wherewithal to contemplate if it was a good idea to give him an honest answer or not. 

    Still, he repeated it back, nonplussed. "Lovely name. You may refer to me as the Spy, or Spy, if you wish."

    "...And I'm supposed to trust you?"

    It came out before you even had a chance to think on it. That may have cost you any favor you once had. Shit.

    But it was a fair query. This man, presumably, tracked you down for God knows how long, kidnapped you, fed you to the wolves, took you out of their grip, which probably put even more of a bounty on your head, and now he knows your name while having the audacity to give you nothing more than a title?

    A title that implies his mere occupation makes him an adept liar?

    Luckily, he merely laughed. "Touché. I wasn't trying to be humorous; for your sake, the less you know, the better."

    He made his way past you to the door, before leaving you with final request. "Try to get some sleep, si vous plait? Drink some water, try to relax. I'll leave you to your privacy. You'll get used to it here, je promets."

    And he was gone.

    You didn't know how long you stood bolted to the spot, unable to fathom your current circumstances.

    Soundproof. The room is soundproof. You didn't know why you kept reminding yourself of that, but it didn't stop running through your mind.

    You could hear your heart pounding.

    You were pretty sure you could hear your blood pumping inside your own ears.

    At some point, the panic set in as you slowly began to hear your own nervous system working.

    Get in the shower. You needed noise pollution, something, anything, to drown out what your body was trying to convey to you.

    Making your way into the restroom, you surveyed your options and found them actually pretty amenable. The only complaint one might have is a leaky pipe under the sink, but you considered the distracting noise a blessing.

    You stripped your filthy dress & undergarments off of you, happy to burn them if the option ever presented itself, and turned the water on. The dry aridness of the desert outside made the steam & soak a welcome change, and you began to scrub like you were attempting to sandpaper a layer of skin off. Whatever could be done to make today go away. You felt like everything that happened clung to you like a stench. You tried to relax as best you could, finding some shampoo and conditioner to cleanse with (hoping the men's products that were available were equitable to what you normally used). Still, you'd wash yourself with soap, stand under the water in silence for a minute, forget you had already washed, and do it again, stand idly, forget, rinse, wash, repeat. Eventually, more so out of exhaustion than feeling truly clean, you turned the water off, stepped out and dried off.

    You opened the cabinet to see if brushing your teeth would make you feel any better. To your surprise, you found an unopened tube of toothpaste and toothbrush still in their respective packaging. While brushing, you'd take handfuls of water and rinse, only to get distracted & drink some. Your throat burned, a combination of the various ills you went through mixed with the dust that had met your lungs on the drive up. Still unsatisfied, you wiped your mouth, turned off the sink and made your way to the dresser to see what clothes were available.

    It wasn't much. Mostly practical workwear, for a variety of different body & occupation types, some sentimental items you didn't feel comfortable borrowing, and...unicorn pajamas? That somehow made you feel even more puzzled. You settled on a black, long sleeve undershirt that fit you like a dress, and a pair of grey boxer shorts. As you pulled it over your head, you realized...it smelled like him. Spy. Whatever cologne he wore was pretty unmistakeable, you unintentionally taking a deep inhale as the collar came over your head to your neck. A bit sage-y, warm, masculine, comforting. You'd take whatever comfort you could get.

    With nothing else to distract yourself with, you went under the covers, turned the one stray lamp off and tried to close your eyes. However, every time you did, they'd begin to water. 

    No. 

    No.

    NO.

    You cannot do this right now.

    Because you know that, if you do, you may never stop.

    It hit you suddenly. You couldn't quite place it. Something bubbling under the surface. 

    Emotional bile.

    You didn't know if you had ever been allowed, or if you had ever allowed yourself, to feel so deeply what you were feeling.

    It was overwhelming.

    Your body somehow instinctively knew to process that you were somewhere no one could hear you. It wasn't about to let you fight it, or push it down, any longer. You couldn't. It was the first time you truly had to be alone with your own thoughts.
    
    You couldn't hold it in any longer.

    You screamed a wail of the damned.

    And while the room may have been soundproof, the door wasn't.

    Leaving you in ignorant bliss that the Spy, having not moved from his spot right outside your door, heard every one of your pained cries, your keening a bane to his soul.

Chapter Text

BLU BRICKING AND BOARD, aka THE BLU TEAM'S BASE - DECEMBER 17TH, 1971, 9:00 AM

    Spy, the next morning, filled the team in on what went down the previous day.

    Needless to say, they were pissed. For various reasons.

    Soldier and Medic, collectively, damn near ripped him a new one; they're not supposed to have any non-Mann Co. employees on the base, and bringing a civilian here not only puts her in danger, but could potentially put them all on the Mann Co.'s collective hit list. The Stuttgart native, in particular, reminded him what developing any sort of emotional attachment, however banal, means in their business: it's just another Achilles Heel, something to cap you with when you're most vulnerable.

    Hardhat, in his thick Texan drawl, chewed him out not only for violating the stalemate, a move that could have the Administrator wanting the entire team's heads on spikes, not only bringing one more mouth to feed, especially in this tundra when it's going to be eminently harder to order supplies, but spurred Sniper's echoed grievances about going in so blind. "Eh, I'm with Engie on this one. You never wanna do a job not knowin' what you're gettin' paid for," the Aussie quipped. Pyro was in full agreement, the mumbles carrying a thick air of "Tsk, tsk, tsk."

    Scout wanted to rub it in the spook's face that he had fucked up so bad (he never gets an opportunity like this), but he was silent, for once, deep in thought about the girl. I mean, sure, she was cute. Literally any other time, that would be all Scout was thinking about. But he couldn't shake the image of her out of his mind. She couldn't have been much younger than him. She looked so...haunted. The mercs may have been desensitized to the mindless violence of their everyday lives, but he sometimes forgot what getting thrown into that world looks like. After getting the gory details of what she'd been through, hearing what she put on the line, he kept thinking to himself, That poor kid.

    Demo was day drunk. But, y'know, a different kind than usual. Sad day drunk.

    The Russian, however, had a practical question. "The girl. Eaten today? Eaten yesterday?"

    "I told you, Monsieur Heavy," Spy replied, having a smoke and already sick of the tedious, repetitive lecturing, "I do not want to force her to do anything. She's likely under severe mental duress, the last thing she needs is to be ordered around like a prisoner."

    "She not your prisoner?"

    "No."

    "Can she leave?"

    "Non, but—"

    "Then she your prisoner, да?"

    "...It's this or her brains splattered on a cactus. I had few options."

    The weight of that did settle amongst the men. However stupid, it was a brave thing of her to do what she did, and there's a world where she'd never be paid back in kind.

    "...We can't bring her sandwich?" the Heavy questioned, breaking the silence.

    "Nah, unfortunately, Spy's right," the Engineer begrudgingly replied, "Shouldn't push anythin' on her till she's ready. Sweet little lady may feel sick to her stomach trying to swallow anythin' right now."

    The Medic, ever the realist, retorted, "Hunger will kick in eventually. Hopefully that'll be enough to bring her out of the stupor." The Spy had brought up her behavior during the previous night, trying to prepare the gentlemen not to be too abrasive, come on too strong or ask too many questions. "The trichloromethane wouldn't have stayed in her system long, but perhaps she ought to be examined for any residual symptoms."

    "When she's ready, gentlemen. When. She's. Ready."

    That forcefulness in the masked merc's voice was enough to get everybody else to drop it, for now. 

    They tried to go about their days, finding things to busy themselves with while work was still out of the question, but the topic kept coming up. Occasionally, one of the men would pass by the room they knew she was staying in, just out of curiosity, but hear nothing coming through the door, as if it was empty, as per usual. Engineer contemplated, that night, fixing a plate for her, something small, just to see if the smell could coax her out of her room, but figured that would be pushing it. Pyro kept the fireplace going all night, wondering if the warmth would help her out, only for the cold front coming from the window to eventually douse it.

    The only one who had any semblance of what she was getting up to was Spy, and even that wasn't through the most honorable of means. He'd turn on his Cloak, wait for the sounds of her finishing showering (the only thing she seemed to do), sneak in while she was in the restroom, post up on the wall and observe. He'd give her privacy to change, but she kept putting on the same set of clothes: his shirt and shorts. Other than that, the only thing she'd do is lie in the bed, even if she didn't sleep much. Sometimes she'd stare at the ceiling, sometimes she'd cry, sometimes she'd sit up on the side of the bed, like she was going to get up to do something, only to go effectively catatonic and slump onto the floor. He didn't love watching her like this, let alone in this state, but it was the only way for him to confirm that she wasn't a cadaver.

    It continued like this for about a week. 

    And Spy was getting antsy, unsure of how she's surviving this long without eating. He reasoned that she's, at most, drinking the water out of the sink or simply swallowing what little she does during her showers. One day, he decided to leave a note. Something simple. "Still here whenever you need. If you're feeling ill, take this with some water." Attached was an ibuprofen tablet taped to the piece of paper, slid under her door.

    A corner of it stuck out under the door frame into the hallway.

    And as any good Spy should know, anything can be used as a lockpick.

    That was the second mistake Spy had made that week.

    Later that same night, the mercenaries were in their usual spots, finishing up dinner, awkwardly not acknowledging the gargantuan elephant in the room. However, this pregnant silence was interrupted by voices coming from the hallway, coupled with the what sounded like a struggle. One voice that sounded familiar, and one the other eight mercs didn't recognize.

    Spy did.

    "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!"

    That was the last thing the men heard before the girl's form was tossed in front of them to the ground, clearly bruised and well beaten. The men stood up in shock, but not quick enough to come to her aide, as it seemed she was yanked by her arm and floating midair.

    The Cloak.

    Spy immediately whipped out his balisong, prepared to throw it where he knew the head had to be.

    Only to be greeted by a voice, not too dissimilar to his own.

    "I wouldn't do that. Not if you want to prevent your little friend from having her neck shredded to ribbons."

    A RED Spy revealed himself with his own butterfly knife at the girl's neck.

    She looked at the BLU Spy like he had four heads, absolutely stunned that the man she attempted to get away from was, in fact, not the same man that had saved her yesterday, just in a red version of his usual attire.

    All the men stood at attention, weapons at the ready.

    "I think you'll agree with me, gentlemen," the RED Spy continued to sneer, "that this stalemate is a bit stifling, non? You'll forgive me, I could not pass up a perfect opportunity to attempt a reconnaissance mission...But would you look at what precious loot I stumbled upon instead."

    "Touch a hair on her," the BLU Spy retorted, "and I'll rip every finger of yours off & use them as toothpicks."

    "Relax, casse-couille. I haven't done anything too painful...yet," the enemy Spy joked with a petrifying grin in her direction.

    "Fils de pute!"

    "Relaxez, I think we can come to a compromise, mon ami! All I ask is that you merely loan me your briefcase for the evening; I'll return it in the morning, your higher ups will be none the wiser. Your companion stays alive, and your superiors don't have to know about our little secret."

    Clearly, he would rat out both the briefcase getting stolen and the civilian on base, but the men were backed into a corner. The BLU Spy fixed his gaze on the young woman he had gotten into this mess, a silent apology crossing his face for being so careless, before once again seeing that look on her face.

    The one he couldn't understand if he tried.

    In mere seconds after their exchanging glances, she bit the assailant's hand. It immediately caught him off guard, ("Cinglée!") causing him to loosen his grip on the knife. She took the opportunity & grabbed it, turning around and ramming it in her attacker's throat. 

    Over.

    And over.

    And over again.

    As if to ensure, of all the assholes she had faced in the interim, at least this one wouldn't hurt her again.

    When she finally felt like he had enough, backing him into a wall with his blood splattering on her, she backed off, dropping the knife and stumbling trying to keep herself upright. The Spy left alive saw how badly she was struggling (physically, mentally, emotionally, take your pick) and, before she could give herself a concussion landing on the hard floor, caught her as she passed out.

    "Medic, she needs attention, immédiatement!"

    Everyone scrambled. All parties save for the Engineer, the Spy and the Medic quickly began sweeping the premises for any other intruders, while Medic ran to his infirmary to get anything necessary to help. Spy quickly carried her to her room, while the Engineer set up whatever devices he could on the inside that wouldn't freeze, so as to mitigate any other lowlifes who'd want to toy with them.

    This was going to be a long evening.

Chapter Text

    T h e   h a l l w a y.   T h e   o n e   w i t h   a l l   t h e   d o o r s.

    T h a t ' s   w h e r e   y o u   a r e.

    I t   s l o w l y   c a m e   i n t o   f o c u s.

    Y o u   w e r e   t r y i n g   t o   g e t   b a c k   t o   t h e   s a f e t y   o f   y o u r   r o o m.

    
    B u t   i t   f e l t   l i k e   t h e   h a l l w a y   s t r et c h e d   f o r    m i l e s.

    S l o w l y,   m o r e   t h i n g s   c a m e   i n t o   v i e w.

    A           r           m           s           .

    B l o o d i e d   a r m s,   s l i c e d   o f f   a n d   a t t a c h e d   t o   t h e   w a l l s   l i k e   p r i z e d   b u c k s.

    E a c h   o n e   h o l d i n g   a   c a n d l e,   t h e   w a x   c o l l e c t i n g   o v e r   t h e   g l o v e d   f i s t s   t h a t   h e l d   t h e m.

    A s   y o u   p a s s e d   e a c h   p a i r,   t h e y ' d   m o v e,   a s   i f   t o   i n v i t e   y o u   i n.

    T h e r e   w a s   n o w h e r e   e l s e   t o   g o.

    Y o u   h a d   t o   m o v e   f o r w a r d.

    Y o u   c o u l d   f e e l   t h e   w a l l s   c l o s i n g   i n,   a n d   l i k e   s o m e t h i n g   w a s   g a i n i n g   o n   y o u.

    B u t   y o u   c o u l d   n o t   r u n.

    M e r e l y   d r a g   y o u r   f e e t.

    T h e r e   h a d   t o   b e   s a f e t y   a t   t h e   e n d   o f   t h i s.   H a d   t o   b e.

    Y o u r   d e s p e r a t i o n   w a s   g r e e t e d   w i t h   a   b u t t e r f l y   k n i f e   c o m i n g   o u t   o f   t h e   d a r k.

    L a u n c h i n g   a t   y o u r   f a c e.

    T h e   l a s t   i m a g e   b u r n e d   i n t o   y o u r   m i n d   w a s   a   p a i r   o f   e y e s.

    I n   t h e   s h a p e   o f   t h a t   m a s k.

YOUR ROOM - DECEMBER 18TH, 1971, 12:01 AM 

    You woke up with a start. In pain. Again. This was becoming a pattern for you.

    However, unlike previously, you woke up surrounded.

    Eyes on all sides, you awoke to the men that you had met at the beginning of the week.

    You initially tried to scramble away, only for your residual injuries to halt your escape. You felt multiple pairs of hands trying to stop you, but not in a "hold you down" kind of way. More like someone trying to calm a dog barking at fireworks. 

    "Woah, easy there, tiger."

    "Calm yourself, Fräulein, don't try to jostle yourself too much or you'll make it worse. Deep breaths, bitte, come on, deep breaths." 
    
    Your eyes were quickly darting around, to the faces looking at you, to a needle in your arm, to someone else's arm to your left that was rubbing small circles on your shoulders, where the German tongue was coming from. A man with small glasses, jet black hair that gradually faded at its sides, in a button up, sweater vest and tie, was who the voice belonged to. You think you recognized him from the other day, though you're pretty sure he was in a lab coat. You looked to your bedside table, now occupied by a tray and various medical supplies, to over his shoulder where you were hooked up to a heart rate monitor, to over his other shoulder with what looked like an orange beam of light slowly flowing into you, then back to a needle in your arm, following it to the IV bag it was attached to. 

    They had a doctor here, too? 

    In any case, something about his tone eased you a bit. It's not like you could go anywhere, so all you could do was breath and try to calm yourself down. 

    On your other side was the former to the latter, sitting with one leg on the bed and the other dangling off the side to give you your space. The Southern drawl. Giving it voice was a bald man in overalls and a work shirt, goggles perched on his head revealing two small eyes that, nevertheless, looked kind. Was he the man in the hardhat on the other night? He gingerly coaxed you to sink back into the propped up pillow, with Spy on your left helping him soothe you. "There you go, easy now, sweet pea. Just relax and let the Doc take care of everythin'." Oh, that voice was like warm tea with honey. You could almost melt under it. "Attagirl, just keep breathin', like he said."

    The doctor returned to whatever he was doing to tend to your injuries, lifting your arm and occasionally checking on bruises and cuts. Your eyes slowly made their way to the Spy, looking eminently distraught. He had forgone his suit jacket, his dress shirt slightly unbuttoned under a pinstripe vest, sleeves rolled up similarly to the doctor's. However, he was quiet. You wondered if he registered the panic in your eyes.

    "Now, hold on, missy," the man in overalls chimed in again, as if sensing you were about to pounce on the Frenchman. As if you could, really. "This may be hard to understand right now, but that's not the man you downed in the hallway. The feller that came after you last night is not the feller who escorted you in when you first got here. Anybody you see in red, that's somebody else, someone you don't wanna mess with, understand?" You couldn't quite comprehend what he was insinuating, but red equals bad? Made sense, easy enough to remember. You shakily nodded. 

    "You took quite a beatin' back there. Did he do anythin' other than rough you up?" You shook your head, focusing on the middle distance, the one place where you didn't have to focus on the sets of eyes boring into you. "Well, that's at least a little bit of a relief. Hey," he said as he put his non-gloved hand on your cheek, coaxing your jaw to move to meet his gaze, "you got nothin' more to worry about, little lady. We've re-upped our security measures and let our higher ups know there was a break-in, so no more funny business where we're concerned." His thumb gently grazed over your skin, and your head relaxed more into the pillow. 

    "Where are my manners? Let me introduce myself," he continued, his hand leaving your cheek to confidently rest on his knee. "They call me the Engineer, but Engie's fine by me. And the rest of the boys...now this here is the Heavy Weapons guy, we just call him Heavy," he said, referring to the bulkiest of them to his right. You were pretty sure he was the one with the Russian accent. "That there is the Demoman or Demo for short." The Scot with the eyepatch. "That's Scout." The young one. He looked only a bit older than you. He waved at you. "That there's Soldier." He had a helmet and uniform that indicated as such. He saluted. "That's Sniper." The Aussie with the aviators (Why does he still have them on?), the farthest away from you at the foot of the bed. "This is Pyro." The one with the gas mask. Eerie. "And that there is our Medic." The doctor. Obviously. "And of course you already know Spy." Did these men seriously just go by their job titles? What kind of work do they even do? Knowing that at least a few of these professions potentially required being trained killers, you didn't want to hazard a guess.

    You gave a polite nod to each going down the line, then returned your gaze forward.

    "Listen, uh..." the Engineer...Engie? Engie continued, "Spy informed us of your situation. I don't want to come across as, uh, overbearin', I guess, just wanted to let you know who you're dealin' with here. Anythin' you need, you can come to any of us and we'll be happy to oblige. 'Specially lately, since work's dried up for us, we're free as pigeons in a shootin' range for the blind." You nod, silently. You didn't really know what to say. You couldn't recall a time in your life when this level of tending to was even offered. You figured there had to be a catch, or something, some other shoe that was going to drop. Engie awkwardly fidgeted, trying to get to the point. "I only say this 'cause, well—"

    "You haven't been eating, Miss," the Medic interjects bluntly, "It's no wonder you bruised so easily, in your weakened state. This IV can only satiate you for so long, you need something in your stomach."

    Engie, in full agreement, said, "We've got some leftovers from dinner; you like chicken noodle soup? I could even nix the noodles and just do the broth, if that helps. We can work up to somethin' more substantial later. That sound alright by you, ma'am?" 

    They sat there, waiting for your response. You would have given it but, at the moment, your body and mind was more occupied with trying to disappear into the ether.

    "Um...hello? You okay, little lady?"

    All this attention was overwhelming. You didn't really know what to do with it. Your whole life, you made a point of not needing help. You know that this care should feel reassuring. But your brain couldn't help but give you that nagging feeling: to be reduced to what you were now, it felt, on some level, mortifying. Not to mention, none of them seemed to even care that you just killed a man! What were you supposed to do with that information?! You're a killer, now. Hell, you remember the blood hitting your face, your neck, your cheek, your lip, but you couldn't taste it or see it in your field of vision. One of them had to have cleaned it off of you. Like it's nothing! Were they that unfazed?! Or were they simply trying to gaslight you into thinking nothing happened? Did they think that would save themselves from the same fate befalling them, at your hands? That's probably the real reason they were placating you so: they were worried that, at any second, you could go nuts, and they didn't want to be your next victim. Serves you right, you sorry sack of shit—

    "Your lip."

    Your self-flagellating train of though was interrupted by the Heavy, pointing at your face. You didn't dare look. You knew what he was referring to. He still made his way around Engie to stand next to you.

    "Your lip, девушка. It's quivering."

    Oh god, must we share with the class?

    "Tight jaw, knuckles white from gripping sheets in front of you, watery eyes...Doctor?"

    "I sense you're right, Herr Heavy." Medic lowered his voice, in a more gentle, if a bit awkward, tone, "Fräulein, you've suffered from more than one emotional ordeal this past week. That takes a mental toll, sure, but it can also manifest physically, made all the worse if you keep that tension in your body without an outlet."

    Heavy, from his admirable height, sunk down to his knee, his head still hovering over you at this angle. He moved his head to try and meet your gaze, lightly caressed your arm, and said, "Doctor is saying...It's okay to cry."

    What a pathetic fucking piece of shit you are.

    Engie's hand went over yours in a similarly comforting manner. "They're right, miss. It's okay."

    You really need the comfort of a bunch of strangers, doting on you like a helpless child, to distract you from the fact that you are worthless. Absolutely worthless.

    Medic silently moved your hair out of your face, lightly brushing against your waterline, you so desperately trying to will it dry.

    But you won't, will you? Because you're pathetic.

    Another hand you couldn't see gingerly brushed the bottom of your leg, trying to console you.

    Worthless.

    They were trying their hardest to let you know that you were safe here.

    Lower than dirt.

    Medic noticed the heart rate monitor spike, and feeling you start to hyperventilate, put a hand on your shoulder and stroked it gently.

    Expendable.

    You felt a gentle squeeze of your left hand. You finally looked up to be eye level with Spy. He had a grief-stricken expression, giving you a tender nod.

    You. Are. Fucking. Nothing.

    You lost it.

    You began to weep. You pulled your knees up under the sheets and bowed your head, attempting, in vain, to hide from the humiliation. It wasn't the screaming from before, much softer. But not any less pained. Every time you tried to breathe and calm down, more tears would pour. 

    The men around you were immediately trying to console you, and it only made the waterworks come harder. Whatever they normally did for work didn't entail such gentleness. Why did they think you were deserving of it? You certainly didn't.

    Heavy almost immediately started lightly stroking your head, tracing small circles with his thumb, massaging the back of your scalp. Engie began cooing in your ear ("Aw, honey, we've gotcha, it's alright. Shh, deep breaths, sweet pea, deep breaths."), occupying your shoulder and hand, held close to his chest. Medic was trying to get you to calm down, rubbing between your shoulder blades, trying to get the muscles to relax under his touch. Spy may have been reserved, but him holding your hand, his fingers intertwined in yours, thumb rubbing over your skin, it felt like he was comforting you for every ill the world had wrought upon you.

    You couldn't see the others behind your poor attempt at shielding your breakdown, but you reduced a group of grown men, with seemingly quite violent occupations, to worried sick caretakers, solemnly watching you fall apart. The Demo's hand continued softly rubbing your leg, tearing up himself. Scout didn't really know what to do, other just mutter, "I'm so sorry, kid, I'm so sorry," under his breath. Sniper, though not touching you directly, merely leaned over and put the weight of his hand on the end of the bed, letting you know he was still here for you. Pyro was fully weeping with you behind his mask. Even Soldier took off his helmet, holding it over his heart in solidarity.

    It remained like this for a few minutes, trying your hardest to get out of it. The best you could muster was your tearful display being reduced to you shakily whimpering. Medic and Engie kept trying to help you focus on slowing down your breathing, which at least may have kept a panic attack at bay. Finally, Sniper, of all the surrounding parties, spoke up. "Why don't we give the little sheila some space, hm? Let her calm down a bit?"

    "That's probably for the best. Genosse," the Medic replied, following by referring to the Engineer, "would you mind bringing some food? We'll see if she can keep anything down in a few minutes."

    "On it. Don't go anywhere, missy, I'll be right back," he said as he scurried off with a reassuring smile.

    The other men, save for Heavy and Medic, made their way out of the room, a series of "Hope you feel better, miss," and "Try to get some sleep, okay?"s rattling off from them as they made their exit. All except Spy, looking confused as to if that referred to him as well. Medic gave him a stern look and, though he was annoyed, the Spy followed his order, gave your hand one last squeeze, and followed the others out of the room. 

    Left with only your clinician and a giant teddy bear, Medic continued to tend to your wounds, changing something about your IV bag (presumably adding a sedative) while Heavy pulled you into his arms in silent hug, making you feel the bed dip as he sat next to you. Against all logic, you leaned into it. You weren't sure why, but something about his presence read like this wasn't new territory for him, like he was used to holding someone in his arms until all their anxieties had washed away.

    When Engie eventually returned, broth in hand, he took his previous spot as Heavy left to give you some breathing room, wishing you a peaceful night. You couldn't even argue as Engie fed you the soup, you still avoiding eye contact. Much as it tasted pretty good, your throat still burned, and was still getting used to being in contact with anything other than faucet water. The bowl eventually emptied, Engineer gave one last comforting grip on your shoulder and made his way out. "I'm on supper duty once a week, so if you smell anythin' ya like, feel free to swing by, alright?" You tepidly nodded, trying to give something resembling a smile, and with that, he was gone. 

    All that was left was you and the good doctor, his eyes keeping uninterrupted watch of your heart rate monitor. You presume he was done treating anything that needed stitches, and by some miracle it seemed as though your bruises were starting to heal already. He must have noticed your inquisitive look about it, and attributed it to something called a "medigun"...that orange beam of light. You didn't have it in you to question it.

    In fact, in light of everything that had transpired, you were well and truly exhausted. But...

    "You are fighting sleep." The Medic's attentive; he doesn't miss a thing. "Should I assume you haven't slept much the previous week?" You nodded dejectedly. "Given the night terror you woke out of, I can see why. If you'd like, I can add something to this," he flicks the IV bag, "concoction that will keep you down and undisturbed. Boring, dreamless sleep." You had to admit that sounded like a godsend right now. You nodded again, this time more enthusiastically. "Wunderbar. Just a moment..." he made quick work of fiddling with your medicine, and by the time he was done, you already started to feel the effects. You slumped down so you were more comfortable, but your eyes still instinctively did not want to close.

    "If it helps," he chimed in, "I'll stay until you're well and truly under, hm?" One last sleepy nod was all you could manage. "That's it, Fräulein, just relax," he whispered as he took your hand. He had a faint smile on his lips.

    It was enough reassurance that you, finally, got something close to a full night's sleep.

Chapter Text

THE GIRL'S ROOM, THE BLU TEAM'S BASE - DECEMBER 18TH, 1971, 5:34 AM

    The Medic had advised against it, but Spy insisted he watch over her that night. He didn't need much sleep to begin with, so he didn't mind taking a night shift. 

    Plus, he had a nagging feeling this night wouldn't be entirely uneventful.

    He brought a book, a glass of whisky, and sat in a chair near the nightstand light.

    Thankfully, the worst of the evening was simply the girl abruptly waking out of her peaceful slumber. Immediately, he dropped what he was doing, soothing her back down to the bed, trying to make sure she didn't fall into her earlier panic. "Shh shh, it's alright, cheri, you're safe. You're in bed, it's alright...Have another nightmare?" She shook her head. "I could ask Medic for another dose of the sleep aid, but I worry you may experience some other side effects," he observed her seemingly fall in and out of a stupor, "given how you're feeling, right now."

    Her head whipped back, forth and around, as if she was looking for something in the dark. "Might I ask," he questioned, "what did wake you, then?"

    She slowly turned her head to face him, and dazedly responded, "...Felt like...somebody was watching me."

    He chuckled. "I suppose that's an accurate assessment. But the person watching you is me, so you have nothing to worry about."

    She furrowed her brow as she squinted her eyes at him.

    Oh, right. C'est juste, he internally supposed. After the previous night, maybe his visage wouldn't be that comforting. Still, it's better that she's not left alone.

    An uncomfortable silence filled the room for a minute or two. Eventually, strangely enough, the girl broke it, with her muddled, drug-addled speech. "What are...what were you...reading?"

    "A novel."

    "...Very informative."

    After everything else, this is when she decides to be cheeky? The merc smirked to himself, wondering if the drugs left her without some of her faculties, without any filter. "It is in its original language. I assume you wouldn't be interested if you couldn't speak French."

    "Humor me."

    He had to admit, he did like when this snarky side to her popped out. Even if it was in such short bursts. He was trying to avoid mentioning that the novel he was reading had some...illicit content, not wanting to broach any inappropriate boundaries. But he figured, if she can't understand, there wouldn't be much harm done. All she had to go off of was the cover image: simply the name in black and red ink. Emmanuelle. Discreet enough.

    "Would you like me to read a passage?"

    "...Just didn't want to interrupt, I guess."

    That self-deprecating tone. It was a menial sentence, but after a week of hearing her cries, he couldn't help but feel the sting it carried with it.

    "Not at all. Perhaps it may help lull you back to slumber."

    He traced his thumb across the paper, trying to find where his place was before she woke. He found the paragraph and began to read aloud, softly.

    "Emmanuelle s’était abandonnée sans ouvrir les yeux au soin que l’on prenait d’elle. Sa rêverie, toutefois, n’avait rien perdu de son intensité ni de son urgence, au cours de ces mouvements. Sa main droite rampait maintenant le long de son ventre, très lentement, se retenant, finissant par atteindre e niveau du pubis, sous la couverture légère que sa progression faisait onduler. Mais, dans cette pénombre, qui pouvait la voir ? Du bout des doigts, elle explorait, creusait la soie souple de sa jupe, dont l’étroitesse s’opposait à ce que ses jambes s’entrouvrissent : elles tendaient l’étoffe dans leur effort pour s’écarter ; elles y réussirent suffisamment, enfin, pour que les doigts sentissent, à travers la minceur du tissu, le bouton de chair en érection qu’ils cherchaient et sur lequel ils pressèrent avec tendresse.

    Pendant quelques secondes, Emmanuelle laissa l’ovation de son corps s’apaiser. Elle essayait de retarder l’issue. Mais, bientôt, n’y tenant plus, elle commenca, avec une plainte étouffée, de donner à son médius l’impulsion minutieuse et douce qui devait amener l’orgasme. Presque aussitôt, la main de l’homme se posa sur la sienne."

    He watched, out of the corner of his vision, her eyes grow heavy. She still had that habit of fighting sleep that the Doctor had mentioned. Every time her head would dip, she'd attempt to force it back up to pay attention. 

    "La main de l’homme ne remuait pas. Elle n’était pas, pour autant, inactive. Par son simple poids, elle exerçait une pression sur le clitoris, sur lequel appuyait la main d’Emmanuelle. Rien d’autre ne se produisit pendant assez longtemps.

    Puis Emmanuelle perçut qu’une autre main soulevait la couverture et la rejetait, pour se saisir à l’aise d’un de ses genoux et en tâter les creux et les reliefs. Elle ne s’attarda d’ailleurs pas et remonta, d’un mouvement lent, le long de la cuisse, débordant bientôt l’ourlet du bas.

    Quand la main toucha sa peau nue, pour la première fois Emmanuelle eut un sursaut, et elle tenta d’échapper à l’envoûtement. Mais, en partie parce qu’elle ne savait pas exactement ce qu’elle voulait accomplir, en partie parce que les deux mains de l’homme lui semblaient trop fortes pour qu’elle eût la moindre chance d’échapper à leur prise, elle ne fit guère que soulever maladroitement le buste, rapprocher de son ventre, comme pour le protéger, la main qu’elle avait libre, et se tourner à demi sur le côté. Elle se rendait bien compte qu’il eût été aussi simple et plus efficace de serrer les jambes l’une contre l’autre, mais, sans qu’elle pût s’expliquer pourquoi, ce geste lui paraissait tout d’un coup si inconvenant et si risible qu’elle n’osait le faire et qu’elle finit tout bonnement par renoncer à dominer une situation qui la confondait, se laissant derechef gagner par la paralysie qu’elle n’était parvenue à surmonter que pour un court instant et de façon bien dérisoire.

    Comme si elles voulaient tirer pour l’édification d’Emmanuelle la leçon de cette vaine révolte, les mains de l’homme l’abandonnèrent d’un coup… Mais elle n’eut même pas le temps de se demander ce que signifiait ce soudain revirement, car, déjà, elles étaient de nouveau sur elle, cette fois au niveau de la taille, sûres, rapides, dégrafant le gros-grain de sa jupe, faisant glisser la fermeture Éclair; tirant l’étoffe sur les hanches, jusqu’aux genoux."

    The paragraphs began to pass, and she sank more into the pillow. Slowly, he watched as a delicate smile crept across her face.

    Something dawned on him.

    "Miss...do you understand French?"

    Through her closed eyes and sleepy stupor, she quietly muttered, 

    "Suffisamment."

    Clever little fox.

Chapter Text

YOUR ROOM - DECEMBER ???TH, 1971, ??? PM

    Baby steps, you told yourself. Baby steps.

    Slowly, Engie had gotten you back to eating, not too much so as to upset your stomach, but gradually increasing proteins or carbs to work your way up to meals. Granted, you never left your room to get them, but Engie didn't mind. Well, you didn't know that for sure, but you could assume as much. He'd leave a meal outside your door, the smell drawing you out of your stupor and bed to crack it just enough to slide the plate inside. You tried, unsuccessfully, to not vacuum the contents of whatever was on your plate, to obvious failure. It would be hard for anyone not to scarf Engie's cooking down; more of the wonderful chicken soup you had previously, breaded mac & cheese, chicken & rice casserole, and something you're not sure you'd ever had before (it was circular and pink, and you hadn't had much fish in your life, but the taste seemed vaguely...fish-esque?). Having found a notepad in the nightstand drawer, you thought to leave a note after any meal you ate to thank Engie for his efforts. Every time, he'd return a note with the next meal. "My pleasure, darlin'." "No worries, sweet pea." "Don't mention it, kiddo. Eat up!" Sometimes he'd even add a little smiley face. Like a kindergarten teacher. You figured if he had a problem with you not taking your meals outside your hovel, you wouldn't be getting such treatment.

    It had gone on like this for a few days. And in all honesty, you would have been content to keep this arrangement for as long as it could last. You didn't have much motivation to do much else, although you had graduated out of lethargy to a fatigue-ridden malaise, trying to make sense of your current circumstances from the corner of the bubble that was your world for the moment. It was hard to garner much without windows. You couldn't even really be sure how many days had passed.

    You weren't sure what compelled you to leave the night you did.

    You just had a hunch that you should.

    Rifling through that dresser of spare clothes, you donned a large polo shirt, with a cross surrounded by circles on each of its sleeves, a pair of brown pants and a pair of old sneakers. You couldn't parse if your mirrored reflection boded well for how presentable you looked, but it was better than the previous two weeks. At least now you didn't look quite as ghoulish.

    The door pried ever so slightly open, you gently pushing so as to not alert anybody to your decision to reveal yourself. Engie's cooking could be smelt from a mile away, so you followed where the smell went.

    As you moved around, slowly, you took in more of your surroundings. Several signs immediately caught your eye, namely something in large pastel lettering: "BLU BRICKING AND BOARD." You wished that gave you more of a a clue as to where you were staying, but you hadn't the foggiest idea of any company by that name. More things availed your reconnaissance, namely what appeared to be siren lights on the walls, a large sign with the word INTELLIGENCE plastered on it and the sterile, empty rooms & hallways of a line of work you never imagined you'd ever have to run amongst. Still, no piece of information hit you harder than, what you were certain was, a small pine tree sat on a desk in one of the many empty rooms, complimented by a small piece of garland at the desk's edge. It had to be close to Christmas.

    Given that you now recognized the smell of cocoa on the air, you surmised it must actually be day of.

    It got you choked up. Did it have to do with the fact that you had no clue it was Christmas? And if you hadn't decided, by random chance, to leave your room on this day you probably would have missed it? And that you'd be celebrating this holiday as a detainee in an unknown location amongst a group of potentially violent strangers? Maybe. 

    But if you were honest with yourself, you knew that pang in your chest could only be coming from what only you knew: despite whatever other extenuating circumstances surrounded it, this may be the first Christmas you celebrated in a long time. At least, one without shit getting thrown around.
    
    These strangers didn't know that.

    They didn't need to know.

    Wouldn't want to scare them off.

    You swallowed any residual feelings and closed in on the aromas you needed to see to prove this wasn't some elaborate dream. Gradually, you scooted your way into the kitchen...kitchenette, quiet enough that the surrounding men didn't even seem to notice your presence. 

    Engie, who you saw was without his hardhat and goggles, was attending to, what looked like, a very fancy version of pork in some circular fashion. You had only ever recognized such a spread from TV shows; to see it in real life almost had you drooling. Hovering over him was someone you assumed was trying to help, but seemed to just be a nuisance to whatever Engie's process was. Now, in better lighting, you could finally make out the features of some of the men you hadn't had as much contact with yet. The eye patch, the beanie...Demo, was it? Demo, you could now see, had darker, velvety skin, a bit glowy under the kitchen lighting, like satin sheets, garnished with a thick, black beard and an even thicker Scottish accent coming out of it. It only quieted once he realized you were unintentionally hovering over his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse at the food. You noticed his and Engie's gaze on you and darted your eyes downwards. 

    Engie merely chuckled. "Hard to beat home-cookin', I know. Here, I already had a plate fixed for ya, I bet it'll be nice to get it fresh and warm for a change," he said with a wink and a nudge, handing you a plate, decked with the pork in addition to a side of baked mac & cheese and green beans. You stared at the plate like someone had dropped gold bars in your hands. "You can park on that chair to the left of the coffee table, 's usually my spot, but make yourself comfy."

    "Could I get ya a drink for the night? A wee pint?" Demo asked before you made off. Engie looked like he was about to chide him for even asking, but you quickly responded, "Please...if you have a little one."

    Both men laughed, elated at your response. Demo whispered while tapping the side of his nose, "I'll bring it to your spot, make you a Snowball for dessert."

    "Not if I have any say in it," Engie shut him down, "I am not letting you near any more glassware after Thanksgiving."

    "IT WAS TWO BLOODY GLASSES. I JUST CHEERS-ED A LITTLE TOO HARD."

    "You're lucky we had at least a few bottles of Advocaat on hand instead of l'Écossais's usual swill." Spy made his presence known, though he was off to the side of the kitchen counter. Seemed he was sticking with wine.

    You wondered if he was there the entire time. If he noticed when you walked in. If he just decided not to comment on your presence. 

    Muttering your thank you's for the food and the eventual drink, you made your way out of the conversation. They were happy to continue chastising each other as if it was business as usual, and you were more than happy to fly under the radar & not draw much of their attention.

    The seat Engie pointed you to was a plush Egg that matched the blues that adorned various nooks and crannies of their appointments, albeit a more toned-down cobalt. You gingerly laid the tray of food down and sat down in it...or perhaps the proverbial word is "sunk" into it. Comfy as it was, you had to scoot to the edge to eat your food without spilling. And once your food reached your lips, you weren't about to waste one bite on a spill. The savory meat melted in your mouth, the vegetables and mac perfect, delicious accompaniment. You had to keep reminding yourself that your were in mixed company and this wouldn't be the place to start licking plates, that's how good it was. The aroma was absolutely intoxicating, you couldn't help but smile as it danced into your olfactories. You thought you must have resembled someone in one of those frozen minute-dinner commercials. 

    You didn't even perceive, right across from you, Pyro, just staring at you eating. Though once you did feel their gaze, you backed off the plate. It must have amused him, because they immediately started laughing once you stopped your wolfing, their mask not giving much of their face shape away but the voice ringing through all the same. It pulled a light chuckle out of you, too, and it dawned on you...must've been the first time you laughed in months.

    "девушка!" Russian...that would be Heavy. Heavy inserted himself into the laughing, taking a seat on the couch closest to your chair, making the other side lift up from the displacement. As you got more clarity on his features, it shocked you that this was the man so adept at comforting you that night. His stature was less the focus, more so that his stoic looking features and the boisterous laugh coming out of him didn't indicate someone who had a knack for comfort. He was laughing so hard that his pale cheeks and neck went bright red, and you could swear on his bald head, you could see a vein fit to burst.

    Not having much to reply to his outburst, you could merely attempt to dumbly repeat him. "De...Devushka?"

    "Oh, is term of endearing, for young lady like you! I call my sisters, 'девушка,' and they call me Sandwich Teddy!" He chortled at his own joke.

    So, he has sisters, you internally figured as you lightly laughed along with him. Makes sense, I guess.

    "You feeling better after getting appetite back? Heavy knows it's not good to live on an empty stomach."

    "Much better, thank you." You didn't know what much else to say to the lot of them, other than thank you's over and over, short responses that wouldn't suggest much about you. You weren't sure how much of yourself you needed to turn over to these, you naggingly reminded yourself, strangers.

    Still, he took your response kindly, a hand on his heart and a smile on his face. "We keep you safe here, мы обещаем. Now! We feast!"

    "Yeah, 'feast' is a lil' generous, but at least it's not Sniper's cookin'" The younger one...Scout, cut in, not donning the hat and earpiece you saw him in the first night, but still with those same dog tags around his lightly tanned neck. He sat at the other end of the couch and kicked his feet up on it. "Make some room, chucklehead."

    "What's the problem with my food? You wanna complain about it, why don't you pick up the slack?" Sniper—you remembered that one, the one with the Aussie accent—he sneered in Scout's direction, standing right over the chair you sat in. Under the common room light and with his hat off, you saw a bit more of his features from this angle; grizzled stubble and a strong clenched jaw, slightly sun burnt on his cheeks, though you weren't sure how given the snow outside. At least he finally had those stupid glasses off.

    "Look, I just thought you'd be able to get better game than a couple of desert rabbits."

    "They're hares."

    "And what would you know about hair with it runnin' from your forehead?"

    "Hmph, it'd be faster than your chicken legs, twitchy."

    "Genossen," the Medic interrupted their bickering as he sat next to Heavy, shooing Scout's feet away, "we can go one night without the senseless tittering, ja? I'm sure däs Mädchen could do without it."

    All the eyes in your vicinity went to you, and you looked down, awkwardly playing with your food, slumping into the Egg. Engie, ever your savior, ended the chatter. "Would y'all pipe down? Show's about to start," he said as he flipped the TV on, the static buzzing alive. He moved over to adjust the two antennae at the top, stopping when a simple voice line gave him the cue:

    "And now: A special program, in living color, on NBC."

    "Right on schedule!" bellowed the Soldier...hard to miss since, for some reason, he still had that helmet on, stiff and standing at attention, with his plate in hand. Like a patriotic nutcracker.

    As the special began, everybody settled in, no one invading your space, maintaining an air of normalcy. However, you noticed they all, to some degree, kept looking your direction. You weren't sure if it was to size you up or gauge your reactions, but you could feel the stares. Particularly, Sniper, Medic and Scout had been making eyes at your form. Not even necessarily in a leering way (although Scout was less stealthy about it, eyes going wide whenever you peeped that he was looking), but like they were studying something about you. You guessed that it must have been their spare clothes you pulled out of that dresser.

    Still, you tried to focus on the singing family on the television, singing Christmas carols in matching green. Demo brought over that drink he made you, switching it for your empty plate. You initially planned on just a small sip, figuring it would take the edge off and please him, but he must have noticed how shocked you were that it was delicious. It had a creamy texture and a lemon-limey zest, but it warmed your insides as it coated your tongue. "Not bad, eh?" Demo jested as he winked in your direction...blinked...? With the eye patch, you couldn't tell, but it had the air of a mischievous wink.

    The special continued on, occasionally with color commentary from your new roommates. 

    "Y'know, I know the joke is supposed to be that the kids aren't good singers, but is it that funny if we gotta listen to the struggle bus, too?"

    "D'aaaaw, is cute!"

    "They get them when ihre Stimmbänder haven't developed and their balls haven't dropped. Suppose die Amis find it charming."

    "Eh, maybe for a kiddie talent show, but on Crosby's? 'S like hearing cats goin' at it on squeaky, meltin', plastic roof."

    "To be honest, I much prefer that earlier special of his with Madame Burnett."

    "Yeah, she's hoot and a half."

    The conversation trailed off, and you weren't sure why, but something about its last sentiments lodged in your brain. Something about the comfort of the space, the inane but friendly bickering, the food, the drinks, the friends, the.....

    the friends...

    "Would you shut up? It's about to start!"

    "I don't know why you care about these corny ass specials anyway."

    "And yet, you're here any chance you get to watch 'em!"
    
    "Yeah, yeah, you're lucky I like you and you sneak better beer than I could find."

    "And now: A special program, in living color, on NBC."

    "At least they got Carol on this one."

    "Ooooh yeah, she savin' his old ass."

    "In more ways than one. I saw the way she was losin' her shit over him on her show. No way they aren't hookin' up."

    "She would NEVER."

    "Bet me and lose!"

    "Well, how can you prove it, dumbass?"

    "Ok, well, these film out in California, right?"

    "Oh my god, you're not sayin'—"

    "Ay, pass me the Chex mix."
    
    "Oh yeah, sure—You don't seriously mean...?"

    "I seriously do! We should all go to California one day, run away and see the sights. Face like mine, I could be in a motion picture the second I land."

    "You'd be lucky to get a street-walkin' gig."

    "Hey, doesn't everybody in La La Land start there, anyways?"

    "'S never gonna happen."

    "What, you don't think anybody'd pick me up? Don't act like I couldn't get a sugar daddy like THAT."

    "No, dumbass, I mean California. What kinda money would we have to do that?"

    "Money? All anybody ever says they have when they go out there is their bags packed, wheels up and a dream."

    "Mm hm, and do they mention the gas money, the rent money, the food money, the drug money when you realize how fucked you are cuz you ain't got no money—?"

    "Yeah, well, that'd beat however many more years of gettin' my shit kicked in."

    "Don't act like you're so special in that regard."

    "Eh, touché."

    "Ooh ooh ooh, we should do a—ah shit."

    "Pfft, having trouble gettin' up outta the chair or has the liquor already hit ya?"

    "We should do a cheers!"

    "Aw, adorable, like what, Wasted Wonder?"

    "To, uhhh, best friends forever?"

    "What are we, fuckin' five?"

    "But it's true!"

    "True, but not sexy."

    "To the naughty list!"

    "Hate that."

    "To California Dreamin'!"

    "Even worse."

    "Well, how about, 'To the dreamers,' then?"

    "It's...mmph."
    
    "Hey don't laugh at me!"

    "It's cute. Corny, but cute."

    "Alright, then. To the dreamers!"

    "To the dreamers!"

    "To the dreamers."
    
    "To the dreamers!"

    *clink*

    The screen's glow bathed your face, you rapt in attention, not even noticing as the surrounding conversation trailed off, the rest of the men silently watching you, rapt in the single tear falling down your cheek.

Chapter Text

THE BEDROOMS' HALLWAY, THE BLU TEAM'S BASE - DECEMBER 25TH, 1971, 10:01 PM

    He wondered if it were wise to walk the girl back to her room. The holiday festivities had been mostly painless, and he worried he'd just be added pressure. Unnecessary tension.

    Still, she was quite the conundrum. And honestly, who was he to pry? Given his job, how little he gave away, particularly to her, he needn't ask her what wouldn't be given back in kind. But something was eating at him. She clearly wasn't some defenseless waif, nor did she need to be, but he could sense that, for her own sake, she might need to bolster what abilities she had, what potential she could harness. Who knows what other scoundrel could be lurking in the shadows?

    "Spy?"

    Her quieted voice cut through his thoughts as he made his way down the hallway, her about to head into her room. "Oui, mademoiselle?"

    "Did you...did I...did I do anything weird? That night?"

    "...'Weird?'"

    "Like, after...everything else. ...I know you were in my room keeping watch, but the details are kinda fuzzy. I didn't say something, I guess, embarrassing, did I?"

    This was the most measured her temperament had been thus far, he assumed this wasn't a jest. However, he wondered if a gamble here would pay off. "Embarrassing, non. You merely...mumbled in your sleep. It wasn't decipherable, if that's any consolation. Nothing of note."

    She scoffed. "You always that bad of a liar?"

    Snake eyes.

    "I'd think that'd be bad for your job."

    The side of his mouth grinned and he stepped towards her, slightly amused at her retorts. A burgeoning feeling in his mind wished to pull this side out of her, the side that fought back. Fought back like she did that night. "If you must know, you woke in a drug-addled stupor. Nothing to note other than you asked to hear the novel I was reading, and you dozed off as I did so. And...you mentioned you understand a bit of Français."

    Even in the dark, he could see a glint of something in her eye. After years of studying people's tells, he could easily glean when he knew something the other wished he didn't. 

    "A bit," she nonchalantly offered.

    "Define, 'a bit.'"

    "You can have your secrets, can't I have my own?"

    That field trip out of her den must have been good for her; he couldn't get enough of her newfound snark. "Is it really that précieux of a secret? Why hide something as mundane as learning another language? Get you into trouble, somehow?" He closed in, instinctive, like second nature, his swagger all too familiar to any woman or man that had the pleasure of eventually bedding him; his eyes slightly hooded, looking down and all too confident in his charms.

    But upon the girl taking a step away, backing into her door, he stopped. If French was her second, body language was his third, and he knew to take a hint & back off. 

    "Sorry," she offered, trying to lessen the tension, "it's just a sore spot. For stupid reasons, but it is."

    He moved back towards his bedroom door across the way and replied, "No apologies necessary, nor explanation. I only ask because of mutual interest in the language. That, and I wanted to make sure I wasn't crossing any boundaries that night. The littérature I had on hand; I worried it may be inapproprié, given your position."

    "You didn't. You haven't...crossed any...um."

    "I get it."

    She sighed, and he hoped it genuinely alleviated something off her psyche.

    "If I'm allowed but one forward question..."

    She perked up, smirking, fine to play the game with a comfortable distance.

    "What exactly did you understand of it?"

    "I told you: enough. I got the gist."

    "...A bit?"

    She laughed under her breath, a genuine smile lifting her cheeks. He couldn't help himself but to reciprocate; he did quite like that smile. "A fair bit."

    "...Fair enough." He turned to away to his quarters for the evening. "Beaux rêves, mademoiselle."

    He closed the door behind him and made his decision. He didn't know where he'd leave it, but he would. If it wasn't found, no harm done.

    But if it was?

    Things were bound to get interesting.

Chapter Text

BLU BRICKING AND BOARD (?) - DECEMBER 26, 1971, ??? ?M

    A new day dawned. You decided to see it for yourself.

    You had some instinct that should know more about your surroundings. What level of information you'd be able to gather was up for debate, but anything was better than nothing. 

    A shower, a pair of boots, a short-sleeve, blue shirt and a pair of overalls later, you made your way out of the room. It had to still be early, given that you didn't hear any activity once you pried the door open. You walked through the halls, figuring the opposite direction of last night would have to lead to something new, by default. You tried to make your footsteps light to not disturb anybody, but these boots were, quite obviously, not made for your walking. You weren't sure who they could potentially belong to, just as the shirt could've belonged to anybody. However, you knew the overalls had to be the Engineer's. They matched his normal garb to a T, even if they fit him like a glove and conversely made you look like a teacher gave you clothes out of a Lost & Found. 

    As you made your way down the halls, a sparkle of something drew your focus: on a desk in one of the many empty offices, a glint caught your eye. You couldn't parse why exactly, but something in you screamed that it looked out of place. Everything else was too neat, untouched, a bit dusty even. Whatever that object was looked like it had been placed there recently. Letting your legs dictate your curiosity, you walked into the room and confirmed your suspicions: polished clean, sat askew of everything else on the desk, was a silver watch with a brown face, a myriad of buttons lining it. 

    Was it a smart idea to steal from these people? Probably not. But you wanted information, answers, anything. Something out of place had to have a mystery behind it, and even if that presented more questions, more questions necessitates more answers. You pocketed it in the overalls, tried to leave the room looking untouched and trudged forward through the halls.

    Enough walking finally led you the last place you'd expect: outside. You supposed "dawn," was close, but no cigar; it seemed to be much closer to sunset. The desert chill hit your arms as their hairs stood on end. Maybe not cold enough for breath clouds, but cold enough that your breath was the only thing warming your hands. Oddly, though, it felt good. The fresh air, or as fresh as desert air could get, gave you pause as you took in your new dwellings.

    It was...much larger than you could have imagined. Size-of-a-small-neighborhood larger. Gigantic structures, some of wood, metal & some you couldn't identify, a large water tower and, immediately in front of you, a small bridge over a water feature. Granted, it was currently frozen over, but the thin layer of ice had a split in it.

    From a baseball.

    ...?

    With a crack of a bat in earshot, you turned to see where it must have come from.

    From behind a chain-link fence, Scout was hitting baseballs from a machine sending them his direction, donning a loose hoodie with his usual hat and shorts. He was so focused on his swing that he didn't even seem to notice you watching him. He certainly did have a knack for home runs, although you had no clue how he'd recover any of the balls, as each one went flying into distances unknown. 

    You cautiously approached the fence, wondering if there was a way to tell him hello, but he beat you to the punch with an almost perfectly, comedically timed shriek.

    "Jesus H., kid, ya scared me!" He said, clutching his chest.

    "Sorry! I just...I wanted to see more of the place...I heard the bat swing and that...machine?"

    "Uh, oh yeah! Overalls suped that up for me, didn't have to ask him. Guess he figured I needed to keep this," he said as he tried to puff out his chest, "frame nice and in shape even under a stalemate." If he was trying to impress, it didn't register at all to you, focused on the land that lied beyond the chain-link fence, the metal buildings and what was, effectively, your prison. You knew there was no point dwelling on it, but you thought about if there was any way you could make a break for it, off into the sunset, should the need arise.

    You had attempted this once before in your life. 

    It did not end well.

    "You're uh..." Scout said, interrupting your train of thought, "You're welcome to join me over here if ya want. Just watch out for any oncomin'—"

    *zzzZWHOOOO*

    "AHGH!...balls."

    As he doubled over, quickly moving to turn the machine off, you opened the gate and moved to his side. The snow covered some of the desert dunes, but there was a perfect valley in between, flat enough to be even footing for a mock batting cage. 

    "You, uhh, ya ever play?"

    "Um, not really?"

    "Oh, you, ehem, uh..." He flipped the bat so the handle was facing you. "Ya wanna give it a go?"

    You eyed the handle, looking for the go-ahead from him to actually take it. 
    
    "I'll give ya some pointers."

    You honestly didn't know if he'd deliver on that (he didn't seem as world weary or experienced as the others), but it was a friendly offer. Who were you to scoff at it? You grabbed the bat and stood in the psuedo-batter's box.

    "Alright, show me your stance."

    Standing with your feet shoulder-width apart, you tried to mimic what you'd see any good Patriette or Yankee do on TV. 

    "Not bad! Just keep your, uh..." he hesitated, his hands about to touch yours to help adjust your grip. It did give you pause that he even considered it, that they all did; if the men sensed you weren't down to be touched, they backed off, and even if you didn't indicate it, they were always quite cautious. Were they always like that? Their behavior around each other didn't seem to indicate that. If it was really just you, why so? Sure, what happened that night would set a precedent, but they still seemed so unfazed by a man dying that the gentleness around you still felt suspicious. Even so, you gave him a slight nod, letting him know it was okay to touch you.

    "You gotta keep your hands, ehem, closer together; your grip should be at the bottom." He adjusted your hands accordingly. "Now, ya don't want your muscles too stiff, your grip down here needs to be tight and loose."

    ...

    He paused for a minute, eyes widening, an indication he caught the unintentional Freudian slip, flush filling his face. He even gulped. Like a cartoon.

    You chuckled. It was stupid, but a stupid you didn't mind. A familiar, home-y kind of stupid.

    His laugh followed yours, relaxing him some. "Hey, don't look at me! I didn't say nothin'!"

    "Really? 'Nothin'?'"

    "Yes! Nothin'," he echoed with a breezy smile. It's funny that, given the ways you had seen the other men butt heads with him, so far, he was actually easy to talk to. Maybe he was just better without the pressure of his coworkers. Then again, maybe they all had a dynamic you didn't understand yet.

    He moved around you, contorting your muscles. "Now, you wanna think about this like you're a pistol." However imperceptible, he caught you tensing up when he said the word, "pistol." It happened involuntarily, and you didn't even catch it yourself. But he noticed. "O-Or, or! Like a slingshot! Yeah, yeah, like the ones you'd use to shoot rocks into a teacher's car or some shit." The tension left you, replaced with confusion as you looked back at him. "I mean, I'm not a-accusin' you of doin' that, I'm just sayin'...somebody...anybody...could do that. Any person, not limited to the current general vicinity, could do that."

    If one could sarcastically nod, you did so. "Sure."

    You both laughed. It was easy to.

    "So, like I said, imagine you're pullin' back a slingshot; when you pull back to swing, you wanna imagine it tightenin'—here lift up your front foot while you do it." He playfully tapped your shoe with the side of his. "And you gotta do 'em at the same time, like they're all part of the same machine." As he continued to demonstrate, having you repeat the motion a few times, he kept one hand on your grip and the other in between your shoulder blades, light pushes indicating how to maneuver yourself. "So, as your arms go back, your foot lifts up, like you're pullin' the rubber back. And then you keep your eye on the targe—ball, ball, on the ball. You wait until it's comin' at you, and then, when you know you got a clear shot, w-when you can tell the ball and bat are gonna connect, you aim..." He brought your arms back, your foot lifting to follow suit, then had you swing "...and fire."

    As if to keep you from pondering how his metaphors started getting mixed, he immediately jested afterwards, "And then Fenway Park goes wild, 'WAAAAAH,' 'YEAAAH,'" mimicking fake crowd screams that pulled a giggle out of you. "See? Nothin' to it. Here, give it a shot."

    He backed up to the faux-pitch, pulling a baseball out of the machine. You tried doing the motions he taught you by yourself, then readied yourself, waiting for his throw...and you connected the bat to the ball.

    "WHOO! Nice hit, kid!" He geared up to send another your way, and you hit another, he'd throw another, and you'd hit another, over and over, a newly confident grin having an effect on your pitcher. You noticed he was revving up to send a fastball your way, and you prepared yourself, eyebrows furrowed & focused on its trajectory, ready to hit a home run. 

    However, when this one connected, it launched, boy did it launch, into a series of property damage that would've made Rube Goldberg blush, finally landing in a high tower and being followed by a pained yell.

    "SCOUT, YA BLEEDIN DELINQUENT, KEEP YOUR BALLS TO YOURSELF. I'M TRYIN' TO DO EVENIN' WATCH," Sniper bellowed from above, unseen but very heard. You had a hand over your mouth in shock and, you didn't want to admit, laughter, but Scout just looked back at you like he knew he had an ass-kicking in the future.

    "Now, I did not teach you that."

    You merely shrugged, trying not to cackle at the absurdity of how it all played out. You flipped the bat and handed it back to him. "Would, um, would you mind if just, hung out for a little bit? I won't be in your way or anything."

    "Oh, uh, no, uh-of course! Make yourself comfortable."

    You pushed yourself up on the brick wall behind him, watching him as he clicked the machine back on. You figured so as not to damage your stolen loot, you put the watch on your wrist so it wouldn't get crushed. As long as you were behind your coach, he probably wouldn't notice.

    Some time passed silently between the two of you, Scout occasionally looking back at you. You wondered if it was, as the connection made itself manifest in your brain, that it was his shirt you were wearing, or if more simply, he was trying to impress you, even if it meant his technique would falter from time to time. No matter; any foul ball that came your way, you threw back and he hit it somewhere unseen. Oddly, you could almost call it relaxing. 

    So relaxing that you laid down on the wall, letting your leg dangle, as a few snowflakes began to tickle your cheeks. This is kind of weather you'd catch your death in with the getup you had on, but you barely cared. You clutched your hand to your chest, the other going over it in an attempt to warm it. The chill sent a shiver down your spine, but in a way that made you softly smile. These were the kind of sensations that make you feel alive, that reminded you of the world continually spinning around you, going about its business, regardless of your own, insignificant problems. Your eyes closed as you took a deep breath, grounding yourself in all that it meant, even if the person in your company didn't get it. You didn't need him to. It was only yours to get.

    It was freedom.

    However, the moment eventually passed when, after what you thought was only a moment or two with your eyes closed, you opened them to see that you were all alone outside. Curious, when did Scout leave? Why did he leave without saying anything? As you looked up towards the Winter sun, you attempted to block its gaze with your hand...but it didn't appear in your vision. 

    You couldn't see your hand.

    Feel it, yes. All its extremities, still there. But it wasn't at all visible. You pulled up your other hand to inspect and, sure enough, both were gone. In a panic, you looked down at your form, not seeing a hint of a human person, and began to wonder if, in sitting in the cold, this was the universe making you the pathetic Match Girl of the day. What a sad way to go.

    But no. One thing did make itself known to you: the watch, and its face. Saying only two words.

   "CLOAK ACTIVATED"

Chapter Text

Once this call ends, it will be erased in 1 minute.

*beep*

[CLASSIFIED] How's the stalemate treating you?

[CLASSIFIED] Pauling, so nice to hear from you. I can always count on you skipping the formalities.

[CLASSIFIED] Well, I'm not one of your lays, so I figure we can cut the shit and get straight to talking shit.

[CLASSIFIED] Suits me fine. Any more busy on your end?

[CLASSIFIED] Eh, unfortunately. I thought this at least meant I'd get some time off but nope. Paperwork up to my eyes. What about you? No more activity after the break in?

[CLASSIFIED] Nothing to report. We've kept up the nécessaire security precautions, nobody else has made an attempt.

[CLASSIFIED] Pity; woulda given me an excuse to shake the cobwebs off.

[CLASSIFIED] Mmhm, well if any necks need snapping or corpses need their fingerprints sanded off, you'll be the first to know.

[CLASSIFIED] You flatter me.

[CLASSIFIED] Excusez moi, I'm putting you on speakerphone.

[CLASSIFIED] Spy, you're alone, aren't you?

[CLASSIFIED] What do you take me for, Pauling? L’amateur?

[CLASSIFIED] Just checking.

[CLASSIFIED] Just changing; it's been a long day, I need to send this suit to be dry cleaned.

[CLASSIFIED] And look at me, I get a front row seat to your boudoir.

[CLASSIFIED] You're lucky you can't actually see. You've been such a lovely conversational companion, it would be most upsetting to have to put a knife in your back.

[CLASSIFIED] Right back atcha, spook. Hey, you guys need any different supplies from the usual delivery? Your shipment's gotta go out in a day or two.

[CLASSIFIED] Hmm, I'll ask around, but I believe we aren't in desperate need of, ugh, ancien bouton, any drastic changes. I do, ehem, have a favor I might ask of you.

[CLASSIFIED] Oh? You cashing in after that accounting debacle?

[CLASSIFIED] Sure. Although I'd think you owe me more than one favor trying to make sense of what's on your books. 

[CLASSIFIED] You act like part of that isn't your guys' expenses.

[CLASSIFIED] I digress. The thing is, part of the favor would require this to be, how you Américains say, "under wraps." OFF book, as it were. 

[CLASSIFIED] Mmmmm, conditional on what it is but, sure. Shoot.

[CLASSIFIED] You know how we all have an abundance of extra sets of clothes?

[CLASSIFIED] Ah, yes, quite familiar. The spats, the bowler hat with the camera, the gaudy pussy blouse getup, that one hat with the giant pink feather—

[CLASSIFIED] Oui, oui, no need to explain then. I was wondering...do they make you bring similar accoutrement?

[CLASSIFIED] Yeah...why?

[CLASSIFIED] You wouldn't happen to have any spares, would you?

[CLASSIFIED] Why in God's name would you need to know that?

[CLASSIFIED] Depends on if you'll agree to it.

[CLASSIFIED] AGREE TO WHAT!? Cuz if this is some weird thing with Scout—

[CLASSIFIED] Non, not for any of those purposes. Scout's not the type for that sort of thing, and even if he was, I would never help him in that endeavor.
 
[CLASSIFIED] Well then who are you helping? What do you need them for? Unless you plan on trying them on?

[CLASSIFIED] No need to be so closed-minded, Pauling! We're almost a year into a new decade, I'm sure I could pull off any of your garments impeccablement.

[CLASSIFIED] Yeah, but even if you were going to do that, you wouldn't bother with mine. You probably think my polyester is too cheap for you.

[CLASSIFIED] Eh, point taken.

[CLASSIFIED] So then, who?.....Are you ironing your suit jacket right now?

[CLASSIFIED] Heavens no! I am steaming it. 

[CLASSIFIED] Dork.

[CLASSIFIED] I'm merely trying to relaxez for the evening. Now, où est ce livre? Ah, there you are.

[CLASSIFIED] You are dodging the point.

[CLASSIFIED] You aren't making yours clearly enough.

[CLASSIFIED] Why do you need my clothes?

[CLASSIFIED] Mmph, je vais devoir d'envoyer également la cravate et la chemise. Pauling, I told you, I need your confidence before I give that kind of information. 

[CLASSIFIED] We're already talking on an unbugged line. The call will be delet—

[CLASSIFIED] Yes, but you could turn around and report any old information you deem necessary to divulge to the Administrator.

[CLASSIFIED] Is it worth divulging, Spy? What do you need to hide? More so than what you usually do? ...Hello?

[CLASSIFIED] ...Apologies, just folding these.

[CLASSIFIED] The laundry can wait. Say your piece or let me go do my actual job.

[CLASSIFIED] ...I can't get into details but...there's another person here.....Hello?

[CLASSIFIED] .....Spy.....what the fuck?

[CLASSIFIED] I know, I know, it is temporary. No need to get your pencil skirt in a twist. 

[CLASSIFIED] Do you have any clue how fucked we'll be if—?!

[CLASSIFIED] MS. PAULING I KNOW...I know. It is unwise to get into the details, even if we think we aren't being tapped. Maybe you should come see for yourself.

[CLASSIFIED] ...Maybe so.

[CLASSIFIED] All I'm asking is for extra clothes for them. They've made do with our coeur usé but I thought perhaps I could provide them something more comfortable. Shoes, especially.

[CLASSIFIED] ...So it's a woman.

[CLASSIFIED] Whatever you're assuming, you're incorrect.

[CLASSIFIED] .....Clothes and shoes. That all?

[CLASSIFIED] Whew, d'air frais. Oui, that is all.

[CLASSIFIED] ...It's like I can smell the mothballs from that mask from here.

[CLASSIFIED] How dare you.....And thank you in advance.

[CLASSIFIED] ...You're lucky I tolerate you. And I'll tell you right now, it won't be through me, not for your sake, but mine;

[CLASSIFIED] Fair.

[CLASSIFIED] if anyone catches any wind of this, you're getting thrown under the bus toot sweet.

[CLASSIFIED] That would be tout de suite, but I understand. Thank you for your help.

[CLASSIFIED] Yeah, yeah. Don't plan on making it a habi—

[CLASSIFIED] SHHH SHHH Shhh.

[CLASSIFIED] .....What, what?.....Spy, do I need to alar—

[CLASSIFIED] No.....someone is watching me.

[CLASSIFIED] SPY—!

[CLASSIFIED] No need for theatrics, Ms. Pauling. I'll be more than happy to take care of it. Thanks again, talk soon. Au revoir.

*beep*

Chapter Text

BLU BRICKING AND BOARD (?) - DECEMBER 26, 1971, ??? PM

    A cloak, huh?

    A wristwatch cloak?

    The idea of a cloak of invisibility sounded as farfetched to you as fairy tales and dragons. You suspected, if your hunch was correct and your nicked toy belonged to The Spy, that he may have had gadgets he used for stealthy infiltration. You, admittedly, had about as much of an understanding of undercover operatives as a child watching Saturday morning cartoons, but nothing this fanciful. For a solid five or so minutes, you couldn't stop staring at your appendages, trying to move and operate them without being able to see them in space. It was almost an ordeal to get down from the wall, simply because you couldn't see where your feet would land.

    You began to make footprints in the dirt and snow below, like a chilling desert phantom.

    As you made your way back across the bridge, the boots leaving a trail behind you as the only evidence you'd been there, you realized Scout must have thought you bailed on him. He probably didn't see this invisibility switch on, and thought you left him out in the cold without a word, so he unknowingly did the same to you. Damn, you really can't do anything right, can you?

    But as you tried to make your way back inside, some more pressing things came into focus: several signs decked the sides of the main building, variations of "KEEP OUT" and "KEEP DOORWAYS CLEAR," all on the West facing side of the building. A small ramp led up to one of them. However, you noticed a gap in between the wall & where a door under said "KEEP OUT" sign would be...and that the ramp leading up to the door was nothing more than a wooden plank. It didn't even lead to a real door; once you moved the plank, you could see that it was just a large wooden board in front of an even larger wall of concrete. But you quickly realized its purpose as you gazed down at your phantom footsteps.

    When you stepped near the buildings, the snow or dirt would solely, gravitationally, fall into any footstep you had just made. Makes sense, the buildings were in the ground, immediate stopgaps, leading to simple slopes of slush collecting at their bottom ridges. Next to the fake door, though, there was a wall, perpendicular to it.

    And the snow fell under it.

    You tested this theory with the adjacent wooden wall, and sure enough, you couldn't dig deep enough with the boot to get under the building. So why this wall tucked away? This wall that didn't look to be anything more than cheap...thin...wood...that as you tapped on it...knocked on it...sounded hollow on the other side...

    ...Those boots...

    ...Well, perhaps their clunkiness would have some use.

    You kicked the wall in.

    And found a crawlspace.

    Or, perhaps "walk"space is the operative word, as removing any leftover boards revealed to you a small hallway, only large enough for you to sidle through. It may have been a risk, due to the small space, but you had just enough neon blue light from your wristwatch that you wondered if you could make it through. That, and the curiosity catnip had you like a feline on death row.

    Deep breaths...you were going in.

    You scooted sideways, keeping the wristwatch's light facing your right. You at least had enough space to turn your head side to side, but you desperately hoped any residual claustrophobia wouldn't kick in as both walls began to compound around you, moving deeper into the building. You heard noises as you trudged on through, but more curious were several small sources of light bleeding out from the wall in front of you. A few more feet to the right, you could get right in front of one, although it was not at your eye level. 
    
    Still, you could make out some things at this angle: namely, that this was a peephole to some other room. There were various tools lining the walls, instruments you could not even hazard a guess as to what their purpose was, and...a guitar. You could hear what sounded like large machines, the buzzing of various tools, whirring technology that was well above your pay grade, things of that nature. And you could swear you heard...Engie's voice? Softly, like he was humming something. You must have stumbled on his workshop.

    You tried to make sense of what this implied about the building layout: if it was a straight shot from the hallway outside your room to that bridge outdoors, and this secret passage ran parallel to that, then these rooms had to be opposite of yours. If that were the case, you guessed that the men working here must have their work spaces either in their rooms, or close by their rooms, since you had seen Engie at lights out, once or twice, going to a door on the wall opposite yours at the end of the hall. You knew at least one other person's door was on that wall, too. And if that were the case...

    ...you wouldn't have to scooch for long until you found Spy's quarters.

    Frantically, you tried to move further along the passage, trying not to let your excited breaths make you pass out. You moved to the next light, but nearly gave yourself away as a small pointy object made its way through the hole, pecking like it was looking for something. Was that a bird? Sure enough, as you stood anticipating, a small coo came out of, what you now realized, had to be a beak. And not long after that,

    "Archimedes! Hören Sie auf, Ihren Impfstoff zu meiden! Du musst deine Medizin nehmen, nachdem du wieder in Scout feststeckst."

    German: had to be Medic's quarters. Though the sterile smell of medical equipment that carried through the crawlspace indicated it was probably a traditional doctor's office. Did he really have a pet bird? He didn't seem the type. You supposed you hadn't gotten a thorough reading of him. You just thought he seemed to be one of the more straight-laced, practical ones. How defusively charming. Although, you could do without whatever that other metal-y smell was coming out of that perforation.

    But still no luck on who you were seeking out. You sidled on by. You would have thought this whole endeavor may have been a lost cause—

    —A light appeared immediately above your head. From a hole you didn't see before.

    That smell. That was his cologne.

    You attempted to jump, wanting a better view, but there wasn't much room to budge. You did think you could, potentially, reasonably hold yourself up if you scooted up the wall, the boots and your back keeping you midair. Putting your hands to the wall behind, you lifted the boots just enough to be above ground, and used the leverage to push your back up, repeating the motion a few times until you finally, finally got a good view.

    He had something like a lounge; beautiful, deep velvet reds were everywhere, contrasting with auburn wood, brown leathers and jade green bottles of wine. Rows of bookshelves, a record player; compared to the rest of the place you were stuck in, it was almost overwhelming to see such unadulterated luxury. And at the center of the room...there he was. He seemed to be on the phone, though you couldn't make out much of the conversation, and he had his suit jacket and vest off...

    ...and you realized he was in the process of taking the rest of it off as well.

    This was not what you came here for. You felt some ugly thing in your chest when you couldn't un-fixate your gaze off of him. Him taking the gloves off. The tie. The shirt.

    ...But...

    It's not like you didn't feel it that night, when he drew closer to you. It's not like you haven't felt it since you got here, in the hidden moments in between exchanged glances. You wanted to ignore it, especially since you're sure that could complicate things given your position here. What it was, you couldn't be certain. Whatever that feeling was in your chest, it remained an unknowable, murky fog. 

    Physically, though? You'd be fool to say he's not objectively attractive, and you'd be a liar to say you don't agree, subjectively so. His tall frame finally stood at full height, his muscles under the soft lighting, flexing & relaxing as he rolled his shoulders back, his arms reflexively showing off as they folded his shirt & tie, veins visible in his wrists & large hands. You felt like a man seeing a lady's ankle in one of those old silver screen pictures.

    And as if this scenario didn't already make you feel like you were watching a burlesque show, he pulled his proverbial grand finale,

    as his fingers slid under the back of his mask,

    pushed forward,

    and pulled it off.

    To be fair, from this angle you couldn't really see his face. At best, you got an outline of an iota of his side profile, and his hair. His barely visible side profile with a strong jaw & handsome aquiline nose, and his salt & pepper, lightly curled at the ends hair. You watched as the unoccupied hand slid through his hair, giving you even more of a view of his long fingers, wandering absentmindedly through his soft locks. 

    What would it be like to run your fingers through that hair?

    To hold?

    To grip?

    It gave you a visual you were sure people only ever got to see in rooms with an abundance of mirrors. A type of room you never thought you'd be in. But, god, in the corners of your mind, you scraped and scratched at the walls wishing you could. 

    And you wouldn't mind if he was there wit—

    Pull yourself together, you screamed internally at yourself. You are heaving like a flustered school girl with a crush on her teacher, snap the fuck out of it!

    *SKREECH*

    Quickly, too.

    He heard the noise, but before his head whipped around and you could see your captor's face, your feet slid down & thudded on the ground, your ankles cursing your tunnel vision. You, the invisible fool cursed to a concrete tunnel.

    You have to leave.

    Leave.

    Run.

    He'll kill you for this.

    RUN.

    So much for measured breaths. You tried to back up the way you came, but the way your boots fell, you couldn't turn them around, so you rushed the only other way. 

    You didn't know it for sure.

    But it definitely felt

    like you could feel the walls closing in.

    The passage stretched for miles.

    You could try to run

    but it looked more like you pathetically dragging your feet.

    You'd hoped there would be safety at the end of this.

    Hoped there'd be.

    Otherwise you'd be on the receiving end of that knife.

    All because of that goddamn mask.

    
    
    A wall.

    Another wooden wall.

    Cheap, too.

    You let the wall have it, and finally, the orange sunset let you know you might be home free. You pushed yourself out of that cursed crawlspace, frantically gulping down air, still not able to see your extremities. Maybe you could just hide like this forever. Maybe this was your escape. 

    Miles of empty desert in front of you. 

    Nothing accompanying you but an abandoned camper van. 

    Nothing to stand in your way.

    You made a break for it.

Chapter Text

THE CAMPER VAN, THE BLU TEAM'S BASE - DECEMBER 26, 1971, 7:36 PM   

    Another slow day in the outback.

    Well, not the outback, but a man can dream.

    But the frost outside made it difficult for Sniper to live in that fantasy for much longer. He didn't suit a Tasmanian type tundra.

    The shift was almost over, anyways. The tired ol' bloke began to pack up his gear and clean up his van. Getting the dirt and grime off his scopes, restocking the coffee for tomorrow, sanitizing the jars, changing out of his sweaty work clothes into something more comfortable; all part of the daily routine. And Booksmarts had his nightly Sentries at the most frequented entrances, working with Pyro on some automated machine to keep the ice melted, so at least he didn't have to much to worry about taking the night off early.

    But, just as he was about to make his final preparations to turn in for the night, something disturbed his typical line-of-sight. He couldn't see anything specific, but he knew something had to be out there, judging by the way the buzzards and cottontails skittered away; they sensed movement. Lucky for him, he hadn't yet packed up his rifle.

    Quickly, he sat behind the weapon and tried to make out what all the fuss was about. His eyes were trained on the desert plains, trying to detect any movement, any thing, silently begging whatever was out there to give the man a reason. Any reason to stave off the rusting of his joints and sheer boredom.

    ...Maybe the stalemate was wearing on him as much as the others. 

    He swore he could see dust getting kicked up, but he wasn't about to waste a bullet on the wind. But something prettier caught his eye. Over the years, he had trained to look for the tells: someone bumping into thin air, the spooks getting too cocky & walking right into the line of fire before fully invisible, Sentries getting sapped, things of that nature. After all these years, he had found a much simpler tell: he didn't normally get to see it when that hand was stabbing him in the back, but a blue light reflecting on no seen surfaces? Out of thin air? A Spy's in the base.

    Though, honestly...the behavior of it didn't make sense; it was swinging wildly about, not in character for a RED weasel. Much as the Aussie hated to admit it, they're usually way more covert than that. In fact, given the pattern of movement, it looked like the mongrel was running from something.

    "Figures, cowardly snake."

    Finger on the trigger, no need nor care for what explanations would justify the behavior, he lined up his shot. And in the split second, before he took the shot, the blue light finally stopped swinging. They knew he saw them.

    "Let 'em look. Nice of 'em to hold still for me."

    But, unexpected as it may be...he missed. The light had lowered just before he could dome the wanker. Though, the target wasn't moving out of the way. In fact, it looked to be...cowering in fear?

    Not unwelcome, and sure, a nice stroking of his ego, but...suspicious.

    No matter. He aimed again, and fired again.

    And missed?! Again?! "Twitchy little shit—"

    "STOP, PLEASE! SNIPER, IT'S ME, STOP!!!"

    A feminine voice screamed out over the savanna—er, desert. 

    Shit. 

    The girl.

    ...How the fuck did she get a Cloak?

    Sniper immediately put his weapon down, storming out of the camper van, a bit peeved; partially for the carelessness, admittedly also for the lack of a real kill. "MISS," he called out towards her, trying to get her to stop scrambling, "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOIN' OUT THERE? GET OVER HERE, WILL YA?"

    The blue light lifted off the ground and quickly bounded towards the van, as he began to hear her heaving breaths get louder as she got closer, even if she wasn't visible. Standing next to the open door, he gestured for her to get inside, to which she followed with no argument. Promptly slamming the door behind him, he laid into her.

    "What the fuck were you thinking?! Were you tryin' to get blown all over four counties?"

    "I-I didn't think—"

    "Bleedin' right you didn't think! Walkin' right into the border of ours and an enemy camp; you know how goddamn lucky you got it was my scope aimed at you and not some RED bastard? Wouldn'ta hesitated to make you RED Bread branded red mist in a second."

    "I-I was tryi—"

    "What could you possibly have been doin' to find yourself over here?! I don't think your mother woulda raised you to be so careless!"

    "I just—!"

    "Just what?! Tryna run away? Sheila, ain't a soul out here that has your safety in mind 'cept us! Best case scenario, you get heatstroke or starve to death. Worst case scenario, you're a new toy for a RED Medic! And then, our higher-ups find out we been keepin' you here and we're ALL good as dead! I mean I knew it was no-good keepin' ya here, but if you're gonna be more trouble than it's worth—!"

    "IF YOU HATE ME THAT BAD, YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE MISSED THE FIRST TIME."

    You didn't give a shit if he couldn't see you, your glare said it all.

    You had felt it in his presence, ever since you got here; disdain, suspicion, annoyance. Compared to the ways the rest of the men here behaved, Sniper's distance was much more what you expected. Not that it didn't hurt, all the same. 

    You are nothing more than a dead weight, after all. What did you expect?

    But if he was going to treat you like nothing more than a runt of the litter, he could have at least had the courtesy to do his job right.

    Although, judging by the way his eyes shifted, he seemed more shocked by your assessment than ready to continue verbally sparring. Though his tone didn't waver from its gruffness, it shocked you what he said next.

    "...What gave you that idea? Miss, I don't hate you. I hate that the bleedin' Suit that brought you here clearly hasn't equipped you to survive here. Keepin' you in the dark, us in the dark; it just means we're all at a higher risk. And the cockiness on him; he thinks he can just prance around, puppetin' us around his minute-to-minute whims, while the rest of us have to clean up his mess!"

    You didn't want to argue anymore. You honestly couldn't. He was right.

    You are his mess.

    Her silence ate at him. Could swallow him whole. He knew that came out wrong before he even said it. But what else was he supposed to say? HE WAS RIGHT! The girl was being kept hopelessly uninformed, to the point that it risked everyone's safety on the base, including hers. And who did that serve? Other than Frenchie's ego to be the one who gets to protect her.

    But hate her? Not a chance. None of this was her fault. Just that spook's.

    But if her silent huffing was any indication, he probably hadn't done a great job of communicating that.

    ...Maybe all these years away from civilians has made him ill-equipped to deal with them.

    He turned from you, rubbing his temple under his glasses. You stood silently in each other's uncomfortable presence, watching as his shoulders lifted and sagged under the white tank top he was wearing. He must've been about to turn in for the night. Chalk one more up on the list of things you've screwed up.

    "Sit down."

    His voice, low and authoritative, cut through the silence. You didn't quite know what to do, intent on not badgering him any further. But he turned around and insisted, "You wanna get that Cloak offa ya, don'tcha? Sit down. Unless you'd like to be invisible forever."

    Tempting.

    You followed his orders, sitting on a small cot he had in this van. He walked up to a scabbard hanging on the wall, and your heart dropped to your stomach as it unsheathed, sounding like a sword in preparation for an execution. You must have made some noise in discomfort, because he immediately turned around and clarified, "I'm just cuttin' the leather off. Not your hand or anythin'." He eyed, what you guessed had to be, the sunken part in the cot you were sat on, the only visible indication of your presence, trying to figure out where you were. As he made his approximation, he knelt, closer than you anticipated, in front of your form. His knee barely dug into the bed, almost caging your legs to one side, extending his hand out where it could have landed right in your lap. "Best if you don't twitch or move much. I don't wanna scratch ya. Honest." He was trying to meet your eyes...wherever they were. They had softened some. They almost looked kind. As did his voice sound. Even if you didn't know to trust his earnestness, you still weren't in the mood for arguing, so you placed your hand in his.

    Neon teal light emanated off of, what must be, her wrist, reflecting off a clenched jaw filled with tension, a clearly upset sneer of a lip, and eyebrow bone that seemed to be furrowed somewhere between suspicion, discomfort and shame. Ah, shit. He let his emotions get the better of him. Not how he usually conducted himself. Not up to his usual occupational standards. He lightly flipped her hand over, palm up, if for no other reason than to get the light off her expression. Any longer looking at that, and he wouldn't be able to poker face his way through hiding that he hated hurting her feelings. Much as feelings normally didn't mean much in his line of work.

    He rubbed his thumb over her wrist, searching for where the band might be. Definitely not because he was trying to soothe her. Just so happened to feel her pulse under his thumb, and the finger did the work for him. Nothing suspicious. Definitely not.

    Dangled an inch off her wrist, he lifted the leather strap and stuck the tip of the kukri under it, just ghosting her skin underneath. "I mean it," he implored, "don't wanna leave you with a nasty gash. No twitching." He could feel her huff, breath landing on his forehead, cooling him in the humid van. With the tip lifting just a hair, he took a swipe at it. Nothing dramatic, just one to split the leather. Granted, with how sharp the blade was, he could probably get it in one swipe, but he was trying to keep the peace. He could sense she was trying to keep it together, but heard the small, sharp inhale through her nose that meant stress. The hand that was holding hers continued to glide over her pulse point, almost absentmindedly, as he kept swiping up with the kukri's point. He could feel her breathing deeply, trying to keep an even keel, whether from a small breeze blowing across his face, her wrist trying to relax in his grip, or the heartbeat he could feel through that wrist trying its damnedest to slow the fuck down.

    A few flicks later, and she was home free. Catching the device in the weaponless hand, his eyes moved up to catch her gaze. 

    Locking on a steeled focus with an undercurrent of fury, surrounding anticipative, anxious doe eyes. 

    Like they were silently begging to be told she'd be okay.

    Sheesh. No wonder he's whipped.

    "How'dya sweet talk him into givin' you this?"

    You almost felt offended. "I didn't," you retorted, eyes darting down, "I took it."

    He leaned back onto his knees, clearly astonished at your response. "...You nicked this from Spy?"

    "Why is that so shocking?" You didn't even mean to come off so defensive, but you didn't like how diminutive you felt under his discernment.

    "Just...because it's Spy. I mean it's not Big-head and that gun, but Suit almost never lets anyone around his precious toys." You could have sworn in that moment, for a split second, he was gesturing at you. Maybe it was the watch. Maybe. Or maybe it was you. Maybe. "And I've never known him to just leave them lyin' around."

    "Well, he must sometimes, cuz I just found this in a random office. Unless you've got a snarky explanation for that, too?"

    His lip curled up into a smirk, and he laughed. At least he found the back and forth amusing instead of a reason to use that giant knife for something else. "And how'd it, and you, end up on the opposite end of the base?"

    "I—I" you stuttered, not sure how much you should divulge. You didn't know how much he'd tell any of the others. "It turned on by accident and I was just trying to see more of the...the 'base.' And I happened to see Spy in some room with books—"

    "Ah, that there's his smokin' room."

    "And...I booked it."

    His eyebrow quirked up. "You'd need a right good reason to do that. You got food, shelter and protection here, and nothin' but tumbleweeds out there. Why run?"

    "I stole from him. He'd probably be pissed."

    "Eh, not at you. Not for somethin' that small. Not unless there's some other reason you're worried about him. Like, for instance," he said as his eyes squinted, you presumed trying to read you for any tells, "you saw somethin' you shouldn't?" 

    You had fully turned your head away from him, hoping to will your self to some other plane of existence. But as you heard something clang on the ground, a free hand came up to the bottom of your jaw, turning you to face him. 

    "Listen, I got no skin in the game; he wants to have an attitude about somethin' you do, that's his business. But you don't have to worry about that carryin' over to me, or any of us, for that matter. He said he wanted to see you kept safe, and that's one thing we can agree on, even if it means keepin' you safe from one of us." 

    You weren't sure you wanted to know the full extent of what that statement implied. 

    "If you're worried about retaliation, of any sort, you can talk to me. Only thing I care about is doin' my job properly. And if that means gettin' on the spook's bad side, so be it." 

    Who even made sense to be trusted in this moment? You don't know if you'd say both men had kneejerk violent proclivities, but clearly both men were not opposed to it. So far, you'd much prefer the trust of someone like Engie, Demo, Heavy, Scout or Medic, the ones who seemed sane. Normal. Not readily equipped with knives. Like these two. But who else did you have to turn to?

    And in this moment, who was the one offering you support? Who was on his knees, saying he wouldn't let someone harm you, even if it was the only other person who swore to protect you?

    You caved.

    "I saw him...Like...saw him."

    Sniper lightly shook his head, trying to gage her meaning, but it didn't take long to dawn on him. "You saw him...without his mask?"

    She nodded.

    The Aussie guffawed. 

    "Why...why are you laughing?"

    "No, I just...honestly...I'm kinda impressed."

    Her eyebrows went wide, a very obvious, nonverbal, "Fucking excuse me?!"

    "Sheila, you've done somethin', that quite literally none of us have ever been able to do. I mean, I'm quite good, pretty aces I'd say, and the others do a fine job, but he's kept that shit under lock & key since we got here. I coulda sworn he showered with that thing on. And within a few weeks of bein' here, you just...stumbled on him. Mask off. Like ya caught him with his pants down."

    She laughed, at least trying to soften. "I didn't see that much. Just an outline. Got more of his muscles than his face."

    "Mm, give ya a good show, did he?"

    "I didn't say that."

    "Then why're you sweatin'?"

    "...We are in a tin can on wheels. In the middle of the desert."

    Sniper couldn't help himself, laughing in earnest, and thank The Queen, the kid joined in. It felt nice to finally be able to take a load off, but the laughter was almost from sheer whiplash; this was the most he and the girl had chatted since she got here. He watched her a frightened joey, a stab-happy madwoman, a poor weeping thing, and a polite, if solemnly silent, dinner guest. All of a sudden, seeing her at her worst, running for fear of her life, all to finally getting a smiling, smartass, smart-as-hell companion. Where on Earth did Frenchie find this girl?

    Still, more practical demands need be met. "Speakin' of," he mumbled as he made his way over to the sink, filling up his canteen. Topped off, he handed it over. "Drink this. I don't need you passin' out on me."

    "Thank you, but I'm fine."

    "Aht aht, no arguin'. The heat & your pulse bein' up there'll make ya sick as a dog, and if I can't remedy the latter, I ain't gonna sit & not do somethin' about the former. And I'm not about to give you coffee. Drink."

    She gingerly took it, again accompanied by the small smile, reluctantly sipping a bit and wiping her hair line with the edge of her shirt. The sharpshooter only just noticed who's parts of uniforms she had on. He did not like that childish pang of jealousy he felt that she wasn't wearing his again. It's a shirt. Grow up.

    As a further show of goodwill, he pulled a carton of durries out, popping one in his mouth and gestured towards her. She excitedly reached for one, but he kept it out of her reach. "Mm mm," he chided, "Water first." With a mumbled groan of frustration, she started drinking bigger gulps, earning a chuckle out of him as he lit up. Once she had finally emptied the canteen, sassily shaking it to show nothing but droplets remained, he acquiesced and handed over a cig. The face that beamed, still aware and spry enough to catch the lighter as he threw it over, was a face he knew could wrap anybody around her finger, around whatever she desired. He was lucky she didn't seem aware enough of this to make use of it.

    Sure, it wasn't your preferred variety of smoke, but you didn't know how readily anybody here could get grass, and you weren't in a frame of mind to be picky. As you ingested the nicotine, sending puffs out of your lips, you finally felt yourself relax, head lolling forward in mock bliss. You two sat in your silent smoke break for some time, and you didn't mind the company. He was kind of a hardass, but something about the softness underneath that exterior drew you to him.

    However, something brought your pulse back up to quickened. Obviously, given the job title, he'd have a rifle on him. But something put that dropped-stomach, fear-of-God twinge in your heartbeat. You recognized that build. 

    "Is that a modified Parker-Hale M82?" you blurted out without thinking.

    "Oh, uh, yes. Was using a Remington Model, but the M82 is easier on the wrists. Main modification is the M3 Carbine on the top, makes it easier to see stuff in the da—pardon me, Miss, how do you know about these types of models? Is your dad a, uh, huntin' fan of some sort?"

    "Um...I guess you could say that." You didn't take your eyes off the weapon, not for a second. The minute you take your eyes off that thing, someone's gonna start shooting at the ceiling.

    Sniper seemed to notice your, frankly, haunted facial expression. "I take it you've not had a great experience with 'em?"

    You sort of half-shrugged/half-nodded.

    "Ugh, Yank wankers," you heard him mutter under his breath, "No offense, Miss, but I've just never understood the trigger-happy shit that seems to gel here in the States. Maybe it's just my standards, but this whole 'Right to Bear Arms' crap never seems to imply bearin' them with any sort of tact. Or skill. Or common sense. It's like they're lookin' for a reason to justify bein' skittish."

    You could guess he was trying to ease the tension with a more conversational, casual tone. You were more than in full agreement of his assessment. But it wasn't getting you out of fight or flight from just being in the weapon's mere presence.

    So, he opted for an attempt at a gentler approach. "Listen, Miss, I'm a professional. I'm not some crazed gunman, I only kill if there's a reason to, jobs and the like. Case in point, trophy huntin' has never been to my taste. No meat gets killed out here unless I or the others plan on eatin' it. My mum raised me better than that."

    You took another puff and tried to shake the feeling off. "I get it. Not my thing either. Just, uh...a job's a job. I've, um....never loved guns in the place you reside in, I guess."

    "Eh, fair. Although to be fair, you are in my place of business." He jested, and it did get a small huff of of a laugh at your nose, accompanying the smoke. "I do try to keep 'em separate from my personal life. 'Sides, statistically, it's more likely that if someone keeps those in their own house, that bullet's more likely gonna end up in the house owner's skull."

    If only.

    For Sniper, actions took precedent over words. And he had an idea for how to get out of further putting his foot squarely in his mouth.

    "Y'know what? What's that thing I heard the Doc prattlin' about...ah, 'exposure therapy.' Ever heard of it?"

    She shook her head.

    "Might get some of the wordin' wrong, but far as I could tell, basically if somethin's givin' you a scare, best way to overcome it is to, er, get used to it, so to speak. Not like, 'get over it,' but get, y'know...'exposed' to it. Tell ya what, what would you say to a, er," he continued on, leaning against the van's window and gesturing towards the rifle, "snipin' lesson? If you're keen."

    Hesitant was the word Sniper would use to describe her reaction to that offer. A dash of worry, to be sure, but some sprinkles of intrigue.

    "And, not to brag, but trust me, you'd be learnin' from the best of the best. Free of charge." 

    Though she scoffed, and though she still looked troubled by the weapon, she also seemed up for trying. She looked around for an ashtray, being directed to the small one next to the cot, putting the butt of the durry out. As she stood up, cautiously making her way towards the rifle, he crossed his leg in his already laid-back slouch, trying to, he supposed, "gentle" himself. She looked back up at him, and gave him a small nod.

    "Ah, c'mon, can't handle a sniper if you're unsure about it. If you want it, you gotta really want it!" he teased, leaning as if he was going to give her a playful punch in the arm, but holding back.

    "Okay, okay," she replied, rolling her eyes, "I'd like to learn. Please."

    He jokingly put a hand on his heart, "Aw, and you even threw in a 'please.' My mum'd love ya."

    One last smile & eye roll, and she mimicked his stance opposite him, signaling her readiness to learn.

    "First, and most importantly: as much as it makes me sound a bit daggy, comfort is the most important thing here. When you're staked out for long periods of time, you don't want to be in a position that's gonna make you cramp up and mess up a shot. That, and you gotta be somewhere the target can't easily spot you. Now, small camper like this one, where do ya think is the best spot?"

    He had to be giving you an easy question first, right? The rifle was tipped on the wall, just below the center of the van's window. Where else made sense? You knelt down next to it, the image making you feel as though you were about to pray to the altar of dead rabbits and desert wasteland. You gestured to your position, looking up at him waiting for a response with, perhaps not a grimace, but a moue of someone who didn't need to be babysat through this process.

    "Ah, rookie mistake. The spot, yes; here you can't sit without bein' visible, can't stand without not havin' an eyeline, so keepin' low makes sense. But the position?" he playfully tsked as he joined you on the floor. "You wanna keep at least one knee up so you have a bit more mobility," he demonstrated, shifting weight back and forth from tucked down on his back foot to perched up on his front. "Keeps the pressure from bein' allocated on one spot and givin' ya pins and needles."

    You nodded, guardedly reaching towards the rifle before he abruptly stopped you.

    "AY AHT AHT, no need to get trigger happy yet. Need some rules of the road first."

    "I'm not a sixteen year old driving for the first time."

    "This is way more likely to kill you than a car if you ain't handlin' it properly. Basics are this:" he instructed, as he counted off on his fingers, "one: always assume a weapon is loaded, unless ya got clear proof it's empty. Two: always keep it pointed at the ground when it's not in use, because...?"

    You finished his sentence, "...you should always assume the weapon is loaded and could fire?"

    "Precisely," he proudly said, continuing through his rules, "And three: always make sure the safety's on until you're ready to shoot. Make sense?"

    Nodding your head, you didn't make the same mistake twice, waiting for him to make the next move. 

    "Normally, it's good to have it prone, but I'm usually on the move out here, so when it's not in the position we got it in now, it's aimed at game." He picked up the sniper and started the physical part of the lesson. "Key things here with positioning; this here," he gestured to the wooden stock, "is the butt, and you wanna keep it nice and snug in your shoulder." You could see that; he had it just above his armpit, right in the crook of his arm. "Your cheek?" He said it while trying to handlessly indicate said body part, but it came across with a wink. "Welded to the butt. This is gonna be the best way to have an accurate line of sight. Here," he signaled, nodding his head to his position, "take my spot and try to do the same. Keep your finger off the trigger."

    You made it clear you understood, awkwardly scooting on your knees, trying to skirt a circumference around the weapon and Sniper. Mimicking his knee position, you pushed up between him and the gun, putting your back hand over where his respective one was, him letting go when he was confident you had it in a solid grip. You repeated the motion with his frontmost hand, him following suit, now behind you. It did feel a touch close, but maybe that was the heat making you feel more claustrophobic. Once your face was settled where he had asked for, he moved behind your backmost shoulder. 

    "Now, can you see through the scope?"

    Again, you nodded.

    "See anythin' yet?"

    The sun was about to set, but even if it were high & bright in the sky, you doubt anything would have made itself known, even in your non-scoped vision. "Not a thing."

    "Aaaaand this is the fun part: now you wait." You sighed, shoulders unhappy with the prospect before they even had the chance to get exhausted. "I know, I know," he interjected you nonverbal complaining with a chuckle. "You learn quickly that patience is a virtue out here in the bush. Best thing you can do is take some deep breaths, keep focused and keep alert. Fatigue is gonna be the biggest battle out here; it'll make ya jumpy, make your finger slip, and then you wasted a bullet on bugger all. But I won't keep ya with nothin' to do for now; we're not here to fuck spiders."

    She slowly turned to face him, face screwed up like she had never heard such a combination of words.

    ".....Is anybody...ever...going anywhere...with the specific purpose...of fucking spiders?"

    "Hey, did I tell you to focus on your scope or my verbiage? Concentrate."

    The two laughed, and returned to their positions. The bloke backed up a bit, realizing he may have been encroaching on her space a bit, and sat back to watch her technique.

    "So, how long are you normally out here like this?"

    "As long as it takes to get a target." You could smell that he was back to smoking. The scent felt like it was involuntarily furthering your lessened strain, which would have been favorable five minutes ago. But now, with a large, heavy piece of artillery in your hands, you could see why his biggest warning was about fatigue. "Feelin' antsy already?"

    "I'm fine," you gritted through your teeth, both to spite his teasing and to keep your resolve strengthened. 

    As the banter began to fade along with the waning sun, Sniper wondered if he should fill the air with anything except ash. He thought to try his hand at sincerity again. "You don't need to worry about Spy and that Cloak. I said it earlier and I meant it: he's not gonna waste any anger on you. Matter of fact, he might be as impressed as I was; he respects people who don't take his shit."

    While she was clearly trying to heed her teacher's words and focus, there was a tensing in her shoulders he could clearly see. With her response, his assumption seemed correct. "He kept telling me, the less I know the better. I don't know his name or his face, and I have to assume there's a reason why. Especially if you all haven't seen as much as I have, which isn't much. If someone knows your secret identity, doesn't that make them...a liability? Couldn't a spy kill you for that?"

    The bushman could feel the sting in that word, and he knew he hadn't helped by throwing out "mess" earlier in their verbal tussle. "I s'pose he could." ...And the foot in mouth hadn't stopped yet it seemed, because her eyes widened at that remark. "But, the whole reason he brought you here was so he didn't have to kill ya. Don'tcha think it'd be a rubbish waste of his time and good effort to let you die?"

    She was still trying to keep an even keel, but he could see recognition fade across her face. 

    "Way I see it, you're in about as good a position as any: you're surrounded by some of the best bleedin' mercenaries this side of Taranaki, and you're pretty much the only person here who'll be doin' us more good bein' alive than dead. He has no reason to do you in like the usual bludgers."

    He thought practicality was the way to go. But judging by the way she just barely took her gaze off the scope, making eye contact out of her corners, he realized he may have stepped in it.

    "So," she lowly, slowly replied, "he does kill people."

    He looked at her like the fact she stated was no more a revelation than kangaroos being good kickboxers.

    "Yes. Of course, Miss. No more or less than I do."

    She, however, looked like something was settling in her that she had been avoiding since she got here.

    "So...you kill people...have killed people...currently kill people?"

    "Well, yeah...we all do."

    ".....All of you?"

    "...All of us."

    ...Of course.

    You should have known.

    And sure, shocking for an occupation like a sniper, a spy or even a soldier? Probably not. But an engineer? A medic? Whatever a scout is?

    ...They all killed people?

    And if so, what people?

    For what purpose?

    "...He really was keen on not tellin' you anythin', wasn't he?"

    That look on her face damn near broke his heart. Like she'd been played a fool. He thought it had to be obvious; a man already involved with a mob hit rescued her, what else would he be but a killer? Still, all of the mercs, without even getting ordered to from the spook, hadn't shown her any of their nastier sides. And he supposed she lucked out not having to see the worst of it in the battleless interim. And...this life wasn't meant for someone like her. It's not meant for anyone really. Only those desperate enough and unemployed enough for the pay.

    His internal wallowing was interrupted. "Something's out there," she interjected.

    He got up, gently, to not disturb any prospective prey. He resumed his spot just over her shoulder, seeing what she had her eyes on: a small cottontail, likely separated from its warren. "Mmm, looks like you got lucky tonight, Sheila," Sniper commended, happy to change the subject. "You got your sights locked on it?"

    "Yup," she replied. Blankly.

    "Alright," the sharpshooter said in a low, hushed tone, continuing his lesson and flicking the safety off, "now this is the trickiest part. Take another deep breath; it's gonna effect your shot more than anythin' else, so you want it nice and steady. When your finger's on the trigger, you want to think of the rifle like it's, er...like it's—"

    "—A slingshot?" Again, blankly.

    Impressed at how quick witted she was, he replied in the same whispered tone, "Yeah, exactly! Think of the rubber of a slingshot; when you pull it taut enough, it's gonna snap back hard, right?" She nodded, still hyper focused on her prey. "That's what a rifle's recoil feels like. That's what the placement," His hand followed his words, "here, of your shoulder, is for. And you wanna keep that trajectory, from the tip of the barrel, to the back of your shoulder, in one straight line, including the direction that you pull the trigger. That make sense?"

    She nodded, focus resolute.

    "Now, if you wanna just fire next to the little critter and not kill it, you're more than welcome to do so."

    No response.

    "Ehem, when you think you're shot's lined up, and your target doesn't sense you, start to squeeze the trigger." Her finger just ever-so-slightly pressed in. "And once you think you got a perfect shot," He took a deep breath. She followed suit. ".....you aim..."

    *BANG*

    "...And fire."

    The poor hare fell victim to the one piece of advice she chose not to heed.

    Sniper whistled, admittedly a tad shocked that she opted to end the creature's life, but impressed she bucked up the courage to do so. It didn't feel like it was a celebratory moment—she went deadly silent—but he was more than happy to commend his pupil.

    "Well, wouldya look at that. Bloody well done. Headshot."

    Maybe it was time to kill your thumping rabbit heart.

    Maybe if you were ever going to survive out here,

    survive the way the rest of the men here did...

    maybe you had to be more like them.

    ...

    ...More like him. 

Chapter Text

    After bagging a kill so pathetic it wouldn't even constitute a midnight snack, Sniper stayed with you until you decided you didn't need to keep him up any longer. He walked you back to your room, bidding you goodnight, leaving you with the "Cloak" and much to think about. And thankfully, no blue suits to disrupt your thoughts for the evening. 

    A shower did you a lot of good, you not even realizing how much grime had gotten on you from your various exploits. You rid yourself of all of the sweat & gunk, ready to towel off and turn in for the night. Odd that you were in a bed, again. A few hours earlier, you hadn't even thought where you'd end up if you ran away. Sniper was right; there truly wasn't anywhere else you could go where you'd have the amenities the men here had availed to you. 

    But would Spy be as forgiving as Sniper suggested? Why was he so sure about that? You stole from a dangerous man and got a glimpse of something that, apparently, the other professional mercenaries here hadn't a clue of. And he'd let that slide all because of Spy's obligation to you? Or even, as Sniper seemed to imply, he had some sort of soft spot for you?

    Perhaps you could soften the blow. You told yourself you'd at least return the watch in the morning, maybe write some sort of apology note for the strap being split, and hope that would be enough to keep your head from the chopping block.

    Until then, it didn't keep you from endlessly tossing and turning, stirring even when you dozed off into the shallowest layer of sleep. The impending doom was the central worry, but just on top of it was something...annoyingly distracting.

    Hair...back...a hand...his hands...knee...fingers...close together...behind you...touching you...your shoulder...your hands...Eyes...his eyes...

    Oh, God. Not this again.

    The various run-ins you had in last day were swimming in your head, threatening to swallow you from the inside like cerebral quicksand.

    You never liked having to contend with this feeling. Given...everything back home, you only ever saw it as a nuisance to deal with.

    But that thump in your chest, that turning in the pit of your stomach, it wouldn't go away, and sleep wouldn't do you a favor & distract you.

    You hopelessly rubbed your legs together, but it didn't help. You could try using your hand, but that never worked as well as when someone else did it. And you didn't have those on hand at the moment, not unless you wanted to make the only people willing to house you wildly uncomfortable.

     You frustratedly groaned into the pillow, perhaps being the first person to anger themselves to sleep.

YOUR ROOM, BLU BRICKING AND BOARD - DECEMBER 27, 1971, ??? AM

    The morning proved more fruitful for distractions, as an almost robotic knock on the door woke you with a start. You made your way to the door, only realizing as you were about to open it that you were still in the giant v neck you had slept in the night before, with no pants on. Tugging on the bottom of the shirt, you tried to lean as to make only your top half visible to whoever so desperately needed your attention.

    "Ah, guten Morgen, Schlafmütze!" The good Doctor was right outside your door, in his usual white button up, vest and slacks. So put together this early in the morning, as opposed to your post-stupor. "Sleep well?"

    "Uh..." you tried to put some oomph in your voice to match his enthusiasm, fighting your grogginess, so it about evened out. "I guess?"

    "You 'guess'? Leave the guessing to scientific hypothesis," he jested with a minute chirp of a laugh. You thought it odd to describe a grown man this way, but it was oddly...cute, to you. 

    "I'm just dealing with some...um..."

    Unhelpful inner demons? Unrequited feelings? Unfettered horniness?

    "...tension. Unaddressed tension."

    Pussy.

    "Oh, in that case, I came at the right time! I was going to remind you that we still need to perform your medical wellness exam—just your standard physical, checking vitals, illnesses, making sure all the organs are in their proper places, things of that nature." You weren't sure why he needed to clarify that, but maybe he was joking.

    "Ah, right, right. Um, would today be good? Could you fit me in your schedule?" A damn near perfect excuse to avoid Spy, at least for some amount of time.

    "Vunderbar! I will pencil you in. Er, you do know, I assume, that these appointments normally require you to be undressed, ja? Standard procedure; you will have a dressing gown, und if you wish a chaperone if that increases your comfort!"

    It didn't, admittedly. You actually couldn't remember the last time you'd been able to afford doctor visits that weren't pediatric. And when the option was one man or two seeing you naked during these kinds of tests, you supposed the former was the least worrying prospect. "Understood. I won't need one, but thank you. Or uh...danke schön?"

    "Oh, bitte schön!" he replied, very pleased, "You know Deutsche?"

    "...That's kinda it."

    He chuckled and you mimicked, a faint heat dancing across your cheeks. "Well, as they say, 'no time like the present' to brush up on it! Oh! Although," he realized mid sentence, "our appointment will have to be at least an hour or two from now."

    "O-okay, why is that?"

    "Er, Spy ask to me inform you that he requested your presence as soon as your were awake."

    God damn it.

    "I assume it must be urgent; might have something to do with the supply shipment that should be coming tomorrow."

    Yeah, sure, that's definitely why. Through a forced smile, you said, "Got it. Thanks for letting me know, Medic."

    "Gern geschehen, Fräulein. See you at about...let's say noon-ish?"

    "Works for me."

    "Sehr gut, bis dann." He was about to make his way back down the hall to the right, when his eyes seemed to catch your form. "I agree, Heavy's shirts are quite comfy aren't they?" With a cheeky grin, he made his way off.

    Of course this was Heavy's.

    But how did he...?

    Anyways, not the most important matter for the moment. You thought to shower one more time, just to make sure something, somewhere, wouldn't give your previous day away, trying to make your hair at least semi-presentable and looking for anything that would be breathable enough for later. A simple white button up, a pair of black slacks and some work shoes? It'll do the trick. You eyed the watch on the bedside table, pocketed it and made off.

    While you thought you'd be headed for his room right across the way, you had a devilish thought:

    you knew the hallway layout now.

    And given that Medic went to the right, where his office had to be,

    and his was three peepholes down,

    you could approximate which room had to Spy's "smoking room." As Sniper called it. 

    Could you, potentially, leave the watch there and see if he doesn't notice?

    True, ample evidence could indicate it was taken, but you didn't have anything to do with it ending up in a random office, so you at least had some plausible deniability. Plus, the cuts on the leather would indicate Sniper's weapon, wouldn't it?

    It was a risky gamble. And you weren't about to throw Sniper under the bus after he extended his olive branch.

    But if it could save you from incurring any wrath? You figured it was worth the wager.

    From the hall, facing the other side's bedrooms, you looked to where you remembered the peephole to Medic's office being, standing there to get your bearings. This looked to be standardized, so those rooms had to be equidistant apart, and the peephole was the same. So if the bedrooms had to be equidistance apart, the offices had to be as well. You walked down a few doors, and sure enough, you heard Engie hard at work again, so you knew to repeat the same pattern from Medic's door to get to Spy's. One door, then his bedroom, two doors, then his "office."

    And sure enough, your theory was correct.

    You gingerly pried open the door to take a peek and, luckily, the room was empty. With haste, you slid yourself in and quietly shut the door behind you, now able to take in the room proper.

    It was about as gorgeous as you remember, with a small window of daylight illuminating what you couldn't see before, and a glowing fire place to parse the rest of the room. In all honesty, it was the kind of room you could only ever dream about; you always fancied yourself someone who wanted to learn more about the world, improve your acumen and leave behind so much of the ignorance you were used to. To see the amount of books at his disposal, some world atlases, some copies of classics you were sure had to be rare & expensive, and even a beautiful globe right as you walked in, it made you feel like, somehow, your wildest daydreams were made manifest.

    But one novel in particular caught your eye.

    Leaving the Cloak tucked away on the most immediate desk, happy to finally be rid of it, you made your way to the shelf next to the hearth, recognizing the title before any of its bindings:

    Emmanuelle.

    However, as you gingerly pulled it off the shelf, you couldn't have predicted what would be made apparent immediately behind it.

    The hole.

    "You've proven yourself quite clever, mademoiselle."

    Indeed, a clever little fox.

    The Spy watched her from the other side of the door, perusing his bookshelf and clearly realizing she had been made. She turned around, trying to gage where she heard the voice coming from. When she finally made the full 180 back to the door, he clicked the Cloak and Dagger off, making himself known propped up against the wall, in his much more casual vest-and-rolled-up-sleeves attire. Still tailored impeccably, but he was going for casual.

    "You didn't think I had only one of these, did you?"

    You should have run away. Only thing running now is your blood cold.

    "I will admit, I had left it for you to find in the hopes that you would use it to its full capabilities, explore around the base, maybe stir up some trouble with the other gentlemen..." As he trailed off, he gingerly walked towards her, seemingly struck dumb and unable to take her eyes off his visage. "But I could not have predicted you being quite the detective. I had only retrofitted le passage secret when I first got here, not having made use of it since. I thought it was perfectly hidden in plain sight, but I suppose nothing gets past you, ma pupille."

    At this point, he was but a few inches from her, her effectively having been bolted to the spot, still with that book in hand.

    "But, even if you had made your way through that crawlspace...to think you would, or could, catch me so unaware, in the few moments I thought I had to myself. Mais bien sûr, you are not the only one who is perceptive, mon amie."

    "Am I a dead woman?" Quiet as it was, it fell out of your lips without a second thought.

    "Worse..." 

    "...Your technique est un véritable gâchis."

    He must have noticed your brow quirked up in confusion.

    "Erm, haphazard, slapdash, civilian-like, if you will. In a word, sloppy."

    You should have thrown some sort of witty retort back in his face, but you were stunned silent at the fact that he wasn't slitting your throat right now just to keep you quiet.

    "And no ward of mine is going to be stomping around like the oafs I'm surrounded by on a daily basis. So! If you'd like to further your exploration into some of the capacités I can train you in, as the undoubtedly best of the best in my field of savoir-faire, I would be more than happy to offer my services."

    He had been pacing around, like an excitable new teacher to his prospective first semester class. She looked like she had seen a ghost.

    "...Are you alright, mademoiselle? You look a tad lightheaded."

    It was visible on her face; she was doing all sorts of mental calculations for the exact response to deliver to this boon.

    "So...my life is under no threat right now?"

    ...?

    "Oui, mademoiselle."

    "...And you will not kill me?"

    "Oui," he said with a gentle, reassuring smile on his face.

   . . . . . 

   . . . . .

  ". . . . . Just checking."

    You smacked that smug ass smile clean off.

    "What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole?"

    He rubbed his jaw, very obviously taken aback at your response. But the smile returned. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with this guy?!

    "My my my...impressive swing you have there."

    Oh my God, if anyone's dead now, it's him.

    "You left it for me to find and hoped I'd stir up—what am I, some fucking test subject to you?"

    "I-I merely thought—!"

    "DID YOU? Did you, though—?"

    "—I THOUGHT it would be good to equip you with skills in order to bolster your independence around here. I thought you would appreciate it!"

    "APPRECIATE IT? If you actually wanted to 'bolster my independence,'" you threw on his accent just to twist the knife, "you'd give me any more of a fucking clue what the hell is going on around here! You want to keep me in the dark, but also drop shit in my lap, and then take the credit for expanding my horizons while you know I have nowhere else to go. All the while, I COULD HAVE DIED IN THAT CRAWLSPACE! And then what? You plan on passing on that expertise to a corpse?!"

   Whatever you imparted in your words, a realization in response to them plastered across his face.

    "...You've been speaking with the bushman, haven't you?"

    His eyes narrowed at you. He did not mean that in any way other than pejorative.

    "...I don't see how that's relevant."

    "If anyone has ever had an issue with how I do things, it's him."

    So, those two have history. 

    "I can assure you—and I don't hold it as opinion, it's a fact—the way you do things does have issues, and I came to that conclusion all on my own, thank you very much."

    If you were a bull, smoke would be huffing out of your nose like you were about to charge at him.

    "...Perhaps," he offered as you turned your back to him and paced away, "my communication has been poor—"

    "Oh yeah, 'perhaps,'" you mocked turning back, with only one thing at the top of your mind as your muttered to yourself, "Talking 'bout some, 'the less I know the better' bullshit." You faced him and got up in his mug. "You know what I didn't know? I didn't know that you effectively have clones walking around, and the only way I'm supposed to tell them apart from you is that they were different colors. I didn't know that you have the means to go invisible, which not only defies all laws of human science and reason, but means now I gotta be watching every corner to make sure you are not watching me. And you know what I didn't know?" He sighed, essentially beckoning her to get it out of her system. "I didn't know that you kill people. That Sniper kills people. That you all kill people."

    He had a look you absolutely loathed on his face, like someone hearing their child explain sex incorrectly. "Miss...you are a grown woman. You are not this naïve. I assumed you could have surmised."

    "Okay, yeah, maybe sure, given the mob shit, but that's you...and your job. A sniper could just be a game hunter. A medic's job is normally to keep people from dying. An engineer could do anything that doesn't require killing people. You saw fit to not shed light on any of that, on the fact that you brought me into a lion's den of mercenaries, I guess, I can assume, contract-killers? And for what purpose—?"

    "Miss, the le—"

    "Aht aht, let me guess...'the less I know the better?'"

    More than anything else, what tore him apart about her response to him was that she looked...heartbroken. Defeated. Angered, certainly, but it was the breach of trust so palpable he could see it permeating in the air, like carbon monoxide. She said it the first night she got here, and she wasn't off base in the slightest: what reason did she have to trust him? To trust any of them?

    The Frenchman sighed, realizing he had made quite the error. And he didn't know if the explanation he could give would even mitigate the harm done. 

    "Mademoiselle...for what it's worth, I wasn't lying when I said that; there are certain things, certain knowledge that, for your own safety, you cannot be made privy to. Otherwise, I would have to kill you." She didn't even flinch or widen her eyes when he said that. Like she's expecting that as the inevitable response. She may be moving about the base every day assuming somehow, someway, that will be the outcome. "And," he continued, putting two fingers under her chin to meet his gaze, trying to impart what he had clearly failed to, "even if you don't believe me, I do not want that. In that vein, I do apologize for not shedding light on things that may have prevented more harm coming to your person." 

    He could glean from her face that she understood this, but he wasn't about to dismiss the hurt that she clearly still felt about the whole scenario. She shied away from him touch and tucked her chin to her chest.

    "In terms of the other men here, our jobs are our jobs. For the most post, it doesn't bleed over into our everyday lives—"

    "Oh, 'for the most part?'" she retorted under her breath, still very audible in the intimate space.

    "—Yes, because scenarios, like what occurred the first night you were here, happen."

    She was finding the words, swishing them carefully around in that vaste mind of hers before letting them fall off her tongue.

    "You told me...that my only job was to 'stay alive'...and I don't see how I can effectively do that if you keep me a sitting duck."

    Ah, a perfect segue. "And that is why I have been wanting to broach the subject of giving you more formal lessons, offense-wise and defense-wise. Because, much as I am loathed to say it, both you, and I, attract trouble. It's not something we can avoid, much as either of us would like to. And, to top it off," Taking the book and setting it aside, he put a hand on her shoulder, gesturing her over and sitting her down in one of the plush chairs. He knelt down parallel to her, desperate to diminish some tension, "you have proven yourself quite intelligente, curious, clever. I don't want to rid you of that. Not for a second. Particularly since it's proven quite fruitful in getting you out of that maudit room." At least that got a small sigh of a laugh out of her. 

    He figured it was finally time to act.

    "Tell you what; the first thing I have been wanting to teach you is basic self defense. How about we make, er, a game out of it? A roulette, if you will." He could see her eyes and ears perk up. "Some of what I will teach you will require no tools, entirely for corps à corps confrontation. But some of what I will teach you," he pulled out his balisong, "will necessitate this." He began to flip the butterfly knife around in his hand, dancing with and across his fingers like a practiced partner, before folding it enclosed, gesturing to her. "Both I, and you, soyons justes, have kept secrets from each other. For every hit I land on you, you will answer a question of mine. For every hit you land on me," he reached out to her, encasing the knife in the palm of her hand, "I will answer one of yours." 

    The movement of his gloved fingers over your knuckles, the squeezing of your hand, it was making that murky fog of emotions all the more cloudier, that tension in your body rising to an uncomfortable pressure cooker. You had to steel yourself some, get those pesky feelings out of your head. They wouldn't be helpful for sussing the terms of the current offer on the table; you weren't about to play a game you didn't have the rules to. "When you say, a 'hit' on me, or you...?

    "This is the duller of my weapons. But yes, if we are going to do this, a few stray cuts may occur. It is beneficial you happened to don one of my shirts today;" Oh, did he need to drop that knowledge in your lap? That piece of information only made you more squirmy. "You may experience faint slices, but you at least have something of a protecteur barrier on. But, I do think you need to experience what the weapon feels like, to an extent, so you know what tools you are working with, what risk they pose."

    The grip he had on you was a reassuring one. But you didn't sense a hint of exaggeration, redaction or attempting to assuage you. This was one of those knives that downed the man in the red suit, after all. This wasn't some, "if a man makes you uncomfortable in a dark alley and you have no better options" self defense. This man was a trained killer, had watched you kill someone and he was willing & ready to give you the tools necessary to do it again, should the need arise.

    You took the knife out of his grip and held it in two hands, unfolding it so the blade pointed to the center of his chest. In this moment, it felt right it your hands. And that was all the confirmation you needed. "Alright then."

    Eyebrows furrowed in determination, she became his student in earnest.

    "Magnifique, mon amie."

    Lifting up from bent knee, he offered his hand, not in a normal delicate manner to a young lady, but as a hand he was ready to clasp to seal a deal. And she took it heartily. He pulled her up to standing and began his lecture. 

    "Firstly, today, I would first like to assess your perception. An enemy could be lurking around every corner; as you no doubt experienced the other day, as well as witnessed that horrifique night, the Cloak is something we Spies come 'packaged with,' so to speak, and once in use, there is no way to tell where one is. Or at least," he continued as he flicked his device on, "that is the proverbial wisdom. But, for the more observant, there are certainly tells. Footprints or steps out of thin air," He described it, and they were made manifest. "A light reflecting off of a surface that shouldn't exist." You remembered the one on the watch you had on yesterday. "And even the slightest," You could feel it, "most imperceptible breath." You could feel the heat of his voice in the crook between your shoulder and neck. 

    You whipped around the second you sensed he was behind you, slightly going to lift the knife in his direction, more out of fight-or-flight survival instinct kicking in than any sort of technique. Obviously so, since he quickly snatched your wrist, flipped you around and pinned it behind your back. 

    "Tip #1: never let the enemy get a hold of your wrists. Once they're out of your control, you also lose control of the distance, your position in space away from your opponent and the situation altogether." 

    He was rubbing his fingers over your pulse point, likely to keep your body from misinterpreting this as an actual fight. It did not help the other nagging sensations bubbling under. Especially not as he towered over you from behind. 

    "Can you flex your wrist for me?"

    You did so.

    "Now, you may not be able to budge him, but you can move yourself. Easiest way out of this is to spin under the side of the arm that's pinned."

    Before he even finished the explanation, you did so once again, aiming the knife at his face. He chuckled.

    "Heh, eager, are we? But, what did I just say?"

    Your other wrist now left vulnerable, he grabbed it and the knife flew out of your hand. He caught it like a musketeer with a sword, and took a swipe at your arm. He caught the side of the sleeve, but was dexterous enough to not actually graze the flesh.

    "Un pour moi." 

    If this was how this was going to continue, he'd leave you an open book.

    "Tell me, why all the secrecy around your knowledge of French? Why was it as, what did you call it...'sore spot'?"

    You scoffed. At least he started with a softball. 

    "My dad thought it was a waste of time. That I should be dedicating myself to classes or skills that more directly translated into a job. I tried explaining to him that being multilingual is a skill like that, but he never saw it that way. That was actually the first thing I had to keep from my dad when I was little: that I was learning bits and pieces of other languages."

    Odd. Not that he had time to do much reconnaissance about the family before the kidnapping, but her father had not at all seemed the strict type. He chalked it up to some jingoistic proclivities.

    "Also, that was two questions."

    Oh, that delightful cheek. "Ah, my mistake." Returning it, he added one more slice to the sleeve, taking her off guard and opening a more noticeable split. She even let out a small squeak in shock that he couldn't help but find a bit adorable. 

    "Tip #2: Always have the element of surprise on your side," he said as he flashily twirled the knife around his fingers before folding it, tossing it back to her. As he continued his lesson, he made his way over to the Invis Watch left on his desk, replacing the leather strap with a spare. "Like I mentioned earlier, especially amongst Spies, secrecy is paramount, any way you wish to achieve it. Though," he said as he tossed the refurbished watch to her, being caught midair by her (Dexterous or jumpy? Perhaps too soon to tell), "you'd be a fool not to make the most use out of these." She placed it back on her wrist, eyeing the unmarked buttons. "Top row, third from the left."

    "How do you remember that?

    "Force of habit, practice. If it helps, C is for Cloak, C is the third letter of the alphabet, third button...liens, reconnaissance de formes, oui?"

    "Is this a kindergarten class?"

    "Keep up the good work and you may be granted early admission to école primaire."

    With a smirk and a chuckle, she flicked the button and vanished.

    You stayed bolted to the spot. You knew he could see the sunken area that corresponded to your feet in the carpet. But you wanted to test his patience.

    Slow steps. Agonizingly, painfully slow. You stalked him like an animal eyeing an easy kill. You didn't make a single effort to hide your deliberate footsteps, knowing he could sense exactly where you were. He didn't turn, but without the thick suit jacket, you could see the side of his body tense as you circled around it, like he was prepared for wherever you may lunge at him.

    But you were at it again, testing theories.

    And your suspicions were confirmed when your circle took him behind his back; however imperceptible, he flinched. With all that, "element of surprise" talk, it's no shock that he prefers to do his dirty work from behind someone's back. Seems he assumed everyone else thought the same.

    You weren't the type to play into expectations.

    It happened in a blur, in the span of a gasp. A slightly louder fakeout footstep sent him careening backwards, attempting to grab at your wrist again, but ducking under his arm, you went back the way you came, sticking the knife between his vest and his shirt. You made a playful tear that popped a button off. You ticked the Cloak off so he could look you in the eyes as you said, "Not used to people stabbing in the front, are you?"

    He deeply chuckled. "Is that your question?"

    "Close, but no." You were jesting, keeping the mood light, but you took a beat because you knew you had to get a serious answer out of him. With a much more sobering tone, you asked, "What work do you do here?"

    "Mm, you know I can't answer that, mon amie."

    "You didn't say certain questions were off limits!"

    "But I made my stipulations very clear; you know specifics, you have to die." He said it so jovially, like it was an absolute crack up. "And neither of us want that. Least of all me—I'd hate to lose such amusant entertainment."

    "Fine." You mulled it over in your head; what could you ask him that would give you a real answer. 

    "...What kind of people do you kill?"

    That question didn't faze him a bit. "That cheap-suited rogue whose neck you made an absolute mess of?" She nodded. "Men like him."

    Did that answer her question? A marginal amount. None of the men here snuck into her room and dragged her out by the neck. It suggested something about the character of her fellow room and board, but the frustration at the answer not being clearer to her was palpable.

    Visible, even. That it gave her pause registered on her face.

    He took advantage of it, pinning her weaponized hand to the nearest wall, his own drawn and now inches from her neck. He made it abundantly clear it was a safe distance away, but the angle of his arm across her meant she couldn't move if she tried. "Tip #3:," he carried on, nonchalantly regarding her under his gaze, "Never, and I mean, ever, let them catch you unawares. I slipped up earlier, and you bested me. I notice your innattention, and I returned the favor." 

    Quite literally, in fact, as he playfully moved the knife away from your neck and popped the top button off your shirt. And that stupid foggy storm of emotions you were feeling reveled in the heat of every breath of his words hitting your now exposed collarbone. Enough that it almost made you forget that he had the next question.

    "Yesterday, mademoiselle, when you were in the crawl space...I know that you saw me."

    Shit. You tried to maintain composure. "I'm aware. I saw you turn before I lost my line of sight."

    "But you did see me. Not a question."

    You wondered if he could feel your deep breaths on his neck. You gave a single nod.

    "How much did you see?"

    "...Not a lot. Not much at all, really."

    He squeezed a particularly sensitive pressure point on your wrist that cause you to immediately drop your knife into his grip, now with both weapons in hand. "I don't think you will find lying to me very helpful, mon petit trublion."
    
    It made you wince when he performed the physical action, but you knew it wasn't enough to hurt you. The verbal implication was the much more pertinent threat.
    
    The knives glimmered in his hands, both reflections being mirrored back to you in the shining metal. If you thought you had kept your composure up until this point, your eyes in the reflections, and your realization of it, was the crack in the facade. You needed to get better at lying.

    "It wasn't a lot. Mostly outlines. Your nose. Your hair." As you said the words, your eyes followed where each trait and feature would be. "The most visible thing I saw was your back and a bit of your hand."

    He seemed satisfied with that answer. "I can live with that." 

    There was a silent tension between them. This was a bona fide lesson, between expert and pupil, but he would be feigning absolute woeful ignorance to pretend like anyone who walked in on this moment could interpret it differently. The heavy breathing, the close proximity. He wasn't unfamiliar with this predicament at. all.

    And what's more, she didn't shy away from it.

    He had kept his top grip slightly loosened so she could break free if she wanted to. He even relaxed his arm as he caught the balisongs so she knew she wasn't trapped. But she was very settled in this position. He had bedded enough people to tell when someone needed something of a safe haven to opt out, a word or an action, even if they didn't give voice to it themselves. This was not that.

    She'd describe a feature of his face, what little she saw, and it was as though he could feel lasers from her gaze on every part. She was studying him, sizing him up, trying to see if she could mentally unmask him. Her eyes would periodically soften and, though he was trying to keep this professional, he could feel how her body relaxed under him. And he was certain she felt something emanating from him. What that was, at the moment? He couldn't say. 

    But this was the behavior he and another would normally exhibit before making an absolute mess of each other. Bodies across surfaces. Clothes strewn where they would never be found again. Hands. Lips. Heat.

    Breath.

    Breath he could feel on his neck.

    Breath he saw her react to as it stood hairs on end.

    He begged to himself, Please, for the love of all that is holy, let one of us break this tension. 

    "Quick question:"

    She answered his prayers.

    "Do any of those tips include fighting with any honor?" 

    He hoped he hadn't been wildly misinterpreting the situation. Because, if it was as it seemed...

    ...their bodies would be intertwined the second she proposed it. She'd speak it, and it would be done.

    "Not a bit, mon amie."

    "Great."

    You swiftly kneed him in the groin, freeing yourself and catching the two knives as he dropped them. He doubled over and had to find purchase on the nearby arm of a chair, but to your shock...he started laughing. In fact, quite maniacally, loudly laughing.

    He...he SNORTED?

    You had no choice but to join in.

    What a strange moment of levity. The fit of giggles you had broken into would have been unheard of, even just yesterday. Even this morning. How did this insane scenario pull it out of you?

    And why did it make that feeling in your chest beam and swell?

    As the laughter died down, you walked over to him, handing him his knife back, much to his surprise. There was a thought brewing in the back of your head, and you weren't sure at what point to drop it in his lap. But if this moment had any sort of lightness to it, you hoped it wouldn't bring the mood down too much.

    "You know...I don't think I'm getting the full idea of the risks involved if you don't actually hurt me."

    He regarded you with a much more sobering expression. "Mademoiselle, have I not given you enough of a spiel? What these weapons are used for? What they could do to you?"

    "I know." Your tone was stark, much more leveled. "But someone with as," you said, gingerly grabbing his wrist holding the knives, "deft a hand as yours, I'd assume you know how to do it with any lingering damage. Was that little display on the wall not a demonstration of that?"

    You caught on as he was doing it, and even if it didn't calm that ache you desperately wished you could will away (in all honesty, his tempered, gentle moments may have made it all the worse), it was noticeable enough to bring your guard down. 

    He sighed, dropping and shaking his head. "Even if I do something, it wouldn't be a fraction of what these could do to you, wouldn't be enough to prepare you for that kind of situation. Wouldn't be worth damaging the skin, oui?"

    "I should still know. Unprepared was me the other night, dragged out of bed by a phantom with one of these," you pleaded, referring to the knife you slipped out of his hand. "Spy..."

    He perked up, searching your gaze for the undercurrent of what you were truly feeling.

    "I don't want to be left in the dark." 

    You hated just how pleading your tone sounded, but you sensed whatever truths you could pull out of him would be kicking and screaming. This at least seemed like an easy first step to broach topics he wasn't to keen on opening up about. "If you really want me to use these weapons, it wouldn't be a good idea for me to handle them without knowing what they're capable of, right? Wielding one of these in a way that could get somebody hurt?"

    She did have a point. And the worry she felt about him hiding things from her stung.

    He intended on doing exactly what she asked in the first place. But something was holding him back from deliberately hurting her.

    He just hated the idea that she felt a need to be hurt in order to internalize this lesson.

    "So, what you're asking is that I give an example of what you may experience if an attacker approached you in earnest?"

    She nodded, keeping her stare firm. "If I do that, and your reaction betrays the détermination you have in this moment, we may stop for the day, if not complètement. Are my stipulations clear?"

    "...Oui." With snark and a smirk. He couldn't deny her infectious charm when she had finally come out of her shell. Even if he didn't think what she was asking for was the most sound.

    "You asked me to trust you, right?"

    "Indeed."

    "Well, I'm trusting you right now—that you won't give me more than I can handle, that I can take whatever it is you want to throw at me...that's what I want. Can you trust me on that?"

    His eyes trailed down to her hand on his wrist, and he put his lithe fingers over her own. "Oui, mon amie."

    It happened to also be his Cloak and Dagger-ed wrist. 

    He switched it on and disappeared from her sight.

    If she wanted a more accurate demonstration, he could at least give her a bit of a show.

    Though his presence vanished, there were tells. As the wind shifted when he moved quickly, her hair would fly off her shoulder. She was growing more attentive to the footstep noises, the imprints in the rug, any sounds of breathing. And above all else, she was eager to catch him. Like a house's cat and mouse engaging in their daily play. 

    And as he made his approach from behind, he couldn't help but smile as he was about to make good on his promise.

    But as he went for her wrist once more, he realized that maybe his teachings were actually working.

    Her wrist behind her, she balled her fist, swinging under his invisible arm, pulling her hand free. Not only that, but because she now knew where the hand that grabbed her was in space, she clenched it herself, pinning behind his back in a similar fashion to how he performed it earlier. And, crazy as it sounds, she began searching for where the other arm, knife in hand, had to be. 

    Not only was she learning, but she was actively gaining information at the same time. He hadn't even gotten to to that part of the lesson yet. 

    She pulled him in enough that their bodies briefly collided, before she forced at least one of the knives out of the Spy's grip in a small struggle. His pride at her aptitude aside, once the shock wore off, it would have been foolish to think he wouldn't use his own evasive maneuvers. Pulling out of her grip, now with each having a knife in hand, he turned around to finally get one up on her.

    But she was just as quick.

    And as he grabbed her arm to slice across the same split open shirt hole,

    she whipped her head around, feeling his breath on her face,

    and gave him a matching mark across his cheek.

    The two of them paused, heaving and pained. They both clearly felt the slice of each knife, but their adrenaline wasn't letting any of the pain register just yet. No, the only things registering were where each of them were in space, the most acutely aware of each other's presence the two had been.

    And as the Spy reached down to click the Cloak and Dagger off, revealing himself to be inches from her face, hands still clutched, the both of them looked at each other with a fervor normally reserved for couples on a wedding night, or two aroused strangers at a bar, both as equally passionate to rip the other's clothes off. The tension was so palpable that both balisongs should slice through it, but they were not the focus anymore. No, the only thing either person were attuned to was each other. Heaving. Breathing.

    Smiling.

    The two awkwardly laughed, and the show was over. It had been diffused somewhat, but both parties remained bolted to their spots, laughing and smiling and simply refusing to take each pair of eyes off each other. They are si belle eyes, how couldn't I stare?

    ...What was that thing he wasn't supposed to do?

    ..."Don't get attached to the mark"?

    
    God damn this whirling vortex inside you, and god damn this stupid, hot, dangerous, dangerous-in-a-not-sexy-way, sweet, cold, enigma of a man for making it all the more stormy and complicated.

    He moved out of the high you two had been enveloped in and made way for his desk chair, you now realizing his suit jacket was draped across it. Pulling a pocket square out of his suit, the handkerchief was handed to you, but quickly retracted as he said,

    "Eh hem, unless, you would like my help with that?"

    The "that" in question his head was gesturing to was the side of your arm where the shirt had got cut open, now stained a rosy red. You didn't even feel the sting until you made eye contact with it, to which you clutched your arm and made a goofily pained face. "Whyyyyy, hooooow does it do that?"

    You both couldn't help but guffaw at your reaction, subsiding the pain at least a touch. "I-I do not know myself, I am not the scientist in the building."

    The laughter subsiding, you realized he didn't even notice or react to his own mark, you dumbly pointing and muttering, "Your...um, your—"

    The mask.

    Sliced open.

    And while there wasn't much to see underneath such a small cut, the small amount of blood feathered around the slice was enough confirmation that you had touched skin.

    You didn't know why that thought excited you, but it did.

    "Ah," he replied, wincing as he realized his own injury, "Not to worry. Risque professionnel, mademoiselle."

    You chuckled, and took the offered handkerchief. "I can take it from here." You lifted the cloth up to the cut to stay the bleeding, him pulling out an extra (?) he had in his back pocket, the both of you finding purchase on the lush sofa. You felt a bit burdensome when you lifted the square away, sure that the bloodstain might ruin the accessory.

    "Don't fret about that," he perked up as he saw the concern on your face, "I have plenty of spares."

    "Yeah, I could tell."

    The laughing, always the laughing. This ease, this lightness. Why was it so easy here? How could it be so easy?

    But, there were other more important questions at hand.

    "So...does this mean we each get one?"

    He chuckled at your inquiry, clearly amused that you never set your sights off the prize. "I suppose so." As he supposed, he leaned back into his corner of the couch, one arm propped up to nurse his cheek wound and the other dangled loosely over the back of the sofa, legs languidly crossed. You wondered if it was feel nice to be propped up under that ar—

    Oh my god, shut the fuck up, you lascivious little jack-rabbit.

    "Eh hem," you cleared your throat to ask for clarification, "You first or me?"

    "Hmmm," he pondered, "Lady's first? Or lady's choice?"

    That last laugh made your gaze sink into your lap. You had to ask him, you just had to, and you hoped whatever answer you got wouldn't perturb you.

    
    "Have you ever used the watch—the 'Cloak'—to watch me?"

    He didn't hesitate to clear the air. "I will be honest, mademoiselle, I did, solely in your first week. Toutefois, it was only out of sheer necessity. The period when you first got here, you were averse to leaving your room, understandably so." 

    He watched her expression sink being mentally brought back there. 

    "But you hadn't come out to eat, or for any purpose—I only ever watched you in the name of making sure you were alive in that room. If you are worried I invaded your privacy and watched anything occur, rest assured that action would be the furthest thing from my mind. In fact, often, if the Cloak were off, you would have just seen me staring at the corner of the room as you mulled over which accoutrement to wear." 

    He watched as her face softened, and he hoped his explanation had eased at least some of her worries. 

    "I noticed, erm, that night, you...you had an affinity for my nightshirt."

    He could swear he could see heat flush across her cheeks. "...Can you blame me? It was comfy."

    "Quite. Imported cachemire. You have excellent taste."

    He sleeps in cashmere?!

    "Alright, what say you?"

    You weren't sure if you could call it "fidgeting uncomfortably," but after having been so familiarized and lock onto every little movement, you could notice things physically on him you couldn't before. He was deeply thinking about what to lay at your feet.

    "What do you want out of this?"

    That gave you pause. What could that possibly mean? Or imply? "As in?"

    "Well, I am the one who offered the lessons, but in terms of your arrangement here, what to do while you are, eh hem, boarding here...we are both interested in you having more independence. What is it exactly you would want that could accomplish that, in addition to these lessons?"

    Was he seriously just giving you this? You weren't even sure what exactly of that sweeping grand gesture he could provide, given how sparse much of the accommodations here were. Still, the fact he was offering at all made the gears in your mind turn.

    "I'd like a perusal of your library, if that'd be alright by you."

    He smirked. "Certainly. Just be gentle with certain copies; old things they are, some of the romans in here are quite fragile."

    "Got it. Are the atlases up for grabs?"

    "Oui. You have an interest in travel?"

    "Curiosity, I suppose."

    Or at least, that was part of it.

    There was one question you had wanted to ask him, but you knew you couldn't get it out of him.

    "Where are we?"

    And given how well this interaction had gone, it may have been unwise to continue to do things behind his back.

    But you sensed, given the globe in the room with markings on it, and what geography knowledge you had, and the information this room alone could provide you...

    ...you may be able to figure out your location on your own.

    "Any other requests?"

    She mulled over it in her head; clearly something was on her mind. "If any of the other men offer me lessons in this vein, or speak to me in ways, or tell me things you wouldn't approve of, I don't want any pushback on me or them."

    He shifted under the perceived slight of that comment. "I assure you, mon amie, nothing any of the other men may do bear any reflection of your character."

    "But I don't want you to feel that poor reflection on them, in turn. And I don't want the fear of how any one of you might react to me having more information brewing over our heads. I don't think it'll be conducive to this independence of mine we both seek."

    The Spy could sense she was seeking a bit of a cushion. Ask for forgiveness now, seek permission later. 

    But, honestly? He was more than happy to let her push boundaries. The thought excited him. Not that he could pin down why.

    "Understood."

    "Oh, and, uh, one more question for me."

    "Heh, did you so quickly forget the rules we agreed upon?"

    "No. Look behind you."

    Indeed, as he felt over his shoulder between his blades, he felt a slice: when struggling to get her own butterfly knife back, she had left one last cut through his vest, and even his shirt.

    Mon dieu, she was good.

    "...Well, fair's fair, then."

    "The other one...the red one that looked like you; what'd he call me?"

    "Not in your learned vocabulary?"

    "My turn to question, not yours."

    "...Forgive me, it's a bit inappropriate—"

    "I didn't ask if it was polite conversation. I asked you what it meant."

    "...Cinglee? ...It means 'Crazy bitch.'"   

    All that was provided, in response, was a laugh.

    "Well," she said lifting from the sofa, "I think I may have to call it quits for today. The Medic asked me to come in for a physical."

    "Did he now? And...you think it's a good idea to go in with that?" he questioned, referring to to arm injury.

    "I mean, he's a doctor, isn't he? Surely he's the person to go to about this, right?"

    Do not let her go in there with that wound unless there's a damn good explanation. If that quack gets any funny ideas about doing things with her blood, there will be Hell to pay. "Just make it clear what happened in here today. Wouldn't want to give anyone a false impression."

    "Oh, okay, sure."

    He saw her out, and as she made her way towards the door, he queried, "We can come up with a more formal schedule for these lessons if you'd like. More time to prepare, more structure, things like that may be beneficial."

    "I would...I would like that."

    Her smile tugged his own upwards like marionette strings.

    You made off and bid him farewell for now, a much more confident stride on you than you walked in with.

    And knowing Spy told you he wouldn't hold it against you, should you seek out information from the others,

    you thought, perhaps, that maybe the good Doctor was whom you should take your more salacious questions to.

Chapter Text

THE MEDIC'S INFIRMARY, THE BLU TEAM'S BASE - DECEMBER 27TH, 1971, 12:03 PM

    Yo, Doc, when's that broad gettin' here? I don't need any Feedin' Time delays!

    "Jetzt jederzeit. Patience, Archimedes."

    Yeah, whatever. Hope gettin' all the blood outta the lab was worth that awful chemical smell.

    The doors to the sick bay swung open, and you made your way inside, unsure of how to get Medic's attention. He seemed preoccupied with some paperwork, and that bird you saw the other day.

    The place was sterile, as expected, the fluorescent light over a patient's chair illuminating the green and blue tint of the space. Though, it didn't remind you of a typical doctor's office; save for that one light, the rest of the room was pretty dark, an ominous feeling attached to it, there was a random fridge in the corner and, sticking out more than anything else, that strange contraption he used on you was mounted on the wall above the chair. What did he call it? A med gun?

    Ay AY, that's the cute one I told you about. You didn't tell me she was the one we were waitin' on! If I knew, I woulda preened.

    You didn't have much time to give it thought before the Medic's bird found purchase on your shoulder, leaving you a bit startled as it made itself comfy.

    "Ah, Fräulein! Do you normally enter rooms without a word? Like a movie monster?"
    
    "Oh, uh, no. Hi!" Awkward. You never knew how to respond to his occasionally blunt tone. Sometimes you couldn't exactly tell when he was joking and when he wasn't. "Um...you just seemed busy, I didn't want to interrupt."

    "Nonsense, I'm free as a...well, you know," he said referring to your new shoulder companion.

    "What's their name?" you asked, turning to face the bird; a snowy white dove, with parts of discoloration on its feathers. It seemed to regard you inquisitively.

    "Ah! That would be the mischievous Archimedes."

    The bird nuzzled into the space between your ear & neck, and the ticklish sensation earned a giggle out of you.

    "And, I believe he likes you."

    "Well," you said as you gently brushed his head with the side of your finger, "he's a very handsome bird."

    Heh heh, told ya she had a thing for me. Can't blame her, not with these guns.

    He adorably fluffed his feathers. "Alright, that's enough now, Archimedes." The Doctor made his way around you, and clearly took notice of the cut on your arm. With just the tip of his finger, he lifted the shredded fabric and asked, "Get into any sort of trouble?"

    "Oh, no, no, um...Spy was teaching me some self defense. But, y'know, with his knife. First day using them, I was a bit clumsy...beginner's bad luck and all that."

    SHE LIES. SOMEONE ELSE TOUCHED THIS VESSEL. SOMEONE ELSE DAMAGED THIS VESSEL.

    For as flimsy of an explanation that was, at least he seemed to buy it, his typical grin unwavering. "Ah, keine Sorge, it is what the medigun is for, after all."

    Med-I-gun, that's what it was called. A medigun. 

    "Now, to 'rip off the bandaid', sozusagen." He reached to the nearest counter and held a stack of folded paper in his hands. "I have a gown on hand und a blanket, for your comfort, and a screen back there you can change behind. I do need you to completely strip for the full examination, is that still agreeable?"

    As long as your mind could stay out of the gutter for five fucking minutes. "Sure, Doctor."

    "Normally, these ties go in the back, but given what we need to cover today, I would ask that you reverse the gown, knots to front. Make sense?"

    "Uh, yeah, I guess so." You took the pieces and made your way behind the screen, only realizing once you had disrobed & tied the gown up that it didn't cover much at all. With the blanket, it would hopefully be a non-issue.

    But as you made your way back around to let him know you were ready, you noticed something...peculiar. 

    "Doctor, do you normally do these procedures without gloves on?"

    His bare hands were flattening medical paper across the giant chair.

    You hadn't given much thought to his physique.

    All of a sudden, the mere suggestion that his fingers were slightly thicker let your mind wander up to his arms, exposed with his sleeves rolled up, now noticing they were perhaps...burlier than you might have imagined for a medical professional, to his broad shoulders and—

    Jesus Christ, how the Hell were you going to get through this exam without your infernal thoughts creeping up on you?

    "If you would prefer me gloved, Fräulein, I am more than happy to oblige!"

    Well, thank God that's a hurdle out of the way. "Please, if you wouldn't mind." You found it odd, though. You couldn't remember a time when you or a parent had to specify that kind of thing for a doctor.

    Maybe things are just done differently away from home.

    Snapping two blue gloves over his wrists, you made your way over to the chair, attempting to prop yourself up while still covering your bottom half with the paper blanket. 

    "So," the Medic began as he made his way over to you, "speaking of 'self-defense': how have you been faring since your run-in with that RED Spy? We have kept you as fed as possible, but any verbleibende symptoms? Anything I should know about? I know you mentioned some sort of, er...'tension,' was it?"

    Oh. That. "Not related to that, at least I don't think."

    "Mmhm." As he carried on, he put a rubber cuff around your arm, and began squeezing a pump that made it tighten around your bicep.

    "I, um, think maybe it's just stress given...everything."

    "You are using the word 'think' quite a bit. Any definitives?"

    He took the cuff off your arm and examined a small valve that was attached to it. "Your blood pressure is slightly elevated, which could be that 'stress' you mentioned."

    Yeah. Stress. That's it.

    Not the proximity with this man and his stupid hand on your arm and his stupid eyes staring at you and his stupid jawline that could cut glass—

    "Hallo? Earth to—"

    "Definitives...yeah, definitives. I can...eat. Eating. I'm eating now...Not now now, but in this time period."

    Excellent work. Not suspicious in the slightest.

    Uh, Doc, you sure this broad isn't nuts?

    The doctor merely removed the cuff and shrugged. "Interesting. You have increased your intake over the course of the week, but within the past day you seemed to have not eaten much."

    He was right. In a nutshell, you slept for most of the day yesterday, and hadn't eaten anything since you initially woke up. "...How did you know...?"

    "Dummes Mädchen, it is my job to know! Plus, a little birdie told me you were awfully busy yesterday; no time to stop and refuel. Though I'm very aware nicotine can act as an appetite suppressant, so I'm not shocked you fared alright."
 
    ...

    Did he have his bird spy on you?

    Ay, Doc, lay off on the specifics. Are you tryna scare her off?

    Don't be ridiculous, you thought to yourself. Maybe he just smelled it on your breath or something. Maybe Sniper had talked to him in the interim. Maybe just a lucky guess.

    He took your wrist in his hand, checking your pulse, but seemed to be eyeing your hand curiously. "Anything wrong?"

    "Just merely observing."

    THIS. THIS IS THE HAND THAT ENDED THE RED FRANZOSEN LIFE. THE BLOOD IT SPILLED, OH, THE BLOOD IT SPILLED. MADE THE SKIN RED TO MATCH THE SUIT.

    "Your heart rate is slightly elevated as well. Be honest, Fräulein, does the medical environment make you nervous?"

    Well, it didn't help, that's for sure. "To be honest, I haven't had a doctor's visit in a while. I'm not skittish around it or anything, needles and blood don't bother me, just that I...um, I've never had an appointment as an adult before. As weird as that sounds."

    He chuckled. "Ah, insurance cost must be a wörtlich arm and a leg, ja?"

    "Basically, unless it was immediately apparent that I was dying, it wasn't made priority. And those sort of brushes never happened in my life, if it wasn't obvious."

    ...NEVER...TOUCHED...BY DEATH...?
    

    "No need to fret; you are in gut hands." 

    To that point, he took both your hands in his, examining them for who knows what. 

    "Plus, there's a whole world of new information for you to learn! For example, you show no hygiene issues that would indicate signs of poor health, nor any signs in your nails or skin." 

    He placed your hands back in your lap and gave them a gentle pat. 

    "Additionally," 

    He stood, circling around you and digging throughout your scalp, his fingers gently fingeri—COMBING through your hair. 

    "no suspicious moles, no lice, and despite the stress, no hair thinning." 

    Lifting both arms, he'd occasionally squeeze, pressing in ways that almost felt like brief massages. "However, your muscles are not as developed for someone of your age. Obviously, we must factor in the malnutrition from when you arrived, but this is usually an indication of a more long-term issue. Food scarcity?"

    That was enough to pull you out of the haze. You weren't thinking something like that would get brought up. "Yeah...actually. We...we didn't have much."

    "You came at a günstig time then. Normally, we are in similar dire straits, but for once they have anfangslastig us on supplies. Presumably our superiors did not want us starving to death."

    You'd love to be rapt in his lecture, but he decided to also check the muscles in your legs, and you hoped he couldn't tell the way you quickly moved the blanket, for fear that he might see anything. It was a weird impulse, because you, yourself, were never prudish. But the combination of outward and inward sensations made you almost lewdly paranoid. Like, somehow, your pheromones were so permeating they could become visible and give the game away.

    "We may need to increase your protein intake once again, und Häppchen in between normal eating times."

    Your face betrayed your lack of understanding, eyebrow lifting in confusion.

    "Er, small meals? Treats?"

    "Snacks?"

    "Ja, Exakt! Snacks!" He moved back to one of his counters, lifting a few tools to bring back with him as he carried on. "Especially if you are going to be more active around the base, we need to up your caloric intake with fats, sugars, things like that. Ever try Apfelküchle?" 

    You shook your head as he sat on his chair, lifting a pen from his pocket. 

    "Oh, it is an old favorite of mine, simple to make, as well—bitte, follow this with your eyes without moving your head—" 

    You followed his command. Left. Right. Up. Down.

    "—ever since Hardhat figured out how to amateur fry chicken, we have had more opportunities to liven up our cooking, at least in comparison to die usual Fäule we eat. Next time I am on food duty, I will make you ein Leckerbissen."

    His pen lowered so your eyes were squarely on his again. "...Licker bissing?"

    "A treat. A tasty morsel," he tittered, with light tap of the pen on your nose. The tickle made your face squint up in a smile. 

    Yeah, I'm seein' a pretty tasty morsel myself. And I ain't even talkin' about her liver, although I'd bet it ain't as nasty as Demo's was—

    Archimedes landed on the Medic's lap, the gentleness radiating off him like something out of a children's cartoon. You could only desperately hope to will away your deep-seated "tension" to not make this poor man feel prohibitively awkward while he was earnestly trying to do his job.

    "Now," he continued, lifting a flashlight from his shirt pocket, "stay right there while I further check your eyes."

    There was a bit of an underlying thought you had, watching him perform his regular duties. "So, are you just a general practitioner? Or are you specialized in a certain field of medicine?"

    You weren't expecting him to laugh at that query. "Fräulein, one thing you learn quickly in the desert is this: you cannot afford to be picky. Whatever medical need the men here have, I provide."

    Ah. That's an...interesting answer.

    More tools were pulled from his pocket. "Now, to check your ears—this may tickle a bit." A mild irritation, but you supposed nothing was amiss, since he moved on to some metal rod that looked like a wishbone. "When I tap this tuning fork, please inform me which ear you hear it in the loudest." He struck, and that was much more of a nuisance than the device actually stuck in your ear. 

    "Um, they're both equal? One doesn't sound particularly louder than the other."

    "Vunderbar! No hearing loss, then." 

    He pulled some small device and continued looking in & around your eyes & nose, you thinking to pick the small talk back up. "Is there any type of medicine you find interest in? If you had to pick one field of study?"

    "Hmmm, I must say, anatomy has always been my main calling. The human body is so...fascinating, ja?"

    As he pined on, he pulled out that wooden stick you knew meant to open your mouth and say "Ah." 

    "I suppose it makes me uniquely suited for my line of work!"

    Seemingly nothing to report, as he removed the popsicle stick. "What's the word for it, um...fizzy...Physology?"

    "Close! Physiology." He pulled out a cotton swab. "I will need to get a sample from the back of your throat, so there may be some discomfort. Say 'Ah' one more time for me. Better yet, do it like you are singing."

    Though you were confused, you did as you were told, a light grip on your throat as he slid the cotton swab back to swipe at your throat, only slightly coughing as he did so. You don't know how much the effort on your part helped, but his certainly did, and you were morbidly curious how that simple touch could get your throat to relax.

    Stick to small talk stick to small talk STOP THINKING ABOUT IT—

    "So, physiology. Is that the kind of work you're interested in?"

    As the conversation went on, he tipped your head back, hands holding the side of your neck as his thumbs rubbed various glands under the skin. You did not like the mental images your brain was cooking up in response to that. "Ah, the systems of the body are certainly a favorite topic of mine, but I have always had a soft spot working with cadavers."

    Morbid.

    But, it did remind you one of the reasons you thought to come here. And maybe it was a bad time to ask, with his hands on either side of your neck, but if Spy wouldn't give you straight answers, maybe Medic would.

    "Medic, can I ask you...what do you do for work?"

    He paused all movement, and you didn't love that, at this angle, you couldn't see his facial reaction. "That is a bit of classified information, dummes Mädchen. I am sure the other mercenaries here have informed you of that."

    "But...you are mercenaries?"

    "Yes. We are."

    "And..." 

    You didn't mean for it to come out as a gulp, but as you swallowed, you were made acutely aware of his thumb over your throat.

    "...you kill people? Right?"

    He let your head sink into his hands, focused once more on him, with his same chipper smile.

    "Of course I do, Fräulein."

    THE THROAT IS SO VULNERABLE. EASY TO SPLIT OPEN. EASY TO PUT BACK TOGETHER.

    Alright, now you've done it.

    You weren't sure what look fell over your face as he said that, but whatever it was, he paid it no mind, putting his excess tools back on the counter and returning with a stethoscope to your chair, lowering it in a way that made you leap with a start, sending Archimedes flying up to perch on the medigun. "No need to panic! I am merely moving on to inspect the chest and torso area. We'll start with your heart and lungs first."

    If your heart rate was elevated earlier, you weren't sure there was anything that could tamper it now.

    And yet, that same cat that led your curiosity had no less of a vehement death wish.

    You hoped satisfaction or eight other lives could cushion the blow.

    "I know, no specifics...but can you give me any reason as to why?"

    Stethoscope to chest, just ever so slightly lowering your neckline, he responded, "Why? Because it is a part of the job."

    Did you need these answers that badly? "And...not that I am...implying you should...because I don't live the lives you do...but you don't...feel anything? In regards to that?"

    He let out a chuckle as he moved the stethoscope to your back, the cold of the metal making you much more alert. "Doctors already have to be prepared for patients to die in their care. Many professions deal in death; would those jobs keep getting done if every person doing them felt things about it? Deep breaths, please."

    You honestly thought you would have forgotten to get air in your lungs, had he not reminded you. How was he so...calm about it? Of all the men here, why was he so cavalier about it? About death?

    "Don't doctors have grieving rooms? Don't soldiers feel remorse? Don't men defect from war?" Being so blunt may not have been the smartest move, but you were sick of getting the same things dropped in your lap and being expected to stomach no follow through. It wouldn't sit right if you just simply left questions unanswered.

    "Indeed they do. Although, from personal experience, being a—erm, what is it ihr Amerikaner call it...'conscientious objector'?—is not always easy depending on where you are stuck. Some of us have to get more...creative to circumvent that line of work. And have done it successfully." 

    Your eyes widening, he lowered your back on the chair.

    "You're a defector?"

    Adjusting the light above you, all he gave in response was a knowing nod. "We all make sacrifices, Fräulein. Like you."

    "I mean, I don't know that what I did is anything compared to that."

    "But we all have forces that make us contend with the person we strive to be, versus whom we are expected to be. We all have our own personal Höllen to contend with. You learn how to survive them. It takes time, but you do."

    The silence between the two of you sat like a third party. He said it all so nonchalantly. Like water cooler conversation. 

    Though you wondered if you caught a twinge of his history in his eyes.

    It choked you up a bit.

    Noticeably so, apparently.

    "Agh, no need to waste those on me."

    You moved your hand up to your waterline, not even aware it had begun to water. "I...sorry, didn't even notice it."

    "I do not need apologies, Fräulein. I fear this conversation may have taken a turn for the grim. All these conversations about death, bodies—not the usual für Sie, nicht war?"

    These men and their secrets. You could only huff as he adjusted your gown and blanket, trying to leave you modest but you so utterly aware of how exposed you were. In all senses. "You don't have to skirt around things for my sake. It is all just...new. Different. Everything is. Even things as small as," you vaguely gestured to the entirety of your surroundings, "this. I've never even been put under, nothing close to it."

    "Oh? No wisdom teeth removal? Appendix bursting? If you would like, I can take them off your hands if you have no use for them."

    You both laughed, you silently thanking him for deflating the tension. Whatever the Hell this relationship was, you couldn't make heads or tails of it. There was that feeling at the back of your mind that, given the way he'd speak about cadavers and the like, perhaps something about him should give you pause. And yet, his presence still felt like a comfort to you, all the same. You couldn't explain why. What the connection was. What the kinship was. It just was.

    "I just hate not knowing what I'm in for. This whole situation, everything's so up in the air. And I'd hate to feel like a dead weight simply because I'm not equipped in the ways I shoul—"

    "Stopp." He firmly placed his hands on the the chair. You stared up at his face, for once not peppered with a grin. "Do not torture yourself on my account. Or do. But I wouldn't recommend it. We are not to be envied, Mädchen. Do what you must to feel useful, but trust me: you will be better off not being ingratiated into this life."

    You appreciated the sentiment. But at this rate, you weren't sure you had much of a choice.

    "And, if you are at all fearful, rest assured, I am your doctor now, and you are in my care. No harm shall come to you, not on my watch. Ich verspreche es dir."

    PRISTINE. SPOTLESS. UNTOUCHED BY DEATH. UNTOUCHED BY RESPAWN. WE WILL KILL ANYONE WHO DAMAGES THE INTACT VESSEL.

    "Now, back to business. Do you normally perform breast exams on yourself?"

    Emotional whiplash so palpable it could send your head spinning. Enough that you almost forgot your anxieties. Not that they'd do you the favor of being considerate or convenient. "Uh, I mean, I suppose not. I mean it's not like I've never, ehem, touched them before, but I don't know what I'd be looking for. Lumps?"

    "Ja," he responded, adjusting the blanket so it fully covered your lower half and lifting your gown, beginning to feel around your chest area, ""lumps, discoloration, anything out of the ordinary. Although, I am not sensing anything of that nature."

    You could blame having to look away from him on the light above hurting your eyes, right? You could blame certain bodily responses on the room being cold, right?

    He lowered the gown a touch, now moving on to pressing into various areas of your torso, occasionally lowering the stethoscope to listen to God knows what. "No enlarged spleen or liver; das ist gut. You would not believe what I normally have to worry about when Demo comes for his visits." 

    As he made his way back to the counter, taking Archimedes off the medigun & putting him in a far off cage, draping a cover over it, and writing a few more things down on his notepad, it seemed like maybe your worries had been all for naught, your anxieties dashed. You took one last deep breath, finally ready to put this awkwardness behind you.

    "Und jetzt, all that is left should be a Papanicolaou smear and a pelvic exam."

    "W-wa-w-wait, a what and a what?" you stuttered out as you sat up with a start.

    "I test for all kinds of cancers, tumors, any abnormalities. You should get your test results within zwei oder drei days, though I believe if anything were amiss in that department, we would have known by now." 

    He was saying this as he was gathering more medical supplies, not taking in your startled reaction at all. He only got it once he turned around and saw you wrapping your arms around your legs, trying your best to mimic a lock & key under that flimsy paper blanket. He sighed, making his way over to you, pocketing whatever tools he was planning on using so they were out of your view. 

    "Fräulein, if it makes you feel any better, you are not special." 

    Comforting bedside manner. 

    "We each have had sexual wellness exams, all kinds of screenings. Even I got tested! It is all standard procedure around here. If you are worried because I normally work with men instead of women, I can send you our Frau Pauilng's testimony; she will tell you I am 'up to snuff' regardless of what is between your legs!" 

    He had an almost gleeful smile, and it didn't ail your worries at all.

    "Perhaps we both should be more direct: what appears to be the, how you say, 'roadblock' here? Never had a pelvic exam before?"

    You bashfully nodded, "That's...part of it. I hear it's painful."

    "It is painful if the dummkopf performing the procedure has no clue what they are doing. Luckily for you, that is not me. Have plenty of lubricant, and I can even keep the medigun on you to assuage any worries about tears in the case that you are, well, you know—"

    "I'm not a virgin." 

    You said it curtly, knowing where he was going and not even wanting to entertain that query. He pursed his lips together, as if he wasn't expecting your defensive response, but also leaving the floor open for you to meekly follow up. 

    "...Me and my friends...we got it over with...with each other."

    "Mmm...'got it over with,' is an interesting turn of phrase to put it as, but I will take your word for it. But I take it penetration has been painful? Any lubricant used or nein?"

    You looked away & shook your head, sure that the heat in your face had to palpably radiating off you and not wanting to be in this conversation any longer than absolutely necessary. 

    "Aw, tsk, du armes Ding. Not to worry, Fräulein. I give you my word, no pain this time, not unless you ask for it." He playfully wiggled his eyebrows as a wicked giggle came out of his lips. 

    It almost spurned your own, but you were still shifting under your clutched arms. He sat on the edge of the chair, just an inch away from your toes. 

    "You said that is 'part of it'; what is the other?"

    How could you tell him? You desperately didn't want to make him uncomfortable, but you worried it would be all the more obvious as you squeezed your legs together. 
    
    His eyes flit down at your body language, and he promptly chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, I see. This, er, 'tension' you mentioned earlier...would not happen to be sexual in nature, would it?"

    You let your head fall on your knees, hoping you could at least be embarrassed to death and be free of this torment.

    "Well, that is great news!" 

    You looked up from your crook of shame, confused and annoyed. 

    "In that, it is a problem with an easy solution. A few minutes of pleasuring yourself und schnell! Good as new!" 

    Back into the crook of shame. 

    "Aw, Fräulein, what is the matter? Do you not pleasure yourself?"

    "That's not the problem," your muffled voice grunted out.

    "Then what is it? Oh, are you in need of any devices? I can put an order in for something more centralized to clitoral stimulation, if you'd wish?"

    Now, you knew he was just messing with you. "What are you talking about?"

    "Stimulation of the clitoris, one of the most important components to vaginal stimulation!"

    You squinted your eyes, clearly very unclear of all his medical jargon.

    "Do...do you not know what a clitoris is?"

    Your eyes went from annoyed to confused to staring up at him in wide-eyed humiliation.

    "Oh Gott in Himmel, you made a sex pact with your friends but you do not know basic female anatomy?!"

    "IT WASN'T A SEX PACT! We didn't have any sort of sex ed! We just had to sort of learn by doing, and the only thing to do was...y'know...each other."

    "Has the pill not been on the market for almost a decade now? What kind of convent were you raised in?"

    "Well, sorry I was born somewhere that was intent on rejecting free love like the plague! I didn't get a lot of choice stuck in flyover country!"

    "Ugh, amerikanische Ausbildung," he huffed, removing his glasses and rubbing his temple between his eyes. As he put them back on, lightly laughing to himself, he said, "So. You are dealing with unaddressed sexual tension that you cannot properly address, because you do not have a grasp on what body parts you need to be stimulating, and you are worried, because it has been left unaddressed, about your responses to me touching you. Is that correct?"

    You nodded, trying to will yourself back to his gaze. 

    "No wonder you have been so skittish."

    So, he had noticed. Oh joy.

    "It's not like I haven't tried," your voice meekly retorted. You wouldn't have called yourself "sheltered." Perhaps "inexperienced" was a more apt descriptor. "Clumsy", even.

    His eyes looked at you at least semi-sweetly, and you guessed with a twinge of pity. "Well, if it is all the same to you, you could scream bloody murder and it would not perturb me or distract from the procedure. I have seen much worse; you should see Scout during his colonoscopies." 

    Cheap a laugh as it was, it came out of you all the same, and the Medic was more than happy to join in. 

    "Although," he trailed, smoothing out his coat, clearly about to ask a potentially difficult question, "I will say, whilst I am performing the exam, I could give you a—er, what was it—a 'crash course'? So you have more of a grasp of ihre Autonomie. The medizinisch specifics may escape you, but we can start from there so you know exactly what I am doing. No sense in keeping you in the dark on my work, ja?" 

    Your head rapidly nodded, way more reassured than you were only moments ago. But he had one more suggestion up his sleeve. 

    "And, if you would like...I can relieve that tension for you."

    Your eyes went wide. That, you were almost certain, was not something a doctor normally does. Obvious as it was what he was implying, you thought if he said it any more bluntly, you might combust.

    "You can use it as an Ausgangsbasis, at least to get one orgasmus out of the way. It can make it much less of a mountain to climb. Again, only if you would be interes—"

    "I would."

    It was too quick a response. You knew it.

    And potentially risky; you did not know this man. But you were desperate to get this out of your system, by any means necessary. And, just as the others had insisted before him, he said he was committed to not hurting you. The words alone may not have meant anything, but what weighed more heavily was that, evidently, if any of them wanted to, they were more than capable of having done so already.

    And they hadn't.

    So if your Medic was offering, who were you to say no?

    "I-I would like that, Doctor."

    "Well then, lean back, bitte. Let's get you feeling better."

    Once more, he leaned you back in the chair, tilting it so you couldn't see over the paper sheet, breaking out two stirrups at the chair's base.

    "Bitte, place your feet in these; they will help the process to go smoother if I can see clearly."

    You dug your heels into the straps as he adjusted your postion, having you scoot farther up to where you were spread wide open. You let your eyes train on the ceiling above, trying to slow your thumping rabbit heart down.

    He pulled up a chair and got to work.

    "Erst, feel the gloves on your skin?" he said, both hands finding purchase on the inside of your thighs. You nodded. "Verbal responses, Fräulein."

    "Y-yes."

    "Ah, sehr gut. Just don't want you to jump out of it once I begin. I am going to place some lubricant on the vaginal area. May be a bit cold to the touch. Can you keep your breaths an even keel für mich?" He paused.

    "Yes." You said it more forcefully this time.

    "A fast learner, kluges Mädchen."

    It felt like a jelly melting against your center, and though you initially squirmed away from it, you focused on your breathing, determined to muscle through the nerves. It did seem to warm up after coming into contact with you.

    More noticably, his fingers against you, spreading the substance around, felt intoxicatingly delicious. The only way to offset immediately letting out an absolutely obscene noise from your mouth was to suck your bottom lip and let your eyes go so wide they could pop out of your skull.

    He carried on. "Feeling alright?"

    Merely alright?

    You thoroughly exhaled before responding, trying to sound blank. "Yes."

    "Then I will continue. Now," 

    He moved his fingers slightly lower. 

    "the actual vaginal opening is merely this, the...well, opening. The rest are as follows;" 

    They began to trail around your core. 

    "your labia majora is the skin cushioning the outermost part of the organ."

    He let them gingerly play with...with...your...

    Your brain was starting to go fuzzy. 

    "The labia minora is the folds directly surrounding the opening. Und then, top to bottom, we have your prepuce, clitoris, and urethra. The lattermost is for urination purposes, the formermost is to shield the clitoris, and said clitoris is...well, we will return to that in a moment." 

    He reached for the next tool that, once he lifted it up and you saw it, it looked like something someone would use to fish lobster out of a tank.

    "Ah, not to worry, I have rubber covers for these." 

    He quickly shoved two ends of the device into plastic caps, and you supposed that did seem a bit, a skosh, an iota, more comfortable. Even if your brain was still on guard, just in case, at any minute, that thing grew fangs.

    "What happens next will likely be the two most discomforting parts of the exam, so, weider, deep breaths, sich entspannen." 

    You inhaled.

    "Sehr gut, Fräulein."

    And exhaled.

    "Keep going."

    Inhale.

    "Relax."

    Exhale.

    The device made its way into you, as you tried to hold the exhale, but a sharp intake of breath through your nose followed the intrusion. 

    "Da sind wir, half of the worst of it is over, just keeeeep relaxing, let the pain begin to numb."

    You began to breathe the way you had seen pregnant women on TV breathe, as his lubricant-covered fingers slowly felt around, both in and outside you, the Medic noting things on his nearby notepad.

    "And..." you tried to force it out and tried to tamper the strain in your voice, "...you're saying this is...less painful than it normally is?"

    He carried on his exam while continuing the conversation with you. "Ja, ja, awfully barbaric, isn't it? The men here are hired mercenaries, die Besten der Besten at their jobs, and if you told any of them that a metal speculum had to go up their most available hole? They would be running around like screaming school children!" His usual chuckle flitted across the air, not wavering the palpable stress manifesting in the wincing of your eyes or the lines creasing your forehead. "Und you lot have to do this yearly! Unless you want ovarian cancer sneaking up on you."

    "You'd think somebody'd come up with...mmph...something less...less...less this."

    "I suppose some doctors are sadists."

    Over the top of the blanket, you could see him pull a long cotton swab.

    "Inside here is the vaginal canal, and the farthest thing we will reach back here is your cervix. Now, I know I keep saying it, but I implore you, bitte, relax for me. You may feel a bit of pressure as I am getting a sample."

    One of his hands was gently caressing your thigh, and you tried as hard as you could to focus on that hand and not the other one.

    When he finally got through it, what got you was less the pain (though it was there) but more the shock and confusion that it didn't feel how you'd expect. You expected something sharp and stabbing, like a sword piercing you, but instead it was profound pressure, the kind you'd expect from someone pressing a boot against a brick wall.

    But he made quick work of it, and thankfully, it was over as quick as it began. "Probe entnommen," he muttered to himself, depositing the swab in a plastic bag and placing it somewhere on the counter. At the moment, you could not care where he went with it. "Und the worst of it, done. Let's get this out of you, ja?"

    The speculum was removed, and the emotions swirled through you; thankful it was over, confusion over the physcial feeling of it all, and one annoyingly irking feeling:

    all of a sudden, you felt so utterly empty.

    "There you are, Fräulein, more of those deep breaths, theeeere you go." 

    His gentle cooing made every inch of you relax, his hands back where they were on your thighs. And you were all the more certain you were in desperate need of them somewhere else.

    "I can feel your muscles unclenching. You know, the nerve endings in our bodies; awfully sensitive things, no?" 

    It was subtle, slight, but you could feel each hand as it moved back

    and forth

    creeping just

    a bit

    upwards.

    "In as short as 150 milliseconds, nerve signals are traveling from that wunderbar brain of yours, receiving information, making decisions as to how to react, issuing commands to various muscles, telling them to relax...all happening faster than you can blink."

    You weren't sure if he had used more lubricant, or if there was leftover on his gloves. Or, an idea that set your nervous system ablaze, leftover you on his gloves.

    "It seems your synapses are thoroughly entertained," he breathed, continuing the motion, getting ever closer to where you wanted him, but you knew he wouldn't give you that satisfaction yet.

    Him and those damn verbal responses.

    "...Medic...?"

    "Hmm? Something amiss, Fräulein?"

    You'd be pulling these responses out by their hair. "Can...can you move...higher? Please?"

    He deeply chuckled. "Aw, so polite. But I told you I would be helping you cross this hurdle, and in order to do that, we need to exercise patience."

    "But...I just want it over with."

    "You keep saying that: 'over with'. I can imagine you have already attempted getting it 'over with'; quick and painless. How has that been working out for you?"

    His snark finally got a noise out of you: a frustrated groan.

    "What is that saying? What it is when you try ähnlich things over and over again, expecting different results?"

    You hoped he could somehow see you rolling your eyes. "The definition of insanity?"

    "Well, it may not be accurate, but it is awfully unproductive, no?" 

    He finally let his hands wander further, thumbs beginning to caress over your hip bones, almost pulling a whine from you, not even certain you successfully suppressed it.

    "So, we are going to take things slow. It is no secret that the body creates its own lubricant, but what is necessary to conjure it is the feeling of arousal. The buildup, the tension, the anticipation..." 

    So close.

    "...Mentally und physically..."

    So. Close.

    "...Every sensation communicating to your brain that feeling...arousal."

    It dripped from his lips like blood on his teeth.

    "Until....."

    A hand found purchase on the crook of your thigh, just centimeters from where you needed him.

    "...I can simply do..."

    He took his thumb

    "...this."

    and swiped it up from your core, collecting your wetness, and taking it up to the top of your cunt, circling some nerve that ripped a pleasureful, whimpering shriek from your vocal chords.

    And he carried on. Unfetterd. Unwavering. "As I mentioned previously, this is your clitoris, oder clit. One of the most sensitive parts of the vaginal organ. You remember those nerve endings I mentioned previously?"

    You think your brain may have tried to send out a "Yes," but the resulting, stuttering response was up for debate.

    "This spot? Eight thousand of them. And that is a vorsichtige estimate."

    As if to prove his point, his motion over the button flicked over the side of it, and you silently screamed. Your body was beginning to move independently of your whims, and all he had to do was press a hand between your stomach & hip, leaving you unable to squirm from his touch.

    "See what I meant when I said how important this is for stimulation? I would wager this already feels better that your previous attempts."

    "Yes...God, oh my God..."

    "Not God, meine liebe, Man. Man-made pleasure. Pleasure you can perform yourself, just as I am now."

    You hoped anything you could do to yourself would be able to replicate his minstrations, even a measly amount. A fraction of this kind of pleasure would satiate you more than anything you had clumsily performed on yourself before.

    "Now, sometimes you may feel as though you do not need extra lubrication for penetration, but we will exercise caution today." He uncapped the bottled and doused his hand, all whilist keeping your hip firmly in his other grip. For as brief of a moment his finger left you, it felt like centuries, until two found their way back to your center,

    languidly running them up

    and down

    and up

    and down

    beginning to circle your hole.

    The moans left you effortlessly like a dad getting cigarettes.

    "Not to beat the already battered corpse of a horse, but deep breaths, bitte, für mich. Relax, Fräulein, let yourself relax."

    Ever so gingerly, one finger circling your entrance made its way into you, forcing you to bite down on your lip to try, at all, to not appear a lewd mess. You couldn't help but zero in on the movements, back & forth, every time his finger made his way in & out of you, grazing every inch and curling up in a way that your toes just had to mimic. The need for his stimulation had your cunt feeling like it was sucking him in. If that all wasn't enough, you could hear him, just faintly, deeply sighing. You could swear you felt the rumbles in his chest, from his voice, like a cat purring, moving through his fingers, vibrating your insides.

    It was an utterly addicting chain reaction. And that was just with one finger.

    "How is it feeling? Gut? Schön?"

    You had to give him answers or you knew he'd stop. He was already keeping this at a grueling pace, but every time he needed a response from you, he'd slow to a near crawl. "Yes, Medic, yes, it's...shit, it feels...really f-fucking good."

    "Heh heh, such vulgarity for a young lady. By all means...no need for plesantries on my account."

    He rewarded the obscenities falling off your tongue with a second finger, making it harder to hide your moaning behind your forcibly shut lips. He'd keep thrusting at an even pace, occasionally scissoring his fingers to spread you open. 

    You could feel how wet you were.

    All the while, his other hand kept soothing you, his thumb caressing your hip, and adding just the slightest bit of pressure from his palm over your torso. 

    You could hear how wet you were.
    
    This had to be the peak of how good this could feel, right?

    . . .

    His fingers found a pad of flesh inside you that nearly made you scream. 

    "That vunderbar sensation you are feeling is your g-spot. It is comparable to a male prostate, or to your own clitoris. Coined for Herr Gräfenberg! Marvels of the discoveries of modern science." 

    You had tried your hardest to keep up with his lecture thus far, but whatever he found inside you turned your brain to putty, and was ripping absolutely pornographic moans from your throat.

    "Oh, du armes Ding," he said, sounding so much more lascivious now, "I am afraid you may not be able to hear me over your köstlich whining und stöhnend. Well, it's alright. The most important thing to note it this: all of these sensations individually feel incredible, don't you think?"

    You wanted to respond. You really did. Thank him. Beg for him. Kiss his feet and offer to cook his meals until the end of time. But all your voice could muster was another high pitched whine.

    "I need an answer, bitte," he teased as he slowed down to a painful halt.

    "Ye-e-es, yes, f-fuck, feels so good, Medic, s-so goo-fuck." It felt so small coming out of you, no matter how desperate your pleading.

    "I knew you would agree, kluges Mädchen. Individually, quite satisfactory. But, when you combine these sensations?"

    With that, an added third finger welcomed itself inside you in a "come hither" motion, while the palm of his hand rubbed your clit, and you couldn't help yourself but start to cry from how overwhelmed you were. It was all just so good. You couldn't believe this was how it could feel, every time. Even less could you stomach that you had only been doing it to "get it over with" this whole time.

    And it seemed he was affected to. For all his professionalisms, he couldn't stifle the groan in response to your involuntary chorus. Yet, what got you wasn't even that. It was that he started cooing at you, softly soothing, "Shh shhh shh, I know, Fräulein, I know. It is all quite intense. Just relax for me, ja? Let it wash over you. Deep breaths for me. Thaaaaat's it, deeeeep breaths. You are doing so well, just keep relaxing for me." 

    You tried to follow his instructions, but you could swear it only made your insides more sensitive, whether from whatever said deep breaths were doing to you physically or what his praises were doing to you mentally. And physically, to be honest. The only thing that kept you from admitting that every word of his that lilted in your ears was going straight to your cunt was whatever modicum of pride you were so desperate to to cling to. In light of this, the only thing you could attempt was your hands flying to your mouth to hide your whimpers. He wasn't having any of that.

    "Tsk tsk tsk," he looked at your with mock pity, standing to his full height, taking your wrists in his free hand and pinning them to your stomach. His other hand didn't stop for a second. "Nichts davon. We cannot relieve this tension if you hold it in, including in your throat."

    "I-it's—" you stuttered out "it's e-embarrassing."

    "Ah, on the contrary. I would say, in my professional medical opinion, the noises coming out of you are Absolut schön."

    "...Me-eani-ing?"

    He articulated each word with a thrust of his fingers, hitting that sensitive spot over, "Lovely."

    "AaaAaAAH—"

     and over, "Sweet." 

    "JeeEEsus, Doctor, I—nngh—"

    and over. "Precious."

   TEAR THIS PRECIOUS BODY IN HALF.

    You were trembling, closing in on something you couldn't describe if you tried. You had orgasmed before, sure, but this was different. Something was building, you were reaching a crest you knew you were going to fall off of quickly, and the Medic was not intending on delaying it.

    "M-MedIC, Medic, w-wait, I-I'M—"

    "I know, meine liebe. You're close, aren't you?"

    "Yes, f-fuck yes, bu-but I—"

    "Go on."

    At this angle, he could see how your face contorted in ecstasy, how every attempt at masking your pleasure proved futile, and just how much he was affecting you. And you were getting an eyeful yourself: he was so measured in his tone, almost gentle, but the authoritative look he had on you and his upper half leaning over you made you feel so diminutive. So vulnerable.

    And it excited you. 

    All you wanted to do was just sit there and take everything he was giving you. 

    But you had no idea what was coming next, no idea how to prepare. Whatever the hell this was, it was different.

    "I feel...f-feel something..."

    "Mmmh, I wondered if this might happen. No need to fret; female ejaculation is perfectly normal. And trust me, the lab is well equipped for mess."

    His eyes were fixated on yours, a grin so vampiric filling his face, it spurned you to come just to the cliff's edge.

    "Please...Please, Doctor..."

    "You are right there, meine liebe. Come for me."

    The air was sucked out of your lungs.

    Eyes rolling to the back of your head, 

    your back arched under him like you would snap in half. 

    You let go. 

    You could feel yourself releasing onto his hand, and more than likely his arm, but he didn't stop. Not for a God damned second did he stop. He had you riding through your release, cries of his name hoarsely torn from you as the rolling orgasm quickly caught up to another.

    All the while, his temperament didn't budge an inch. But he began to derail into German, and in your blissful orgasmic haze, you couldn't keep up in the slightest.

    "Seeeeehr gut, Fräulein. That's it, hör nicht auf zu kommen, abspritzen immer wieder für mich."

    He milked every last drop out of you, only slowing down once you had devolved into nothing but shudders. Even so, his hands didn't leave you, choosing to gently wean you off his touch as opposed to leaving you cold turkey. You felt exhausted, but incredibly so.

    "Another successful procedure."

    When it all finally came to an end, he quickly made way to his sink, wetting a towel and gingerly cleaning you up. Every time you'd wince at the returning contact, he'd put the hand on your hip back and mutter soothing things to your limp body. He seemed satisfied with the job done, returning to wash the towel and dispose his gloves, returning to you with a water he fished out of the fridge, returning the chair to its upright position.

    With a hand at the small of your back, sat up enough that you wouldn't choke on it, he took your chin in his hand and lifted the water bottle to your lips. The waterfall rushing over the rocks that were your post-screaming, now-shredded tonsils was sublime. You felt absolutely spent, in a way where you could easily fall into your Doctor's arms and forgo walking for the rest of the day.

    "Oh! Almost forgot a blood sample."

    He pricked your finger and you didn't even flinch, doing whatever else he had to do that you mentally refused to register.

    "Stay with me, meine liebe, look alive. Verbally, bitte; are you feeling alright?"

    That same hand that held your chin tipped under it once more to get your eyes on him, dazed as they were. "...More than," you mumbled with a drunken smile.

    He was quite amused at your state. "I must warn you, I cannot guarantee that every orgasmus will prove for such fruitful results, nor do they need to. Responses like the one you just had are quite rare, but obviously...quite satisfactory."

    You could only chuckle to yourself in response. "If I could get even slightly close to what you just did on my own, I think I could die happy."

    "And you can! As long as you do not stay stuck in the same routine; that is what experimentieren is for. And one's own body can prove quite the fruitful subject."

    His lulling voice was not helping the state of things, buzzing in your ears and filling your mind with thoughts absolutely depraved. And you didn't even care to push them away. You welcomed it. The haze had no place for shame.

    "That a normal thing you do?"

    Evidently so, given your lack of filter.

    "Well, usually not on work hours. But, it is a service I provide when asked!"

    "How often do you get asked for that?"

    "Let a man have his secrets," he said with a playful scrunch of his nose.

    "That's aaaaalllll you all have. Secrets secrets secrets."

    Oh, you were gone.

    His laugh at your jest was enough of an indication of that. "If it helps, Fräulein, I may be willing to speak more bluntly, depending on how the circumstances here develop. You are a bit of a curiosity to me."

    "You gonna study me or something?"

    "Perhaps. Something like that. I believe you could have quite the brain to pick. For now, let's get you to a shower and cleaned up. Make sure you don't lose half the day."

    Oh lord. It couldn't be later than 1 PM. You did have the rest of the day to contend with. And given your current state, you absolutely did not want to. You didn't even know how you'd stand up to shower yourself.

    "Do I get to study you in return?" Any-Other-Time You would be smacking Current-Circumstances You upside the head for being so brazen, only lucky that Medic didn't seem to have any reaction to it other than his chipper smile.

    "Ah, now that is an open book! Cut me open and examine away! I will even give you an organ to go!!!"

    He chortled maniacally, and you couldn't help but join in. Never mind the...potentially worrisome undertones.

    But as the laughter finally died down, he gently put a hand on your shoulder, meeting your gaze with sincerity. "I meant what I said earlier, meine liebe. I am your doctor, entrusted with your care. You have a problem, you can come to me. Even if it is out from under the worrying eye of our masked friend," he said, with a wink.

    Another day, another ally. As far as you could tell.

    As long as your cohorts kept proving their mettle to you, maybe, just maybe, it'd be enough to finally put your anxieties to bed. 

    Maybe, even, for good.

    PROTECT. THE. UNDYING. VESSEL.    

Chapter Text

COMMON AREA, THE BLU TEAM'S BASE - DECEMBER 27TH, 1971, 2:53 PM

    ~ We were dancing, and he led just like you used to ~

    ~ He squeezed my hand and teased me, just like you used to ~

    ~ And so close to my lips the words came ~

    ~ That I almost called your name ~

    "Bagsy on the next spin."

    "Aw c'mon, I thought you liked this record?"

    "I do! But it's throwin' me concentration! I need somethin' a wee bit smoother."

    "I reckon you just don't like that y'all're gonna lose. I mean, I wish y'all could see how bad I'm kickin' your tail."

    "Ah quit yer haverin', Toymaker, I'll have ye on the ropes soon enough."

    "Mmm mmm mmh mmph!"

    "See! Even Mumbles is on me side!"

    "Alright, less yappin', more playin'."

    ~ I almost called your name ~

    ~ In so many ways, you both are the same ~

    ~ The only difference in the two is that I, I still love you ~

    ~ Yes, I kissed him, but I almost called your name ~

    Demo moved the white piece across the board, and the Texan knew that Eyepatch's goose was cooked; the white Pawns and Rook may have surrounded Scot's King, but all it would take is Engineer moving his Rook or Queen in to take Demo out from behind. The frustration was palpable on his pal's face. Almost adorably so. It's not his fault he went up against someone of the Engineer's background. Eleven separate PhD programs left a surprising amount of free time for Chess Clubs.

    ~ I almost called your name ~

    ~ In so many ways, you both are the same ~

    ~ The only difference in the two is that I, I still love you ~

    ~ Yes, I kissed him, but I almost called your name ~

    The record was winding down, the fire Pyro was maintaining crackling in the background. The winter may have made the days shorter, but the trio were hanging onto the the few hours of chilly sunlight they could get, even from the dusty windows. 

    "Mm, mmh mmmmh.....mph mmph mm?"

    "Yeah, the body got shipped back...although..."

    "Oh? 'Although'?" Demo questioned, getting up to switch the vinyl.

    "Well, ya see, the Doc asked if it was fair to return the favor after their Medic had Frenchie in his fridge for however long. And, y'know, I figured fair's fair."

    The Scot chuckled, "You know good and God damn well that's not gonna end well!"

    The other two men returned the laughter, Engineer rubbing the back of his neck. Sure, he knew that. But it wasn't himself getting his hands dirty. Plus, what's a little friendly fire between teams? "Listen, all I told him was that he had a few days before the body got shipped back to be Reanimated, and that whatever happened to it in the interim is none of my beeswax."

    "Heh heh heh, whatever happened to it, eh? Poor chancer, laddie never stood a chance."

    "Yeah, hate to see the poor sucker that opens that fridge lookin' for some iced tea."

    "HA! With Sawbones doin' the job, he'll be footerin' around enough to make that snake a RED smoothie!!!" 

    The men descended into cackles.

    "Still," Engie sighed, "I'm sure all parts have been shipped back at this point. Doc might be...well, ya know how he is, but he's never one to muck up a task that'll get the Admin's foot on our necks."

    Demo poured two glasses and brought them back, two large ice cubes in each. Sat in the, at best, adequately plush couch & chairs, it was about as comfortable as it could get for an evening in. Although, given how long they'd been cooped up like skittish chickens, this was becoming less of a weekend relaxation routine and more of a method to till the hours away. It was this or rotting in their rooms. At least the Engineer had a workshop to toil away in; having something to do with one's hands at least gives some kind of purpose, something to stave off the stir-crazy.

    With the TV fuzzing in the background and the men chuckling & chatting, they didn't notice the kid walk in. Not until she cleared her throat and asked, "What're you guys up to?"

    Engie acknowledged your presence first. "Oh, hey there, kiddo! We're just hangin' out, playin—"

    "Say, lass...you been takin' a dip with Nessie?"

    Demo's eye was squinting at you, like he was trying to comprehend something odd about your appearance. "Oh, um...?"

    A chuckle huffed out of Engie. "Uh, I think he's referring to your hair. His vision's a little impaired under the influence."

    "O-oh! Uh, yeah, I just showered, just didn't feel like drying it."

    Following the...informative appointment you had with Medic, even getting patched up from your lesson with Spy (certain that the only reason you didn't immediately freak out upon your wound instantly healing from that medigun he kept touting was your come-down haze. At the moment, you were fine to let that one go. Out of sight, out of mind), feeling your clothes on a now very sweaty body, amongst other excess feelings, a shower sounded like the best next step. 

    And honestly? You felt pretty damn great. Maybe it was the post-orgasmic glow, but you knew part of it had to be attributed to your various run-ins. Your self, physically and mentally, had been through something of a ringer, you could easily surmise, even if the initial inception of your situation wasn't a factor. It was only just beginning to settle in your body that, barring the worries of escaping, nothing immediately terrible had come about. What "worst"s you had feared, at least for the moment, weren't coming to fruition. And your protectors were only looking to ease your worries, or equip you to dash them yourself.

    Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to indulge in that, at least for a moment.

    "You're welcome to join us, if'n ya wish."

    "...Sure. Whatcha playing?"

    "The oldest sport in the book."

    She sat down on the opposite end of the couch, trying to shift into comfortability, eyeing the pieces on the board. 

    "Want me to fix you somethin', lass?"

    "Oh, I'm alright, but thanks, Demo."

    The Engineer leaned her direction with an arm over the back of the couch and a playful smirk. "I told him a Scotch Game didn't entail literal scotch, but I reckoned if the rules were 'Drink every time your opponent gets one over on ya', I'd be stayin' stone cold sober all the same."

    "Alright, quit faffin' about and move yer piece." 

    Rook moved behind King. Check.

    Demo took a swig of his glass and took his King diagonally. Easily circumvented.

    Rook behind King. Check.

    Another drink; Demo's glass was already almost empty, King inching a space over. Cornered.

    Queen behind King. Check.

    Glass emptied, Demo went to grab the bottle to top it off again.

    Pyro waved at the girl, fingers flapping like a sea lion. She sheepishly smiled and waved back.

    The Scot tried to use his Rook as any sort of line of defense. Unfortunately, no dice.

    Queen moved over, now diagonal to King. Check.

    One more drink down, a small bit of concern etched across the girl's face. "If you don't mind me asking, will you be alright having more of those?"

    "Oh, dinnae worry about me, lassie. This liver's seen much worse than some watered-down swally!"

    "He's not exaggeratin', trust me." 

    Again, she smiled. She was shifting some; the Engineer wondered if she was still a bit nervous around them.

    You did feel alleviated after getting one out of the way, but you assumed reaching that peak meant those feelings gnawing at you from the inside would subside. 

    And they did...for the most part.

    But there was still some nagging awareness that wouldn't let you go.

    Engie's hand sat nestled just inches away from your shoulder. 

    Demo's fingers curled around his chin, pondering his next move.

    Even Pyro, every so often, absentmindedly looking over at you.

    God damn it. Medic may have hindered more than he helped.

    You needed a distraction.

    "I can see ya eyein' the board, quine. Whatcha see?"

    Demo to the rescue from your faculties. "Oh, um, just, y'know...observing."

    "Ah, ya ain't foolin' me. You've played before, haven't ye?"

    "...Yeah, actually. A fair bit."

    You could see Engie cock an eyebrow up. 

    "How could you tell?"

    "Havin' only one of these," he said, referring to his eye, "means you're attuned to the finest of details. That, and I got an intuition like a psychic."

    "Might could be the paranoia talkin'."

    Though Engie was dismissive, you could see in his eyes he was only playfully teasing. 

    "Well, gaun then! Why don'tcha join me team?!" He pulled a chair up next to his side, and you were, admittedly, pretty keen to get in on the action.

    "Now, hang on a tic, that doesn't seem fair!" Engie jested with a chuckle.

    "Merely askin' for pointers! No cheatin' in that!"

    You giddily made your way over to Demo's side, watching Engie shrug, fine to let you have your fun. You imagined he must have thought that his opponent was merely being chivalrous, not anticipating any sort of additional challenge even up against two players.

    Other than, of course, the unpredictability of you in the mix. Unfamiliar with your tells or your strategies.

    And you were more than happy to give him a lesson.

    How cute.

    Wouldn't do the opponent well to have a cute little distraction, but cute nonetheless.

    She whispered in his ear, keeping her eye on Engineer as she did it, a smile curling up her cheek. In lieu of the frightened little church mouse they had been introduced to, he had to get used to this new mischievous scamp. 

    Off of her suggestion, Demo moved his King out of its protective bounds. An expected move, but at least it'd help the poor guy shake up his strategy. The Engineer moved his Bishop to the opposing end.

    New Kid whispered in her partner's ear again.

    Demo's Rook took a pawn...huh.

    What exactly was she playing at?

    The opposing King was still left wide open, to which the Engineer countered by moving his Queen to Check again. One point against the opposing team.

    And yet, the two opposite him were exchanging gleeful smiles. She even gestured towards the glass, silently asking Demo for permission, before taking a sip herself. He folded his arms behind his head.

    What the hell was she brewing up in that impenetrable mind of hers?

    She, herself, took the King and moved it back in its enclosure. Engineer's face may have been screwed up in confusion, but she kept the same unfazed smile. 

    Even if the frustration was momentary, it did warm something in him to see her happy.

    Unsure of how to react, Engineer moved his Rook to bolster the protection for his own King, mimicking her tactics. Seemingly so, anyway.

    However, a pawn keeping up defenses on Engineer's side was quickly taken by his rival's Queen, figuratively and literally. 

    But the move didn't make any sense. All the Engineer had to do was take the Queen with his Rook and—

    The Rook.

    He moved the Rook.

    And that was all for New Kid to move the Black Rook, right in line with his own King.

    "AND KABOOM!!! THAT'S CHECKMATE, BOYO!!!"

    You couldn't help but laugh at Demo's excitement, jumping up from his seat in celebration, and the palpable frustration on Engie's face. Your little distractions seemed to throw him off enough that he completely lost track of the rest of the board, and he fell right into your trap. You almost felt bad at how easily he got swindled. Even Pyro was pointing and laughing at him.

    "Now hold on there, pardner," Engie piped up defensively, "I'm not sure you can claim victory when the little missy over here was givin' you pointers!"

    "Well," you said, trying to diffuse, though you were sure his sulking wasn't too serious, "maybe a rematch is in order. When I beat you then, fair and square, does that count?"

    Whatever kind of gall was overtaking you truly left you as unguarded as you had been with them. Forget curiosity, your cat might get killed by sheer cockiness.

    "Y'know...Hell, if it keeps puttin' that sunny smile on your face, I'm more than game. You're on, kid." He offered his hand and you shook on it.

    His gloved hand.

    You only then noticed that he only had one glove on, the other was bare.

    Interesting.

    "Although," you gingerly offered, "I do think you probably owe Demo a drink. Since we're following rules and all that."

    Without any prompting, Demo had already returned with the bottle. "Bottoms up, laddie!"

    "Alright, don't get your drawers in a twist." He popped the cork and swigged the rest of the bottle down.

    "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"

    "MMPH! MMPH! MMPH!"

    You clapped along, hoping that not cheering along with Pyro and Demo would technically keep you from being culpable if Engie drank himself stupid. You wondered if he was trying to show off a little. But you anticipated that whatever Demo's tolerance was had to be light years ahead of Engie's. It didn't take a bomb expert to know that the Demoman knew how to throw them back like water.

    The board was reset, and you each took your sides, leaving you to make the first move.

    A White Pawn moved forward. He moved his to mirror it.

    You moved your Knight, flanking the Pawn. He moved his Black Knight forward.

    Quickly, all four Knights were out in a square; the four pieces on the board, and the two of you sat parallel to Demo & Pyro, eagerly awaiting you smoking Engie like his own barbecue.

    Besides, how long could a match take anyway?

    Hours passed.

    Engineer and the new girl, locked in heated combat. 

    Demo and Pyro's heads flitting back and forth like a tennis match.

    Other members the team would pass through and watch every now & then. He could pretty quickly tell which of the mercs she had already grown more familiar with.

    Medic and Heavy made their way through the kitchenette, Heavy offering to make her a sandwich, which she seemed more than happy to accept. She was still on pretty polite footing with him though, as opposed to Medic, who was cracking the kind of jokes he normally did around the team at her. More puzzling, she didn't flinch or find them off putting. Although, the Engineer couldn't tell if somehow, in the interim she had been here, she had quickly acclimatized to the Doc's brand of crazy, or if she wasn't truly clocking how much truth was behind any & every stolen organ joke.

    Scout made his way through briefly to get a beer, stopping to watch the festivities. She sheepishly offered him an apology, (for what, the Engineer wasn't entirely certain, something about her "skipping out" being a "misunderstanding") to which he quickly accepted, not a hint of hard feelings, joking that he figured she was "taking notes" on his "stealth techniques". Whatever the resolution of that ended up being, she seemed awfully relieved afterwards. 

    The Soldier made his way through, barking about his patrols (i.e. he saw the same salamander make its way across the vast expansiveness of nothing and had pretty much nothing else to report). Though guarded may have felt too extreme, she definitely didn't seem as familiar with him. More cordial. The Engineer thought maybe he should talk to Demo about inviting her to hang out with the two of them, let her see him in a less uptight context. He wasn't all that hard to be around, once he could decrease his decibel volume a tic. Then again, if that was the goal, a hangout with Demo, of all people, might be counterintuitive.

    What shocked him the most was her demeanor with Sniper. They seemed to have made a lot of headway in a short amount of time, being a lot more friendly than Engineer'd expect him to be with anybody. He even stuck around to watch the match, just as her Knight grabbed up another one of her competitor's pawns. 

    "Seems Booksmarts here isn't the head honcho of intelligence anymore, eh? You been givin' me ol' cobber a good thrashin'?" 

    He leaned down a bit, faux-whispering to where everyone could hear, but it made her giddily lean in, like she was hearing a particularly salacious piece of gossip. 

    "You better serve him his head on silver platter, sheila. Make us proud."

    He left with an absolutely fiendish smirk on his face. 

    Engineer noticed the flitting, downturned eyes, the batting eyelashes and the attempt of smile-hiding of someone liking the praise they were receiving.

    Noted.

    The two kept on like this for some time. It was fairly evenly matched, and it seemed like there was no end in sight. Pyro had even flipped the TV on to watch a movie in the background.

    The Texan may not have been on the ropes just yet, but he wondered if it would behoove them and their sleep both to call this a draw...

    ...when something shined in her eyes. Something past his head that she was looking at, made that faint smile creep up her face again, being channeled into a renewed vigor that sent her Queen to pick up the Engineer's Knight. While her head was down at the board, he turned around to see what she was looking at.

    Spy, leaning on the wall of the hallway, beaming at the whole display, giving a slight nod to the Engineer, and leaving with a self-aggrandizing smile.

    ...

    Cocky bastard.

    You needed to finish this game.

    Not that you were about to give up any time soon.

    Fuck that.

    But you didn't think it'd be a great look to pass out and start drooling on the board.

    It seemed Engie noticed your tired eyes, but even if he didn't, your lion yawn immediately gave you away. "Ya sure you don't wanna call it quits, missy? I'd be more that happy to call us even. You gave a pretty good fight, after all," he mused as his Bishop seized your pawn.

    "Not a chance. You're not getting away that easy." You were starting to wonder if alcohol, orgasms and lack of sleep were the solution to all your problems, freeing you of any pesky worries about pissing off a mercenary.

    Your Queen moved forward, parallel to his King. Check.

    "I guess I shouldn'ta expected any less." His Rook moved forward, a feeble attempt at a block. He knew his King's days, hours, minutes, seconds, were numbered.

    You moved to take the piece, situating the Queen right alongside his piece, sleepily flicking it over as wood clashing signaled your victory.

    "Checkmate."

    "YALDI! Thank the lord above, finally. Ye could've given it to 'er two hours ago when she had your bleedin' nobleman cornered."

    Engie laughed under his breath at Demo razzing him, a rosy smile across his cheeks, extending that same gloved hand to shake yours once again. "Good game, kid. Say," he continued, moving off the couch and towards the fridge, "all that know-how come from anywhere in particular? Mathematics your area of expertise?"

    Never mind the oncoming stupor, don't give too much of yourself away. You've probably already let on too much with these strangers as is.

    "Oh, it was just something I picked up in my spare time. I was pretty good at math, I just never pursued it much."

    Engie continued the conversation while he heated some leftovers. "Well, that's basically all chess is, buncha probabilities! Combin' through each scenario till ya find the exact solution you're lookin' for." The microwave whirred on, a small silence permeating the room. There was something else he was driving at. "I only ask cuz, well, I wonder if maybe you'd wanna stop by the workshop sometime, try your hand at some of my machines."

    "Really? You'd let me?"

    "Heh, 'let,' you're always welcome in, sweet pea. But, you'd be gettin' some hands on lessons with a certified expert! Could teach you how to repair our Sentries, run experiments on the Teleporter, things of that nature."

    "Teleporter? How many of you just have gadgets that just defy the laws of physics?"

    Okay, that was definitely too much, him looking back at you bemused. You supposed it was mostly water under the bridge now, but you realized you hadn't told him about your whole ordeal from the previous day.

    "Sorry, long story."

    "Well, you can tell me all about it the next time you stop by." He grinned as he sat back down, breakfast for dinner in hand. He offered the plate towards you, and you took a slice of crispy bacon as an evening snack. Demo made his way over with another glass, parking himself next to you in a way that almost made you fall into him. Pyro seemed to want to get in on the coziness himself, scooting up to the base of the couch and leaning back, just shy of where your feet landed, sat cross legged, relaxing in the comfort of it all.

    How illogical. Comfort. Amongst these men. Men for whose professions you knew, to whatever degree, involved death.

    It didn't matter. In this moment, in the culmination of all that had transpired, all you had witnessed, and regardless of whatever might come to pass, you felt your body relax like it knew the most logical course of action was to soak it all up while you could.

    Monroe and Curtis fawned over each other in the background on the buzzing television. You'd never given much credence to romance, thinking the lot of it couldn't be chalked up to more than silly escapism. Fun escapism, to be sure, but not within reach of this reality. 

    But what you knew of reality was crumbling to pieces day by blessed day. You realized maybe, just maybe, things you thought weren't in reach of your wildest fancy & fantasies may be more tangible than you realized.

    Maybe these romances aren't so farfetched after all.

    Maybe there's a world where you didn't live in heartache anymore.

    Maybe there's a world where you didn't live in fear anymore.

    And, at the moment, maybe it was still closer to fantasy.

    But perhaps, if you thought that fantasy should be made manifest, you could will it so.

    It couldn't hurt to indulge.

    Just a little.

    "Oh hey, Demo, did you get your updated list to Pauling? She's stoppin' by tomorrow morning."

    "Mmhm, anno, nothin' other than the usual, though. Not unless they ran out of copper."

    "...Do I need to be worried about this...'Pauling'? I keep hearing that name thrown around...I don't know if she knows the extent of my whole...situation."

    "Ah, I wouldn't fret too much, darl'. Pauling's been a pal for us down here, and she's damn good at her job. We can explain the gist to her without gettin' into specifics, I'm sure she'll understand. 'Sides, I'm sure she'd love you."

    "You seem so sure about that. I'm not sure I'd automatically love somebody who will probably make whatever my job is harder."

    "Ye needn't worry, lass. Haven't been nae bother to me, not Toymaker or Mumbles here. I'm sure a canny one like you'll be nothing but a charmer to ol' Pauling."

    She seemed to take that reassurance to heart. Or maybe, the sleepiness was taking over, her nod fading into another yawn as she rubbed her eyes. "Jesus, what time is it?" Her head was starting to bob like it could roll off onto Demo's shoulder.

    "If you're needing a kip, lass, ye can coorie up to me. I've heard from Soldier I'm not to shabby of a pillow."

    "Oh, jeez, sorry Demo, didn't mean to—"

    "Aht aht, naebodie minds. Dinnae worry yourself."

    Engineer let his hand gingerly reassure her, perched at the edge of her knee. "Seriously, you're alright, darl'."

    She didn't give way to it immediately, still fighting her head lolling forward into slumber. But after a moment, the Engineer could see her out of the corner of his eye, cautiously look over at Demo, before letting her head relax onto his shoulder. He smiled warmly down at her.

    All the while, that Gunslinger never left her knee.

    Gloved.

    Detached from any real contact.

    This may have been irresponsible. She was so ignorant to any and all of the realities they faced on a daily basis. Even putting this idea in her head, that this was the standard fare for their evenings, lounging and basking in mutual comfort, instead of scrubbing the blood off their clothes, weapons, skin, teeth, was a foolish fantasy.

    But they still had a few months of Winter left.

    Maybe it wouldn't hurt to indulge in the fantasy.

    Just a little.

??? - DECEMBER 27TH, 1971, 8:59 PM

    "Whoooowee, shift's almost over. I do not get paid enough for this shit."

    "And of course, everybody's fine and dandy leavin' me out here without an extra set of hands. Yeah, don't matter that we're one short, leave all the busy work to Hardhat, pfft."

    "Where was that note the skunk left me? I mean I guess it's been past the deadline he mentioned..."

    "Heh heh heh, well, well...good night, Irene."

Chapter Text

YOUR ROOM, BLU BRICKING AND BOARD - DECEMBER 27TH, 1971, 11:59 PM

   It had been a day.

   A foggy walk back to your room left you with an indescribable grog. You faintly remembered saying goodnight to Demo, Pyro and Engie, but you could only really perceive the immediacy of the here and now, dimly lit by the bedside lamp, flopping onto your bed.

   And yet…

   …you had an itch in need of scratching.

   Partially because those nagging thoughts hadn't totally quieted down, and partially because Medic had gifted you with the delicious curse of knowledge.

   You flipped over, eyes at the ceiling, hands relaxed over your stomach, with a thought tiptoeing through your mind:

   This room is soundproof, right?

   The cheshire grin tugged at the corners of your mouth.

   You tried to heed the Doc's advice, deeply breathing and taking it slow, letting your hands wander. You tried to envision it more like gently playing with lace you didn't want to rip, rather than desperately fumbling with a key you were trying to lock a door with.

   Slow.

   Gradual.

   Patient.

   Taxing.

   Agonizing.

   Frustrating.

   At the button on the top of the slacks you donned, you gave up any semblance of composure. Popping it open, you snaked a hand under the waistband, rubbing over the top of your undergarments. But, evidently, old habits died harder than your build up. You'd feel the climax coming, and it would fall out of your grasp as easy as a feather. Even if you slowed down, it only added to your frustration, balling your other hand into a fist as it tugged down on…the sleeve.

   The sleeve that, despite your medigun-healed wound, still had a slice in it, the cool air dancing across the hairs on your arm.

   The sleeve of, you reminded yourself, his shirt.

   That certainly gave you a mental image.

   It certainly wasn't as pronounced at that black undershirt, but like sensory memory, the mere reminder that this shirt was his made the faintest traces of cologne aerate in your nose. Your fingers started to scrape across the cotton, bunching up the fabric between your fingers, buttons accidentally popping open, the collar brushing against your collarbone. Your other hand dove towards your clit, mimicking the motions that brought you to that peak before.

   "…S…"

   It's soundproof.

   "…S…yy…"

   No one can hear you.

   "…..Spyyyy…"

   He can't hear you.

   "…Spyyy…fuck…Spyyyyy…"

   Right?

   "Fuckmefuckmefuckme…Spyyy…fuuuck…"

   It eeked out of you, faint and choked in your throat. You were so, oh so close. You just needed a final push. And you realized it might not work behind the brick wall of gritted teeth.

   The room was soundproof.

   You caved.

   "…..mmph…..Spyyyy…..SpyyyyYYY—!"

   It took seconds.

   The doorknob clicked.

   Your voice cut off.

   The door opened.

   You leapt up to sitting, yanking the blanket over your lower half.

   He walked in.

   "Mademoiselle, is something the matter? I heard you calling for me, are you hurt?"

   FuckfuckfuckthinkTHINKTHINK

   "Sorry, sorry, it's nothing, I-I'm fine. I'm fine…..Wait, how did you hear me? I thought the room was soundproof?"

   "Oh, the door is not the same matériel as the walls. Have you not noticed that?"

   Shit.

   Truthfully, you had noticed the wooden door. You didn't think much of it, but you wondered if the thought in the back of your mind had always been there—that your hermit lair hadn't been as cordoned off and private as you thought.

   Jesus Christ, how much had he heard? How much had any of them heard?

   "Are you certain you're alright, mon amie?" he said, moving closer to you, perched at the edge of your bed. In the faint light, his visage became more pronounced; he must have been about to turn in for the night, donning his typical slacks and white button up, sans vest, but the shirt was unbuttoned, low enough that you could see the top of his muscled chest.

   "Fine. Fine."

   Eyes up. Short responses. Don't look.

   "…'Fine'? Are you sure? I understand if you would prefer to be left alone, but you seem a bit, er…flustered."

   "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with, Spy. Promise. Just…" He put his ungloved hands in his pockets, and the fact that you even registered they were ungloved made your eyes widen. Noticeably wide.

   "Why am I getting the nagging feeling that there is something you're not telling me, mademoiselle?"

   It was hard at this angle to keep anything from him. Standing in front of your curled up form, he towered over you, head tilting and sussing every minute change in expression crossing your face.

   Maybe it would be easier to just tell him. It'd certainly get this stupid weight off your chest. But…

   "…..It's just…embarrassing."

   He gently scoffed. "How so? And pray tell, why would you think I'd judge you for it?"

   He moved just an inch closer to you.

   "You think this in an unfamiliar predicament for me to be in? I'd assume you'd know better than that, astucieuse femme."

   Something mischievous twinkled in his eyes.

   "I am, after all, overwhelmingly familiar with my name being cried in arousal."

   You wondered if he could sense how clenched your jaw was, how tight you were clutching your legs together, how hard you were swallowing to quell this ungodly thirst, because an absolutely sinful smirk widened across his face when you reacted to that statement.

   "I-I…I am so sorry, Spy," you whispered frantically, trying to eye the middle distance to see if it would save you from this humiliation. "I was just trying to…get something out of my system. Your name just…came out. I promise, I didn't mean anything by it, a-and I don't need o-or expect anything to change about our situation—"

   "And what, exactly, were you trying to…get out of your system?"

   You think if you ask Sniper nicely enough, he'll use you for target practice?

   You hoped that maybe, just maybe, if you got it out quickly enough, it wouldn't decibally register.

   "IwastryingtogetmyselfoffI'msorryI'msorryIdon'tknowwhyIsaidyournameIjustwantedtogetitoutofmysystemandsleepIjust—"

   A warm chuckle left his chest. "Mon amie, no need to apologize. And, if it would ail your worries, I'd be more than happy to assist."

   You stared at him, dumbfounded.

   If a silence could be any more pregnant, it'd be in labor.

   "…Wh…..what?"

   His eyebrow cocked up. "It can get lonely, être seul out in the desert. We're human, we have human needs. It's not uncommon for any of us to seek sexual satisfaction in one another, if both parties are willing. However, obviously I wouldn't dream of crossing that boundary with you unless you wished it so. Er, what is the expression…? 'The ball is in your court', so to speak."

   "…..How can you be so…casual about this?"

   "Would you prefer me scandalized? Horrified? Disgusted at a woman simply giving herself over to plaisir? I am not so childish."

   "It's ju—I just…I don't know."

   "Besides, I don't imagine it would be very helpful for any of those 'feelings' you mentioned, whether you wish to indulge them, placate them or dash them," he mulled, seemingly turning to head back towards the door. "If you want me to leave, pas de souci, I will simply leave you to your own affairs—"

   "Wait."

   He had barely taken a step away from you, stopping deadbolt and locking eyes with you.

   "I don't want you to go."

   His head tilted. Like a curious pup.

   "I…I want your help."

   "…..My help with what?"

   "Ugh…" you groaned, head lolling forward, chin tucked, eyes low in unease, cheeks warm with fluster, "you're gonna make me say it?"

   "I would not dream of doing anything unless you explicitly asked me to."

   Thoughtful on his part.

   "…..I want to get myself off. And I want your help."

   "Thought so."

   "I just…I want to do it myself. I…I don't think I'd be comfortable with…us…doing this. At least not to the, um, fullest of fullest extents."

   "Perfectly understood, m o n  a m i e ."

   You sighed with relief. Although your own reaction stirred something uncomfortable in your stomach. That that was your immediate reaction.

   Shouldn't that be the bare minimum?

   Has it always been that bad?

   That this felt like such a boon?

   "I just want…help. And I'm not sure what that looks like. I don't even know what to ask for."

   "All you need is to ask, and it will be done." He closed the distance between the two of you, stepping up to the edge of your bed, looking down at you, hands casually sat in his pockets. "Lead the way, mademoiselle."

   Your eyes were sizing him up, trying to find some glimpse of a proverbial downward-gravity prone shoe. He wasn't moving an inch beyond his spot. His tone seemed genuine. His eyes seemed kind.

   Bastard.

   "Just…guidance. That's all I want. That and, uh, getting out of my own head, I guess. I want to stop feeling like I can't do this on my own."

   "I have all the confidence in the world that you are more than capable of bringing yourself to ecstasy, all on your own. You aren't far off; une grande partie du concept of pleasure is mental, so any internal, er, 'roadblocks', so to speak, are going to make it much more difficile. And we can't have that, can we?"

   "Wouldn't prefer it."

   "Then, where would you like me? Where would you like to be?"

   All on you, then?

   You furrowed your brows into something more steeled, deep in thought as to your next move. But in all honesty, the thought at the front of your mind was, Fuck the overthinking. Act. You let your body fall where it wished, sinking backwards into the mattress, an exhale releasing from your lungs and relaxing your muscles even further. Your fingers pressed and scraped into the mattress, trying to ground yourself.

   "Shall I remain here?" he lilted playfully.

   The smile naturally crept up your face. "Maybe a little closer…"

   He moved an inch up, his knees brushing up against yours. With your legs dangled over the bed, your toes brushed up against the tips of his shoes.

   You couldn't help but chuckle. "Okay, closer than that."

   A similar laugh rumbled in his chest, coupled with a cheeky smirk. Your snark was returned with him, ever so slowly, leaning over you, a hand on either side of you sinking into the mattress. "How's this?"

   You tried to tamper down the breath hitching in your throat at the maneuver. "…Better."

   He grinned, adjusting slightly, not in any way where he drastically moved, but enough that you were so utterly aware of his weight over and around you.

   You glanced at his collar.

   Another one of those white shirts.

   Like the one on you.

   "I will say, if I am to être utile, I need to be able to…see what I am working with," he said, chin gesturing to the spot in between your legs, still in pants, still partially obstructed by the blanket. Only the messily undone button and a peak of what was underneath gave anything away. "Cela vous ferait-il plaisir, mademoiselle, if you took charge here? Or, shall I?"

   "I-I can do it."

   A tad awkwardly, you moved to the waistband, trying to shimmy the slacks and your underwear down while still pinned between his arms. Your eyes darted between his and the garments, not sure which would slow your heart rate. Tucking your knees up enough to push the slack off your feet and onto the ground, you slowly sunk back down to your original position, albeit with your thighs shut tight.

   Spy noticed.

   His eyebrow lifted, as if to say, "You and I both know that's not enough."

   You took a deep breath and closed your eyes, letting your legs fall apart, fully exposed for him.

   "Très joli."

   If he makes it that easy, you'll putty in his hands in seconds.

   "Now, should I assume you want me to…?"

   "…Take charge? …Provide instruction?"

   "Mmm, similar to a professeur? Or is that a fantasy we should explore another time?"

   "Ugh, don't put that imagery in my head."

   "Heh heh, not to your tastes?"

   "I'm trying to exercise some resilience and that imagery'd somehow make it even more difficult than you are making it, all on your own."

   His laugh melted your insides. And while it did spurn your own, it was as much as you could muster that wouldn't be an immediate apology for how brazen you were being.

   "Dans ce cas, I want you to repeat what you just did. Another exhale, si vous plaît."

   You followed suit. Your hands, of their own volition, instinctively moved towards your stomach.

   "Aht aht, pas de ça. Hands remain at your sides, until I tell you otherwise."

   "…B-But, how am I supposed to—?"

   "You said you wanted to get it over with, and that has not panned out as you had hoped, non? So, I will teach you to exercise restraint; patience."

   …Did you tell him that?

   You could've sworn you only brought that point up with Medic.

   You thought all you had said to Spy was wanting to get it out of your system.

   Maybe you were just imagining things.

   "Continue your breathing. Close your eyes, if it helps you to relax."

   You did.

   "In through your nose…"

   Again.

   "…Out through your mouth…"

   And again.

   "…Inhale…"

   And again…

   "…Exhale…"

   And…again…

   "I want you to focus on the sensations you're feeling in this moment. Your hairs standing on end, the blood flowing through your veins…"

   Your face reflexively scrunched in aversion.

   "Not a pleasant feeling?"

   "…The room…it's so quiet…I can hear…too much…sometimes."

   "Then I will make sure you aren't plagued by silence. Think more outwardly physical, what do you feel on your skin? The skin of your appendages, your limbs…"

   "…I feel…the sheets…under my fingers…"

   "Mmhm, go on…"

   "…The air…on my face…"

   "Nice and cool, oui?"

   Light laughter left your smile as you said, "Yeah…I…I feel…"

   "...Yes?"

   "…you."

   It was true. His legs had moved enough that they were touching the bed, just on the edge of your legs, keeping them spread apart. You just barely moved your leg, and you could feel the texture of his trousers lightly scraping against the inside of your knee. He shifted his own leg, just a touch, pushing the sensation to the front of your subconscious.

   "What else, mon amie?"

   "…Your…your shirt…on me…"

   That remark certainly pleased him, a low hum of approval following it. "Givenchy suits you well, mademoiselle. I'm not shocked you'd find it quite confortable…although, finding you like this in it, I cannot act like it doesn't…spurn something in a man…"

   "Mmmmmm…"

   "…watching a beautiful woman…"

   "…nnnnngh…"

   "…writhing in   h i s   shirt…"

   Whatever he was doing, it was working.

   "What else are you feeling?…Go on…"

   As little as it was to go on, it was relegating your mind to a delightful fuzziness, enough that it was growing, ever so gradually, increasingly harder to concentrate on giving him answers.

   "…Tingling…like…electricity…"

   "And…where, exactly, are you feeling this…'tingling'?"

   "…E-everywheeere…"

   You wondered what his face looked like from behind the backs of your eyelids, seeming quite pleased at your mewling. "I want you to try and focus it to a point…feel that tingling…at the top of your head…And don't let your breathing stop."

   How taxing to have to concentrate on multiple things at once.

   Breath forced itself out of you, trying to keep that relaxation grounding you but, as if a sparkler was lit on your cranium, you could feel where he dictated you to fixate on.

   "Feel the sparks, the electricity, trickling its way down the sides of your head…down your ears…down to your nose…over your cheeks…"

   As if the air around you was fizzing, like airborne soda pop. You could almost feel that wonderful sensation crackling in your ears.

   "Feel that tingling slowly, eeeever so slowly, spreading down your neck…over. every. inch."

   There was something so visceral about it. It almost felt like something physically touching you.

   You wished he was touching you.

   "Dancing across your collarbone…across your shoulders…letting them sink eeeveeen deeepeeer."

   What the hell was building in you? You could feel it so distinctly, but you weren't sure how with no tactile stimulation.

   "Let the tingling trace itself across your chest…lifting up and down…as you continue breathing in and out…over each breast…over your nipples…"

   You were suddenly aware of the shirt continuing to fall further open, wondering what all he could see. Or if his own imagination was running as haywire as yours.

   "Making its way down, down, down your torso…the sides…the back…..the front…..lower…..lower….."

   You wanted so badly for him to push that fixation ever lower, to be pushed where you wanted.

   He wasn't about to make it that easy.

   "Hold it there."

   You audibly groaned, edged away from something barely tangible.

   "I know, I know. Keep breathing, ma coquinette, hold that sensation there. Feel it building, spreading, growing…"

   He had you at his mercy off of so little. You'd utterly hate it if it wasn't making you feel this good.

   "Now, I want you to focus on that same feeling, that same buzzing spark, at the absolu tips of your fingers."

   He made it manifest. Like magic.

   "Over your nails…brushing your knuckles…caressing your wrist…"

   It was all the more painful hearing that with his hands painfully close to yours, not moving an inch.

   "Up your arms…back up to your shoulders, spreading, once again, across your collarbone…your chest…her peaks…as your lungs inhale…and exhale…"

   It was getting harder to control the feeling, starting to feel like it was genuinely moving separate of your own whims. Harder still was it to control the faint sounds escaping your lips.

   "Bringing that spark down…lower…and lower…joining le premier…spreading farther…and farther…hold it there."

   You almost childishly stamped your foot at that. "Spyyyhyhy, pleeeeease."

   "Patience, mademoiselle, patience, I've got you, je promets. Once more, I want you to feel that electricity, that délicieux tingling sensation, at the tips of your toes…"

   As if to drive the knife in, he slightly slid the tips of his shoes under your toes, never letting you forget his presence around you.

   "…Across the tops of your feet…wrapping around your ankles…"

   Pictures were appearing in your mind. His hands. Around your ankles.

   "Up your calves, over your knees…"

   He brushed up against them.

   "…Spy…please…"

   "…Up these ravissant thighs…"

   "Spyyy…I-I…nnngh…I…"

   "…Just ever. so. slightly. creeping up. Wanting to join that spark where you so ardently need it most…"

   "…S-Spyyyyy, I…pleeease…"

   "'Please' what? You will have to be more spécifique."

   "…Nnnnngh…please…let me…let meee, pleeeeease….."

   "Ask it, mademoiselle, and it shall be done."

   "…..Pleeease, let me come…please, Spyyy, pleeease let me come…"

   "It's alright, ma coquinette, you're right there. Let the feeling spread through, let it light your center up from the inside out, let your body release, let yourself come, come again, over and over again."

   You didn't need to be told twice.

   Electrified was an understatement. You felt an orgasm reverberate from your core to every end of your body, a feeling so intense you felt that your spine might snap from its arch. It was no short burst either, elongated and pulsing like a current, shocking you in ways you couldn't hope to predict, enough so that one rolled gradually into another, not knowing where one ended and the other began.

   Spy never let up on his cooing ("Yeeeees, that's it, mademoislle, juuuuust like that, let it go, let yourself go, let it aaaall go…"), lilting in your ears, only serving to pull more cries of pleasure from your lips to his ears. His groaning only spurned you further, wanting the feeling to last for as long as humanly possible.

   Only when it finally subsided, all tension leaving your body, did your eyes lazily open, his visage still unwavering, firmly on you.

   Seems his breathing was about as rugged as yours.

   "…So. How did that feel?"

   "…..H-How…how did you do that?"

   "I didn't do much at all. You did that. All on your own."

   "You…you were the—"

   "Eh, words mean little over one's own mind. That was all you, mon amie."

   "Spy, I…I—"

   "Mm? Speak your mind, please."

   "…I…please…please…"

   Mindless begging. That was all you could muster. But what you needed, you needed, and if you had to force it out, damn it all, you would.

   "Pleeease, let me touch myself, Spy. Please…"

   He chuckled. "So polite, asking permission first. Will you be able to exercise that same patience I asked of you earlier?"

   A pained sound came out of you as you squirmed against the mattress. "Ugggh, it's torturous."

   "Yes, but the pleasure all the more worth it, oui?"

   "Ngggggh…yeah."

   "What was that, mon amie? Couldn't hear you over the groaning."

   "Yes, Spyyyyy, yeeeees…"

   "Then we shan't waste any more time. But, as I tell you what to do, I want you to keep one thing in mind for me. Can you do this?"

   "Anything, I'll do anything."

   "Ha ha ha, alright, don't worry yourself, mademoiselle, no need to beg. It is but a simple request; I want your eyes open and on me, no matter what. Understood?"

   Even the request alone had your gaze shying away.

   "I told you I would leave you to your own touch, and I remain that I will not touch you unless you ask it of me. So I will not turn you towards me…though I would love to see votre expression with your chin between my fingers."

   "Spyyyyy," you whined in a whisper, his teasing only furthering your torment.

   "But I'm afraid we can't continue unless you can look at me. I want you enthusiastically involved in your pleasure, and we can't have any room for appréhension or uncertainty, now can we? If it's not doable, as stated before, pas de souci. I will leave you to your own devices. But if it's my instruction, my involvement with your pleasure, that you want, I need les yeux sur moi. Sound fair?"

   You willed your eyes to turn up to his, focusing on your exhale, your expression softening at his. He looked at you with a fondness, an adoration, you had assumed only wedded couples got the pleasure of seeing.

   He's probably like that for everybody.

   You're not that special.

   He could have anybody in the positon you're in, what makes you so fucking impor—

   No.

   Fuck that.

   You deserved this.

   You deserved him.

   …..

   Right?

   "Fair."

   "…Magnifique."

   He readjusted himself, hands at your sides now balled into fists, stance more steeled. If you thought he wouldn't let you hide the view of your cunt from him before, it certainly wasn't happening now.

   "I want you to start by simply tracing your fingers along your features. Start at your face, and start slow."

   You did as you were told, letting your fingertips graze along your cheeks.

   "Add some pressure with your thumbs; massage your temples, your jaw...I'm not sure why, but the earlobes are very satisfactory."

   You couldn't help but giggle. "Why is that?"

   "Ask the medical professional when you wake."

   The small ministrations felt nice, even if they were nowhere near what you wanted or needed.

   "Take it lower, just to your neck. Let your fingers wander, do what they like."

   Your hands gently scraped by the nails, gliding over the expanse of your neck, and, following his instruction, letting your impulsivity dictate your actions, you lightly squeezed, eyes going wide.

   "Mmmm, that may be something we need to explore later. Be gentle though. Stroke the spot, let your thumb knead just under your jaw."

   The struggle to keep your eyes on him was now less about embarrassment, and more about keeping your eyes from rolling back at the slightest touches.

   "Heh, that good, eh?"

   "God, yesss. Annoyingly so."

   "Hmph, and still with your charming as ever cheek."

   If you could bathe in his praise, you would.

   "Take your hands lower, trace along your collarbone. I may be a bit biased, though, I find them such a lovely partie du corps. So delicate…so…unexpectedly sensitive…"

   You could feel it, too. Though maybe that was just because it was tantalizingly close to something much more appetizing.

   "Lower, si vous plaît."

   He knew. You knew he knew what you wanted, and was gingerly dangling the carrot in front of you.

   "Looooower," he taunted.

   You were just above the tops of your tits, desperate for stimulation. You knew what to do.

   "Please, Spy? Can I?"

   "You think me so cruel?"

   "Y-You're not making a case t-to the contrary…"

   "But of course, ma coquinette. Carefully. Deliberately. Weigh them in your hands, let every bit of gooseflesh perk up at the touch."

   Filling your palms, you audibly gasped at the touch, squeezing your chest, trying desperately to keep your eyes on his wanton gaze. You so wished you could squeeze your thighs together for some friction, but even the impulse to do so was thwarted by his legs pushing yours even further apart.

   "Circle your nipples. Don't pinch or pull at them just yet. Let them know of your presence."

   Your jaw fell open, a high pitched whimper drawn from your throat, so desperate and needy off of him permitting you so little.

   Enough that just a touch of drool dripped from the corner of your mouth.

   "Spy, please—"

   "You needn't ask me permission for that. Go ahead."

   Maybe he really could read minds.

   You sank your fingers into your mouth, wetting them enough and quickly returning them to your nipples, not even waiting for his permission to tug at one between two of your fingers. Your cries seem to keep him from correcting the mistake, moaning at your strained noises. In your peripheral, you could see the veins popping over his tightened wrists. You didn't know who was enjoying this display more. Though from the wetness collecting between your legs, he may appear the less desperate one.

   "Pay them both attention, mademoiselle. Wet your fingers again, if need be."

   The digits were soaked before he could finish the sentence, hurriedly returning to the other nipple, abandoning any sense of patience, pinching at both, playing with your tits in an absolutely lewd display.

   All while his shirt framed your chest, soaked from your sweat and making you appear like a pinup poster under him.

   "Alright, alright, slow yourself, ralentir, easy, easy."

   "B-but Spy—"

   "I know, I know. Savor it. You are on the cusp of what you want so badly. You have all the faculties to get it done. And," he paused, eyeing the entirety of your form, "judging by how wet ta chatte is, we don't need much more to get you there, do we, mademoiselle?"

   You couldn't even respond at this point, just huff, waiting for him to say you could, but knowing there was only one way of him giving that to you.

   "Please, Spy, let me touch myself, please—"

   "Oh, but mon amie, you are already touching yourself are you not?"

   You could have cackled in sheer delirium. "Fucker."

   "You know what I want. Précisez-le."

   "Let me touch myself, pleeease, let me put my fingers in my pussy, I want to get myself off for you, I want to fuck myself soooo badly, please let me—"

   "For me? Non, let's be abundantly clear…you're doing this for you, darling. You are going to bring yourself to climax, for yourself."

   "…Aaand you having a front row is…just a bonus?"

   "Heh heh heh, something like that."

   If his gaze into you could somehow deepen, it did.

   "Go on, please yourself, ma coquinette, as much as you'd like."

   You did so, and nearly screamed in ecstasy.

   His teasing soaked you so thoroughly that two fingers sunk into your core easily, and it wasn't long before you added a third. You'd say the circles you were adding to your clit would have been too much, but you couldn't stop, addicted to the high you were chasing.

   "Merde, what a sight you are, darling. I know I jested, but we may have to revisit this at a later date. I'm not sure how anyone could watch you like this, utterly sinful, and not want more. More, and more,   a n d   m o r e . "

   While you were so close to that encroaching crest you wanted so badly, your breath ragged and fingers frantic, your whimpers indicated something was just out of your reach.

   "Oh? Something the matter, mademoiselle?"

   You couldn't help but laugh.

   It was comical, really.

   "I...I-I can't reach."

   He tenderly looked at you, trying to soothe you with his voice. "Breathe, mademoiselle. Explain the problem to me, slowly."

   "It's not dee-ee-eep enough."

   "Oh, you poor thing." Being forced to watch his eyes on you, watching you in your combined ecstasy and misery, was almost too much to handle. "Did the Doctor find that delicious spot inside you? That spot that makes your toes curl and the gooseflesh of your arms stand on end?"

   "Yeeees, fuck, yeeeeeees."

   This agonizingly slow pace he had kept you at almost made you start weeping, describing what you wanted but knowing it was completely out of arms, or hands, reach. You could feel your cunt throbbing around your fingers, and you almost found it difficult to keep moving your hand with how the stimulation was effecting every nerve ending in your body.

   "Would you like me to help you?"

   If someone told you those words made your heart stop on the spot, you would have whole-heartedly believed them. "Help m-me? ...Help how?"

   "Help you reach, ma belle."

   You genuinely started crying. "Please, Spy, pleeeeease...aaahahhAHHOOOOHH."

   Your mouth fell open in a silent O

   as he placed his hand over yours

   and lightly pressed down.

   It was enough.

   And the electrical current returned in full force, sending shock waves through the palm of his hand, to his ungloved fingertips just over your knuckles, on the edge of your pussy, through your own digits, hitting your g-spot.

   It was enough to send you careening into orbit.

   "En partie parce qu’elle ne savait pas exactement ce qu’elle voulait accomplir, en partie parce que  

   l e s   d e u x   m a i n s   d e   l’ h o m m e  

   lui semblaient trop fortes pour qu’elle eût la moindre chance d’échapper à leur prise."

   "S-Spy, I ca—mmmph…"

   "Elle se rendait bien compte qu’il eût été aussi simple et plus efficace de serrer les jambes l’une contre l’autre, mais, sans qu’elle pût s’expliquer pourquoi,"

   "Oooh my GOD, Spyyyyy…"

   "…ce geste lui paraissait tout d’un coup si inconvenant et si risible qu’elle   n’ o s a i t   le faire et qu’elle finit tout bonnement par  

   r e n o n c e r  

   à              

   d o m i n e r  

   une situation qui la confondait, se laissant derechef  

   g a g n e r ."

   "I caaaan't, Spyyyy, I caaan't…"

   "You can, et you will, ma belle. Don't hold this tension in you any longer. Let the weight of it all fall away. Let le plaisir wash over you…"

   "Spyyyyyyyyyy..."

   "I know...you're right there, just fall off that crest for me, ma coquinette. Come for me, I know you're right there, come for me..."

   You couldn't stop even if you wanted to. You were at the mercy of his touch, however slight, and your orgasms pulsed through you

   l i k e    f i r e w o r k s .

   ...Until they came to an abrupt halt

   as you woke with a start,

   alone,

   awake.

   No one there.

   Drenched.

   Wet forehead from sweat.

   Awake.

   Alone.

   Wet legs from dreaming.

   Alone.

   Awake.

   Wet cheeks from tears.

   Awake.

   Alone.

COMMON AREA, BLU BRICKING AND BOARD - DECEMBER 28TH, 1971, 1:01 AM