Work Text:
Badwater Basin wasn't at the top of Sniper's favorite places to go. Stuck out in the middle of scrubland and dust, it was a small resource base for Reliable Excavation Demolition that doubled as a munitions and atomic fuel dump -- the kind where all the half-price warheads got stashed until someone could find a desperate enough developing nation to sell them to. It was a small, but useful base for RED -- the sort that the Builders League United, Inc. always liked to go for, and the Reliable Excavation Demolition company inevitably blew something up of theirs in exchange as a result.
Blue's tactics weren't new. Rail carts were everywhere around the Basin, just waiting to be filled with explosives. The Blue team had taken up camp in one of the nearby munition bunkers. RED had sent one full crew to defend, scrambling Sniper's team because they were unlucky enough to be closest.
It should have been a good, old-fashioned job, the kind that Sniper liked because it meant for some brisk rifle work, a healthy paycheck, and then enough time for a light meal before turning in for the night. Other people pushed the cart around. Good fun for them. Sniper got to stand back and enjoy the weather, and watch for the little blue dot that told him he was two seconds away from a new brainpan.
Except for the small problem, apparently, that the bomb had never been delivered.
This was less of a disaster for Blue than it could have been. The Red team could flush them out, but it'd be risky with Blue reinforcements potentially coming any second with the payload, so waiting was a better idea than having the transport just dump the bomb on them all rather than drop it politely off and spin away. Red had also been waging a double front with bureaucracy, or so their Announcer informed them over the comm speakers. As far as Sniper had gathered, Red didn't actually have orders yet to attack.
So each team had sent out their Scouts first, in a sort of token peace offering. No one was sure if it was because the Scouts were the most expendable, or just fast enough to dodge any ambushes, and anyway it was what Scouts were good for right? Except that in the first five seconds of posturing -- which had been an elaborate dance of sarcasm, mutual bonding over insulting the state of the Sox, and then what apparently became an outright war of Guinness versus Louis Koch Lager -- both Scouts had pulled their bats on one another. Sniper had been of the idea that shooting their knees out would have been good for all parties involved. He hadn't voiced this opinion.
Red's Soldier had gone out, blaring commands to break it up; Blue's had soon followed, not to be outdone by his counterpart. They'd finished negotiations in a combination of bluster and bravado, concluding in what Red Engineer observed grimly as a Mexican standoff.
So what it came down to was that everyone had to wait. It was too hot to fight; the sun sapped all the energy out of both sides. Red couldn't just walk off and hope that Blue would be nice enough to signal when they were ready for any preliminary skirmishes -- Blue had the luxury of the air-conditioned base, and could hunker down in relative comfort. Sniper had seen them occasionally at the grate. If he could have sent a bullet between the wires, he would have, but he already knew from long experience that he'd just bounce a nickel.
It was probably one of the more ridiculous situations they'd been in, with a complete lack of any element of surprise now. Red had had half a day of setup already; their Engineer was moving his sentry gun around recreationally at this point, pointing it at random walls and windows. Medic had fallen back to one of the mining tunnels to keep cool from the sun, lugging one of his thick medical journals with him. Demoman had disappeared entirely, last seen with an icebox and a toothy grin. The rest of the team had snuck off to whatever shade they could find.
If they were lucky, Blue would just call it off.
Laid out on his vantage point, Sniper sprawled like a cat. Normally, he would have set up a blind and taken shelter to wait out his prey, but the angle he'd first set up at hadn't assumed that he'd be stuck there for hours while the sun moved in; he knew from experience that he'd have to plan for a hasty retreat once the gate came down. With the way that the field was laid out, he wouldn't be able to move into a better spot without risking getting spotted -- not for a few hours, at the very least, and then he'd be playing under sunset conditions, and would want to flip around with west at his back anyway.
Which meant he had to wait it out. The less he moved, the less he'd have to feel his clothes sticking to him, melding to his body like wet river clay. Heat turned him into a bag of sweat. Sniper had been through worse -- he knew to lie as still as possible to keep from feeling the way cotton and leather were trying to grow together in a second skin. His camper van was low on water; too bad, he could use an hour's worth of showering just to feel clean again. Maybe, if there was time afterwards, he could rent a motel room for a night, and indulge in real luxury.
He could hear Engineer plicking away on the guitar on the ledge beneath him, a jangly improvisational tune that had more sour notes than intact ones. Sniper was torn between being annoyed and being oblivious. Distractions themselves weren't really an issue -- if they were actually in the midst of an open skirmish, he'd be able to block out the tune in a heartbeat. Sitting in a blind was different. He was harder to surprise then; his personal space extended to the limits of whatever territory he staked out, attuned to any disturbance like the quivering whiskers of a cat.
But if he tried that in the middle of a battlefield, he'd be twitching at every single noise -- every snort and yelp and grunt of his teammates, so he'd become good at turning off his attention selectively. Still, when Sniper really put his mind to it, there wasn't much the world could do to disturb him. Many times, he'd peeled his scope away from his face, and found blood crusting on his shirt or on the casing of the rifle lens -- proof of some battle that had gone on just inches away that he'd blacked out of his attention in order to focus on some bastard's head in the distance. It took a delicate touch to punch strangers a third nostril. Couldn't be doing that while listening to a scout yelping about needing bandaids.
In fact, this single-minded concentration had netted him a fair share of trouble in the past, as his teammates were happy to remind him.
Bloody spies.
So Sniper broiled, and brooded, and tried to stare down the lens. On the safe side of the grate, the Blue Heavy's head kept moving in and out of the scope's crosshairs, like a mobile cheesecake perched on top a trolley. Sniper tickled his ear with the sighting dot.
After a while, the guitar notes stopped, and the blunt shuffle of workman's boots came around the outcropping. Sniper didn't move.
"Ya thirsty for a cold one?"
A bottle clicked on the rock beside him. Sniper turned his head to eye Engineer, feeling sweat trickle down the side of his neck, disturbed from where it'd been pooling. "Not on the job, mate. Bomb's not here, but the clock's still ticking."
Engineer shrugged, picking the bottle back up again and waggling it gently. Foam sheened the top of the liquid inside. "None for you at all? You're a man of rather infrequent vices, Sniper. Betcha don't even smoke, do ya?"
Sniper allowed himself a thin smile before rolling down onto his stomach, fitting his eye back to the scope. "'Course I do. Just not often during work, and only in a blind if I can help it. Can't afford to let the glow show, and the enemy can smell you coming. Animals'll spook too. Had to go off smokes entirely for a month when I was going after this massive gator, jaws longer than my legs. Almost got me, too. I've got the scar around here somewhere."
"Really? I had no idea cigarettes were that strong."
Sniper shifted his hips, settling further into position. His vantage point was angled at the break along two boulders; through the sliver between the rocks, he could watch the exit gate. If he wedged himself closer to the stones, he might even get more shade. "Well, it's like the Spies. They prefer those pansy brands, so it's harder to tell, but you can get a whiff when they're nearby. Gives them away like crackerjack."
"You're kidding!" Engineer's astonishment was so loud that Sniper gave the man a skeptical glance, but it seemed sincere. "So you're saying you could tell a Spy was approaching just by the smell of him?"
Sniper tucked his chin back down against the overhang. "I'd like to think I have enough experience with those fruitcakes," he declared proudly, focusing his attention on the gap. "Buncha pillowbiters, all of 'em."
That was when something hard drove into his back.
Surprised, Sniper went limp at first, assuming Engineer had just stumbled in some kind of tipsy haze. It was a mistake. His rifle was kicked away, scraping a metallic protest as it listed over the edge of the rocks. In a matter of seconds, his left arm was pinned; he struggled to get his right free, but a second knee pressed into his wrist, grinding the small bones. The knife was so sharp that he didn't recognize the prick of its blade until the flat of it turned to press against Sniper's neck.
"I do not think," came the soft, sibilant whisper in his ear, "that you have had quite enough experience with us, m'sieur."
Sniper cursed the rest of his breath out, a litany of hate muffled by the stone. He was wrapping it up with a robust statement about the nature of Spy's parentage when the knife floated from his throat to cradle his earlobe.
"Are you so surprised that I am here?"
"Fight hasn't started yet," Sniper coughed out. "You shouldn't even be out of the gate."
"Of course," Spy chuckled silkily. "Just as I am certain you do not have your own Spy already attempting to infiltrate our base as well, yes?" He shifted his weight; Sniper stifled a groan as hot flares of pain shot through his bones from the pressure. "I do not see your accoutrements here, filthy jar-man. Did you think you would not need them?"
Sniper held his breath until the agony eased, and he could speak with a pretense of a sneer. "If you're asking, I'm sure I can squeeze out a few drops for you. Just hold still."
It might have been his imagination, but Spy recoiled an inch. "No, thank you. Your fetishes remain too disgusting for me to indulge."
Sniper grinned. Truthfully enough, he had left the rest of his gear in a crevice below the rocks, where the sun wouldn't boil the contents of the jars; Sniper had only had to make that mistake a few dozen times before he decided that the less steaming, the better. Heated jarate jars had a tendency to seep around the lids.
But they were out of reach now, and Spy was still on his back. The distance between Sniper and the jarate jars might as well have been all the way back in the locker room. Fat lot of good they would do him now.
"You are lucky today," Spy finally announced, his clipped accent even more smug than usual. "I am bored. On my way here, I passed no less than three of your companions who would all be easy prey. So now you are in a unique position. Shall I gut you like a little suckling pig, and move on to them?" Sniper tried to roll; Spy pressed harder, taking the breath out of Sniper's lungs. "Such soft targets, they are, so unaware. Perhaps, your Medic next? Your little Scout? Or should I stay here instead, and find something else to amuse myself with?"
Running down his list of options very quickly, Sniper came to a near-instantaneous decision. "If you're saying it's them or me, then sorry, mate -- give them my apologies. I'm not interested."
Spy smacked his lips thoughtfully. His next statement came out in a purr. "That is not what you have said before."
Hell, Sniper thought. He had been betting that any of his other teammates had a higher chance of surviving than him; after all, he could always just send up an alert once the Blue Spy had gone away. "Look," he said, thinking fast. "There are better times than in the middle of a dustrat desert to be engaged in those kinds of activities. For one thing -- teammates being nearby, yeah?"
"Your Soldier is off barking orders to the landscape," summarized Spy, sounding bored. "Your Medic is halfway through his article on abnormally-shaped kidney stones, and your Demolitions Expert is passed out upside-down over a sawhorse. Your laborer is continuing to relocate his toys. Your Heavy Weapons Professional is consuming what remains of the icebox, and your Pyro is watching old silent movies in the back of your locker room. Oh," he added, "and your Scout is engaged in hormonal fantasies involving a person who shall remain nameless at this time. I will leave it to your paranoia to fill in the details. None of them, incidentally, is in distance of your little perch here. In your Scout's case, you may be grateful."
Momentarily discomforted by the conclusion, Sniper cleared his throat. "You know, you could have just sent me a card if you missed me that badly, mate."
"Ah. My oversight. Your van did not have a postbox."
"Now wait a minute, all right then," Sniper declared, the sting to his pride overcoming physical pain. "That is a low blow, mister."
"Non. This is."
Suddenly the pressure was gone. The heat of Spy's body peeled away; his knee went to the back of Sniper's skull, pinning it there effortlessly, liquid as an eel. Hard fingertips ran along the inside of Sniper's thigh, terminating at the junction of his groin. He almost choked on his own breath with how quickly he inhaled.
As he was trying to scrape an appropriate counterattack together, Spy spoke again. "Presented with so few options, I have decided on the most appealing at the moment. I propose we have a little fun while we wait for our respective employers to sort things out. Wouldn't you agree?"
Trying to retain the upper hand was not a particularly easy affair for Sniper when both of his were trapped above his head. He made an experimental wiggle with his elbows. "Are you off your nut, mate? There is a time and a place for everything. On the job is not one of them."
"It is not on the job until one of us starts to kill the other," Spy whispered, lowering his mouth to trickle his breath over Sniper's ear. His tongue darted out, lapping once across the ridges. "And I believe there are more ways to engage in la mort, mon petit."
Despite himself, Sniper shivered.
Damp lips touched the back of Sniper's neck. He tensed as Spy kneaded his buttock; he was too wound up to relax. It was too stereotypical on multiple levels to be leery of Spy being behind him. That was one of the downsides of mercenary work -- he'd developed an itch to keep his back plastered against the nearest solid object.
Unfortunately, the nearest solid object happened to be Spy.
"This would not be the first slow afternoon we have passed together in such a way," the Frenchman chided smugly while Sniper twitched.
"Yes, and it was just as creepy those times too," Sniper snapped.
"I protest. You seemed well enough satisfied."
"You stole the bloody sugar last time!"
"I meant to replace it with something of finer quality." The pressure of Spy's forearm went over Sniper's hips. "But then, I was called out to a sawmill, and there was no opportunity. I can make good on it now, perhaps." A thumb jabbed at Sniper's waist; Spy muttered a curse under his breath. "Have I told you how much I dislike your cheap belts?"
As Sniper managed to slide a knee underneath himself for leverage, Spy's hand fumbled around. Agile fingers yanked on the buckle of his belt; Sniper's waist bucked with the motion, rising up off the stone. Spy's grip came off his wrists, only to reverse itself in a precise strike. Sniper's hands skidded out; he barely saved smashing his chin against the stone as he tumbled down. Dimly, he felt his belt whipped around his wrists, cinched hard enough that the blood instantly started to tingle.
As Sniper clenched his fingers, scraping his elbows in wild twists, Spy leaned down again.
"If you fight me," he purred, "if you struggle, then I will be down one of my favorite playmates, and this will be a sad thing indeed. So it is your decision."
"I can't feel my hands, you blighter," Sniper growled back.
Spy's foot prodded at his ankle. "Then do not make me have to damage your pants permanently in order to remove them from you."
Faced with the threat of very real harm to his clothes, Sniper waited, panting, his arms aching. His chin itched where the skin had been scratched. His hat was tipped down over his eyes; he couldn't see, couldn't guess what Spy was thinking. His fingertips pulsed with trapped blood. Spy wasn't moving. Sniper could hear him breathing.
He realized that Spy was waiting.
Finally, jerkily, he nodded once.
The belt was instantly released a notch; the cold rush of blood down his wrists made him yelp. Spy was already working. Sniper's pants were peeled off, bunched up efficiently underneath his hips so that his knees splayed out, falling further apart as he tried to scrabble for balance. It was awkward -- but also liberating. With just that small amount of freedom, he could move, he could fight. He could get some of his dignity back instead of looking like a mewling virgin just waiting to get reamed --
As if sensing his temptation, the knife settled against the back of his neck again.
He went as still as he could make himself. The sun beat down on his naked arse.
"Non," Spy chuckled, even as he pushed Sniper's legs further apart. "I do not trust you with your hands completely free."
Left with fewer and fewer options, Sniper decided that pettiness was allowable. "If you're serious about this, you blighter, then I intend to enjoy it."
The threat was not effective. Spy's palm stroked along Sniper's hip. "I would expect nothing less."
Skilled fingers dipped down, working at him; Sniper knew what was coming even before he could hear the slick sound of a hand being wet. It was good, even if he didn't want to admit it, even if Spy knew how to sneak a hand down and show some generosity. Sniper had planned to lie there as vengefully as he could and make Spy do all the work, but the man knew his business. Spy took him slow, moving with a leisurely pace that teased at Sniper's patience until he found himself bracing against the ground, pushing back against Spy, moving as best he could against the other man's weight.
He forgot about the heat and the sweat; he forgot about the hassles of RED and BLU and paychecks and how many rounds of ammo were in the submachine gun he couldn't reach, giving up everything in exchange for raw pleasure that couldn't give a damn about primary colors. Behind him, Spy's control was bleeding away, betrayed with each ragged jerk that made it through the man's smooth pacing.
Sniper's breath was harsh in his mouth. He didn't know when he'd started gasping.
Distantly, there was the shriek of metal, a buzzing of engines that beat like a counterpoint to the pulse in his ears. Sniper's knees pushed against the stone; he pressed back into Spy, rocking as best he could with limited leverage, desperately matching rhythm even as he fumbled through each shudder. Almost, he was almost there --
"Bomb's here!" he heard Soldier bellow, the shout echoing across the rocks.
The noise was closer than he expected. In his surprise, Sniper tensed; it was the worst decisions he could have made, for Spy chose that exact moment to drive in one final time. He held his weight close against Sniper with small twitches of his hips, spending himself with a low grunt.
The stimulation tripped Sniper the rest of the way past his self-control. He came in helpless jerks against the fabric of his pants, shuddering in a long spasm even as he felt Spy still heavy inside him, encouraging him with soft susurruses of French. Sensation burst along his skin, numbing him to all other considerations, tossing sanity aside in favor of self-indulgence.
His wits returned slowly; his knees felt raw, nerves sparking like a thousand broken lights. The droning of the plane overhead was as loud as an opened hornet's nest.
"Game on," Spy whispered.
Then he was gone.
Sniper groaned. He struggled experimentally against his belt, feeling the leather chafe against his sweaty wrists. It refused to give. The sun on his skin felt like a brand. The last thing he needed was for either team to find him like this, trussed like a game hen, pants stripped and stained.
"On the job," he cursed. "Bloody spies."