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Spy had ended the day in a state of irritation, a simmering restlessness pricking at the back of his neck. A feeling he'd woken up with and that had persisted throughout the hours. And he didn't want to admit he knew exactly what was causing it.
He pulled out the cigarette case hidden in his pocket, the metallic exterior slightly warmed with his body heat, pressed so close to his side. He thumbed the edge, along the thin border until he reached the latch. It felt almost strange, touching the lip of smooth metal without the barrier of gloves.
The urge spurred him on, the need exigent, nagging at the edges of his temples until he paid attention to it. Insistent, unignorable. And by now, in the quiet and stillness of the night, it felt like his entire body was demanding it. Like a faint buzz of static beneath his skin. The need of addiction.
He toyed with the case, flipped it over. Tapped his nails on the flat cover, listening to the light tick on metal. Gave it some thought.
He wasn't trying to quit. That was the whole reason he had stepped out in the desert to begin with, not wanting to leave an aromatic trail in the hallways. But once outside, he postponed it. Just a fraction. As if by waiting a little bit he would win. Not give in so immediately to the want.
The buzz worsened.
Opening the case, he plucked one of the cigarettes, the first one in the row. He always went that way, from left to right. It felt unnatural and wrong to finish them any other manner. His little underlying need for things to be perfect, precise.
He brought the paper end to his lips, cupped a hand protectively around it. A tiny yellow flame burst to life, served its purpose, and was quickly extinguished. The click of the lighter top was a familiar sound. That sharp, metallic snap.
The exhaled smoke was carried by the air in front of him, wreathing slowly before fading. He observed it blankly, that restlessness still in his chest. He waited for the nicotine to take effect. It took longer these days. The calm was not as present and intense as it had been in the beginning. A way to take the edge off. But by now it was habitual, something he did because he had already done it for so long. A comforting habit.
Habit, like the butterfly blade beneath his pillow or within arms reach. Always there, the loyal companion, flicked out at a moment's notice. After this much time, it was second nature. Done almost without thought. Like breathing.
He blew a stream through his teeth, shoulders slumping as he did so, as if his entire frame was sighing. The back of his skull met the wall behind him, and he peered at the horizon, looking past the stars dotting the sky. The shapes of low mountains in the distance blocked some constellations.
He heard insects a few paces away, in the dirt, and somewhere far off the wind faintly rustled tall grass. The lonely sounds of the desert were so quiet, he thought. A slender finger tapped at the center of the paper, and in response weightless flecks of ash fell off, floating their way to tawny dirt. Near perfect teeth worried at the inside of his lip.
His ability with the butterfly blade was second nature, something he didn't have to think about. Like his inherent tendency to observe, to soak in the minute information, watch from beneath a raised eyebrow. A quick passover and the details stood out, his mind making the connections. The smallest hint, something no one would have noticed, but that told him a useful detail. Usually something perfect for blackmail, or more information about the man he was sent to kill.
He was good at it.
It had quickly incorporated and become an imperative part of his skill. Watching everyone else, noting their traits, their habits, to be able to take their place and easily fall into their person. Observing their behavior, the small details that made their character.
There were obvious things, of course. Dialect, for one. Not everyone used the same words. He paid attention to the way they spoke, the peculiar lilt of their voice. The Engineer talked with this open-throated, somewhat Southern drawl, his person oozing amiability that Spy just could not quite get right. It had to be sincere. Even with the goggles on, he knew that sideways smile was reaching his eyes.
How everyone walked a certain way, putting the majority of their weight to one side or the other. An amble, or a stiff, tight step. Where they put the shoulders when they did so. Scout had a permanent slouched posture, reminiscent of a lazy adolescent. Medic stood straight, much like a strict professor. Reverse them and it would not be the same.
Spy didn't have to know everything to impersonate them. A superficial layer was enough. It was only needed for a short time, anyway.
But that didn't stop his tendency. He was still observant. And he caught all the little, imperceptible things. They wouldn't truly matter; they were so minuscule, that perhaps no one would realize the change if the person stopped doing it. Yet he still noticed them, just did.
They even sat differently. They had an air about them. When they spoke to someone else, did they meet their gaze, or drift off to another object throughout the conversation?
Like Sniper. His pupils were always darting elsewhere, when they weren't hidden beneath those tinted aviators of his. He seemed to be much more accustomed to watching others through the crosshairs of his rifle instead of face to face. At a distance, mumbling little comments to himself. Out of everyone, he was also the only one to ever make warning shots. For fun, mostly.
Spy shifted his weight, nudged the gravel with his shoe. He was paying too much attention, his observation bleeding out of the basic parameters and going into other things, things he shouldn't notice. He shouldn't, and yet he did.
And it was started to concern him, gnawing at his mind. His attention would wander, from merely gathering information to their features. To their physique, their build, the shade of their hair. The soft line of Scout's jaw. That curl of black hair on the Medic, loose, rebellious strands over his forehead.
Sniper's hair was dark, dark brown. Like the darkest chocolate, not yet black. The deepest tones of brown. Spy knew color.
It was mildly cooler at night, and he'd foregone his suit jacket. The air here moved little, and it carried that particular scent of dirt, characteristic of arid plains. Like warm dust, and dying clutches of desert grass.
Sniper smelled like outside air and wood smoke.
Spy breathed another puff and exhaled it with a little more force, brow furrowing. He anxiously pulled at the edge of his balaclava to adjust it, the fabric like a second skin. He had considered discarding it as well, but paranoia won. Just in the off chance someone too, could not sleep.
His room had felt suffocating, closed and compact, his thoughts bouncing off the walls and back at him. Somehow it made a headache start, something tight in his forehead. And he decided to step out, briskly through the hallways and exiting the building.
Outside was hated with a passion; the heat made his clothing unbearable, the dirt clung to the black leather of his shoes and he despised everything about the desert. He was more accustomed to the busy city arteries of Venice, of the architecture rising from paved streets flanked with vendors. Of the smells of food and bread and pastries. He was used to the elaborate marble-work and trim on the expensive hotel suites his targets were in. A desert like this was a first, and he felt ill-suited to the area. His clothing certainly disagreed with the dust, and the warmer temperatures.
But tonight, the empty plains seemed liberating, the space felt open and he made an exception. He needed to breathe.
Needed to curb that urge, craved the sensation of nicotine. To taste it on his tongue, in his throat. And, specifically, he needed to get things out of his mind, because the walls of his room already knew them and the space felt oddly stifling. Wouldn't let him think through clearly.
The tobacco and paper left a taste behind. All cigarettes did so. Spy curled his tongue against the roof of his mouth, experimenting the flavor.
Sniper probably tasted like this too, when he smoked.
Spy sucked in a breath at the thought, unwittingly inhaling dust. He felt the microscopic particles on his tongue. That earthy smell of dirt was everywhere, even inside the building.
Spy drew the saliva in his mouth and spit to the side, trying to expel the taste and feeling of dust. He lingered briefly on the previous thought, before forcing himself to think of something else, worrying at one side of his lip. He wasn't too sure what to make of that, but the intrusive little thoughts fidgeted in his mind, and it was bothering him.
Fixated wasn't exactly the correct word. That was too strong, reminded him of the word obsession and it certainly did not feel like that. Neither was interested. That had a different meaning. That was catching a sideways glimpse of a woman with manicured lips and following her with his eyes, suddenly interested.
It was difficult to describe what it was exactly, if there was even a word for it. And it was that feeling that followed him around consistently, increasing and presenting itself in the rear of his skull whenever a certain outdoorsman crossed his vision.
His first cigarette was worn down to a nub. He pulled out a second and lit it with the end of the first, tossing the remaining paper to the dirt. It didn't occur to him that he hadn't chain-smoked in a while.
Sniper drank his coffee black, completely black, and Spy didn't know why he knew that detail. Why it was even important. There was a visual memory attached to it, of one morning of many, of Scout and Pyro burning the pancakes and what passed for scrambled egg, of the chatter between the Medic and the Engineer. Some discussion about technicalities he didn't care for. Machinery. And the loud Soldier, who certainly had an opinion on the topic.
And Sniper, taciturn as always. Sitting there, slumped, with that chipped mug of his, a dull white one. Ceramic.
The picture was seared; his slouched posture, the way he held it, not by the handle but with a grip around the whole thing, trying to warm his hand. Grey eyes looking exhausted and downcast, fighting to wake up. The dark circles with a tinge of red, and Spy knew the man hadn't slept. He held the suspicion the other was in reality a night owl. The mess of his dark hair looked like he had simply splashed water on his face and ran wet palms through in an attempt to tame it, tousling it and deciding that was fine. Bushman. Didn't care much for a refined appearance.
And yet Spy felt this impulsive urge, wanted to run his own fingers through it, to twirl the strands and shape it. The man's hair had some barely defined swirls. And despite his age, he was starting to gray.
Little things, details. They were starting to distract him.
Initially, he told himself it was merely useful information, extra tidbits that would make the impersonation more believable. More real. The kit worked the physical aspect, but it was the mannerisms, the play, that made it.
What had begun as mere observation, maybe simple curiosity, was delving into something else entirely. It was taking a path he hadn't expected, and didn't exactly know where it would end up.
He had tried not thinking too deeply about it, at first. Went through the days, the weeks, the months, actively trying to ignore the feelings and thoughts. Inadvertently, the only thing that had managed to accomplish was having the idea in his mind constantly. And when he finally lost the battle and let the thoughts surge, he recognized what it was.
He knew the word in two languages. And he knew what it meant.
Cold eyes would follow Sniper when he walked through a room, gaze furtively roaming the man's body. Running along his lanky figure, circling his waist, the particular slope of his jaw. Unshaven, with a light stubble Spy wanted to touch.
How he'd run his fingers through his hair before putting on his customary slouch hat. Sniper always wore it somewhat tilted to the side, and Spy could never figure out if it was on purpose or accidental. It could have been accidental, and if it were so, Spy didn't want to admit he thought that was endearing. The little stir he felt in his chest at the thought had been short-lived, killed when he pointedly looked away.
It was driving him mad.
One side of him argued that he shouldn't be thinking the things he was. But they filtered through regardless, appearing unexpectedly and suddenly. Intrusive little ideas.
Sniper looked better with his sleeves rolled up.
Maybe it was the contrast. There was a certain attractiveness to the rugged look, the mess of dark hair and the stubble on a crooked jaw. Different. Whereas Spy was more refined, with an easy, purposeful elegance to his movements. His suit pristine at all times, and he took pride in his smooth veneer. He was a different class of man.
But Sniper. There was just... this roughness to him. Scars on his hands, from getting caught by fishhooks, by splinters. Getting nicked by sharp pieces of metal, accidentally burned when reaching a little too far into the engine of his truck. Calloused fingertips. Stiff denim, with a little bit of fray along the edges of the pockets. The dust on the dashboard of his truck, settling into his boots. The old brown ones, with the weather-beaten leather and the lined map of defined creases. The base of the soles scuffed away to a golden tan.
He was from a different world. An alien, foreign one. Outdoors, nature, mountains and plains and living things. It was a world Spy knew nothing about.
The seam where the hills met the black sky started to blur, something far in the distance. Truthfully, he hadn't really been looking at it. The second cigarette was one-third of the way dissolved, and he flicked it between slender fingers. Racked his mind for the right descriptor. For what this was.
Intrigue, he decided to call it. The man was interesting, or at least Spy convinced himself it was so. He seemed... out of place, maybe, amongst the others much more social. Quieter, a little more reclusive, preferring to keep to himself. To his camper that was his home, to his rifle he knew so well. Spy imagined the Sniper felt about his rifle the way he felt about his butterfly knife. The weapon so familiar, that he knew every scratch through and through. The weight, the feel, the texture of the material. Using it with ease.
And the man's voice. Spy pressed his lips together, felt a corner of his mouth start to twist. He'd had the pleasure of hearing it when it got low, when he growled. When it originated from the very base of his throat, deep and with a husk to it. It was impossible to imitate, not perfectly. Spy's own was a fraction too light for that, his vocal cords different. But he remembered what it sounded like, enough to imagine it on a whim.
And he imagined it more often these days.
Spy felt the weight of the case in his pocket, familiar and squared. He breathed deeply, waited two seconds before his hand was reaching for it again. Succumbed to the impulse, but for a different reason.
His disguise kit stared back at him, and he thumbed the edge of the metal as he paced, a slow meander one way before reaching the end of the building. His hands toyed with the kit, indecisive.
He had already done it before. But there was always a sense of apprehension, a simmer of guilt. The wrongness to it.
But the excitement started to fidget, and he knew that he wanted to.
.....
.....
Spy leaned in close to the small mirror pasted to the wall above a tiny sink, scrutinizing and soaking in every detail. Touched his fingers to the glass, absorbed in the mimicked reflection.
He locked eyes with the visage of someone else. The grey was different from his own. Not his cold blue. These were warmer, a little haze of pine green right around the pupils, darting as he looked over the shape of his face. Of Sniper's face.
The palms of Sniper's hands were rougher, a contrast to his own softer ones, protected always by gloves. Coarser, thicker fingers, with stubby nails. Both Sniper and Scout had a habit of biting them.
He waved the individual digits, in control of foreign hands. Fingertips traced over the tiny line of a scar on his cheek, softly over the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble. Two fingers down the center of his Adam's apple, down until they reached the collar, parting the fabric to reveal the clavicle beneath. Something inside him fluttered at touching the rugged features he'd seen only from a distance.
Digits brushed lightly over his mouth, tentatively over the cupid's bow. There was a smaller, faint scar on the left side, most likely a nick from a razor blade. Lips lightly chapped in the center, the skin just a tiny bit rough. Spy hummed, the voice a hint deeper, a gravel from deep within his chest.
A longer tongue ran over new teeth, over the points of canines that he'd noticed were sharper than normal. He'd fantasized about them on more than one occasion, wanted to feel them on his neck, feel them scratch down the line of his throat and leave a mark. He knew the man would. Like a base animal. Spy felt a little splash of excitement at the idea of being bitten.
Tentatively, he combed calloused fingers through thick hair, much longer than his own. Always looking somewhat disheveled, with some tousle to it.
He stared, committing every detail to memory, searing it into his mind, before it flickered back into his own. The device could only do so much.
The limitation was a shame. If only it worked differently, if he could keep parts of the anatomy...
What he wanted was to feel those coarse hands on his skin. To touch himself and pretend it was someone else. Even if he controlled the digits, he could focus on the feel, of the sensation of rougher skin and blunt nails, and let imagination take over. But the kit did not do that, as much as he wished it would.
His frame reverted back to himself, two inches shorter and thinner. A slim build, his waist smaller. But the visual was fresh in his vision.
The flow of imagination left to run freely, without blocks, could fill in the rest.
Palms smoothed down the front of his dress shirt, down to the hem of his pants. The beating of his heart quickened, fluttering with lascivious excitement. Slender fingers found the metal square of the belt buckle, sliding the leather out the loop, a movement he'd done many times before. Yet his time it was different; the simple act felt sensual, like foreplay. With a hint of apprehension, preceding what he was about to do. And in the farthest rear of his mind the feeling of wrong battered about, fuzzy and indistinct and drowned by craving.
The conflict of sensations only made warmth start to surge, from his insides, over his cheeks. His skull was starting to feel tight.
He would lose his balance if he stayed upright.
Two paces backwards and he was on top of the folded covers. Slowly eased his pants down to his thighs. There was too much hesitation, slim fingers moving in slow strokes with an even pressure, experimentally running over his chest, skirting over his ribs. Dancing over the ridges that protruded beneath the skin if he turned and stretched. Raked down the side of his frame, down to his hip.
He focused on the feeling, the sensation of touch, pretending the hands were not his own. It was a matter of focus, of thought. He could convince himself it wasn't his slender digits, not his soft skin. It was the rougher hands of an experienced Sniper, the ones he had in the mirror.
Hands ran down his abdomen, the heel of his palm pressing against the base. Something warm stirred in his midsection at the tentative touches to erogenous sections of skin. He let out a quiet breath, working to keep it even, yet it stuttered lightly nonetheless. He let his head thud backwards, let his eyes flutter closed.
The quiet of the room hung still, interrupted by the sound of brushing fabric and his own breathing. The thud of his heart, quickening with anticipation, echoed loudly in his hearing.
The resonance of the man's voice seeped into the rear of his mind, and he focused on the sound of it, the twang of his accent when his voice got high. The low grumble when he murmured, muttering to the handle of his rifle when something caught in the crosshair.
When it regarded falling into some other character, Spy would pay close attention to their dialogue in order to mimic it, the lilts and nuances and the way they moved their mouth. Yet a conversation was not scripted. There was unpredictability to it, and he'd resort to the slang he knew they used, steering it where he wanted it to go.
But he had no idea what Sniper would say. The man said so little. Spy had heard him swear, had heard him insult the target. But he had never heard him say anything remotely lewd.
That made it difficult to imagine what things Sniper would mutter. Call him something degrading, perhaps, the way he did occasionally in reality, to get at his nerves when a back-and-forth insult war started.
Yes, that would work. Far beyond the middle of night, it was silent, emptily silent. The ideal ambience for imaging noises that weren't there.
Spy could almost hear it, pretend the man's mouth was close to his ear. Could almost feel the weight of a body on top of him, pinning him down. Almost feel the hot breath, the phantom sensation causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand.
He wrapped a hand around himself, started a slow pump. Just enough to be frustratingly teasing, because he knew Sniper would have the patience for it and would absolutely want to make him suffer. He could see the man's face in the dark ceiling, see that curve of a smirk at making Spy gasp and swear in his native language.
Fingertips stroked along the underside, his thumb rubbing circles over the bulbous tip the way he liked. Carnal want buzzed hotly in his pelvis. Spy tapered his fingers when it reached the top, grip bouncing briskly from the base to the head, pressing the pad of his thumb firmly over the slit. He hadn't noticed his jaw had been slack, his mouth open, until he grit his teeth at the spark of pleasurable sensation.
If he dragged the nail of his thumb gently up the length, he could pretend it was the sharp canines of Sniper's teeth. The thought, the idea, the feeling of something just sharp touching along his hot skin left a tingling burn all throughout, sent a wave up his chest that made him inhale shallowly.
Teeth. Mouth, there would be a hot mouth at his neck, calloused digits tugging at the edge of his balaclava, tugging to pull it off.
The man would still have his shirt. The buttons would be undone, but only partway. Spy could see himself clutching at the collar to pull the other down. A tangle of limbs, of groping hands, of mouths fighting for dominance. The body heat between them. His moan echoing down Sniper's throat.
His other hand was occupied brushing strokes down his chest, down his abdomen, over his thighs. Brought a knee further up, reached around, a light touch on his backside. No, too light. Sniper would be rougher.
He kneaded the flesh, harder, leaving the lingering traces of fingers behind. He squeezed deep enough to feel a warm twinge of pain, the twinge going promptly to his pelvis, adding to his need.
He knew the mercenary well enough to know the man would use spit as a suitable lubricant. Cheeks worked to produce enough, the saliva pooling alongside his teeth and underneath his tongue. Fingers were brought to his mouth, tongue flat against the longest of his digits, coating them in wet. A silvery string followed them as he removed them, the filament of saliva falling over his lower lip and chin.
His middle fingertip nudged at his entrance, tentative, brisk pushes over the ring of muscle. He could pretend it was the coarse, blunt fingers of the other mercenary, pushing at him curtly.
He managed a finger inside, swallowing thickly at the feeling. Of the stretch, of an intrusion, that felt awfully good. An internal throbbing pulsed warmly in his groin, and he increased the pace, curling his hand into what resembled a fist and pumping a little faster. The finger inside thrusted in rhythm, working the stretch until he prodded with two. The resistance and quick burst of pain proved it was too soon, but it added to the fantasy. He wanted a rough Sniper. He savored the sting, the soft burn.
He could put all three if he wanted to, but he knew nothing his hand could do would be able to simulate having a slick length thrust inside. Deep, into his core, fast. The thought made something shiver up his spine.
The tension was building. That particular tingly sensation was buzzing between his legs. "Merde," he breathed, the hand around himself stroking rapidly. There was a twist to his hold now, and he squeezed at a certain point, relishing the jolt it sent through his frame.
He could imagine it. The weight of the other man on top of him, the breath on his earlobe. The teeth on his neck, chapped lips down the line of his throat. Rough hands on his flesh. Hot skin.
Sniper would gag him, probably. With his own tie.
Or wrap it around his neck. Spy's teeth gnawed at his lower lip at the idea. The game of enmity he played with the other man would bleed to intimacy as well. The hostility, how rough he would be treated. Calloused hands on his neck, wrapping the end of the tie around his knuckles and pulling taut.
And Spy would grab handfuls of the other's hair, would leave scratches at his shoulders, at his back. They'd bite at each other's lips, tugging at the flesh, clamping down and grinding, with the intention of hurting. Harsh hands leaving marks for the next day, that they could try to hide beneath the low brim of a hat or folded collar. He could see the snarl, the sideways twist of the lip to reveal canines.
It would be vicious, it would be aggressive. Passionate. A fight between the two. It would reduce Spy to the basic elements of carnal desire, strip away the carefully constructed fine exterior. Chisel Sniper out of his reclusive state, give him the opportunity to allow himself to be as animal as he wanted.
Heat pooled in the pit of his stomach, the imminent peak not allowing him to focus the movements of both hands simultaneously. Muscles were tightening, a tension along his nerves. The finish was hurried, his strokes jerky and the pumping tuneless and rapid. A few hot pulses racked through his middle, and his mind blanked briefly. His warm frame curled inward, his shoulders shuddered, and he tried his best to suppress the pleasured groan at the bottom of his throat.
He couldn't imagine what Sniper would sound like.
A spurt of milky fluid painted trails across the sheet, dribbled down his fingers. His chest and stomach were heaving, and his breathing was labored as he turned to lie flat on his back. The digits inside him had left, his wet fingertips now resting on his abdomen.
The muscles of his body were still warm with activity, but he couldn't feel the heat of the other anymore. The weight was gone, the breath dissipated. The fantasy ebbed away, the excitement dying down slowly. His breathing evened. And he realized the fingers on his middle were slender, his palms softer.
The swirl of guilt started in his chest, mixing strangely with the yearning of something he could not have. And he found he already missed the feeling of coarse skin against his own.
.....
.....
Sniper had rounded a corner backwards, without looking, and Spy himself had not been as attentive as he would have liked. He had felt distracted all morning.
The man had been aiming at something. The target ducked out of the way, and he cursed as he lowered his rifle, shuffling his way back behind the cover of the wall to avoid the bullets that retaliated. And met with unexpected resistance as he accidentally knocked into Spy.
Both turned around quickly, startled. Sniper started muttering an apology, but Spy didn't hear it. His mind was blaring, screaming, the memories of the previous nights' guilty activities surging back full force. Of the tidal wave of feelings he had suppressed for months. His skin was grasping at the remnants of sensation, of the other man's body pressed flush against his own, if only for a moment. The warmth had been so brief, the weight of another frame jerked away too quickly.
And that was all it took.
Spy grabbed the other roughly by the front of his shirt, fisting the material, and shoved him hard into the wall. Sniper must have been overcome by shock, judging by his sudden motionlessness, how his body tensed up. The start of a surprised noise died in the man's mouth at the impact of his back against the wood. Spy could feel those calloused hands in between them, as if wanting to push against his chest, to shove him off. And when he crushed their lips together, he tasted black coffee, and smelled that outside air and wood smoke.