Actions

Work Header

Black Angels

Chapter Text

Émile gave a groan from under his covers as the light from his window shone in through the window and onto his head, beside where his bed was pressed against the wall. With his alarm blaring beside his bed and a headache that could rival a punch from the RED heavy, the spy simply just covered his head to avoid the light, reaching an arm out blindly to grab at the clock; slamming his hand on the bedside table sloppily until it finally hit it's target; giving a weary sigh when all was silenced once more. Arm sliding off the table to hang off the side of the bed, Emil closed his eyes, hoping to get just a moments more rest, hearing his breath even out slowly as sleep crept slowly into his mind.

"UP AN AT 'EM PRIVATE!! IT'S BREAKFAST TIME AND WE'RE NOT WAITING FOR YOU TO POWDER YOURSELF UP, PUMPKIN! MOVE IT!"

Groaning loudly, the spy slid his arm back under the covers as he rolled onto his back; timidly stretching his limbs and hearing them pop satisfyingly as he tested them out. Of course, how foolish he was to forget the Soldier. The deaf bastard did this every work day, leaving them alone when they had a ceasefire. Wanting his team bright eyed and ready for battle, the BLU soldier didn't allow anyone a moments piece until he was satisfied that they could do their jobs. While his heart was in the right place, the party last night made Émile want to stab the man right in the eye so the man could feel the pain that the spy currently had in his head.

The party. Having finally won a match after nearly five years, everyone on the BLU team hadn't wasted an opportunity to break out the alcohol for a bonfire celebration. The Pyro and Engineer opted to remain sober to keep anyone from throwing said alcohol in the fire; which had been for the best, seeing as Scout and Demo had gotten into a frenzy and decided that the fire wasn't big enough. However, with promise of a nicely grilled steak, the Blue engineer managed to distract them long enough for the Pyro to control the bonfire that had started to roar to life with it's recent fueling.

It had been a party similar to the one they had around two weeks ago only they had decided to have it at a bar that posed as a neutral zone for both teams. The party then was to celebrate the Heavy's recent birthday. Now turning forty, the large Russian was more than pleased to dare the others to a drinking contest that no one could win. Or rather, no one SHOULD have won. Having abandoned all thought and slightly tipsy at the moment to the point all thought had gone out the window, Émile had placed himself in front of his giant colleague and took the challenge head on. Out drinking the heavy had been a surprise for everyone, including Émile himself; although it had left him a drunken mess.

But lucky for him, their heavy was a good sport and offered to take him back to the base despite their sniper claiming that he could take the spy to his van. Brushing off the drunken Australian, Kostya was the most sober there at the moment, despite all his drinking. Sure, he too was drunk but not so much as the team and could at least drive in a straight line. Normally, Émile would have been pissed at the fact that anyone was driving while drunk, but he had no right to throw a fit; having done it on multiple occasions back in France.

However, what had happened when they had reached the base next, Spy couldn't remember much. All he knew was that he had been the first to kiss and the next thing he knew, he was sprawled under the giant as the Heavy pumped him full of seed. It had felt wonderful, but it had left him vulnerable, exposing the secrets he had kept hidden for many years. Luckily, all Kostya remembered was waking up in Émile's bed, back toward the spy and quickly leaving without a word; seemingly unaware of anything strange about his nightly partner. They hadn't mentioned that night, nor did they let it hinder the strange friendship they had formed. In their minds, the incident simply didn't exist.

But that didn't stop the giant from making it a constant joke to regain his title of being able to out drink them all and would lightly challenge the spy for a rematch in which, Émile would simply smirked and wave it away, causing the large Russian to laugh loudly and smack the table.

That was all he could ask for.

Body slowly waking up after the rude awakening, Spy lifted a hand, prying the blanket away from his head far enough to blink a crusted eye to adjust to the sunlight that brightened his room. Nausea building up in his belly, Émile was slow to drag himself into a sitting position, rubbing his head, fingers tangling in his dark wavy locks; getting tangled in the pathetic curls that blended in, successfully pulling his hair and forcing him to wince at the pain against his sensitive scalp.

Groaning once more and fighting the sickness he felt building up, Émile pulled his hand from his hair despite the pulling, to rub his eyes.

"Je ne bois plus jamais..." He found himself croak out, voice hoarse and raspy with sleep. Lowering his hand after rubbing his temples, he threw the blankets off to run to the bathroom that connected to his room; his own private sanctuary in the whole base. The toilets lid was, fortunately, up and he wasted no time to get on his knees, pressing his face in the bowl and expelling the contents of his stomach, hands holding tightly to the porcelain bowl as he did so. His body shook and arched with each heave he made while at the same time, weakening his grip on the seat and increasing his headache. It had been a long time since he had found himself in such a situation; that he nearly forgot what it had felt like. He was pleased to remind himself of one reason why he had stopped drinking.

While it had felt like minutes, the actual act of getting sick in the toilet had only lasted about a small fraction of that time, but had left his body in a mess. It wasn't until he managed to stop gagging did Émile pull away to press his head against the cool porcelain of the toilet, taking deep breaths in hopes of settling his stomach as to not lose everything in it. Sweating from throwing up, Spy shivered from the coolness of his bathroom, unsure if it was a curse or a blessing that he hadn't had his shirt on. It would have been a first that he regretted sleeping in his underwear.

Flushing the toilet, Spy forced himself to his feet and staggered up to the sink, staring at the mirror, eyes instantly going to the faint scars on his chest. The result of his transformation; the one he was more than happy to take. Raising his hands to trace one, he felt a slight pang in his chest. It had taken him a long time to go along with the decision; but losing a part of his body was still hard all the same. Not one he regretted,of course. But still... It had been a part of him once. He felt bad even when he had to have a tooth removed.

Flicking his tongue to where the missing tooth once sat, he shook himself out of his thoughts and instantly grabbed his underwear.

Émile needed a shower.

--

"You have not been taking your pills, have you?" That had been the first think Medic had said when Émile rounded into the kitchen, long before the others could trickle in. Arms crossed, the BLUE medic stood, cornering the spy with a disapproving glare. No doubt that Jürgen had been checking in on Émile's dosage.

Lips forming into a from, Émile released a snort, displeased at the confrontation.

"Non, I have not." He confirmed, eyes shooting around the room. "Must we have this conversation here and now? The others will surely be arriving shortly. Can't this wait, Mon ami?" He pleaded, spotting the sniper stumble inside the room, instantly going over to the coffee machine in his exhausted state of mind. Having seen Émile's eyes shoot to something behind him, the medic turned, giving a simple noise at the sight of the exhausted man nearby. Swiftly turning his attention back to the Spy, Medic glared.

"You are to come into my office directly after the fight, understand?" Jürgen held no room for argument. The medic had a way of getting what he wanted, and it was extremely rare for anyone to be able to get away from his demands when it came to anything medical. Unlike his RED counterpart, the BLU medic cared for the health of his team and didn't rest if one had gotten sick.

With a reassuring smile, Émile reached into his pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes, swiftly placing one to settle in between his lips. The action hadn't pleased the medic, but the good doctor wasn't once to force someone to stop smoking.

"I wouldn't dream of disobeying, mon bon docteur." He mused, stuffing his pack back into his pocket. Making a face at the sight of the cigarette, Jürgen nodded, momentarily pacified with the confirmation that the spy was going to see him later, he left without a word, allowing the spy to give a sigh of relief, removing the cigarette to sit between his fingers, twirling it in his hands as a small reminder to restock his disguise kit with them. By this time, the sniper had stumbled on over, mug of coffee in his hand, steam coming from the hot liquid along with the scent of cinnamon.

"Tu ne peux pas t'imaginer mon bonheur de te voir, mon ami." Turning to the sniper, Émile allowed himself to relax at the sight of his friend, who blinked tiredly at him.

"Have no idea what you said, mate. What was all that about?" Collin griped, taking a sip from his mug as he stared blankly at the doorway where the medic vanished through.

Emil made a face.

"Nothing much. The good doctor was just reminding a checkup he's having me do, later today."

"Why? Ya get sick again?"

Émile sputtered, thrown off his game the second those words escaped Colin's mouth. Eyes closed as he took large gulps of his drink, he missed the alarm expression on the spys face.

"You knew?!" Feeling sweat form under his mask, Émile forced himself to keep his face stoic, however his eyes refused to comply to his body's demands, widening dumbly before the sniper. On the other hand, Colin gave a confirming sound as he lowered his mug to swallow what coffee he had in his mouth before opening his eyes; brighter than they had been a moment before.

"Hard ta miss it. Been seeing you throw up all over the battlefield for a while now." Colin confirmed, unaware of the spy's discomfort. "Why? Doesn't anyone else know?"

"Non!" Hissing, Émile turned to completely face Colin, grabbing the sniper's jacket, pulling him in close, glaring, much to the taller man's amusement, who hadn't looked intimidated in the slightest as he just smiled softly back, eyes shining in humor. "This is not funny! No one must know!"

"Going from one extreme ta another, don't ya think?" Cackled Colin, pulling the spy's hands away. "Look, I'm not going ta say anything. But ya best make sure medic knows. Just so he can get ya cured before anyone else notices. But calm yer tits before you do so or else you'll give yerself away."

"I do not-!" Stopping himself, Émile placed a hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, attempting to calm down. The sniper didn't know, and even if he did, it hadn't been made as an insult, no matter how he had taken it. Expelling a breathe of hot air, he lowered his hand, forcing himself to see reason. "Fine, fine. I'm calm. Alright? Happy?"

"Very." Laughed the sniper, raising the mug to his lips to finish off his drink as the rest of his team began to flood in the room; Scout instantly going to the fridge, much to everyone's horror.

Lips curling to a frown, Émile gave an exasperated moan. "It's Scout's turn to cook? I think I'd rather skip this meal."

"Hey, fuck you Frenchie! I'm a great cook!"

Chapter Text

His glove had another hole in it. Flexing the worn fabric upon his hand; Émile made a mental note to order a new pair the second he had a chance. Thin red strings that stitched the blue fabric together on the inside; one thing piece tangled itself comically around the outside of one of his fingers, nearly resembling the cliché soulmate story he once foolishly believed with his entire being as a young child.

Taking the thread in his other hand, he forcefully ripped it off, disgust knotting in his stomach. After living twenty-six years alone, he was done with such childish stories. They had only lead to heartbreak in the end.

The red thread was a mockery of his once bleeding heart and it stuck a sore cord to even imagine it. Next pair he ordered, he had to remember to request black threaded lining instead.

Soulmates had been a bullshit story anyway.

Ignoring the fact that a tip of his finger was now poking out of the glove, Spy quickly reached up to adjust his tie before making his way to fixing the rest of his suit, forcing the nausea back down. Ever since breakfast, the sickness had been trying to escape him. It had been like that for a couple weeks now.

Ever since his night with the Heavy, his body had been feeling strange; almost foreign. It was uncomfortable and Émile found it almost as distasteful as the red string in his gloves. Although, when he went to self medicate his sickness, he found a pattern that was almost laughable. If not for the pills he took, he might have mistaken the illness for pregnancy.

Giving pause, hand frozen in his jackets inner pocket, fingers locked on the disguise kit that lay hidden within the inner pocket. As the Medic's earlier words rang in his mind, Émile found his hand sliding from his pocket to grab his mind in puzzlement. When had been the last time he had taken his testosterone medication?

It wasn't completely unusual for him to avoid taking it since the spy wasn't a fan of pills to begin with, however, the time where he might have actually needed to keep himself from being fertile.... He had to have not been taking for at least a month... two maybe? How long was it? He couldn't remember.

No wonder Jürgen had cornered him. The medic must have bottles upon bottles of his medication, waiting for the spy to come pick them up. Émile wasn't even sure how long that stuff could last; if it could expire or not.

Truth be told, he hadn't paid much attention when he was informed of the stuff. He was more pleased with his body than he ever had been in his entire life and listening to such a thing at the time felt rather silly.

But this.... if this.....suspicion of his was true, he couldn't tell anyone. He'd no doubt be fired. And not just FIRED. No one leaves Mann alive and the spy didn't exactly trust his team, as much as they tried to get close to him. The "closest" he ever got was to the Heavy, whom he had a one night stand with, and the teams sniper who he could barely even classify as a "friend".

Come to think of it, he'd have to keep a closer eye on Kostya to make sure he truly didn't remember anything of that night or if he was faking it.

But first, he needed to test his... worry. But later. He had a match to prepare for and if anything, should his fears be true, all he'd have to do was die and respawn would take care of the rest. No one had to know, and it was a quick process.

"Uhh.... Ya okay there, Spy?"

Jumping slightly at Collin's voice, Émile was quick to cover it up with a forced smirk plastered effortlessly on his face, brushing off one of his shoulders, framed by the suit he wore to look more squared rather than rounded.

"Of course," He lied through his teeth, reaching into his suit once more to grab the disguise kit, pulling it out. "What makes you think that I wasn't?"

Pulling out a cigarette, he placed it between his lips and watched the snipers nose scrunch at the sight as the spy pulled out his custom zippo; moving to light his cigarette.

"I dunno...." Collin mused, looking very displeased. That look was nothing new. Everyone on the base knew of the BLU sniper's dislike of smoking. Fortunately, the man knew to keep his mouth shut about it considering everyone save for the Pyro and the Medic. Even the scout had picked up the habit around the fourth month of working for BLU; mentioning something about his mother and the RED spy. "Probably because ya have been staring at yer locker for about five minutes and the fight's about to start the countdown."

Ah, of course. That must have looked rather strange. That must mean that everyone in spawn noticed his absence and Collin was gracious to come fetch him. How touching.

Humming calmly, Émile simply flips the zippo open, lighting it, raising it to the cigarette that was nestled between his lips, ignoring Collin's eyes lingering on his mouth a bit too long. Flame inches from the cigarette, the spy finds himself unable to actually light it. Not for his own morality or safety of his lungs. He wasn't sure what it was that was keeping him from igniting it. He just found himself unable to.

"You going ta light it or have ya finally gotten over it after being sick all week?"

Ignoring the sniper's mocking sense of humor, Émile quickly snapped the zippo shut, pulling the cigarette from his lips and stuffing it back into his kit. After all, it would have been a waste to just toss it.

"Hardly," snorts the spy, stuffing the kit back into his jackets pocket before brushing past Collin, whom followed him with a confused raise of his brow. "I'm just not compelled to smoke right now."

The lie felt like acid on his tongue. His body was screaming for a smoke badly and his skin gave an uncomfortable itch that only nicotine could satisfy that was followed up by anxiety and the thin layer of cold sweat that slowly came with it. No doubt this was going to be an irritable day, indeed.

The sniper, on the other hand, wasn't fooled and only snorted, chuckling behind him.

"More like, yer too sick ta actually smoke with out tossing it, yeah?"

"Shut up...!"

--

"Yo, 'bout time you got in here! We were thinking you chickened out or something!"

Scout was the first one to "greet" him the second the two made it back into the spawn room, flicking his hat before hopping in place, ready for the fight. His comment drew the attention of the others in the room to him, including the medic, who eyed the spy closely in a reminder of the visit that Émile will no doubt try to avoid at all costs.

"Ahh, lay off him, mate..." Collin was quick to come to his rescue, throwing an arm around Émile's shoulder, pulling the spy close to his body as he did so, grinning. "The man's been feeling under the weather. Can't blame 'em fer running ta the john, yeah?"

Scout merely rolled his eyes, scoffing as he turned to the gate, slowly followed by the others who began to check their stuff over, making sure they were fully prepared for the fight that was about to begin. Waiting until all attention was away from him, the spy chose that moment to act.

"Yes, yes, thank you Collin....." Émile bit out in controlled frustration, shoving the snipers arm off him. Not that he wasn't appreciative of the gesture, but he wasn't a fragile doll. The spy could fight his own battles.

The battle begins in ten seconds!

Ah, speaking of which.

Fighting back his nausea, he pulled out his pistol, checking it for ammo, patting his pockets where his spares lingered in.

5

"Ah, cheer up. s'not like it'll be like the outhouse incident. Administraiter gave that rule, remember?"

The snipers comment elected an eye roll from the sniper.

4

Ah, how could Émile even begin to forget?

The general rule, considering the battle lasted from 9 am to 7pm, was that there were neutral areas in the grounds where unmoveable outhouses were littered around for the mercenaries to do their business. Basically, no one was allowed to attack anyone going in or leaving one of those things.

One could think it was a blessing, to have a few moments to yourself. But not when the entire enemy team has it out on you because you happened to have a winning streak and decide to surround the outhouse you were in, weapons drawn as they waited with dark giddiness as they waited for you to leave.

And that, was how Émile ended up stuck in an outhouse for an entire day, arms crossed, over heated and surounded by four thin plastic walls.

When the administraiter found out, she had made a rule that anyone doing such an action again would be dealt with a harsh penalty that depended on what mood she was in.

3

"Don't remind me." Sighing, he stuffed his gun back in his pocket, raising his wrist to his face, free hand going to the buttons of his cloak and dagger. "I still get mocked for it and I would rather not hear of it anymore."

2

The sudden angered look Collin adopted on his features had been new and slightly charming. It wasn't a look that the sniper had used often and anyone who saw it, knew better to stay away from the man until he has calmed down.

"Who? Was it the scout?" Baring his teeth, Collin looked absolutely feral at that exact moment. It could have just been because of the magnitude of scars that littered the mans face, or the spy might have been exagerating, but the look was far but pleasent to him.

"I would not say exactly that-" He had tried to take the conversation away, he really did but Collin knew him better in a way.

1

"I'll talk ta him. Don't yeh-"

Fight!

Like the rest of their team, the second those doors went down, Émile immediately bolted out, using his watch to go invisible. He had not wanted to remain in Collin's presence at the moment. He had a fight to aid in and that's exactly what he was going to do.

Jumping behind a protruding bolder, the spy narrowly avoided the flames of the oncoming red pyro, who jogged past him, giggling with maddening glee as it chased and burned down the BLU scout, hearing the boy scream from the flames scolding his flesh.

"FIRE, FIRE, FIRE!! MEDIC!!"

Not even five seconds in and already Jean was the first to die. With a sigh, Émile shook his head in pity, still cloaked and crouched where he had hid, watching the events of the battle take place. Eyes scanning over the landscape, he could make out the form of his Demoman and engineer, pushing the cart while the others nearby defended with clumsy accuracy, when suddenly, the BLU soldier, whom had chosen that moment to rush past the demo, only to fall over with a cry of pain, blood spurting out of the newly formed hole in his head; only the faint sound of a crack in the air of an all too familiar sound of a sniper rifle.

Turning his attention to where the sound came from, Émile scrambled to find new cover. Even while invisible, the chances of an accidental head shot could not be risked. Looks like he had to do the rookie move and take down the sniper if he wanted his team to get anywhere. They appeared to be holding their own against the rest of the RED team, but the sniper was a tricky bastard, always moving and always hitting his target.

Rushing forward to the ledge the sound emitted from, the spy was astounded to find that, for once, the RED sniper had not moved. Too focused on his targets, he hadn't noticed the spy creeping up behind him.

Too easy. It must be a trick. He knew this man wasn't stupid enough to just remain still after a shot. So why was he still here?

Whatever, Émile was starting to feel dizzy and his team was dying by the second. Decloaking was always the worst when trying to sneak. The action made a lout static noise and typically alerted everyone of his location. Fortunately, the man didn't even flinch. Merely taking another shot, the spy could hear Jürgen scream as he too, fell to the ground dead and sent to respawn, followed by the heavy crying out for him in alarm; judging by his tone, he had just noticed the medic's death.

The dirt barely made a noise as he crept close to the RED, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his knife, raising it above the snipers back.

Or.. wait... two snipers...?? No?

His head was swimming. The movement and events of the battle, no matter how early, hadn't done his mind any wonders. Along with the scorching heat, he found himself light headed and feeling doubles.

Émile should have been aware and alarmed when the Sniper quickly turned and looked back at him, mouth gaped in surprise, eyes wide in alarm. He should have been able to move away fast enough to avoid his hand getting hit and himself getting pushed, not only knocking the knife from his hand, but also, causing him to fall backwards on the ground, everything going black.

Chapter Text

The first thing that Émile took notice of upon his wakening was the fact that he had been laying on top of something that had been extremely comfortable and smelt oddly of lavender.

The second thing he noticed, with of his arm, was the fact that his arms had been bound above his head with what felt like zip-ties. Opening his eyes, Émile instantly closed them again due to the sunlight leaking in through a nearby window and groaned at the pounding of his head, followed by the strong hunger that had his mouth salivating for food. Shifting where he lay, he heard the creaks, sounding much like an old worn mattress- a bed, then. How had he gotten here?

With the earlier movement, his arms twisted where they were bound, skin touching the cool part of metal that was wedged between his wrists. So, coming to the conclusion that he was bound in someones bed while he had been unconscious on the field instead of murdered, he pried his eyes open, squinting so his eyes could adjust to the sunlight poking in. The area he was in was cramp yet homely. There was no doubt that it was well lived in. With the sunlight, poking in, Émile got a beautiful view of a red, warm lighting in the space, cups and magazines scattered about the place, still reeking with the scent of lavender and with the faint scent of human stench.

Twisting his neck to peer to the side, Émile caught sight of the familiar sight of the red Snipers vest and with a disgruntled noise, he gave a sigh. 

"I wonder who brought me here." Émile grumbled sarcastically in his mind, moving back so he was flat on his back once more. Given that the enemy sniper was the last person he saw before growing dizzy and blacking out, it would be logical to assume that he was correct on who captured him, spotted clothing aside. But why bring the spy here? The man wasn't getting paid to keep the enemy spy here, unless, of course, it was for revenge purposes. There had been no explanation that would come to his mind, still slightly dizzy from his earlier fall.

Parting his legs ever so slightly, noticing how bare they felt, Émile's eyes widened, craning his neck to look over his body. Instead of the very expensive three pieced striped blue suit, the spy found himself dressed in a white tank top and a pair of dark gray boxers that looked to be a couple sizes too big, with how they were attempting to slide off his hips. At this moment, Émile found himself paling, body shaking slightly at the sight.

However distressing it was to find himself in a different outfit than before, it hadn't been the boxers or change of apparel that had him terrified nor was it the one that had caused his stomach churn.

"He saw my scars!" Mind racing, his mouth held tightly closed, causing him unable to utter a single word out loud. "He saw my scars and he's going to tell the administrator! That idiot will out me to his entire team! No, No! Not again!! No!!"

Closing his eyes, the spy forced himself to breathe slowly. In and out. Relax. Relax! But he couldn't. He was going to be found out! His life was at stake!

And when he died this time, there would be no respawn to catch him.

"No, no!! I can't do this again!! I can't- I can't!! I won't-NO!!"

"Hey! Hey, shhh! Hey, C'mon... Yer okay. Hey! Look at me, mate. Shhh...."

So caught up in his panic, Émile hadn't noticed the snipers entering the space through the door nearby, never heard the man's cry in alarm, nor did he feel the man's touch or the soft tone he had taken upon placing his hands on the spys head, rubbing the top of the blue baklava in an effort to calm the panicking man in his bed.

It wasn't until the sniper's free hand touch his chest followed by the coffee coated breath that gently floated across his face as he drew closer to him, whispering words of comfort, did Émile feel his panicking begin to subside. His chest burned, feeling the air return to his lungs after his earlier hyperventilating.

"See, no harm. 'M not gonna hurt yeh... Keep breathing... Loike that. Shh... Yer foine. Listen ta me voice."

The reds thick accent cut through his mind, forcing him to relax with his tone.

Blinking his eyes back open, he got a close up view of the sniper close to his face; the man giving him a smile as soon as he spotted the spy looking at him.

"See, yer foine. Yeh alright?"

Émile wasn't sure how much of the red's breath before he felt like trowing up with how much his stomach was churning.

Locking eyes with the sniper, he glared, clearly unnamused about the situation.

"Get out of my face." growling weakly, he watched shock flutter across the red's face, fading back to that smile that he held earlier, backing away to give the blue space, however, he kept his elbows firmly on the bed where he leaned against the mattress where he knelt on the floor.

And thus began the long silence. As they remained as they were, eyes locked, Émile never let his glare falter. Even when he noticed the sniper's eyes shifting anxiously as sweat slowly appeared on the reds forehead. In a way, the fact that the enemy sniper seemed to be awkward at the concept of held eye contact, gave the spy a small amount of comfort. It would be the last thing he thought of before he was sent to the proverbial chopping block.

Just as the blue blinked, the sniper brought a fist to his mouth and coughed into it, making Émile jerk back before he could compose himself.

"S-so.... ahhh...." Clearing his throat to fix the nervous quiver that his voice held for but a moment. Rubbing the back of his neck, his own eyes locking onto the spy's nose. "Ya feeling better?"

Ah, so he wanted to play this game. So be it. Scowling with his glare returning to the man on his side. 

"Qu'est-ce que tu penses?" Émile found himself spitting out, weaker than he had intended to. Instead of the intimidating persona that all spies are required to have, he sounded exhausted and defeated, pulling again at the ties that bound his wrists to the headboard. "You kidnap me and tie me up-what is your game, bushman? To see me suffer by your hand? Perhaps you've run to the administrator to-"

Letting out a sputter, the red stood to his feet, holding out his hands piping in and interrupting the blue before he could finish his sentence.

"Hold up, mate! Yer gonna get yerself wound up all over again." Sighing, he cleared his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck, moving his hand to his shoulder, releasing a single weak laugh. "Look, ah... Sorry about tying yeh up. Jest had ta make sure yeh weren't.... ah... faking it."

"Then why'd you bother kidnapping me?" Pulling against the binds once more as if to point out his still restrained his arms, Émile bared his teeth as the ties began to dig into his wrists. "Why didn't you just kill me then? You've done as much before, it wouldn't have been so different."

At the questions being shot at him, the sniper gave pause, taking the time to ponder his answer. Face going blank while his eyes lingered to his left. Cold and seemingly empty, those eyes lost the light they held in them, jerking back to the spys with a confidence that he hadn't held before.

"Oi don't kill sick or unarmed people." the red muttered, nose scrunched in disgust, not for the spy in front of him, but at a thought that must be lingering in the man's head, for his eyes gave his intention. "And if me guess is roight, yeh were both at that moment. Thought Oi'd bring yeh back ta rest instead of leaving yeh ta get killed, as helpless as yeh were. Got morals, Oi do." Then, as if by magic, the light returned and forced the coldness in them away as his brown eyes roamed the spy's body, making his mouth twitch into a smirk. "Ah, hope yeh don't moind me old rags. Yer's had a lot of blood. Thought Oi'd clean them up fer yeh since yeh were conked out. Noice scars, by the way. Must have been some foight ta get those."

The comment on his scars had Émile stiffen. In a way, he had hoped the red wouldn't bring it up and would have forgotten about it. No such luck, apparently. However, the man assumed them to be battle scars, and that is exactly what he was aiming to roll with. That, at least, had taken some of the worry about being reported, away. Yet, taking a closer look, the sniper had a unique look when he mentioned the scars. As if he had been hiding something.

"Oui... It was a very.... life changing battle. But enough about those, I demand you remove these blasted zip-ties!" Pulling on his arms, he milked a wince, hoping to play on the other mans seemingly tender side that he had witnessed moments ago. "They are cutting into my skin." Eyes shifting to the nearby door, his mind begun to reel through multiple strategies to escape this place. What was this place anyway? It looked too big for a camper like Collins. Although, the Englishman hadn't cared much for space, which explained his cramp living quarters. Not like the Bushman that had him tied up.

Blinking, the sniper all but stumbled as he spun around to a kitchen cabinet behind him, quickly shifting through drawers; metal clanging together as he did so-obviously where he held his utensils such as spoons and forks. "Roight, of course. "S' long as yeh don't go knifing me when me back is turned."

'No promises.' Émile mentally sung, rolling his eyes. Not like he should anyway. With the lack of ricocheting bullets, explosions and agonizing cries of pain, he must have been out it for hours. Maybe the rest of the day and long into the next? He was pretty sure that it had been around this time when he had passed out. Eyes closing, he forced himself to relax as the sniper returned to him. With a few snips and a couple of tugging, Émile was able to sit up, rubbing his wrists as blood painfully flowed back into his arms.

Wonderful, now he would have to put up with the feeling of being stung for a while. Moving to stand as soon as the snipers back to him to put the scissors back, he wobbled. The boxers around his waist hung losely on his hips, sliding a tad down on one side, threatening to slide off had he been any slimmer. Groaning, he clutched his head as black once more began to invade his vision, only this time, the red noticed this and was able to catch him just in time before he fell to the ground.

"Ey, easy! Don't go rushing off loike that. Yer gonna fall again!" As he set the spy back on the bed, the sniper kept a hand on the blues arm to prevent from him falling anymore than he nearly did, only to have his hand swatted away. Pride hurt, the red rubbed his hand, nearly pouting as the cold behavior. "Yer welcome,  yeh bloody bastard. Next toime Oi'd let yeh fall."

"As you should." Groaning, Émile cupped his head, wishing the spinning would stop. "Also, you sound strange. No Australian I had ever met sounds like you do."

He didn't need to look the man in the eye to know he had upset him. But the blue was dizzy, he was cranky, and he wanted his damn suit back! He didn't like the smell of lavenders, it reminded him too much of his parents, people who he'd rather forget for the rest of his life.

Red or not, Émile did not have any rightful reason for snapping at the man whilst off duty.

"Oi! Don't make fun of me impediment!" Amusingly enough, when the spy did look up at his "rescuer" he found a delightful shade of red dust his cheeks. Had the spy been any other man, he would have thought it to be adorable. "That's just below the belt, there, mate."

"Apologies."

'Apologies.' That was all he had to say. Head spinning and fuzzy, he could barely hold himself up.While laying down, he had felt perfectly fine, headache aside. Sitting up, not so much. Choosing to lay back down, he kept his eyes on the red, prepared for any kind of attack. Even when none came, he watched.

Not expecting an apology, the sniper jerked back in surprise, going silent. With one look shared between them, the man hadn't really looked like he knew what to do with himself or with what to say next. Instead, he moved, turning his back once more, shifting through the cabinets and the small fridge. It was almost funny. As he witnessed the red turn his back on an enemy spy, the blue figured that the sniper knew he wasn't much of a threat, having nearly collapsed right in front of him, not to mention on the battlefeild earlier.

Speaking of which...

"How long was I out?" He questioned, seeing the red pull out a skillet and a few eggs. Moving the sniper's pillow under his head, reducing the spinning even more. Thanks to the silence between them, the sudden question seemed to startle the man, making him jerk ever so slightly. 

"Ah...." clearing his throat, the red refused to look back at him, cracking some eggs into the skillet, setting it on the Counter top cooker to fry. "A few hours er... no. That'd be a lie. Been out rest of yesterday and most of ta'day."

A day? That had his brows raising in surprise. It was no wonder he felt as hungry as he did at that moment. Even more so now that the smell of fried eggs traveled around the room. Licking his dry lips, the built up saliva nearly had him drooling as his stomach gave a loud rumble, earning a laugh from the man cooking.

"Hungry?"

"Oui, you have no idea." Sighing, he half buried his face into the pillow. "You plan on sharing?"

"Course! Not loike Oi plan on eating all this meself."


 

By all accounts, life had taught him to be suspicious of all the food that he planned to consume should and poison or any other questionable drugs be placed within his dish. But this mysterious ravenous hunger had forced his hand, Being a foodie in general hadn't helped at all in the least and he soon found himself sloppily shoveling the food in his mouth, much to the snipers amusement as he ate his own plate. The food wasn't terrible. Émile had to admit that it had potential to be appetizing, however, the sniper proved that he wasn't a cook.

"And Oi thought all yeh spooks were supposed ta be perfect gentlemen."

Catching the amused looks, the blue brought his napkin to his mouth, forcing himself to slow his chewing, least he present himself as a slob. Wiping his mouth gently, he continued to consume his food with a more elegant and well manner approach.

However, the sniper was a bit put off by that.

"Aww come on. Yeh don't have ta go an do that. Oi was only joshing. Oi promise." Pouting the red stood, carrying his now empty plate to the sink to clean, letting the spy finish his meal.

Face, already warmed at being caught scarfing his food like an animal, only grew hotter at the statement, glared down at his meal, finishing it up. Lips thinning, he placed his fork down on his plate. While lacking in taste, he had felt much better after eating and the headache faded somewhat. If he left now, chances are, his strength would hold out until he got back to his base.

But first things first.

"My things. You mentioned washing my clothes." Speaking up when the red came to retrieve his plate.

"Yeh." Nodding, the red picked the plate up with a smile. "But ah... It's still drying over me tub. Couldn't risk me team seeing it, yeh?"

"Hm..." What could he say to that? Nothing. Yawning, he felt his eye lids grow heavy and keeping them awake became a chore. The exhaustion had been lingering since he had woken but now that his stomach was full, all Émile wanted to do was sleep and his body, at the moment, agreed with it.

Flopping back down into the sheets, his body gave away to exhaustion. The red wouldn't kill him in this state, he was sure. He wouldn't have kept the blue alive then feed him only to kill him afterwards. He'd have to thank the man later. Or maybe not. 

He decided not to give into the thought of thanking the red. After today, they were enemies once more. Best not to give the poor fool the idea that there was any form of attachment. Closing his eyes, he drifted into the darkness that called him in.


 

When he woke up for the second time that day, the sun had gone out and it was well into the night. The sniper, had taken residence in a seat nearby, hat covering his eyes as he snored, so deep into sleep, he wouldn't pick up a single sound. Fully awake in an instant, he shot up, he cupping a hand to his mouth, feeling the bile build up his neck. Clambering off the bed, the boxers slid down on his hip as he sped to where he hoped the bathroom was; this had been the correct choice. Once more, he found himself on his hands and knees in front of the toilet, vomiting everything that he had eaten.

Body shaking with each heave, he could feel the tension build up. This was not good. He had to get, whatever this was fixed. The constant nausea would hinder him in battle and there was no way he could deal with this for the rest of his life. As much as he didn't enjoy the idea, a visit to the medic would possibly be a good idea for a change. Perhaps he had caught a but that had been going around without his knowledge. No, no. He'd know if there was an illness. Plus, Jürgen would never let him live that down if there was and the spy hadn't noticed it.

Finishing up, Émile reached up with a shaky hand and flushed the vile away, sitting on the floor, still shaking from the exertion. head lowered to rest in his hands. Great, the headache was returning. Sitting there, in pain and devoid of energy in the enemy's.... home? He couldn't stay here. Too long had he been away from his base and team; no doubt Collin would be concerned about him by now and alerted every member of their team. Other than the medic, he was the only one to notice when the spy went missing for long periods of time.

Like that time his head had been kept in the red medic's refrigerator.

Shaking his head out of his hands, he glared upward at the ceiling, catching his suit from the corner of his eye as he did so. Taking notice, he spared a glance over to his suit in relief. Hanging on the curtain rod, it sat, looking damp but newly clean and blood free from the earlier fight. Allowing himself a moment of joy, Émile crawled to the tub, reaching up and feeling the suit, doing so, allowed the spy to spot his weapons, watch, sapper, and kit sitting there in the tub, bone dry as they should be. Gathering them all in his hands, including his suit, the blue was in a hurry to cloak himself to sneak out of the apparent camper, still adjourning the red's clothing.

Deep down, he regretted not getting the man's name.

And shoes. He was at his base when he noticed that he had forgotten his shoes.


 

As expected, He found Collin outside the door, looking out onto the field with binoculars, desperately scanning the area for any sight of the blue spy. It was a surprise to Émile. He knew that the Englishman was foolish enough to do such a stupid thing at night when they had an early battle the next day. No doubt, he was bound to be exhausted the next morning. It was touching, honestly. Not that he'd openly admit it to the man, god knows that Collin would get a big head at that information.

He hadn't decloaked until he was right next to the blue sniper, watching in amusement at the jump and screech Collin made at the sudden appearance of his friend, binoculars falling to the ground by their feet. Rounding on the spy, he looked to scold the man before he froze, expression dropping to concern at the disheveled appearance the spy was in.

"Mate, what happened?" Grabbing Émile's shoulders, he looked the man over, tugging lightly at the tank top he wore. "And what are you wearing, mate? What is..." Grabbing his hair with both hands, he laughed, unsure how to react. "Did... I... What happened?"

Snorting, Émile couldn't hide the smirk that appeared on his face at his friends reaction. Reaching up, he rubbed his face tiredly. "I'll..... Collin... Can we speak of this later? I'm exhausted." Despite having slept at the red's camper, he felt like sleep was all he had wanted to do at that moment.

Collin must have picked up on his friend's exhaustion and wrapped an arm around the spy's shoulders, smiling softly at the smaller male. "Sure. Let me walk you there. You look like you're about ta fall over."

"I would appreciate that very much."

"Quick question, Em. Why do you smell like lavender?"

All Émile could do at the question was laugh.