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It's not that Spy has any objections when Sniper chooses to linger in his room in the morning, staying quiet and unobtrusive in Spy's bed while Spy finishes his morning routine. They had spent the night getting their fill of each other, and Sniper will be kicked out soon enough once Spy has to leave for his flight to one very redacted-black-out-text-classified location. He catches Sniper dozing on and off, since five in the morning is not a very friendly time for a gunman who does his work mostly out in the sun or late at night, and Spy knows that a winter sunrise won't happen until seven, if at all.
Even so, Spy shuts his suitcase with a final snap that causes Sniper to rouse and lazily get to his feet despite the chill. There's a soft grunt of displeasure, a noisy shuffle of sheets, and Spy barely has time to turn around before Sniper drapes his warm body over Spy's shoulders. There are goosebumps up Sniper's bare arms, hairs standing up, and Spy briefly runs a gloved hand up to pretend feel them, leather as cold as the air. Sniper doesn't seem to mind, fingers edging along the hem of Spy's mask to hitch it up but not completely off.
Spy continues locking his suitcase while Sniper bites at his neck, leaving a mark that'll surely last until Spy comes back to base in a week. After that, Sniper practically licks all the cologne off his nape until he's satisfied and tugs the mask back in place for Spy. His arms drop from Spy's shoulders, but instead of looking around for the rest of his clothes, he eyes the bed again.
Spy has to pull the covers back over the mattress to stop Sniper from diving back into the still-warm blankets.
"Any souvenirs you might be interested in?" he asks, redirecting pointedly.
The last few times Spy had asked, Sniper had requested pack of specialized bullets (from the Congo), Damascus steel (from Madrid of all places), and alligator leather (from Phitsanulok) to reskin his kukri handle. It wasn't always Sniper would want something specific, especially when more often than not Spy wasn't allowed to say where he was going, but Spy offered enough times for it become a semi-regular question without the awkwardness of having some hidden meaning behind it. It also helped that Spy would ask the rest of the team if time permitted. The requests he received were just as no-nonsense and work-related.
"Naw. Just bring yourself back," Sniper replies with offhanded casualness. He crosses the room to pick up his shirt and sweater from the chair.
While Sniper has his head stuck inside the sweater, Spy looks at him with an expression that he would loathe to call hesitant. He makes up for it by simply speaking without the reservation he actually feels.
"The location I've been assigned has a special type of wool from a rare breed of sheep," Spy says. "Care for some yarn?"
Sniper's head pops from the neck of the sweater. The knit fabric is his own work, kept in decent condition except for a few spots of pilling at the cuffs and back.
"Oh… Well, since you're offering, yeah," Sniper says. The frown he gives Spy could either be from surprise or his arms attempting to wiggle through the longer sleeves. "Might as well take a couple of skeins."
Spy reaches over to tug the roughened cuffs to Sniper's wrists. Objectively, it's not a very good sweater—rather ill-fitting and clumsily seamed, and the beige doesn't compliment Sniper's complexion at all. It doesn't bear repeating; Sniper already knows Spy's lukewarm thoughts on it.
"Colors?" Spy asks, veering back into familiar territory. He expects Sniper will say something like purple or green, and Spy will have to pry out the specifics like if he means periwinkle or topaz. They'll bicker over it for the rest of their time together, but he likes the challenge of making a mountain out of a molehill and the thought of an aggravated Sniper.
But Sniper only blinks at Spy, fingers pinching the knit in absent habit before he looks towards the window to gauge the time by sunlight alone.
"How 'bout you match me one the color of the sky over there, and another with the poncy wine you'll be drinkin' after your contract?" he suggests.
Spy stops. He glances up at the ceiling and feels they are both choosing to not look at each other in that moment.
"Very well," he replies.
A week later, Spy comes back with two wool skeins wrapped neatly in paper, nestled into the corner of his suitcase and under a second package of surgical steel wires that Medic had requested.
Sniper looks at the packaged wires with a grimace but readily takes his own gifts. He pulls the paper off, stuffing it into his vest pockets—scraps for fire starters, most likely—and inspects the yarn skeins, one in each hand.
Spy is no wool expert, though he is familiar with the feel of fine fabrics and whether or not a shopkeeper is lying about the quality of his wares. The yarn had been pricey but the thread was soft and strong between Spy's fingers, dyed bright and subtly uneven in the way most artisan products tend to be. One skein is a richly deep red of an aged wine, the other the grayish muted blue of an overcast sky.
Sniper gives the wool a curious sniff with the same air of smelling a foraged mushroom he isn't familiar with. He glances at the red more than the blue, turning it over in one hand and admiring the color.
"How was the Cab Sav?" he says, looking up with a crooked grin.
Dry, fragrant, heavy on the tongue, and had made Spy pleasantly warm and satisfied after his mission, sitting alone at the safe house with his feet propped up over a small desk, the last remnants of his dinner gone too cold to finish.
"…How did you know?" Spy asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously. He sits up from his bed, no longer trying to nap off the jetlag.
"Blind shot in the dark, mate," Sniper says, attempting to forestall Spy from a paranoia-induced spiral with a laugh. He joins Spy on the bed, sitting at the foot and shaking him by the ankle. "Reckon it's your favorite go-to for a celebratory nightcap. Bet my hat you had a bloody steak for dinner too."
"I should never be so predictable," Spy mutters, bending his leg to pull his ankle in and Sniper along with it.
This proves to not be the greatest course of action. Sniper taps the yarn against Spy's chest, absently smiling. Spy suspects that he's imagining the red shade against Spy's flushed skin to make him something gaudy and ridiculous.
"Right," Sniper says, setting the yarn aside once he's done. He splays both hands across Spy's waist, thumbs touching to estimate the fit of whatever he's going to knit. It only lasts a second before he stretches up to give Spy a heated kiss and an ice-cold taunt; "Next time be less predictable."
For all of Spy's quipping about Sniper's lack of creativity on the battlefield, it's only until they are well into their contracts with RED that he realizes Sniper makes up for it with his hobbies. There's hunting and tracking, stargazing, liquor brewing (very dubiously), and a myriad of other outdoor activities. Knitting is one of the few consistent hobbies that take Sniper indoors when the weather is too awful or if he's keen to be present within the periphery of the team or, on occasion, keep Spy company to playfully mutter about their antics (before joining in, naturally).
Spy has never thought so much on Sniper's knitting—only that Sniper enjoys it as a means to chase away boredom, that it keeps his fingers nimble, and sometimes it produces a practical item for use. At other times, it produces a pile of coaster squares that end up cluttering the camper and then the base until everyone starts to give hints about needing more cups than coasters, and suddenly one of them will somehow end up with a crooked quilt made of scrumpy-stained squares.
Fortunately, none of Spy's gifted yarns end up as a coaster. Unfortunately, it seems like Sniper is set on knitting him a mismatched vest made of, thus far, three slightly different shades of red. (The Cabernet Sauvignon, a Merlot, and a surprisingly good red blend—Sniper hadn't been able to guess the last two, thank goodness.) Spy is resigned to the vaguely vest-shaped piece out of disgustingly romantically-bound duty, but he had been too late in realizing that he should've bought enough yarn of one shade to make one article of clothing. He hasn't a single clue on how many skeins make a vest, and Sniper refuses to tell him.
Of the sky-colored yarns, Spy catches Sniper consulting a knitting pattern for cap from a ratty magazine for an entire week before becoming confident enough to do away with it. After a bit of snooping, Spy discovers that Sniper had taken the pattern as a base template and now the cap has taken a new shape of it's own—which, to Spy's untrained but critical eye, is admittedly impressive.
And he doesn't mean he's much impressed by the actual knitting. Spy has attempted knitting himself a long time ago but found the whole process too dull to continue. Had he developed a real interest, he assumes he could be quite good at it like any other skill. No, what impresses Spy about knitting is the specific way Sniper approaches it, all unrefined skill but with the methodical care and patience to create something out of very little. Sniper has an eye for measuring out twine without needing the tape and the memory to know where his stops are. He always seems to have a very set vision for the object that he is making—even when all Spy can see are oddly angled loops and stitches that don't look like anything. They always end up being something. A sleeve to a shirt. The back flap for a hat. Gloves. Netting. Socks. Strangely artistic without ever claiming to be an artist.
In a way, it puts Sniper with the likes of Engineer or Demoman or even Medic, the mercenaries with a natural penchant for creation, able to form objects or tools or food by intuition alone. Sure, Spy can cook most dishes if he follows a recipe, but Demoman has the sense to know how much spice to add without needing the measuring spoons or know when he can deviate from given instructions and still have the meal just as delicious or a bomb just as explosive. Engineer, being the biggest example of this, sees the world and what is missing, what can fill the space and give it a purpose. And Medic, well, there's no doubt that Medic longs to create in ways that may or may not be bargained with the devil himself.
Spy used to believe that Sniper was more similar to him and the rest of the mercenaries who have an eye for breaking things down and taking them apart. Not exactly destruction—that being Pyro's forte—but more akin to Spy's instinct of seeing weak points and knowing how to shift things around.
Spy knows where his talents lie. He only takes. And manipulates. And uses what's already there. It's never his first inclination to create anything.
Spy puts down the cleaning cloth, folding it in half so that the sharp lines of rusted blood stains are kept hidden. He inspects his blade, gleaming under the fluorescent light of Sniper's camper. Since he has taken the small dining table to clean his weapons, Sniper is at the bunk, lap full of yarn and fingers intertwined with a riot of colors. And while Spy might not knit himself, he still knows the rhythmic motions of Sniper's hands and steady wooden clicks of the needles tapping against themselves whenever Sniper starts a new row.
It's quiet though. No clicks, not for a while. Spy glances up from his blade.
"Knitting?" he asks, even when it's clear that Sniper is not. Spy cranes his neck, noticing that Sniper has a skein separated and looped around one foot to his wrists. "You're unwinding them."
"Erm, yes," Sniper replies in a tone suggesting that Spy has missed something fundamental about about the craft, but Sniper takes no further offense. Without looking away from his unraveling, he gives a shrug and only glances up when he hears Spy approach the ladder. The corners of his eyes crinkle. "The hanks are lovely but I like to roll 'em up first before I use 'em. Keeps them tidy. Easier to put away without tangling the buggers." Sniper falls silent for a moment. He winds the roll three times then puts it in his lap. Patting around the bunk, he lifts a neat yarn ball for Spy to see. "Y'see, this wrap job's called a cake. Flat sides. Won't go rolling hither and yon when the camper's careening down a cliff or somesuch."
Spy steps up the ladder, taking care to not disturb Sniper's half-formed cakes in cardboard rolls and unraveled skeins. "That makes sense."
Sniper moves the aside anyway, and Spy takes the silent offer to curl against his hip so that he can observe Sniper's hands and fingers put to order the plaited blue skein.
(Illinois. Asset neutralization. Sunny day with a pale sky. No wine that time.)
"Don't much like this part but it needs getting done," Sniper grumbles, resting his forearm against the side of Spy's head. "Pain in the arse."
"Most preparations worth doing often are," Spy says idly, feeling how Sniper's muscles shift against his cheek with the smallest movements. Just wrapping yarn. Manipulate, really.
He watches Sniper quietly.
It's only reshaping what's already there into something better and more useful.
Something he knows how to do.
Weeks later on his next train ride back to base, Spy unravels the hanks himself and starts rolling them.
The initial problem with choosing a yarn that is the color of the sky is that Spy assumes his choices are going to be limited to shades of blue or perhaps black if he wants to be cheeky about his mission taking place at night. Sniper already has a growing collection of blue, which is a shame. Spy can already see it in Sniper's eyes and grim smile that he may have been short sighted—hah, must be an aggravating realization for a sniper—about asking for sky colored yarn, especially if their ever-opposing team claims those particular shades. Spy suspects their counterparts might eventually receive knitted gifts come next Smissmas.
In the meantime, Spy wearily wipes his blade over the corpse's suit. He is bleeding from the left side of his chest, a real wound that respawn is too far away to fix, but he's already thinking of the nice Chardonnay he wants to have with a lighter brunch. Fish, perhaps. Or chicken in a lemon-based sauce. It's Italy, so he's spoiled for choice. It will mean looking for a piss-colored yellow yarn, unfortunately. Sniper will have a long laugh about it.
Spy eases back up, glancing at the horizon. It's a sunrise over the coast, brilliantly mixed in pink and orange and purples. He's lived long enough to have seen early sunrises like these before. Pretty, of course. Not quite mundane, but not really an awe-inspiring sight. It is, however, one of the more beautiful things here on this decrepit rooftop littered with bodies.
Still, Spy has yet to become too world weary and jaded that he can't still be a little dazzled by a sky that isn't its usual blue.
"Ah," Spy says, with a distant wish in his chest that someone should be here to see it too.
He stays where he is just a while longer to study the colors.
"Lavender and poppy?" Sniper says, whistling as he reads the labels. "Must've been some sunrise."
"It could've been a sunset," Spy points out, pulling off his frost covered gloves. Coldfront has not been his favorite base to stay at, nor Sniper's. He contemplates hinting at Sniper for some knitted gloves, but the idea of lavender and poppy colored mittens with his red suit nearly makes him nauseous.
"Nah. You don't get this kind of purple with an orange in a sunset. I've seen my fair share of both," Sniper says, pacing the chilly utility room, boxed in by the dreary gray granite walls. He turns, breath puffing in warm smoky wisps from his cigarette. "I know you can't tell me where you went, but it must've been real damn pretty."
His voice is inflectionless, but his gaze focuses on Spy, open and easy to read. All that weighted attention settles within the quiet of the room, and Spy isn't going to be that willfully clueless to ignore the possibility that Sniper might not just be talking about the sunrise.
"You might want to add dashing and handsome," Spy says, hand tucking beneath his suit jacket, digging into a pocket.
Sniper's teeth flash, lighted by a cherry glow. "Don't push your luck."
"Oh, I know better than that, thank you," Spy says, pinching the cigarette from Sniper's lips so that he can kiss them instead. He can take a compliment, and he rarely gets to be called something so benign as pretty at his age. With his other hand still in his pocket, he pulls out a third skein and presses it to Sniper's chest.
It takes a second or two for Sniper to grab it, distracted by Spy's persistent closeness. By the time he looks down at it, Spy has an arm around his waist and they're leaning into each other like it's a natural thing.
"Crikey. Ain't that a dehydrated piss-yellow if I've ever seen one," Sniper says, holding up the skein and butchering the mood. "Was wonderin' when you'd order up a Chardy."
Spy sighs. He holds Sniper's hand but only to forcibly stop him from waving the skein around in the air like a pinwheel. "I'll allow calling it piss-colored, but don't ever say Chardy again."
"You hate how I say Chardonnay anyhow."
"Mon petit chasseur, I adore how you say Chardonnay," Spy says sweetly, bringing Sniper's hand up to kiss the knuckles.
"Christ, thought you were gonna wretch over my fingers just now," Sniper says, pulling away in mock disgust. "Ain't telling lies supposed to be your thing?"
"Me? Good at lying?" Spy says, shoving the cigarette back into Sniper's mouth until Sniper is forced to inhale his own laughter and have it come out in great smoky clouds of unchecked mirth.
Out of practicality and common sense, Spy doesn't look for yarn during every mission. At most, it's once every two months or three, and Sniper isn't always knitting anyway. Sometimes he won't touch his knitting needles for weeks when taken up with another task or busy with outside contracts of his own. Spy is observant enough to know when Sniper is not inundated with a knitting project. He'll not bother with the souvenirs.
But, on occasion, he likes procuring the yarn on purpose to simply make Sniper irritated by his selfless acts of indulgent generosity.
"Oi, whatever happened to that RPB silencer I've been asking for?" Sniper asks, still sweat-slicked and belly-stained from their latest fuck. "Thought you'd skim me one from that arms dealer."
"I did not meet with an arms dealer," Spy says, hovering above him with both hands braced over the mattress. He slips out from Sniper, trying to suppress his satisfied shiver.
"Clearly, mate. Y'went wool shopping instead," Sniper huffs, tugging at the makeshift rope around his wrists. Since it's only yarn tied loosely at the head of the bed, he frees himself easily with the quick-release knot. He rubs at the reddened marks at his skin, a bright pink to match the cheap synthetic threads.
(Sparkling rosé from Los Angeles. Awful and weak, both the target and the wine. Spy hadn't tried particularly hard to find real wool. It'd been the joked that mattered.)
Spy gives Sniper a courtesy wipe with the corner of the bedsheet since Sniper is refusing to do it himself. The mess across Sniper's stomach looks good in the moment but Spy would rather not be glued and sticky if Sniper pulls flush against him. While he has Sniper wiggling away and griping about being fussed over, Spy reaches beneath his bed to pull out a sleek black case.
"It was not easy shopping," he says, opening it with a flick.
The cover pops open.
Sniper flips around, grin instantly appearing when he sees the silencer gleaming in the dim light.
"You fuckin' mad lad," he breathes, sitting up. "Oh, aces, Spy. Give it here."
There was a time Spy had a lady, whose eyes would light up with delight when he returned home with a jewelry box of earrings or a necklace. It's nearly the same with Sniper. "I've been spoiling you too much, I think."
Sniper's ears turn red as he aims an affronted look towards Spy. "Spoiling? The fuck are you on about. I gave you the money."
Spy shrugs, propping himself up on one elbow so that he can watch Sniper paw over the new accessory. "It wasn't enough. The asking price was higher than what you gave me. Quite higher."
"Bloody hell. The black market ain't what it used to be. Whatever happened to honest smuggling?" Sniper says, picking up the silencer with barely contained excitement. Not even Spy's teasing can diminish his pleased smile as he checks the legitimacy of the attachment. "I'll write you a check for the difference. Or would you rather I pay you back with cash?"
"No need," Spy sighs, wrapping an arm across Sniper's waist and absently rubbing his lower back.
Sniper doesn't seem to like the answer. He glances down at Spy's groin then back up. "… With my body then?"
"That's thoughtful of you, but tasteless of me to accept," Spy says, putting his teeth gently to Sniper's shoulder so that he can slowly nibble his way up.
Sniper rolls his eyes as he tips his head to make room for Spy's light kisses and lighter bites. "Sure. You'd know tasteless."
Sniper's skin tastes like salt and dirt and the type of rocky mineral dust that Spy has grown to like. He's certainly not as tasteless as Sniper believes.
They kiss for some time, slow and lazy, but it doesn't escape Spy's attention that Sniper hasn't let go of the case or the silencer. Spy presses in, more insistent, but Sniper gives him a doglike warning nip on the nose and then two pats on the shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah. We done with the cuddling yet?" Sniper asks, squirming under Spy and nudging with his knees. He puts the chilly case between them, peering over the open lid. "I wanna get a better look at this."
Spy rolls himself off, sullen. "I should have waited until morning."
"Yeah, nah. Sorry, Spy," Sniper says cheerfully, hopping out from the bed with the case securely under his arm. He tucks Spy back in, keeping the tragically damp and sticky sheets snug, pink yarn decorating the top of Spy's head, and plants an undignified mwah of a kiss above Spy's glaring eyes. "You know how it is with new toys."
The security room is technically an open office for all RED personnel on base. Over the years, it has mostly turned into Spy's office since the rest of the team can't be bothered to do routine checks of all twenty-three surveillance camera locations, or occasionally scrub a couple of the recordings that aren't strictly company related. Spy assumes Miss Pauling appreciates the lack of clutter on the feeds.
That being said, Spy's only lock on the room is a pinpad with the code 1-2-3-4, a repurposed sticky bomb over the door frame and a bucket of paint on a pulley system.
It's easy to disable the sticky bomb when he sees Sniper storm through several live recordings towards the security room, but Spy doesn't quite make it in time to remove the bucket, which is how Sniper ends up covered in bright blue paint the color of a cloudless desert sky.
(It's been a while since Spy had given him a skein of luxury yarn. He hadn't picked up any new contracts for the past two months. Just as well—Sniper's collection might be heading towards excessive. He hasn't finished a knit project since February.)
The bucket clatters to the ground, rolling away before Sniper can kick at it. It had hit him on the shoulder, splashing him liberally from the neck down.
Sniper takes a slow deep breath. Likely counting to five in his head. While he does that, Spy finishes putting the last pin on his latest investigation board.
The sound of the puncture to the corkboard causes Sniper to look up, staring at it. At first, Spy thinks Sniper's incredulous expression is for the thoroughness of facts, notes, theories, and photographs posted in an expansive spider's web of evidence, triangulating towards a single target.
His second guess is that Sniper is upset about the paint dripping from his wrists.
"You've fucking frogged my knit," Sniper says, angry enough that his voice becomes flat.
A third guess springs to Spy's head. Spy might not be familiar with all the knitting terminology but like his investigation board, he can use context clues. He glances at the decorated wall, covered in pins and—here it is—strings of crimson Pinot Noir yarn connecting everything together.
"I have located your target," he says, tapping at the miniature map where he had pushed the pin through. He runs a finger over a line of yarn, as if proving its importance. "I tracked them from-"
"You could've used your own bloody twine. Not my knit!" Sniper finally raises his voice, walking up to the wall and grabbing a fistful of string.
Paint splatters over Spy's suit, a handprint over the wall, sunny blue drips over the floor.
"Your knitting has been sitting in my room for months. You have at least three other unfinished projects. What, a mitten? That scarf?" Spy hisses, trying to pull Sniper from the map before he does any more damage, "And, and, putain, stop that, Sniper—you merely made a slip knot on the needles, that isn't anything!"
"Eye for an eye, mate, I'm gonna frog your stupid wall, see how you like that-"
There's no stopping Sniper in the middle of a childish tantrum. His taciturn nature doesn't often break into anything other than moody silence, but every once in a while something unreasonable and ugly claws out of him. It always fascinates Spy, even when he's on the receiving end.
Spy steps aside, throwing his hands up. "Go ahead! It's already finished. I hope you know that you do have enough red yarn laying around as it is."
"Yeah, and I reckon a qiviut Pinot Noir would be so damn easy to come by again," Sniper says, furious. "You went to Greenland for that, fucking gone for a month. 'Course I had it sittin' around. How was I supposed to think of anything good enough to make with it? Now you've gone and used it for a kindie project, what the fuck, Spy?"
Spy blinks. He never told Sniper about his trip to Greenland or that he had a Pinot Noir while there. But, more importantly; "You're not obligated to make anything out of it."
The smallest of flinches jumps from Sniper's shoulders before he angrily yanks the string from the wall. He knows he's blurted out something very private. As recklessly close as they are, there are still lines drawn between them, separating some arbitrary forms of intimacy that they both don't want to acknowledge. Sniper stops panting through his mouth, shutting it. He ravels the string up tight between his fingers and clenched fist, heedless of the paint sticking to the yarn.
Spy feels an uncomfortable squirming in his chest. Despite how long they have known each other, Sniper has yet to give him anything knitted yet. Not that Spy ever expects anything, because he knows it's a hobby for Sniper, not at all like a mission or contract where he has to rely on Sniper's expertise and skill, where it's easier to make requests or demands from him because it's their job to make use of each other. And Spy doesn't ask for a knitted trinket of his own, only content to watch the threads form into objects over time with no need to hold or wear the result of all that work. It's not in his nature to want anything tangible or physical, like evidence pinned to a board for anyone to see and pick apart—but it's a difficult thought to explain in the midst of blue paint flying everywhere.
"I'm sorry."
"Bugger off," Sniper mutters, throwing off the sticky tangle of yarn. It dangles from the wall, still stuck by pins and twisted lines. At this point, the stained thread is beyond saving.
Spy tries to keep from rocking back and forth on his heels. He had just been thinking about how childish Sniper is acting, but he's no better, always painfully shy about digging deeper than a quick apology.
He bends down to to pick up the tangle, takes out his knife to cut it free, and picks up the fresh end to start winding it neatly as Sniper wipes his palms against his trousers.
"If you do make something, it would be nice to see," he says.
The investigation board is half in shambles, the string slowly disconnecting from each pinpoint, but that's the good thing about raveling it from the start—the end point is still there.
Sniper stares at the wall, not answering, but he's reading it, following the blue-speckled thread as Spy rolls it up and the pins, photographs, notes fall off. When he's done following the trail, Sniper turns away to pace the room back and forth. Once. Twice.
Three times before stopping, looking at the board again.
"…Not bad," Sniper says. Tired. Too practical to ever hold on to anger for long.
"I shouldn't have used the yarn. I didn't know you were saving it."
Sniper shrugs. He taps at a photograph and the notes below it. "Must've taken you a while."
"A while," Spy admits. "But I have the location now. It was all connected from the start."
While Spy is rolling up the string, Sniper sniffs, rubbing under his eye with the heel of his palm and leaving a streak of blue paint over his cheek and nose. He sighs, taking the yarn from Spy's hands, fingers brushing and knuckles bumping together, and continues to roll it up while Spy lingers at his side, pulling the pins away.
"Alright. So where's this cunt that I gotta go and kill?"
The gunshot claps through the air, making Spy's ears ring.
"That's your silencer?" Spy hisses at his watch. "It's loud! Deafening! Why worry about an alarm if your gun is breaking sound barriers anyway?"
Sniper's sputtering comes out like static through the earpiece. "Yeah, 'course it's loud. It's still a bloody rifle that can shoot across three buildings! Don't tell me you were expectin' dead silence?"
"A knit sock over your stupid long barrel would have done a better job muffing it!"
"Don't threaten me with a good time," Sniper drawls over the noise of him packing up his sniping nest. "C'mon, it's decibels softer, clear as day!"
Spy huffs, jumping out the shattered window and onto the rusted fire escape. He had plans to make for an actual exit with a door, disguised as a worker, but apparently that isn't going to happen now with the element of stealth gone. "I stole you a shitty silencer that doesn't even work! I had to kill a man for it!"
"Stole? Thought you paid!" Sniper exclaims, "You killed your arms guy?"
"Terminated our alliance," Spy corrects, Invis watch to his mouth to whisper. "But yes. He's gone."
"Bloody fuckin' hell. There goes our supply chain-"
"I handled it. If you recall the red yarn, I had a Cab Sav that night so it was a successful celebratory mission."
Unbelievably, there's an exaggerated hoot of excitement from Sniper's end. "Cab Sav! You just called it a Cab Sav."
Spy pinches the bridge of his nose while running down the stairs. All four stories, plus a couple of broken rails he has to sling himself over. "It's called code switching, imbecile, so that your sun-damaged brain can comprehend basic spoken word."
"Oi, mate. We'll getcha goin' off in the bush, turn ya into a fair dinkum in no time," Sniper says, maliciously sliding into a heavier accent. "Seems like I'm rubbing off onya, darl."
"You are not."
It's easy to say that out of the two of them, Spy is the more social one. He has charisma and charm along with the stubborn and relentless grace to stick to an awkward conversation. Spy doesn't mind small talk and can navigate his way out of it whenever he does mind. He can contribute to rowdy locker room ribbing and shift to technical battle field tactics without so much as blinking. He has experienced a myriad of social events, everything from droll boardroom meetings to drug-fueled all-nighter parties and everything else in between. Through it, he has met all sorts of people who have either turned into friends, allies, or enemies, and sometimes all three at once.
It's different when he sees Sniper spending time with Engineer or Demoman or Scout—people on the team who Sniper gets along with more easily than others. Spy knows Sniper won't go out of his way to make friends outside of being generally polite. Of course, put a number of men in a group for an extended amount of time, and certain types will start to gravitate towards one another. Even someone as solitary as Sniper will begin to tolerate different levels of companionship. Demoman is loud but jolly, Scout is loud but fun in small doses, and Engineer is also loud but sensible and friendly. Sniper does have a type he enjoys spending time with, usually boisterous friendly people who can coax him out of his aloof shell and wouldn't hesitate to call friends, his mates, whatever, so on and so forth.
(Where this puts Spy, Spy doesn't think too hard on.)
With the rest of the team, it's obvious Sniper likes them well enough despite the occasional disagreement or brawling. In fact, the most friction Sniper seems to have is with Spy. In more ways than one.
That being said, somehow it feels as if Sniper knows the team better in some unnamed capacity that Spy can't reach himself. Sniper has the type of natural camaraderie that doesn't particularly care if it works to his advantage or not. He'll tip his hat or beer towards anyone on the team, sit down in silence with them when the mood is dour, shout back when it's provoked. Meanwhile, Spy's subconsciousness is always calculating his own interactions with the team, weighing the cost time and effort like a checkbook needing to be balanced. Even when Spy can acknowledge the ease of friendship with someone like Heavy—it's not the same for Sniper. How he blends in with the team is more genuine, always less deliberate. Sniper has a finger to a beating pulse that Spy can't feel, observing habits in that distant capacity of his when Spy is used to working up close and personal, picking apart the dynamics for himself with a critical eye rather than an open mind.
Maddening, really. Especially when Spy should have seen it coming.
While waiting for the starting bell to chime, Heavy ambles up to Spy, spiked boots leaving dotted imprints on the icy ground. Spy gives him a nod, expecting the greeting to be returned in a similar manner, but instead Heavy claps him on the back, nearly knocking the cigarette from Spy's hand.
"Thank you for the cap," says Heavy, tugging at the hem. "Is soft, but sturdy."
Spy glances at the cap on his head. It's a cable knit pattern from the yarn he had acquired in Spain.
(Simple assassination. Wine the color of arterial blood. Rather bad payout from a disappointing employer.)
One of Sniper's early works though. The pattern breaks in several spots.
"I didn't make it," Spy says, switching to Russian.
"Yes, I know you didn't," Heavy says, following suit. "Sniper did, but you provided the yarn."
I didn't choose for him to make you something with materials I gifted him, Spy wants to say. Defensively. But his Russian isn't good enough to quickly explain himself without stuttering indignantly. Besides, Heavy is a defense specialist so Spy can't really stand up to him at the moment.
"I'm glad you like it enough to wear it," Spy says instead. "But it wasn't my thought. I had no opinion on the matter."
"Idea," says Heavy, shifting his minigun to rest against his hip.
This alarms Spy. Heavy is getting comfortable. The conversation is not going to end any time soon. "What?"
"You said thought, when you mean to say idea. That making a cap for me wasn't your idea," Heavy clarifies.
"My apologies," Spy huffs, taking a drag from the cigarette. "I'm not fully fluent."
"Yet," Heavy adds.
"Quoi?"
"I'll tutor you, as thanks." Heavy shrugs, as if the offer isn't a bother. Which it won't be, on account of Spy refusing.
"There isn't really a need-" Spy begins, going back to English in his haste.
Heavy continues in Russian, "Your pronunciation is good, but it's out of a textbook. Stilted. You know awkward, yes? I'll teach you to sound like a native."
As Heavy makes his case, Spy sees a red little dot flit to the side of Heavy's head, blinking at the cap. Likely in Morse code, but Spy doesn't need to decode anything to see that Sniper is meddling. Like a hand at his back, pushing him forward; go on, you could use this. Use, but not the type of use Spy usually does.
Just what Sniper sees through his scope in that distant capacity of his, Spy can't understand. What does it matter if Spy can't speak Russian like a native? That he can't be bothered to make actual friends with his teammates in any real way? So what if Sniper has pinned down the quiet, straight forward blunt types of people Spy naturally wants to gravitate to? That Sniper is saying he can read Spy as much as Spy reads him?
So what?
D-O-L-T, Sniper blinks out. W-A-N-K-E-R.
Spy puts down his cigarette, flicking the ash away as he glances meaningfully at the spot above Heavy's shoulder.
Heavy's brow raises. He glances behind him.
The red dot disappears, but they both can see Sniper give a sheepish wave from the far window at his nest.
"Teach me how to curse someone out in Russian," Spy says.
Heavy laughs and holds out his hand for Spy to clasp. "Sounds like a good plan."
They are well into their once-a-month Sunday brunch when BLU Scout suddenly speaks up.
"Tell your snipes I said thanks," BLU Scout mumbles around a mouthful of pancakes.
Spy stares at him from across the diner booth table. He lets the silence sit, which is a miracle that Scout hasn't filled it with chatter yet, but that could be because of the pancakes.
"For what?" he finally prompts.
Scout swallows, taking up a glass of milk to wash the syrup-drenched cake down.
"What, you don't know? Some spy you are," Scout says, scoffing. "He gave me a sweater. Mad cozy. Knitted shit. Weather back at work sucks, in case you haven't noticed."
"Is BLU not providing you with appropriate gear?" Spy asks, echoing the scoff without needing to actively think about mimicking it. "I'm not surprised. If you needed more cold-weather clothes, you should have asked me."
"Why would I ask you?"
Spy rolls his eyes. "So that I can say no. It's called empty platitudes, boy."
"Whatever, whatever. Just tell your sniper I said thanks, alright? And don't make it weird. Oh! And this sweater, have you seen the fucking thing? S'got a big target on the front. I'm gonna wear it Monday since it looks like he needs all the help he can get, trying to shoot me, heh heh. Ooh, you better tell him that too. Four eyed nutso."
Spy imagines BLU Scout in a floppy monstrosity with that giant ridiculous target design. He now recalls Sniper knitting something blue and vaguely sweater shaped last year. The blue yarn he had gotten from the American East Coast, not quite so near Boston, but close enough.
Why his mind decides to think American East Coast as if it's a great secretive location, he blames it on habit.
"The wool is from New Jersey, you know," Spy adds.
"Oh, yeah?" Scout says, brow furrowing, no doubt wondering how Spy knew.
"Some coastal town. Boardwalk seller."
"Asbury Park," Scout guesses, right on target. When Spy doesn't confirm, Scout smirks. "I know the place. Got a brother over there."
"Yes, you probably have many brothers up and down the East Coast."
"And your deadbeat triflin' ass probably has that many brats all over Europe too."
"No, only Coldfront," Spy replies serenely and finishes off his mug of coffee.
"Ugh," Scout says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand even though there is a perfectly serviceable cloth napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt. "Ma picked a real winner when she hooked up with you."
"She has good taste," Spy says winningly, hearing the click of heels approach him from behind.
The mother in question stops by their booth, coffee pot in hand so that she can refill Spy's mug. She grins at Scout. "Most of the time, hun. She can pull some real stinkers though."
Spy winks at her, though it doesn't have the same effect as it did some twenty-odd years ago. It does still make her snicker at least.
"Quite the whirlwind affair. Good times," he says, raising his mug in thanks.
"Then why keep flirting?" Scout grumbles. "Gross."
"To annoy you," Spy and Scout's mother say at the same time.
Scout mutters, but for all of his faults, he proves to be a good son to his mother by taking out his wallet. "'Bout time for the check, ma."
"C'mon, you both eat free here," she says. "You boys know this."
"Your son insists," Spy counters while shooting Scout a big smile. "He makes quite a good amount of money now."
Scout grits his teeth but gamely pulls out several dollar bills, enough to cover both their meals, plus a generous tip. Or it could be that Scout can't do basic math. Spy wouldn't put it past him to not bother with the simple formula of tipping.
Scout's mother fusses with him for a moment longer. Spy excuses himself for a smoke outside, letting the two say their good-byes. As for Spy himself, he supposes they are used to him flitting in and out of their personal lives—though with work, Scout does have to bear the brunt of his presence now.
Even so, the monthly visits are nice in a mundane way. It does make the boy's mother happy to see them both, as stilted as they are at times.
Khodul'nyy, Spy's mind supplies in Russian. But growing less so, and more into easy bickering that is not quite like father-son and more… colleague to colleague, with a particular set of inside jokes and a well-loved lady linking them together like an uneven cross stitch, knitted as imprecisely as Scout's new sweater.
Spy will just have to grimly accept Heavy's lessons are sticking, and that Sniper's roundabout nudging is working.
It will always worry Spy to see so much of his private life and career weaved out in the open. He is so used to staying hidden or disguising himself, his life, his desires. He's seen most of the world twice over, well-traveled in ways that are unusual and dangerous.
His life is exciting, one of a kind and mysterious, now put into summary in harmless mundane items like a mitten or wool cap, from Engineer's thermos cozy to Medic's potted plant hanger. Spy sees more and more of his touches on the team that he didn't think possible. Coldfront turns into a picture book of Spy's life through Sniper's fingers and knitting needles, and Sniper doesn't even know most of it—not in detail, but those details aren't for him or any other person on the team.
They end up being little reminders and snapshots that Spy can't ever write down or take photographs of unless it's for a dangerous purpose, evidence that he'll either destroy, erase, or hide away if they hold any real tangible value.
On their off hours, Demoman wears a blue woolen hat from Spy's time in Scotland that, in following months, makes its way over to the BLU solder's head that tell of bright skies and stormy blues. Pyro's jaunty bib collar is made from the riot of sunsets and sunrises that Spy has seen over the years. Scout has a pair of socks made with the colors of the shittiest red wines Spy has risked his taste buds on, and if poor Scout catches him laughing quietly at the sight of them—well, he can always blame Sniper for making the sock lengths uneven up Scout's legs. The disgust remains, evergreen, and the more Scout yells at him to loyally defend Sniper's very thoughtful gift, the more Spy snorts until he eventually croaks out an apology for laughing at tasteless socks. (He cracks up again at tasteless.)
Bezvkusnyy, Heavy whispers in his ear, causing Spy to spray out the rest of his (much better) wine over the communal dinner table, reaching towards Sniper at the other end.
As deserved! Sniper is the root of it, really.
Through everything, it doesn't exactly occur to Spy that he would like his own complicated life and memories laid out so simply until Sniper pulls him inside the camper on a freezing winter night. The wind howls and rattles the windows, blending in with the noise of Sniper rummaging through his storage chest. He pulls out his old knitted beige sweater, draping it over the bunk.
Spy is inclined to keep his coat on. The camper is too cold to stay the night in, and if Sniper is suggesting they stay there to sleep, Spy would have no problem stalking back to the base alone.
But when Sniper takes out a dark red bundle of knit, holding it up to reveal a cardigan, Spy readily takes off the coat without being asked.
It's a patchwork of different shades and patterns. Mostly red. The piss yellow Chardonnay rears its ugly head as an emblem depicting a spy's knife symbol on the upper sleeve. It's soft, save for a scratchy spot on the bottom left sleeve when Spy puts his arm through it.
He catches his reflection in one of the dark windows. It's not as oversized or frumpy as he assumes it would be, sitting on his frame like a tailored jacket.
"...It's incredibly hideous," Spy says. Which just about sums up his life as well. How appropriate.
The corner of Sniper's mouth hitches up as he looks Spy up and down.
"Yeah. Used the cardigan to test out patterns so I can get it right for the other lads," Sniper says, fussing with the shoulders and buttons, checking the fit that his own hands have measured throughout the months of holding Spy at the neck, waist, and arms. "You're always making me try out new things. Never thought I'd knit so fucking much in me life."
Spy grins as Sniper slips his hand under the cardigan just to keep touching Spy's lower back, not done holding any time soon.
"Saved the best reds though. All your best contracts and celebratory Cab Savs," Sniper says. "Couldn't really figure out how to incorporate the skies. Made something else with 'em."
Spy thinks of BLU Scout in his ridiculous sweater with the target on the front. "That's fine."
Sniper tilts his head, staring at Spy in the cardigan again. "It ain't half bad on ya."
"It's comfortable," Spy says.
And Spy knows all about excessive comfort in the form of expensive dinners, tailored suits, and custom cars. The cardigan is a mixture of all the things Spy likes and some that he doesn't, representative of a life that he's created just for himself in memories of thread and knots, changing patterns, and warm fabric that happens to smell like Sniper's cigarettes, dirt, and mineral dust. He turns over his arm and sees where the scratchy blue speckled Pinot Noir sits at his sleeve, parts of it rough from dried paint. Spy takes off a glove and touches it with his bare hand and instantly knows this must be one of his favorite parts of the cardigan.
He has long since made peace with not being remembered or known, but there's a part of him that will be seen in pieces of clothes worn on the backs of real people, memory made into real things he can touch or feel and see for himself and safely not have anyone else know.
Spy laughs quietly, leaning into Sniper's hand. "I like it very much. But it's still quite ugly."
"Oh, ain't no doubt. You can tell I got much better towards the end bits. Here and here," Sniper says, tugging at the spots, and notices how Spy continues to touch at the speckled blue patch. He smiles, wry, and turns away to grab his own knitted sweater.
Sniper puts on his beige sweater with the shaggy pilled cuffs, made with a single pattern from a time where that was all Sniper knew how to knit, telling an unknown story that Spy might never ask about.
He puts his coat on, a little more snug with the cardigan underneath, and waits for Sniper to do the same so they can both head back to base together.