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"You're going to fuck it up."
"Get off, I'm doing it the way it's supposed to be done."
Sniper sighs, holding his hands up in surrender and backing away from the, quite frankly, pitiful kindling that Spy is currently trying to light with an empty lighter.
"You sure you don't want me to-"
"Yes, Sniper, I am sure."
He rubs his eyes, feeling the ache in his joints truly set in as he watches his companion, hunched over the would-be fire and surely putting his back out for no good reason. The sky above them is well on its way to pitch black, the first few constellations making themselves known, as the two of them freeze their asses off without a proper source of heat.
"Here, just, budge over-"
"I am not a man who budges, Sniper," Spy sniffs, though he doesn't elbow him as hard as he truly could as he kneels down beside him, producing a flint and pocket knife from one of his many pockets.
"This is why you don't wear a fuckin suit on the job, mate," he grouses, flicking the blade against the flint, cursing quietly as the sparks don't take. "Pockets are what we call actually useful."
The elder huffs, taking one final disparaging look at his lighter before throwing it over his shoulder, into the darkness of the surrounding forest. He could really go for a cigarette.
"I will be a corpse before someone sees me wearing cargo pants," he spits, crossing his arms and reclining against the boulder that is currently shielding them from the majority of the wind.
"Aye, and the rest of us will be the ones alive," Sniper retorts, grinning as the kindling finally takes light. "There, y'see? Your suit manage that?"
"Piss off." he groans, digging through the pockets of his blazer to locate his cigarette case, clicking it open and holding it out to the steadily growing flame, frowning as he waits for it to catch. With his other hand, he idly offers the case to Sniper.
"Those'll fuckin kill you one day, mate," he warns, taking one in spite of his own advice, only just missing getting his fingers caught in the definitive snap of the case being closed.
"If the cigarettes are what kill me, I'll be a very lucky man," the Frenchman insists, finally bringing the cigarette to his mouth and taking a long, lingering drag, letting the smoke curl up from the sides of his mouth like a dragon. "It will mean I have survived the many, many bullets your team tried to use against me."
"Naw," the Sniper drawls, holding out his own cancer stick, which the Spy lights with his own obligingly. "Means you died shit-poor and lonely, like every other bastard out there. You got the one job in the world where we can die exciting, and you want to outlive it."
The spy shrugs, finally lifting his mask from his face and letting the tobacco smoke curl from his nostrils, making him look almost demonic in the firelight.
"I do not want to die young, Sniper. I intend to die old and rich."
The younger barks out a laugh, slouching heavily against the rock and letting his laugh fade into a hacking cough.
"Young?" He wheezes, tapping his cigarette and letting the ash get caught in the current of the wind surrounding their little hovel. "Bit past that one, mate."
The Spy scowls, taking such a long drag that the cigarette burns red as it shrinks between his fingers, crumbling to ash in a matter of moments. He flicks the butt onto the fire without a second thought.
"I feel young enough to continue living," He starts, taking out another and side-eyeing the Sniper, who's eyes are fixed on the darkening horizon, expression unreadable in the flickering light of the flame. "You can die at thirty, but I intend to outlive the entire business."
"Yeah, you do that, mate," He murmurs, not really paying attention.
He watches as a lark comes home to its nest, settling itself over what he can only assume are its eggs. It's not fat enough to be worth shooting.
"Would you never think of retiring? Moving on from it all?"
The question is one that Sniper had heard a thousand times, from his mum, his dad, his entire fucking family.
He's never really given it any thought, beyond;
"I like what I do. I'm good at what I do. No point in me trying to do anything else."
"Not even living?" Spy asks, and he almost sounds disappointed. Pitying, maybe. It makes Sniper uncomfortable.
"Nah. I do plenty living as is."
"Hm," Spy says, not really a dismissal or agreement, and they both finish their cigarettes in silence.
-
Spy heaves, coughing into a grey pocket square in a bloody, hacking mess. Scout hovers his hands next to him uselessly, too many occasions of thumping him on the back and only making it worse haunting him. So he can only watch, helpless, as his teammate quite literally coughs his lungs out.
"Here, here, we can probably call Miss Pauling or something, she can get you that- what is it- she can get you on fuckin chemo, it's not like we see your hair anyways, nobody will notice when it falls out-"
"Scout," he wheezes, lower lip bloody and pocket square brown.
"Shut. The fuck up."
"Fuck you, man. I'm trying to help, here!"
"Go help elsewhere," Spy breathes, and it rattles more than an empty train down a track. "I will not die if I'm left alone for five minutes. Piss off."
"Yeah, yeah, so you can fuckin plot something," The youngest huffs, whole expression twisted in irritation to hide the sincere concern that pulls at his chest. He's not used to seeing Spy weak, and he kind of hates it. "Gonna come back and you've vaulted out the fuckin window again."
"Don't try me," The Spy warns, before dissolving into another coughing fit. As soon as it's over, he takes a flask of vodka from his pocket, and downs it in one go.
"Fuck!" Scout exclaims, reaching out to swipe it from his hand, and receiving a swift smack to the wrist for his trouble.
"Vodka isn't the fuckin cure for cancer, you dickwad, Heavy isn't a doctor, he's just old and Russian-"
"It isn't a cure," Spy spits, "it's to help me deal with your constant blabbing. Now go away, and let me drink in peace." Scout looks at him like he just asked him to amputate his leg with no anaesthesia, so pained that he's about to ask what the fuck he ate to give him such a stomach ache, before he sighs and his whole form deflates like a bouncy castle attacked by a pack of wolves.
"Fine. Whatever. If you die in the next two hours, I'm comin' down to hell to kill you myself,"
He promises, finally backing away so he's not within reach of catching Spy at all times, as if Spy would ever be so common as to faint like a Victorian ingenue.
"I'll be sure to reside with the traitors, so you know where to find me," Spy promises, before stepping into his room and slamming the door in the younger's face. "Putain de bite."
Finally, blissfully alone, he sheds his jacket and cufflinks, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt and falling onto his chaise lounge with a sigh. The whole room feels like its spinning for a moment, and he takes a whole minute to close his eyes and simply breathe through the seasick feeling that washes over him like a particularly persistent tide.
"Merde," He groans into the empty air, feeling the way the vibration irritates his already raw throat. "Ow."
When he feels himself settle back into his own skin, he opens his eyes and lets his head loll to the side, looking at his bedside table with heavy eyes. A bottle sits there, loaded with pills which he should be taking, and a box of nicotine patches that he's supposed to stick to his forearm and switch out every six hours. He shuffles so he's flat on his back and pulls out another cigarette. Pulling out his almost-empty matchbook, he fiddles with the cardboard for a moment, spidery fingers freezing the moment he hears the phone ring. It's an old, rotary thing, connected to his wall but still surely recorded and reviewed by whoever signs their pay checks every month.
He throws down his match with a growl as he picks it up, annoyed beyond belief.
"What."
"Wey there, mate, no need to be pissy."
The voice on the other end of the line is low and amused, jovial in a way that Spy does not trust- but it is also, first and foremost, familiar.
"Ah, it's you."
"Well, don't sound too excited, now."
"Fuck off."
"I'm not even in the room."
"I can hear your voice. That's more than enough to disturb the peace."
"Oh, the cancer not already manage that for ya?"
He feels his whole body go rigid, his hand gripping tightly at the telephone chord, where it had been idly twirling it before. It might not be cancer. It might not be.
"I don't know what you're talking about. Leave me alone." He pulls the phone away from his ear, about to slam it back into its holder before he hears the indignant Australian squawk from the receiver.
"Oi! No, no, no, let's not be hasty, now, I'm being helpful, here."
"You are being annoying." Spy can feel his every atom cry out for a cigarette, craving the calm that comes with a bit of smoke and hacking. He stoops to pick the matches from the seat.
"Hey, now, let's step away from the couch, there."
He freezes.
"Oh, do fuck off."
"Oh yeah, baby, you're in Sniper Town, now. Try to spot my roost, you can't."
Spy casts an unimpressed gaze over the almost-sheer cliff face that makes up his view, and hopes he catches Snipers eye, by some miracle.
"I'm calling Demoman," he sniffs, moving the phone away from his ear again and moving to set it on its holder once more, listening to yet another round of verbal flailing come from the other end of the line.
"No! Jesus fucking Christ, Spy, do you have to make everything so bloody difficult?"
"For you? Of course. It's part of my charm."
"Fuck off, Spy, I'm doing my good deed of the day."
"Downgrade to once a week, and you'll be a more interesting person."
"Shush, fuck off, stop interrupting me. What happened to dying old, ey?" Spy scowls, and continues to look out the window for any sign of the irritating bastard he calls a friend.
"I lost interest. I thought I already was old, hm?"
"Piss off."
"Oh, I will be. Right off this mortal coil, mon ami."
"I think I preferred your old sense of humour, mate."
"Death makes a man funnier," Spy grins, finally picking up the matches and resolutely striking one, grinning wider at the pained noise that comes out if the receiver the moment the flame starts to glow.
"You're being-" Sniper cuts himself off, though they both know where he was going with that sentence.
"Cruel? Petty? I never said I wasn't," Spy hums, pulling a cigarette from the case, phone lodged between his chin and shoulder, flame ever-so-close to catching the cigarette. "Is it so hard to believe I've had enough?"
The noise Sniper makes is somewhere between sad, disgruntled, and genuinely pained.
"Put it down, Spy."
"No."
"René."
Spy slams the phone down without a second thought. Surging forward, he closes the blinds, pulling the phone from the hook and making sure not a trace of his room can be seen from the outside.
He turns to his radio, flipping to a random station and turning the volume as high as it can go, somehow paranoid that Sniper can hear him from whatever quaint little perch he's found himself outside his window. For a moment, he is safe; unseen and unheard by pesky Australians and long lost sons and medical professionals that he wouldn't trust with a brown paper bag.
And then, quicker than a snap, there is a bullet lodged in his radio, and he takes the hint.
Setting the phone back on the hook, he waits for it to ring once, before picking it up and growling into the receiver.
"You broke my radio."
"You hung up on me!"
"Those are not equivalent offences."
"Bloody well are. Rude, that was, leaving a fella hanging."
"I'm sure you'll recover. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some lungs to ruin-"
"Throw the case out the window."
Spy takes a second to process the absurdity of the demand. "Pardon?"
"The case, the lighter, the matches, whateverthefuck- out. Throw em all out. I'll shoot em on the way down, if it'll impress you."
"It won't." It would.
"Throw em out anyway. Go on."
"No. You're not- you are not my mother."
"I bloody well hope not," Sniper laughs, and Spy can imagine the moronic smile that comes when the Australian laughs at his own jokes. If he knew where he was, he'd be looking at him with a withering glare.
"Why are you incapable of letting me be? I'm a grown man, I can take care of my-" a tremendous crash is heard at the point where his window locks, and he watches as the mechanism shatters, ruffling the curtains and causing the window to swing open miserably.
"Now, I of all people should not be saying this, but violence really isn't the answer to everything."
"It's worked pretty well so far."
"You're going to be paying for that."
Spy can hear the grin that clings to his words as he says, "Open the curtains, Spy."
"Pervert."
Another squawk of indignation.
"Is it so hard to- I'm just trying to- and after all that- would it kill you to be sincere?"
"Yes," Spy answers, serious as the plague.
"Piss off, cunt. Open the curtains and throw the shit out."
Spy rolls his eyes. "Language."
"Fuckin English, whaddaya want from me?" He asks, voice coming tinny through the receiver as Spy gathers all the paraphernalia in one hand, once again balancing the phone between his chin and shoulder.
"Some decorum would be appreciated," he prods, raising a hand to pull at the blinds once more, raising the slats entirely, so the view is unobstructed by the horizontal bars. "There. Are you happy?"
"As Larry," Comes the mocking response, referencing a saying that Spy does not know and doesn't care to learn. “Now, out with them. I'll blow em to bits before they hit the ground."
"I could just throw an empty case. You have no way of knowing if I'm actually doing anything."
A snort comes from the other line, and it makes him self conscious about the six cigarettes tucked snugly in the silver case, as full as it ever is.
"Call it a trust exercise, then. I trust you, you trust me kind of deal."
"Sounds asinine," Spy sighs, leaning out the window and resting his elbows on the sill, fiddling idly with the telephone wire. "Particularly given our profession."
"Oh, I'm sorry, must have missed the part where I said this was a work call. Should have had a bullet in your brain fifteen minutes ago, terribly sorry, fella."
"Bastard," Spy sighs, turning the cigarette case over in his hands. They look unfamiliar, without gloves, and part of his brain rallies against leaving fingerprints on the silver material.
"Prick. Hoy it over." For all the harsh words, Snipers tone is soft, like shoes properly worn in.
He grimaces.
"Fine," he relents, removing his weight from the windowsill to throw the stupid thing. He doesn't think he deserves a warning, so he releases it from his grip without a sound. In less than a second, a sharp snap is heard, and the metal is perforated straight through the middle, landing at the bottom of the ravine with a clang.
"There," Sniper starts, and Spy hears the click and shift of him reloading his gun over the line. "Wasn't so hard, was it?"
"Excruciating," Spy drawls sarcastically, exaggerating to hide the truth.
“You still have the lighter and matchbook to go, Sniper."
"Have at it," the other boasts, "Throw em at the same time, for all I care, you know I love a-"
Before he can finish his sentence, Spy is doing exactly that, dropping them both from his hand as if he's rolling dice at a casino, waiting to see them bounce against the dusty orange rock. And, as expected, neither objects make it to the ground in one piece.
"Jesus Christ, give a man a warning, will ya?"
"That would take the fun from it," Spy smirks, casting his eyes over the rocky terrain one last time, squinting to try and catch the glint of gunmetal, or the flash of sunglasses.
"Yeah, always a bloody ordeal with you," He hears the other say, though the way its said makes him think it wasn't for his ears.
"Are you done? Can I go back to my day now?"
"If you must," Sniper huffs, and Spy hears the rustle and clink of him finally standing up. To his satisfaction, he's sure he hears the others spine pop, in a way that sounds supremely uncomfortable.
"Here I was thinking we were having a nice conversation."
"You shot at me twice."
"What's a couple bullets between friends?"
"You're intolerable."
"You love it."
"Die."
"You talk so sweet to me," Sniper croons, and finally, for just a moment, Spy spots movement- just behind an outcrop, in what must be a crevice, hidden from the entire building. A flash of wrist, the very edge of a trouser leg, a plume of desert dust. "But you're right. Really gotta get a move on, if I'm meaning to be back at the base before nightfall."
"I'll be sure to notify my team of your whereabouts." And he must know he's spotted, because for a moment, Spy swears they make eye contact, and he sees a flash of teeth. "Would expect nothing less, mate. Turrah."
"Goodbye."