Archive of Our Own

On the rotation around the various bases, the cold ones had always been Spy's least favourite. 

It was his least favourite not only because of the fine silk and wool of his suit being damaged by snow, but also because of his inability to keep quiet when there was snow underfoot, wind chill to catch his clothing and wave it about, and the damned common cold. 

It started, predictably, with Sniper. His habit of sleeping out in his van was usually unobtrusive, if a little bit strange, but after he spent two nights in it and then came crawling back to the base, rooming with Engineer in the basement, the sniffles began. He was the only one among them who dared sleep outside in the cold, and it was biting him in the behind, now. 

Engineer fell next, being in such close proximity to Sniper, and then Demo, seeing as he was in the basement, too. Demo had probably been infected from door handles and bad air rather than direct exposure, and when three of the nine mercenaries were sick, it meant that Medic just had to get involved. 

By that point, there was no doubt that the BLU team were getting infected. Despite the lack of close-quarters combat in Snowy Coast, Spy had heard the enemy Pyro sneezing into their air filter, and the BLU Scout seemed to be speaking less when the cold made his throat sore and caused him to cough if he tried to run and talk at the same time. 

At that present moment, Soldier stood at attention at the side of the room, his face pale, apart from the bright red flush to his nose and cheeks, and he had a small trail of slime slipping out of his nose. Heavy was cooking, and seemed to be immune to the temperature, but even he looked like he hadn't slept properly. Medic had his head in his hands, and Scout was quiet as he read his comic book, occasionally wiping his nose on his sleeve. 

"What are you cooking?" Spy asked Heavy. 

"Moose," he said. 

Spy looked down at the bubbling concoction. It looked like Heavy had put every canned good he could find into the pot, with peach slices floating among the tomato sauce, along with grey meat, pinto beans, and something which looked like a small, headless fish. Spy took a step back. "When will it be ready?" Spy asked. 

"An hour, maybe. Soup needs time to make moose soft." 

"I see. And if it's undercooked?"

Heavy shrugged. "Is stringy." 

Spy nodded, bid them all farewell, and began running when he left the room. 

*

Sniper was the last in the long line of illnesses on the base. It started with Scout when he ran head-first, lips-first, into his RED counterpart on the field and gave him a kiss Sniper was honestly a little bit jealous of. Of course, that meant that everyone on the BLU team made fun of him for it for the next week (or forever), but then Scout started to get sick. A serious case of cooties, Soldier had called it. Medic had called it the common cold. 

Snowy Coast was infamous for them. Engie always seemed to come down with something since he was so used to working in hot weather, but Spy was actually the second to catch it, and then Pyro. Heavy braced himself with grim determination as he walked around the battlefield, but after hours he clung to Medic as if he gave off a passive aura of healing even without the Medi-gun, whimpering like a dog. 

At that moment in time, Demo and Sniper were the only two immune, and Sniper was confident that Demo hadn't caught it because there was so much booze in his blood that it was killed instantly. Sniper was a little jealous. 

Or, well. A lot. 

He sat in his perch, a large scarf covering his nose and mouth, and watched as the RED Demo locked up a shed, took a swig of scrumpy, and then toddled off towards his base with the gait of a newborn foal. Sniper adjusted his sights and looked over at an almost identical shed on the BLU base, where his own Demo was locking up, too. In a familiar motion, Demo took a swig of spiced rum and then stumbled back towards the base. 

From what Sniper knew, the BLU Demo's alcohol of choice was stronger, and Sniper wasn't really one to drink cider unless it was a day as hot as the Devil's anus and the brand was British, since the American stuff was so weak that it couldn't hold up an ice cube. 

But spiced rum on a winter evening sounded ideal. If only Demo wasn't so protective of it. 

Hmm. 

*

Spy waited for Demo to come back inside so that he could kill his own teammate and steal his bottle of scrumpy. 

It was a foul drink, and fouler still when Demo put most of the bottle neck into his mouth and sucked on it like a teat, but Spy was desperate. He hated to admit that he was desperate, but he was. Whatever Heavy was cooking would surely come crawling out of the pot and begin to attack them, much like the bread monster, and Spy didn't want to be around to see it. 

Spy patted his pockets. Knife, gun, disguise kit, sappers, sandwich, lockpick, and bag of jelly beans. He was prepared as he ever was. 

He took a step forward and then back immediately as the Engineer mooched his way around the corner and caught sight of Demo coming inside. 

"Howdy," he said with a stuffy nose. "You got your drink?" 

Demo nodded, closing the door to outside and stamping his boots, getting the snow off. "Aye. It's colder than a witch's tit out there. What time is it?" 

"Almost four," Engie said. 

"Storm's at six. Let's go before Pyro starts lighting up the curtains to keep warm." 

Demo handed Engie an unopened bottle of scrumpy and Spy stared at it like a cat stalking its prey, but they moved away before he could consider killing two of his teammates for it. After eighteen days of battles, it was typical that the ceasefire was called on the one day they were expected to have snow so deep that driving was not an option, or else Spy would have gone into town weeks ago to replenish his stash of wine, cheese, and jelly beans. Even now he thinned out his stash of cheese with bread to keep himself alive, but after the teleporting bread incident, it had never been as appealing. Spy sucked on his teeth and made a plan. 

If he had to break into a shed to get alcohol, he may as well go for the stuff he actually liked. 

*

Sniper patted his pockets and pulled his hat lower on his head. For once in his life he was glad that he kept the hat his aunt had made for him, the inappropriate-for-Australian-weather hat which was woolly enough to survive an arctic winter. The flaps went down over his ears and blocked out most sound, but the wind beating against the glass was still loud enough to set his teeth on edge. 

He checked his pockets again. Thermos, kukri, hobnobs, lighter, lockpick, mittens (which he then slipped on), crochet hook, ball of wool, and bag of jelly beans. 

Technically he didn't need any of it, apart from the lockpick and mittens, but it was going to be such a quick trip that he hadn't bothered to empty his pockets. Sniper wrapped his scarf tighter around his face and twisted the handle. 

The door slipped out of his grasp in the wind and Sniper flinched, waiting for it to slam against the outside wall, but it didn't. Edging outside, he let out a sigh of relief. The door had caught a snow bank and didn't make a sound. Out of courtesy to the other guys, Sniper closed the door before he began his long, tiring walk out to Demoman's shed. 

The snow was deeper than it had been during the day, catching in the wind and obscuring the view over the water, but Sniper just kept his hands tucked into his armpits and marched as best he could in the calf-high snow. His boots were leather, so almost waterproof, but he could still imagine the cold water seeping through the material and soaking his socks. He shuddered, his thighs locking together a little, and he finally knew what knee-knocking cold felt like. 

It took five minutes at most to reach the shed. Sniper sighed and reached for the latch, but paused. The lock was already open, and the latch was just barely pressed against the metal, like Demo had forgotten to close the door properly, but it still made Sniper pause.

Demo was more protective of the contents of that shed than he was of his undamaged eye. Along with the alcohol were his chemicals, some empty grenade casings and stickies, and most importantly, he kept his spare liver in there in a jar. The enemy spy had no doubt gone through there a few times, but on a night like that? No way. The wind was strong enough that Sniper had to hold his hat down to stop it from blowing away. There was no way the prissy little RED Frenchman would dare expose his llama wool suit to the cold. Maybe it was the BLU Spy? Great minds think alike, after all. 

Sniper shrugged and opened the latch. 

*

Icicles hung from the corrugated roof and Spy sunk his hands into the crate of spiced rum. The bottle had, quite fittingly, a pirate with a peg-leg and holding a grenade launcher on the label. With numb hands, Spy couldn't open the twist-cap, but he tucked it into his coat for later, beside his disguise kit. 

Would a second bottle be too greedy? Probably, but the BLU Demoman would most likely think that he had drunk it without realising, as the RED Demo was known to do. Spy could only hope that the BLU Demo would still accuse his own teammates of stealing from him, like his RED counterpart, even if he thought he had drunk it himself. He hoped it ended with violence. 

With two bottles on his person, Spy began to turn back towards the door when he paused. The sound of shoes crunching on snow approached the shed. 

He ducked to one side, his shoes scraping on the concrete floor, and he resisted the urge to curse. Whoever was outside seemed to consider the latch, which he had expertly left slightly ajar so that he wouldn't be locked in. He slipped between two crates and slapped his watch, keeping an eye on the door and hoping, praying, that it wasn't the BLU Pyro. Or the Engineer. Or, worst of all, their Medic. 

The door opened and was left ajar, and in the dim light cast through the crack in the door, he could make out the Sniper's ridiculous woolly hat, which he had been wearing on the field non-stop. Spy covered his mouth with one gloved hand to disguise his breathing. With one bottle in his coat and the other down his trouser leg, he had to hitch his leg up and stand on one foot to stop it from slipping out of his clothes and smashing on the floor. 

Invisible, standing on one leg, and trying not to move, he watched as the BLU Sniper went over to the same crate of rum he had been rifling through and paused. He pulled a bottle out after a long moment, seemed amused by the same pirate logo which Spy had been looking at earlier, and tucked it into his jacket. 

Sniper turned to the door and it slammed in the wind. The latch clicked shut. 

"Piss," Sniper muttered and went over to it. He pulled the bottle out of his jacket, rested it on a crate, and tried pushing the door. "Piss!" he said again, louder. 

Spy watched with creeping horror as Sniper tried and failed to get the door open. Under normal circumstances it would have been quite funny, watching him be trapped in a room with an enemy, but Spy could only think about the way his breath kept seeping between his fingers and puffing in the air, or how it was already five o'clock and getting colder by the minute. If he killed Sniper, the whole BLU team would be alerted to Spy being in the shed once Sniper respawned, and if Sniper killed him, then it would all be for nothing. No rum, no adventure, and no satisfaction. 

And Spy, watching Sniper kick the shed door as if it would do anything, couldn't help it.

He breathed in through his nose, tried to breathe with his mouth instead, and squeezed his eyes shut. 

*

"Bloody, bloody, bloody fucking hell," Sniper said with a kick punctuating each word. 

The wind outside howled back, the shed acting more like a coffin than a structure as it slowly started to freeze him to death. Was it worth having the rum? No. Absolutely not. The previous Sniper on the BLU team had supposedly died from cold, being buried up to the armpit in snow and left outside, and Sniper didn't want to suffer the same fate. Most environmental deaths were caught by respawn, but heatstroke, drowning and freezing seemed to be the exception. 

Sniper put a hand on his forehead and tried to think of what to do. If he screamed for help, no one would hear him through the wind. He could probably use his kukri to pull the latch up, but with the snow piling up outside it would become more difficult as time went on to open it. It swung outwards, afterall, and the wind was not blowing in a favoured direction. 

Then, he heard it. As loud as Engie's shotgun, someone behind him sneezed. 

Sniper pulled his kukri out of his belt loop and turned around, looking at the cramped space. The shed was probably long and wide enough for Sniper to lie down, but with the crates in the way, he and one other person could perhaps sit on the floor with their legs sticking out. Or, well, another person and someone with normal length legs could sit on the floor. 

He eyed the various boxes, looking at their contents, and thumbed the loose strip of leather which was tied around the handle of his kukri. 

"If there's a spy in here," he said, slowly, "I won't kill you unless you try and kill me. And if you kill me, I'm leaving you here to freeze." 

There was a long, sullen silence. Outside, the wind blew and rattled the wood and metal of the shed. 

"Now, is there a spy in here?" 

The silence was broken when the prim, polite voice of the RED Spy spoke up. "Oui." 

He didn't appear however, and Sniper shifted from foot to foot, the heel of his shoe dragging across the concrete floor. He then pulled the coffee thermos out of his jacket and surprised himself by asking, "Want a cuppa?" 

*

Spy took a moment before he let his cloak drop and he turned visible again. He and the BLU Sniper stared at one another, waiting for Sniper to come at him with the knife, or for Spy to draw his revolver, but nothing happened. Sniper then began to twist the top of the thermos off. 

"You and I are here for the same reason, no?" Spy asked as Sniper filled the cup with coffee. 

Sniper handed him the cup, or, well, put it on the crate between them and didn't step any closer, but Spy didn't move. In a wise move, Sniper wasn't turning his back to Spy, but was also standing in front of the door. In an unwise move, Sniper fished an empty grenade casing out of a crate, screwed the top off, and filled that with coffee instead. Then, he pulled the bottle out of his jacket, pulled the top off with his teeth and added rum. 

"Same reason, different execution," Sniper admitted. When he gestured with the bottle towards Spy's cup of coffee, Spy rolled his wrist in a gesture of 'go ahead' and Sniper added some to his, too. 

Spy didn't reach for the drink, too busy analysing every movement Sniper made as he tried and failed to act casual. He leant against the wall, grew too cold, and leant his hip against a wooden crate instead. He tapped the edge of the grenade casing and looked everywhere in the room apart from at Spy. Despite the darkness, he kept his sunglasses on and his scarf over his mouth, and his mittens were so large that on the battlefield he had to remove them and keep them stuffed in one back pocket like a handkerchief. Unlike Spy, he was in a state of casual discomfort, but unlike Spy, he was warmer because of it. It was a safe assumption that the discomfort was only caused by Spy's existence, rather than by his clothing. 

Truth be told, Spy wasn't exactly comfortable either. He reached for the coffee after he saw Sniper lower his scarf and take a sip, but he paused before drinking it. The warmth on his hands was delicious. 

Then, Spy made the mistake of lowering his leg. 

The bottle of rum which he had shoved down his trouser leg slipped free and went careening towards the floor, shattering by his feet. Sniper looked at him in surprise, and then his exposed mouth wobbled as he tried not to laugh. Spy drew in a deep breath, held it, and then let it go. 

"Do not." 

"Did'ja have one... Uh." 

"Quiet." 

Sniper looked to one side but, amazingly, kept his laughter to himself. Spy stepped delicately around the broken bottle and leaned against the crate which had been between them, keeping most of his body angled away from Sniper without turning away. He finally took a sip of coffee and hummed. 

"While I appreciate your hospitality, monsieur, why did you offer me coffee?" 

"Dunno if you noticed, but the door's stuck."

"Oui, but only for you. If you step aside, s'il vous plaît." 

Sniper took two steps around Spy and gestured for him to go ahead. While Sniper's knife was no longer in his hand, Spy still hated the idea of it being so close. While it was warmer in there with him than without, Spy, as he was sure anyone in the world would understand, would have rather been trapped there alone. 

Spy fished out his knife and lock pick, but there was no lock to crack open. The padlock keeping the shed closed had been no problem, and it was a simple gate latch keeping it closed. The problem was more-so with the door itself, seeing as it had some kind of extra sheet of metal to keep moisture out. 

Humming, Spy's knife clicked as it entered his hand and he gave it a go. Sniper continued to drink his coffee, not seeming to care (or he was a better actor than Spy had realised) about Spy being in the room with him, with a knife, in a snowstorm, where no one could hear him scream. 

He smirked a little and wiggled the knife into the door.

"You sure you've got a better chance with that little thing?" Sniper asked. 

Spy breathed in deeply and closed his eyes for a moment, before he continued picking at the door. "It is about skill. Something you would know little, if anything, about." 

Sniper was quiet, watching Spy work, before he looked away. Something about the BLU Sniper had always seemed softer and nebbish in comparison to the RED one, but now that Spy was in his presence without his murderous and boisterous teammates, he seemed far more collected and intentional, like a crocodile waiting with its mouth open instead of the savage approach of a dingo which Spy always associated with the RED Sniper. With the BLU Sniper, walking into his sightline always felt like it was Spy's fault rather than Sniper's intention, like he couldn't help but to shoot. Like it was instinctive. 

It made Spy wonder how he compared to his BLU counterpart. 

After a minute or so, Spy rested both hands on his thighs and rubbed his palms up and down to try and generate heat. His fingers were still numb, but it was beginning to creep up his limbs and turn his wrists cold with it. Spy stared at where his knife was lodged in the door, glaring at it, when the Sniper's hand and the cup of coffee appeared next to him. After debating whether he should smack it away, Spy took the cup. 

"For now, we are stuck. At least until my hands thaw." 

Sniper nodded, like he had expected it, and adjusted himself slightly so that the crate he was leaning against had more room in case Spy wanted to lean against it, too. 

"I don't know about your base," Spy said, leaving his knife in the door, "but we turn off our respawn at night in these difficult weather conditions." 

Sniper stayed quiet for a moment and then asked, "how come?" 

"It is to do with power outages, which we do not usually get at other bases. Is yours the same?" 

He stayed quiet for a moment longer and then said, "yeah." 

Which, in Spy's honest opinion, was either a lie or an admission that he didn't know. 

*

Things just kept going from bad to worse, huh? Typical Australian in a snowstorm, being ill-prepared and cocksure going out there in the cold. 

Sniper hoped that Spy couldn't tell how stone-cold he was with fear, how he didn't want to end up like the previous Sniper, and how he didn't want to get churned up and spat out by respawn, if it was even on. Sure, they were having a nice time at that moment, but what about in half an hour when the door was still locked? What about after an hour? How long would the blizzard last? 

Although the wind chill was no longer eating them alive, the cold was a seeping, unstoppable force. The coffee would run out, the booze would wear off or sink its claws in, and it wasn't like either of them wanted to fall asleep in the other's presence. 

Sniper eyed how Spy tucked his hands into his coat pockets and pressed them against his stomach, hard. They were balled into fists, thumbs tucked into the fingers. Based on how hard he was clenching his jaw, Spy was trying not to shiver. 

*

Each breath, and both of their coffee cups, steamed. While the rum had added a nice flavour to the otherwise wet-cardboard taste of the Mann co. coffee, it would not sustain them forever. Spy pressed his lips together and tried to think, tried to stop shivering, and tried to ignore how Sniper was obviously looking at him out of the corner of his eye. 

The shed was mostly wooden, reinforced with metal bars and with a corrugated steel roof, but they'd need more than two knives and a pistol to get out. Would the BLU Demoman store explosives outside in the cold and damp? Probably not, but there was still a chance. 

The problem, however, was his fingers. While the coffee had helped and his gloves kept the worst of the biting chill out, Spy had always been colder blooded than the other men in his team, or indeed most other men he'd met outside of the gravel wars, which helped him in Teufort but bit him here. It did make him wonder whether the Sniper was warmer than him, though. 

*

Was it weird to ask? Sniper wasn't a gentleman, had never claimed to be, but if Spy was suffering from the cold at that moment, he'd only get worse as time went on. As much as it pained Sniper to admit it, Spy was probably his best chance at getting out of there, and of reaching his own bed back at base before freezing to death. Would Demo even check the shed in the morning? If he was drinking that whole bottle of rum, then probably not. He'd no doubt wake up at noon, remember he had a stash somewhere in the base, and leave the shed-in-a-blizzard for another time. 

And as time went on, there was no doubt that the snow was piling up outside, trapping them both. 

Decision made, he turned to the Spy. 

*

It was a ridiculous idea. The two of them were enemies without similarities. While Spy drank fine wine and only depraved himself with rum or scrumpy when there was nothing else, he had seen the BLU Sniper drink anything his teammates offered to him, so long as it didn't contain milk. On his early days on base, the Sniper was known to go on long walks out into the desert during their ceasefires, and then as time passed, he went to the same nine locations regularly, perhaps to admire the beauty of the Teufort desert (and for no other reason that Spy could see). Spy knew that while the RED Sniper favoured knitting, the BLU tended to crochet. RED liked solitude, and BLU liked it too, though a little less. 

Spy breathed in deep and forced himself to stop comparing his teammate and the BLU Sniper. He would go nowhere if he kept imagining them as the same person when he was so undoubtedly unattracted to the RED, but fascinated by the BLU. 

If he had gained nothing else from his excursion out into the cold, at least he now knew that the BLU Sniper was capable of two things: breaking and entering, and maintaining his attention in person. 

He turned to the BLU Sniper, only for the Sniper to speak first. 

"Wanna warm up?" 

*

Spy seemed to register the words but didn't move, closing his mouth and looking off to one side, before his composure went back up and he no longer seemed so shocked. If he had known that a simple sentence like that could catch the RED Spy so off guard, Sniper would have tried it months ago, or years.  

*

After a shocked moment, Spy broke his silence. "Oui," he said. 

Such a simple statement had never held so much weight before. 

*

"Right."  Sniper shrugged and leaned in. 

*

So, it wasn't a euphemism, or some other joke, misunderstanding, or fantasy come to life. Spy felt like he was leading the kiss, leaning forward and pressing them together from hip to nose as he forced Sniper to take his time. Although he was the one to suggest it, Sniper kept his hands away from Spy's hips and his back off the crate behind him. 

There was no doubt in Spy's mind that Sniper had some experience. While he did not make a habit of wasting his time stalking every member of the opposite team (it seemed like the Soldier and Engineer never left the base, and the Heavy spent most of his free time polishing his gun, mooning after the Medic, or eating), the Sniper was one of the few he had forced himself to take notes on, and one of the fewer still who didn't mind spending money to get some attention from the opposite, or even same, sex. But it seemed like Spy's assumption of Sniper being confident was mislabeled. 

So, Spy reached around and put Sniper's hand on his thigh, and the other on his hip, and then buried his gloved hands in Sniper's hair and forced him to deepen the kiss. 

And it worked. Sniper groaned and let Spy take charge, rubbing his mittens up and down Spy's leg, under the tails of his coat and felt the warm fabric there. Of course, through the mittens he couldn't feel much of anything, but Sniper still squeezed a firm handful of whatever he could touch, trailing his hands back and forth like he was petting Spy rather than making out with him. 

And Spy... Spy already felt warmer. He pulled Sniper's hat off so that he could card his hands through his hair properly and moved the taller man further against the crates, crowding him in. With a small bite to Sniper's bottom lip, Spy began to wheedle his hands below Sniper's clothes. 

"How are..." Sniper muttered, cleared his throat, and started again. "How are we doing this?" He asked. 

Spy raised an eyebrow. "We lack supplies, and so we are limited to hands and mouths, non? Unless you are suggesting coffee is lubrication, in which case I question your judgement." 

"Nah, no way." Sniper swallowed. "Lean back on the crate?" 

After a few moments of man handling and readjustment, Spy was sitting on the crate with Sniper standing on the floor in front of him. From that angle, Sniper looked taller. Far taller. Spy didn't hesitate to grab him by the scarf and tug him down, and groaned when Sniper took it upon himself to rub them together. The friction was intense; delicious. It was like being touched in a way which was slightly too rough, but Spy still bucked into it and brought them together again. They kissed for a minute longer, just enjoying the process, before Sniper pulled away. Before Spy could complain, he had dropped to his knees. 

“It’ll be awful and then it’ll be good,” Sniper promised, and before Spy could question him, he somehow managed to undo Spy’s fly without taking his mittens off. 

Spy hissed as the cold air hit his cock, the hot flesh shrinking back as Sniper pulled it free from his trousers and underwear, but before he could complain, comment, or demand to know what Sniper was doing, a hot pair of lips wrapped around the head of his member and sucked.

Hard. 

He made a noise somewhere between a yelp and a surprised moan, and trailed off into a long groan as Sniper bobbed his head. His technique wasn’t bad, just unhurried and somewhat over-eager with how he tended not to go deep and left half of Spy’s cock out in the cold, but with Spy’s long fingers in Sniper’s hair, he couldn’t find it in him to complain.

Sniper alternated between trying to take it deeper, letting his cold noise brush against the soft skin of Spy’s lower abdomen, and sucking, never letting it out of his mouth completely. He swirled around the head like he was trying to write in cursive with his tongue, hummed a little when he went deeper, and generally drove Spy crazy by trying to keep it going for as long as possible. 

“Merde,” Spy swore, his legs raising on their own as he tried not to thrust. “Oh.”

Spy leaned back against a crate and moaned in short, little bursts, and Sniper started to hold him by his hips when he began hitching them upwards, trying to get deeper. The slow pace continued as Spy twisted, but Sniper couldn’t hold down both his hips and hands at the same time.

While he had been gentle before, enough was enough, and Spy began to grip Sniper’s head tighter in an effort to get him to go lower, pressing his chilled nose further into his pubic hairs, and Sniper growled. 

Spy gasped, and this time when Sniper raised his head, his teeth trailed along the underside of the shaft. 

He couldn’t help it. Spy came with a strangled noise and without warning, hips only being held down by Sniper’s sure grip, and he hissed and spat like a cat as Sniper sucked him dry, licked him clean, and stood up. He didn’t tuck Spy back into his trousers before grabbing him behind the head and pressing their lips together. 

Groaning, Spy’s whole body twitched as Sniper fed him his own load, the taste coating his whole mouth and making him want to gag, but he was no stranger to the action. It was just unexpected — where one Sniper was so interested in his own urine, another was more interested in come — and Spy moaned as he unzipped Sniper’s trousers and shoved a hand in there. 

Sniper bucked as his cold hand met his warm flesh, but in such close quarters his fingers warmed up quickly. It didn’t take long before Sniper spilled over his hand, most of it landing on Spy’s fingers, and when Spy raised his hand, trying to find something to wipe his glove on, Sniper leaned forwards and took each digit into his mouth and licked them clean. Spy couldn’t help but moan quietly at the sight. 

“Warmer?” Sniper asked. His voice was quiet and husky, almost afraid to break the tension between them. 

Spy nodded and whispered, “Oui.” 

“Good.” Sniper nodded and took two steps back. “Cheers.” 

Spy was about to ask what Sniper was thanking him for when, for the first time since they had both entered the shed, Sniper twisted the handle of the shed down. 

It opened. With his cock still out, Spy could only sit there like a fool with his mouth open as Sniper’s eyes went wide and, with movements so quick it would have given the Scouts a run for their money, grabbed his things, an unopened bottle of rum, and ran. “See you later, wanker!” he cried as he went, laughing. 

Spy sat there for a solid six minutes before he shrugged, tucked his dick back into his pants and stood up. Sure, the Sniper might have tricked him, but the Sniper was also the one with the enemy’s semen in his mouth. And besides, he’d left his hat behind and would no-doubt catch the RED team’s cold. 

He put on the hat and went over to the door, twisting the handle. 

It wouldn’t budge. 

“Merde.”