Chapter Text
Sniper fucked up.
He had lost the target. To be fair, he still had *some* control of the situation, and this was his first fuck-up in maybe ten or twenty years of work, so he wasn't being too hard on himself.
He fixed the sunglasses on his nose and headed to the bank entrance. To his horror, he saw a familiar figure smoking nearby.
"Hey, bushman," Spy said. Sniper nodded. "Working?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Oh, you know. Just getting around."
To Sniper's vast disappointment, Spy went into the building with him. Sniper took a spot in the corner and pretended to mess with his wallet, looking at a man talking to the bank worker behind the counter from time to time.
"Your client?" Spy caught his gaze.
"Nah. He'll lead me to him, though."
"Oh?"
"He's clearing his checks, see? Then he's gonna go and buy a ticket to visit his friend, I go after him — boom, found the client."
"Smart — well, it would be if you didn't lose the guy in the first place," Spy remarked. "Which I maybe could help you with."
"How about you shut your— What?"
Sniper didn't get to finish his sentence, as a bunch of armed guys in balaclavas burst into the building, screaming something about a robbery and everybody get on the floor. Great*.
Sniper lay down on the floor, hands at the back of his head, and saw Spy beside him do the same. Sniper made sure to raise his head a bit, in time to see the man he was trailing reach for a gun and get a dozen bullets in his chest.
"Shit," Sniper mumbled into the floor.
"Anyone else feeling lucky?" the robber asked loudly. He got no response.
"Any ideas, or you're just gonna lie around collecting dust?" Spy whispered.
"If you got somethin', I'm all ears," Sniper whispered back at him.
"I might, if you make a distraction."
"And what are you suggestin' I—"
"Hey, stop talkin', you two!" the closest robber shouted, pointing a shotgun at them. He spoke with a strong Australian accent. Sniper decided to take that chance.
"No need to get all worked up, mate," Sniper raised from the floor a little, holding his hands in the air.
"On the ground, now!"
"Okay, okay. Was just askin' my buddy here what to get his son for his birthday. Lovely boy, turning five this week."
"What?"
"Was thinkin' of giving him a gun, but Eric says that's too early," Sniper had no idea what he was on about. He saw Spy reach under his coat in the corner of his eye.
The next moment, a gunshot rang out and the Australian robber dropped dead. Another shot followed shortly after, taking out the second robber before anyone (except Sniper, of course) could even blink.
The third shot missed. The last robber, the furthest away, finally spotted Spy. He fired as Spy sprang to the side, and Sniper fired back a moment after. The guy dropped dead. Sniper stood up.
"Amateurs," he snorted.
Spy on the floor a couple feet away from him made a gurgling noise. There was a big red blob on his shirt, and it was getting bigger.
"Oh my God, call an ambulance!" shouted the woman next to them, and then everyone started screaming.
Sniper crouched beside Spy. "Do you know where my client is?"
Spy looked at him, not quite here.
"Where is he?"
Spy whispered something incomprehensible. Sniper sighed and picked him up. Spy turned out to be a little heavier than he looked.
"Gotta get out before the coppers arive," Sniper suggested. "I don't think they'll be happy with the five fake IDs in your pocket."
"Seven," Spy moaned. "There's seven."
Sniper carried him out through the staff exit and to the van. The police sirens were so close now, but he managed to escape them, so Spy's collection of fake documents was safe now. The man himself squirmed in Sniper's arms, clutching desperately at his stomach, but stayed silent for the most part of the journey. It was only when Sniper started fiddling with his pockets, struggling to hold Spy and take out the keys at the same time, that Spy moaned quietly.
"Almost there, mate," Sniper muttered, finally managing to open the van door.
"Hope you got a doctor under your pillow," Spy wheezed out.
Sniper put him on his bed, grieving the bedsheets that were sure to become drenched in blood now.
"Nope, just me," and he pulled out the medical kit.
"Lord take my soul," Spy sighed and started coughing. Thankfully, there was no blood in his mouth.
Sniper ripped his shirt open, took tongs and poured the good old 90% alcohol on them, straight from the bottle. Then he thought a bit and shoved the edge of the bedsheet into Spy's mouth.
"It's gonna hurt," he said. Spy mumbled something through the sheet.
And so Sniper began fishing out the bullet from Spy's stomach. Spy squirmed and wriggled under his hands.
"Stay still, mate," Sniper pressed him into the mattress. Spy tried to curse through the shit**. Sniper understood the general meaning.
Sniper pulled apart the wound's edges with his fingers; Spy's whole body shuddered. He gripped his fists, relaxed them, gripped again; his legs twitched, and he released a muffled moan.
"Hold on, mate, I think I got it." The tongs slipped off the bullet, and Sniper had to shove them in again. Spy's body strained.
The next try was unsuccessful too, but at the third one Sniper managed to get the bullet out. He dropped the bloody bullet on the table with the tongs and wiped the sweat from his brow. Then he ripped a piece from the bedsheet, drenched the clothed in alco and cleaned Spy's wound. Spy shivered and wriggled his core, taking the sheets out of his mouth, then used it to wipe his face. For a few minutes they sat in silence. Sniper listened to the sounds of Spy's heavy breathing.
"I did this when I was at war," Sniper said then. "Mostly on myself."
"Oh really," Spy's voice was barely audible.
Sniper pulled up the pants on his left leg. "Yeah. See," he pointed at a scar just below his knee. "Doc was busy sawing a guy's leg off. Figured I'd just do it myself."
Sniper reached and passed Spy a bottle of water. It was a little old, but he figured that'll do. Spy drank a lot, then dropped his head on the pillow.
"Gotta patch you up now," Sniper took the bandages out of the medical kit. "Can you sit?"
Spy couldn't; Sniper had to help him. Sniper undressed him and wrapped the bandages around his body, fleetingly noticing how fit he was. Sniper felt his core muscles shift under his skin when he touched him. He caught himself just caressing Spy's stomach and back. His soft hot skin felt nice under Sniper's fingers.
It took great strain to get himself to stop. Spy didn't mind Sniper groping him, though — probably because he was on the verge of passing out.
He dropped back on the bed and grabbed Sniper's hand. "Bushman, I can't see." His voice was weak.
"I'm here," Sniper held his hand tight. "It's alright now. You're safe."
"Good," Spy murmured, looking past him. Sniper had to lean in closer to hear him. "He's in Vegas. Your guy."
His hand relaxed. He passed out. Sniper felt his neck for the pulse — it was weak, but it was there.
Sniper sat on the edge of the bed for some time, holding Spy's hand, listening to his weak breathing and looking at him lying on his bed — topless except for the bandages, pale, helpless.
Then Sniper got to driving. Vegas it is.
***
For the next ten or so hours Sniper drove, listening to the radio (which said a couple words about an attempted bank robbery in Washington D.C., but thankfully nothing about the two men who shot the robbers and got out; that was attributed to the police). And Spy just slept, waking up sometimes just to ask for a drink. Spy barely talked, and his voice was faint, almost inaudible. For some reason it pained Sniper to see the man in this condition, though he couldn't figure out why. Must've had something to do with Sniper saving his life. Sniper had found himself easily getting attached to people he saved.
When he got tired of driving, he often sat at the edge of the bed, holding Spy's hand while he slept. His breathing was much deeper now, his hands were warmer, and color slowly returned to his cheeks. Then Sniper went to sleep in the sleeping bag on the van's floor.
Then Spy finally woke up fully, right as Sniper was brushing the hair out of his face. Though it might* have been an excuse to touch Spy's cheek lightly, to caress his face.
Spy immediately tried to get up and clutched at his stomach where the wound was.
"Leaving so soon?"
"I need to go," Spy mumbled, grabbing Sniper's arms, trying to steady himself in a sitting position.
"No need to hurry, mate."
"There is a need, bushman. Nature's calling, and I think I've got about thirty seconds."
Sniper opened his mouth to say something that Spy wasn't going to like.
"And if you even mention your prised piss jar collection, so help me God, you're gonna regret that."
"Want me to hold it for you, then?" Sniper let out a short laugh.
"No." Spy tried to stand up and almost fell on the floor face first — he would have fallen for sure if Sniper hadn't caught him.
"Seems like you do."
Spy sighed a really deep, desperate sigh. "This is going to be the worst moment of my life."
And it was. Sniper wasn't particularly happy about it either, although it wasn't the grossest thing he's done with another man's cock in his life, and definitely not the worst that had happened to him. So far.
Spy seemed to pass out halfway back to the van, so Sniper had to carry his limp body to the bed. Again. He came to quickly, though; he blinked a few times, felt at his crotch, as if checking if it was still there, and looked at Sniper.
"Not one word about it," he said with an intent to kill.
"Naturally," Sniper smirked. "Nice one you got there, by the way."
Spy made a disgusted face, but Sniper could've sworn he blushed a bit. He decided that the uncomfortable moment should finally end, so he grabbed Spy's cigarettes that he found in his coat and lit two. He had to hold Spy's cig for him, though, as Spy was still too weak to move his hands that much. Or maybe he just didn't want to.
"So, you're going to Nevada?" Spy asked after a while.
Sniper nodded, gave him a drag of the cig and shook off the ash into the ashtray.
"Guess I'll tag along, then," Spy sighed demonstratively. "You ever been to Vegas?"
"Couple times."
"They do nice firework shows on Thanksgiving. I figure we'll make it in time to catch a glimpse."
Sniper nodded, and this thought made him strangely happy.
***
They had to do that a few more times, until Spy finally got strong enough to stand on his own. To Sniper's great shame, he found himself enjoying it way* more than required. There was something about holding Spy in such an intimate moment, hugging him from the back, and on the last time Sniper even found himself resting his head on Spy's shoulder. Well, strictly speaking, there was no need for Sniper to hold it, as Spy's hands were fully functional, but Spy never once spoke out against it, which made Sniper a bit concerned for his mental state.
Then Spy got to sit on the passenger seat next to Sniper when he drove. He wore Sniper's old shirt and trousers that Sniper dug out from his mess of a closet, as his own clothes were stained by blood. The shirt was pink and a little too big for him, but Sniper found that he really liked it on Spy — way more than on himself. He often caught himself looking at Spy instead of the road. He couldn't help but feel warm in his presence, which was strange because Spy never said anything nice to him, not even a simple "thanks for saving my life". Sometimes their fingers touched on the way to the car radio, and in these moments Sniper felt his heart skip a beat. And he really missed holding Spy's hand before falling asleep as he did when Spy lay unconscious on his bed for hours. Sniper couldn't even concentrate on the job — Spy lingered in his thoughts, effectively preventing him from thinking about anything else. All of that was really concerning, to say the least.