Chapter Text
A wet knock at the door of his camper.
Sniper grumbled as he sat up and abandoned his comfortable position, wondering who in the world would be seeking him out (of all people!) during a storm.
And of all the three billion people on Earth, of course it had to be him.
The damned, one-and-only suited Frenchman was standing outside. Arms wrapped around himself, shivering, with an odd look on his face. Scornful yet pleading.
“You,” was all Sniper said.
Spy grit his teeth. “Me.”
But Sniper moved aside anyway, allowing the other man to step in. Spy may have been his mortal enemy, but he was a teammate, and Sniper was a man of common courtesy (rule one: be polite). Spy murmured a barely-audible thank you as he shut the door behind him.
“Err, stay there a second.” Sniper quickly climbed up to his bed; he rummaged around for a minute before hopping back down and holding out a towel and pile of clothes to the other.
Spy accepted the towel, seemingly ignoring everything else, and tried to soak up the moisture from his suit (which was dripping onto the floor, much to Sniper’s annoyance).
“Mate.” Sniper nudged the clothes towards him. “Take that stupid suit off before you get sick.”
Spy eyed the wrinkled pajamas, apparently not up to par with his exquisite taste. “You really expect me to wear that? Your clothes?”
“Listen. It wasn’t a question. I don’t want your soppin’ suit drippin’ on everythin’ in my van. Put these on.” He practically shoved the clothes into Spy’s chest this time, forcing him to take them. Spy unfolded the shirt and held it out at arm’s-length to inspect it, scrutinizing every thread of fabric, every piece of lint. He squinted.
“Why do you own a Builders League United shirt?”
“Long story. Just put it on.”
Spy huffed, turning away before reluctantly stripping off his suit jacket. So he wanted privacy, that was fine; Sniper turned as well and pretended to be busy in the kitchen. He was in the middle of a stare-off with a bottle of juice in his fridge when he heard a throat clear behind him. He stood up, and it takes all his effort not to snort at the sight in front of him: Spy—perfect, ladykiller, “you got blood on my suit” Spy, standing before him wearing the lamest garb in the history of garb. A faded BLU shirt, plaid pajama pants, and—if he had taken them—heart print boxers. He'd rather be dead than caught wearing this. Sniper couldn’t help it, he cracked a smile. Spy did quite the opposite. He held his carefully folded damp suit out, which Sniper took and placed on the edge of the sink. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spy wince. He’ll be having nightmares about his poor suit for sure.
Sniper vaguely gestured to his own head. “You’ve still got the..”
“The balaclava,” Spy finished for him, “yes, I know.”
“You shouldn’t sleep with a wet head, mate.”
“Says who?”
“Err, me, I guess.”
“Oh, and I’m supposed to value your opinion?”
Sniper’s expression darkened. “Watch it. I don’t have to stand here and take your shit, y’know. I can kick you out anytime.”
Spy raised his eyebrows as if to say would you, really? but doesn’t let out another bitter retort. There was a distant boom of thunder, and the rain beat down harder.
“You can take the bed, if you’d like,” Sniper offered, doing a complete 180 in demeanor, to which Spy scoffed.
“No thank you.” He bit back yet another sour retort. He decided he’s pushed it enough tonight; he really, really doesn’t wanna go back into that rain. “The couch is just fine.”
“Really?” Sniper climbed up to his bed and pulled out an extra blanket and pillow as Spy settled down on the couch, rubbing at his mask with the towel. “Just a warning, you’re gonna be a little too long for it.”
“Then the same applies to you, mon ami.” He graciously took the blanket and stretched out to find out that he was, in fact, too long for the couch. “You’re too long for it as well, and I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable in your own home, would I?”
Sniper chuckled as he turned off the light. “Well, nothing’s stopped you before. G'night, then.”
Spy coughed, watching the other man head back up to his bed. “..Goodnight.”
He laid there uncomfortably, and not just because of the couch situation; there was an odd feeling in his chest that came with being in an unfamiliar environment. Oh, how he wished to be back in the base, sitting comfortably by his fireplace, dry and wearing his own clothes, preferably nursing a glass of wine and a book.. The fantasy worsened the churning of his stomach. He just had to get caught in the stupid storm, and Sniper’s van just had to be the closest shelter. He rolled over after a few minutes, and realized Sniper was already snoring. Lucky bastard. There was an uncomfortable tickle in the back of his throat; he groaned quietly to himself as he struggled to get comfortable.
It was going to be a long night.