Work Text:
It’s a tiny thing that starts them off.
The first day meeting coworkers was overwhelming for everyone in the same way going to a party full of strangers is, conversation too loud or too quiet for each other’s comforts, none of them quite sure how to act normal enough around each other despite knowing of each others’ thoroughly abnormal contracts, but a few things had stood out to Heavy in between the noise and the various stupid questions they would throw at each other.
The first thing had been the way in which the team was clearly balanced with meticulousness despite their various quirks, the thin baseball man was very fast, the German medic questionable in his sense of good practice but effectively directed enough, Misha’s own build larger than any other and equipped with the strongest weapon, the organization spoke of design, purpose. The second thing had been the way everyone stuck out like sore thumbs right next to each other. The extremely drunk Scottish man with far too many explosives in his pockets managed to be just as surprising as the borderline mute fireman with what seemed to be a box of matches from home, almost like an understanding that they were all outcasts in some way. Outcasts that would only be at home with people just as unacceptable as them.
But even with a theme of strangeness, someone in a suit and tie is the last eccentricity Misha expected to see among a desert-bound team of men too crazy for anywhere else.
The medic, someone Misha finds immediately intriguing and willing to befriend him, is an excitable presence, outgoing, clearly happy to be here, but volatile. The sort of blunt unpredictable force you don’t want to stand in the way of. Misha can respect this, admires it on someone else even. He likes this. But the man in the suit…
Distant. Calculating. Adaptable yet unyielding. Sharp . Misha thinks he likes this too.
They’ve all exchanged pleasantries of some kind or another by the end of the day, but the spy’s introduction is personally memorable to him. A handshake. Few men ever had the confidence for such a thing with a bear of Misha’s stacked size, especially when they knew they couldn’t even begin to compete with him, making it more than a little surprising when he was offered Spy’s slender hand, smooth french greeting and all. He took it of course, with a low chuckle that got a shallow inhale out of the man, and they exchanged the basics of their work roles. Seemed like Spy was collecting that information from everyone, a true informant, though the stare he’d gotten must’ve been specific to his sheer size, watching Spy repeat the process with others showed the man looking much less open, pragmatic and almost bored despite the undoubted purpose in his interactions.
He’s not sure what to make of that, not immediately, and he allows it to be a mystery.
It doesn’t take long to learn Spy speaks the main languages of everyone else, albeit with more of an accent outside of his English, unsurprising that he’d be more accustomed to it. He pulled his German out first for a talk with Medic after their first round of augmenting surgeries, started slipping some Spanish to Engineer in the middle of close intel grabs, and finally showed a bit of Russian. To congratulate Misha on a job well done at the end of their second week. While only Soldier, Scout, and Demoman broke the mold of being socially reclusive in the team, and he doubts Spy avoids everyone on accident, Misha still wants to appreciate Spy’s effort somehow, or at least investigate linguistic lengths for his own curiosity given he wasn’t quite so comfortable with English himself.
He begins by making an effort to thank Spy more for things, and then trying to continue conversations in Russian, with honestly surprising success. Spy seems thoroughly willing to indulge him as long as they have the time to do so, more or less anywhere, though they both prefer places with quiet. He’s never met anyone willing to do that with him, not this far outside his family. Certainly no one with Spy’s taste for refinement and intellectualism.
It’s nice. He learns things, like Spy can piano considerably well, his favourite brand of French cigarette, their shared alcohol preferences despite Spy’s lighter-weight status, they even share poetry once on a particularly good night, politely debate philosophy, fiction, art, in the comfort of his own tongue no less…
It’s... very nice.
Their friendship develops like that. Leisurely, comfortable, smart. Almost sparring at times, like Spy’s looking to see how he can be outdone, if he can be, (they’re quick to find that he can), and with Misha just happy to have his first complicated conversations since coming here, he’s willing to indulge with a hint of humour. It puts his mind at ease, settles his hesitance in the unfamiliarity of the situation. He’s happy with it.
Their softer, slightly drunker conversations are how he finds out what Spy likes, and misses. Despite the look of a snob, and perhaps even the attitude of one, Spy’s tastes are surprisingly inexpensive beyond a certain point. He doesn’t have any love for the nauseatingly decadent, or the overly rare most of the time, he’s just a bit higher end when he’s showing off or putting on appearances, even vaguely alludes to missing more homey styles and cooking on more than one occasion. He’s almost basic compared to the monstrosities capitalism tends to create for the excitement of the bourgeoisie, something Misha’s skilled at spotting after a life hiding from the worse half of an anti-capitalist government. Perhaps Spy sometimes goes more overboard than necessary, but Misha sees this in all of their teammates, even himself at times. It is the way things are here, in their team of rejects, and he’s comfortable with this.
But… maybe he’s more prone to going overboard than he initially thought, he brings up to himself on his first free afternoon several weeks into the contract, just as he finds himself having suddenly spent a few good hours on his own looking into what he’d need to cook Spy some fine Russian food. Something like his mama would make at home when they were in more material comfort than usual. Something simple but… like home, like family, the sort you can’t just purchase from some store and that’s all the more valuable for it.
He thinks to bring it up a second time to himself when he has the ingredients together just a day later thanks to Miss Pauling and a little bit to Engineer. He decides he just wants to be dedicated and tells himself he won’t think about it more.
Why does he want to be this dedicated, he questions as he’s mixing the batter for blinis and making sure his borscht meat is boiling, he’s never been very good at avoiding thinking. He dislikes leaving his own questions unsolved, and takes a few tries to answer it, gives it a chance. He’s probably just being a considerate co-worker. He already likes cooking anyways, it’s not like he’s about to go clothing shopping in his little venture to give Spy something nice. He cares about Spy’s happiness and efficiency.
Perhaps he… treasures Spy’s friendship.
Well, he does care about all of those things, they're all perfectly true, it’s just… maybe he hadn’t noticed before, but Spy really had been helping him grow acclimatized to living in an unfamiliar location with a strange job and overwhelming people. Medic had been a good help with this too of course, but being able to speak Russian, and talk about things like literature also in Russian, playing chess with more than just the doctor on sudden indulgent whims, it… it genuinely helped him. He felt nice about it, felt appreciated, like he could really be the full extent of his personhood somewhere, rather than just what everyone else saw. What everyone else saw tended to just be his size and strength. He likes… being more than that.
He wants to give that feeling back to Spy. He wants Spy to know it, appreciate it with him mutually. Return the favour. It’s a very large question of how though, given the man tends to be a lockbox with three puzzles inside and a secret code needed to understand the answers. Spy is the kind that finds it hard to open up to people without a lot of reassurance, a lot of perfect opportunities and patience. He can respect this, maybe even relates a little bit, sometimes people just like their privacy and some things don’t need to be spoken.
And yet.
He almost cuts himself slicing the vegetables from thinking about it so deeply.
“Are you going to let me in on this grand secret plan of yours, mon ami ? When you called I’d been expecting something per our usual,” Spy mused with his usual cat-like smoothness.
Misha has always found it interesting the way the others compare Spy to a snake instead, his aloof mask and meddling nature are far too feline for that.
“ Nyet . Was, uh… thinking something different.”
“Oh?” Spy doesn’t seem quite surprised yet, but his curiosity is perhaps purposefully obvious as he follows Misha down the hall, eyes boring into Misha’s back.
“You will see, is not far.”
The spare side room Misha cleaned out and converted to a little dining room earlier in the day is something he’s almost proud of, just as much as everything else he’s gotten ready, but leading Spy to it is making his anxiety gradually rise to a peak, and all he can hope for is his work being appreciated as he tries to ignore the amount of pressure Spy’s unintentionally placing on him. He’s used to this feeling, yes, but when he’s unsure of himself like this… he’s nervous. Perhaps more than he needs to be.
He stops in front of the door with a deep breath, and only pauses for a second (just enough that he knows Spy saw, unfortunately) before he delicately opens the door and holds it open for Spy.
“ Spasibo ,” Spy offers with intrigue as he steps in, but his usual smug air leaves him when he surveys the table. The mix of traditional Russian and French food, with paired bottles of vodka and wine, is something Misha agonized over for at least an hour, setting everything together just right to show his consideration while still looking acceptably nice. The swept floor and comfortable chairs, wood and same base-wide colour palette matched in the cushions and tablecloth, took considerably less effort with the elements already existing on-base, but it'd still taken him some time, enough for him to have been worried in the final stretch that it was far too late to pull off something like this. He even had a split second of worry that the candles were too obviously low for the time, or that they were entirely unmatched.
Spy looks frozen, staring, barely breathing, clearly shocked, and Misha steps in behind Spy to softly shut the door, though shifts a bit to the left in case Spy suddenly needs to leave. In case he doesn’t like it. There’s nothing to be done, Misha can only discreetly wring his hands, watch closely, and wait.
It’s interesting, letting Spy slowly come back to himself and watching how he blinks suddenly, almost startled back into motion, the way he inhales with watery eyes as he finally looks up at Misha again. Misha feels his own breath hitch.
“ [Is… you... made all this] ?” Unexpected, hesitant Russian.
“ Da. [For you. You said once you missed home-cooked meals.] ”
Spy seems surprised, though whether it’s at the specificity or that Misha even remembered, there’s no way to tell, and he does another overlook of the room, still stuck where he’s standing.
It’s quiet for a moment.
“ [... Is okay if you do not like--] ”
“ Non! N-nyet, [I’m… I am…] ” Spy stutters over himself, unusual in his lack of composure, but he seems to force himself together for just long enough to make himself clear, which Misha can appreciate and understand. “ [I am… surprised. Did not… realize anyone cared so much to do… something so big just for me, I’m sorry, I’ll be fine.] ”
“ [I care about you, is… is alright, Spy.] ”
Misha worries that he said something wrong again when Spy sniffles softly, but Spy finally unfreezes to really start crying, and when Misha moves closer, has a sudden pang of helplessness, Spy turns and leans into him, rests his head on Misha’s huge warm chest and pushes into his thick shirt. His little stick arms aren’t long enough to encompass Misha’s ribs, but Misha can almost cradle Spy’s whole torso in his own massive ones, so he does that. He feels the tears soaking through the fabric, and he’s okay with it despite himself.
They stay that way for a while, Misha can’t make himself mind if their dinner gets cold.
The food is fine of course, Misha’s confident enough about that even if he can’t really call himself an expert cook, but seeing Spy relishing every taste, savouring, making gentle honest commentary, occasionally throwing in “have I told you how wonderful this is yet?”, it’s just more positive feedback than Misha thinks he’s ever had all at once in his life and he’s still surprised about it even after the fifth time.
It’s… really nice. Really, really nice. Everything about this has turned out surprisingly nice honestly, it gets his anxiety a little worked up again, but he’s finding it easier than ever to ignore just by being here with Spy, and he thinks Spy might be experiencing something similar. He seems more emotionally vulnerable than Misha’s ever seen, openly smiling and humming satisfaction, still looking like he’s going to cry every couple of bites. It’s jarring, but… honest. Misha can’t even begin to appreciate the amount of trust there, even cloaked in the seemingly unending compliments on his borscht.
The whole experience is a little bit ungrounded, like a dream until they’ve both finished all they can manage to eat, drank a little more than they needed to, seamlessly finding themselves at an end and Spy arranges his silverware in some fancy sort of pattern before standing, looking to Misha with heartfelt eyes.
“This… this has been wonderful, moy drug . I couldn’t have asked for more, truly.”
Misha stands too, gently, begins picking up his plates and organizing them together, though even that feels oddly floaty and not fully focused. Maybe he’s dizzy. “ Pozhaluysta . Is good you enjoyed, am glad.”
Spy picks some of the plates on his side of the table and copies Misha’s slow sorting, but he bites his lip with an inscrutable expression. Contentment maybe. Longing? Misha’s not sure how he would know, he’s not very good with guessing these things.
“I did, very much so. Spasibo . Should we take these to the kitchen?”
“ Da . But is late, should be quiet.”
“Of course,” Spy smiles, the confident sort where he’s going to take it as a challenge and he loves it. Misha’s always found that sort of endearing, if a little ridiculous. He’s not going to think about if it’s weird to call Spy cute, even if only in his head.
They take the dishes together, rinse the empty ones quietly and pack away the unfinished ones, of which there aren’t many, and finally step back next to each other, satisfied. Or, more so than they already were with the food.
Misha isn’t quite sure what to do from this point.
Some part of him didn’t expect to get this far even through everything, so he’s not surprised that encountering it is awkward, especially with his own limited people skills, but Spy seems to be similarly stuck or at a loss, a rare sight to behold indeed. Everyone’s very used to Spy knowing what to say all the time.
But, then again, this is a rather unusual situation, and Misha might need to rethink how he’s been framing Spy’s usual airs from here on out. They’re silently standing next to each other for several minutes before Spy gently inhales.
“ [Thank you, again. It really does mean very much to me.] ”
“ [Of course. Is no trouble, would do it again anytime for you.] ”
Spy’s breath hitches, and he pauses for several long seconds.
“[... Y-you’ve already done so much for me. I couldn’t…] ” He’s so quiet, so hesitant, looks like he might be sweating. He feels small to be next to, just another thing Misha’s unused to. “ [... I don’t want to ask too much of you.] ”
“ [Never.] ”
Spy purses his lips, and his hand seeks out Misha’s with surprising gentleness, something Misha hasn’t seen a lot of in his years. Spy’s thumb brushes across his large knuckles slowly, almost sensually, and slowly breathes through his question. “ [... Would… would you… come back to my room with me?] ”
Misha’s shoulders tense as he inhales, his hand flexing and Spy’s own moving away from him fast, too fast. For all everything about tonight has been unfamiliar territory, this marks the point where he’d be well and truly flying blind, utterly without any past experience to compare to, and no real way to measure the direction of things. He’s never been offered this before, not by a man, and certainly not by someone like Spy. He doesn’t really know how Spy means it either, or how Spy feels if he means it in an… intimate sense, even Misha isn’t sure how Misha feels. It’s hard to tell these things with people, and himself seemingly.
But he reaches a conclusion.
“... Da .” And he smiles, small, perhaps obviously nervous, but enough for Spy’s relief to be clear, and enough for him to suddenly understand that feeling Spy might’ve been projecting earlier. A sweet kind of heartache. Something like love.
Given the hour, and that the only other people likely to be up as late as Misha and Spy were both workaholic recluses, there wasn’t too much caution necessary for walking back to Spy’s quarters together. Only mutual anxiety. Uncertainty. Enough for them to tread lightly anyways.
Spy unlocked his ornate door lightning fast, ushered Misha in silently, and then they were well and truly alone. The room was thoroughly sound insulated both ways, a blessing under normal circumstances to be sure, but for the first time it just made Misha a bit more restless. Spy locked his door again, slower, and sighed, oozed out of his usual posture and stumbled into Misha’s arms with startling fragility.
This time Misha didn’t realize he was silently crying for a few minutes, and by that point Misha felt like it was time to direct them both over to Spy’s futon.
Everything felt weighty and a bit surreal, different from earlier with the gravity of the emotion, but Misha held on, and Spy did too until neither of them really knew how long it had been and they just leaned into each other, close, warm. Achey.
“ Désolé… I ask too much of you, this is foolish of me.” He sniffs, speaks in stuttering rasps, and Misha’s arm tightens gently, comfortably. An attempt to give them both something grounding.
“ Nyet. [You blame yourself too much, is no bother. I’m only worried.] ”
“ [I should not make you worried like this. I’m sorry, I’m so overwhelmed today.] ”
“ [Is my fault, should have asked you--] ”
“ Nyet nyet, [I just can’t repay you. I’m sorry. I’m not used to… being worried about.] ” Spy looks up at Misha, watery but… happy, almost. “ [You’re so kind to me, and I’m such a mess. I appreciate everything you do, spending time with me, reading, drinking, the food… but I understand if this is too close for you, please don’t let me make you uncomfortable.] ”
Misha has to snort a laugh, though he keeps it quiet despite how funny Spy’s surprise is. “ [No, no you keep me comfortable, speak my language to me, value the things I say and do despite who I am to others. I can never repay this either, but I do not need to be repaid by you.] ” He pauses, briefly, just to take a breath. “ [Company is enough.] ”
He worries it was a little much to say all that, but then Spy’s tearing up again with a massive smile and nuzzles into his chest, small and warm and messy. A good kind. “ Spasibo… merci, mon ami… m-merci… ”
They stay like that a while, just holding each other until the exhaustion takes them.