Work Text:
It was a game they liked to play.
Sniper would close his eyes or take off his glasses and clean the lenses. He was practically blind without them anyway. As he did, Spy would slink away, lost among a sea of people, blending in. It was what he did best.
It’d be the soft bleep of his phone that pulled Sniper from his distraction.
“Find me.”
And so it’d start, glasses back on his face and confident smile on the lips. He’d step into the mass and just weave his way through. Spy was smart, but there were little things he couldn’t cover with a disguise. The slight nod of his head, the hunched shoulder, the hand near his pocket, to draw out his pistol. Habits from the battlefield that would carry over.
These games would go for hours. Sniper would stop for a coffee and biscuit while Spy would shop, treating it as any other outing. He’d glance over to the man from time to time, out of his sight. It was always best to keep out of sight. Spy always found it amusing to watch Sniper, see how he sat in the corner, how he drank his coffee with one hand, no matter how bad the winter chill would numb them. There’d be the slight glint of metal when he shifted and Spy would stifle a laugh as he saw the weapon concealed beneath civilian clothes.
Battlefield habit.
If he was feeling cocky, Spy would text him again. “How’s the coffee?”
“Bitter, like you,” Sniper would reply, eyes scanning the crowd for someone on their phone. “Must be why I like it so much.”
He’d hit send and wait and count.
One… Two…
The blonde girl in the corner pulled out her phone and looked at it. She tapped a few keys and slipped it back into her pocket.
His phone vibrated softly.
From there, it was just a tease. Spy knew he was found. He’d glance over his shoulder and catch sight of the bushman, often finding him looking at his watch or chuckling at something. Often he’d find himself posing or doing something to tease, show a bit of skin and watch as Sniper tensed. It’d go along like that, subtle motions at eachother through a sea of people before ending with Spy in a small booth at the local cafe. Sniper would slip in across from him, take off his glasses and clean them. When he looked up, it’d be Spy again, blue suit and slicked back hair. Despite all the time they spent together, Spy still preferred to change outfits without being seen. Sniper would have his third coffee for the day and Spy would sip at some tea, newspaper he’d taken from some store being set down on the table. They’d make idle chatter, drink and read and only stop when the waitress politely arrived to tell them they were closing.
Sniper would lead the way, Spy close behind with one hand in his pocket and the other around the bushman’s own. There’d be soft banter, a sigh of “Hurry up French-fry,” answered by the clack of Spy’s butterfly knife. By the time they got to the camper van, the tension would be gone and they’d be laughing about it. Sniper drove. He wouldn’t let that damn spook touch the driving wheel, even if he was on the verge of death. They’d roll down the dirt roads, let the city slip away into obscurity and let themselves melt into warm silence that only ended when Sniper parked behind the RED base.
It was always Spy who made the move. They’d close the van doors and meet at the back to grab anything they’d stowed away in the morning. He’d kiss Sniper on the cheek quickly, slip on his balaclava and cloak all in one graceful motion. Sniper would just blush, give a little wave and head back into the rundown building he called home for the week.
And the next week, they’d do it again.