Work Text:
Pierre was used to solitude. To that all encompassing, suffocating, draining feeling of loneliness. He was used to painful thought that he would never find someone who would understand him, and it hurt.
It hurt a lot.
But he went on, starting his mornings by staring at the ceiling and wondering how his ex-lover was doing. Every waking thought was of Mundy. It was like a constant barrage of awful memories and emotions flooding back, a tsunami of agony that threatened to sink him deeper and deeper into the pits of depression. He scowled, thinking of the past. The picture he kept of Mundy on his bedside stared at him.
He looked so happy, looked so… Pierre started to tear up, wiping them away quickly. He got up, the bed too big for him alone. It's been a year, why isn't he over it now?! Pierre walked to the bathroom, combing his hair as he looked at Mundy's toothbrush, his lover's comb that he forgot to pack, and the towel that Mundy liked still hung up.
The kitchen wasn't much better. He still used the brand of instant coffee his lover preferred, had his lover's second favorite mug, had Mundy's vegemite and his favorite brand of bread. Pierre bit his lip, skipping the coffee for a bottle of wine instead.
Pierre had enough money to live out his life comfortably, so he'd sit on his chair and drink his wine, staring at nothing. Other days, he'd slither into an expensive bar, his hair slicked back and his gloves on. He'd find someone, sitting alone, and sit next to them. Didn't matter if it was a man or woman. Women didn't care, and men would fall to his charms, even if they "didn't swing that way."
He'd push the nameless and faceless stranger into a bed and let out his frustration, imagining it was Mundy and not some rich, pretentious bloke. The worst part was when he would call the stranger Mundy, and he'd just leave without explaining.
This was not one of those days, though.
On the worst days, he'd drown himself in drugs. Today was one of those days. He looked at the bag in front of him, grimacing. The feeling of numb intoxication was like the embrace of a lover at this point. Pushing back the common sense in his mind, he engulfed in his worse vice.
No matter what, it was just him waiting for the days to pass, waiting for himself to wither away. There was nothing for the liar, for the thief, for the "asshole without a heart".
Pierre grimaced, watching as the world around him decayed too slowly, feeling his limbs stiffen and his eyes droop. Waiting, hoping, maybe Mundy would knock on the door. Maybe he'd be able to tell Mundy the real truth.
—
The first time they met was at the bar. Pierre wasn't wearing his Balaclava, his nose scrunched up at the awful alcohol he was drinking. Pierre has never talked to or interacted with the enemy Sniper at this point, but he knew what the enemy looked like and heard him yell from across the battlefield.
"Not enjoying it, huh?" Mundy said, sitting down next to Pierre. "Can't say it's very good, myself." He was sweating, like he was nervous.
"Hm, yeah. Tastes like shit." He said, taking another sip. He recognized the voice immediately. The enemy Sniper. He thought about slipping away quietly, he but his lip while thinking, though that thought was interrupted.
"The name's Mundy, what about yours?" The man- Mundy, said, holding out his hand with a smile so genuine that Pierre couldn't say no.
This was Pierre's first mistake. "Jacques." He muttered, looking at the drink. He couldn't trust Mundy, he couldn't trust the enemy, but the smile was so genuine and his handshake so firm, it made Pierre feel things he hadn't felt in so long. He smiled back. "What brings you here?"
"Ha, work, ya' know? Like, it's so exhausting doing what I do." Mundy chuckled, "I- I need to tell you right now, so I don't feel guilty later. I can't tell you what I do as a job, binded by a contract. Don't want to mislead you, Jacques." He picked up his drink, swirling it a bit before taking a sip. "What about you?"
Pierre frowned to himself. Pierre was a liar by nature, though. "I'm an accountant- I do all sorts of stuff though, I'm a jack of all trades."
"Ah." Mundy said, his lips pursed as he tried to keep himself from blushing. "Wanna elaborate?"
"Hm, I'm a great wine taster. I paint sometimes, I like to play the piano-"
"Oi! You're an artist too?" Mundy asked, raising an eyebrow.
Too? Does that mean Mundy–
"I do art too, probably not as good as ya', mostly pencil sketches of the stuff I see during long days of work!"
"Ooh, I paint traditionally. Perhaps we could exchange art one day. What else do you do, Mundy?" Pierre took another drink- he'd need it.
Mundy scratched the back of his neck. "I play the Saxophone, I also enjoy reading a lot."
Pierre nearly spit out his drink. The filthy bushman who threw jars of piss did art, played the saxophone and read a lot? Obviously Pierre misread the Aussie. "Oh? I enjoy myself a cultured man, though you seem to be.."
"Rugged? Yeah, I get that a lot, I like hunting a lot too, um. Hope you don't mind."
"Mmm, so you're cultured and strong?" The Frenchman purred, side-eying Mundy, who was breaking out in a bright blush. "Why don't we get out of here…" Pierre walked his fingers up Mundy's arm, "Show me some of your art, maybe?"
"Guh- um. Yeah, yeah that sounds great to me yep mhm-" Pierre's heart nearly melted as he watched Mundy embarrassed. God, he couldn't take it. Pierre kissed the man on the cheek, patting his shoulder.
"Good, now take me home, Mundy."
—
Mundy was used to being unable to connect with others. It was like something in his brain just didn't connect, he couldn't understand jokes or social cues. He was infamously bad at conversation.
So he woke up alone, staring at his campervan's ceiling, his back ached and his shoulder hurt. Yesterday's events flashed in his eyes, a contract gone bad.
A missed shot led to fistfighting led to being stabbed before killing his target. Not how he liked to assassinate his targets, but better than nothing. Mundy slowly got out of bed and poured himself a cup of cold coffee from the night before. He opened the door, stretching limbs as he stared at the sunrise. Another day, another murder…
Or another day of getting blackout drunk at a bar.
It was either emotionless, being a cruel killing machine, or an emotional wreck, unable to cope with the feelings of loss for over a year. He was a full grown adult, why couldn't he act like one? Instead he was acting like a fucking teenager.
(He lost everyone, his parents disowned him, he lost his lover, his team, his-)
Damn those memories, damn the feelings he felt, the closeness and intimacy he allowed another to have for the first time. It was early in the morning, but he put his coffee down and took out a bottle of whiskey instead.
God, he hated Frenchmen and their awful, lying, beautiful faces. He should've never talked to Pierre that night.
He should've never loved.
He missed Pierre's laugh and how it'd break out into a snort. He missed the blush, he missed the passion, he missed… he just missed Pierre. He hated that he missed Pierre.
—
Three weeks after meeting Jacques, it was their fourth date. They only had time to meet on weekends thanks to Mundy's not-so-flexible job. They were going to go to an art museum in the next town over.
Mundy waited for his lover to show up. Mundy couldn't believe it, he met someone. Someone who understood him, who made him laugh, who enjoyed silence as much as he did. Someone who was okay with Mundy not being able to reveal his job, someone who was genuine and honest. And of course, happy with only seeing each other on weekends. It was too good to be true.
Mundy felt two arms wrap around his waist, a chin resting on his shoulder. Jacques kissed his cheek. "Missed you." He whispered as Mundy turned around and gave him a kiss.
"Missed you too, darl'." Jacques grinned, he was so happy.
"So, what do you have planned for today? You look all dressed up… you smell good too." Jacques said, holding his lover's hand. "Gorgeous, really."
Mundy blushed. "I, erm. Art museum, next town over. I thought you'd enjoy it, being a painter and all."
Pierre stopped, not Jacques, but Pierre. "Really? I mean, this is so– so personal, I-" he didn't have words. Most of his ex-lovers went for movies or restaurants, not… not something that Pierre would like individually. His stomach flipped, his heart ached and he couldn't stop smiling.
Oh fuck. He looked over at the blushing mess in front of him and felt like he was going to have a heart attack. He felt himself blush, and stood there like an awkward teenage boy. Mundy looked at him, and their gazes locked. Pierre literally slept with this man, and yet this– this is what sent him over the deep end.
"Thank you." Pierre whispered. Mundy awkwardly smiled. "Is it too early to say, erm." He's never said this part.
"I think I love you."
Mundy turned a bright red, his smile wider than anything Pierre has seen. "Jacques, I think I love you, too."
Pierre wished Mundy said his real name. "I love you. I love you, I love you. Je t'aime, I—"
Mundy kissed Pierre, the two melting into it.
Pierre was in love.
—
…8… 7… Mundy entered the number into the payphone, hearing it ring a few times before it answered. A tired man picked up on the other side.
"H..hello?" The recognition was instant for Mundy.
Mundy took a few breaths, the line silent on the other side.
"Hello???" The voice asked again.
"I hate you so fucking much-" he drawled, he reeked of too much alcohol and he swayed uncontrollably. With his free hand, he held onto the box with a grip as strong as steel.
"Mundy…?"
"Shut the fuck up, let me talk. I hate you, I hate you so fucking much."
"You already said that. Is that why you called me at…" the sounds of fabric shuffling… "3 in the morning? You sound drunk, mon amou- Mundy." He whispered.
Mundy felt tears prick at his eyes. "Call me that again." He whispered. Pierre felt his cheeks redden at the whisper he hadn't heard in a year.
"...Mundy?"
"No, the French one."
"Mon… mon amour. Mon chér, my love, my darling." Pierre whispered, so gently that Mundy could almost imagine his lover next to him. Mundy bit his inner cheek, holding back a sob. He stayed quiet, the only sound was Pierre breathing and the ringing in his ears. He felt tears finally roll down his cheeks, it was so cold.
The silence was so loud, Mundy had so much to say, so much to tell his ex, and yet– the silence was all they could do.
"Why did you have to fuck it up?!" Mundy finally yelled, slamming his hand against the glass. It started to rain.
"I didn't… didn't mean to. Didn't mean to hurt you, to-"
"But you did, you absolute…" Mundy leaned against the glass. "You fucking bitch, you liar, you…" He choked back a sob, "you fucking-" he let out the first audible sob.
"Are you… are you crying, amour?"
"You don't get to call me that anymore. Yes I'm fucking crying, of course I am. I… I hate you so much."
"I know." The sounds of fabric again.
"I can't stand to look at you."
"I… I know. I know I fucked it all up, I know you hate me-"
Mundy scoffed. "I miss you."
Pierre went silent.
A few breaths passed again.
"I miss you too." He eventually muttered back. Mundy could imagine him now, sitting against the headboard of his fancy bed, wrapping the cord of the phone around his finger. "I miss you every single day. Lying to you… was my greatest mistake."
"Loving you… was mine. And yet I still love you. Did you know that?! I still can't stop thinking of you, reaching out… hoping I'd feel you next to me in bed." He barked out a cruel laugh. "I still draw you from memory, I still have a photo of you, I still have your fucking cigarettes too. Smells too much like you for me to get rid of. I'm drunk, Pierre. I'm so fucking drunk."
"I know."
His mind rapidly changed topics. "Did you find someone new yet? Is he better than me? Did you tell him your real name? Or is it a woman, is she softer and more intelligent than I was? Are they richer? Are they better in bed than me?! Oh, oh fucking hell, Pierre. I don't know what to do, I don-" he was on the verge of another panic attack. "Everything reminds me of you, and I know you've probably moved on, but I'm drunk and-"
"I haven't found anyone." Pierre said abruptly.
"Wait what-"
"Shut up and let me talk now. I haven't found anyone new, I don't think you understand how much our breakup hurt me too. I lost my sense of life, my sense of love. My joy. We're both assassins with no one who understands what it's like to murder, to isolate yourself from… from everyone. You understood me, Mundy. More than anyone else did, even if you didn't know it. I don't have anyone, you don't have anyone. That's that."
He imaged Pierre, sitting in his robe, his perfectly sculpted face dotted with tears. He had a cigarette in one hand, the phone in the other, looking over to where Mundy used to sleep. God, he hated this.
"I haven't moved on either. I don't think I can love anymore." Mundy admitted
"I can't either. I've tried to move on, but I yell your name at night and they…" Pierre snorted as Mundy laughed. "I don't deserve you, you deserve the world, but we… you… us. I need you, you need me."
"I hate you. I hate that I love you, I hate that I want you back-"
Pierre was silent again for a second. They were both crying. "I lo-"
It was cut out. He tapped the phone a few times. "Pierre?? Pierre?" He said, before hearing the beep.
He ran out of fucking money.
"GODDAMMIT. GOD. FUCKING. DAMMIT." He yelled, punching the metal until it dented, his hand aching as he continued his assault on the phone box, the metal cutting open his hand. Blood trickled down his knuckles as he sobbed.
"Pierre…" He muttered, before falling to his knees and crying.
He was getting somewhere— and–
Pierre listened to the ring on the other side. Mundy must've been using a payphone, he deducted. Mundy… Mundy… he repeated the name in his head.
Mundy still missed him, wanted him.
Pierre would get his lover back.
—
"Mon amou—" BLU Spy stopped, realizing- he was in combat.
He wasn't on a date anymore. His knife was mere inches away from his unknowing lover's back, and he dropped it.
He would recognize the voice, the words. Pierre was so good at making an effort of never talking to the RED Sniper.
Pierre backed up, he just ruined it all.
Mundy looked down at the BLU Spy- Jacques… Pierre— as he shrunk against the wall.
"You sound just like him, you called me 'amour' like he does, you dress like him…" Mundy dropped his kukri. "You're fucking Jacques, aren't you." He whispered, pointing his finger in his direction.
"Yes. Yes, I'm Jacques…"
"Is that even your real name?!" Mundy asked, standing closer to the man on the floor. He was laughing.
"No… My name is Pierre."
"I was…" Mundy paused, the laughter ending. "I was fucking joking!" He yelled, punching the wall. His knuckles were bleeding. "Was any of it real!? Jacques… Pierre, was it real?! Was it to fuck with me?! Was it to—"
"Of course it was! It was incredibly dangerous for us to be together if you knew I was… on the BLU Team. It was to-"
"Don't you fucking say it was to protect me."
"It was though, I promise!"
"Like you promised you loved me? Like you promised to never lie, to never… it was three years. You lied to me for three fucking years." Mundy's face was red, the blood on his knuckles made him look even more terrifying and the Spy… he was never more scared than now.
For a solid two minutes, Mundy was quiet, staring at the Masked Spy with no readable emotion. The just stood there, waiting. Thinking? His brows were furrowed and he was blinking rapidly, like he was trying to hide tears.
Pierre fucked this up, him and his selfishness, inability to make connections, inability to be fucking honest.
"That wasn't a lie, mon chér, I swear on my life. Loving you, it- its the best thing to ever happen to me!" He screamed, his voice hoarse. "Please… please don't do this. Let me explain, let me make it up to you, it can work out, amour!"
"Don't. Call. Me. That. You are a liar, Jacques." Mundy paused. "Pierre." He quickly corrected.
"I know, I know I lied but listen to me, please let me explain!" Pierre begged- pleaded, but-
He woke up in respawn, his head throbbing. Mundy just shot him.
Everytime Pierre would enter Mundy's sniper nest, he would be killed in an instant. There was no talking to him.
The war ended a month after, and Pierre found himself staring at where the van used to be.
He never got to explain.
—
Mundy got a new contract— he was to assassinate someone at their home. He was to follow them from the restaurant to their house. It was simple, easy, nothing new. Though the weirdest part was the contractor asking for him to go inside the restaurant. Maybe they wanted to make sure the victim didn't get away? It was all paid for though, so he might as well enjoy it.
During the drive to the restaurant, he thought about how Pierre would enjoy the place. It was a fancy "150$ for a piece of steak" kind of place. (Mundy thought back to their fifth date— at a fancy restaurant).
Mundy grimaced, parking his van in a nearby parking lot and adjusted his button up. He hated this.
He made it into the restaurant, his reservation under the name "Pierce."
"Reservation for two, got it"' The waitress said. .. wait. For two? Mundy raised an eyebrow, the knife hidden in his shoe looking incredibly good. Was this a trap, was this a—
He looked at the table, at the person sitting at the table.
"...Pierre?" He whispered, sitting down. "What the fuck are you doing here."
"Apologies for the deception, Mundy… it was the only way for me to get ahold of you. Ha, uhm." Pierre fidgeted with his sleeve. "You're just as beautiful as I remember."
Mundy wondered if this was a dream. "Flattery won't get you anywhere." It was obviously getting him somewhere.
"I wanted to explain myself, I wanted to… tell the truth."
"The truth? From you of all people?!" Mundy laughed, "I'll humor you."
"Thank you." Mundy took a sip of his water, watching the Frenchman sweat.
"Uhm. Ever since I was a child, like. Really small, my parents… they were spies too. I told you this, told you they were both accountants like me, right? I was born to lie, like. They made me because they needed-" he took a breath, "they needed a child spy, one that was the child of France's two best spies. I was taught to lie at a young age, I never had real friends or family. I would be a mask, a lie. At school, I was popular because I looked good, and I could lie. Everytime I fucked up, they would just lie their way out of it."
"My three biggest mistakes as a child… burning down a house, overdosing with my friend and… they found drugs inside a boat my parents owned. In court, they were able to get off scot free with a bit of money and lying. This… this taught me, yknow."
Mundy nodded, "You could lie your way out if anything?"
Pierre nodded. "They said, 'We never owned a house in Lyon, we didn't see Augustus the day he died, and we haven't used the boat in years. All of them were lies."
"And the person you met the day you approached me was someone struggling with identity. A family built on lies doesn't make for the best upbringing. I'm sorry, Mundy. I didn't mean to lie to you for so long. I thought, I really thought we would spend a single night together. I really just expected sex, nothing more."
Mundy sighed. "Then I asked you on a date."
"You looked so happy, so content, and I couldn't say no. Then I fell in love, like a fucking idiot. I wanted to tell you, but you wouldn't date the enemy… so lying was safer for both of us. We are both professionals… we couldn't be dating the enemy."
Mundy groaned, looking at the ceiling, groaning and putting the palms to his eyes. "You just make everything so complicated." He whispered. "I still love you."
"I know." Pierre muttered, reaching out for Mundy's hand. "You don't have to forgive me, I understand if you don't. I just want you to know why- why I lied. Everything else was honest, I swear. You've seen my face, you know my life story. You know me better than anyone else, Mick. I truly, deeply, really love you. Sometimes the truth isn't for the better–"
"The truth is that I guess I'll never really know the truth about anything then." Mundy whispered. "I just have to believe you're telling the truth, and not lying to me. I guess that's everything though. The truth for me is just that."
"There is no concrete truth?" Pierre finished for him. "I'm sorry for lying about my name- my career. But I truly do love you, and it was safer for us. It really was to protect you, to keep you safe from the Administrator… to keep you happy."
"So it was a white lie?"
"Sort of. It was also selfish. I thought I could start over as a good person, a better person than the one before. But I can't just- I can't run away." Pierre admitted. Mundy believed him.
"It just… hurt a lot. Hurts to see you now, actually. Knowing I was never calling you by your real name."
"I knew you were my enemy, and I couldn't risk letting you know my real name."
"I know." Mundy took Pierre's hand in his, and the Spy looked up, a smile on his face. "I know that, I know… I know that—" He sighed. "I know that you loved me, and I know I love you. That's the only truth I know—"
"So you forgive me…?"
"I don't think I can… but we can move on. We can— we can try. We can start over, as long as you just… as long as you're honest."
Pierre smiled, tears falling down his cheeks. "I've missed you so much, Mundy."
"I've missed you too, Pierre. Let's- let's start over." Mundy stood up, putting his hand out. "It's nice to meet you, my name is Mundy."
Pierre laughed, smiling wider than he had in a long time. "It's nice to meet you Mundy, my name is Pierre. Pierre Gauthier."
They sat at the table, waiting for their waitress.
"I love you." Mundy whispered.
"Je t'aime, aussi."