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A white, neatly rolled cigarette touches his lips and feels nearly velveteen before the smoke fills his lungs. Fine blend, it seems. Not one he’s used to but can appreciate the quality. Heck, that man really has a specific taste. As he exhales lazily, he leans on the railing with his elbows. Sun still shines brightly, but its intensity lacks the punch that would charge his bones with energy. However, the dusty land surrounding them seems to be grateful for the lack of heat, now granted to take a breather. Deep down, he knows that’s how it has to be – there’s time and place for everything and the seasons have their purpose.
To his left, a body lingers in waiting. Silence stretches around them, and while he’s not opposed to it, there’s a slight tinge of anxiety vibrating between them. A small flickering light in the back of his mind that senses unease, but still too light to demand his attention. Spy’s hand grips the railing for support, his hip leaning against it, elevating pressure from one of his legs. Filling his lungs with smoke, it seems almost too stubborn of him to remain there, unwilling to speak up.
It happens, he tells himself and continues to stare off at the base below them. The curves of the building, it’s symmetry – the more he looks the more cracks and tweaks he finds even after years of wandering around. That’s what occupies him now, between each inhale and exhale, there’s a new crack, new cobweb. An old, abandoned nest the wind is about to sweep away.
“When’s the mail supposed to come this month?” It’s his turn to break the silence, nearly halfway through the cigarette. His tongue feels numb, and his words wash out of him with a certain uneasiness he can’t seem to place. Not yet.
“Why?” That's all Spy offers after a prolonged silence. Voice distant, Mundy can sense this one will require a bit of work. It’s not that he blames the man, but it’s a drag to be the one to keep things going.
“Don’t know mate, just expecting a delivery. If you don’t know, you don’t know. That’s just as fine,” he huffs, trying to remain calm.
“If you know that I don’t have an answer, why would you waste time asking?” that one stings. That one feels like a rough slap that jolts through him. Makes him look up at the man in surprise. A year back, this would earn that bastard a punch; they both know that. They both know that things have changed, too.
“It’s about to turn cold, I’ve been meaning to knit again,” he explains, and hates himself for it. He shouldn’t have to justify all of his actions; he shouldn’t have to feel like he needs to over-explain everything to him and work to earn a conversation. It’s a tough habit to chew through, “I’ve ordered yarn and new needles. The old ones- they got crooked, but I don’t want to bother Engie with that again. Last time, you know… last time he went on about how it’s all related to math.”
“Hmm, I see.” Mundy grits his teeth. An acidic twist in his stomach, the anxiety churning in his gut. He’s talking to a wall. He’s reaching for straws and that bastard is unmoved. That smug fucker knows exactly what he’s doing. And so, at that, the anger that pools in him, turns into white noise. Nearly evaporating from his skin when a cool, distant realisation washes over him.
It happens, he tells himself again, and chooses to remain silent. As he flicks the bud off the roof, he clasps his hands together, but holds still. Unmoving.
There’s a stir near him when a beat of time passes. When granted no reaction, when Mundy doesn’t fall for the bait to bicker further, it’s Spy’s turn to get anxious. Let’s leave him to it. Let’s allow him to sit with that and learn how two people should talk. One cigarette replaces another, the lighter clicks in a fast, demanding motion. The body stirs again but doesn’t leave. Too stubborn to apologize, Spy only shifts closer in an offering. Albeit a weak one. Keeping his gaze to himself, Sniper braces his nerves. Promises himself not to budge. Not just yet.
Somewhere in the distance, the doves coo and gather as it’s their turn for lunch. Medic’s quarters have a window open for them near the roof of the base, but it’s just about time before he gathers them all back inside – just to be safe. To keep them warm.
Gentle, timid pressure brushes against his shoulder, pulling him out of his musings. A hand touches; so lightly it’s barely there, but he knows the warmth of that body by heart. It tries to plead; melt his anger away but he won’t budge. He won’t have it till the man speaks up.
“Hey,” Spy’s voice drops an octave, not above a hum, “would you like another one? I’ll… have to go soon.” Once he finally meets his gaze, Spy’s eyes spark with nervous anticipation. The back of his hand pressed against Mundy’s shoulder holds his case open. Cigarettes, neatly tucked in a row on full display. Just take them. Take all of them if you want.
Tension doesn’t leave him as he shakes his head, but there’s a hint of softness to his voice he simply can’t shake away. “No thanks, I’m good for the day.”
“Ah,” the hand withdraws, case clicking closed before disappearing in his inner pocket, “I’ll… get going then,” the blue suit vanishes in a shimmer. Only then does Sniper lose his patience. He knows that trick. He knows where this leads, and he knows how to read that man like an open book. Even when the pages get smeared sometimes.
“What’s gotten into you today? Why won’t tell me what’s wrong?” He grabs onto nothing and pulls. His hand holds air, but he can feel the fabric of Spy’s glove quite well. The words that escape him are too direct. Too straightforward for anyone’s liking. It’s no surprise when the invisible hand pulls itself free. He should have known that, despite everything, such invasion will leave him to the doves.
He doesn’t see him after that. His camper greets him with emptiness at the end of the day, and he knows this one may last a bit longer. The week rolls by with sparse encounters on the battlefield, but no smoke breaks, no dinners, no knock on the van before letting himself in to scold him for the mess inside. Mundy knows it’s complicated. Tries to reassure himself that the man needs time to get back on track and yet, he can’t help but worry.
He’s been off, he’s been distant. Spy’s the first one to notice details but these days you could smack him across that smug grin with the most obvious fact and he’d blink away at it with a crude remark. And perhaps knowing that something’s off is the reason for the distance. They both know each other by heart and when Mundy mules over it, he must admit that it can become intimidating.
What he can’t forgive is bullying. Oh, perhaps that’s a harsh way to put it. Whatever explanation for his behaviour that man may muster is no excuse Mundy can get behind. He’s been made fun of and belittled before. He’s been gaslit and given silent treatment too; he’s got thick skin for crudeness. After all, the profession on its own calls for a distance that has become natural by now. Spy has become an exception.
He sits down on his bed with a cardboard box. A delivery from that Friday he’s been looking forward to for some time. As he carefully pulls the package open, picking out colours and sorting out the needles, his mind keeps slipping back to the roof. The doves in a group, never alone. Spy’s a vulnerable spot. A home he’s made of a person. Or hoped to. When a home becomes hostile, where are you supposed to sleep?
Anger sticks to him all week and he notices just now, clutching on the steel needles. So cold and thin in his big rough hands. No matter, he can work with it. Even when Engie asks. Or tries to, indirectly. A small collection of patterns he’s found on the market that lands in his lap during one of his siestas in the common room. Goggles peering over at him, awaiting with knowing suspicion.
“Where did you find these?” mellow voice escapes Sniper’s lips, running his fingers over the yellow paper. Sleep still written all over him, it takes a moment to recognize that he’s not dreaming. Mundy’s got so much to learn. About patterns; about people. The other man makes himself comfortable with a fresh mug of coffee and a toast. Just there, just like that. His presence is discreet but comforting.
“Thought that you may want to try a new pattern this season. Keep those fingers busy.” It seems so effortless, the way he offers more than just words. More than just reassurance.
The stash of patterns now lies next to the yarn, all on display. Written instructions for mittens with a flap smile right back at him from the top of the pile. Cute design, but practical; he’s got the right set of colours for those, it’s just the matter of right measurements.
“It’s all just binary, y’know? Ones and zeroes, knits, and purls. You could perhaps knit the dispenser for me,” Engineers words from before draw a smile on his face as he’s just in the right mood to prepare for a project. Heck, the man sounded so sure about it he might as well be right.
The door jolts open and shuts out of nowhere. The noise so sudden and harsh makes him jump right up, horrified to find himself completely alone. Or is he? With his heart about to jump out of his chest, he searches around, hand already patting for his kukri. All of it - just a habit. It’s the scent; the cologne that fills the interior of his camper which gives away the other’s presence. Thank fuck.
“Spy?” There’s a buzz that rings in his ears. Some sort of tense electric atmosphere between two bodies. Anxiety and tension of anticipation, blood still rushing into Sniper’s head from the shock. Or perhaps it’s just the cloak Spy’s using.
“Yeah, yeah it’s me it’s-” the voice trails off, and normally, he’d see him by now. In his full blue suited self. The collected, lean albeit slightly shorter man. Hands always ready to grab onto something. Silence beats between them and the buzzing continues. Slowly but surely, Sniper’s heartbeat evens out.
“May I sit down?” The voice without a body sounds again, still quite close to the entrance. Sniper blinks away in surprise. Not trusting his own voice with the whirl of emotions he nods, making sure to make space for the other man on the bed.
“Sorry about the mess I’ve just got what I’ve needed and I’ve been meaning to start a project tonight,” it slips him, and for a brief moment he could forget the strangeness of their current situation. The tension remains, unshakeable, no matter how hard he attempts to overlook it.
“Don’t worry about that,” the spot on the edge of the bed presses down, a weight of a body making itself present in the otherwise empty spot. It puzzles him. It makes his head go haywire, fishing for the worst scenario just to find something that could serve as an explanation, “I… I’d like to watch you work if that’s okay.”
“Are you sure that won’t be boring?” mixed feelings still clog his brain. First off, deep down he’s still upset over what happened. On the other hand, he’s also worried as to what has caused Spy to lash out in the first place. And to top it all off, it’s so unusual to just start knitting when someone you can’t even see watches by. Stage fright above all, nearly wins.
“As long as you feel up for the task, I won’t mind sticking around,'' See, that’s the Spy he’s used to. That’s the way Spy says ‘I love you’ when he decides to linger. So snobbish, so pretentious – choosing to watch him put together the first few lines of mittens when he could be doing just about anything else. It happens to be true, time and time again, that things left unspoken have the deepest value.
So instead of pushing, Mundy’s fingers wrap around the thread, creating the first set of loops on the needle. Slowly, mechanically, the repetitive task eases a few knots of anxiety in his spine. An oddly soothing silence stretches between them, the only indication of the other man’s presence being his soft breathing. As he creates a loop, slowly building the mitten, he can tell Spy must’ve laid down on the bed near him. The pillows shuffle comically as if a ghost was rearranging them.
“What was this thing with math and knitting by the way?” The man’s voice cuts through the atmosphere, still careful but welcoming. Honey to Mundy’s ears, he smiles despite himself. Turning his work around, he begins the new row before he speaks.
“You know, he started going off about how purls and knits are ones and zeroes, and how binary works like knitting and… well I didn’t get it that well but he seemed excited nonetheless.” Trying not to mess up the pattern, he finds it hard to explain himself coherently. A soft chuckle comes in a response from the seemingly empty spot on the bed, prompting him to continue.
“Perhaps if he could let’s say… somehow translate code to a knitting pattern, we could create some interesting designs,” he concludes after a moment, eyes switching between the project and the instructions on one of the papers.
“I have no doubt that the two of you could come up with something amusing,” Spy chuckles and shifts closer, most probably curious to see how the mittens are going. The spot near Sniper presses down in weight. The imprint it creates loosely resembles an outstretched palm. An image of those hands flashes in his mind, a memory he cherishes dearly. Something so intimate, so fleeting; it makes his heart flutter. Nevertheless, he tries his best to keep going without getting distracted.
The soft breath near him, the shared proximity in peace and silence. All of it brings him joy and equally ruins him. It’s bittersweet to know he can’t stop time to cherish and replay every single one of these moments as he pleases. To keep the memory, to ensure that the feeling lasts. Mick Mundy Junior and a man who’s hands he’d kiss ten times over.
“What have you been up to by the way?” He hums, hoping to listen for a moment instead of speaking. The task at hand becomes a bit difficult with so many stimuli. The body near him freezes.
“Sorry?”
“We barely got a chance to talk this week,” slowly, the words leave him, suddenly hyper aware of every breath, every move near him. The question floats unanswered. A tinge of anxiety starts creeping back as Spy prolongs the silence. The unease keeps building up, and it’s Mundy, again, who cuts right through it, “what are you afraid of?” the needles click softly, the metallic sound repeating over and over. The buzz oh heat of another body near him shifts; wraps itself around him and itself. Is he frozen or is Spy ready to flee? He wouldn’t blame him for either. He wouldn’t blame him no matter how upset he might be over what’s happened.
“That you’ll get sick of me and leave once you realise how nasty I can be.” The man next to him swallows his words, hot and dry. The statement hangs in the air; a spiky seed that has caught on your pant leg. The one you can’t pull off without risking a prickle. Mundy considers his options for a moment.
“And you’d rather push me away than work on it?” As the needles stop moving, his shoulders straighten up. He may not see the man but doesn’t need to. The stir on the bed is enough of a signal to ensure that Mundy must act accordingly. As he reaches and grabs, he prevents the man from pulling away just in time, “what makes you think that being crude and standoffish is a way to go?”
“No, I- I didn’t mean that, not like that,” Spy backtracks, trying so desperately to sound as calm as possible, but the fact that he’s trapped there within Sniper’s reach isn’t helping, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ve acted on poor judgment.”
A soft, defeated sigh leaves Sniper, his grip loosens but the man doesn’t pull away. Instead, a soft hiss erupts around them, smoke enveloping two bodies, protecting them. Once Spy’s body materializes, Mundy scans him with gentle patience. Their fingers interlace; a connection offering a truce. The person before him, a body he knows so well, lowers itself and closes the distance. His head gently pressing against Sniper’s shoulder, he begins softly.
“I’ve never been good, but despite all the things I’ve ever done, I’ve never wished for anyone else to have me the way I want you,” Mundy’s breath hitches, suddenly unsure of what to say. The overwhelming presence, the weight of the moment overtakes him. Pulse beating in his ears, his hand squeezes the hand he’s holding. Firmly, with reassurance that he needs just as much as the man in his arms.
“Then let me love you with the same patience you’ve had for me.” The body near him melts into his touch. Tension leaving them, Mundy could swear that the man breathed out a sob but doesn’t dare to peek. It’s better like this; to have privacy in closeness is something he comes to appreciate as well. Instead, his gaze flickers over the camper. Two empty cups on the table; newspapers from half a year back still rolled up on the shelf above.
“Could you… perhaps make a pair of these for me one day?” Soft, uneven voice vibrates against his chest. Gloved fingers lightly trace the surface of the pattern Engie has gifted him. Spy offers a heartfelt question cupped in both hands and pours it over him. He could swear that he’d felt it; seeping into his skin, warming up his bones with what remains of August between them. Inaudible, he kisses the ‘yes’ right above Spy’s eyebrow, and somewhere near the window, a glimpse of white doves flashes as they’re about to gather for the night.