Chapter Text
He'd done a preliminary investigation, and found that the clientele of this establishment seemed to be primarily women. Fine by him. A good spy always has a variety of personas to slip into. He'd spent much too long limited to his colleagues and the occasional unassuming businessman whenever Miss Pauling was kind enough to send him a real mission. Becoming rusty in his craft - his real craft, not the playground games he spent his weekdays languishing in - could not be an option. So even on his well-earned vacation, Spy finds himself in a salt-and-pepper wig, a carefully tailored pantsuit, and a heavy face. His target, if he could be called such, was behind the bar in painfully generic bartender black. Still, he was impossible to let fade into the background, and not only because of the eye patch.
"So," Spy says, accepting the glass he's been handed. ("Surprise me," he'd said. "I'm driving myself home, but not for a few hours.") "Who's playing?" This, referring to the stage taking up the other end of this dingy crate of a building, which is keeping the bar stools relatively empty, despite the number of patrons.
Demo glances over Spy's shoulder. In the reflection of his glass, he can see the curtains rustle. He smiles secretively. "Something good, I'll promise ye that."
"Hm. You've worked here a while?"
"Jes' long enough tae know the crowd. Could introduce you to a few of the ladies if you're keen."
Ah, an opportunity to establish this character. What motivation would make sense for her while just so happening to line up with Spy's own goals? "I'm just... testing the waters tonight, really." He's sure to glance demurely to both sides, then to take a sip of his drink. If Demoman notices the level of liquid in his glass stays the same, he does nothing to show it.
He raises an eyebrow, the right one, obviously, and stretches his hands in a classic tell of a particular type of work, and slides not far away to take the order of a young woman - a girl, really - in murky jeans.
Some spies say that a good spy is curious. Others say a good spy is incurious. Truly good spies don't say anything to reveal the philosophies behind their practice, and know that the answer lies somewhere in the middle, making judgements on a case-by-case basis, which perhaps doesn't get said because it makes for an unmemorable line to throw over one's shoulder in a rainy alleyway. Spy, the one sitting at the bar in sunglasses, prides himself on being a good spy, because confidence is one of the truly universally good qualities a spy can have. But he is very curious. Especially with regards to his colleagues' free time.
Demo returns as soon as the girl's finished toasting him with her newly-acquired beer. "Balmy night, eh?" It is in fact a bit cold for Spy's tastes, but he hums and nods. "Like a bloomin' devil's tackle." As Spy tries to parse what he could possibly mean by that without letting it show on his face, Demo clasps his hands in front of him and bounces his knee behind the counter, a motion Spy could only discern by the repetitive twitch concentrated on his left side. There is something to be said for silence as an interrogation tactic. Silence was most often broken by whatever was on a target's mind, usually the most pertinent information, and information that a spy might not even know to ask for. When the twitch becomes a ripple, Demo finally seems to make up his mind about something.
"What was it that I made for you? Summat with lime, yeah?" He sets about pouring and stirring in what, from what Spy remembers, is an identical sequence to what he saw minutes earlier, when Demo was mixing the drink in front of him.
"You're quite the chemist."
"Heh. I'd say it's more art than science, but eh." He pours the concoction into an opaque cup, but Spy can see in the gap between bottle and rim that it's completely clear, and seems to be bubbling. "Not much difference, really. Like walkin' into your bedroom and saying it's more air than plaster, ye ken?"
He doesn't, and he does not, in fact, have a bedroom at the base, and any bed he's had since he faked his death to avoid high school and pursue his career has been a decoy. Every evening - or every other evening if he has his good coffee - he rolls a die. Each number corresponds to one of six hiding places, including his liquor cabinet, the secret compartment in his couch, and in the corner behind his potted croton (standing up, of course.) He'd have no choice but to dispose of anyone who became privy to this knowledge.
"Could I ask a bit of a personal question?"
"Yer gonnae get a personal answer."
"Oh, goody. Tell me truly, do you enjoy work?"
Demo releases a short burst of laughter, rubs under his eye patch. "I enjoy being good at things."
"Who doesn't?"
"Few of my coworkers, if ye ask me."
Spy almost uses his real laugh, instead chums the water just slightly with a polite chuckle.
Again, Demo slides away, drink still in his grasp, to hand a beer to a woman in a sundress. Spy notices his disguise's lipstick has made a mark on his own glass, and its level has gone down. Much to ponder.
He comes back as though he'd never left. "It's good to get out of your head and in to your body an' soul for a bit. I can't do that at my other jobs or things blow up when they're not supposed to."
If Spy weren't feeling generous, he'd report him for the divulgence, but the night is young and he's just begun to feel warmed-up in this accent. He's about to make a witty retort when the door of the establishment slams open and they both look over to find a disturbingly familiar young woman in a situationally inappropriate pencil skirt and button-up. Also a bit of blood in her hair. She calls out "Tavish!" and makes a stumbling beeline for the two of them, and after looking her over, Spy is relieved to know none of the blood is her own.
She doesn't seem to notice him at all, going directly to Demo, needing to stand on her toes to lean across the bar. They perform a one-armed over-the-counter embrace, broken with a warm-looking shoulder pat.
"Tavish I got- I gotta tell you something- I may have pregamed a little, and also a guy shot me with a tanka- a tranquilizer dart, but I SHOT 'IM BACK!" There's a chorus of cheers from the group of patrons close-by enough to hear, which, given the decibel level at which Miss Pauling is operating, is sizable. If not for fear of revealing the line of his wig, Spy would rub his ear.
"Aye, good on ya, lass!"
"Yeah! So I need umm, a-" She mimes bringing a cup to her mouth.
"Beer?"
"Mmmm no - I'll - I'll have whatever she's having."
Spy's heart flutters a bit at the assurance that his boss had not recognized him under the disguise.
"Right up." He's been covertly filling a little bowl with pretzels as she talked, and he casts it her way. It takes a bit less time to mix this drink, and Pauling has half of it downed in the first second of having it. Spy suppresses the impulse to say something paternalistic and judgemental, just out of habit.
Her eyes perk up towards the stage. "Aw, shit, is that starting soon?" She doesn't wait for an answer, and is greeted by a group of ladies by the stage. To be a good spy is to cultivate a near phobia of not-being-alone. His lips itch.
Careful to be the picture of a woman lost in the world with a strong drink in her, Spy slumps in his stool. "You're an open book, aren't you? It seems like you've always had it figured out. What's your secret, barman? Is it something in the water?"
Demo doesn't surprise him with his laugh, but he still raises an eyebrow for the sake of character. "I'm flattered that's the impression I give you but... eh. I'm not all that. Thought I was a girl for eight years of me earthly life." That got something out of spy, a biting sensation from behind the sunglasses. "That sort of thing can make anyone unsure. Or maybe more sure." His smile is open and suddenly closer than Spy could ever remember it being. "Bit of a laugh. Not even sure of how sure I am."
Spy's still reeling from that moment. It wasn't even the information itself that surprised him, but the readiness with which his companion divulged it. He wasn't sure if he should let it go, never to be seen again, or wrap it up and take it some place that wouldn't mind getting gory. Demoman notices. "Bloody lucky I figured it out early. Can't imagine going aboot my day, tryin' to ignore something like that. I'd never get anything done."
A strange defensiveness bubbled in him. Spy's about to say anything, really, in response. "I'm sure you'd manage," maybe. "Is smoking allowed in here?" he asks.
Demo checks the clock on the wall. "On the porch. I'll join ye."
It's remarkably more cold outside, but not as cold as nights on the base. There were no coyote howls, either. The walls are very thin, conversation leaking out behind their backs. They're surrounded by buildings, but they're all abandoned. This is the one remaining drop of civilization for a mile. Spy slips out a cigarette (not his preferred brand, that would give him away) and almost pulls his own lighter out of his pocket, then remembers the routine. Demo courteously lights Spy's before his own. He feels a bit better after his first drag. Demo seems more interested in just watching the embers glow and crumble.
"I haven't caught your name."
"Do you want it?" It's supposed to buy him time to run through his list of names but... he's not supposed to be this far in this.
"If you're willing."
"Farina," he says, with some instant regret. Contrary to the insistence of the paperbacks in his Alice's nightstand, a good spy never leaves clever little hints in his aliases. There's something about this place that saps him of his ability to be a good spy. Or maybe he's just getting old.
"Farina."
"If you're wondering whether it's my first name or last name, you'll have to remain disappointed." A pause. Goodness, where has this character gone? "It's subject to change."
"Hm. All the best names are."
Another pause. Some song starts inside, and a familiar sort of cheer follows, like everyone in that room knows what is to come, and has cheered in that same way a hundred times before. He takes another drag. "I can't believe I was about to thoughtfully nod along to that. That doesn't make any sense." Demo's laugh is obvious and almost artful in the range of phases it goes through in the span of just a few seconds. "No, by all means, defend your thesis."
"I'm drunker than a fish in a barrel, lass, I'm fresh out of coherent wisdom for tonight."
"Hm. You have work tomorrow."
"That we do."
A good spy shouldn't feel shame. It takes up space in the mind better utilized by things like keeping exits in one's line of sight, picking up the quirk of a target's lips, tracking the movement of his eye. "Have you known for a while?"
"Oh, shush." He pats his sides, as if looking for something. He tsks. "Ah, disgrace! Look at the state of me. PAULING!"
"EH?"
"HAVE YE GOT A JACKET IN THERE?"
"UH-" There's a series of sounds, and Miss Pauling emerges carrying a gray jacket, and at least three shades of lipstick on her face. "This guy's been in the lost-and-found for a while while."
"Aye, thanks." With much pomp and circumstance, he pulls the too-small sleeves over his arms, takes it off just as dramatically, and drapes it over Spy's shoulders. It's thin denim, and the button holes are on the right side.
Spy sniffs. "It's far from my usual tastes, but it will have to do," which isn't very consistent with tonight's character, but it's getting late. Miss Pauling tries to stumble her way back through the door, and is only rescued from falling on her face by the both of their reflexes. Their hands brush against each other.
Demo chuckles. "That's a quick tranquilizer."
Spy releases a rush of air through his nose. "I should take her home." Or, somewhere. No one knows where Miss Pauling lives, if anywhere. Sometimes, information isn't worth the cost of knowing. Sometimes. The both of them carry their boss into the passenger's seat of the night's inconspicuous rental. Spy settles her in and makes sure her seatbelt is secure, grips the wheel with creaking gloves.
"Oi, lass!" Demo calls. "I'll see you again?"
He casts Demo one last grateful look, under sunglasses, over a warmer shoulder. The streetlight is heavy above them. She blows him a kiss, and through the rearview mirror, sees him catch it as she peels away.