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A car speeds down a dusty road, leaving the lavish and glam of the city far behind. The rocky terrain rumbles through its frame, intensifying the impact of every bump and hole they come across. As they travel further into the curved wasteland, light pollution bleeds into vast starry skies. Much of the terrain surrounding them is now blanketed in thick darkness, forming shadows that indicate its approximate shape. The headlights lick just past the road's edge, forming a claustrophobic frame of yellowish concrete leading them towards the mountains that stretch thinly to the southwest.
Spy's hands grip the steering wheel at an awkward angle, the fabric of his gloves rubbing against his irritated sweaty skin. His whole body is pulsing in an anxious, uneasy itch that rattles through his chest accompanied by stinging pain in his left shoulder. For the time being, he's doing his best to ignore it, but the weight of the events and uncomfortable silence leave his patience corroding.
The man accompanying him buzzes with anxiety just the same. In his peripheral, Sniper’s entire frame vibrates, hands repeatedly squeezing the fabric of his suit pants, clearly unable to find peace during the drive. For one, he understands. He'd be just as agitated if it was him in the passenger seat. Despite all rationale, the mere presence of the man infuriates him to no end. Their shared ride back to the base now feels much like drowning.
He becomes transfixed on the coppery aftertaste the mere thought of more conflict leaves in his mouth, only steering the car last minute to avoid a larger pothole that suddenly slides into view. The car swerves, rocking uncomfortably and disrupting the thick uneasy atmosphere.
“Have you fallen asleep?” Mundy curses under his breath, gripping the side of his seat. Voice hoarse and uneven; he continues, “I’m not planning to die on the way back- keep it together.” The throbbing in Spy’s shoulder serves as a punishment enough, yet the words penetrate deeper.
“I’m wide awake, thank you very much. If you’re going to continue fussing, you can catch the bus at 4:30,” Spy deadpans almost immediately; forcibly keeping his eyes on the road till they sting. As childish as it seems, Mundy may finally disappear if he doesn’t acknowledge him for long enough.
“Ah, it’s me who’s the problem again,” the man scoffs, having no intent on biting his tongue. The hills draw nearer, forming a looming blotch of darkness near the horizon, “thought I’d recall you boasting about being an excellent driver. My ass.”
Ah, so it begins, Spy sighs internally, running his tongue over the chipped tooth that has been scratching at his tongue for a couple of days. The sensation is, if anything, keeping him grounded.
“Do we really need to get into a fight after all of that?” he hums, adopting more thoughtful approach. One which, to his growing despair, passes right by Sniper and jumps out the window. He can sense his piercing gaze; the way Sniper’s frame lightly leans closer.
“Define ‘that’ for me Spook, go ahead,” the words drag, voice dropping into a tired drawl, “I’m curious what you’ve got to say about that mess- or whatever the fuck you even want it to be.” They pass the first car since leaving the city; its lights momentarily washing over the interior of the Volaré. The warm orange tint of it feels nearly alien, causing a brief pause in the spiralling conversation.
“Oh, if you insist,” the diplomatic tone he was hoping to maintain sours and spoils once the light finally fades, “do you, by any chance, mean the hit job you almost ruined?”
“Mate I swear if you pull another passive aggressive blamey bullshit on me, you’ll collect those fake teeth from the dashboard,” Spy steals a brief glance at the man, pale eyes nearly glowing in the darkness. He’s left struck in disbelief at the way things are turning out. Not only have they barely made it out unharmed, but the whole mess of it has them pulling hairs instead of mending their bond again. Against better judgement, his next words slip out of him in a vile counterattack.
"I told you to wait until I get closer to him, but you had to be stubborn about it! Worse yet, you're only being spiteful because of your own insecurity!" Spy snaps, his voice echoing against the engine's rumble. Neither one wishes to argue; muscles worn from the exhaustion, stinging under the withdrawing adrenaline. And yet, the heated emotions pull them deeper into a very messy situation. Mundy exhales, his eyes piercing right through Spy’s frame.
“Stop the fucking car n’ pull to the side,” he nods with his chin, every syllable leaving his mouth in a cold, controlled manner. Pulling his foot off the gas pedal, the car slows down, gradually loosing speed but showing no signs of stopping.
“You can’t be serious,” he manages in response, attention on the road now completely lost to his companion, “what will you do in the middle of nowhere? Run again like a coward?” Sniper's mouth opens again when Spy does not comply.
The rest happens in an instant. In a warning tone, his real name is uttered. Spy hits the brake, sending them both into a rocky and ungraceful swirl before coming to a halt on the side of the road, surrounded an uproar of dirt and dust. Mundy curses again, almost ripping out the seatbelt that binds him. The man slips out of the car before Spy can recover, thick darkness swallowing his body whole.
***
A narrow corridor twists to the left, leading them through the maze of the theatre. In a way, he’s thankful Spy instinctively leads the way, because even with the help of small signs and arrows pointing towards specific sections, he wouldn’t dream of leading them to their seats in time. Spy is sporting a neatly fitting suit, few shades darker than his usual blue, paired with a matching balaclava to complete the entire look. Mundy’s classic black suit predates his contract at the Mann Co. but serves as a hefty companion should he ever find himself in a formal situation. Given how well preserved the damn thing is, there hasn’t been too many. The only new addition is the tie, borrowed from his companion.
The shorter man guides them towards a massive stone staircase covered in a red lavish carpet. Dim light paired with the buzz of people moving around and chatting accompanies them on their way towards the main hall. Upon entering, the massive space filled with rows upon rows of seats momentarily leaves him in awe. White and red are intricately combined in small details from the floor to the ceiling. The pillars framing the main stage are covered by a veiny flower carved into the stone. Much like the rest of the ornaments, they all connect on the ceiling, illuminated by two massive chandeliers.
“This way,” Spy gently nudges at his elbow, pointing towards the row of seats that should be theirs with his chin. The shorter man seems more in his element, and Mundy isn’t surprised at all. Personally, he doesn’t mind being here for the performance; it’s the enormous number of people swarming in from all sides that makes him uneasy. He’d much rather scoot out of sight, getting the job done as smoothly and quickly as possible. No need to lurk around and waste effort by blending in. That is, however, exactly what Spy has dragged him into. The flashiest, most extravagant ‘right under your nose’ show-off of spying skill he’s simply not suited for. All of it comes down to a compromise, doesn’t it? He thinks to himself, bracing for a strange and out of character night he’s surely going to remember.
“What was the name of the guy you were talking to?” Mundy leans closer, adjusting his legs in the narrow space between seats. He’s thankful for the chatter around them, still successfully obscuring anything they say.
“Stephen Murrie, assistant. He was kind enough to invite us to Batt’s afterparty, Rumours are he tends to use them to conduct the auctions,” despite his calm and collected demeanour, it’s evident that his brain is already plotting ahead. It would be lovely, however, if he’d share his full vision with him, “second floor, forth lounge from the left. They’ve just arrived.” As Sniper’s eyes wander towards that direction, Spy pulls out the brochure detailing the performance. When offered, the inside contains a photograph of a man in his late fifties. Sharp features, deep set yes – the living breathing version currently having his coat taken off by the assistant, ready to be seated.
“Is it really necessary to wait till then?” the moment he asks, he’s offered a scolding glance, the brochure being tucked back inside the shorter man’s suit, “there are million ways this can go wrong the longer we linger around. We could take the chance during the performance.” He adds to support his case, but it’s clear his reasoning won’t change anything.
“I know this isn’t your forte, but you need to let me play the cards right. If we ambush him now, chances are we’ll be dragged out by the security he’s armed himself with. The man has more than one reason to keep himself safe,” the first gong sounds, signalling the soon approaching start of the first act. Spy’s words sound as diplomatic and put together as his sarcasm allows him. Lately, he’s been having a hard time differentiating between the two.
“The fuck you mean, my forte. Don’t talk to me as if this was my first day on the job, Spook.”
“That is not- oh never mind,” he shakes his head, averting his attention towards the stage, “you’re just fussy because you don’t want to sit through a three-act opera- poor thing. There are much worse ways you could spend your night. Trust me.”
“I’d appreciate if you’d stop putting words in my mouth for the starters. I don’t mind the performance; I’m trying to get a job done without-” Mundy spits his words in a low growl, fighting every instinct telling him to get up and leave. To make it worse, a woman to his right hushes as the lights begin to fade. Nervously, he lowers his voice only to whisper-yell anyway, “-without risking any unnecessary trouble.”
A gloved hand gently pats his cheek, cupping his jaw only to forcibly turn Sniper’s head towards the stage. Jerking himself free from Spy’s grasp, he retreats into his seat, sulking. If he doesn’t wish to hear him out, then so be it, he thinks, knowing that the night will just get worse from that point on.
***
The darkness swallows Sniper’s silhouette and the sheer terror of the cold night air takes Spy’s breath away. The car, with its comfortable leather seats and a nice lavender freshener dangling from the rear view becomes nothing more than a claustrophobic prison. His hands clutch onto the steering wheel, and he knows that should he try to relax his grip, the tremble would seize his whole frame.
The longer he lingers in the dreadful limbo, the more aware he becomes of his condition. Pain and exhaustion he already felt are finally settling in, churring under his skin. It’s his heart, however, which spills inside of his chest and takes all his attention. Blinking away the sting behind his eyes, he wills himself to finally breathe out.
None of this would occur if Sniper remained patient. If their mission worked out the way Spy imagined, they wouldn’t have to worry about all the wounds they’ve endured. But he must sit here knowing he nearly lost Mick to some band of posh bastards. And worse yet, it was partially his fault.
You need to put an end to this, a voice in the back of his head says, forcing him to close his eyes with a hiss. You’ve grown too soft dear, and once they catch scent it’ll be too late. That’s fear speaking, he knows that. He’s done it a couple of times before and the parts of himself he’s left with those people never quite returned. But he knows how it goes, and this time, he can’t allow it to roll off towards that direction.
The car lights slowly flicker, the engine keeps rumbling on standby. As he opens his eyes, Spy observes the road, weary and exhausted. Particles of dirt and dust slowly float over the windshield and Sniper’s nowhere to be seen.
They’ve killed someone and life goes on.
They’ve killed someone and Spy’s gaze slides towards the steering wheel. It should be done and settled if he drives off. It feels the same way his very first kill felt like, but this time, it’s the thought of Mundy wounded that makes him want to crawl out of his skin. Too short of breath his fingers slowly slide over the surface of the wheel, tracing the stiches of the leather.
They fulfilled the mission, but there’s nothing gratifying about it. Fingers wrap around the engine key. When he thinks of crumpled blood in Mundy’s hair, he thinks of sand daffodils.
The door on the driver’s side swings open, jostling him back into reality. The push and pull that happens after feels like a car crash. A flash of Mundy’s face is all that he’s able to make out before he’s being dragged out of the car. The taller man grips his elbow in a rough uncompromising way, dragging Spy like a ragdoll.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” Spy snaps once he comes back to his senses, trying to pull free to no avail. There’s no dignity to speak of when he’s left stumbling over his own shoes. The vastness around them swallows all his protests, and in the dim backlit scene their eyes meet in the ruffed struggle. For a moment, it feels like his own guilt is staring right back through a mirror. A blur of two in one. Then it’s Mick Mundy and that specific twist to his mouth that reappears, cutting through the apparition.
“Shut it, move,” and he’s being dragged again, headlights blinding him once they pass to the other side of the car. Much to his surprise, Sniper sits him down on the curb, kneeling in front of him. The guilt that nags on Spy remains in the wrinkles around Mundy’s eyes. There’s so much to address, yet all Spy offers back is a glare for a good measure.
There are hands on him. Large warm hands slip into his suit, pulling it apart. Sniper works systematically, and it’s almost cute to find his fingers tremble each time they make contact. Despite his unamused look, Spy lets himself be stripped off the suit and vest, only a red-stained shirt now separating him from the cold evening air.
“Why are you-” his voice trails off as quickly as it echoed. Vision and thoughts in a haze, he finds himself consumed by the still dripping tar that seeps from his heart. It drips each time Mundy touches; each time he looks his way. Spy must bite down on his tongue knowing that the thought of ending it ever managed to cross his mind.
“Just let me work,” Mick whispers, ushering Spy into compliance. Voice faint in the open space, almost as if every single petal and stem angled their way to observe the pair, “please let me take it off.” He adds, fingers nudging at the buttons of his shirt and it’s then, just then when Spy dares to steal a glance at the source of their contact.
Crumpled blood paints the man’s fingers crimson; rubbing off on the silken fabric.
***
They’re facing each other in a cramped elevator that slowly drags them upwards. For a time, the buzz from the main part of the theatre fades, now replaced by creaking and turning of the engine that lifts their weight. Spy seems deep in thought, with a distinct pull to the left corner of his mouth, probably chewing on its inside. As for himself, Sniper’s eyes linger somewhere on the handkerchief in his companion’s breast pocket. Unable to hold a tangible thought after listening to nearly two and half hour of high-pitched singing, he hopes to pass time just so. His scepticism about the mission didn’t fade; he can’t help but tag along in hopes that whatever scheme Spy’s got prepared, it’ll work as smoothly as it can.
“Batt and his assistant will be expecting us, and I’d say they’ll be asking a lot of questions to pass time,” Spy’s voice is faint, but clear enough to pull his attention, “should he ask you anything overtly specific, leave it to me.”
“How many people will be there?” he says, rolling the tension out of his stiff shoulders. The flashing light signals one more floor before they can get off.
“More than you’ll like, unfortunately,” the man angles himself towards the exit, clearly anticipating it’ll open any moment, “like I’ve said, I’ll do the talking. We’ve got to let him take us to the auction room later.”
“Be my guest, but that sounds like a terrible fucking plan, by the way,” and it really is, not just because he wants to be spiteful. The logistics of leaving the spotlight and finding a quiet spot to snuff out the fucker seem rocky at best. In some way, he’s baffled by the notion that Spy really operates like this. Having perceived the man as systematic and calculated, he’s not sure if Spy truly wings most of his missions this way or if it’s an exception. There’s no way he would know for certain. After all, fighting against each other in their respectful teams didn’t give them much opportunity to share tactics. The look he receives for his comment, however, takes all remaining satisfaction out of him. Before he may amend his mistake, the door of the elevator opens.
Warm light and chatter return, enveloping them the moment they step into the vast, open space of the ballroom. The sides are framed by tables upon tables filled to the brim with food and drink. Tall windows on the opposite side of the room are covered with beige drapes, only revealing a small passage on the right side that serves as an entrance to the balcony. The room curves into an L shape near the elevators, leading towards a section separated from the ballroom with the same-coloured drapes. There are smaller groups of people all around, standing, drinking, gossiping; waiting for everyone to arrive before the party truly begins.
All of this, as he quickly realises, is once more predominantly Spy’s field of interest. As intimidating as it may seem, and as resentful as he feels about the ongoing mission, he lets Spy lead them towards one of the tables, hoping to get a drink. Perhaps there might be a reason as to why Spy insists on showing him something like this.
“What do people like this usually talk about?” he lets himself wonder aloud as he accepts a glass from his companion. Spy leans into his personal space, eyes scanning the same scenery Mundy has in front. The man lets out a thoughtful hum, taking a small sip of the champagne.
“Business. Business and wealth. Usually, it leads to one or the other,” Spy concludes his observation, but remains close. A familiar face emerges from the crowd, greeting everyone while slowly making their way towards the pair. Batt seems much shorter up close; a middle-aged man of average built. Based on first impression, he seems rather ordinary compared to the rest of the guests, but as Sniper knows, looks tend to be misleading.
Spy moves towards the crowd, leaving Sniper in his musings. For the time being, it’s better for Spook to set the groundwork the way he wants. After all, he’s been insisting Mick takes the sidelines during the entire car ride there. The idea to arrive as an art collector and a musician; roles which seems to suit them in one way or another. Spook has every opportunity to boast his magazine knowledge and when it comes to Sniper, he sincerely hopes no one will force him to perform.
As if on cue, Spook nods towards him with his chin, and the rest of the group he managed to chat up turns towards him. There’s a slight pull to Spy’s mouth, eyes lingering in a way that leaves Mundy puzzled. The man eyes him from head to toe while the rest waves in greeting. The grip on his glass tightens as he moves towards the group. Is he mocking him? Oh, he can try.
“Oh absolutely, I’m still searching for Galanda’s selected pieces to no avail,” Spy says, mustering up the most heartbroken tone Mundy’s ever heard. And as it seems, the rest of the group falls for the emotional trap. As he wiggles his way towards them, Sniper wonders if Spook ever used some of these tricks on him as well.
“I don’t often get a chance to talk to another connoisseur of modernism,” he continues, voice echoing with certain passion that seems to reflect Batt’s interest, “I’d love to know some of your favourites.”
“Ah, I’ve been eyeing the French branch as of late, but there doesn’t seem to be enough demand on the market,” the man pauses, taking a sip of champagne, “and with my lady, it’s not always easy to negotiate which one matches her favourite pillows.” Keeping a light-hearted tone, Batt seems to get a little lost in his musings.
“There he is!” Murrie’s face lights up the moment Sniper finally approaches, nearly startling Mundy with such directness, “it was an outstanding performance, congratulations!” The assistant exclaims, and it almost takes Sniper off his feet. Performance? What the heck did Spook tell them? Right next to the assistant, Batt looks even older now; his stoic presence only offers a nod in a greeting. Spy moves aside to make room for Mick, still wearing that weird smile on his lips.
“Uh,” he begins, trying to compose himself, “pleasure to meet you both, thank you for having us.” The words feel foreign on his tongue and he’s now shaking Murrie’s hand, feeling the way Batt eyes him in a thoughtful manner. He’d love nothing more than to turn around and burn a hole in Spooks head for this.
“There’s no need for modesty sir,” the assistant continues, specks of light shimmering in the glass he’s holding, “as Mr. Batt mentioned, there are only a couple out there that can pull off the long section during second act in full.” In Mundy’s mind, there can only be so much small talk before impatience starts creeping in. Piecing together the specificities of the identity Spook prepared for him here feels more like a mind game rather than a proper hit job. A fish out of water, Sniper’s on his way to choke soon. At that, Spook finally chimes in.
“Ah, excuse my companion, I suppose his talent with a sax is better than his people skills,” Spy says, drawing out an amused chuckle from Batt. For Sniper, the attempt at a joke falls flat; blame it on his agitated nerves. Finishing his glass, he leans closer to Spy, anger and resentment brewing in his gut. He wanted to play this little game by his rules; he truly did. But to be reduced into a stereotype he faced most of his life is simply a low blow.
“Maybe you should stop drinking, dear. La Traviata never used saxophones, only clarinets.”
It’s a subtle change, but the way Spy’s smile freezes, eyes fixed somewhere between his drink and Batt’s shoes says everything. He struck gold, and as satisfying it feels to finally get back at Spook, the satisfaction spoils just as quickly as it came. Mundy feels the consequences then, as Spy’s posture withdraws from his personal space, refusing to look at him.
Everything, from noises, music, and the aftertaste of alcohol in his mouth suddenly dulls. Spy’s saying something again, turning the conversation back around to keep the two men hooked. He can’t hear him over blood pumping in his ears. It should never feel good to pull each other’s hair like this. Not anymore, at least.
A moment passes, pressure building in Sniper’s chest. Conflicting emotions cloud his judgement and when he sees a chance to withdraw without notice, his body switches to autopilot. Slipping back past a group of guests that just appeared, he quickly makes his way back towards the elevators.
The dim-lit bar he finds his way to stands in stark contrast with the overcrowded, bright, and over-decorated ballroom. Smaller and lacking windows it makes use of the drapes again, helping separate sections of it into cozier, private areas where guests are currently seated. Combined with softer music, it is a welcomed change for Sniper. With his skin still buzzing from anger and anxiety, it seems like the best refuge.
He leans against the bar, fingers brushing over the spare change in his pocket. Lingering there, Mundy doesn’t call attention to himself just yet, hoping to make up his mind and figure out what he’s even doing here in the first place. The bartender notices him in his buzzing hesitancy but doesn’t approach just yet. Seems like he’s preoccupied with a different order anyway and Mundy’s grateful to find at least one not overtly extroverted person for tonight.
Watching by as he pours shots then decorates them with fruits is quite calming. Finishing it off with a straw, the man then puts them up on the bar, calling out a number that fades into the music. Thinking of all the times they’ve made makeshift drinks stand during summer, an image of Engie scooping ice into cups and mugs comes to his mind. While unprofessional at best, mostly with watered down brandy and beer, there was something endearing about the whole ordeal.
A gentle voice rumbles his way, clearing out the hazy memory, “Anything in mind, sir?” looking over to his left, he notices a faint silhouette circling him from the back. Moving his head over, he finally faces an older lady that slips onto the stool next to him. Blond hair reaches her shoulders in lazy waves, one side tucked behind her ear. A long droopy earring shimmers in a red tint the same way her dress does. The long black gown seems a size bigger, fitting her loosely and blending the shape of her body in the dim light.
“I was just about to order,” he explains, addressing her with a faint little smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. After all, the tension and anger still hasn’t left his system. After a second of awkward silence, he swallows up the ever-growing frustration, “sorry… it’s been a long night.”
“It sure was, there’s no need to apologize,” she hums in a low, thoughtful tone, turning her attention to the bartender, “soda for me, darling, and for the gentleman over here- what do you fancy?”
“Beer’s fine,” he manages, still a little unsure about where the whole situation’s heading. She regards him again, making herself comfortable against the bar, mirroring his posture. The lines around her eyes and mouth slightly pull, deepening every time she speaks. Sniper doesn’t plan on staring her over, but there’s an air of peace to her that his own mind currently needs like salt.
“Y’know, this whole party’s just a charade. Personally, I think it should’ve ended with the performance,” she begins again, shooting an offhand comment his way, “but despite that, it feels comforting to know I’m not the only one who’d like to be just about anywhere else but here.”
“I’m guessing you don’t have a way of sneaking out of here either, huh?” Sniper says, gaze momentarily sliding towards the drinks that appear between them. As far as he can tell, the beer’s not a brand he knows. It’s not like he’s about to complain; to him, beer’s beer. The type he can usually afford would be too cheap for a place like this anyway. The woman shrugs in response, using a straw to play with ice.
“There’s always a way, it just wouldn’t be polite to leave my partner behind,” there’s something to her words that vibrates within him in momentary guilt that strikes right at the core. He was thinking of ditching the party. He was considering leaving Spy behind, and now it stings. As if knowing, she smiles again in that maternal, patient way and clicks her glass against his beer bottle, “shoot away, maybe it’ll make you feel better.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s…” Mick trails off, suddenly unsure. He shouldn’t trust a stranger; there’s still a mission he and Spy need to fulfil. And yet, something about the anonymity that nudges at his principles. It’s not like he’s ever going to meet her again, will he? Bracing for an impact, he realises that she’s silent still. The lady watches, waiting for him to make up his mind. There’s no pressure, he realises, and that tips the scales.
He begins after a moment, “The person in question relishes in this- all of this,” still unsure how to put it without revealing too much, he chooses his words carefully, “loves the entire process from dressing up fancy, arranging the ride, getting to know other people, boasting about fancy nonsense. You get the type- they relish in the spotlight. And then here I am, taking a breather in the quietest part of this posh fuckery.”
An amused little chuckle escapes her, “Sounds like you have completely different needs,” he can tell it’s not meant to mock him and that’s comforting to know, “have you ever tried to express this to this person of yours?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’d say there’s a lot we agree on,” his mind slides to the rooftops of the base. To the smoke breaks and dinners after a long stressful week, “I guess that most times I can just… tag along and do things my way. Tonight’s just the tipping point. Both of us are stressed out and I think we’re not really listening to each other. It’s then when you say things you don’t mean.” Taking a swing form his beer, some of that frustration spikes up again.
“You seem to circle around each other, but the main issue never gets resolved, does it? It’s no surprise that it spills over like this during crisis,” there’s a grain of truth to her words, and while they cut deep, he still doesn’t feel like she’s belittling him. Why is he able to take it from her but not from Spy?
“And that pisses me off,” the words flow out of him almost too quickly, “we’re both trying it’s just that we’re both too stubborn. For example, I think this person wanted me to experience this- all this glamour and shine. It was extremely important that I was here to get a taste of what they find important, but they didn’t consider that I hate the spotlight.” In some way, he finds catharsis as he speaks.
The woman nods in understanding, her glass half full, “Me and my husband, we’ve been in this business for a while,” she doesn’t look at him, seemingly replaying a scene in her head as she continues, “the goal is mutual, but he’s much better at persuading than me, you see. And while he’s a charming talker, it always becomes my duty to finalise the process, otherwise those paintings would be sold on empty promises. But- that’s a faint example, the point I’m trying to make is that while we’re both good at something, it takes effort to negotiate and talk out the differences. If you can achieve that, you strike gold.”
Sipping on the rest of his beer, he listens with pure curiosity. She’s right and spot on, he’ll give her that. There’s so much he and Spy need to work on, no matter how much their personalities affect the process. Whatever has happened tonight cannot happen again. In his mind, he vows to make the first step on fixing it moving forward. Apart from this, however, a miniscule detail in her monologue catches his interest, pulling him back into reality.
“Say, what paintings do you sell?” he asks, straightening up to elevate some pressure from his lower back. He’s watching her more closely now, the way her eyes flicker somewhere past him for a split second before offering him yet another soft smile.
“I could show you if you are interested. We’ve got a few displayed on the floor below,” she says, remaining nonchalant but for Sniper, it’s all he really needs. Taking a moment to seem as if he was considering her offer, a new plan starts forming in his head. There’s no doubt that if he makes the wrong decision now, the whole mission will be ruined.
At last, he nods, slowly rising from his seat, “Please, lead the way.”
Further past the bar, the lady seems to know her way around quite well. An entrance is revealed to him, leading them past a simple storage room back towards a separate staircase for the staff. The architecture is still polished, but instead of marble and stone, simple construction stairs have been installed into a thin elevator-like shaft. Not being wide enough, they’ll have to scoot before descending. Taking the first few steps, Mundy glances down, noting how high up they really are.
A sharp dull pain suddenly strikes the back of his head, sending him stumbling down the narrow steps. His body rolls once he loses footing, only stopping once his weight hits the wall near the landing. Out of breath and utterly disoriented, it takes a moment before he can make out the shape approaching. Coming into focus, holding her gown with one hand, she takes the steps in a careful, almost playful manner. Her entire demeanour now a stark difference to the pleasant woman he’s been spilling his heart to.
There’s something raw and bloodthirsty to her now, something as crimson as the specks shimmering on her gown and earrings. What concerns him, however, is the pistol raised in her free hand. There’s no time to scold himself internally, but knowing how willingly he walked into her trap makes him utterly sick.
“Silly lover boy,” a low drawl escapes her, the pistol pointing right at him, “I was truly rooting for your cause, but you see, you had to make it complicated.” The gun stills, his gaze is fixed somewhere between her eyes and the barrel. Head throbbing, he can smell that familiar scent of copper. If she gets him now, it will be a bit too easy.
Now, consider the rest a flash.
A gunshot rings out, exploding and rattling through the empty staircase, followed by a heavy, rhythmic thud of bodies plummeting even lower towards the floor below. Having managed to pull her down with him by her dress, it becomes clear that whoever recovers first has the upper hand. The pistol slips from her grasp once they land, sliding away towards the edge of the railing.
Digging her elbow into his chest, she manages to wiggle free, crawling towards the gun before he can reach it. Both bodies move in desperation, the mere seconds that pass now seem endless. Mundy tries his best use the wall to stand up, reaching for the pistol still hidden in his suit. Head still spinning, only a faint shimmer in the dim light catches his eye before two gunshots erupt.
The harsh impact sends him back to the ground with a heavy thud. Body already developing sores crawls into itself, but as he quickly realises, the weight that had sent him down is still pressed against him. Wet, hot blood that drips down his chest, staining his white shirt isn’t his. With his hands trembling, Mundy slowly raises them towards the source, grabbing onto something solid in the darkness. A ruffle of cloth, a familiar cologne hitting his nostrils.
“N-no..” choking out a terrified sound, he barely recognizes his own voice, “no, no, say something- say s-” smoke hisses past him, clouding his faint vision and a hand that emerges from it cups his jaw in a tight, uncomfortable manner. Muffling out the rest of his words against it, Mundy’s words fade with the smoke.
Spy growls, digging his fingers into his jaw, trying his best to pull away from Sniper’s grasp, “Let. Go,” rolling off him, the shorter man presses himself against the nearby wall, clutching his left shoulder. Taking a moment to let the scene fully set in, everything slowly comes together.
“How- how did you know I’ll be here?” Sniper asks, eyes end resting on the tangled mess of a gown few feet away from them. A pool of blood already forming, dripping downstairs through the cracks of the floor. Lady lays there, unmoving.
“The guy was a fraud. He didn’t know jack shit about modernists- thought Joan Miró was Parisian,” Spy spits his words with the same venom he regards any of the fashion disasters Scout comes up with, “the one with true passion for arts was her. She traded stolen artworks from abroad, not him.”
They shouldn’t linger for longer, and yet, the exhaustion and adrenaline force him to remain seated. Just for a little longer, he thinks. The stench of blood and death still vibrant all around them. Focusing on his breathing, Mundy blinks away something wet from his eye. Patting his forehead to relieve some of the tingling that it caused, his fingers smear against something warm and thick. He’d swear, he just heard Spy make a murky sound the moment it happened.
***
Fingers painted red, pressing gently against his chest. Foolishly, he wishes he could warp his hands around them, keep them to himself and never let go.
“Spy, may I take it off?” it’s Sniper again, and there’s more urgency to the plea than before. He pulls on the buttons of Spy’s shirt to make his point clearer. The headlights still flicker, and he finds himself unable to look up for now, only offering a small nod.
Mundy makes it as quick and seamless as he can, and he can’t find it in himself to protest. Despite all the harsh words and bickering, it’s these moments that let their real bond transpire. Asking for consent first, angling his body for sniper to pull his shirt off with better ease, a sense of trust that holds them close, all unspoken. But it’s not enough. Not after how much they’ve hurt each other over the course of the night. He can read it in the way Sniper regards him, clearly hesitant to speak up.
“You were right, by the way,” it’s him who breaks the ice. Somewhere between assessing the scale of Spy’s wound and fishing for the first aid kit, Mick stops to stare in certain disbelief, “it was a terrible fucking plan.” He would chuckle, but he’s too tired and all unnecessary movement pulls on the wound.
“No, it wasn’t. You’ve had it all figured out it’s just that you should’ve told me what you were after,” Sniper says, unscrewing a lid on a bottle of disinfection. Soaking a small pad, he uses it to press against the wound. While the bullet only grazed, it grazed deep. Leaning back a bit, he chooses to remain silent, fighting through the uncomfortable spiky pain.
As he works, Sniper continues, “I’m glad you went out of your way to make sure I can experience what sort of things you enjoy but you have to realise that the idea you have in your head doesn’t just automatically transfer to me if you don’t say it. Things almost went up in flames and we both need to take blame. I should’ve trusted you more.” Spy blinks, unsure if he’s really watching Mick Mundy Junior or a completely different man. The experience truly left them changed if words win over action.
“I couldn’t think straight in a room full of these posh fucks- and so when you gave me that look in the ballroom; like you just wanted to make a fool of me for being uncomfortable, I got pissed. All went downhill from there. If it’s anyone’s fault then, it’s mine,” between the stinging of the disinfection and Mundy’s sudden confession, Spy’s had just enough of both.
“You absolute buffoon- the look I had on? You thought I’d take pleasure in mocking you?” he snaps, and the hysterical laugh that escapes him startles them both. Sniper blinks, seemingly unsure how to address the sudden change in mood. A familiar spark of irritation crosses his features; one that always appears in a challenge.
“Do you want me to keep patching you up or not.”
Spy glares, leaning closer, “Aren’t you smug now? The suit you’re wearing. It was about the fucking suit,” the way his eyes widen is satisfying. It allows Spy to continue in a less harsh tone, easing back a bit into a more comfortable territory, “Christmas Eve ’73, the first with both teams housed under one roof due to power shortages. When I saw you tonight in the crowd, I remembered a picture of you from back then… when things got serious.”
A patch of clouds passes by the moon, momentarily blocking its faint glow. The yellowish glare of the headlights intensifies along with the buzz of small insects that got lured closer. Mundy sighs, his body slumping forward, defeated. A lump forms inside Spy’s chest, tar no longer dripping. His exposed skin tingles in the cold night air but he doesn’t mind; not as long as he’s here with Mick.
When it’s clear the man won’t speak up, Spy decides to continue, voice faint, “I didn’t notice till I saw you there, and it was endearing. It still suits you- always did. I chuckled because of course you’ll still have it. Not because I thought less of you.”
“I’m so sorry…”
“No, I should say sorry for what came after. There was no reason for me to nag you on for not wanting to talk to people. I was being spiteful just for the fuck of it and look where that got us,” when he speaks, he can taste the sourness. It nags on him; and he knows it’ll haunt him for a time to come.
“Well, at least one of the Batts is dead,” at last, Sniper chuckles the way he does when he pokes at his sides, startling him while he’s napping in the afternoon sun. His gloved fingers creep up towards the man’s face, gently cupping his cheeks. Hesitant to do anything else, he scans his features tentatively, eyes landing on sand daffodils.
“I thought I’d lose you there…” and he thinks of how he wanted to drive away again, guilt churring in his gut. He’s right here; alive and well, he tells himself, observing the way Mundy leans into the touch. Lost in the moment, he nearly forgets the stinging in his shoulder until it becomes unbearable. Against his best wishes, Spy straightens up, hoping to elevate some of the pressure.
Noticing the way Spy winces, Mundy’s hands cup his fingers, gently pulling away, “I’m right here. And I intend to stay for a lot longer,” he pauses, massaging a truce into the palm of Spy’s hand, “let’s get you patched up. We still got a long ride ahead.” Their hands stay interlaced for a moment, both overcome with the gravity of their shared closeness.
There’s so much to be said, he realises, and while any other time, the thought would make him panic, the strange calmness that envelopes them now brings comfort. Headlights still flicker, insect buzzes. The engine rumbles just the same. Mundy’s trying his best to patch him up with whatever’s left of the aid kit and the moon emerges again, lazily painting the scenery in a soft starry glow. When he regards what’s left of the dried patch of blood in Sniper’s hair, he finds he's no longer afraid.