Chapter Text
Sharp exhale burns the back of his throat. Teeth clatter, muscles retract and tense up in pain. Slightly colder air pinches at his nostrils, only furthering the discomfort that’s spread over his frame. When the sensation intensifies, he’s forced to blink his eyes open, greeted with mellow, unforgiving darkness. The camper sits silent, unmoving; only source of artificial light comes from the clock on his nightstand, blaring red 3:40 in mockery. And perhaps, the clock knows exactly how humiliating it feels.
A huff escapes him, sheets slowly stirring as Mundy’s hunched posture rises from the bed. The milky layer of sleep seeps out of him and blurry shapes of the interior start taking form. Every book, every piece of clothing and mug watches as he shuffles in the darkness. Glaring all around, he won’t accept the pity. Won’t acknowledge how it’s written over every crevice; won’t look back to check if the other person’s still sleeping. And he knows, deep down, that they all understand, in their own gentle way, where the anger and frustration came from.
Mundy’s no stranger to waking up in sheer panic. As he’s accepted by now, tonight may not be his last. The initial suddenness of it is always the hardest part. As his buzzing body shuffles towards the little table in the camper, he pats it down in search for his reading glasses, grabbing onto them when his fingers brush past their familiar shape. Clearer vision is nothing more than an oxymoron in the darkness but feels comforting; allows for a sense of control.
Scooting into the very corner between the table and kitchen sink, he presses his back against the wall of the camper, instinctively reaching for a box that’s tucked nearby. Needles click softly, almost in a greeting. Gently, they allow Sniper to pull them out along with the project they are attached to. His fingers trace the material, gripping a bit too tightly. He counts, in his mind, each square of the entrelac pattern as he circles the synthetic yarn in his hands.
It’s Thursday morning- five six seven- you are going to be okay - eight nine ten-, it will pass. The needles sing softly with each twist, dangling from the opposite end, and it’s almost sad to think they are not used the way they’re supposed to, only further tangling the hanging bits of leftover yarn.
Body on the bed shifts, sound akin to a curtain door waving in soft breeze. In his peripheral, a figure emerges from the sheets, mattress creaking under the weight. He’s not sure if it’s all the rumbling or his absence that gave way for Spy to rise, and he can’t tell if it really matters- the effect remains the same.
“Hey,” Spy hums his way when he finally spots him tucked in the corner. Faint voice carries towards Sniper, stirring the stagnant atmosphere Mick kept swimming in. It’s a hand outstretched; offers familiarity and comfort but doesn’t invade. When silence follows, Spy doesn’t move closer just yet; carefully taking in the scene. In the meantime, Mundy finally musters up a response.
“Hey there,” his voice echoes back, alien to his buzzing ears. That didn’t sound like your voice, are you sure that’s you? The uneasy smile he offers pulls on his mouth, eyes already staining in the dim light, “I’ll come back soon, get some more sleep Spook.”
A pair of brown eyes have him pinned to the corner, observing, calculating. All the mugs on the counter align his way and sigh knowingly: he’s not going to buy that, darling. The light sleeper that he is, Spy finally moves, sheets rustling lazily. Sliding off the bed as he rises, the man navigates towards the makeshift kitchenette. Light above the electric stove flicks on, its yellow buzzing light suddenly enveloping the camper in a completely different atmosphere.
“I’ll be fine,” he attempts again, almost pleading. Still, he hasn’t moved from down there, clutching onto the yarns as if it was his bounty. The man doesn’t react and instead, two mugs appear on the counter. The kettle is placed on the stove, water slushing against its surface. Spy waltzes around – shifting to the right while fishing for a spoon, adding sugar and teabags to both mugs – the way he does everything is all too familiar. Slowly, nonchalantly, he’s become accustomed to the tight, cramped tin can Mundy spends most of his nights in.
When he’s got everything arranged, he finally turns to face him, “I have no doubt of that. It will pass in no time,” lines of his masked face are illuminated from the left, but the gentleness in his gaze isn’t betrayed by the shadows it creates. Kettle slowly bubbles on, and Spy continues, “so, what’s this bundle you’re working on?”
“This? Oh, I’ve been fiddling around with that one for a while,” he begins, tongue too heavy in his mouth, thoughts splintering in a million directions but they both know (ceramics included) he’s trying his best. The thoughtful hum Spy offers comes in confirmation. As his fingers trace the pattern again, he begins to pull the needles out one by one, “been meaning to knit a- uh… water pouch for Scout but it’s not the right measurement.”
Spy shifts, elevating pressure from one leg to the other, hands gripping the edge of the counter he’s pressed against. The shadow he casts over the camper changes shape along with the movement, “Wouldn’t it be more comfortable if you took a proper seat?” that’s quite pragmatic coming from a guy on barely four hours of sleep, Mundy thinks, dropping needles back into the knitting box. Perhaps, his perplexed expression betrays his chain of thought, prompting Spy to speak again, “oh come on, I wouldn’t object if you at least had a carpet.”
Touché.
It takes a bit longer before he complies, taking his tangled project with him. Instead of settling by the table, Sniper chooses the bed, “Are those the packets you brough over last time?” pale eyes glide around the camper, taking in its shape in the new light. He knows every crevice, and yet, the urge to ensure everything’s in order prevails. He fires back the question when his head starts swimming again, finding himself in a desperate need to replace it out with some other noise.
“Oh, not anymore, you’ve already drank most of the forest fruit ones,” kettle whistles, and drowns out a light chuckle that escapes the man, “that’s chamomile for you, and green tea for me.” The spoon clicks against the mug, punctuating Spy’s commentary. When he spins around, mug in each hand, he seems almost triumphant at the endeavour. There’s something so disgustingly domestic about this, it nearly makes his heart swell. Despite the ever-present tension in his shoulders, Sniper smiles back, mouthing an inaudible thank you as one of the mugs appears on a shelf within his reach. And soon after, his companion finally settles near.
Once Spy covers them in the blanket and scoots closer, all the rustling and shuffling finally mellows down. Droplets of rain start tapping against the window, creating an ambient backdrop to Spook’s words, “Okay so walk me through this. Scout commissioned a water pouch?” curious, the man peers over the knitting in his lap. The gentleness remains but Mick can sense his cocky nature seeping back into the room.
“Ah- no, not exactly,” pulling against one of the strings, he begins to undo a knot, pulling the project apart bit by bit, “he’s to have a birthday soon. I thought he’d like to keep one of those runner pouches on him when he works.” He explains, finally finding enough strength to keep his tone steady. Sweetened scent of tea and honey comes to him in waves, soothing some knots in his spine. Even the ceramics seem to lull back to sleep and to his left, a body shifts in hopes of finding a better position.
“I think the pattern’s pretty,” the man begins, and as Mick expects, he won’t leave it at some bland flattery, “don’t you think it would be better if he could sling it over his chest? So that it doesn’t just copy the shape of the bottle.”
“Well, aren’t you an expert all of a sudden?” Lately, he’s been adopting all sorts of terms and to Mick, it’s become incredibly amusing to hear him talk like that. After all, he’s never actually seen Spy knit by himself. On the contrary, he’s been keeping up a thoughtful watch over most of Mundy’s recent projects, suggesting shapes, colours, and patterns with determined insistence.
“Do whatever you want, I’m trying to be practical,” Spy huffs dramatically, taking a sip of his tea. The old, scratched picture on the mug used to resemble some kitsch eastern bunny; now nothing but a blur of faded colours. He can’t remember where he got it, but it doesn’t seem like the it’d make any difference.
“’Course you are,” the unamused stare he receives for that makes him chuckle, “I’ll consider that when I pull this thing apart okay? Just need to make sure it’ll get done before the guy returns from a weekend off.” Turning the project over, he continues his way down the row. The repetitive motion keeps his mind busy enough as the rain outside only intensifies.
“Does he travel home each year for that?”
“’Think so, yeah.” Sniper murmurs, reminiscing back to all the times he’s seen the guy repack his luggage only to find something he forgot to include. A tiny pile of loose yarn forms on the blanket, the first two rows pulled apart by now, “though sometimes I get the impression he’s more relieved when he comes back.” His companion hums in thought and abandons the mug, gathering the loose pieces and twisting them around his gloved fingers.
“The boy’s got a lot of people there. Might get overwhelming.” the comment is left hanging in the air, temperature dropping lightly with the change of weather. Sniper’s mind becomes caught up somewhere between pulling out more loops and the warmth of a body that scoots closer by instinct. The chamomile tea sits near, still untouched.
Only once his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose does he finally remember he should respond, “Hm, don’t think so- quite the opposite actually,” Spy’s hands catch his attention, gaze tracing the yarn he’s got looped around his index finger, “most of his brothers moved out by now from what I’ve heard ‘n not all of them make it for everyone’s birthday.”
“Ah, of course,” the hand squeezes onto nothing, yarn stretching over the fabric of the glove. A hesitancy creeps to that thin space separating them, and Spy bounces back with a rather nonchalant response, “hey maybe you could use black for the pouch, it’ll create a lovely out-”
Usually, the anxiety plagues him throughout most of the early mornings like a sterile smell disinfection reeking from Medic’s office. Yet now, the image of those bare fingers flashes in the back of his head as a warning; as a promise. To hell with anxiety, Mundy thinks, instinctively reaching out for his companion, “Stop planning ahead, we’ve barely pulled the thing apart.”
“Will you tell Scout it was a group project? I don’t think that one’s going to pass,” the man leans closer, allowing Mundy to cup his cheek. His tone is playful but the way his eyes lower doesn’t go unnoticed. A warning and a promise.
Frankly, he’s not sure how to respond, suddenly disarmed by the comment. Blinking away in the dim light, he tries to lean closer only for Spy to pull away. Question on his lips, Sniper watches as the man takes his glasses off for him, only then closing the distance between them. The weight of Spy’s words still lingers on his lips. Yet now, they face the truth of that statement together, mellow sleepy kisses solidifying the point. As brief as it is, it’s Spy again who decides when it ends.
“You still haven’t had your tea,” the man whispers, his lips still close he nearly mouths the words right into Sniper. The melancholy washes right out of Mundy’s system, the perplexed look on his face turning into a frown when he realises how deliberate the comment was. Pulling away, he grabs onto the mug, the motion followed by a chuckle of his companion. Droplets thunder against the roof of the van now, and the first licks of light start creeping over the horizon.
Time passes as he drinks, the tension that was brewing in him till now nearly obsolete. Perhaps Spook had a point about staying up with him. In a way, he still feels somewhat guilty for waking him up but appreciates the gesture. Spy, always cold no matter what weather, adjusts the blanket around them again, remaining in his proximity; silent but comforting.
“When’s your birthday by the way?” the words leave him so suddenly, he’s not even sure if the voice is his. The person near him, pulled out of his musings, hums against his side, taking some time to before answering. Perhaps, he was finally dozing off.
“What about you?”
At that, Mundy chuckles, taking another slow sip of his tea, “You have my file memorized front to back, I’m sure you know. Don’t deflect the question.” There’s no spite in his voice, really. If he’s learned anything over the years, it’s to never back down when the guy starts deflecting.
“The twenty-seventh of August.”
“Spy, you being a Virgo is a little on the nose” Mundy sighs, taking a good look at his companion. When the man opens his mouth the protest, Sniper cuts in, “and besides, that date escaped your petty mouth a bit too quickly.” The frown he receives for that remark nearly makes him question the directness. Perhaps Spy was telling the truth despite being a notorious dodger. But it’s the way his mouth twists that gives him away; just a momentary pull to the corner of his lips rendered invisible by the low lighting and the fabric of his mask.
The reply Spy offers only furthers Sniper’s assumption, “Which one of them got you into astrology?”
Being a patient man, Sniper simply sighs; still a bit too mellow to get riled up into a bickering session over something like this, “Whatever you say, if you really don’t want to tell me, I’ll just pick a date for you and get you a gift then.” He says, fingers finding their way back to the bundle of yarn he was planning to dismantle. Next to him, Spy sits in silence, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
Storm outside looses its initial intensity, allowing for more faint light to spread around the area. Rainwater creates lazy shapes on the window, sliding down over its surface. Mugs peek at the pair on the bed, curious to see the end of this just as much as Sniper does. Loop after loop that becomes loose, time passes in silence till Spy’s hands finally return their attention to the mug of green tea, now lukewarm at best.
Taking a few gulps he doesn’t seem to mind the taste so much, and Sniper is too preoccupied to sneak a peek at the man’s expression. Perhaps now, with the revelations still circling around them, it would be too intrusive to try.
“Well,” a soft voice finally disrupts the atmosphere and no matter what Sniper does, he can’t seem to deduce the intent, “I’m curious to know what sign you think I might be, if I’m not a Virgo.” Spy hums, his breath briefly gliding over Mundy’s shoulder before he’s awarded with a light kiss to his jaw. As brief as it was, he’s not given a chance to reciprocate.
Any other time, he’d protest for it to be a sudden end to things, but the clock on his nightstand blinks an unforgiving 4:53 and Spy’s already on his feet again, leaving behind a half full mug and a mess of sheets in search for his suit pants and new socks.