Archive of Our Own

It probably speaks to the utterly mundane and repetitive days at Teufort base that Spy doesn’t figure out something has gone very wrong until it’s been two hours since he’d last used the teleporter.

His first big clue is when he respawns with Sniper in the locker room and sees a new scar across Sniper’s nose and cheek.

Spy stares. He’s very good with faces. Sniper has never had that scar before—certainly did not have it this morning before battle—and if it’s newly acquired then respawn should have done away with it. Even more strange, the scar looks old, though Spy can recognize the mark of a slash made by a blade.

Sniper catches him staring. He doesn’t seem to mind, flashing Spy a crooked grin. “Rocket got you too?”

With growing unease, Spy says, “Yes.”

Sniper glances over his shoulder, checking to see if they’re alone, then looks back at him. “You’re staring.”

The amused tone Sniper takes is puzzling up until he leans over to kiss Spy’s cheek, entirely quick and painless, and Spy might’ve passed it off as a greeting had he been in certain parts of Europe, but as it stands—they are in the shithole that is Teufort, and Sniper isn’t European.

Spy punches him on reflex.

Sniper staggers back, hand coming up to his face, but Spy beats him to it. His nails dig into Sniper’s skin and he claws his fingers to clutch at—clutches nothing, not a single scrap of disguise paper or a mask, and Sniper doesn’t fizzle away into the enemy spy.

“Jesus Christ,” Sniper swears, knocking Spy’s hand away, and even that gesture seems too nice, too gentle to be a real admonishment. He steps back, holding his nose as blood drips through his fingers. “The hell was that for?”

“I thought you were the enemy spy,” Spy says, becoming distressed. At this point, he would’ve gladly accepted the enemy spy playing strange mind games. Now he’s even more confused.

“What? Why would I be? We’re in the bloody respawn room. The other spy ain’t gonna break the rules of engagement.” Sniper sucks in a breath, shutting his eyes and taking a moment to calm himself. When he opens them he grits out, “Look. I’m sorry, alright? No PDA during work hours, I get it. Just missed you, is all.”

“What?” Spy says. It’s the most he has ever heard Sniper speak to him directly that isn’t work related or some kind of snide remark. Never once has Spy heard him apologize or sound upset in a way that implies… implies feelings were hurt, if he had to guess.

“Just sayin’,” Sniper mumbles, not looking at him. He lifts his palm away, only to bring it back under his nose to catch more drops of blood. “You didn’t have to punch me that hard.”

Spy, in fact, feels the intensity of the hit had been appropriate, if not lacking. He is about to defend himself when Medic pops into the room.

“Oomph,” Medic says, glancing between Sniper’s bloody nose and what must be Spy’s half-confused, half-angry expression. He offers over the medigun to Sniper, flipping the barrel upwards. “Mondays, am I right?”

“I guess,” Sniper says, glum. He leans his head over the top of Medic’s medigun for some healing vapors.

“Pardon?” Spy says, tearing his gaze away from the medigun. It has a new design, a yellow glowing cylinder around the barrel he’s never seen before, and besides that, he has never heard Medic utter such a sardonic expression before. But perhaps one of the Americans has been teaching him slang. Even so, Spy frowns. “Is it not Friday?”

They both stare at him.

“Spy, we had a whole day of cards yesterday,” Sniper says, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He’s stopped bleeding, at least.

“Sunday game day,” Medic adds. He’s starting to peer at Spy in a very uncomfortable and scrutinizing kind of way.

“Sunday… game day,” Spy repeats, taking a wary step back. “No. We were working yesterday, all of us. I’m sure of this.”

Both Medic and Sniper look so baffled Spy is forced to assume he’s the one in the wrong. He looks at the calendar, pinned to the locker room bulletin board; the date is as it should be. October 13th. But the days of the week are off.

Scout is the next unfortunate soul to appear in the respawn room. He looks at all three of them, exasperated, which is not an expression Spy would associate with the younger man.

“Oh, there you guys are. You know, it really sucks not having our whole support line up out there, doing support class things,” Scout berates, actually berating, all three of them, like children. “Really. Freakin’. Sucks. You guys got the case of the Mondays or what?”

With that, he sticks one finger up to the ceiling with a frustrated sigh. Right on cue, the overhead speakers declare that they have lost the last match of the day. The Announcer sounds like her usual disappointed self, but Spy doubts that would change any time soon.

Before Scout can continue on his scolding, Engineer appears in the room, holding what looks like a long receipt. He’s the only one who seems to have made it to the respawn lockers with his actual own two feet.

“Any of you use the teleporter ‘round three o’clock today? Just got a ticket that there was some kinda blip in the system,” Engineer says, waving the thin roll of paper. “Y’all got all of your limbs still on?”

There is a quick limb check from everyone.

“Sheesh.” Engineer sighs. “Mondays, am I right?”

Spy raises his hand. “I currently believe it’s Friday when I am being told, impressively often, it is not.”

“Friday? On October 13th? Why, it hasn’t been Friday on October the 13th for three years.”

The room falls silent.

“Merde,” Spy mutters.

Engineer posits two theories.

Theory one; Spy has time traveled three years into the future, which is their current present time. Where the current Spy of their time is, who the hell knows. There is a good chance, however, the older Spy, their Spy, has simply traded places with the three years younger Spy, due to Newton’s laws of time travel exchange.

(Spy had never heard of this. He only knows Newton's three laws of motion, from primary school, to which Engineer had given him a look of confusion.)

Theory two; Spy has developed amnesia, and has lost three years worth of memories.

“Which would be more Medic’s wheelhouse than mine,” Engineer says, scratching the back of his neck.

Medic looks ecstatic at the prospect of theory two.

“God. Please let it be time travel,” Spy mutters under his breath in French. There will probably brain surgery involved, and while Spy might not particularly like his mental fortitude and headspace at the moment, he would rather keep it than have it dissected open.

“I’m pretty sure it’s time travel,” Engineer says, confident, though Spy has the suspicion he’s trying to make him feel better. “I definitely got notified of a glitch with the teleporter today, but you can never be too sure.”

Either way, Engineer has to go back into the log book of teleporter usage throughout the day, and possibly last few weeks, to do a diagnostic check.

Spy takes this all in with only one cigarette between his fingers. Not even a quarter of it has been smoked. There is a wintry calm settling over him that keeps his body refreshingly numb to panic. A running list of tasks appear in his mind, mostly inventory related, similar to all the times Spy has found himself in an unfamiliar situation. Take stock. Reevaluate resources. Get into a better position.

The rest of the team takes the news like it’s another Monday, so there seems have have been a lot of shitty Mondays in the past three years. It’s a bit anticlimactic, no one seems overly concerned, but there are several moments where Spy catches one of them staring at him a second too long, or looking away like they can’t decide if they want to say something to him. This isn’t so unusual from their usual behavior, but there’s a certain air of caution.

Spy looks at them, attempting to parse the general mood. To his mild irritation, it’s almost difficult. Reading the room is practically half his job.

Out of all people, Sniper breaks the three seconds of awkward silence.

“Reckon you’d want to go back to your room to check on things,” Sniper says, blandly, like it’s the most obvious thing anyone would want to do when displaced three years into the future or possibly suffering from amnesia.

“Yes,” Spy says, taking a drag from his cigarette. “That would be prudent.”

“Aye, you go find one of us if ye got yourself some questions,” Demoman adds with a friendly shake at his shoulder, and it’s hard to say if Spy is more shocked by the touch or how the rest of them clear out quickly after.

It takes a moment of internal struggling to see the kindness in their actions, almost as if they’d known he would want some time to himself. That, or they all think he’s some kind of ticking time bomb. He can feel it in their eyes on him—they want to pester him with questions. Ridiculous. He has been nothing but composed. He’s still on his first cigarette. Spy ought to have been on his fifth, if he had been that unhinged and distressed. He stubs out the half-smoked cigarette and finally walks out ot the locker room.

Before he can make his way back to his private quarters—which they assured hadn’t changed locations in the last three years—Sniper stops him in the hallway with a tap at the elbow then sticks his hands in pockets like he rather regretted touching Spy at all.

Spy turns, already gauging the distance between them and how many steps it would take to throw another punch if Sniper tries anything again.

Sniper only frowns, not moving, and says, “You’ve got bullet wound on your right side. Around last year. Scar should be there.”

Then he walks away.

No mention of the mishap earlier in the respawn room. The abrupt way Sniper treats Spy is a little more familiar. This is how Spy knows him, more coworkers than friends, though they’ve argued before, had almost-friendly banter that might border on truly mean spirited, but not much else. Spy watches until Sniper turns the corner, out of complete sight, and resumes walking to his room.

The lock opens, thankfully, in less than ten minutes. He’s got so many contingency security systems, a pain to go through but worth the peace of mind.

Spy shuts the door behind him. He shrugs off the jacket and vest, draping them over the chair at his desk, and pulls his shirt up to check his right side.

There is no scar. He has yet to acquire it, which makes it less likely he’s suffering from memory loss.

Time travel then. Three years. And this is his future. Still here at Teufort. With the same eight people.

Spy tucks his shirt back in place, taking some time to gather his thoughts. He should ask Sniper how he got the scar, but the last thing he wants to do now is ask for anything else. For one, Sniper seems to know a little too much for comfort, and Spy can tell by Sniper’s body language that he’s being awkward, and Sniper isn’t much an awkward person. Reticent, perhaps, until angered. Well, there are also some problems with hygiene. And being a little deranged at times. But that seems to be the common denominator with the entire team.

Spy has been staring blankly at his jacket. For one moment he’s tempted to forego putting back the vest and jacket on to sit at the desk with his head down, but if he stops now it might be a long while before he can be mentally functional again. And who knows what state he’ll be in afterwards.

He shakes his head and finally takes a sweeping look across his room. At first glance, everything appears as it should be, even after three years. He puts the vest and jacket back on, and opens the first drawer under his desk.

There’s a packet of missives inside but his cyphers and codes are out of date. He doesn’t spend too long looking them over, it’s clear he cannot figure what they mean. This is already a glaring problem but not one he can solve right away. Spy moves on to check his usual hiding spots for a journal or log but he already knows he wouldn’t keep one. His cigarette stash is worryingly low. There are prototype disguise kits on a shelf. A new assortment of hats in the closet, along with a line of neat regulation suits with a curious number of missing shirts.

Spy pauses in counting shirts. He picks up a red one that most assuredly isn’t his. It’s not tailored. It’s faded. It’s rumpled and unstarched. He wouldn’t keep such a shirt in rotation.

Also, it’s got a sniper’s insignia on the sleeve.

Spy wants to believe he’s picked up a new skill in sharpshooting in the future but he doubts it. There’s also the possibility that it’s a disguise. But if so, then the rest of the uniform is no where to be found in the closet or dressers. And why a RED sniper’s uniform—his own company?

Spy knows he’s dithering around for more excuses. He knows exactly what to do next to confirm his suspicions.

He sniffs it. It smells like dirt and body odor that isn’t his.

Spy drops the shirt and drags a hand down his face.

Sniper’s camper van is where it usually parks near the base. Spy is struck by the uncanny awareness that everything on the surface appears to not have changed in the last three years. And yet. And yet.

Spy pauses at the backdoor of the camper. Sniper seems to be moving about inside—there are sounds of dishes clattering and cabinets being shut. It sounds like he’s throwing things around, which might be considered cleaning to someone like him.

Spy knocks on the door and hears Sniper muttering. It doesn’t sound positive.

After a full five seconds of more loud shuffling, Sniper opens the door, poking his head out. He does not look even remotely surprised to see Spy at his doorstep.

“Bet you got some questions.”

Spy does. He very calmly starts it off with, “Are we fucking?”

Sniper winces. The door is being kept minimally open. “You're not gonna like the answer.”

“I already don’t,” Spy says, deadpan. He puts a hand on the door to keep Sniper from shutting it further. “You’ve been in my room, apparently. I should be allowed to do the same.”

A staring contest with a sniper is ill-advised, but Spy has a growing horror manifesting inside him. It gives him enough steeliness to grip the door and swing it open without backing down. Sniper, sensing Spy’s dangerous mental state, breaks eye contact first, taking a step away with a resigned look. He also seems to be steeling himself. For what, Spy isn’t too clear on until he enters the camper in full.

All in all, the interior of the camper doesn’t appear as disastrously messy as Spy fears. This charitable thought lasts until Spy sees two of his own ties hanging over the rail of Sniper’s bunk. He stares, adjusts his low-threat suspicions to a blaring red alarm alert, and readdresses the room with merciless attention.

There’s an extra mug on the table. A kettle going on the stove. Two toothbrushes in a cup. A full ashtray on the sill. A throwing knife embedded into one of the walls, holding up one of his black gloves. Most glaringly, a pack of cigarettes sits open on the small dining table, his preferred brand. A couple of more packs are on the countertop, neatly stacked, which means Spy had not been running low at all. The rest of his cigarette stash is here.

Spy grabs one of the smaller cabinet handles. His hand doesn’t shake, but it’s nearing a point where it could, if Spy hadn’t been a stronger person.

“Oh, mate, don’t,” Sniper mumbles, half-hearted. He knows it’s no use.

The cabinet reveals an assortment of hair gels, several combs, one tangled sock garter, and a red glass vial of cologne that is not actually his, and nor does he think Sniper would own—

Unless gifted, because Spy knows this scent of cologne and it’s a good one, one that he does, in fact, like to smell on other people. This distracts him from noticing another bottle perched precariously on the edge, almost as if it’d been shoved in there and bounced around. It goes tumbling off the shelf and onto the floor. Spy doesn’t bother to catch it. He slowly presses the cabinet door closed and turns back around.

There are little bits of him everywhere in the camper, more glaring than fingerprints or blood. The writing is on the wall, and Spy is feeling increasingly angry with whoever his future self is. This is beyond just fucking. He knows, deep down, this is the mark of something else.

Sniper discreetly kicks away the fallen bottle. When Spy looks, it’s a half empty bottle of lube with a bright green label. Lime flavored. It rolls under the table, out of sight.

Spy drags his eyes back up and, being brave, walks over to the bunk to pull the covers off. The lube could be a coincidence, lime’s a great flavor after all, but when he sees the distinct Le Roi de la Capote packaging on an unopened condom wrapper left on the mattress, Spy has to turn away and grip the rail in effort to not double over and start screaming.

Sniper pulls the bed covers back on with a cough. Another bottle of lube falls off the bunk. Tobacco flavored.

Not only does this go beyond fucking, it is now quite possible his future self and Sniper are having sex often enough that it merits two bottles of lube. Flavored lube. Maybe more. Spy has no will power left in him to check the rest of the drawers.

“Is respawn still on?” he asks dully. He pulls out his butterfly knife.

“Mate. You gotta breathe. I just cleaned up. Don’t go stabbing yourself in here,” Sniper says. He puts his hand over Spy’s butterfly knife, utterly confident and unafraid, and pushes the knife back gently under Spy’s jacket, into the correct pocket. The smell of the red vial cologne lingers at the collar of Sniper’s shirt.

Spy should gut him.

“I'll put on a cuppa,” Sniper says, steering Spy towards one of the dining chairs.

He seems to have anticipated Spy’s level of distress which makes Spy even more irritated. Furious, really. He refuses to sit.

“How much,” Spy says, crossing his arms, “do you know about me?”

Sniper isn’t bothered by his curt tone. He reaches into another cabinet to pull out a pourover maker and some coffee in an unmarked bag, keeping his back to Spy as he measures out the grounds. “I know you just as well as anyone would get to know each other after working together for three years.”

“You have my two favorite lube flavors in your camper,” Spy says, glaring at that unprotected back. It’s impossible not to feel mocked. “Please don't insult me, platonic associate.”

“Alright. So we know each other a little better than that.”

Sniper is being outstandingly vague. It has the dual effect of scaring Spy by the subtle opportunities Sniper is giving him to stop, as well as making Spy so incensed that he has no choice but to pry even further.

“Do you know my name?” Spy asks, terse.

“You've got one?” Sniper replies with a short laugh. When he senses the joke has not been taken well at all, he sighs. “Nope. Don't know that. I know you don't know mine either.”

Spy has to step aside when Sniper turns around to grab one of the two mugs from the dining table. It’s not the one with ‘#1 Sniper’ written on it. Spy looks at the second mug with trepidation.

“I believe this will be less painful for the both of us if you can start with listing some important things you know about me. Start with the top five,” Spy says dryly, though he hopes the list in general will be short.

Sniper starts pouring the hot water over the grounds. The kettle has a gooseneck spout, which strikes Spy as depressingly out of character for Sniper.

“I know you have a, um, son,” Sniper starts.

Spy begins to think Sniper might have had the right idea, trying to get him to sit. “What?”

“Well, the whole team knows,” Sniper says, staring very intently at the coffee-making process. “And your son knows. The one on the other team.”

From bad to worse. Spy moves on.

“Have you seen my face?”

Sniper’s delicate pause feels like a death sentence.

Spy puts his head in his hands. He might as well yank his mask off and stomp it into the floor for all the good it’ll do in the next three years for him. “Did I go insane in the last three years? Tell me the truth.”

“I don't often see it. Your face.”

“How much is often?”

“Twice. Once under duress. The other...” Sniper shrugs. Like it's a mercy for Spy to not know.

Spy blinks, dropping his hands. The extent to which Sniper knows him is getting to be genuinely frightening. Dire. Catastrophic. Unfixable.

“I know how you take your coffee,” Sniper adds, the final twist of the knife. He stirs in a spoon of sugar and a splash of cream from the miniature fridge. He holds out the mug.

That alone says more than enough. Spy takes the cup, numb.

“Are we…” he starts, almost shaking with horror and feeling nauseous. He looks at Sniper’s left hand, a little relieved to find the ring finger bare, but that doesn't truly mean anything. He assumes neither of them are the type to wear such things in the open.

Sniper notices his staring.

“Are we…” he echoes, confused, and tracks where Spy had been looking. He quickly turns a brilliant shade of red, ears to neck. “Ah. No, mate.”

“Tell me we are just… coworkers with benefits. Fooling around. Fuck buddies.” Spy dislikes how pleading he sounds, but these are extreme circumstances.

Sniper proceeds to look uncomfortable. “Uh, yeah. That's what we were. Are. Um, still fucking. Still buddies.”

Awful. All snipers should take a course on how to lie better.

“Do they know?” Spy asks, waving to the base, meaning the team. He sets the mug down without ever taking a sip.

“Debatable. No one brings it up. Except BLU Spy. Bleu.”

Spy squawks. “No.”

“I think he’s been your wingman,” Sniper says, apologetic.

“I see. He sabotaged me. He manipulated you into flirting with me-”

Sniper straightens, holding up a hand. “Now, wait a tic. You flirted with me first. I flirted back. ‘Round two years ago you offered to… to keep things fun. I said yes.”

The smallest margin of relief worms itself into Spy’s churching gut. He might be able to see it now. Sniper is tall, and there are certain angles of his face that are appealing. Steady hands, presumably. Nice eyes, if Spy wants to be generous. A fellow professional. A frivolous fling isn’t so farfetched.

“It was transactional,” Spy says with a sigh.

Sniper doesn’t show him mercy. He tips his chin up, mouth set to a stubborn line. Without breaking eye contact, he replies, evenly, “It started that way.”

Spy bites the inside of his cheek so hard it’s in danger of bleeding. “Are you sure? You shouldn’t trust me. Future me. I might be playing you, manipulating your emotions-”

“Ouch,” Sniper says, nudging Spy out of the way so that he can sit at the dining table instead. He even takes the mug of coffee for himself, fingers drumming against the rim. “No, don’t think so.”

“Well, I don’t think so, either.”

“Spy. You either accept that this has happened, or you can get out of my van and be in denial about everything,” Sniper says, his mild tone finally turning sharp. He slumps back into the chair, upset. The sun is dipping below the horizon, hazy orange light reflecting off his glasses as he stares out the window with a frown. “Christ knows we’ve done enough of that with each other already. I don't need a repeat experience.”

So Sniper is not as taciturn or patient as Spy made him out to be. Spy’s jaw tightens.

“This isn’t easy on me, I hope you know,” he says, turning on his heel towards the door. He has no problem leaving if that is what Sniper is suggesting.

Sniper doesn’t look at him. The mug turns in his hands, ceramic loud against the table. “This ain't easy on me either. I miss a different version of you. I want him back just as much as you want to go back.”

The candid ease that Sniper admits this is telling. They both seem to realize this at the same time. Sniper’s shoulders drop, like he’s been caught telling a secret he shouldn’t have said aloud, and Spy pauses with his hand gripping the door handle so forcefully it creaks under the strain.

It doesn’t make any sense. The him in the future, the one Sniper wants back. Spy doesn’t really have any grand plans set for his life, but he can’t connect himself to this person who’s going to leave his ties and toothbrush in a cramped camper and share coffee with the man who lives in it.

Sniper must hear him hesitate. He raises his head, turning to look at Spy, and Spy wonders if Sniper simply shot his own thoughts out through his head when he wasn't looking. Splattered blood against the walls with the burning question thrashing in his head.

With his usual pinpoint accuracy, Sniper gives him the answer with daunting confidence, despite the quietness of his voice.

“For what it's worth. I think he's been happy.”

Spy slams the door shut.

The next morning, after a rather bad and sleepless night, Engineer slides next to Spy during breakfast.

“Good news, it’s not amnesia,” Engineer tells him.

Several of the team members look up, interested. Sniper isn’t one of them. His gaze stays fixed at his plate, though his head lowers by a fraction. It occurs to Spy just now that Sniper hadn’t known either, and he wonders which one of the two strange ailments Sniper had been hoping for. A past version, or one suffering from amnesia. Surely there isn’t much of a difference.

“I assumed as much,” Spy says, not mentioning that Sniper had been the one to give him a hint. His pancakes are in several small cut pieces, left uneaten despite Demoman’s insistence that the maple syrup is real and the macerated blueberries are Spy’s favorite. Spy feels his chest cavity crumple at the very idea that his favorite pancake flavors are now public knowledge.

Even so, with everyone paying attention, he dislikes being an item on the morning docket, but he supposes this situation is important enough to warrant a quick team meeting.

“It seems like the past you and the future you stepped through the teleporter on the exact date and time,” Engineer continues, stealing a piece of pancake from Spy’s plate. “So to reverse it, both you and our spy have to do it again. Same date, same time.”

Spy doesn't know how to feel about everyone calling his future self their spy. He knows it’s all relative—their spy is the correct spy, of course—he can't read too much into it, but it seems they've all been regarding that stranger of himself fondly. Engineer is eating pancakes off from his plate, after all. Spy pulls the plate away, frowning, and Engineer stops.

“How do I go about communicating with my future self, who is stuck in the past?” Spy asks, ignoring the way Engineer chuckles.

“Well, any significant dates coming up for you?” Engineer says, just as Demoman places a plate of pancakes down for him. Bananas and peanut butter. He nods his thanks.

Spy thinks. “No.”

“The birth of your son?” Heavy asks from across the table.

Spy feels himself age on the spot. Unfortunately, not by the three years he needs. “How did all of you even find out about that? Ugh, don’t answer. It won’t work in any case.”

His son’s birthday is months from now, and Spy assumes his future self isn't too keen on staying in the past for that long. Much like how he isn’t keen to stay stuck in this bizarre future.

Sniper shifts, uneasy. Spy catches this and knows enough to not call it out.

“I need some time to think,” he says instead, standing from his seat.

“Sure,” Engineer says, blinking. “Battle starts in an hour, in case you forgot.”

Battle. Spy isn’t precisely dreading it. He already knows he’ll be quite irritated with whatever changes or new strategies BLU will have, but it isn’t anything he can’t handle with his usual level of skill. If anything, he can always slink off in hiding or call in sick.

“I might not be… as useful,” Spy admits with real annoyance.

“Yeah, no kiddin’,” Scout says, taking Spy’s plate for himself. “Just keep a low profile for today, maybe? Or, I don’t know, just give a shout if you need help.”

Spy gives Scout an incredulous look. It takes everything in him to not say some snide version of ‘over my dead body’. Even if it could very well be over his dead body. He stalks off, choosing to not see how everyone stares after him.

The day of battles goes as well as Spy assumes it would. He spends the entire time in some half-attentive, half-survivalist state. It’s not complicated to fall back on his usual habits and set of skills. It’s all standard espionage—stay invisible, kill enemies, try to keep out of the way. He sticks to the base, defending rather than venturing out, and manages to kill a couple of BLU enemies. It’s not his best work, leaving him more exhausted than normal, but it’s something.

By the end of the day, Spy isn’t much credit to the team but neither is he a complete embarrassment. Which is all he can ask for at present. He’s only died a dozen times. His performance scores are a mess.

The real work starts when they’ve all punched out for the end of shift and Spy heads straight back to Sniper’s camper. After several seconds of impatient knocking, Spy huffs and takes out a cigarette.

Some long minutes later, Sniper appears with two small bowls of stew in his hands.

“What,” Spy begins, becoming angry all over again, “significant dates do you know about?”

Sniper hands the bowls over, waiting until Spy relents and takes them so that he can key in the lock code. He doesn’t bother shielding the numbers. “I think the older you is playing a prank on me.”

“Really?” Spy says, torn between memorizing the numbers and fighting against his very nature to refuse to learn. In three years he’ll know the code anyway, somehow, and it rankles him. “At the risk of getting stuck in the past?”

“Well,” Sniper muses, opening the door for him. “Maybe.”

Spy looks into the camper, resentful and affronted at being invited in. He steps inside, dinner bowls and all.

“What's this date?” he asks again, setting the food down at the table. He’s too well trained to have his stomach growl but not well trained enough to grab the spoon Sniper passes to him.

“In three days, it'll be the third anniversary of our first duo mission together,” Sniper says, sitting at the table. He glances at Spy then at the second bowl with a meaningful look.

Spy can take the hint. He’s exhausted, hungry, and in need of answers. He sits down, almost feeling like he’s been defeated in some obscure way. At the first bite of stew, he pauses, realization hitting the moment he swallows.

“The Fugazzi job,” Spy says, taking another bite. The stew is good. He wonders who on the team has made it—Heavy, perhaps. Judging from the amount of root vegetables.

Sniper’s smile seems to have some kind of inside joke behind it. “That's the one.”

That doesn't seem so bad. Spy had feared worst. An anniversary. “And there's a significant time?”

“Hour midnight, thirty-three.”

Spy taps his spoon, eyebrow raised.

Sniper shrugs. “Time of death for our assigned mark.”

Spy mutters, “Romantic.”

After a pause, Sniper says, “You did call it our first date, actually.”

“Great sense of humor, that future me,” Spy says, rolling his eyes.

Sniper grins, crooked. “I like it well enough.”

Spy’s heart rate doesn’t change at all, but he becomes acutely aware that it could have fumbled an unfortunate beat. His bowl is empty. He feels less irritated and ravenous, but still quite hungry.

“Is that all the food you brought?” Spy asks.

“Naw. That was just bait,” Sniper says, standing. He nods towards the base, acting as if he hadn’t sent Spy into several internal mental breakdowns by playing him so thoroughly. “Real dinner’s back at the mess hall. Team wants you there. C’mon.”

It becomes abundantly clear that Sniper isn’t the only person that's gotten to know Spy.

At the dinner table, Heavy places a mug next to his bowl and Demoman pours him a 1956 Zinfandel from Lodi—a good wine but not in his preferred vessel.

Spy learns quickly they aren’t treating him with kid gloves but nor are they teasing him incessantly. In fact, they all seem to act as if Spy isn’t backlogged by three years and currently grasping at straws to remain haughty and poised like he isn’t deeply bothered by everything.

Still, what a waste of good wine.

“Did we lose every single wine glass in the past three years?” Spy asks, pushing the mug to the side.

“Oh. No. I am sorry. I have forgotten,” Heavy says, scratching his nose. “You do not mind so much, these days. As long as the wine is quality.”

“Yeah, and them wine glasses don’t fit too good in the dishwasher,” Scout adds. “Here. Gimmie that zin if you aren’t drinkin’ it.”

“I see. I've become a complete degenerate,” Spy says, relinquishing the mug if only to watch Scout as he downs the entire thing like it’s grape juice. Forget about the waste. This is criminal to the wine. “Something to look forward to. Drinking wine out of mugs.”

“Aye,” Demoman agrees, much too readily for Spy’s comfort. “One time, a soup bowl.”

“It'd been a bad day. No wine glass big enough,” Engineer clarifies like it has a chance of making Spy feel better. “If it’s any consolation, you still refuse to drink straight from the bottle.”

“Oh good,” Spy drawls, eating more stew from a soup bowl. Probably the same one he will drink wine from in three years, knowing his luck. Damn. A red would have been good with the meat, after all. “I have yet to sink so low.”

“Eh,” Medic says, loud enough for Spy to hear from down the table.

“You are only upset that you aren’t allowed to dissect my brain,” Spy says, glaring.

“Not yet!” Medic replies cheerily, “You know, the future you allows me to run some experiments on his body, for science-”

“That’s a lie,” everyone interjects with various levels of emotion, for Spy’s benefit. Thoroughly unnecessary, but it does ebb the conversation away from Spy and more towards Medic and his practices.

“So you figured out an important teleport date yet?” Engineer asks privately, brow knitting.

Sniper, sitting next to Spy, answers for him. “Yes. Three days. Midnight thirty-three, this Friday.”

Spy glances at Sniper then Engineer. There are dynamics at play here that he can’t figure out.

“Oh, whew. That’s good news. Plenty of time for me to run some checks with the teleporter,” Engineer says, clapping Spy on the back. “Try not to piss off too many people in the meanwhile.” He raises an eyebrow and nods at Sniper. “Especially Slim here. Lord only knows why he sticks with you.”

Sniper takes off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. It’s much too late to do anything, but he gives a small shake of his head and Engineer grimaces.

Spy reaches for that wine. There’s not much left, which is a shame.

He takes a swig, straight from the bottle.

The problem they discover, of course, is that Spy is precisely three years into the future. So if the future Spy is stuck in the past, he will also have to be a part of the duo mission, which is not anywhere near the sanctioned RED and BLU warzones. Hence, the older spy that’s stuck in the past would most likely be without a teleporter in three days.

“Well, you know how it went,” Spy says to Sniper, “Was there anything unusual?”

At Spy’s insistence, they no longer meet up at the camper. The more neutral territory is the workshop garage, which tends to get visitors but by some miracle or sudden social awareness from everyone else, no one seems to be around when Spy and Sniper take up one of the tables for a chat.

“No. Nothin’. It was an easy job,” Sniper says, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. “We thought RED paired us up as a preliminary test, to see if we could work together one on one.”

“So we didn’t use a teleporter,” Spy says, rubbing his temples while he paces back and forth. The floor might have a rut by the time he’s through walking.

“No. None,” Sniper confirms with a shrug. “You led the mark to a specific location and I-”

“-shot him. From the third floor of the hotel. Yes,” Spy says, lifting his head from his palm. He stops in front of Sniper. “We were in the middle of planning this, back in my time.”

“Actually, I ended up shooting from the rooftop. We changed that ‘round. Can’t recall why.”

“The future me is going to have a difficult time,” Spy mutters.

“Well, you're resourceful,” Sniper says, evidently fond and distressingly full of misplaced faith. He reaches over.

For one agonizing second, Spy thinks Sniper is going to wrap an arm around his waist. And maybe Sniper would have, but he stops in time to abort the motion and give Spy's forearm an awkward pat instead. His expression is rueful. Spy pulls back as a precaution, taking a small step away.

Sniper drops his hand. “Sorry.”

“It worries me that you can’t help it,” Spy says, blandly, and goes back to smoking his own cigarette. He watches Sniper’s jaw clench, the unhappy frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Completely compromised. Both Sniper and himself, in three years time. Sniper wants that person back so badly. It makes Spy ill, knowing Sniper only reaches out because he expects the gesture to be returned. He’s getting quite tired of the way Sniper looks at him like it should mean something. Spy deserves none of it. Worked for none of it. It’s as if he’s wearing the mask of a different person, a complete stranger that he isn’t sure how to pretend to be—and doesn’t want to be.

The more Spy thinks on it, the bigger the tangled, irreparable mess he sees. Every time he attempts to dislodge the mystery that is his future and the person he’s going to turn into, the more appalling it all seems. He wants to fight against it, dig his heels in and start yelling about how wrong it is.

And Spy has always been people-forward. He doesn’t just focus on the how and what. That much is obvious right now. His real specialty has always been who.

So just who the fuck does he become in three years?

“Je veux le tuer,” he mutters, shaking his head. I want to kill him.

“Oi, ne fais pas ça,” Sniper says, ducking his head, “J'aime bien cet homme.”

Spy drops his cigarette. Sniper has appalling pronunciation, but it's clear he knows what he's saying. Dear god, he knows how to conjugate.

“I think future you will be fine,” Sniper continues, thankfully in English. This time, he doesn’t hesitate to grab Spy by the arm, if only to keep Spy from collapsing in shock. “He’ll find a way.”

“Oh yes, since he's been a shining example so far,” Spy says, bitterly, falling into the opposite chair. “Breaking contract. Befriending enemy spies. Teaching snipers French.”

Sniper shrugs, letting go. “A lot can change in three years. You think it was all gonna stay the same?”

Spy fixes Sniper with a stare. He leans forward, as close as he dares, with one hand bracing against the table. Sniper doesn’t move, and Spy is disappointed to see the way Sniper eyes dart to his mouth, his neck and hands. Spy could, possibly, act in ways his future self might. A touch at the jaw or a hand at his knee. His very proximity makes Sniper lower his guard, and Spy has no doubt that he could lay fingers over Sniper’s pulse and feel its rapid beat.

It would be easy to take advantage of Sniper. But it would serve zero purpose. Sniper is giving him another one of those undeserved looks again.

A sardonic smile makes its way across Spy’s face. Sniper’s hands are curled into white-knuckled fists.

“Did you?” Spy asks, taking the cigarette from Sniper’s mouth. He takes a drag for himself.

Sniper meets his gaze. “You’re bein’ a huge bastard right now, you know that?”

“Oh, I assumed you’d be familiar with how unfair I can be,” Spy replies, backing off. He’s not going to accomplish anything by baiting Sniper. He crushes the cigarette into the ashtray. Teasing for the sake of testing boundaries. Spy exhales, smoke billowing. He can see how it starts.

“Yeah, mostly to yourself,” Sniper says with an exasperated sigh.

Spy rolls his eyes. He hates being read, particularly when it’s nearly accurate.

“Glad you found that quality of mine tolerable enough,” he says, standing up. He’s got tomorrow’s battles to contend with, another full day of not trying to make a fool of himself. His professionalism and pride will not allow two days of staying hidden and not putting in real work. He exits the workshop, leaving Sniper to light another cigarette by himself. “Good night.”

“I wouldn’t worry ‘bout tomorrow too much,” Sniper says, again with that unnerving ability to see right through him. “Night.”

Much to Spy’s dismay, the entire team helps him out. This is almost as bad as thinking he’s going to be a burden.

It starts with Scout pulling him by the arm before Spy can make his way through the dark mines towards the BLU base.

“Woah, woah. Wait a minute,” Scout hisses, ignoring Spy’s expression of affronted disbelief. “This is old news to us, but the enemy engineer likes to set up sentries at the end of the tunnel. Listen.”

They pause, and Spy can hear the faint beeping of a level three sentry far down into the darkness. He frowns. He could’ve turned invisible and put a sapper on it, but Scout continues to drag him out of the way until they are solidly back in RED territory.

Scout tips his head as he listens to someone through his headset. He squats down, motioning for Spy to do the same, and rolls his eyes when Spy remains standing.

“Suit yourself, old man,” Scout says, dragging his finger into the dirt — a couple of X’s, lines, and circles. “Just pay attention for a sec.”

It doesn’t take Spy long at all to see that Scout has drawn a very simplistic map of Teufort. Scout’s demeanor is calmer than what Spy is used to seeing, and it occurs to him that Scout would obviously not be as wet behind the ears anymore. He peers over Scout’s shoulder and does, against his instincts, pay attention.

“Figured you ain’t gonna trust us, but this is the plan for the day,” Scout says, glancing up. He gestures to the map, pointing at various spots. “It’s a three pronged attack, yeah? You remember that second exit ‘round the water tower? East side? You sneak in through there. Me and Solly will try to get through the other entrances. Then we rotate throughout the day, depending on how many times we die.”

Scout proceeds to relay the times and rotations as he stands to kick the dirt map away. He doesn’t seem overly concerned about Spy’s opinion.

“Sounds reckless,” Spy says, giving it anyway.

“I mean. You came up with it,” Scout replies with a huff. His chewing gum snaps. “If you think it’s stupid it’s because you’re stupid. Stupid.”

“I seem to play an integral part of this plan,” Spy says, skeptical. “Unless you lot are planning on using me as bait.”

Scout smiles, and it’s as sharp as one of Spy’s knives, if only slightly more jittery. “Uh, yeah. That’s the gist. Can’t mess this up, really.”

With that, Scout punches Spy’s arm in farewell and dashes off. Spy glares at him, miffed that the plan for the day seems to center around sending him off to die over and over again as a distraction. Perhaps, the spy in the future would have an equal chance of grabbing the intelligence. Scout made no mention of any back up or cover.

Spy scoffs. He activates his cloak, pulls out the sapper, and heads down into the tunnels anyway.

The continuous beep-beep-beep of the enemy sentry is as predictable as clockwork. Spy sneaks up on it and places the sapper on it, sending it sparking. Simple. Some things don’t change, after all.

When he turns around to a sudden shotgun blast, the enemy engineer is already dead on the ground. Spy blinks, confused, until his own engineer pops around the corner with a grin.

“Howdy. Scout told me you probably wouldn’t listen to him,” Engineer says, laughing.

Spy really doesn’t like the thought of having two engineers sneaking up on him. Or the thought of Scout being right. Engineer ignores his sullen silence.

“Aw, don’t mope. I’ve been assigned to cover your sorry ass,” Engineer says in good spirits despite Spy’s scowl. “You did pay attention to Scout, right? C’mon. Solly’s already on the move.”

Spy deactivates his cloak. Engineer had been talking to him the entire time, fully aware that he was standing nearby. His back gets patted in sympathy, and Spy can’t even fight that.

Engineer gestures ahead, and Spy goes on to follow the plan.

Spy knows in his head he should be thankful for considerate teammates, but he’s agitated that they’ve reach out in the first place. It’s pitiful, feeling like he’s on the backfoot constantly, being read and anticipated because they now know him.

Every move he makes, every risk he takes—there’s someone. Someone who know where he’ll end up going, saving his life, backing him up, or giving him a bottle of medigel when he needs it. At one point, Soldier drags him by the collar out of gunfire, scolding him all the way back to Medic. Heavy gives him a mortifying boost up a chain-linked fence when Spy gets cornered by the enemy Demoman. Above him, he hears Sniper’s gunshots fire off in the distance like a constant reminder of being watched. Known. Predicted.

He dies less often. And when he does, it’s with someone, appearing in the respawn room with them. No one even gives Spy a private moment to himself to bang his head against the wall.

He feels incompetent, humiliated by his lack of knowledge and awareness of the team, all of which is supposedly his specialty, but the relationships and team dynamics have changed so much it puts him in a foul mood and even worst temper. Demoman and Soldier make formidable pair, Pyro and Sniper can defend an entire base by themselves, Scout works best by himself—and countless other things that Spy is well aware of missing.

It’s not often he feels overwhelmed, head spinning in circles and loops as he attempts to sort through the nuances, and he tries to tell himself he only has one more day in this nightmare future, but he’s so blisteringly angry with himself. An unreasonable part of him refuses to let it slide.

“Come, Spy,” Heavy says, jolting him out of his thoughts. He pats Spy’s shoulder, shaking it as they stumble out of the respawn room together. “We will try again.”

Medic hands him a cigarette, already lit. “Herr Spy, I have an idea. We’ve done this before, with the future you. But you must get to the intelligence first. Then I will take care of the rest.”

Spy takes the cigarette. Scout’s voice buzzes in his earpiece.

“Hah! That plan? Freakin’ A, doc. You’re nuts.”

Then, on a private radio line Spy doesn’t even know he had, Scout mutters, ”Just tell us when you’re ready.”

Spy puts the cigarette to his lips but doesn’t inhale. That radio line isn’t something Scout should have. Spy gets the feeling that he may have made more channels. One for each member of the the team.

Spy throws the cigarette down, crushing it under his shoe.

So he’s blown up his entire career. Spilled secrets he should have never shared. So far into being well fucked, he’s lost count of contingency plans he’s been trying to make for when he gets back into his own right year and time. It’s bad enough his future self cares for Sniper, but apparently he’ll end up caring for the entire team. All this time he’s been making a show of being aloof and haughty, like a complete clown. Spy can see right through it. And more importantly, the rest of the team can as well.

During the next round, it doesn’t surprise him when he is able to get the enemy intelligence. Spy holds the briefcase, staring down the stark BLU hallways, mind blank for how he’ll make it out. He can hear the distance sounds of battle, but the halls are empty. He starts to run out of there, doubt growing when he hears the enemy pyro and soldier yelling very close.

Then, just as promised, Medic runs towards him with his coat on fire. That strange new medigun is pointed directly at Spy.

Spy has never been Ubered before.

The enemy pyro and soldier are taken care of with two extremely vengeful stabs, and Spy gets his backside kicked by Medic, yelling at him to get a fucking move on. The uber charge doesn’t last long — it’s drained the moment Spy makes it out of the main entrance of BLU base.

There’s an entire bridge to cross, but Spy sees the flicker of a red dot sight running along the planks, a glint of a scope from the water tower. Spy grits his teeth and makes a dash for it, just as a sniper round fires above him.

He makes it to the end of the bridge before the inevitable happens and he catches a blue dot sight blinking over his shadow. The bullet catches his side and Spy goes tumbling to the ground. Medic is already dead behind him. There should be a second sniper bullet through his head, but none comes.

Scout’s footsteps patter in front of him. Spy feels the briefcase pull from his grasp, and he looks up to see Scout grinning down at him.

“Hey. Plan worked,” Scout says, snickering.

“You used me as bait,” Spy coughs, choking on blood and dirt.

“We all did. Didn’t I say so?”

Spy sighs. “That you did. Don’t tell me I also came up with this plan.”

“Yeah, man.” Scout levels the scattergun, the same time Sniper’s red dot sight flits to Spy’s forehead. “This part, too. Oh.”

Seeing that Sniper is taking the task for himself, Scout gestures an affirmative with a wave and takes off back to base, briefcase in hand.

“Looks like Longshots wants you for himself,” he calls out with a bark of laughter.

Spy glances at the water tower. It’s the last thing he sees before the mercy bullet kills him.

It’s one win out of several more rounds to follow, but it’s the one to beat Spy down into silence. He follows orders, does as he’s told, and allows the team to use his set of skills as they see fit. They touch him, constantly, with shoulder shakes and light punches and pats on the back. They even kill on his behalf, making time for revenge and petty shots. When he asks for help, he gets it in return with varying degrees of complaints but it gets done.

By the end of the day, Spy wants to put a gun to his head. He’s at his limit with being so exposed. Read like an open book. Flayed open. Thoughts predicted like he’s writing them out for all to see before he can hide them. They know him.

The team wins for the day. The Announcer sounds just as dour as ever, even in victory.

When Sniper finds him alone in the workshop, Spy doesn’t even have the energy to wonder how he knew where to look.

“Nice work,” Sniper says, and touches him with clear familiarity, a light hold at his elbow. He’s high on the recent win, and there’s a smile that is lit in a way that goes beyond distant friendliness. “Knew you’d pull through.”

There’s so much affection in that voice. Spy feels his careful control unraveling at the seams. This, now, is the biggest fucking mystery of them all. The start of everything.

He finally cracks, smacking Sniper’s hand away with enough force that even Sniper draws back from the viciousness of it.

“You know, bushman, I wish you’d remember that I don’t know you,” Spy snarls, turning away. “There might be something going on between you and the me in three years, but not now. Not with me.”

Sniper blinks. “Ah. I didn’t know it was bothering you that badly. I don’t mean for it to.”

“Yes, it bothers me!” Spy spits, gesturing between them. “Everything about this. I cannot conceive how we end up being together. I’ve been watching you, you know. All this time.” He puts a hand to his temple, palm grinding down into his skin in frustration. “I can’t possibly be the only one who has changed. I even asked you the other night. You—you don’t seem any different. So why?”

Spy glances back at Sniper, who has gone red with anger. Finally. There is some kind of perverse satisfaction in knowing that Sniper hadn’t been able to predict this from him—that Spy has pushed enough where he has no choice but to swing back.

“Oh, I’m bloody well sorry you find the idea of us so hard to believe,” Sniper snaps. “Must be a real disappointment I ain’t some hoity-toity bloke or sheila.”

“Of course it is!” Spy says, as if Sniper had made the most idiotic and obvious statement. “Do you think I’d hoped to be roped into some kind of stupid, rash relationship? Any relationship? With the way we live? We should know better.”

There is not a doubt in Spy’s mind that this an old, tired argument. They’ve probably had it before, many times. He sees the telltale flicker in Sniper’s eyes, like he’s steeling himself, and Spy hones in on it like a target on an exposed back.

He knows the sheer amount of work they both would have to go through to keep this up. Spy can imagine it, the layers of backdoors, bribes, and winding roundabout ways to communicate. There will be sneaking around and checking for wiretaps just to steal away any private moment they can get. A constant feeling of paranoia, waiting to be discovered. It doesn’t matter if half the team knows and doesn’t care, all Spy can see are vulnerabilities. Avenues of exposure and weaknesses.

The unnecessary problems of keeping a relationship such as this are endless and, from what Spy can see—it's all for very little gain. This future version of himself is a separate person, a whole different being.

“I don’t know how he makes it work, with you,” Spy says, going quiet under all the resentment. “It’s foolish. You know as well as I do all this is not worth the trouble.”

Sniper goes silent, and in that moment Spy learns something very crucial about him.

It doesn’t do a sharpshooter any good to have shaky hands, so when Sniper becomes angry, he goes absolutely still with it.

And Spy is suddenly aware that he has just said something hideously, unforgivably wrong.

Sniper jerks his head up, movement like being caught off guard by the recoil of his own rifle. His mouth opens, no sound coming out until Spy can hear the faintest crack, a shift in Sniper’s exhale, and then it’s gone.

“Fuck,” Sniper says. He brings up the heel of his palm to one eye, sunglasses lifting slightly as he does a furious, hasty swipe. He shakes his head, gaze dropping to stay fixed on the floor before he turns from Spy without a backwards glance. “Fine. We’re done here.”

He walks out of the room, so calmly Spy isn’t sure if he hallucinated his own outburst with how quickly Sniper just leaves him in the dead quiet of the workshop.

Spy stays rooted in the same spot for a long time after.

“Rouge, I have not seen you in a while,” BLU Spy says, in French. Curiously, he has a Cajun lilt to his accent.

Spy freezes in place, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He glances at the hand over his forearm, friendly despite the hard grip. Bleu is holding him by his knife arm, which might strike Spy as funny under different circumstances.

Either way, professional spies tend to not disturb each other during a ten minute smoke break. Spy hopes this is the case. He’s met up with Bleu a couple of times like this before, as well as stabbed and gunned him down in battle.

Only very recently, back in his time, they had exchanged unlabeled bottles of wine. If anyone had asked Spy one week ago he if had to choose someone to fool around with, it would have undoubtedly be BLU Spy. Not some unwashed man living in a camper van. Not that it matters now. Spy attempts to push that thought out of his head. He’s got the enemy spy to worry about.

“Ah. I’ve been occupied,” he says, and takes a gamble to slip into Québécois.

Bleu visibly brightens, which makes Spy’s nerves jump by the unexpected honesty of the expression. Dear god, they might be actual friends by now.

“By that sniper of yours, no doubt,” Bleu says with a sly grin, and lets go of Spy’s arm.

For all the good it does Spy to try to stop thinking about him. He gawks at Bleu. “What?”

“Oh, you know I only like to tease, my friend. I was paying him a visit earlier, he seemed… angry.” Bleu shrugs. “Bashed my head in and sliced me up for a time. Roared a bit.”

“I’m… sorry?” Spy tries.

“Not to worry. As I was dying he apologized. Said his temper’s been foul lately.” Bleu pauses, hand out. “He also told me that you’d make it up to me with a pack.”

Spy is already reaching into his breast pocket. “Not an entire pack, surely.”

“Ah, my ruse,” Bleu says, sighing in disappointment. “You’ve caught it. He said three cigarettes.”

Spy opens his case, pulling out the three cigarettes.

”He seems to know me too well,” Spy mutters darkly. He deposits the cigarettes into Bleu’s waiting palm. If there’s a hint of disgust in his voice, it may or may have not been directed at himself. Surely Bleu would understand.

Bleu lights one of the cigarettes, not looking at Spy, though his brow goes up as he catches Spy’s tone. He snaps his lighter shut before turning to him. Smoke wafts from his mouth then more quickly out through his nose. His Cajun accent comes out in full force. “...You good, Red?”

“Don’t you think it’s unprofessional?” Spy asks, surprised by how the question just tumbles out of him. “I might be making a mistake with him.”

Bleu stares at him. Spy recognizes the look of a man trying to connect the dots then giving up the moment the dots go nowhere.

“Where is this coming from?” Bleu says, bewildered. “Just last week you were saying something about a trip, with him, not for a mission for once. Did that not pan o-”

Spy guns him down, quite on accident. His hand had been at his gun before he new what he was doing. His ears ring, and he thinks a pyro might have set his head on fire.

“Fuck,” Spy mutters, watching as Bleu’s lifeless body falls to the ground.

Two hours later, Bleu finds him again.

Spy freezes for the second time today, with a knife at his throat, pressed deep enough to cut a thin, shallow line across his skin. Bleu’s Cajun accent has disappeared completely.

“I forgot how very rude you were, back then,” Bleu says lightly, “I might have to ask you for that whole pack now.”

Spy reaches into his jacket and holds it up. Bleu plucks the carton from his hand. The knife disappears from Spy’s throat, though Bleu does deliver one vengeful kick to the back of Spy’s knee. Spy goes down, landing hard on his side.

“So,” Bleu begins, lighting up another cigarette, “I went to your sniper a second time. As I was killing him slowly, I asked about you. Ah, M. Rouge, I assume you’ve been in shock this entire time?”

Spy sits up, only to be stopped by Bleu’s well made shoe at his chest. He grunts, “Yes.”

“My friend, I wish I could give you better news, but my professional assessment is that you have completely fucked this up, very thoroughly,” Bleu says, kicking him again when Spy attempts to grab his foot. “But you have always been a thorough person so I’m not surprised.”

Spy accepts the kick. That, or he’s been stunned by it. He lays flat on his back, staring at the sky. “I think my future self will kill me.”

“Likely so, I’m afraid,” Bleu says, kneeling next to him. He smacks Spy’s head and blows smoke in his face. “Do mind the cameras, if you can. You wasted our ten minute break earlier.”

Spy grimaces and rolls on all fours. He knows how to keep a conversation going during a fight. The best way is to tackle the bastard.

Bleu goes down, easily.

“I doubt I would have faired any better in your shoes,” Bleu adds, in tones that suggest that he would have, in fact, taken it better than Spy had.

They grapple for a bit, rolling wildly in the dirt. Spy reaches for his knife but Bleu slams the heel of his palm upwards against his jaw.

Aside from the pain, the rest is a strange feeling. He’s unjudged by Bleu, who doesn’t seem to think any less of the relationship. Or their own friendship, in fact. Spy feels a little better, but at the same time, it compounds the awareness of how truly awful he has been behaving. He wonders what relationships Bleu kept himself to not condone or ridicule Spy.

“What am I going to do?” he groans, punching Bleu right back. He’s bitten his tongue, and ruined a potentially good thing with Sniper because of his blind stubbornness.

But he’s always been good at sabotaging things and people, which goes to say he'd be excellent sabotaging himself. All the tools are at his disposal, his thoughts and desires and ways to manipulate his own way of thinking. When Spy brushes back all his apprehension and instinctive denial, he’s beginning to see a hairline crack of jealousy. For everything. Everything that he might have in three years. If he hasn’t killed it already.

Bleu, of course, makes sure this revelation stays in his chest by sitting on it. He hits Spy across the face for good measure.

“What a conundrum,” Bleu says, rolling his eyes as blood drips from his nose. He sniffs, pulling out handkerchief. “You and your sniper are quite deliriously in love with each other, I'm sure he'll give you another chance to explain yourself.”

Spy squirms under the weight, but it’s no use. He shuts his eyes, face burning. He huffs. “Where do I even start?”

“My god, Red. You always seem to lose half your brain when it comes to that man,” Bleu says, stubbing out his cigarette on Spy’s forehead. “Nothing has changed on that front.”

Spy jerks back, cursing at him. “You know what? Eat shit, crawdad fucker.”

Bleu laughs, drawing out his revolver.

“You can always try apologizing for once,” he suggests.

In one smooth motion, he shoots Spy point blank and sends him back to base.

Spy knocks on Sniper’s camper door. It’s around six hours until midnight thirty-three. The grime of the day’s battles still cling to him but Spy can feel the clock breathing down his neck. It’s as if he has all the time in the world, and yet none at all.

Sniper peers out from a crack at the door and shuts it once he sees Spy.

“Listen. Pretty soon you’ll be back in your right bloody year and you can work on not keepin’ stupid rash relationships,” Sniper says from the camper, slightly muffled but no less bitter. “Just make sure you don’t start flirtin’ with me next time and we’ll be fine.”

Spy stares, aghast.

All this time, he had been thinking the relationship was inevitable, with no control or say in the matter. Predetermined to happen no matter what he does. Meanwhile, Sniper had thought it could be reversed, or stopped. Nipped at the bud before it could ever happen, killed on the spot before it has a chance. Spy stops breathing. Comprehension slots itself into the bigger picture, along with the dawning horror of it. The flip side of Sniper’s thoughts, his fear of losing something that he might never know, if Spy had his way. And Spy has proved to be very adept at killing things.

It’s no wonder Sniper reacted the way he did. His anger, if not already justified, seems doubly earned now.

Spy thumps his head against the dirty door of the camper. He glances at the keypad, miserable.

“I don’t know how you put up with it,” he admits. “I know I can be quite heartless.”

The inside of the camper remains silent. Sniper is probably agreeing with him.

“So I am going to be honest with you,” Spy says, the back of his neck prickling. People say a pulse will stay steady when telling the truth. This is not the case. Spy’s heartbeat feels like it could drum right out of his chest. “I stand by what I said; it’s a lot of trouble. I still can’t see it—us—or why I’m going to have to work so hard to keep it."

He exhales. The door doesn't budge.

"But I really, truly want to find out."

No need to mention that he’d been scared out of his mind. Sniper should already know, and maybe he feels the same.

“I’m sorry,” Spy says. He presses the first number on the keypad. “I reacted badly and took it out on you.”

He already knows the code, from the first time Sniper had let him inside. Spy can’t help it. It’d been the first real, tangible thing he’d learned about their relationship.

0-0-3-4. What happens after midnight thirty-three, he’s going to find out.

“I probably wasn’t an easy person to get to know,” he says, keying in the code. The door unlocks but he doesn’t go in. He waits, dreading every possible outcome.

The door handle turns, opening just slightly. Sniper peers down at him and glances at the keypad with a wry expression.

“Well,” Sniper says, “I wasn’t either. But it’d been fun. Mostly fun.”

Spy looks away. He steels himself before glancing back up at Sniper, and lets himself take in the steadfast way Sniper looks at him. It’s daunting.

“When I go back,” Spy says, determined, “I look forward to getting to know you.” And then, because he’s already coming up the single step, “Or maybe getting to know you a little bit now.”

Sniper opens the door the rest of the way.

Spy learns how Sniper takes his coffee. Black, and decaffeinated.

It’s an innocent detail enough, except Spy can insinuate that Sniper keeps regular coffee, cream and a bit of sugar in the camper just for the future Spy.

Spy stares into his cup, his own nondescript mug that he'll be using for the next three years, and feels the yawning gulf between himself and the person he might turn into slide a little closer.

“So in my future,” Spy starts, just to keep things light, “we’ve managed to fall in love-”

Sniper makes a choking noise, coffee spraying from his mouth.

Spy ducks, baffled, and slowly sits back up once Sniper stops coughing.

“Uh. We… are not in love?” he asks again, apprehension crawling up his spine.

“Well. Uh. Yes? Maybe?” Sniper says, with the utmost lack of confidence. He sets his coffee down. “We just… haven’t… said it. In those words. At all.”

Spy pales. Confused thoughts tumble around in his head until it hits upon the simplest explanation of them all.

They haven’t confessed. They’ve fucked countless times but they haven’t talked.

He should have foreseen this. Of course, since he’s been in denial about the actual arrangement all this time, it goes on to say his future self will have also taken great pains to avoid any direct confrontation about feelings.

Spy knows he has made a grave mistake. If not for himself right now then surely for his future self, who might come back just to strangle him then die by the vague laws of time travel in the most bizarre case of murder-suicide.

But one thing is for sure before he is inevitably killed by his own future hand—Spy is going to kill Bleu.

Deliriously in love, indeed. To the point of complete stupidity.

“We haven’t discussed our feelings?” Spy asks, flatly. The only good thing about this entire ordeal is that he’s being forced to confront many things about himself—so what’s one more painful truth.

Spy glares at Sniper. It’s about time someone else suffered with him.

“No?” Sniper replies, faint, “What’s there… what’s there to talk about?”

Spy stands from his seat at the dining table and prods Sniper with a finger to the chest.

“Are you an idiot? Is the future me an idiot?” he says, poking ruthlessly as he emphasizes each question. “Did we both get brain damaged?”

Sniper flinches, shrinking back into his own chair. He slaps Spy’s hand away, indignant. “Look. You’re, like, some kinda third party witness to this. It’s more complicated once you’re actually in it.”

“It’s not complicated! I clearly end up adoring you.” Spy pauses and adds, for clarity, “Me, in the future.”

Sniper’s face looks like it could go up in smoke at any given time. One flick of a lighter and he’s going to turn into charred timber.

“You don’t feel the same?” Spy asks, crossing his arms. “About the future me?”

“I... uh.” Sniper cringes. He looks like he wants to pull his hat down over his face. “I do, yeah. I care for you.”

“Ah, yes! You care for me. The same way I care for cigarettes and good espresso. Fantastic. I’ll take my leave then,” Spy says, turning around. “Have a good night, fellow platonic associate. I will see you at midnight thirty-three, if you care to say good-bye.”

Sniper grabs his arm. For once, Spy doesn’t jerk away from the touch. Sniper seems to notice, grip loosening as he flushes even further.

“Well, uh, now hold on. I’m… erm. I like, I mean, I have…”

Spy makes a go on gesture. To his delight, Sniper sputters and throws up his hands.

“Oh piss off, you smug cunt,” he groans in genuine anguish. He rakes his hand through his hair, hat falling off. “Listen. All you need to hear is that I’m yours. Mostly yours, at this point. If you want more out of me, wait your bloody three years, just like I had to.”

Spy lets out a laugh for what feels like the first time in ages. “I see.”

Sniper tilts his head, staring, and Spy also discovers that Sniper likes his laugh, even when it’s got a mean edge to it. He smirks, sitting back down to finish the rest of his coffee.

“Cheatin’ leech,” Sniper grumbles, still red in the face. “You're getting an unfair advantage.”

“I’ll be fair about it,” Spy says, lying through his teeth.

Sniper laughs, and Spy thinks he might enjoy Sniper’s laughter as well.

The entire team sees Spy off. It’s as awkward as Spy assumes it would be, with him standing in front of a teleporter and eight other men staring at their watches, timed to the very second.

At midnight thirty, Soldier suddenly jumps.

“Aw crap,” he says, breaking the tense silence, “Who remembers some lotto numbers?”

No one does, except Pyro, who is shrieking them to no avail as they all start yelling.

“Shit, uh, stocks,” says Engineer, “What stocks are good now?”

“None of us know jack shit about that stuff!”

“Christ,” Sniper mutters. “Don’t put anythin’ in RED or BLU, we know that much.”

“Oh, Australium—”

“Here he be, angstin’ off about God knows what for three whole days and not thinkin’ bout the more important things,” Demoman groans, smacking the back of Spy’s head. “Lotto numbers!”

“Wait, what about Australium-” Spy starts, only to be spun around by Sniper.

“Best get your knife out, just in case,” he reminds, one hand at Spy’s back.

Spy takes out the butterfly knife, careful not to stab anyone as he’s promptly jostled closer to the teleporter. It’s very tempting, but it appears that they all mean well. It’s not just Sniper’s hand at his back now, shoving him through.

Spy teleports, right at 00:33.

[ THREE YEARS EARLIER ]

Spy ends up stabbing the first person he sees the moment he comes out the teleporter. Or, really, his knife runs into the belly by the sheer force of Spy’s weight falling through.

They tumble to the floor, and Spy catches a glimpse of the stranger—who seems oddly familiar until he realizes it’s the face of none other than his Fugazzi mark.

Spy stabs the man again, though he’s sure the mark is dead. Curiously, there’s already a splatter of blood across the man’s face, but no head wound. He rolls off the man, sitting back, and looks around the room he finds himself in.

The teleporter is in the corner, dark. It looks like the bottom half of a coat rack. There are no windows, though Spy notices one singular vent, with a rather large bullet hole through the middle.

Before he can ascertain if there’s a door at all, the ceiling creaks alarmingly. Spy glances up, just in time to see a splitting crack, a boot poking through, and then a loud snap as Sniper falls on top of him.

“Spy!”

Spy wheezes, blinking when he sees Sniper on top of him.

“No scar,” Spy notes, mumbling and nonsensical.

Sniper scrambles off him in a cloud of dust and plaster. He forces Spy into sitting up, gripping him by the shoulders and looking him up and down. Spy hadn't been mistaken; there's no scar across Sniper's face, though there is a balaclava clenched in his fist. Spy touches his own face and finds that his mask is still on.

”I don’t understand,” Sniper says, just as baffled, “You’re okay? I shot you.”

Spy seems to have missed many things, back in his right timeline. The mark is dead right beside them, with two knives stuck in the body, and a shoulder shot through. His future self must have had one hellish time, creating this mess.

“Yes, despite you landing on me,” Spy says.

“This was your bloody plan!” Sniper exclaims, throwing up his hands.

It’s a comfort to see Sniper glaring at him with very little familiarity. No lingering affection or secret meaning behind that exasperated look. It is what it is. He likely thinks Spy is some insane RED agent at this point.

It makes laughing easier. The two of them are on even footing now, and Spy doesn’t have to constantly lag behind. He doesn’t have to want to touch, kiss, yearn, or anticipate anything from Sniper. And Sniper doesn't expect anything from him either. Yet.

The tension and stress from the past three days leave Spy's body with dizzying speed. He sways, lightheaded by the sheer relief, and surprises himself by not flinching when Sniper grabs his arm to steady him.

"You loon. What's so funny?"

“Not bad, for a first date,” Spy answers, still laughing, harder now with the way Sniper’s jaw is left hanging, and flops back down.