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People seem to think he doesn't know that what he's doing is bad for his health, but that's not really true.
Something is wrong with him, and Mick is fully aware of it.
No one can explain why he is the way he is. It's just another quirk people seem to accept from him. Sun shines, grass grows, birds fly, and sometimes, he doesn't eat.
He's always had a...thing with food. Certain foods just make him feel sick when he eats them, or like he's going to squirm out of his skin. It's not a feeling Mick can easily describe, so it's always just a shrug. "I'm not hungry," he says, even as his stomach gnaws at him, because the pain is better than having to face that feeling. It's never for long periods of time, and he's not self-conscious about his weight. Sometimes, he's hungry but waits too long to eat, and the feeling goes away, so he doesn't.
Sometimes, he just isn't hungry to begin with.
The calories he misses from meals he gets from caffeine and nicotine. They thrum in his veins, keeping his body upright without leaving a heavy feeling in his stomach. When it gets really bad, all he has before supper is a pot of coffee and four cigarettes, plus maybe a handful of granola for brekkie, but even that's too much sometimes. It becomes the usual, even though he knows it shouldn't.
When his mum calls, he lies and says he's been eating better lately.
It's a sluggish Tuesday morning, and he's just put the pot on the brew as heeled dress shoes click against old wooden floors. "Bonjour," Spy greets him quietly. Mick just hums in response, watching the coffee drip methodically. He ignores the figure standing next to him, instead filling his mug and shuffling away. The coffee sits heavy in his stomach and ashy on his tongue, and it makes him feel nauseous. They drink their coffee in tentative silence, and Mick is just about to flee back to the safety of his camper as new, heavy footsteps rapidly approach.
"Ah, guten morgen, Herr Sniper!" Medic greets him cheerily, forgoing the mug entirely to drink out of the coffee pot with a plastic silly straw he fishes out of a pocket full of pens. "Vhile I have you, I noticed you vere absent at supper last night." The doctor tilts his head like a pup, staring wide-eyed and expectant at the sharpshooter.
Face flushing, Mick scratches the back of his neck as he thinks of a suitable response. "I, uh- wasn't 'ungry," he admits, stomach turning as the two men stare at him. "Ain't a big deal." A rumbling in his stomach decides to make a fool out of him right then and there, and he pulls his hat low to hide the brightening flush on his face.
"Yes, clearly your stomach agrees," Spy drawls, lighting a cigarette as Medic scrunches his nose. "Don't look me like zhat, docteur. It's not 'urting you."
"It's hurting my ego," Medic argues, arms crossed. "Vhat have I told you about those things?"
"I should zhink our line of work would kill me sooner, non?" Spy bites back, purposefully flicking ash in the doctor's direction. His pointed gaze then lands on Mick, who futilely tried to sneak out as they argued. "Don't zhink we've forgotten about you, bushman."
For an inexplicable reason, his first instinct is to scream back, but the Sniper restrains himself, knuckles white as he grips his cup. "I ain't lyin', spook," he grounds out, jaw twitching as he fights to keep his tone level. "I wasn't 'ungry, and that's ta end of it."
"Zhen why so defensive, hm?" Spy points out, grin sharp as he takes another drag from his cigarette. Mick's eyebrow upticks only slightly, but it's too much - the Frenchman is right, and now he knows it. "And surely if you didn't eat zhen, you would eat now? Why so eager to leave?"
"Spy, bitte," Medic scolds him, although there's a nervous edge to his tone. "Don't push him, you'll scare the junge away-"
Maybe it's the concerned tinge as Medic addresses him, or referring to him with such a childish term, but the limited composure Mick had is finally spent. "Maybe it ain't any ya bloody business," he snaps, ignoring the burning ache in his stomach as they stare at him, face twin expressions of surprise and something akin to pity. "I ain't eatin' brekkie, and ya can fuck right off if ya think ya gonna make me."
Turning on his heel, Mick barely avoids barrelling over Scout, ignoring the yelp as he pushes past the younger man. "Oi, what's your issue, Snipes!" The Bostonian yells after him, staring at his retreating back. "Frickin' jerk.."
The Sniper is trembling as he slams the door of his camper, rage spilling out from his mind. "FUCK!" He shouts at the top of his lungs, balled fist denting the metal walls of the van. It'll be a bitch to fix later, but there's too much anger in Mick's head for there to be room for logic too. "BLOODY, GODDAMN- FUCK!" He's a flail of limbs, hitting and kicking and screaming as he drains the violent fury stuck in his limbs, face red and breath heaving.
Suddenly, everything is pissing him off; the whistle of the wind in the blinds, the smell of coffee and dirty laundry, the fact that he has dirty laundry to begin with. The hair lying on the back of the Sniper's neck is itchy and he wants to rip it out of his skull. He can see Spy's stupid smug handsome face, and he wants to cave it in with his bare hands, and Mick's stomach hurts but he can't eat now or it'll mean he was right.
Throwing himself into the booth, Sniper winces as his head bounces off the wall, anger sufficiently drained. Left behind is a resigned sort of exhaustion, and his face is burning, but with embarrassment now, as Mick realises he's basically just thrown a tantrum like a child. Feeling both horribly sick and terribly empty at the same time, a growing stain catches his eye, discolouring the linoleum floors.
Leaning forward, his boots catch on ceramic, and the scratching it makes as it drags across the floor makes him want to curl up and die. Turning it over with the toe of his shoe, he sees it's his #1 Sniper coffee mug. It must have been collateral during his...outburst.
Sniper pulls his knees to his chest, tucks his head in, and stays there until it's time to go to work.
~~~
"Jump this, ya stupid piker."
Bang. The BLU Soldier falls dead, blood splattering the rust-coloured dirt of the battlefield, and Demo gives Mick a wave before moving on to a new opponent. With trembling fingers, he reloads the rifle.
He's never been more thankful for his position away from the front lines, because the Sniper can't stop his flinch every time the gun goes off.
Usually steady hands are quivering under the strain of the sounds of battle and the acidic taste under his tongue, and it feels like he's just done a line of coke; he can see every dust particle, taste the gunpowder on his hands, hear every word spoken dozens of feet below.
The floorboards creak behind him, and Mick nearly skewers his own team's Engineer on his kukri.
Engie jumps back, hands held in a placating gesture. "Woah there, Slim," he exclaims, brows furrowed as the knife isn't lowered from where it's pointed at his chest. "What's got your britches in a twist?" Sniper just stares at him, scrutinising every detail, and the Engineer's frown deepens. "You alright, son? You look a lil-"
"Prove ya ain't a Spy," Mick demands, a frustrating quiver in his tone as he grounds out the words. The twitch in his wrist travels all the way up the blade, and he refuses to look at Engie, he'll just find pity he doesn't want.
"...a coupla months ago, you got drunker than Cooter Brown an' Scout managed to convince you ice is alive, an' it made you cry."
Face red, Sniper tosses the knife aside and sits with a huff, wood creaking in protest. "'S a little outta your way, innit, mate?" he mumbles, cheeks heated with embarrassment as he watches the small figures bounce around below. He takes aim at the BLU Heavy, swearing loudly when he misses, hitting the enemy in the neck instead.
"Was passing through," Engie tells him vacantly, just watching him try and fail to headshot the Heavy. Engie's steel-toed boots thump against the floorboards as he steps up behind Mick, and his full body tenses when the Texan claps a hand on his shoulder. "Listen, son...I dunno what you're goin' through, or what'cher feelin', but if you need anythin', you just let me know." Engie gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze, unperturbed by the lack of response. "I noticed you didn' come to supper last night. I won' ask why; it ain't any of my business. But I will give you my 'pinion. I think you oughta make some friends, an' I don' mean drinkin' buddies. Scout is hopped up as a jackrabbit, but he's a nice fella when you get to know him. Or Pyro, if you wann'a quiet option." With a heavy pat on the shoulder, Engie lets go, still unbothered by the Sniper's silence. "I hope I see you at supper tonight, Slim."
There's the telltale drum of retreating footsteps as the Engineer takes his exit. Mick just sits there, watching the Heavy slowly choke to death on his own blood through his scope.
He promptly turns to the side and vomits.
~~~
It's 5 p.m., and he can't bring himself to do it.
Curled up on his bunk, the Sniper's throat burns from the bile sitting there, just eroding away with no relief. Sitting up could help relieve it, even if slightly, but he feels too bad to try. There's antacids on the counter, but the idea of being vertical makes his skin crawl, so he simply lays there in agony, unmoving.
Food doesn't sound appealing right now, anyway.
He passes the time by staring at the wall, counting the cracks in the paint, for god knows how long. Vaguely, Mick recognises a dull throb in his shoulder and hip, begging for any respite from holding his body weight. He doesn't listen, vaguely between the wall and his own musings, a running tally in the back of his mind. A sharp knock breaks his concentration, and it's surprisingly frustrating as he looses his place.
Maybe if I ignore 'em, they'll go 'way.
"Open zhe door, bushman."
Goddamn it.
"Fuck off, spook," Sniper yells at the door, swallowing uncomfortably around the knot in his chest.
"Ah, 'e lives," Spy taunts him, not waiting for courtesy any longer and pushing the creaky door open himself. He squints at Mick, ignoring the protest the Kiwi erupts with. "You missed dinner. Again."
"Oi, get outta my bloody van!" He shouts, wincing minutely as he sits up, stomach jumping at the motion. Spy tilts an eyebrow at him, and that's when the Sniper knows he's screwed.
"Are you injured?" Spy presses him, moving closer to examine the sheets for blood. Mick bears his teeth at him like a dog, so he doesn't approach too closely. "Don't be like zhat, I'm trying to help you, biche."
"...I'm gonna assume that was an insult," Sniper mumbles, slumping back into the warm spot on his bed, jaw tense as the burning intensifies again. If his face is pink from the concern he's being shown, it's only for him to know. "'M not injured."
The staring is unnerving as Spy simply looks him up and down, steel blue eyes scrutinising every inch of him. Mick has never been so thankful for a quilt in his life; no way in hell he wants this guy seeing his pants. "Is zhere anyt'ing I can do?" Spy asks quietly, leaning back to stare him in the face. He doesn't comment on the way Sniper avoids eye contact with him. Truthfully, the question startles him - this is possibly the nicest the Frenchman has ever been to him, and it's over basically nothing.
Eh, fuck it. "'and me the roll on the table- yea, tha's it," Mick instructs him, popping three of the chalky tablets in one go. The texture is nauseating, and he gags slightly, but he manages to keep them down. "'ppreciate it."
Spy watches him, brow tense, cigarette twirling between his fingers. "Shall I..fetch zhe medic for you?" He asks, voice uncharacteristically gentle, just a soft rasp in the quiet space. Mick will never admit what it does to him, stomach fluttering, almost indistinguishable from the pain.
Leant against the booth, Spy reaches for the lighter left on the table, but stops halfway. Fingers quivering slightly, he retracts his hand. Eyebrow raised, the Sniper follows his movements quizzically.
"Nah, I'll be alright," he mumbles, knees curling towards his chest when a more unpleasant squeezing sensation takes over his gut. "Y'u can smoke, ain't gonna bother me."
The movements are slow, hesitant, but practiced, placing a smoke between his lips and lighting it. Smoke pools on the ceiling as Spy exhales, stormy eyes fixated on every errant twitch of his body. Against his greatest efforts, a blush rises on Mick's cheeks, and the slight smile on the Frenchman's face tells him that he sees it, too. A sly glint dances in his eye as he flicks his disguise kit open again. "Would you like one, mon biche?"
Pushing himself up, huffing slightly, the Sniper mumbles his thanks as he takes the proffered cig. He's about to ask for the lighter when Spy leans forward, gently grabbing his chin and presses the ends of their cigarettes together. For that moment, Mick's brain goes blank, adrenaline shooting through his limbs. The rouge's gloved hand is light on his face, a barely there touch, and yet he can't pull himself away. If he was pink in the face before, he's cherry red now, eyes wide.
He tries to draw a breath to protest, and smoke unexpectedly fills his lungs. Hacking and coughing, Spy holds the Sniper’s cigarette for him as he rides it out, spare hand coming to rest on his back. “Y-You’re a wanker,” he mumbles as the vapour clears from his airway, snatching the offending cig from the Frenchman’s hand. Lungs burning from the strain, Mick pointedly ignores the hand still lingering in between his shoulder blades, pressing into the thin fabric of his sleeveless top. “A right bitch, yknow.”
There’s that same stupid smug, handsome smile on Spy’s face, smoke curling from between his lips most certainly soaking into the sheets. “But of course, mon mignon ami.”