Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It shouldn’t be so unusual. This kind of passing fancy for another man happens all the time in the army, or so he’s heard.

Working for Reliable Excavation Demolition isn’t too unlike being in the army. Better arrangement for sure, if you ask Sniper. Him and eight blokes sit around and shoot the shit in the desert, until someone or other decides to send them off into no-man’s land where they shoot the shit out of some other cunts. By the end of it he’s done a good day’s work and, unlike the army, he goes back to a warm camper and a ridiculously big pile of dosh.

When it’s just you and a bunch of other men in the middle of nowhere, with a half-decent ration of grog and plenty of running around and sweating and – well, it’s not like Sniper’s never thought about it, even before this job.

He’s got no problem with it. He’s never cared too much whether a sheila wants a go at another sheila or a fella wants to take it up the arse – at the end of the day, everyone takes a bullet to the head the same way as the next, no matter who they're rooting.

In any case, he never gave the Doc and Heavy any shit after they got together, even while the two of them screwed like rabbits for the first few weeks of dating. One of the benefits of staying in his camper and not the team dorms was that he didn’t lose sleep over other people’s nighttime activities. It never impacted their performance on the battlefield (if anything, they were fiercer and more bloodthirsty than ever), and they seemed happy, therefore it's none of his concern.

He’d been supportive of Engie too, when the Texan confided his affection for their teams Soldier to him. Granted, he might’ve told him to get his tetanus and diphtheria shots updated first, but that was only because Soldier is a stark raving looney who’s almost as rabid as the raccoons he fosters. Still, Conagher hadn’t been swayed, and the two Yanks had started a tentative sort of courtship. The kind full of lingering gazes and shoulder pats that lasted a little too long, sappy type stuff that made Sniper roll his eyes and bite back a smile.

So, maybe he’s a queer too - so what? No dramas.

…

Then why’s he feel so off kilter every time he thinks about this fella? Why does he want to curl into a ball and hide away in his camper while also wanting to kiss him stupid? He pictures it for a split second and can already feel his face burning up.

Maybe it’s just the fact that he fancies anyone at all that’s taking him by surprise. He’s never really had, and hardly wanted, much in the way of romance. There’d never been any high school sweethearts when he was younger. His parents already worry enough about him while he’s working, it’s probably better he doesn’t put some poor sheila or bloke through the same thing.

He’s had sex, sure. A few one-night stands with a pretty miss here and there. He’s frequented some brothels in his time, been up and down King’s Cross. He thinks he might have got a blowie from some bloke in Perth, back in ’59, but he’d been so drunk he could hardly remember it. That was all transactional, though, no feelings, no strings attached.

Sniper is a solitary creature, and that’s the way he likes it. Marriage or partnership never fit into his idea of an ideal life. Long days on the road and long nights in the bush with nothing but a strong cuppa, a Remington 700 and himself for company – that’s how he lived for the decade before he joined RED and that’s about how he reckons he’d like to die if he ever manages to retire. Considering how he dies and is brought back near every day now, he doesn’t think too much on it anymore.

He doesn’t think much on anything except broad hands and the taste of cheap Cornish cider and that beautiful, manic laughter that rattles his chest like an explosion. Not to mention the actual explosions lighting up that brown eye, the scent of gunpowder and chemicals…

Bloody hell, he’s fucked. He hasn’t had a crush since primary school, and now here he is getting mushy over his good mate Demoman. The guy is Sniper’s complete opposite – broad-shouldered and easy on the eyes, a social butterfly who’s had a hundred jobs in all corners of the world and could probably get any girl or fella he liked. Well, Sniper didn’t even know if he liked fellas, which was part of the problem. Tav- Demo had never talked about any lady back in Scotland or anywhere, but that didn’t mean that there’d never been one. Didn’t mean there was a gent instead.

This’ll pass, Sniper tells himself. Give it a few weeks. He’ll keep his head down and focus on his work, and whatever lust or puppy-dog affection he feels for Tavish – Demo, the teams Demolitions Expert, for Christ’s sake – will fade away with neglect. Sniper is a master of killing inconvenient feelings. Blokes what bludgeon their wives to death with a golf trophy, they have feelings. Professionals have standards.

So, he works. Over the next month, he beats his own record for most consecutive head-shots per battle. He beats his own record for most kills with his kukri per battle. He sets a new team record for most cups of coffee ever drunk in a day, beating Engie’s twenty-eight. That’s the same day he sets a record for most enemies hit with Jarate and Demo laughs his arse off when Sniper tells him that.

He shoots big-headed wankers and gets shot, he stabs and gets stabbed by the BLU Spy more times than he can count. The sneaky bastard seems to have it out for him. He can’t go one match without getting a butterfly knife to the back, and it pisses him off enough that his teammates take notice.

He’s camped in a good spot in Dustbowl, a corner room in a shed just high enough to keep him out of the main hullabaloo, but close enough to take easy potshots at the mongrels trying to capture their point. He’s got a close eye to BLU’s Heavy-Medic duo, übered up and headed for Engie’s nest. The Medic is using his big friend as cover. But in three seconds, when the übercharge wears off… two, one-

Sniper draws a breath and takes the shot. It hits the Heavy in his left shoulder, missing his mark.

‘Ah, bugger.’

He fires off a few more shots quickly. With any luck, they’ll get nervy at the onslaught and slip up, leaving an opening for RED’s defence to push them back.

He’s so caught up in his scope that he hardly registers the sound of an explosion below his vantage point. Demo flies up past his window and grabs onto the sill as gravity pulls him down, scaring Sniper shitless.

‘Crikey!’

Sniper’s rifle clatters on the sill as the demolition’s expert hauls himself through the window, landing face first on the wooden floor. He reeks of blood and brimstone and the usual whiff of alcohol that follows him about like a hungry dog.

‘Mate, what the bloody hell are you doing?’

‘Spmmph!’ Demo yells into the floor.

‘Wot’s that?’

‘Spy!’

The Scot scrambles to his feet and fires off his sticky launcher, aiming towards the door of the room.

Three things happen very quickly.

First, Sniper yells ‘DON’T!’ all too late. The room barely has enough room to wave a rifle about. They’ll get caught in the bombs blast radius if it catches on the door.

Second, the single sticky bomb flies perfectly through the door and down the hallway, lands dead in midair and seems to yell ‘Putain de merde!’

Third, Sniper is bodily tackled to the ground as the bomb goes off and everything gets bright and hot.

Once the ringing in his ears stops, Sniper opens his eyes and takes stock of all his limbs. His face feels singed, like a bad sunburn, but nothing seems to be missing. His body is weighed down, protected from the blast where Demo is laying over the top of him.

Righto. Demo is laying over the top of him.

He’s on the ground and Demo is on him and hells fucking bells he wishes that bomb had killed him dead because he doesn’t have the mental fortitude for this.

Demo groans, bringing his head up from Snipers shoulder to face him. The back of his uniform is smouldering. He gives Sniper’s barbecued self a once over.

‘You alright, lad?’ His voice is rough and firm and Sniper is very glad his face is already burnt red.

‘Holy Dooley.’ He mutters. Demo flashes him a blinding grin.

‘Aye, you said it, Mick.’

Demo stumbles to his feet, hauling Sniper along with him.

‘Saw the spook headed up yer way and thought I’d get the jump on ‘im before he got it on you. Sorry for the trouble.’

‘Ah,’ The Aussie wills his embarrassment away best he can. ‘No trouble. I ‘preciate you lookin’ out.’

The two poke their heads into the burning hallway. Demo gives a low whistle as they spot what’s left of the BLU Spy splattered across the broken wooden walls of the shed.

‘Always did think this back-pokin’ snake had – what do yer people say? A face like a dropped pie.’

Sniper barks out a laugh.

‘You’re not wrong. Heh, face like a bucket of smashed crabs, that one.’

‘Ha! Kind o’ face that’d turn a funeral up a side street!’

The two of them keep at it (‘Like a boxer chewin’ a wasp!’ ‘Oh, that’s a good one – If I had a face like him, I’d shave me head and teach me arse to speak!’) until another explosion rattles the shed.

‘MAGGOTS!’ Soldier, their RED Soldier, has rocket-jumped his way through the same window Demo entered. He starts his roaring before the two of them can explain themselves.

‘WRAP UP THE TEA PARTY, LADIES! I wanna see your asses down there DEFENDING MY POINT! Or by GOD, I will have BOTH you HIPPIES dishonourably discharged and SHIPPED BACK TO THE COMMONWEALTH LIKE THE SORRY SACKS OF CRAP YOU ARE!’

Demo shrugs, half-heartedly saluting as he makes his way down the hall to the exit. Soldier is already preparing to jump out the window, still carrying on.

‘I will NOT have you turn MY BATTLEFIELD into a CAMPGROUND, BILBO BAGGINS! Either WAKE UP or GO HOME to your KANGAROO WIFE! HUTTAH!’

Like an obnoxious, angry bald eagle, Soldier takes to the skies. Sniper rocks back with the force of yet another explosion, grumbling. The crazy piker has him pissed off and not only because of the abuse, but because Sniper knows he’s right. He’s been about as useful as tits on a bull the entire match.

Taking up his rifle, Sniper puts all his focus into burying bullets in BLU foreheads and wills himself to forget about Demo’s laugh and the weight of his warm body holding him down.

Chapter Text

He does his best to keep his mind on nothing but killing. Not so hard while on the battlefield, but the teams off-time is a different story.

Sniper knows all the rest think he’s some kind of hermit shut-in, and that suits him just fine. If he didn’t have to go to the mess for food and beer or to the communal showers - if RED would let any of them off-base for more than one day a fortnight - he’d probably be happy to spend all his time at his camper, eating whatever he could hunt or forage, practising his aim out in the desert.

At least, that’s how he’d been thinking for the first four months of his contract. Soon enough though, he’d had Demo and Engie and Scout trekking out to his camper, inviting him in for a drink and a card game. Or asking for help with installing a new kind of gun in a sentry. Or asking to scab some weed.

Sniper didn’t give Scout any weed, but he did give him some old tabs of acid he’d found under his couch. It was funny as all hell to watch him running around off his head - until Scout gave some to Pyro, who’d taken it just before battle. Sniper heard they were still replacing burnt-out buildings over in Coaltown and the traumatized BLU team now avoided the unhinged arsonist like the plague. According to Pyro, it had been the best trip of their life.

Sniper has found himself, mostly against his own will, ingratiated into the team dynamic. It wasn’t unlike a painkiller addiction, to his mind. It starts with popping in occasionally for a hand of blackjack or to get some tucker, and before he knows it he’s dropping by the mess hall or Demo’s lab every arvo for a chat.

He’d cut his hand skinning a rabbit he’d trapped on the compound last Tuesday. Four years ago, he’d have bandaged it himself, no worries. Instead, he went down to the surgery to get it healed ‘cause he fancied a chinwag with Medic of all people. Four years ago, he would’ve gone weeks without a word to another person, and now he can’t go a day. It’s a dependency, is what it is. This lifestyle is making him go soft.

He makes his way out of his camper and into the base on Friday evening, same as any other. Nights in the desert are slowly warming up as late winter ambles along towards spring. It won’t be long ‘til they’re having bonfires outside the garage on their nights off again. For now, the air still has some bite to it.

Sniper ducks into the common area that leads to the mess. He’s surprised to see Heavy and Spy sat in the tatty lounge-room recliners, speaking animatedly in Russian.

‘Evening fellas.’ He tips his hat politely, and both nod in his direction.

‘Monsieur Bushman.’

‘Hello, Sniper. How have you been keeping?’

‘Ah, not bad, yourself?’

‘Hmmph.’ Heavy snorts, upsetting the comically small pince-nez glasses perched on his nose. The thick tome in his hands is brought down on the chairs armrest with a thunk and a cloud of dust.

‘Would be better if Spy had brains for to see merit of real Russian literature.’

‘Oh, mon Dieu, spare me your lecture. I told you, I can see the appeal of Sholokhov’s work. I do not, however, think its merits necessitate a Nobel Prize fifteen years after the fact.’

‘Is cultural and philosophically merit! Old lifestyle in new world shifted by war. Political violence couple with personal tragedy. What more you want?’

‘Pah. His so-called philosophy is denser than the books four volumes and your own fat head lumped together.’

The two switch back to Russian for ease of bickering and bitching. Snipes knows won’t get any more from these two, so he leaves them to it.

Round the corner is the extended part of the base’s rec room, mostly filled by a few whiteboards and bookcases and the main event - a large, round poker table with a bright overhead lamp, what like the proper tables in Vegas have.

The team play a lot of poker. Probably too much poker. Admin banned them wagering any of their paychecks after the first two months on base. Turns out when a bunch of ruthless killers and murderous psychopaths get some cash involved in their evening games, things can get a mite competitive. And by competitive, Sniper means it’s a bloody good thing they keep respawn running 24/7.

They had a case of poker chips for a while, but eventually those got spirited away to all corners of the compound. Now, they bet with whatever’s on hand; valuables, potato chips, beer bottles, Pyro’s marble collection. Games can still get a bit heated, but they’ve managed to cut back from two deaths a week to one every other month.

If the pale gleam of Soldier’s bare arse assaulting his vision is anything to go by, tonight’s currency is clothing.

He walks up behind Engie, who’s hardhat, goggles and glove are all on the table in front of him. His cards are face down under his infamous Gunslinger. The metal hand glints wickedly under the light, but Engie’s face is round and kind.

‘Heya, Slim! You want we deal ya in? We’re playing strip poker t’night, courtesy of a bright idea by Scout.’

The popsicle formerly known as Scout is shivering two seats to the Engineers left.

‘All I was doin’ was telling you jackasses ‘bout the time I totally scored with some babes during a strippin’ card game. I didn’t expect ya to take it as an invitation!’

‘If I recall correctly,’ Medic says, ‘I expressed my doubt of the claim, to which you, Scout, replied, “Bet”. Goes to show you should never gamble against a man with access to your sexual health record!’

‘Ah, can it ya freakin’ Deutsch-bag! Just you wait, I’ll sweep this next hand.’

Despite talking a big game, Scout seems like he’s had more than a few shit hands dealt. Poor bugger is down to nothing but smallclothes, socks and his dog tags.

He’s even forgone his usual wariness of the resident pyromaniac to lean himself against the rubber suit to his right. True to their namesake the Pyro always runs hot. Sniper isn’t surprised to see them abstaining from stripping down in front of their coworkers – no-one but maybe Medic has ever had a glimpse under that suit and that’s the way the strange little bugger likes it. They seem content as dealer for the night, paying out their losses in the metal washers that act as chips.

At Scouts left elbow is Demo, who shoots Sniper a tipsy grin. He can’t help but grin back. Demo’s not quite three sheets to the wind but definitely partway through splicing the mainbrace, if the two empty scrumpy bottles are anything to go by. His boots and socks are tucked into the bookcase behind him. On the table, his beanie, bomb vest and red uniform tee are folded haphazardly.

Further around the table is Medic, looking primmer and more proper than usual. He’s usually down to his starched dress shirt and slacks by this part of the day, up to his elbows in viscera from his latest experiment. Maybe it’s strategy that has him still in his battle coat and latex gloves – more chips to play. Or maybe it’s just so he can bask in his own smug superiority as he’s not shed a single item of clothing. He’s always been the hardest to trounce at poker, and he plays for keeps. Sniper lost two good watches before he learned that lesson.

Coming round to complete the circle is Soldier, bare as the day he was born except for his helmet. He’s staring intently at his cards as though they might have the secret to life tucked away behind the spades. Despite having a few blown lightbulbs up top, he’s usually alright at poker or blackjack.

‘Had a bad luck streak, digger?’ Sniper gestures to… all of Soldier. The man only laughs.

‘A true red-blooded American doesn’t rely on LUCK any more than I rely on your Commie concept of pants. I was put on God’s green earth under one cloth and one only – THE STARS AND STRIPES!’

‘Sal’s doing okay on the cards tonight.’ Engie explains, ‘He just kinda misunderstood the rules of strip poker an’, well, he can be stubborn as all get-out when you try n’ set him right…’

Ah, he’s just in the nuddy ‘cause he wants to be. Makes more sense.

‘What Engineer means is that he is enjoying the view, and the rest of us cannot be bothered to argue with Herr Soldier.’ Medic gracefully dodges the glove thrown at his head.

‘Hush up and get yer mind outta the gutter!’

‘Methinks the Engineer doth protest too much, hmm?’

Scout raps on the table impatiently. ‘As funny as it is to watch you nancies catfight, can we get back to some fuckin’ poker? I’m freezing my ass off ova here!’

Demo makes a sweeping gesture at the table that tilts him sideways.

‘Grab a seat n’ get yerself dealt in, Mundy. The more the merrier.’

It takes a second to realise Demo is talking to him. The battle habit of calling each-other by their job title had stuck after a few years. It stuck so well that Sniper even calls himself Sniper in his own head. It’s direct and to the point about his profession, and his profession is his life, so why not? All the rest either call him that or some similar nickname.

Except for Tavish, of course.  Tavish Finnegan DeGroot of the clan DeGroot, longest serving family of the Highland Demolition Men, who introduces himself by his full name and title and chats you up, around and over until you’ve given him half your life story. Outside of battle Tavish calls him Mundy, or sometimes Mick or Mickey or “you absolute mad cunt” when he’s particularly drunk or affectionate.

Sniper grabs a chair from the corner and pulls it into the space between Soldier and Medic. He’s built like a dried lamb tail and he made his peace with that throughout puberty, so he’s never been too shy about his own nudeness. It’s natural, after all.

‘Texas hold’em? Why not, mates. Deal me a hand.’

Engie hands him a pile of washers. His cards are expertly flicked down in front of him, smouldering at the corners.

‘Land’s sakes, Pyro. You burn through another pack o’ cards and you’ll be scrubbin’ my workshop ‘til it shines, y’hear?’

Pyro grumbles something that sounds like “killjoy” and puts their lighter away.

The game is fairly laid back tonight and there’s plenty of beer to share. The doctor finally loses a game and sheds his gloves with only five minutes of whinging. Demo and Engie convince Soldier to add a layer of clothing whenever his hand is lowest. Scout refuses to remove anything else after his socks come off but stays in anyway, sapping heat from Pyro and trying to peek at the cards as they’re dealt.

By the time 11pm rolls around Sniper is pleasantly buzzed and missing only his hat and vest. Demo is regaling the table with a story of the time he tried to ride a kelpie as a teenager. Some blokes, Sniper reckons, will carry on with a yarn ‘til their throat gives out and still not get a single thing across, but not Demo. Once he gets into it, the Scot knows how to hold an audience, hits all the right beats and leaves just enough room for a wide-eyed question or a jokey remark. He could probably give Shakespearicles a run for his money.

‘…An’ by the time I got me hand outta the blasted cuddie’s mouth, he’d half tried to droon me in Loch Broom! Lost the tip of me right pinkie to that boggin beast-o-burden.’

Might be a trick of the light but Sniper swears he can see where the end of his pinkie has been gnawed. Both of Tav’s hands are covered in scars and chemical burns from his work – like a list of jobs written over his knuckles and palms. He can imagine the feeling of them, coarse, probably warm-

A fist slams down on the table, upsetting his cards. He barely notices.

‘That goddamn hoof-toed BASTARD!’ Soldier, mercifully now in pants, shakes his clenched fist at the air. ‘I'll avenge your beautiful pinkie finger, Demo, even if I have to NECK-SNAP every demon-horse in Ollu- Ully-’

‘Ullapool, lad.’ Tavish’s eye is soft and dreamy, as if holding back an unshed tear. ‘Braw town up in the Highlands, you’ll ne’er find a place like ‘er in all the world… I remember the sound a’ wind come down Meall Mòr in the night…’

As his mind wanders over whatever braes and lochs are committed to memory, his gaze falls on Sniper. Suddenly up and alert he thrusts a finger out and cries, ‘You, camper!’

Fuck. Fuckin’ shit. Was he staring too long?

‘Look mate, I-‘

‘Where the bloody hell are you from, then?’

‘…Uh?’

‘Yo, Demo?’ Scout asks, ‘Did you recently catch a case of the stupids or something, man? Snipes is obviously Australian.’

‘I know that ya wee nyaff! What I dunno is where in the bleeding place he grew up.’

Sniper rolls his eyes. ‘Little town called Nun-Of-Ya in the Damn Business territory. I’ll send ya a postcard, next I’m there.’

‘Yer breakin’ me heart here, Mick. Now, look,’

Demo waves a hand at Engie.

‘Bee Cave, Texas.’

He points next to Scout

‘Boston in Massivehugetits.’

‘Massachusetts.’

‘Aye, that’s what I said.’

Demo goes through the team, rattling off place names.

‘Ludwig’s from Stuttgart, Mikhail’s from tha’ Dzhugdzhur range in Siberia. I’d reckon from his accent Spy’s from someways near Lyon. Pyro is from the centre o’ the feckin’ earth or wherever and Mister Doe here lived in Independence, Iowa as a wee bairn.’

‘The greatest city in the US of A!’

‘Thank-ye Solly. And you, Mister Mundy, are from…?’

It’s a bad idea to go around giving out addresses in the killing business, even among friends. Dangerous, first off, but also unprofessional. Puts a target on other people’s backs. He’s brought enough sentiment into to his work as it is.

‘It doesn’t matter, mate.’

‘Well, we’re mates and it matters to me, mate.’

If Sniper weren’t a dangerous assassin, he reckons he’d give Demo an itemised list of every place he’s lived, just to wipe the moody pout of his face. Last thing he needs is to get distracted by Demo’s mouth, too.

‘Mmph-mmph bmmphs, shmmph yrr hmmnds.’

At the dealer’s command, everyone flips their cards face up, Demo throwing Sniper a grin as he shows his hand with a drunken flourish.

‘I’ll get a town’s name outta ya someday, mark me words.’

‘I reckon you need to learn when to fold, Tav.’

Sure enough, Demo’s two pair looks a bit piddly next to Snipers straight flush. Even Scout has managed a better hand this game.

‘Bmmphd mmph Dmm-mm.’  Bad luck, Demo.

Sighing, Demo hands back his cards to Pyro. With one swift movement his white long-sleeve shirt is off, balled up on the table and – strewth.

Sniper’s definitely staring now, but damn. If Demo weren’t flesh and blood in front of him, he’d fancy himself looking at one of those statues of Adonis or some other Greek chappie. Marble things could hardly compare though. You can’t really carve out dark curly hair or a soft paunch or bouncy-lookin’ pecs or, Jesus Christ on a bike, his toned arms…

At least Sniper isn’t the only one - the others are all cheering and chuckling appreciatively. Pyro even manages to wolf-whistle from under their mask.

Demo is practically glowing from the attention. ‘Ach, get away lads. Pervs, the lotta ya!’

He raises one arm to scratch at his neck, not-so-subtly flexing. Sniper’s eyes follow the movement of muscle from his shoulder up to his bicep. Demo catches his gaze with a smile and fucking winks at him.

All of a sudden Snipers cards are the most interesting thing in the world. He needs to get out of this room before he cocks up and embarrasses himself fully. Winks at him? The bloke only has the one eye, all he can do is wink! No, Sniper’s drunk and toey as a roman sandal. It’s all doing weird shit to his head and to the rest of him, he can’t stop staring at Demo’s… everything.

He’s saved by Heavy, who wanders in as they pool washers for the next betting round. He ambles up behind Medic, rubbing the doc’s shoulders while leaning in to look at his cards.

‘Doctor is having fun crushing the rest of team at poker?’

‘I am! As always.’ Medic tilts his head back to grin up at Heavy. ‘And you, my handsome scholar – I trust you and Spy had an enlightening conversation on the qualities of Sholokhov?’

‘Ehh.’ Heavy tilts his hand back and forth. ‘We agree to disagree. For now.’

‘I’m sure he’ll come around to it. Until then, there’s always Tolstoy!’

Something about his grimace tells Sniper that Heavy is sick to his guts of Tolstoy.

‘Hrrmph-mph mmrph?’ Pyro holds up a few cards.

‘No, is getting late. I am going to put Sascha down for the night, then sleep.’ He ducks down and kisses Medics cheek. Medic holds him there a second longer.

‘Oh, in that case, give Sascha this from me-’ He plants his own kiss on Heavy, ‘And this one is for Archimedes,’ another exaggerated peck on the other cheek, ‘And this one, Liebster, is for you.’

The final kiss is a soft smooch to Heavy’s mouth which the big man reciprocates. There’s a few ‘aww’s from the table. A red-faced Scout mumbles something less-than-charming under his breath, for which Pyro grabs him in a headlock and noogies him 'til he apologises.

Heavy moving away gives Sniper the social cue he needs. He stands from the table, holding his hat in front of himself in what he hopes comes off as remorse and not an obvious attempt to hide a stiffy.

‘Might have to head out meself, fellas.’

The offense classes all boo heartily. Demo is pouting again, and Medic gives him a sad look.

‘Oh come, mein kumpel, one more game? I promise not to thrash you too hard.’

‘Sorry, Doc.’ He shrugs. ‘Gotta clean the Remmy n’ get some stuff done before bed. But, you lot have fun, yeah?’

He leaves before there are any more protests. Try as he might, he can’t help one more glimpse at Demo as he rounds the corner. He’s surprised to find his mate looking a little downcast. Must have got another bad hand.

The cold night air hits Sniper like a slap to the face. He’s spent the last fifteen minutes gawking at his best mate’s bare chest. Well, now he knows for sure he’s bent. He’s also absolutely screwed.

Spy is chewing a ciggie next to the exit. He glances at Sniper, then back out at the desert, exhaling a bitter smoke.

‘You look like you enjoyed yourself.’

‘…fugoff Spy.’

Spy grins. Bastard.

Sniper wills himself to disappear- he’ll pull a Harold Holt and vanish off the face of the Earth. He might be a hundred k’s from the nearest ocean, but he's a resourceful man, he can come up with something.

He’s pretty sure that’s the end of it. He hopes it’s the end of it, otherwise he might just go mad. But, one month later, just as Sniper has convinced himself he’s got this crush on Demo tamped down, it all comes to a breaking point.

Chapter Text

It’s a lovely spring morning in the shitpile of driftwood and cement they call 2Fort. Sniper is fresh out of respawn and trying to haul arse up to a decently covered spot without attracting the BLU Scouts attention. The speedy little dropkick has been hounding him all match, whizzing past as he’s trying to get set up and knocking his noggin off. He’s anxious to return the favour.

He’s halfway up a flight of stairs when Demo runs past him. Runs is maybe the wrong word – he wobbles, like a hippo on a tricycle. Whether it’s ‘cause of the case of beer he had for brekkie or the massive Zweihander he’s toting is anyone’s guess. Sniper ducks just fast enough to avoid an impromptu lobotomy.

‘Sorry lad... bloody BLU arse… fucken, arseholes.’ Demo mutters as he bounces himself off the wall. He launches out of the stairwell and down the hall, shouting something about eyeballs and soup cans. Silence. Then, explosions, gunfire, loud Scottish cursing.

Sniper heads back downstairs.

Medic is nowhere to be found, probably out on the frontlines boosting the other lads. Sniper manages to drag a bloody and plastered Demo and his fuckoff big sword back towards respawn. Halfway there is a dispenser tucked into a corner, radiating healing warmth into the concrete.

He sits them both on the ground and sends a silent thanks to Engie as the machine slowly heals their wounds. Demo gives him a watery, unfocussed look.

‘Th’ hell am I like. Ye should’ve left me ta’ die, Mundy.’

Sniper sighs. He’s turning into his old man it seems, sighing all the time. The thought of it makes him sigh harder.

He’s no good with emotions, that’s evident to anyone who’s known him a minute. Big emotions are especially daunting, which is why he treats them like most people treat a weird kitschy salad bowl they got from their great-aunt - packs them into out-of-the-way places where he doesn’t have to deal with them.

Unlike a certain spook, Sniper’s no brownnose. It’s gauche, in this line of business, to poke around other people’s weird salad bowls.

But if he had to hazard a guess, he’d say Tavish may also have trouble with big emotions. Instead of packing them down, Sniper reckons he just drinks until the feelings go down a bit easier.

Seems that when Tavish gets deep in his head about something, he also gets deep in his cups. In his average day-to-day, he’s a functioning alcoholic. On his bad days, when he’s so lushed up he gets lost in his own mind, he becomes a non-functioning alcoholic.

Tavish had come back from an off-base contract job the day before, smelling like sulphur and looking downcast. To his own surprise, Sniper had approached him in the rec room. Not for sappy talk about feelings or nothing, just… offering to take some explosives out back of the compound and blow stuff up for shits and giggles. Demo had given him a relieved sort of grin, said he was dead keen for it. Then, Scout had come by from the outdoors phone. Mrs DeGroot was on the line, asking for her son.

Sniper didn’t see Demo out back of the compound that night. In the end it was just him and the box of crockery from his Auntie Bev, still frustratingly unexploded.

Sniper hates that he doesn’t really know what to do with himself, in situations like this. Demo obviously needs some succour but Sniper honestly doesn’t know if he’s equipped to provide it. It’s not like he’s the picture of good mental hygiene himself. Christ only knows he’s got his own coping devices, and none of them make him any good with people.

He’s better at most things when he has a job to do so he yanks open drawers on the dispenser until he finds a roll of bandage. He sets to wrapping the nastiest gash on Demo’s leg. Demo throws a hissy fit, wriggling about until Sniper leans his whole weight on the leg to keep it still.

‘I’m tryin’ to help, you daft cunt.’

‘Dunneed yer help.’

‘Do too.’

‘Not.’

‘Awright then.’ Sniper holds up three fingers. ‘You tell me how many fingers I’ve got up, an’ I’ll let you do the wrap.’

'Cheeky bastard, you...!' Demo grumbles and lashes out at his hand. He misses completely, keeling forward and looking a touch green in the face.

‘…You’re absolutely pickled, mate.’

‘Get tae fuck.’ There’s no heat to it, just sullen resignation. Demo’s never an angry drunk outside battle but he sure as shit can be a sulky one.

‘You leave this cut open, it’ll go septic.’ Sniper props up the bloodied leg on his own as he wraps it. ‘Doc’ll have to chop the whole thing off and regrow it.’

‘Least I’ll ‘ave something ta show for me efforts. Y’know who’s keepin’ all their limbs in the demoman business?  Skiver’s n’ bludger’s, that’s who.’

Sniper kinda gets it. Occupational hazard, badge of honour and all that. Yet, the thought of Demo losing any more limbs or organs makes him weirdly distressed. One eye is enough for a lifetime.

He finishes his patch-job on the shredded shin and starts digging for .308’s in the dispenser’s ammo drawer.

‘Never caught you bludging, missing leg or no.’

‘Cept when I’m blootered.’

‘Yer still out here, aren’t ya?’

Demo flinches. ‘Fat lot a good I’m doin’ ye now. The whole DeGroot kirkyard would be rollin’ at the sight.’

‘Mate-‘

‘Making a pure eejit out meself.’

Sniper grabs a handful of bullets and slams the drawer closed. ‘All’ve us have done that. Scout does on the hour. You’re not fuckin’ special for it, Tav.’

‘...Fuck me. I've really hit rock-bottom if that bawbag is outclassin' me in somethin'.’

‘Shaddup. You’re bloody good at your job, awright? Even when you’re having a rough go, and don’t you carry on like a pork chop sayin’ otherwise ‘cause I won’t bloody well hear of it.’ He tosses a broken casing away with some vigour. ‘You give it yer all; y’always have my back and you’re not ever scared of hard yakka. Don’t care if that’s cause you’re a DeGroot or a scotsman or just a mad bastard. I’d rather have ya than leave ya, no matter what.’

Tavish gets quiet for a second. He gives a little sniffle that makes Sniper feel damn guilty. Thankfully, when he looks over his friend is giving him a shaky grin.

‘Ye really mean it?’

‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘Fair dinkum. Wouldn’t, uh. Wouldn’t be the same, without ya.’

Tavish lets out a low breath. He passes a hand over his eyes and keeps it there a few seconds, smiling to himself.

‘Cheers, Mickey.’ Demo drops his hand so he can hit him with the full force of his grin. Crows feet, tongue poking a little through his teeth, the whole nine yards. That look would send a weaker man into dazzled conniptions. Sniper simply nods to avoid any possible slip-up.

After a minutes silence he feels Demo’s leg wiggle under his hand, realising with mounting embarrassment that he’s been supporting Demo’s foot in his lap, mindlessly combing his curly leg hair.

‘Leg’s come good. Yer not jus’ a bonny face after all, nursey.’ Tavish waggles his eyebrows, his good humour returned. Sniper’s heartrate ticks up a fraction.

He moves his mates leg to the ground and grabs his rifle, loading the breech with a singular focus.

‘Leave off, ya dag.’

‘Aw, I bet ya say that to all the lads.’

He doesn’t have a good comeback for that one, just an awkward murmur as he stands and stretches. Tavish grabs his Zweihander and accepts a lift. He leans on Sniper for a second, and between the bushman and the sword re-acquaints himself with the vertical world.

He’s sobered up a touch; the dispenser has worked its weird science magic on them. Sniper feels electrified and convinces himself it’s from the healing beam and not the broad hand on his shoulder. Together, they walk towards the symphony of screams and gunfire. Demoman takes his leave at the same stairway they’d met in earlier.

‘Alright, Tav?’ Sniper eyes off his friend as he departs, checking him over in case the dispenser missed anything vital. Tavish gives him a little salute, sword braced over one shoulder.

‘Right as rain. Let’s give ‘em hell, boyo!’

He’s off like a shot, the usual bloody-minded determination fully restored to him. Sniper grins and heads out to find his mark in some skulls.

The rest of the match passes in the blink of an eye. The RED team cinches a surprise win thanks to some rare coordination. Scout and Spy had thrown themselves into the task of capturing the BLU intelligence. Sniper had done his part picking off creepers while Demo and Heavy formed a living bastion at the bridge entrance. In the meantime, the Engineer had built himself a comfortable little nest around their own intel. The turnaround from such a shaky start has every RED in high spirits.

Sniper is going through the post-fight motions – shower, fresh daks, check and clean the Remington – when Demo approaches him on the locker bench. Adrenaline and a wash-down have grounded him since the morning. Turns out full frontal assault with a sword is a bloodier business than shooting bombs at range, so’s a good thing the uniform was already crimson. Sniper doesn’t mind a cold shower; as usual he’s last in and out of the locker rooms.

‘You forget your lucky socks again?’

‘Nah,’ Demo eases himself down next to Sniper. ‘Was lookin’ for you, in fact.’

‘Oh, uh- yeah?’

‘Aye.’ He’s still wearing his grin from earlier, perhaps a little softer around the eyes. It stirs something warm and wiggly in Sniper’s gut. Everyone else is in the mess hall, eating by now. Demo came back just to look for him.

‘It’s just about our talk out in the field o’ war.’

Shit. Had Sniper gotten too preachy-touchy-feely with his little speech? Or more likely, did he just come off as a stroppy arsehole? Must have. He’s never had the gift of the gab, not like Demo has, figures he’d cross a line the minute he opens his mouth.

‘Sorry Tav, I should’ve minded me own business-‘

The rest of his apology is squeezed out of him when Tavish pulls him into a hug.

It’s one hell of a hug, too. Solid, but just shy of crushing, and warm as anything. Sniper has drunk spiced mead maybe two or three times in his life. If spiced mead were a gesture, he reckons it’d be a Demoman hug. Easy to lose yourself in, if you aren’t careful.

‘Don’t be glaikit, lad,’ Demo murmurs, ‘I wanted to thank ye.’

‘Ah- you- Well, I…’ Sniper can’t even string a sentence together. Demo is talking right in his ear, like that, and it’s doing… things to him. Scalding, fuzzy, feelings-type-things.

Oblivious to his friends’ internal struggle, Demo snuggles further into the marksman.

‘I know you style yerself up as some stoic, crabbit hermit bloke, but… what you said today means a lot to me.’ He takes a deep breath and swallows hard. ‘And, y’know… you mean a lot to me, Mick. Even if y’are a right sourpuss.’ The last part is huffed out in a little laugh.

The whole thing rattles around Sniper’s head and buries itself in his chest like a stubborn heartworm. He can’t breathe. He can barely think. When he does think, it’s all stuff he shouldn’t be thinking of.

Like how his mate, arguably his best mate, is clutching him like he’s something precious, something worth holding close.

Like how he wants to collect up every person and thing and moment that ever made Tav feel like he wasn’t good or smart or hardworking enough, line them up on a firing range and shoot until they’re holier than the Pope’s swiss cheese.

Like how they’re alone in the locker room, and Tavish is holding him is his gorgeous, strong arms. And the others are all probably well into dinner, they likely won’t pass this way again soon. Tavish is talking right. Next. To his ear, and strewth, the things he wants to do to this man…

Mundy also thinks about how Tavish was drunk out of his mind earlier today, caught in a vicious cocktail of cider and depression.

How Tavish looks to him for support, cause he’s his mate, and mates support each other – and they don’t expect anything more from it.

Tavish is his friend. His peer. Tavish is kind, witty, brilliant and mad and determined. Tavish holds himself to impossible standards. He has a real fucker of a voice in his head that asks, if you can’t be the best, what the fuck is the point of ya?

Tavish is his mate doing it tough, looking for a touch of kindness, and what does Sniper do? First, he carries on like a real misery guts. Now here he is treating this like some romantic meet-cute. Worse, like it’s the climax to some filthy pulp novel.

He feels a little bit sick in the back of his throat. He’s always known that he was a nasty piece of work but Christ, this is a new low. He’s the world’s worst friend. He should have stuck to his guns and kept his distance before he managed to fuck this up. He can feel himself going all tense, because of course his body can’t be reasonable about this.

He’s prioritised his own stupid feelings over his professionalism, and worse, above his best mate.

Demoman pulls back from the hug, his beautiful eye searching his face for something. His mouth is a tense line. Can he tell that Sniper has a barely restrained flaming crush on him? Demo is nice enough to let him down easy – “sorry mate, I’m not a poofter, flattered though”. Or worse – “I do fancy blokes, but not a miserable dipstick like you. Oh well, see you at work tomorrow and every day after for the next eight bloody years”.

Sniper is chicken-shit for not facing up to it but he doesn’t think he can handle that. Not right now.

‘Mundy, alright there?’

‘Sorry mate, I’m knackered. Big day, glad I could help ya out. Gonna head back to the camper.’ He moves out of the embrace as he stands.

‘You haven’t even had the nights scran. A bit o’ supper-‘

Sniper’s already out the door, clutching his gun like a lifeline. He speedwalks all the way to his van. Once he’s inside, he puts the kettle on for tea and lies on his side on the shitty old couch. He’s still got his gun in hand, white-knuckled around the forestock, holding it close to his chest. He stays like that for hours.

Chapter Text

Sniper goes back to the basics. It’s the only way to squash his feelings for Demo once and for all.

He leaves his camper for work and whatever food he can’t store or hunt. That’s it. No social visits, no poker, no nights on the town. Not even a proper shower. Not until he can get himself under control and act class around people who deserve better. Until that happens, it’ll have to be sponge baths and BO spray.

He shows up to respawn just before the matches start and leaves as soon as they end. On the battlefield, he’s courteous and focussed. His job doesn’t usually bring him in much contact with his teammates, so keeping his distance during work hours is easy.

God only knows he’d benefit from less emotional attachment to his coworkers, in case things went bad and respawn failed, or the teleporters did give them tumours after all. And they’d all probably benefit from not being near his stroppy arse for a while.

Except his coworkers, damn them, won’t leave him the fuck alone.

Engie comes around first, after a couple days of Sniper’s absence, and is back again every day or so. He knocks on the camper and draws Sniper into little convos about nothing much – he very intentionally doesn’t pass any judgements on Snipers isolation, just makes broad statements about how the boys miss him and he should stop by the compound when he ain’t so busy.

A week into Snipers self-banishment, Engie’s less subtle half marches out to the camper.

Soldier visits like he does everything else, loudly and with maximum property damage. He puts a hole through Snipers screen door with how hard he knocks and opens the conversation by calling the sharpshooter a dirt-sucking, sheep-fucking coward. He then threatens to kill Sniper in five different ways if he doesn’t go talk to Demoman right that second. That last part is like a knife to the gut. Sniper feels guilty and sad and angry at himself. He can’t deal with all that at that moment, so instead he gets angry at Soldier.

‘Shove it up yer ugly arse, you lead-poisoned maroon. And mind ya business.’ Sniper growls through his broken fly-screen. ‘Conagher oughta put a fucking muzzle on ya.’

‘I’LL MAKE YOU WISH HE HAD, YOU TOAD-LICKING BASTARD!’

‘All right, Sunshine, let’s have A FUCKIN’ GO AT IT!’

Then they beat the shit out of each other, outside his camper. It’s a bad fight and it feels bad all the way through and afterwards – no catharsis or nothing, just a lot of rage and pain. Sniper cusses Soldier out through a broken nose, Soldier yells abuse back as he walks to the base with half his ear missing.

Engie turns up the next day, as usual. Sniper has the good grace to be remorseful about the punch-up.

‘Sorry I called yer sweetheart a dog and tore his ear off.’

‘Ya goddamn right yer sorry.’ Engie is cold and direct. ‘I shoulda oughta beat ya like a rented mule, if’n Solly didn’t get there first.’

‘That’s fair ‘nough.’

‘Next time you come by the base you’re gonna make amends, an’ I don’t just mean with Jane, ya hear?’

‘Engie-'

‘Save it. Ah’ll see ya round, Mundy.’

Spy and Medic stop by together and spend 30 minutes psychoanalysing him under the guise of polite conversation. Sniper tells them where they can shove their Jung and Freud. Spy, as usual, rolls his eyes and disappears off to wherever to do God knows what. Medic takes it in his stride and stops by every three days for checkups and to update him on the base gossip. Most of it is about him.

‘Well, you know how the rumour mill can be, Sniper. If it does bother you so much, perhaps come set the record straight, hmm?’

‘…Nah. She’ll be right.’ No use throwing more feed to those clucking hens.

‘Ah well, I cannot say I didn’t try. Now, say aahh, bitte. I’ve been looking into methodologies for tonsillitis prevention by grafting flesh from crocodile gallbladders, and-'

So on and so forth.

Heavy and Scout also show up as a pair. They just want to one-up each other as they tell Sniper how stupid they think he’s being. Which is pretty goddamn stupid. They don’t go into detail but Sniper hopes it’s not about what he knows for sure it’s about, which is Demoman. Sniper suggests they walk into the desert and fuck themselves with cactuses, but his heart’s not really in it. They each give him a sour look before turning back to the compound.

‘At current point, Sniper set new team record for stupid. Makes the Scout look high school educated.’

‘I know, man, tell me about- hey waitaminnit, what da hell! I finished high school! Almost.’

Two weeks and four days into isolation, Sniper stumbles out of his camper in the dead of night to take a piss. Summer is headed their way. The days have started getting warmer and drier so he’s been getting on the beers more frequently, but the pleasantly cool night air is a reprieve from his stuffy camper.

It’s a new moon that night. The only light in New Mexico’s desert is the Milky Way. Sniper is careful not to trip and eat shit as he ambles a reasonable distance from the camper. He’s a little drunk and the absent moon may have him thinking about how much he misses spending time with Tavish and other sappy shit he’s been trying to avoid. But he’s a little drunk, so screw it. He can be sappy while he’s tipsy and alone.

He does his business and stumbles back inside his camper. It’s pitch-black without the light of the moon through the windows. Sniper feels about in the dark for his hurricane oil lamp.

‘Where ‘n the hell’s that light...’

There's a click. A zippo flame, three inches from Sniper’s face.

Pyro is three inches behind the lighter.

‘FUCK!’

Instinct kicks in. Hand in pocket, Swiss army knife, hand out, flick the blade, stab- Pyro catches his wrist with ease and holds it there for the two seconds it takes Sniper to get his bearings.

The wheeze from Pyro’s mask is even. Blank, enigmatic, unpredictable – it reminds Sniper of the first few months of the job, before Pyro allowed themselves to be known by the team. Sniper kind of envies how easily they can pull the mask of being unknowable back down.

Pyro lets his wrist go and watches him, clicking their lighter on and off. Sniper watches back.

After a few minutes of staring, Pyro reaches around to their back pocket with their free hand. They pull out a fair sized something, holding it up near the lighter so Sniper can see.

It’s a Molotov cocktail. Sniper is sure for a second that Pyro will light it, but instead they hold it out to him, stock still, until he takes it. They step to the nearby shelf and use their zippo to light his lamp.

Pyro finally pockets the lighter. They look at the lamp, then at Sniper, then at the bottle, then back at Sniper. They give a little nod, deciding they’re content with what’s happened. Mumbling a goodnight, they leave the camper, wandering not towards the main compound but to the fence boundary.

For the first time in three years Sniper locks his front door.

He holds the Molotov up to the lamplight to see it better. The container is a bottle of Demo’s scrumpy.

So, the team knows he’s got a thing for Demoman. Great.