Chapter Text
Spy retrieved his metal lighter out of his pocket and lit a cigarette, taking a drag and watching the puff of smoke as it rose to the ceiling and then faded away.
For some reason, he felt like somebody was watching him…
He spared a quick glance in either direction. Obviously, no one was there, so why did he feel so tense? He shook his head at himself, trying to recover the temporary calm he’d been feeling just a few seconds ago. No use. It vanished as soon as it came.
Damn that masked freak!
Ever since Pyro had begun following him everywhere he went, Spy had been unable to quell the rising tension he’d been feeling. In places Spy thought to be private and for himself only, he’d find strange little gifts—crumpled, singed drawings scribbled with crayon, scraps of shiny metal, and various other small junk items. He’d thrown most of them away, of course. What use did he have for garbage?
But, as he quickly made his way through the narrow hallways towards his quarters, he remembered what was left, untouched, on his silk bedsheets: a sheet of paper with one of Pyro’s crayon scribbles on it.
No one else seemed to be awake as Spy drifted through the hallway where the other mercenaries’ quarters were, and he was grateful for it. None of their infernal yelling, no out-of-tune guitar strumming, no cooing of birds—this was the best time of night, and yet… a faint sense of loneliness chilled the air.
With soft, light steps, Spy slipped inside his room, only allowing himself to truly breathe once the door was shut and securely locked. Leisurely, he unbuttoned his suit jacket and gently hung it inside his wardrobe, satisfied once he had made sure there were no wrinkles or stains from the day.
He turned to his bed. There it was—that drawing Pyro had left under his door this morning. Rolling up his sleeves, he gingerly picked it up and re-examined it.
Two figures, drawn in red; one tall with long arms and legs, the other a bit rounder with a black scribble for a head. They were holding hands, a rainbow drawn behind them. It looked like something a child would draw. Innocent and happy.
Spy’s heart lurched just looking at it, but that fleeting sensation quickly gave way to irritation.
Why did he feel so… giddy looking at that thing’s juvenile “art”? And, of course, he’d have to contemplate Pyro’s motives for attempting to make nice with him. Were they trying to lower his guard so they could do something to him?
Picturing himself as a charred, smoldering corpse on the ground while Pyro clapped cheerfully and laughed their muffled laugh, Spy couldn’t suppress a full-body shudder.
But somehow, he couldn’t find it in himself to crumple this drawing into a ball like all the others.
Spy opened the drawer of his nightstand and placed the sheet of paper into it, hating himself as he did. He swore to himself he wouldn’t look at it again. He’d throw it away once his common sense returned to him.
Once he’d undressed, Spy settled into bed—the softness of his sheets allowing the tension to drain from his body. But as he drifted off, he thought he heard heavy, muffled breathing from outside his door…