djsoliloquy: ([stock] ♥)
DJ ([personal profile] djsoliloquy) wrote2013-02-14 02:54 am
Entry tags:

[TF2] Stupid Cupid

Fandom: TF2
Rating: PG.
Characters: RED Sniper, with BLU Sniper and both Spies.
Length: 2,600 words
Summary: Sniper receives a highly experimental cupid sniper set. How could that possibly go wrong.

Some kiss-free, zero-fraternization huggery for Valentine's Day. ♥
Well maybe a little fraternization.


It isn’t the first odd looking shipment RED base has received. Headquarters occasionally passes along some new lines of innovative armaments from the suppliers, and that could mean anything from holiday bonuses to someone up the ladder finding themselves in need of a guinea pig. The whole arrangement’s never concerned Sniper in the past. For some reason RED doesn’t often send him stuff. Never’s probably a better estimation, spare the handful of times he’s ordered items himself.

So it’s unusual when the large crate is addressed to him. And could be he’s just used to making do with his own gear by now, but he has his doubts about this sniper set.

The longbow looks like it tried making an advance on the Huntsman and figured the best way would be with coy offers of bonbons and lacy underwear. It’s a light red color, with tiny ribbons and feather-like tracery sticking out the ends. The arrows are another thing entirely (the heads are, inexplicably, heart-shaped), but it’s the size of them that gets Sniper—an arrowhead that wide would need tremendous force behind it to inflict anything worse than a headache. More than the draw on this little bow’s got in it, anyway.

If Sniper didn’t know better he would say it’d been designed to be non-lethal.

Then there’s the other item. Sniper pulls it out of the shipment box and has to spend a moment just taking it in. It’s the same soft red color as the bow, and has straps so he can only assume it’s meant to be worn. What he can’t fathom is its purpose.

“Wow, what the hell is that?” Scout asks with a laugh over Sniper’s shoulder. “It’s got little wings on it and crap. You supposed to be a fairy princess or something? Real scary.”

Sniper digs out a bundle of papers from the crate. The kit came with an instruction booklet. He’s seen some of the other men’s shipments come with guidelines, but they always seemed like you could get along by looking at the pictures. This booklet is almost pointedly un-illustrated.

“Not sure yet, mate,” Sniper says, “but it’s starting to look that way.” He gives the sheet a flick and it unfurls like a five-page centerfold, another six sheets after that of nothing but fine print.

The fine print is longer than the instructions. Sniper reflects on that.

Engineer leans around Scout to test-prod one of the wings. It whirls around excitedly as though attached to a cheap metal spring. Which might well be the case. “Lot of bookkeepin’ for shooting the pointy end in the other guy,” says Engineer, glove held uncertainly over the plumage.

“Could be,” Sniper answers, distracted as he reads. If he didn’t already have an exhaustive understanding of the fine points of killing things with arrows, deciphering the main points of usage would be impossible. The manual is clear on one thing: using everything at the same time.

Sniper casts the wings a sideways glance. At least the BLU Spy will be laughing too hard to sneak up on him properly.

A couple minutes before the starting bell, still with no idea what the set is meant to accomplish, Sniper stuffs the rest of the instructions back in the box to read later. He cringes as he pulls on the wings but he’s decided to give it a sincere try since RED’s finally putting in the effort to send him things.

Mon dieu, but what are you wearing?” The sound of muffled snorts echo down the hall after him, and Sniper rolls his eyes. Spy ambles past, glove over his mouth, laughing and holding the wall for support. Lending credibility to Sniper’s guess on the BLU Spy, at any rate.

Sniper sighs. He rolls his shoulders back with dignity. It starts the wings reeling again, making him look like a flamingo swimming a frantic backstroke.

On the bright side he’s a dead man if the enemy’s close enough to see that gem of a detail. It couldn’t possibly be worse than it looks, Sniper figures.

Sniper decides it could be worse. He doesn’t care to imagine how, considering how bad it looks to begin with, but after a morning experimenting with the new set he’s at least ready to express confidence in the possibility.

He’s correct about—well, most of it. With the bow’s paltry draw strength he must take to the ground and the team’s already got people for that sort of thing. It doesn’t seem half worth it, especially when the BLUs barely notice they’re shot. The first time Sniper can only gape as the target jogs away, insultingly alive and unaware of the pink arrow sticking out his body.

Lighting the arrows on fire doesn’t help. They burn too fast to shoot and leave the air reeking of burnt sugarcane.

Tipped with some sort of nerve poison? Sniper’s not willing to test it.

He manages to separate the BLU Heavy and Medic from each other, both of them taking off in different directions once shot, but it’s a single triumph in a morning of fruitless effort. By lunch he guesses he’s hit more than half the BLUs once, give or take, and not a single one of them has the decency to drop dead.

It’s the thought of starting back to base for the noon ceasefire and a bite of grub that gets him to notice—really notice—the resounding quiet over the field.

He’s never been put at ease by simply not seeing or hearing the enemy, but all distant sounds of screams and explosions are gone, too. He hasn’t seen another living soul for a solid minute, BLU or RED. He can’t recall hearing the Announcer for a while either, and that should have been obvious at once.

“…Hello?” he says, not loudly. He’s on the ground, no backup, with only the flimsy pink bow between himself and an unknown number of possibly unseen enemies. It hasn’t been his best day. “Hello?” he tries again, closer to BLU territory. His wings twirl excitedly, emitting a high-pitched springing sound when they aren’t crushed against the wall.

Sniper adjusts his grip on the bow, and the new hold is all that keeps it in his hands when it gives a mysterious lurch. As though something annoying and invisible is trying to yank it out of his hands.

Sniper redoubles his grip and aims a swift kick in front of him. His boot connects and there’s a peal of muffled swearing.

The BLU Spy uncloaks in front of him, holding his stomach and wincing. Sniper blinks twice at that, confused, before firing a shot. “What do you think you’re doing?” BLU Spy demands when the arrow narrowly misses his nose.

Sniper gestures at the highly observable Spy. “What d’you think you’re doing?” he says, drawing back another arrow.

“Would you not?” Spy’s eyes widen as he stares down the bow. He raises his hands, showing his gloves open and empty, and steps forward. “I understand you won’t like the sound of this,” he says in an overly-calm tone, “but I am not here to kill you. Yet.”

Spy takes another step and Sniper draws the arrow back the rest of the way. “You’re right, I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Oh shut up. Would you rather have this exact conversation again in a few minutes instead?” The BLU Spy inhales deeply and tosses his blade behind him somewhere. His hand clenched hard around nothing and he gives Sniper a disconcerting faux-sincere smile. “There. You see? Now be a good filthy jarman and drop your bow.”

“Right,” says Sniper with a laugh. He doesn’t know where the man’s been, but it clearly hasn’t been anywhere near the members of his own team walking around with arrows sticking out of them, none of them worse for wear. This overblown view of the bow’s lethality is all that’s keeping Sniper breathing. “If you want me dead,” says Sniper, “you’ll work for it just like everybody else.”

The BLU Spy dodges in time to avoid a few seconds’ discomfort from taking a pink arrow full in the chest. The arrowhead scuffs Spy’s sleeve and Sniper groans at the ruined suit jacket, bracing for some discomfort of his own.

Instead the BLU is quiet for a moment, staring down at the thin line of broken skin where the arrow grazed. Sniper’s never seen an expression of such wretched bleakness on a man’s face before. “Spook?” he says tentatively.

Spy says something very rude and then two leather-encased hands seize Sniper’s collar. “Kill me,” Spy says. “Now, if you please.”

“What?” Sniper tries prying the hands off him and the fingers stiffen like petrified claws. “Kill you? But the—arrows don’t do anything, why are you…”

“It is so very tiresome,” says Spy, a hairline crack of urgency in his voice, “that no RED is ever willing to oblige me when I make that simple request!” He jerks them closer, giving Sniper a firm shake. “You think I’m here because I’m concerned about that bow’s lethality? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Why, what—no! What do you mean? What’d I do?”

“It is obscene,” Spy says like he doesn’t hear, sounding strangely distant. “Now if you… if you could be so kind as to… snap my neck…”

All attempts to wrench him off fail. Spy clings, creeping his arms full around Sniper’s torso and shoulders in an odd hold. It nearly pulls them off balance and crashing to the ground.

Visions of a second balisong flicker in Sniper’s mind. “What’s—” he begins, and then he feels the weight. And suddenly Spy isn’t touching the ground anymore. Sniper holds very still, stooping under the burden.

“It’s getting silly now,” Sniper says as two pinstriped trouser legs pretzel around his waist. “What’s going on, Spy?”

There’s no response. Just more… adhering. With occasional jostling like Spy’s still settling in. He clings to Sniper like a blue koala with a cigarette hanging out of its mouth.

“You make yourself at home,” Sniper says darkly, he suspects entirely to himself. He digs around in Spy’s jacket, tossing the knives and gun away, kicking aside other toys and gadgets he finds. Sniper figures if anything will snap Spy out of his daze it would be disarming him and ruffling his image.

It makes no difference. Sniper figures the condition’s there to stay for a while. “Right,” he says, less concerned about a sudden knife in the back, “off we go. Time to get to the bottom of this.”

He finds the rest of the teams on the payload track mid-way between the bases.

“Bloody hell,” Sniper says.

What looks like every member of RED and BLU are on the ground clinging to each other in a massive heap. Arms and legs and helmets in every direction, though the men seem apparently content. Most of them look serene, like they were back in their bases taking afternoon naps and snuggling into person-sized pillows. Though, all in all, not exactly what Sniper would call obscene.

The men all have light scratches or arrows sticking out of them. The RED mercenaries’ arrows are a delicate pastel blue.

Sniper looks around. “Blue?” he calls out and spots the hand waving for him behind a nearby shed.

He smells him before he sees him, and turns around the corn to find the BLU Sniper, long-faced and sitting in the dirt with his legs out in front of him. And the Jarate-soaked RED Spy is swathed around him like a great stinking mink, a blue arrow crammed in his leg.

The snipers take in each other’s predicaments before offering identical empathetic shrugs.

“Morning, Red,” says the other sniper, friendly but sounding a touch fed up, like he’d resentfully passed into the realm of deep monotony some time ago. “Or,” Blue adds with a meaningful look at Sniper’s wings, “do you prefer to go by Pink, these days?”

Sniper acknowledges that with a sour tip of his hat. “Baby Blue.”

“Really is more of a blood mist now that I get a look at you.” Blue squints up at his own team’s spy clenched on Sniper’s back. “So that’s where he went. I told him. Take a half-day, I said. Find me a pry bar, I said.”

“Yes, I noticed you also had, ah…”

Blue crinkles his nose at the RED Spy. “Turns out there are things that snap them out of it,” he says. “Though honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if Jarate could wake spies from the dead, granted they were wearing nice enough funeral suits, that is. It’s worse too, because I know deep down he’s deriving some sick satisfaction from me being stuck marinating with him, possibly hoping I’ll indulge in a long hard think about my lifestyle choices. As he himself would have helpfully suggested I do had he been less absorbed in trying to shoot my brains out right before I put that arrow back in him. You nasty git,” he gripes wearily, with an unexpected lack of malice to the RED Spy.

It sounds to Sniper like this one-sided conversation has been going on for a while, now. “And that?” he says, pointing back at the all-team pile.

“The payload? Oh, it’s under them somewhere. Along with the couple confused scouts and engineers we probably missed.”

“No, the rest of them! The massive heap of… that.” Sniper’s spine feels like it’s about to buckle, more due to awkward weight distribution than because Spy’s heaviness. “That’s really our handiwork?”

Blue sighs like a man dreaming about anything other than what he’s currently doing. “Mixture’s wrong, that’s my guess. Wouldn’t know the science of it personally, and the Demos are both down in the thick of it.”

“So it fuddles you up, makes you think friends are enemies?” Sniper frowns. It sounds like spook drudgery to him. No wonder BLU Spy seemed irritated. Professional jealousy, that’s what it was. “No, hold on—enemies look like friends?”

“You didn’t read the instructions, did you,” Blue says flatly.

“Maybe not all of it.” Sniper makes to scratch the back of his neck and touches on balaclava fabric instead. He drops his hand to his side. “I meant to finish it over lunch.”

Blue rolls his eyes. “New toy, no idea what it does, may as well have a go. Very RED of you, Red.”

“And you went over that whole ridiculous packet?” Sniper says, raising an eyebrow.

“Sure I did.”

“And you used the bloody thing anyway?”

Blue at least has the decency to appear sheepish. “Well, I knew you were going to use yours.”

They both shrug again.

With some clever maneuvering they manage to slip out of their spies. The spooks snap together like magnets and the snipers stand back, free, their respective pink and light blue wings whirling in mad squeaky loops.

“How about you think about your life choices for a while, mate,” Blue says down at the spies, and if Sniper didn’t know better he’d swear the un-Jarate’d BLU Spy cringes slightly as they cuddle together on the dry grass. “How long do you think it lasts?” Blue asks.

“Who knows,” says Sniper. The two of them amble past the snuggle pile, heading in no particular direction or towards either base. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Shower,” says Blue.

“Without question,” says Sniper. “Then how about a proper half-day? Called on account of rampant cuddling.”

“I’ll bring the beer,” Blue agrees.

“I’ll bring the garden hose.”

They toss their bows and wings in a dumpster

#helen finally closed the comm in disgust #jfc the compound is fucked #they won’t stop hugging no stop that #hugging is not fighting #this is why we can’t give snipers nice things
tanyart: ([ac] asdfghjkl;)

[personal profile] tanyart 2013-02-14 04:17 pm (UTC)(link)
SCREMALSEAL:KJAS:LGDKJSOHIHPD"G I'M SO GLAD YOU FINSIHED THIS AND HOLY COW I'M JUST SO HAPPY. oh my gosh the snipers are so great. Pink and Baby Blue, omg. With matching spies. And the clinging hug formula. I....


good fic

best valentines