"So, what do you think?"

It was a big question, and it should have had a huge answer. Yes, what did he think? About the van in the desert, about the Sniper's—his friend's proposition, about the newly-dubbed friendship itself, about the rules he was breaking, about the promises to himself that he was similarly shattering, about the enemy they had left bleeding in the night, about the Spy that he had become, about…

Renaud Corbet wasn't sure what he thought about anything. His mind was strangely blank; he had tried to push his recently created persona to the back of his head and found not much else left. He didn't even have the presence to panic about how much of himself seemed to be missing, and besides, panicking had gotten him nowhere in the past. He just needed a moment, he told himself, to readjust.

The wary Frenchman shifted his focus to the vehicle he had just entered. It was smaller than it looked from the outside, although that may have been because it was absolutely crammed with belongings. The Sniper had a bit of everything—there were the necessities, of course; he had pots and pans and blankets and clothes and even something that passed as a bed, although one couldn't describe the space as "organized." And he had things in there, too, that weren't necessary: odd little knicknacks, something that looked like a music box, a harmonica, some crumpled packs of gum, small trophies from wild animals that must have been huge and fierce, even a few choice pieces of literature, and, in every possible nook and cranny of the van, yellowed envelopes sporting vibrant stamps. He picked one up—curiosity was, after all, part of his job and integral to his personality, and had been since long before he donned a mask. The address that the letter was sent to was unique; glancing around, it seemed that each one had arrived at a different location. However, they were all addressed to one "Gavin G. Mundy," and the return address was always the same, a "Persimmon Mundy."

"Oy, give it!" A rough hand appeared from behind and tugged the correspondence from his grasp. Renaud smirked in amusement as the bushman placed it, with utmost care and delicacy, in the shadow of a particularly precarious stack of place.

"Ah, my apologies. I did not mean to interfere with your meticulous organization system."

The Sniper glared at him, but when he replied, there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "Alright, so I haven't cleaned the place in a couple…years. So what?"

"If I am to make myself comfortable here, I will at the very least require somewhere to sit," he replied, eyeing the bed suspiciously. He could see a few more letters tucked into the pillowcase, and the whole thing was covered in dirty laundry. He would have commented on the smell, but the truth was that he didn't mind as much as he probably should have.

"Oh yeah," muttered the Australian, putting his hands on his hips and staring down the tangle of clothes as if expecting them to yield. "Right, got it—" And with a single swipe of a lanky arm, the whole mess came tumbling to the ground, somehow not knocking over the surprisingly expensive-looking clock that it landed on. Only the pillow remained on the bed. "There you go. Plenty of room."

There was a bit of awkward shuffling before the Spy could sit down; there wasn't enough floor space for the two men to properly step around each other, and for a moment the confines of the van squeezed them together, chests touching. A stagger, a hop, and a few awkward coughs later, one man was sitting stiffly on the bed and the other was leaning against the wall.

"Not used to having many callers, I see," the Frenchman remarked, attempting to squirm into a more comfortable position.

"Sorry," the other man muttered, looking at the floor. Renaud pursed his lips in exasperation—though he wasn't sure which of them it was directed towards. He certainly hadn't meant to shame the fellow's hospitality.

"No need to be sorry," he reassured, "I have certainly been held in much less comfortable situations by assassins other than yourself." He poked at the edges of paper that poked out from under the pillowcase. "Letters from your mother?"

The bushman's gaze shot up. His body was suddenly taught, as if at any moment he might pounce forward and bat the Spy's hand away from his personal correspondences. Instead, he gave a cautious growl. "Yeah. Letters from mum. Don't touch 'em." Renaud was itching to ask more, but before he could, Gavin jerked his head towards something surrounded by a pile of mugs asked, "You want coffee?"

The frenchman's mouth quirked. Quick to change the subject, wasn't he? Ah well, it was a touchy topic, after all—and besides, this was the Spy's first time in his comrade's van. His friend's van. Every time he thought the word, he had to fight a little twitch that shouted to him just how many rules he was breaking. He sternly reminded himself that he didn't care. He was beginning to remember that he wanted to break more of them. He accepted the offer of coffee.

Renaud watched in fascination as the Sniper prepared—it turned out that the thing hiding behind a stack of mugs was indeed a coffeemaker, and somehow Gavin was able to set it up without losing or breaking anything. As the pot started brewing, his host turned around and gave him a grin, the kind that he hadn't seen for too long.

"Alright Reno, here we are. Not gonna ask too many questions, especially since you're just getting settled and you're a secretive little wanker, but I'd still love to know what's going on in that whacked-out head of yours. Feel like sharing with the class?"

"Hmm, I'm not sure…" He allowed a playful smirk of his own; just a moment ago he had been thinking that the bushman certainly did not look bad from behind. Yes, he was starting to feel like himself again. "The rest of the class might not appreciate my perspective."

"Aw, come off it," Gavin protested, removing his hat, which had been interfering with his attempts to lean against the wall. "Think we've proven by now that it's hard to scare me off."

"Have we?" The Spy quirked an eyebrow. "I seem to remember you fleeing at the prospect of…what was the term again? 'Going steady?'" His smile widened.

"Hey, that's what they call it!" The marksman protested.

"That's what they call something, to be sure," Renaud drawled, casting his eyes once again about the messy room. "Tell me, how many women have you 'gone steady with'?"

"That's not—None of your business." The bushman scowled and folded his arms.

"How many men, then?"

"Wh—none! Bloody hell, I told you, none!"

"What you said," the Frenchman corrected him, "is that you don't get involved with men. Not that you didn't. Just wanted to clarify. Is there something wrong with me being curious?"

"Well, well, no, but…" Gavin spluttered for words. "The whole point of you coming in here—"

"Was so I could be myself, non? It is in my nature to ask questions." He treated the Sniper to a dazzling smile, knowing that it would only make him more uncomfortable. It was time to step out of the comfort zone.

The Australian's fingers pressed heavily against his brow; he seemed to have a habit of hiding his face when he was flustered. "Yeah, but—this is about you coming to terms with yourself, Reno, not me."

Renaud's voice was quiet. "So there are things about yourself that you must come to terms with, then?"

After a moment of gaping silently at his visitor, Gavin was saved from answering by the coffee's preparation coming to an end. He hastened over to pour it into mugs, his back turned pointedly to the Spy. While he was looking away, the Frenchman repositioned himself again, trying many positions and finding none entirely satisfactory. He was experimenting with sprawling on his side when his host returned with two steaming mugs.

"Comfy there, Reno?" The Sniper snickered as the other man immediately straightened himself, accepting the cup of coffee that was offered to him.

"Adequately so," he coughed as he straightened his tie. He wanted to wait a moment to let the brew cool off.

"You sure? Nothing I can do to make you more comfortable?" Gavin was just trying to be helpful. He hadn't played a host for a while, if ever, that much was obvious, and he wanted his only friend in this godforsaken place to feel comfortable enough to be himself. Renaud knew that. He also knew that if he was truly being himself, he would take advantage of that statement. No, he chided himself, best to go slow, now…

"Yes, actually. Take those off."

"What?" Colour started draining from the bushman's face. "You want me to—"

"Your glasses. Take them off. Surely you do not need them indoors?" The idea of wearing shaded aviators in this dark van struck the Spy as ridiculous. Besides, the Sniper would be much easier to read if he could see his eyes.

"O-oh, right. Guess I don't…" Tentatively, he removed the glasses, setting them on top of his already discarded hat. Renaud drank him in. No hat, no glasses; he hadn't seen Gavin like this since their first meeting, and it was almost like seeing him naked. He loved it. And yes, his face was much easier to read now—at the moment, it radiated concern. "Anyway, Reno…what was up with that, back there? Cutting off that bloke's hand?

The Frenchman sniffed. "He bothered me."

"You in the habit of mutilating anyone that bothers you?" The Sniper sipped at his coffee, never taking his frowning eyes off of his guest. It was marvelous to think that behind the tinted glass, Gavin stared at him that much.

"Of course not!" He retorted, indignant. "But was especially repulsive. I don't have to tell you that—you're the one who struck the first blow; remember that, Gavin."

"'Course I remember," the bushman spat, "but there's a difference between giving a bloke the walloping he deserves and severing his limbs."

The Spy shrugged. "There is also a difference between insulting me and insulting someone I care about." The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could say them. Merde, he had forgotten that being Renaud Corbet came with a certain degree of carelessness and idiocy. He tried to cover the moment by sipping at his coffee, and found it entirely too strong for his tastes; it was all he could do not to spit it out all over the bedsheets. After swallowing awkwardly, he dared a glance up at his host.

But Gavin wasn't fazed at all—in fact, he nodded solemnly. "Wasn't right of him to say that about your mum," he agreed. "Considering how things have been…This is a rough place to get used to. We're all trying to figure out how to survive it, where we can stand, and with who… You'd just talked about your mum the day before, the memory was raw, and you were trying to do that stoic-Spy thing. I get it. Don't like that you got that unstable, but I get it."

Renaud just blinked for a moment, stunned, before shaking his head and adopting a sad little smile. "Do you?" He hadn't been talking about the other Spy's cracks at his mother, but the jabs at Gavin…

The Sniper just shrugged. "Even if I don't totally understand today, you can come back here any time you want. I mean it. Gonna need a friend to survive in this shithole." The bushman tried one of his famous grins, but it faltered. "We are, right? Friends?"

The Spy narrowed his eyes. His mother, the other Spy, the rules they were both trying not to talk about—all of those things crowded in the back of his mind like storm clouds, but it was difficult to focus on them. Here, in this van, in such close proximity to Gavin, everything else seemed far away. His persistently developing feelings for the other man, those were still fresh in his mind, an easily accessible part of who he was. Other things would come later. Right now, all he could think about were those long, strong limbs and that deep, rumbling voice, not to mention the heart of a man who, despite being a loner, invites someone else into his home just so he can have a chance to be himself. Friends? "For now," he replied coolly.

The bushman's face fell, although he tried to hide it. "J-just for now, huh? I guess, yeah, if we should wait until we know what teams we're assigned to before we can really—"

"You are going in the wrong direction," Renaud interrupted flatly. "We have squabbled over this friendship long enough. Obviously, we cannot be kept apart." He ventured another sip of coffee as his companion grew a relieved smile.

"Yeah, two peas in a pod, you and me," Gavin chuckled as he saw his guest grimace at the coffee. "You want some cream or sugar in that, fancy-pants?"

The Frenchman gave him a steely glare. "I am fine," he insisted, taking a long gulp of the brew. He gave a single cough after he got it all down, and then shot his eyes back to the Sniper as if daring him to say anything.

The Australian just shook his head, amused. "You're a funny sort, Reno. Did a good job of swallowing that, though. "

"One of my many talents," The Spy replied with an arch of one eyebrow. "You are very forward, for a man who claims no interest in other men."

"What the—" Gavin's eyes darted around, as if searching for any eavesdroppers who might overhear. "Why the hell do you keep bringing that up?"

"I told you," he responded evenly, setting down the half-empty mug. "I am curious."

The bushman stared at him as if he came from another planet: jaw dropped, eyes wide, mouth incredulous. "Why?" He repeated.

Renaud smirked. "Come now, I can't be the only one using my head here. Guess."

Gavin set down his own mug and pressed his fingers to his temple again, scrunching up his face in frustration and thought. "I dunno. My first guess would be that you—you've got a thing for me, but you already said you don't, so—"

"Did I?" The Spy whispered.

The Sniper froze.

"You…you laughed." The bushman's words were slow and heavy. "I said, 'You looked like you wanted to go steady,' and you laughed."

"And I would again," the Frenchman replied coolly. "It's a stupid phrase."

"So…so you laughed at 'go steady,' but you never said…never said you weren't…" The look on Gavin's face looked resembled one some great thinker would wear while pondering the creation of the universe. Renaud decided to ease the thought process along.

"I am very interested in you," he confirmed. It was shockingly easy to say, especially for something that he had sworn to himself he would never admit. Yes, that part was simple—now for the hard part. He locked his gaze with the Sniper's, not letting out another word until the other man met his eyes. "Are you…interested in me?"

For the first time since they had met, the bushman looked utterly helpless. With his parents, he had been hopeless, and with friendship, he had been confused, but this was a different sort of being lost; had he not been able to feel the dry desert air, Renaud would have sworn his companion was drowning. He opened and closed his mouth dumbly; the rest of his body was frozen.

Well, it wasn't the worst reaction.

"I…" Slowly, surely, Gavin started to force sounds out of his mouth. "I…I, I can't. Can't be. Interested."

"That's not what I asked," the Spy reminded him softly, trying hard to keep the growl out of his voice. He was close, closer than ever; it wouldn't do to scare him off. Gentle, Renaud, gentle. Shattering a few decades of self-perception is a difficult thing to do.

"Am I? I…" He seemed to think about it for a moment, then shook his head furiously. "I don't know. I don't want to know. I—" He shot his guest a pained look. "I can't."

"Why not?" The masked man murmured. "What's stopping you?"

"I just—look, Reno, you're a hell of a bloke. No questioning that. I just…Look, even if I was—even if I do—I mean—" He swore under his breath. "New job, new place, new people, new friend, yeah, but I'm starting to get old. Too old for new tricks. I can't—it's too much. I couldn't get used to it, with another man, I mean, I can barely imagine it, I—"

Renaud reached forward and grabbed his hand. His right hand, the one without the glove. The Sniper froze, stopped spluttering out words, and stared at the gloved fingers twining around his own. "What are you doing?" The bushman whispered. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Teaching you a new trick."

At that, the hand tried to jerk out of his grasp, but the Spy had a firm grip. He could feel the man's skin quiver, and he felt a pang of guilt—Gavin was nervous. Renaud couldn't blame him. After all, not an hour ago he had severed another man's hand, and even if his intentions with the Sniper were different, they could still be threatening. He knew that, so he did not move. He simply sat there and held the bushman's hand.

After a minute, Gavin's breathing calmed and his shaking stopped, although he still seemed uncomfortable. Ever so slightly, the Frenchman let his thumb begin to move, and once again, the Sniper tensed. Renaud just concentrated on the tiny motion of his gloved thumb against the bushman's warm, rough skin: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, little circle, back and forth. He looked up—the marksman was frowning, but it seemed to be more out of cautious curiosity than anything else. The back and forths and little circles started to grow, until the thumb's range encompassed the whole back of the hand. Gavin bit his lip.

Moving slowly, so as not to spook him, the Spy added a second hand to the two clasped around each other. He gave the bushman a minute to get used to the additional mass of smooth leather and warmth, and then, carefully, he removed the first hand, letting the second hand's thumb stroke the Sniper's scarred skin. He brought his newly-freed fingers to his lips and, making sure that Gavin was watching, he closed his teeth around the cloth at his fingertips and started to tug. After a few deft pulls, his hand was naked, and he opened his jaws to drop the glove on the bed beside him. Still paying attention not to go too fast, he replaced the still-sheathed hand with the unsheathed one. As he removed the second glove with his teeth, he felt his bare skin slide against Gavin's. Cher dieu, it had already been far too long since he had felt a touch like that—too long for the Sniper, as well, it seemed. The bushman's eyes were wide and his nostrils were flared, but his expression amazed, not fearful, and his breathing was audible. It was beautiful.

Encouraged by his companion's reaction, Renaud reached out with his free arm and grabbed the bushman's other hand—the one that sported the fingerless glove. Gavin seemed startled, so he gave him another minute of just holding them, just holding both hands. Then his fingers started slithering, working their way slowly around the velcro strap that held that glove together. He rubbed gently in between the strap and the glove, slowly but surely disconnecting the velcro. The Sniper held his breath for the whole process. When the strap was undone, the Spy was tempted to pull off the bushman's glove with his teeth, as well—but he suspected that would be too much, too fast. Instead, he let his fingers rub circles on the skin right next to the glove, pushing it farther and farther off of Gavin's hand. The Sniper was much more sensitive there than he would have expected; after a minute and a half of this treatment he let out a sigh that was just two notches down from a full-out groan. Every now and then, Renaud flicked his eyes up to see how the bushman was doing—by this point, his eyes were screwed shut, his cheeks were flushed, and his breathing was almost heavy enough to be classified as panting. That sight alone took the Spy's breath away; he was so concentrated on the other man's face that he simply forgot, for a moment, to keep using his lungs.

He adjusted his grip on both hands, lacing their fingers together so that their palms touched. His thumbs didn't have as much room to trace patterns on the Sniper's skin, but he loved the sensation that came from gently rubbing their palms together. At first, the friction was barely noticeable, but after a minute or so he had set a good rhythm—until the bushman surprised him. Gavin's thumbs started making their own reluctant paths on Renaud's skin, and after a moment, his palms joined the fun. They slid and rubbed and traced and touched, and in the first time in—how long had it been? It seemed like forever. It seemed like there had never been anything else. For the first time since they began, the Spy dared to speak.

"Open your eyes, Gavin."

The Sniper's eyelids cracked open, then widened, and he stared for a long while at his own hands, as if not believing what they were doing—holding another man's hand, getting far too much enjoyment from such simple friction. His gaze slid upwards, met Renaud's, and held it. The Spy smiled. Gavin tried, but his face could only process so many feelings at once. The Frenchman leaned forward, aiming to plant a kiss on one of those big, strong hands.

Without warning, Gavin sprang back, stumbling among piles of debris until he backed into the door. Renaud stared. The Sniper was shaking again, and short of breath, and his eyes were wide with fear. What had he done wrong? They had been doing so well, he thought. Had he misinterpreted the whole thing? Had his friend simply been afraid and uncomfortable the entire time? He didn't know what to say.

Perhaps he would start with something simple. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I thought…I'm sorry."

Gavin was shaking his head. "No, no, I…It's fine, okay? It's fine, just…"

"It's not fine." Renaud scowled. "Look at you."

"I'm fine," the Sniper repeated, this time with some force in his voice. "I just, that was…"

"Too much."

"Well…yeah."

The Frenchman sighed and hung his head, borrowing the bushman's trick of rubbing his temples. He had ruined it. He had pushed too far. He had seen what he wanted to see in his friend and ignored everything else. At this point, he would be very lucky indeed if he still had a friend, let alone…

"But, you know," Gavin had stopped shaking, and his breathing was starting to slow. "Think I could get used to that."

Renaud's head shot up. He stared with disbelief at the Sniper, who cracked a weak smile. "You—you do not have to. Please, don't think for a moment that you need to. If all you want is a friend, then—"

"I don't know what I want. I was pretty sure I didn't want…whatever the hell that just was, until it happened. Now…" He shook his head. "I don't know."

The Spy nodded. It made sense. It was a hard thing to realize about oneself, after all these years—especially when most of those years had been lonely ones. Gavin needed time to think, and to be honest, so did he. A haven for himself, Renaud Corbet, in the Sniper's van? Possible romance? Extensive rule-breaking? Truth be told, he hadn't thought about it that much, especially not in the recent days of being the hard and ruthless Spy. "Tell me, when you know. Tell me, and I'll come back here, if you don't mind. Your van is already growing on me, you know."

The Australian joined him in nodding. "Yeah, sounds good. I'll let you know soon as I do. And if I need to talk to you beforehand, well, I know where you live." He gave a little dry chuckle, which sent Renaud's spirits soaring. His friend did not hate him. He had a friend. He might have more than a friend. "Speaking of which, think maybe now's a good time for you to be getting on home, Reno. We need space, time, and a good night's sleep."

The Spy agreed. Gavin led him back through the desert, over the cold, dark sands, and neither of them said a word. It was a reflective silence. At one point, the Sniper stopped dead in his tracks to look up and stare at the stars, and the Frenchman walked right into him, slamming into his back. Startled, the bushman looked behind him to see the his companion sprawled on the ground. Chuckling, he offered a hand to help Renaud up, and to the Spy's great surprise, he didn't let go for the rest of the walk. They marched on in the quiet and held each other's hands, despite what they had said and thought about needing time.

When the base came into view, it was Renaud who stopped. "We should part ways here," he warned. "It would not be good for us to be seen together, especially like this." He squeezed the Sniper's hand.

Gavin nodded. "Right. I'd better head on back."

Neither of them let go. Finally, the Spy laughed and placed a single, small kiss on the back of the other man's hand. "Thank you for walking me home, monsieur," he teased, "but I assure you I can make it from here." The bushman let out an embarrassed little chuckle and, after a moment, they turned and walked their separate ways.

Even as Renaud slipped back into the hardened veneer of the Spy, he couldn't help but hope for dreams that night.