Chapter Text
You manage to go a couple weeks at your new job before you finally get shot at.
You’re outside, carrying a delivery of small parts to Engineer’s workshop, when it happens. There are human figures and the hulking mass of a vehicle in the distance, on the other side of the chain link fence circling the base, and you’re squinting at them, trying to decide what you’re looking at when the first gunshot rings out. You barely have time to register a bullet whizzing by you before you realize what exactly is going on. You drop what you’re carrying and scramble, diving into cover behind some crates. There’s more gunshots, loud ones, then three softer ones, each of them punctuated by a wet noise.
You freeze up, terrified. All you can think is how you’ve never been shot at before, oh God, nothing in your higher education prepared you for this. You’re an engineer, for Christ’s sake, not a soldier! You’re just supposed to be some friendly southern gentleman’s assistant! They told you this job was dangerous but the reality of your situation hadn’t sunk in until now.
“What the hell are you doing?!” shouts an Australian accent off in the distance. You peek over the box hesitantly, and there’s Sniper, up in his roost, leaning out through the window and hollering at you. “Get the fuck back inside!”
You don’t hesitate to bolt to the entrance, slamming your fist on the button for the alert siren as you skid on the metal flooring, barely stopping before you race down the halls, past several mercs running in the opposite direction. You hide in the relative safety of the Engineer’s workshop until the all-clear announcement is made.
Dell gives you a low whistle when he returns from the firefight and you tell him you were the one who triggered the alarm.
“Finally seeing some of the action, huh?” he jokes, but his voice is flatter than it usually is when he’s joking, like he doesn’t think it’s all that funny.
You reply with a nervous chuckle and busy yourself with organizing machine parts.
You’re not alone with Dell for long before Sniper comes knocking on the door. You let him in, but he just leans against the door frame, arms crossed.
You hardly ever see Sniper up close, since it seems he spends most of his time in his van or in the sniper’s nest, so this is a rare treat for you. Many of the mercs are pretty nice to look at, and it’s hard for you to deny that Sniper in particular checks a lot of your boxes. It’s not entirely professional of you to check out the lean muscle in his biceps and the light brushing of hair on his forearms, made visible by his rolled-up sleeves, but you do it anyway.
“One of the sentries is all mangled,” he says, pointedly looking past you and talking to Dell instead. “Dunno if there’s more of those wankers on the way, so you’d best fix it sooner rather than later.”
Dell nods towards you, already turning back to what he was doing. “I’m busy with this. They can handle it. Show ‘em where it’s at.”
Sniper doesn’t move from his spot, just looks you over and silently raises an eyebrow at the Engineer.
Dell fixes him with a stern look, his mouth pressed into a hard, thin line. “They’re my assistant for a reason,” he says, his tone lightly scolding. “I picked this one myself.”
To your surprise, Sniper doesn’t protest any further, just gestures for you to follow him and goes stalking off down the hall. You grab your toolkit and a box of spare sentry parts and take off after him. You have to jog a little to catch up, his long legs naturally moving more briskly than yours.
It’s a little awkward, walking next to him in complete silence.
“Thanks for saving my ass earlier,” you say, in an attempt to lessen the bad atmosphere.
Sniper just grunts in response. His head turns marginally to glance at you, and you must look put out by his reaction because he says, gruffly, “Don’t mention it, mate.” There’s another moment of quiet before he adds, “You oughta start carrying a gun.”
“I don’t think it’d do much good,” you say, the corners of your mouth twitching into a wry smile, “since I don’t know how to shoot.”
“You’re joking.” He looks at you more directly, his mouth slightly ajar.
“I’ve spent my time in school reading textbooks, not shooting guns at… wherever it is you learn to be a mercenary.”
“Crikey,” he mutters, furrowing his brow when he sees that you really aren’t kidding. “You’re not gonna last ‘round here much longer than the other ones, are ya?”
“Wait, what?” you ask, stopping your tracks. Sniper takes a few more steps before he realizes you’re not following. “I didn’t know I wasn’t the first to be hired for this position. Did the last ones… quit?”
“Ah. Whoops,” he says, turning to look at you and putting his hands back on his hips. He looks uncomfortable, his face contorted into a grimace, as though a kid just asked him where babies come from and he’s not looking forward to explaining it. “Guess they didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what,” you say, flatly, icily.
“Well,” he says, cringing even harder, “two of ‘em did quit. After they got shot. The other two, uh… also got shot. And didn’t get a chance to quit.”
“Oh, fantastic!” you say, sarcastically, heading off down the hallway again. “They said there were ‘workplace hazards’ but not that the previous junior engineers DIED. Is that legal? Not disclosing that people DIE on the job?”
He snorts loudly. “Nothing about this job is legal.”
You allow yourself a short, frustrated yell. “Ugh! I knew the pay was too good to be true.”
He leads you outside to the broken sentry, which is sending out sparks through a hole in its exterior plating.
“What happened?” you ask, setting down your tools.
“I don’t know,” he says, gesturing at the sparking sentry. “I’m not a bloody scientist - probably someone just shot it. Could’ve even been one of the gremlins on our side.”
“Hm,” is all you give him in response before you break open the maintenance hatch. The inside is sparking worse than the outside, and you cut the power to the sentry before you can electrocute yourself.
It doesn’t take long to figure out the problem - Sniper was right, a bullet shot through the exterior and lodged itself in the inner workings. You start working on repairing the damage, but quickly notice him still standing there in your periphery.
You turn, furrowing your brow at him. “What’re you standing around for?”
Sniper seems suddenly aware of how awkward he looks just loitering and watching you. He busies himself with adjusting his hat. “Dunno,” he says, sounding a bit lost. “Didn’t know if you needed anything else.”
It’s your turn to furrow your brow at him. “No?” you say, lilting your voice like you’re asking a question. “ This is what I’m trained to do. I think I’ve got it.”
“Right,” he says, and he walks away, even though something in his voice sounds unsure.
You thought Sniper mostly kept to himself, but maybe you were wrong, because he seems to be hanging around more often recently.
You bump into him with surprising regularity, usually in the kitchenette in the mornings. He gets up before you, so by the time you turn up, he’s already there scarfing down toast and some sort of unidentifiable meat. You shamelessly leech off of the pot of coffee he brews every day at 6:30 AM like clockwork, shooting him a grin and an apology whenever he catches you pouring yourself a mug before you head to Dell’s workshop. If he minds, he never tells you so, but on the rare occasion where you’re finishing off the last of the pot, he asks you to brew a second helping and bring the pot his nest when you’re done. You figure that’s a fair trade.
A few times you catch him in the halls of the nearly labyrinthian central building. He’s usually busy talking to one of the other mercs, so you don’t often get the chance to chat with him, but he rarely fails to spare you a polite smile and a wave as you pass, which is more than you can say for some of your other so-called coworkers.
When you do get a chance to make small talk, it leaves you wondering if perhaps he’s not so surly after all. He really only has about three non-combat-related topics he can cycle through - the weather, the local wildlife, and asking “how’s that thing you’re building going, eh?” He’s perfectly enthusiastic when telling you about the hawk he saw nabbing a jack rabbit that morning, or musing endlessly about how he thinks “it’s gonna rain, mate, didja see those clouds rollin’ in?” But the second you broach any topic he’s not prepared for, you get clipped answers and he finds an excuse to leave.
You’re beginning to think that maybe he’s just awkward and socially stunted from spending so much time alone.
One night, when most of the mercs have gathered around the large table near the kitchen to drink and play card games, you see him laugh - really laugh - for the first time.
You were a little intimidated when Engineer suggested you join in. Drinking with a bunch of crude mercenaries whose personalities mostly ranged from “slightly unhinged” to “criminally insane” seemed like a terrible idea. But, aside from a couple of death threats being tossed around and one attempted stabbing, the men are not terrible drinking buddies and the conversation is definitely lively. You’re surprised to find how readily they accept you into the group.
You’ve all been hitting the bottle pretty hard, and Scout makes a joke at Spy’s expense. You don’t hear it, but Sniper does. He lets out a ridiculous snort and then launches in a full laugh, tossing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. You can’t help but notice that he looks really handsome with a grin on his face. Fleetingly, you wonder if he’d be a suave ladykiller like Spy if he was at all capable of holding a conversation that isn’t about the best way to murder people.
Throughout the night people are getting up and grabbing things from the kitchen and switching seats, and at some point Sniper ends up sitting next to you when most everyone else is out of the room.
“Can’t believe you don’t know how to bloody shoot,” he says to you as he shuffles the deck of cards, his words slurring a little bit. “Whattya expect to do if one of us ain’t around to have your back?”
You shrug at him, grinning. “Guess I’ll just die.”
He scoffs. “Bang-up plan, mate.”
He deals cards out to himself, you, Engineer, and Heavy, the only ones left at the table for the time being. You watch his hands carefully and try not to think of the naughty things you’d like him to be doing with them.
“I could teach you,” Sniper says as he checks his cards, with an air of mock casualness. “To shoot,” he clarifies. You’re just barely sober enough to still tell when someone is asking a question and hoping for a particular answer.
You hesitate, glancing over at Dell, who just smiles and raises his brows at you in a knowing sort of look. You wish you knew whatever it is that he knows because you haven’t the foggiest why Sniper would even make that suggestion.
So you just reply, “Sure,” and Sniper grunts in response and smiles a little.
You hardly mind losing so badly at poker that night.
“Never seen a merc hold a gun more wrong than you’re holding that rifle now,” Sniper says to you, scornfully.
You let out a loud, exasperated noise, pulling the scope of the rifle away from your face. “Maybe because I’m not a merc,” you reply, “I’m an engineer.”
“Engineer’s an engineer and a merc,” he shoots back, scowling. “You’re here in the fort and you’re his assistant so you’re a bloody merc.”
“Debatable,” you say as he stalks over to rip the rifle from your hands. “This is a temporary arrangement. I don’t intend to making a living this way like he does. I just took this job because it pays so much better than any other entry level position, apparently because of the much higher probability of getting shot .”
You can see his eyes rolling behind his yellow shades and he tilts his head back far enough that his hat nearly falls off. “Crikey, why the hell did they hire you? Is getting poor lil eggheads killed part of the master plan now?” he asks, more to the ceiling than to you. “Getting shot - that’s exactly why you should be reconsidering your job title, don’t ya think?” He sends another critical look in your direction.
“I’m not supposed to be part of the fighting. I’m just supposed to be helping Dell with his projects and staying off the battlefield.” You’re getting a little irritated with him now. This wasn’t in your contract, and it was his stupid idea to teach you how to shoot. It seemed like it’d be more fun when you were drunk.
“But the whole damn lot is the bloody battlefield! There is no ‘off’ or ‘on.’” He faces you again and gestures imploringly. “Are you planning on fighting someone off with just a damn wrench, hm? No, I’d reckon not. The idea is to kill them before they get close enough to kill you, mate, because if it’s down to you and them, it’ll be you taking the dirt nap, I guarantee it.”
You frown. This is probably the most he’s ever spoken to you and it’s just so he can tell you that you’re gonna die.
He notices how deflated you look and his expression softens, just a little. “You’ve got to hold it more like this,” he says, performing the action for you and gazing through the scope. He gestures to a part that you can’t name because it’s not something that would ever be on a turret, and says, “This bit’s got to go up against your shoulder, see?”
You don’t see, but you wordlessly take the rifle back when he hands it to you and you do your best to copy what he’d done. You point the barrel out through window of the sniping post and squint into the scope.
He releases a weary sigh. “That’s… better,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he means it. “Here, let me…”
He steps closer to you, slightly behind you and to one side, his hands hovering inches away from your arms for a second, like he’s not sure he should be touching you. You draw your face back from the rifle and turn your head to watch one of his hands, but you don’t flinch away. Sniper seems to recognize this as permission, and huffs out a breath as he places his hands on top of your arms, repositioning them, adjusting your grip on the gun. His hand is bigger than yours, you observe with a detached sort of amusement as he slides it back up your wrist. It’s also warm. And sort of sweaty. He’s leaning in closer to you and you catch a whiff of what might be beef jerky.
“That’s it,” he says, his voice low and gravelly and way too close to your ear. His hands are at your elbows now, gently guiding you to look into the scope again. “Focus on the target. Keep your breathing steady.”
You don’t think you’re breathing at all.
You pull the trigger and startle yourself with the recoil, even though it’s minimal. You peek over the rifle and see that you’ve only barely grazed the edge of the wooden target Sniper set up for you, sending splinters flying all over in the desert dust.
He barks out a laugh. “Awright!” he says, giving you a smack on the back and nearly sending your eye into the scope. “That’s not too bad, first-timer. I thought you’d miss by a mile!”
“How’s the shootin’ lessons going?” asks Dell, conversationally.
“Could be better, could be worse,” you say, hunching further over the wires you’re attempting to solder. “Sniper’s not exactly teacher of the year, but he’s patient with me even though I’ve got no talent for it. I’m getting better, I think.”
Engineer hums lowly. “That’s good,” he says, fiddling with something at his workbench. “He was real worried about you not knowin’ how to protect yourself.”
You look up, brow furrowed, craning your neck to look at Dell. “Worried?” you ask, incredulously.
“Well,” he amends, sounding a little sheepish. “As far as I can tell, he was. You know how he is by now, he keeps his feelings locked up tight - most of us do. But he kept bringin’ up to everyone about how you were inadequately prepared for combat, and what if anything went wrong and so on, so I figured he musta been concerned. I think he expected one of us to offer to train you.”
You don’t know what to say, so you just give him a hum of mild agreement. You turn back to your work and the two of you are quiet for a minute.
“Not to pry or speculate or anything, but,” he says, breaking the silence, “we ain’t got no policies here against workplace romance.”
“Dell! Honestly,” you groan, exaggerating how scandalized you are. “Nothing’s going on with me and Sniper.”
“I just think a man who spends all his time alone and starin’ down a scope could probably use some company now and then,” he says, his voice gentle. “And you seem to like him well enough, so.”
He abruptly drops the subject after that, and you don’t pick it back up.
During your next lesson with Sniper, you’re distracted. You completely miss a target for the third time that day and you cuss loudly, fighting the urge to throw the rifle on the wooden floor of the tower.
“Oi,” he says, fixing you with a look that’s inscrutable behind the glare of the sun on his shades. “What’s wrong with you? Two days ago you were starting to hit bullseyes and now you couldn’t hit the target if you were standing right next to the bloody thing.”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” you snap at him, irritated.
“S’not what I meant, and you know it,” he says, lowering the volume of his voice a little, as though he’s talking to a startled animal.
You can’t stop thinking about what Engineer told you before. You can’t stop wondering if maybe Sniper really was worried about you, whether he’d actually like some company. Wondering if maybe these lessons were all just an excuse to spend some time with you, and then scolding yourself for such wishful thinking.
What’s even worse is that it’s getting harder to deny how attractive you find him.
You’ve met up with him for several lessons now and the fact that you actually have to stare at him when he’s demonstrating something for you - rather than taking shameful peeks when you think he’s not looking - is not helping with your problem. You’ve had more than enough time to memorize his jawline and the natural shape of his five o’clock shadow, more than enough time to appreciate the age lines starting to form in his face. You’ve had to watch him reload the rifle with deft fingers more times than you can count.
“Dell said you insisted on teaching me to shoot because you were worried ,” you blurt out, and it sounds more accusatory than you would like.
His face falls immediately. “Aw, piss,” he swears, dropping the butt of his cigarette and stomping on it with more force than necessary. “Look, I know you’re an adult and you can take care of yourself. I’m not trying to coddle you, I’m no mother hen, just - I thought it’d be - a shame. If something happened.” He’s got his head ducked down low, staring at the ground, his hands on his hips. Almost like he’s embarrassed and trying to hide it.
You’re distracted for a moment by how nice his big hands look framing his waist before you digest what he’s said and think of a response.
“You think I’m insulted?” you ask, your brows raising. “I’ve got no illusions that I’m at all capable in a firefight, Sniper.”
He looks up, his eyebrows climbing just like yours. “Why’re you asking about it then?”
“I was just wondering why you would bother,” you say, shifting the rifle in your grip awkwardly. “You don’t seem like the type to meddle or go out of your way for other people.”
“M’not,” he mumbles. He steps forward, gently pulling the rifle out of your grasp and turning to set it against the wall. “Told you. Just thought it’d be a shame. Dell’s gone through enough assistants and you’re the first not to go blubberin’ about it when you get shot at. That’s a rare quality in you academic types.”
“We’re not done for the day yet, are we?” you ask, standing up from the wooden crate you were sitting on. “I barely got any practice.”
“Your head’s not in it,” he says, turning to you and crossing his arms firmly across his chest. “No point in wasting bullets.”
You snatch up the rifle and sit back down, getting back into position to shoot again. “My head won’t be in it when we’re under attack, either. So shut up and help me fix my aim.”
You don’t miss his smile on his lips as he adjusts your grip.