Author's Note: Nothing much to say about this one. Just a bit of character interactions between our two leads.
After dragging Spy's corpse up to the dorm, Mortimer's stomach starts to grumble. “Ugh... In all that excitement, I forgot that I hadn't eaten since this mornin'. Work can wait—I need food.” Hearing the Spy's moaning, he quietly adds, “I'll get somethin' fer you, too.”
Pushing open one of the double-doors leading to the cafeteria, Mort is immediately greeted by an array of warm, delicious fragrances. The sweet smell of apple pie, the smoky scent of barbecue pork ribs, and the sharp odor of the strange mystery meat tickle his nose and—before he's even fully aware of it—lead him towards the line of mercenaries (whom might as well be faceless to him, seeing how unspectacular they look from the perspective of a starving man). Without even taking his friend's delicate stomach into consideration, he orders one of everything from the menu and is about to leave the line when...
“Hey, it's the fella from the gym and the office!” The worker serving Mortimer and several other men the mystery meat grins and stares at him with one eye. His only eye.
Finally noticing the eye-patch on him, Mort becomes more than a little bit nervous. “D-Duncan, right? I saw you at the office, too.”
The one-eyed man raises a brow, then laughs. “Oh! You mean Hart's place, right? Didn't notice you at the time. Got a lot on my plate with Janey an' work.”
“I can tell. Say, is Mr. Jane always like tha—”
“Hey, idiot! Move outta the way!” A younger merc from further down the line shouts at Mort, provoking him into stepping out of the way of the others. You could've at least said “please”, Mort thinks to himself, vexed by the youth's rudeness.
Thankfully, the bushman's mood doesn't linger for very long; the delicious taste of the mystery meat eradicates any feelings of anger he once felt. His hunger taking over, he quickly disposes of the tray full of food, and has considered returning for seconds when a familiar face sits down in front of him.
“I figured you'd be here.” The Engineer tips his hardhat and smiles. “Yer face when I showed you the place was like a puppy seein' his owner after a long day apart.” Mort tilts his head, puzzled by the metaphor being used. Did I really look like a puppy to him?
He changes the subject. “Hey, did you know that Duncan works here? I never realized the blokes around here work other jobs, too.”
“Duncan shifts between ten jobs, both here and in the town. (Least, that's what I last heard.) Surprising to hear he even gets breaks at all.”
“How can he work ten jobs and take care of that brat—er, Mr. Jane—and still catch a break?”
Miller shrugs. “Beats me. I don't think he does 'em all at once, though. I'm pretty sure most of 'em are part-time or seasonal positions.”
“I'm pretty sure babysitting Janey is his full-time job,” Mort retorts.
Their conversation is suddenly interrupted by a loud, clattering sound. The next table over, a Soldier—the resident Jane Doe—slams their tray on the table, then glares at Mort and Miller before taking his seat. Though the small man's eyes cannot be seen, the aura that exudes from him is enough to send chills down the bushman's spine.
A long, awkward silence looms over their table before the bushman finally remembers something—or rather, somebody. “I gotta go. Bye.” He stands to take his tray and rushes back to the line.
Armed with a tray full of the best the cafeteria has to offer, Mortimer returns to the dorm room. Spy is no longer unconscious, but hunger and exhaustion prevents him from leaving his spot on the bottom bunk. The smell of the food is both enticing and nauseating. “Thank you,” he says weakly as he accepts a small bowl of soup from the Sniper. Unfortunately, due to his weak stomach, he is unable to enjoy it for long; he barely empties half of it before his gag reflex starts kicking in.
Mortimer frowns and takes the soup away. “Those syringes must've affected you more than I thought.”
Spy shakes his head. “No, it's not zhe syringes. I've always been like this...” His voice trails off, as if he's forgotten what to say next. A moment of silence later, he lies on his side and wraps the blanket around him. “Go on without me. I'll only slow you down.”
For a long while, Mortimer is uncertain how to react to this statement. In the end, he finally says, “Work can wait. Your well-being's more important.”
The secret agent peers at him from under the covers and mutters, “Missing work on zhe first day... you really are looking to get fired, aren't you?”
Had he not been distracted by the food on his lap, Mort would have heard that, clear as day. “Besides, Doctor Hartmann seems awfully busy with that kid, an' after what he did to you, it's pro'lly best he doesn't get involved anymore.”
Spy chuckles weakly. “Definitely for zhe best.”
For a moment, neither of them say a word, as the Sniper preoccupies himself with the task of cleaning his plate. After taking the last bite of mystery meat, he speaks up. “Say, you know all kinds of things about me, an' you pro'lly know more about our teammates than you let on. Yet I know almost nothin' about you. I mean, I know you don't eat much, and you like to dress all fancy, and you're always causin' trouble wherever you go... but I don't know about you. Know what I mean?”
“I can't reveal too much. Security reasons and all.”
“I'm not askin' for much. Just a name'll do. I'll even keep it a secret, if I have to.”
A pause, then, with a limp, barely-existent shrug, he answers, “Come closer, and I'll tell you.” Puzzled, Mortimer sets the tray aside and leans closer to him. “A little bit more...” Doing as his friend commands, he's practically lying on the bed, his ear inches away from him. “That's good enough. My name... My name is...”
After some hesitation, the Spy whispers in a voice so soft, it is like a gentle breeze in the airless room. But Mort's sharp ears have picked it up, and that name will forever remain, buried in his subconscious.
Alan Ian Astor.
The name sounds simple enough that it could easily be forgotten, but there is an ethereal quality about it that makes it hard to forget. Say it too fast, and your tongue gets tied. But say it too slowly, and it risks sounding buffoonish. But at the right pace, it sounds...
“Lovely,” says the Sniper, letting slip the first word that came to mind. “It's got a nice ring to it!”
Spy—er, Alan—averts his gaze, too bashful to make direct eye contact. “Merci. Your name's not too bad, either.”
“Aw, it's nothing special. Got it from my great-grandpappy. Your name's a real charmer, definitely fancy like a Frenchman.”
Alan stifles a laugh. “And you're a real hick! I mean seriously, who says 'grandpappy' anymore?”
Mortimer frowns, slightly offended. He never found anything unusual about saying things a certain way. But now, lying here next to this city boy, he can't help but feel insecure about his quaint nature. He stands up and retorts, his tone deadpan, “Sounds like you're feelin' better already.”
“No, I'm not! Not yet, anyway.” Alan covers himself from head to toe with the blanket, and Mort watches individual articles of clothing slip from under the blanket onto the floor. First his tie. Then his socks, and his pants, and his suit and blouse. After slipping his gloves off and letting them fall, he takes off his balaclava and hands it to Mortimer, who still can't see the Spy's face. “Since you are here, would you mind taking those to the laundry and bringing me a new set of clothes? It has been a while since I have worn something clean. Can you, please?”
Fiddling with the mask in his hands, Mortimer feels discomforted, for some reason. No, it's not just because he's makin' me into his li'l slave. It's somethin' else. Somethin' about his voice... “Alright. But what if you need t' use the bathroom or somethin'?”
“Worry not about me. I am perfectly capable of finding solutions. Now... go.” Alan's slender hand gesture suggests the bushman go away, which he does immediately.
Still, he cannot help but have mixed feelings about the Spy's behavior during that moment. Al has always acted a little snobbish from time to time, but usually, it's accompanied by a warmth, due to his cheerful nature. That moment, however, he showed no warmth at all. There was a coldness in his heart, as if something inside of him had changed his very essence. Well, he said he can handle himself, so I might as well let him. I got more important work to do, anyway.
“Oh, there you are!” Down at the foot of the stairway stands Miss Pauling and a familiar-looking figure sporting a gas mask. The lady in purple rambles on, concerned and slightly exasperated, “I was looking for you all over the place. Thank goodness Aiden found you, or else I'd be running in circles, and that would NOT be a good thing...” Taking a deep breath, she turns her diverted attention back to Mort. “You didn't get too lost, did you?”
Heaving the load of clothes the Spy handed to him, Mortimer shakes his head. “Not at all! Thanks to you and Miller, Spy an' I already feel right at home.”
Miss Pauling sighs in relief at the comment. “Well, now that that's settled, I might as well leave you to your business. But be warned: if a situation arises, I'm likely to return at any moment, so behave yourself. Understand, Mr. Mundy?”
Mort swallows a lump in his throat. “Y-yes, ma'am! But before I leave, there's just one question I have.” He holds up the dirty laundry in front of the two. “Does anyone know where I can find a place to dump these?”
With Aiden's assistance, Mortimer manages to find a laundry room and gets the Spy's clothes set to wash while they both lug the suitcases up to the dorm room... sort of. Aiden, helpful as he was when carrying them up the stairs, immediately drops the luggage in front of the door, reluctant to open it. Getting frustrated with arguing with the Pyro, Mort thanks him for helping anyway, and hauls it inside.
Inside the bedroom, the secret agent—Alan Ian Astor—lies, fast asleep. With the blanket no longer covering his entire self, the Sniper is able to get a good look at his face. His general facial structure is boyish and youthful, though his long lashes and soft lips make him appear feminine as well. The most distinctive aspect, however, is the spread of pale freckles across his cheekbones and the crooked bridge of his nose. Alan's face is arguably a bit on the plain side, but it has an appeal that is uniquely his. Ethereal and adorable, Mortimer is immediately reminded of a faerie, and explains that as justification for this strange and sudden attraction to him.
He gently sets the luggage down and walks over to the bed where the sleeping beauty lies. From this perspective, he can see how Alan's hair is colored like a dandelion, as well as the two rebellious strands that stand up like bean sprouts. The oddest part of his hair, however, are the twin rat tails sprouting from the nape of his neck; they must reach partway down his back, at least. Mort takes back his previous thought and concludes that Alan is a faerie. Unusual haircut aside, with his shape-shifting powers and complexion, the Spy resembles a magical creature more than any human being.
Realizing he's getting distracted from the task at hand, Mortimer opens up the suitcases and starts organizing the contents and putting them into the empty drawers. While the bushman is busy sorting through garments, the Spy—a light sleeper in disguise—smiles and watches Mortimer through slitted eyes.
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