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The job is fairly simple.
Mister Smith is a man of routine. He wakes up at six a.m., gets ready for the day, eats breakfast, goes to work―“always arrives at quarter past eight”, as his boss reminds him every day. Then, he proceeds to terrorise his female co-workers with his tasteless advances while he single-handedly steals and invests millions of dollars from the company he works for in fraudulent manoeuvres in the illegal weapon industry. He leaves the office at six p.m., buys takeaway and alcohol on the way back, dines alone and goes to bed at nine.
He sounds pretty boring, for a man who is causing Mann Co. such an inconvenience.
The man has friends, very dangerous friends who know his routine very well. If Spy were to disturb it, they would soon notice and he would have to deal with a pretty dangerous situation that he would rather avoid.
But there is one thing that works to his favour. Recently enough, his target has started breaking out of his routine to do one thing:
Dance.
Three months ago, due to the idiotic misconception that women would find him more approachable if he knew how to dance, Mister Smith started going to dance lessons. And only two months later, when he felt―wrongly―confident enough of his abilities, he stopped and decided to try his newly acquired skill at the local disco.
He goes there every Saturday night.
That is Spy’s opening.
He does not require much in the way of a disguise. He has just the perfect clothes for the occasion, and a simple mask gives him a new face for him to wear―a thirty-something man with black hair and angular features. What he has to do is to follow Mister Smith to the disco and keep an eye on him until he’s drunk enough to wander off on his own, and then Spy will strike. Easy enough.
And everything is going swimmingly―Mister Smith is at the bar hitting on a young lady, ugh―until a drunk imbecile crashes onto him and sends him tumbling onto the semi-naked chest of a dancer.
“S-sorry!” he stutters in a high voice, keeping in character.
“Ow! Are you okay, mate?”
Mate?
He looks up and jumps back as if burned.
Sniper is standing in front of him, in a wide open, scandalous pink ruffle shirt, high waisted black bell trousers, high heels, silvery shoes and a golden medallion.
“You?!!”
He covers his mouth, but the deed is done.
“W-what the bloody he―!”
He leans over Sniper and whispers in his ear: “Shhh! Act natural.”
Sniper, at least, has noticed that it would be counterproductive to attract more attention to them. Dancing, he looks at the bar, where his target is still advancing on that poor girl. He sighs internally.
“It seems nothing was lost.”
“Spoo― mate, what are you doing here?” Very perceptive, bushman.
“Not here.” He gestures with his head to a pair of red seats next to the dancefloor. Sniper nods and follows him.
Once they are sitting, he throws a glance at his target. He can still see him. Good.
“Bloody hell…” Sniper lets out a grunt. Spy turns towards him. “I thought it was far enough to not bump into anyone.”
“Unfortunately for you, bushman, you chose the same discotheque that the man inconveniencing my employer.”
“Your― oh. Oh, hell.”
“Yes.”
“… Can you show me who it is?”
He weighs the pros and cons of getting Sniper into this, and decides he could use a hand.
“Burly man at the bar, talking to the terribly uncomfortable blonde girl.”
Sniper makes a show of adjusting his left shoe and throws a glance.
“Yeah, got him. Looks like a prick.”
“Oh, he is,” he assures him. “And he wouldn’t know delicacy if it hit him in the face.”
“I can see,” Sniper says, looking at the girl with pity. Then, he straightens up. “Wait, he isn’t the unsavoury sort, is he?”
“If you mean a rapist or abductor, no, he isn’t, luckily for everyone involved.” Sniper sighs, relieved, and he continues. “However, he’s still a brute who the world, especially the female population, will be glad to be rid of.”
“… I see.”
He looks at the bar again. His heart drops―Mister Smith is not there anymore. He slaps Sniper’s thigh.
“He’s gone,” he hisses.
“Shit.” Sniper looks around in a―thankfully―covert way, and then he puts his hands on his knees and stands up casually. He extends a hand towards him. “I got him,” he mouths, and tilts his head towards the dance floor.
Spy smiles to keep up with appearances and takes his hand, rising from his seat. To everyone else, the tall dancer has extended an invitation to the plain, black-haired man, and he has accepted. It is certainly a cover that he can work with.
Sniper leads him close to the right back corner, where they have a good sight of the bar and the bathrooms. Oh, there he is. Mister Smith is waiting outside the bathroom; he really hopes it is not for the girl, who is nowhere in sight.
“I see him,” he tells Sniper with a smirk, moving in tandem with the music.
Sniper smiles back, playing the charmed part with more grace than he thought he would.
There is something about him right now, something different―Sniper is usually a withdrawn, awkward individual, but there, surrounded by loud music and oblivious dancers, he exudes energy and confidence. It seems he is in his element.
Huh, go figure.
Maybe… maybe Spy can have some fun, too. He smirks. Let’s see if the bushman can keep up with him.
The disco seems to pulsate in tandem with the speakers playing Boogie Wonderland for everyone to dance to its beat. He decides to start easy; the Bus Stop should suffice to make his challenge clear. People nearby notice that he’s starting a bigger choreography and they give him space to move. Perfect. Kick to the front, three steps to the back, kick to the back, walk to the front again. Criss-cross to the left, clap, criss-cross to the right, clap.
Sniper’s eyes widen in surprise as they start to get attention, though to his credit, he never stops dancing.
Sniper laughs, and to everyone else, he might seem amused, but Spy knows him well enough to catch the reprimand within the sound. “What are you doing?”
“Why, dear,” he answers charmingly for the crowd, “just issuing a challenge.”
People around them go “Ooh” as Spy starts to do the Snap. Sniper’s gaze is sharp, focused on him as he snaps his hips and his fingers. For his next move, he claps and twirls, then stops. He starts pointing his index finger up and down in a diagonal line in a classic Travolta move. He stops, facing Sniper with a finger pointed upwards, a challenging smirk on his lips.
Sniper tilts his chin up, and the crowd goes mad.
He doesn’t waste his time with warm-ups: he jumps right into a perfect rendition of The Hustle, followed by a backwards Chicken Dance. He then does a Rolling Grapevine to the left in order to get farther away from him and―no.
He can’t believe he’s doing The Sprinkler towards him. Everyone is laughing; ugh.
Memories of one-too-many jarates make him retaliate with The Robot. He improvises some funky moves and the crowd cheers, impressed. It’s been a while since he’s danced this intensely; though Spy isn’t that surprised when his colleague gives it all that he’s got. They’ve always gotten onto each other’s most competitive side.
Then he decides it’s time for The Pull. Sniper has no other choice but to follow along, and pretends to be caught by Spy’s invisible rope. Spy gets nearer and nearer and then… Hm, the Body Roll shall suffice. He starts rolling his body, expecting Sniper to push him back a bit. However, the man starts moving in tandem, creating a smooth wave between the both of them. A bit flustered, Spy twirls away, only for Sniper to do The Pull again. Damn it.
But Sniper just smiles and clashes the side of his hips against his. It’s such a silly move, that he can’t help but play along, clashing hips with him and laughing. Soon, more people join them, and everyone starts doing the Double Arm Swing, waving their arms around without a care in the world…
… And Spy realises something: his target has disappeared.
He angrily elbows Sniper, whose smile is wiped away when he notices his mood. The bushman mouths: “Oh, crap,” and they both start navigating out of the crowd, looking everywhere for Mister Smith. Once they get out of the club, they frantically search the door of every alley, behind every trash can.
“This is your fault!” Spy is pissed, but more than that, he’s afraid. Afraid of his employer’s reaction, of course. Of course he isn’t afraid of how carefree and light and happy he felt on that dance floor with Sniper. Of course not.
“Oi!” Sniper retorts, irritated. Blame It On the Boogie rumbles from the disco’s closed doors, and Spy doesn’t appreciate the irony. “I’m not the one who decided to try to humiliate me in my free time.”
Spy’s stomach churns. “I wasn’t trying to humiliate you!” Stupid bushman, always thinking the worst of him―
“Oh…”
Sniper’s tone stops him in his tracks. He realises why, his heart racing. If Sniper wasn’t trying to make fun of him, then what was the alternative?
Suddenly, they hear a deep, very annoying laugh. Both hide in an alley and poke their heads out to see Mister Smith exiting the disco, cheeks and nose red, accompanied by a lady sporting a visibly fake smile. They head towards the taxis.
“Hey, want me to―”
Spy hurriedly presses a couple buttons of his invisi-watch and disappears, cutting Sniper off. He rushes to an empty car parked on the side of the road, ready to pull some wires and follow him to his destination to end the job.
Not before seeing Sniper’s shoulders drop, disappointment in his face.
Against his will, he will think about it for a while.
-----
And think about it he does.
In fact, he can’t forget the ease they had while working together, their chemistry on the dance floor. The way he made Spy smile and the way Spy made him frown are rooted in his heart and he feels… terrible, to be honest. He won’t admit to feeling guilty, but he will admit he wants to see more of that carefree, confident side of Sniper.
And the chance does present itself. His employers have decided to forgive him for the little… mishap with Mister Smith, who ended up being assassinated by the woman he escorted to his house. She was a fellow spy―the man had many, many enemies. They have given him a new mission.
They seem to have caught onto something in his last mission because now they want him to dance. He will enter a specific ballroom dance competition and locate his target (one of the scrutineers, Mister Morgan, a very old man under Mann Co.’s employment who keeps wrecking havoc in their wallets due to his gambling problem) to eliminate him as soon as the opportunity presents itself. And he gets to choose his partner for the mission.
He, of course, chooses Sniper.
His colleague doesn't feel as privileged as he should, though. He complains all throughout the trip: about not having been consulted first, about the fact he had to leave his van back in Teufort (their transport has been fully covered by the company), about the fact that he “won't be caught dead wearing this!”...
Spy is very much done by the time he sharply interrupts Sniper’s tirade outside the closed door of his changing room.
“Could you please stop complaining? You should have taken this opportunity as a testament to your abilities.” He huffs, indignant. “Do you think I would be caught dead looking anything but my best in a dancing competition?”
Sniper looks away, embarrassed. “Yrlkytkdnslssns…” he mumbled to himself.
“What's that? In English, bushman.”
Sniper opens the door in a swift movement, showing his dancing costume—a red, open-collared shirt with frilly sleeves, black trousers and pointed shoes and a big golden chain hanging off his neck.
“You're lucky I took dance lessons,” he repeats, standing with confidence in a way Spy rarely gets to see.
He swallows, walks towards his own changing room, and closes the door behind him. “Good.”
Soon, the competitors are warming up on the dance floor. Spy, under his disguise (a young woman with sharp features and soft manners), soon spots their target: much to his chagrin, he will be roaming among the competitors. As he suspected, they will catch too much attention if the man were to drop dead in the middle of the dance floor, and in addition, there have to be many cameras on them; they will need to wait for him to leave the premises after the show, maybe one of them should follow him after the ceremony has ended.
“...ate.”
They have gone over their cha-cha dancing routine a couple times, but as he is watching the couples get ready to start, he gets a twinge of nervousness. What if they cannot wing it? What if they look so out of place, they raise their target’s alarm?
“Mate!”
Spy glares at Sniper, then remembers his façade, and smiles as embarrassedly as his character would. “Sorry, what’s up, dear?”
“They're about to start.”
Merde! He pulls Sniper quickly among the crowd of competitors, and finds their reserved place. Alright, time to focus. He gets into their starting position, his hand on Sniper's shoulder and his other hand clasping Sniper's hand tightly. His partner places his hand on Spy’s shoulder as per the norm in the dance style, and gives his other hand a squeeze of reassurance. Spy relaxes a bit, shoulders set, and looks at Sniper’s face. There’s a glint in his eyes that reminds him of why he is doing this in the first place.
The music starts, a smooth cha-cha that makes the crowd clap with enthusiasm. Sniper leads, moving backwards and then to the front. Step, step, step, quick step, quick step. Spy is trying his best to keep up while keeping an eye on his target in an inconspicuous manner; the man is far away from them yet, his big clipboard in hand, scribbling away at some couple’s poor attempts at the dance.
Spy suddenly steps on something soft—he winces, looking at Sniper’s pained face as he quickly retreats his foot, disguising it as a tango back sacada; he’d rather lose points for mixing styles than for looking sloppy.
Sniper has noticed that he is not entirely into the dance. There’s an odd determination in his gaze when he squeezes his hand and starts improvising: he mouths “crossover” to him and Spy quickly catches on. They start moving sideways, three steps to one side and they release each other’s shoulders, throwing their hands elegantly upwards. One, two, three, release. One, two, three, release. Then they start dancing in circles in place, hips moving to the tune. After four turns, Sniper raises their connected hands and makes his palm face Spy’s palm.
Spy knows what that means: a spin.
And oh, what a spin it is. In fact, he spins Spy not once, not twice, but three times. The crowd claps, and Spy is faintly aware that his red skirt is too short and showy for this. He tries to recover his footing but oh, his world is swirling and Sniper, seeing how unsteady he is, lowers him back on a dip.
He looks at him with concern, mouthing “Are you okay?” and Spy cannot help but think that no, he is not okay, he is practically swooning in the arms of his colleague, and he shouldn’t have come up with this ridiculous idea.
Sniper freezes in place, breathing heavily, as the crowd cheers them and the music stops.
“Hm. Sloppy. Could do better,” they hear a voice behind them—Mister Morgan is right next to them, scribbling on his clipboard with an astounding speed for his sad looks.
Spy can’t help but glare at him, indignant, oddly enough, for Sniper’s sake. The man doesn’t notice, and he walks away.
Sniper winces, and lifts him up, placing a hand on his waist. “Are you alright, mate? Sorry for the— y’know.”
Spy smirks, catching him off-guard. He stretches to murmur in his ear: “Pay attention.” Sniper shivers. “He has left for the restroom.”
That seems to get Sniper out of whatever mood he was in. “Bloody hell,” he mutters, and smiles at him, pointing at the people watching them with his head. They both face the crowd and make their final bows along with the rest of the dancers, and while Sniper basks for a bit in the claps and the cheers, Spy tries to keep an eye on the restroom doors.
“You will have to go,” Spy tells him with a performative smile as they walk towards the dancers’ seats. “I cannot enter like this.”
“Hell, you’re right. Be right back,” he tells him, and he gives him a kiss on the cheek.
Spy freezes in place, mouth slightly open. He lowers himself to his seat only by pure reflex while watching Sniper’s retreating back, his mind racing a mile a minute as his cheek burns where Sniper’s lips delicately grazed it.
He can’t help but think: “What was that?!” and “He knows. He knows!” How dare Sniper play with his feelings like this? Wait, what feelings? He surely hasn’t caught feelings for his awkward, graceless, rude coworker.
The pang in his heart tells him otherwise. Merde.
Suddenly, he sees Sniper come back, cheeks red and searching for his gaze. He is thinking at least ten ways to give him hell about this, but then he realizes something is wrong. Sniper looks more than worried. He looks confused.
“Let’s leave,” Sniper tells him, and offers him a hand to stand up. He takes it with grace, reluctantly feeling comfort in the touch of his calloused hand—he should have brought some sort of gloves, damn it!
“What’s wrong?”
“Seems like someone else had our job too.”
Not again.
Spy groans. “They do not trust us.”
This says terrible things about their performance together. He realizes they have been hired as decoys, as a distraction so that the real assassins could strike. Their employers do not trust them together because they know that, when they are together on the dance floor, they only have each other’s attention.
Only, it isn’t just on the dance floor, it’s on the battlefield, too. They must have caught on, based on their performance patterns during their daily jobs.
Spy lowers his head, defeated.
“Don’t worry, mate, we’ll prove them wrong,” Sniper tries to reassure him. Spy looks at him with a small smile, and starts dragging him towards a taxi. “What—? Where are we going? Our vehicle is over there—”
Spy stops in front of the cab, and looks at the puzzled man. His eyes are full of confusion, but also wonder, and maybe a bit of fear?
He wants to wipe that fear away, so Spy tells him: “Can I have one last dance with you?”
Sniper’s eyes widens, and he gives him a wide grin. “Doesn’t have to be the last.”
-----
In a small apartment in San Francisco, two men waltz together. One, two, three, one, two, three. Their bodies move in tandem to Valzer Verdi by Nino Rota. And finally, their silhouettes join for a kiss. The dance floor is to be their lives now, they’ll carry it wherever they go.
