Author's Notes: Unlike the last three entries, this story is much more recent--written on and off over the course of 1-2 weeks and finished last night! I wrote it in response to a lack of Spoovy (Heavy/Spy)-related fan content, but replaced the game's canon counterparts with my own original characters. So it's a rather self-indulgent piece, but very fluffy and adorable! It should be noted that this is the first short story--and one of the very few written entries overall--in which Mortimer is completely absent.
It's a beautiful, sunny day in Teufort. The weather is warm, yet breezy—perfect weather for a shirt and shorts. Or a skirt, in Alan's case. As great as trousers are, sometimes it just feels right wearing a skirt. I mean, why turn down the perfect chance to don a summer dress, or a cute, sexy miniskirt? On such a lovely day like this, the opportunities are endless!
“You are not vearing zhat on zhe battlefield.” The oversized BLU Medic crosses his arms and glares down at the Spy.
“But Doc, it's beautiful, iz it not?” Alan twirls, the pleats on his skirt cascading into a spiral shape. It is a piece he bought some time ago, and one which he had been waiting ages to wear. It might be a bit short for the conservative doctor's tastes, but aren't Spies sexy by nature, regardless of what they wear?
Sadly, Hartmann has no such patience. “Ja, ja. But zhis is not some fashion show or prissy tea party. Zhe battlefield is not made for cutesy skirts and dresses. Now put zhat avay and put on some pants.”
Disappointed, Alan starts heading back to the locker room, when a large shadow follows close behind. Alan turns around, and standing before him is a giant, fiddling with his tiny spectacles. “Pasha? What are you...?”
“Um, about your skirt, um,” he mumbles to himself. As he gathers his thoughts, he speaks up. “I have tiny set of tights. Bought them from store. They do not fit me—too big. But they might fit you. If you want them, that is.” His lack of confidence in speaking brings out his heavy Russian accent, making him seem unintelligent to strangers, but also more attractive, at least to Alan.
“Of course! Show zhem to me.”
“Um, about that. Is in my room. Packed away.” The volume of his voice lowers to a mutter. It's clear on his face that he has ulterior motives, yet he is such an awful liar about it. Al admires that about him; it's a sign of his pure heart, so he believes.
Pasha escorts Alan past the locker room, to the barracks on the second floor, where the rooms are located. Walking to the end of the hall, he unlocks the room and orders the Spy to wait outside while he retrieves the garment in question. Alan can hear a lot of shuffling from behind the door—Is Sammy a messy roommate?—along with low mutters. As his ear is pressed against the door, his hands are fiddling with a hairpin, jiggling it in the keyhole. Eventually, he manages to reverse the trigger on the lock, but not before Pasha opens the door.
Along with the usual bunk bed and drawer, there is a bookshelf filled to the brim, some handheld gym equipment (dumbbells and that stretchy rubber thing with the handles), and a corner that appears to be specifically chosen to stuff all of his roommate's crap. And laid out on the bottom bunk is an assortment of garments, most of them blue, but with some white and black and pastel colors thrown into the mix (no reds, though, for obvious reasons). Hanging by the tips of Pasha's sausage-like fingers is a pair of snow white tights, which contrast with the robin's egg blue of his skirt, but match the lack of color on his blouse. “Is all zhis... for me?”
“Y-yes. From myself... and Ooshiro.” He seems particularly ashamed of the last bit, as if a fellow teammate helping him with picking out clothes is a bad thing.
“I love it!” Alan snatches the tights from the Heavy's hands and inspects himself with them. “Hmm...” His face contorts, expressing doubt about the overall ensemble. “I think I need a better top. Should be somezhing light, like...” He gasps and rushes over to the sailor blouse. “Zhis is perfect!”
“That's from Ooshiro...”
“Even better! Now I have an ensemble built by all three of us.” The Spy's joy is cut short the moment he observes the sad look in the Heavy's eyes. “Oh. Well, zhis is just for the workday. Once zhis is all over, I'll put on whatever you like.”
Pasha's brows rise. “Anything?”
A smile forms on Al's face. “Anything.”
With that promise formed, Alan dons the sailor top and tights and skips out to the battlefield proudly, Hartmann be damned. While the skirt has suffered from frequent abuse with each backstab and dodged bullet (magically repaired via Respawn), the cool feeling of the air beneath provides ventilation and an illusion of swiftness and freedom. Plus, it causes some of his victims to cringe in shame, having been outsmarted to death by a man (?) in a skirt. In an ensemble as cute as this, he can do anything. Or so he thinks.
Cloaked in invisibility, he sneaks past the front line and into the barnhouse of a fort, sapping Sentries and assassinating minor inconveniences. But as he climbs up the stairway leading to the top floor, where Snipers often roost, he can hear a set of loud footsteps.
THUMP THUMP THUMP.
They sound close, too close, but not enough to have come from his own feet. At the top step, he stops. Still, the sound persists. Panicking, he switches into a disguise and turns off the cloaking device, letting the watch recharge while incognito. As he passes through the roost, the blond Sniper glances at him, then returns to his business. The Spy, knife in hand, turns back to approach him. But instead of the Sniper, he finds himself face-to-face with a hulking, faceless abomination. Said abomination is wielding an unusual-looking weapon, a cross between a two-handed gun and a Bunsen burner. The Spy is in the midst of escaping when it pulls the trigger, unleashing a flurry of flaming gas, which caught on to his skirt and rapidly spread to the rest of his body. Even if he jumps out the open window, it's unlikely he would make it to the river in time. Still, he does so, risking a sprained ankle and putting himself in the fray. He runs at top speed, and for a moment, he starts believing he can make it. But in the end, stray fragments from an enemy projectile destroys him—just as his corpse is on the verge of tripping and falling into the waters below.
The next time he regains consciousness is safely under the covers of his own bed. How did I get here? Inspecting himself, he feels nothing more than the softness of his own flesh. The bedroom door opens, and in walks Pasha, carrying an armful of clothes. The large man's icy blue eyes show a distress that the rest of his face tries so hard to hide. Wary, Alan says softly, “Tell me, Pasha: Did we win?” His only response is an averted glance. Following his gaze, Al sees his old clothes sitting on a bench; the scorch marks on the skirt's hem only serves to worsen the mood.
“Your body passed out during Respawn process,” Pasha says as he swaps out the burnt garments for a fresh set. “Hartmann and the others were worried, as was I.” He approaches the bed and kneels to stroke Alan's growing locks. “I cannot fix skirt, but I replace it with new one. One even prettier than the last.”
“Is that it,” Alan asks, pointing at the blue outfit hanging over the chair. Of all the clothes he has seen today, he recognizes that one the least, least of all the embroidery. Pasha nods, loosening up with a smile. His heart is jumping with anticipation, he simply cannot sit still like this. “A little bit of privacy, please.” He shoos the Heavy away and walks over to examine the garments.
Striped stockings, puffy bloomers, and the crowning piece, a royal blue dress with similar traits to the sailor-esque ensemble he was wearing earlier. The skirt is not pleated in any way, but rather, has a lacy trim and an embroidered shield-shaped insignia with an anchor. As for the top part, it resembles one of those Japanese schoolgirl uniforms, with a sewn-on white ribbon adding a fancy flair. Similarly, there are white ribbons on the stockings as well, and the bloomers are lined with strips of blue ribbon. It's cute—almost too cute. There's no way I'd look good in this! But if Pasha went and picked this out, he must have a good reason. Without further hesitation, he starts putting it on.
Pasha is standing outside, waiting patiently for Alan to get dressed. He hasn't even bothered to lock the door, he muses, his thoughts in native tongue. How careless. But even with his moments of airheadedness, Al is a smart young man... woman... person. He's also friendly and playful and funny. And undoubtedly beautiful. Not once has he questioned his feelings towards the young Spy—it's expressing that love that's the problem. What's taking him so long?
He turns to knock on the door when it opens. Staring up at him is the most adorable little faerie he's ever seen. Pasha hates to admit that he didn't quite know Alan's size outside of “really, really tiny”, but after a couple of months of befriending and later dating him, the Spy has filled out to a healthier weight, fitting the dress perfectly. The overall coordination is also not his intention; he stole the idea from one of Ooshiro's Japanese fashion magazines, with some adjustments made to fit within his budget and time. The color choices and purchases are the only things he can take credit for. And judging by his reaction, it works.
“Something doesn't seem right,” Alan comments. “Give me a moment, s'il te plaît.” Before Pasha has time to react, Alan starts digging through his drawers, slipping out a ribbon the same color as his own dress. He orders Pasha to bend over so he can tie back his hair. “Et voilà! I want to do more, but sadly, you lack fashion sense. We still have time, though. Perhaps we can go clothes shopping for you, for once.” The two of them laugh, the Spy's airy giggle in contrast with the Heavy's low chuckle. “And afterwards, we can have dinner—on me.” Without warning, he clings to the other's big, strong arm. “Shall we?”
Pasha stares longingly at the small sprite attached to him, then stoops down and whispers in Russian, “Yes, my little faerie.”
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