Once again the Spy was whinging about his terrible day—as if he was the only one who did any work and died too many bullshit deaths—and I decided enough was enough.

His rant died mid-sentence as I picked up his legs, dropped them in my lap, and popped his shoes off. “What on earth do you think you’re doing, bushman?”

I gave his big toe an experimental pinch, eliciting a string of foreign expletives. “Just shut up and relax, Spook.” I shifted so I could pin him if he got too frisky on me. “Boi th’ way, this moight ‘urt a bit.”

“You could have told me zat before you manhandled me—!” His voice went up an octave as I pressed in harder, tutting as I felt the tension and callouses.

“Fat lot ‘f good those six ‘undred dollar shoes are doing you. They’re th’ wrong shape for your feet.” As I kneaded the ball of his foot, the Spy howled and gripped into the cushions of the sofa. “And stop making such a scene. This is nothing compared t’ getting set on foire.”

“I’d razzer be torched to death zan—aah!” The Spy was now as bright red as his suit. “Oh, God, zere should be some article een zee Geneva Convention against zis!”

“We’re mercenaries. We don’t get any protections under international treaty.” I deadpanned back.

By the time I moved on to the Spy’s other foot, he had exhausted himself with his hissy fit and just laid there in a pile of sulk, though the noises he was making now sounded less like protest and more towards reluctant enjoyment. “Should have known you were good wiz your hands,” he muttered, draping an arm over his eyes.

I didn’t dignify him with a response and just kept working my way up his thigh until I got to his knees. “That’s all you get for free,” I told him, my tone somewhere between serious and joking. “I charge for th’ rest.”

“I shall have to zink about taking you up on zat,” he all but purred, staying where he was.