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"Come on, Spy, please?" Pyro begged, his gloved hands clasped together in front of his mask, his head bowed, supplicant.
With a long-suffering sigh, Spy rolled his eyes until they landed on Pyro beside him, who was blocking his entry to his smoking room. "Why me? Why don't you ask Engineer? The two of you are joined at the hip half of the time anyway."
"He's the first person I asked!" Pyro deflated, his arms falling to his sides. "But he's working on something with Medic and said he's not gonna be free all day."
A soft huff, and Spy cast about for other ideas, ways to distract the arsonist and slip past him. "What about Sniper? He's always free. The man has no social life to speak of."
"He's lactose intolerant," Pyro replied. Spy could practically hear him pouting from behind the filters of his mask.
"What about Heavy, then? He's been driving that bread truck Medic stole a few months ago."
Pyro reeled back, waving his hands in front of him. "Have you been in a car with Heavy behind the wheel? He drives like he's trying to break a record and doesn't care if it's awarded posthumously! I want a milkshake, but not bad enough to die over it!"
Spy crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side. "What could possibly be so special about these milkshakes that you need one so urgently? Can't you just get one next time we have an excuse to go into town?"
Bouncing on his toes a little, Pyro could see Spy's resolve finally beginning to crumble. "It's hard to explain, but I can show you! You won't regret it, Spy; I promise!"
Slouching, defeated, Spy sighed. "Fine. Now let me into my smoking room, since I apparently need to get my keys."
Pyro shuffled out of the way gladly, gesturing for the door like it was a grand prize. "Yeah, of course! Thank you, Spy! You'll see, this'll be something special!"
*
Spy looked around the small diner in which he sat opposite Pyro in a small booth by the window, the desert stretching on blandly for miles outside, interrupted only by a single road, unoccupied by any passing traffic. He stubbed out his cigarette in the table's ashtray and turned back to Pyro, who was fairly bouncing in his seat.
"Here you boys go," their waitress said as she arrived by their booth, a tray in hand. She set down two large, frosty glasses topped with whipped cream and cherries, and a metal mixer tin beside each. "Two milkshakes. One black and white, one black raspberry. Anythin' else I can get you two?" She pulled a pair of paper-shod straws from her apron and placed them between the two mercenaries.
"Non, thank you," Spy replied as pleasantly as he could muster.
"Sure thing. If you change your minds, just flag me down," she said with a smile and sauntered off to another table.
Pyro had already stripped the paper off of his straw and sank it into his milkshake, tugging his mask up to drink. Spy dubiously followed suit, taking a small sip of his shake and furrowing his brow.
"Something wrong?" Pyro asked, seeing Spy's consternation.
"This is a milkshake."
"Yeah!"
"But it is just a milkshake."
Pyro tilted his head to the side, confused.
"You said these milkshakes were something special, but they're as mundane as any other diner milkshake. What is it about them that made you so insistent on bringing me here for them?"
Pyro smiled, his mask still perched atop his head. "It's not the milkshakes that are special, Spy."
It was Spy's turn to tilt his head in confusion.
"It's the company!" Pyro took a sip around a smile. "Going out for milkshakes with you? That's something pretty special, I'd say."