fic: Last Call
Feb. 18th, 2015 11:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Last Call
Series: TF2
Character/Pairing: Spy, Scout, mentions of Scout/Miss Pauling and Spy/Scout's mother.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Spy cleans up more messes after the events of Expiration Date, including a drunken Scout, who through his drunken haze is determined to reminisce about the father he never knew.
Wordcount: 1676
Author's note: hc_bingo: mistaken identity.
1971
Spy let out a rough sigh of disgust as he came into the room. The stench of alcohol was strong enough that he wouldn't be surprised if the walls themselves reeked—at least they would after someone invariably vomited all over them.
"Hey, Spy!"
It came out sounding slurred. Scout pushed himself up from the couch. "Shhspuy, hey your name is funnyy--"
Spy rolled his eyes. Wonderful. Another mess to clean up.
Scout was unsteady on his feet, laughing as he gripped the top of the bullet-hole ridden couch which must have once been some hideous shade of plaid, but was now just hideous.
"We all got out of this, and she even goin' to let me ride along with her, if you know what I mean," Scout said.
"I know; I was there," Spy said.
Scout took several steps, and all but fell into him. "Room is real blurry, you're spinny, Spy," he said.
Scout would certainly be feeling it tomorrow.
He should have left the other fools to their deaths, should have left Scout to bumble his way into failure. A good spy would have left them to their own pathetic demises. But he wasn't a good spy; he was an excellent one.
And excellent spies knew when to make the exception.
He bent to reach under the couch, careful to not put his knees to the dusty floor. Glass clinked under his fingers as he rolled out several empty bottles. But among them, there was a water bottle, just as he knew it would be.
Say what you would about Demoman: he always came prepared.
"Drink this," Spy said. He pushed the bottle into Scout's hands. Scout just looked down at it, and the light reflecting in the plastic.
"Don't tell me I have to pry your mouth open and shove it down your throat," Spy said.
Too late, Scout had already opened the bottle. He held it up to drink, for Scout never lost a chance to show off. Of course, most of the water splashed off on his shirt. It only made the green goo from the mutant bread pool down his shirt in runny lines, like he'd dribbled paint down his red shirt.
Spy muttered a curse as he stepped away from the water. At least Scout hadn't vomited on his shoes again.
Scout pushed himself up again. His hair was mussed, stuck wet to his forehead. At some point he must have tried to grow it out, likely to somehow impress Miss Pauling. He was surprised that Soldier hadn't broken any of Scout's limbs, forcibly held him down and forced him to have a 'sensible haircut.'
Scout tossed the empty bottle off away, where it clattered into the wall and rolled away to join the other various empty bottles, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic.
"I'm good, I'm great---real great, in fact. Did I mention I'm goin' out with Miss---" Scout said.
He stepped up again, and nearly fell, but Spy caught him, pulling him up from the nicked floor.
"You got it. You're always cleanin' up my messes...you and Miss Pauling. Hey, y'know, I ain't ever had a dad," Scout said.
Spy paused to adjust his tie. He said nothing to fill the silence.
"Ma always said she'd teach me to shave, but that day never came. If I find my dad, I'm going to punch him for that.
Would he, now? He'd have to catch him first.
"Do you know where Miss Pauling is now?"
Scout looked up, wide-eyed and full of wonder past his drunken haze. Really, he was so predictable. All he had to do was mention her name and he looked like an excited puppy.
"Do you?" Scout said.
"Yes. In her office, where she always is, unless she's taking care of other business."
"You really do know everythin'...though if you're takin' weird pictures of her, I'm goin' to punch you one. Aight, I forgive the old man. For that, anyways."
Spy pulled out a cigarette, and waited for the calm that came with each breath in. It had been a long few days, and would be an even longer night. Only when his anger had abated, then he spoke again.
"Come on. I can't have you crying to your mother. Don't make me regret my kindness by vomiting on my suit," Spy said. Disdain touched the edges of his voice. Knowing Scout, he probably would leave blood-grimy fingerprints or bread monster goo on his suits.
"Like I would do that. I ain't upchucked since the last time the Yankees won. Save the barf for a Yankees fan, I say," Scout said.
"You threw up last weekend, right all over Miss Pauling's vespa when you tried to say hi to her," Spy said.
"Nope, didn't happen. I told myself it didn't happen, so it didn't," Scout said.
Spy sighed. There was no use trying to debate with a drunken fool. He was impossible to lead in the best of days, but now Spy had to hold tight to his shirt to keep leading him down and out. Back to his room. He was lighter than expected, leaning into Spy. More fire and ego than muscle.
You ruined so many of my suits as a child. So many bloody noses because you couldn't win a single fight. And you used to be so light. Such a tiny baby, with such a loud cry.
As they walked into the cold night, Spy guided him back towards the rooms. Laughter could be heard in a main room from another few mercenaries. Scout was, unsurprisingly, a lightweight.
You used to cry whenever I left, scream as if you'd been physically hurt. You'd smile when I returned. You never could stand not being the center of attention. Not much has changed since then.
Scout laughed to something, and leaned in more. At this rate, it might be easier simply to sling him over his shoulder.
"Y'know, if I had a dad, like to think he'd be like you. Sometimes I even pretended you were my dad. Pretty silly, eh? But pretendin' was all that got me through life, so I kept at it. Pretended I was a superhero, I was rich, I could pay enough for ma to live in a house without leaks and gunshots outside her door."
He didn't reply. His grip on Scout tensed, ever so slightly. And here he'd thought all those emotions dead in him. But he should have known better; he never could bring himself to burn the pictures.
"And this whole thing, felt like me having a dad for once."
Then you don't remember at all. I suppose it's for the best.
"We always had enough. Ma made sure of it with her work. We moved to better apartments after some asshole liked her singin' enough to give her a big wad of cash. I don't know who that bastard is, but I'm thankful."
Once the trail had turned cold, the pictures had stopped, he'd managed to ensure his family had enough. It was a lingering thorn, an old pain that it took long enough for him to remember, for her to almost lose hope.
"Buuut I ain't got a dad and I never will. He ain't goin' to fix my bow tie when I walk down to aisle and get married with Miss Pauling."
"If you remember anything, remember this: Don't tell her that until you've been dating a long time. And for god's sake, don't blurt it out on the first date," Spy said.
Scout looked away, his attention caught by the lights. "It's gotta be perfect. I'm goin' to tell her when it's perfect. Not over some body or in some rathole apartment. A real fancy place," Scout said.
Considering their work schedule and Miss Pauling's, that would take a long time indeed.
"I can't wait to show her to ma. I just know she'll love her. She's goin' to be so happy."
He couldn't tell the 'she' Scout meant. Maybe it was both in his drunken mind. He guided Scout up the stairs, and through the empty halls. Music was still playing as other mercenaries celebrated their continued existence. The door hinge was loud. He had a sneaking suspicion it was kept that way, never mended given his earlier habit of sneaking out to nearby towns to bars. Or, simply the lack of care that their employers had over their lodgings. Spy had fixed his own within days of moving in, and made several improvements over the years.
Scout fell onto the bed face first, tripping over his mud-caked other pair of shoes on the floor, the duffel bag left right in the way, and the new pile of books. He had set his comics aside to read How to Date Brainy Girls With Secret Day Jobs instead.
"Thanks, dad," Scout said. His voice was groggy with sleep, speaking to some ghost of his past, not the man he was.
"Goodnight, mon petit lapin," Spy said.
He was flooded with the memories Scout had forgotten. A little red onesie with rabbit ears, French lullabies, the foolish moments he thought he could play house without consequences.
He'd only seen the first steps in photos. He'd never been there to help him ride his bike, or so many other milestones. He'd separated himself after that crack, that warning. But now, it all came back to him, like a drunk's morose evening at the bar.
He closed the door as softly as he could, given the hinges needed to be oiled. Spy looked out to the darkened buildings and shadows. His last wish hadn't been written down; he never kept a paper trail. But it had been simply two words: a second chance.
Series: TF2
Character/Pairing: Spy, Scout, mentions of Scout/Miss Pauling and Spy/Scout's mother.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Spy cleans up more messes after the events of Expiration Date, including a drunken Scout, who through his drunken haze is determined to reminisce about the father he never knew.
Wordcount: 1676
Author's note: hc_bingo: mistaken identity.
1971
Spy let out a rough sigh of disgust as he came into the room. The stench of alcohol was strong enough that he wouldn't be surprised if the walls themselves reeked—at least they would after someone invariably vomited all over them.
"Hey, Spy!"
It came out sounding slurred. Scout pushed himself up from the couch. "Shhspuy, hey your name is funnyy--"
Spy rolled his eyes. Wonderful. Another mess to clean up.
Scout was unsteady on his feet, laughing as he gripped the top of the bullet-hole ridden couch which must have once been some hideous shade of plaid, but was now just hideous.
"We all got out of this, and she even goin' to let me ride along with her, if you know what I mean," Scout said.
"I know; I was there," Spy said.
Scout took several steps, and all but fell into him. "Room is real blurry, you're spinny, Spy," he said.
Scout would certainly be feeling it tomorrow.
He should have left the other fools to their deaths, should have left Scout to bumble his way into failure. A good spy would have left them to their own pathetic demises. But he wasn't a good spy; he was an excellent one.
And excellent spies knew when to make the exception.
He bent to reach under the couch, careful to not put his knees to the dusty floor. Glass clinked under his fingers as he rolled out several empty bottles. But among them, there was a water bottle, just as he knew it would be.
Say what you would about Demoman: he always came prepared.
"Drink this," Spy said. He pushed the bottle into Scout's hands. Scout just looked down at it, and the light reflecting in the plastic.
"Don't tell me I have to pry your mouth open and shove it down your throat," Spy said.
Too late, Scout had already opened the bottle. He held it up to drink, for Scout never lost a chance to show off. Of course, most of the water splashed off on his shirt. It only made the green goo from the mutant bread pool down his shirt in runny lines, like he'd dribbled paint down his red shirt.
Spy muttered a curse as he stepped away from the water. At least Scout hadn't vomited on his shoes again.
Scout pushed himself up again. His hair was mussed, stuck wet to his forehead. At some point he must have tried to grow it out, likely to somehow impress Miss Pauling. He was surprised that Soldier hadn't broken any of Scout's limbs, forcibly held him down and forced him to have a 'sensible haircut.'
Scout tossed the empty bottle off away, where it clattered into the wall and rolled away to join the other various empty bottles, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic.
"I'm good, I'm great---real great, in fact. Did I mention I'm goin' out with Miss---" Scout said.
He stepped up again, and nearly fell, but Spy caught him, pulling him up from the nicked floor.
"You got it. You're always cleanin' up my messes...you and Miss Pauling. Hey, y'know, I ain't ever had a dad," Scout said.
Spy paused to adjust his tie. He said nothing to fill the silence.
"Ma always said she'd teach me to shave, but that day never came. If I find my dad, I'm going to punch him for that.
Would he, now? He'd have to catch him first.
"Do you know where Miss Pauling is now?"
Scout looked up, wide-eyed and full of wonder past his drunken haze. Really, he was so predictable. All he had to do was mention her name and he looked like an excited puppy.
"Do you?" Scout said.
"Yes. In her office, where she always is, unless she's taking care of other business."
"You really do know everythin'...though if you're takin' weird pictures of her, I'm goin' to punch you one. Aight, I forgive the old man. For that, anyways."
Spy pulled out a cigarette, and waited for the calm that came with each breath in. It had been a long few days, and would be an even longer night. Only when his anger had abated, then he spoke again.
"Come on. I can't have you crying to your mother. Don't make me regret my kindness by vomiting on my suit," Spy said. Disdain touched the edges of his voice. Knowing Scout, he probably would leave blood-grimy fingerprints or bread monster goo on his suits.
"Like I would do that. I ain't upchucked since the last time the Yankees won. Save the barf for a Yankees fan, I say," Scout said.
"You threw up last weekend, right all over Miss Pauling's vespa when you tried to say hi to her," Spy said.
"Nope, didn't happen. I told myself it didn't happen, so it didn't," Scout said.
Spy sighed. There was no use trying to debate with a drunken fool. He was impossible to lead in the best of days, but now Spy had to hold tight to his shirt to keep leading him down and out. Back to his room. He was lighter than expected, leaning into Spy. More fire and ego than muscle.
You ruined so many of my suits as a child. So many bloody noses because you couldn't win a single fight. And you used to be so light. Such a tiny baby, with such a loud cry.
As they walked into the cold night, Spy guided him back towards the rooms. Laughter could be heard in a main room from another few mercenaries. Scout was, unsurprisingly, a lightweight.
You used to cry whenever I left, scream as if you'd been physically hurt. You'd smile when I returned. You never could stand not being the center of attention. Not much has changed since then.
Scout laughed to something, and leaned in more. At this rate, it might be easier simply to sling him over his shoulder.
"Y'know, if I had a dad, like to think he'd be like you. Sometimes I even pretended you were my dad. Pretty silly, eh? But pretendin' was all that got me through life, so I kept at it. Pretended I was a superhero, I was rich, I could pay enough for ma to live in a house without leaks and gunshots outside her door."
He didn't reply. His grip on Scout tensed, ever so slightly. And here he'd thought all those emotions dead in him. But he should have known better; he never could bring himself to burn the pictures.
"And this whole thing, felt like me having a dad for once."
Then you don't remember at all. I suppose it's for the best.
"We always had enough. Ma made sure of it with her work. We moved to better apartments after some asshole liked her singin' enough to give her a big wad of cash. I don't know who that bastard is, but I'm thankful."
Once the trail had turned cold, the pictures had stopped, he'd managed to ensure his family had enough. It was a lingering thorn, an old pain that it took long enough for him to remember, for her to almost lose hope.
"Buuut I ain't got a dad and I never will. He ain't goin' to fix my bow tie when I walk down to aisle and get married with Miss Pauling."
"If you remember anything, remember this: Don't tell her that until you've been dating a long time. And for god's sake, don't blurt it out on the first date," Spy said.
Scout looked away, his attention caught by the lights. "It's gotta be perfect. I'm goin' to tell her when it's perfect. Not over some body or in some rathole apartment. A real fancy place," Scout said.
Considering their work schedule and Miss Pauling's, that would take a long time indeed.
"I can't wait to show her to ma. I just know she'll love her. She's goin' to be so happy."
He couldn't tell the 'she' Scout meant. Maybe it was both in his drunken mind. He guided Scout up the stairs, and through the empty halls. Music was still playing as other mercenaries celebrated their continued existence. The door hinge was loud. He had a sneaking suspicion it was kept that way, never mended given his earlier habit of sneaking out to nearby towns to bars. Or, simply the lack of care that their employers had over their lodgings. Spy had fixed his own within days of moving in, and made several improvements over the years.
Scout fell onto the bed face first, tripping over his mud-caked other pair of shoes on the floor, the duffel bag left right in the way, and the new pile of books. He had set his comics aside to read How to Date Brainy Girls With Secret Day Jobs instead.
"Thanks, dad," Scout said. His voice was groggy with sleep, speaking to some ghost of his past, not the man he was.
"Goodnight, mon petit lapin," Spy said.
He was flooded with the memories Scout had forgotten. A little red onesie with rabbit ears, French lullabies, the foolish moments he thought he could play house without consequences.
He'd only seen the first steps in photos. He'd never been there to help him ride his bike, or so many other milestones. He'd separated himself after that crack, that warning. But now, it all came back to him, like a drunk's morose evening at the bar.
He closed the door as softly as he could, given the hinges needed to be oiled. Spy looked out to the darkened buildings and shadows. His last wish hadn't been written down; he never kept a paper trail. But it had been simply two words: a second chance.
