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Entry tags:
fic: Playing House
Title: Playing House
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Spy/Scout's mother
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,677
Author's note: This assumes that Scout was 23 in 1968, as cited in the Track Terrorizer.
Follows The Ghost Family.
For Sarah.
1945
When she told him the news, he stayed the night. He hadn't stayed over at a lover's house in years. Not even her. His life was nothing but stolen kisses, bits of warmth and affection saved. She was ceaselessly patient with his distances and mystery.
He woke up early, long before any of her boys would be up. In the gray dark before dawn, not even the strong, sensuous aroma of Pipérade couldn't rouse them. He'd bought the bright peppers early before he came halfway across the city in a small shop which catered to his more high class culinary needs. The olive oil, and vegetables mixed together made such a lovely sight, softened to perfection. He hit the eggs twice against the flecked counter. Broken shells pushed aside as the mixture bubbled.
In another life, it could have been his family of boys, his mundane little life. But he didn't mourn the possibilities, at least not when he was sober.
She was a light sleeper. With so many children, it was a given. Now she'd have even less peaceful dreams with the newest child to join her family.
Their family.
No, those words weren't his. He set them aside, put his love for her back in its boundaries. Cut off from too much passion, too much closeness. Enough to keep her alive.
Her robe was tied loose, enough to give him a hint of skin in the gray morning shadows.
"You stayed," she said. "You ain't never done that before."
"Mystery is my job, ma chérie," he said.
She lifted his chin. Her gaze on his lips was at once loving and full of new wonder. She had to lean up to kiss him, a smear of lipstick left for a while. A Cherry #5 memory.
"And you're damn good at it, my big bad handsome man. Just keep surprisin' me, even if you gotta do all that secret stuff. And don't forget me," she said.
"Ma chérie, I never could forget you. Not even for a moment," he said.
He kissed the back of her hand, courtly in his affections.
"You sweet-talker, a real silver-tongued devil," she said.
"An occupational hazard," he said.
He knew he was drunk on the moment. But the hangover hadn't come yet. And as he leaned down to kiss her, he wished to stay in that pleasant buzz for just a little longer.
"I cannot stay long," he murmured as he pulled back.
She let out a sigh. "Men. They never can."
They ate in silence. He stayed until almost noon, and disappeared into the humid heat mirage that was Boston in the summer time.
*
The months seemed accelerated by distance. He'd lose himself in a job, and three months would have gone by by the time he'd returned. There was a small bulge, about the size of a grapefruit at her stomach, though she hid it well with her clothing. She was a woman who knew how to wear flattering, classic fashion, even on her meager earnings. A sewing kit was always kept nearby to fix her boy's clothing, and to let in her own when another child came.
"It's a good thing I kept the maternity clothes. And here I thought I'd have just a lucky seven. That's what Jack and I thought, anyways."
She sighed, and set her things aside. He hadn't dare disturbed this one love, the one who died overseas. If anything, it was a relief. He'd never haunt her as much as her first husband did. Rebound affair was at the tip of his tongue so often. A bittersweet reminder of what was to come.
I will never fill the hole he left. In the end, I will only make more, but oh, you will remember me. I will make sure of that.
He reached into a pocket deep within his suit. Like a magician, with mediums of death instead of doves and scarves. He pulled open his cigarette case. For not the first time, he had nothing to offer her.
*
She was adept at learning codes so labyrinthine that few could break them. She bought shades of lipstick, and each kiss to paper would be a message. Passion Flower #34, everything was safe. Ruby Delight #55, she missed him.
His codes were country secrets and lives lost. He'd never stooped to hide the mundane, never had a secret like this. To be a true spy was to erase as much of himself as possible.
He never brought pictures or personal effects with him, but in one fit of loneliness, he'd gotten a gun made. A pin-up stylized like her that he'd drawn himself. He'd been an art student once, back when he had a name, and a future.
Before he became a ghost.
Sometimes, he still drew her. But he always chose stylized shades, just far enough not to connect her. But enough for him to remember.
*
"He's done nothin' but cry since I brought him home. Doctor said it was colic, but I think he's broken," she said.
For such a small child, only five and a half pounds, he seemed mostly lungs.
He hadn't stood beside her where she put a pseudonym on the birth certificate. He never had told her his real name, or even any of the aliases. Even this was a fiction. He was nothing but a shadow that crossed her life.
But, he'd slipped into the hospital that night, through the rain and the security. With a green doctor's mask, a doctor's coat borrowed, and enough confidence, no one even questioned him. Even she hadn't seen him, behind the others, as if he belonged there.
It was better if she hadn't known. That she didn't know how he lingered even when he was supposed to be away, when he was supposed to be slowly moving away from this life he could never have.
That he had seen these months of his son, even if he couldn't bring himself to come closer until now.
He lifted Liam up, and cradled his son to his chest."Mon petit lapin," he said.
Liam quieted as Spy began to speak to him. Low, silly phrases in French. He seemed fascinated by the language, the sound of his voice. Liam reached out with fat fingers and grabbed Spy's aquiline nose. He laughed so loud as he pulled and pulled. It was just hard enough to hurt.
"Yes, yes, you've got my nose," Spy said. His voice was muffled. She leaned in to kiss his cheek, then Liam's.
"Now, be gentle, little boy. That's my man you're beatin' up there."
The shrieks stopped.
He turned on the cloak and disappeared from Liam. In seconds, he turned the cloak off again. "Peekaboo," he said.
Liam laughed and laughed.
"There, see. We aren't tryin' to kill you. Just love you a little. Now, be good to your father."
Your father. Such unfamiliar words. Ones that now were a part of him, always on the tip of his tongue.
Liam started fuss as he set him back down within the little bassinet.
"Surprised he didn't go and ruin that suit of yours," she said.
"I'm a lucky man. Otherwise I wouldn't be alive."
*
Months and years passed. Nothing happened, no divide between his life as the killer, and the father. He never saw Liam's first steps, or heard his first words. She said they were da, she said he looked to the door when he left and wouldn't be consoled, and when Liam heard him, he'd start to hop around in a little dance of happiness.
She had a habit of exaggeration, like any natural storyteller. It made her hard to read at times. At the corner of his eye he'd see her sadness, like a specter, that disappeared when he looked at her directly.
They had more in common than he'd ever admit.
He'd stay hours away, and cloak his movements as much as possible. He never went to their part of town without a disguise.
A cheap place that asked no questions that was entirely beneath his style. He'd rigged up traps, and saw the signs in the not-so-pristine room. A small new bloodstain on the carpet, the hair he'd left taped high on the door broken, and a single photo left on the table.
It wasn't the gory reminder he'd feared. Merely a happy moment caught. She sat across from him, Liam balanced on her lap. There were no words scribbled across the back, or left in a note. There didn't have to be.
He never took pictures of their time together. Love letters, pictures, they were simply evidence. Memories and regrets were all he ever gave her.
*
He sat on the bed, a haze of smoke trailing up. His wrinkled clothes back from the floor where they'd fallen, back on his skin. There were red lipstick trails on his collar. Little marks left from her to remember. After sex, the last. After kisses, the soon to be last, he finally said the words.
"This is the end, ma petite choufleur," he said.
She sat up in bed. The sheets fell down to her lap. He was tempted to take the words back, and fall back in bed with her. Just a little big longer in these thin, overwashed sheets that smelled of her perfume.
The room was shuttered dark. Little bits of sunlight peeked through, lines of gold across her body.
"What the hell are you talkin' about? You have a child--"
"And I was a fool from the start. I should not have stayed then."
"Well ain't that awful convenient for you. I'll be stuck here with a child, and you get to travel the world."
He could lie, it was his profession, after all. His native tongue. But not to her. Never to her.
He brought out the picture as an answer, because he did not trust himself to say the words.
"This was left in my hotel room," he said.
"You sure it ain't just your own?" she said.
"I only use my camera for my job, ma chérie. I know what evidence can do to a man, and hired men, sent to get revenge."
"Oh…" she said. She sat down on the bed. She was beyond crying, a numb discontent. He'd never seen her look so lost. Usually she kept the tears for after he left.
"You, you can't do this. We need you," she said.
"And I need you to remain alive. The threat is clear," he said.
"You think they'll just leave us alone? No, they'll slip in while you're not lookin'. And what am I supposed to do? Huh? What am I even supposed to do, I---I already lost one husband, and have been barely holdin' on with these children--"
As much as he wanted to reach out to her, pull her back in his arms again, he didn't. Couldn't.
"If you looked at me and saw a perfect spouse, you were sorely mistaken. Go find yourself a better lover. Find yourself a boring husband who never makes you cry. One who will take in another man's sons."
"I'd rather have you," she said.
He could not bear to meet her eyes. Instead, he stared at the slowly rising smoke.
"Ma chérie do not make this harder than it already is. When I'm secured, I'll find a way to send funds."
"Funds? I don't need your funds. I ain't some high class mistress!"
If he were more cruel, he'd burn down all the love she'd given him with harsh words. Or perhaps more kind would be more appropriate. A swift cut would hurt far less in the end. But his cruelty never extended to her. She was always another landscape, a place of calm and happiness he could find with just a touch.
"I would never say that of you," he said.
He should've walked past her that first day she had captivated him. He'd thought it would be a mere fling, nothing more, surely nothing to keep him, nothing like love. But he had taken a second glance, and lost himself in one smile.
"Who knows about you? You're a liar," she said.
"True, but I've never lied to you," he said.
"You can only say that because you never told me enough to lie. But you, you're one of those spooks. Lying is the only language you know."
In the end, she knew him too well. Between the seams of words, between the facade. He smiled sadly and pulled down his mask. She'd never seen him entirely without it. Only glimpses of his face.
"You know how it is, ma chérie," he said.
"Yes, I know," she said. "Knew it when I started. It doesn't make it hurt any less. You see, I'm a complete fool. Always was."
"We're alike in that," he said.
She took the cigarette from his lips, and took a drag. Leaving after love had died was painful enough, but to leave when every fiber in his body still desired her was tk
Which would be harder, leaving her and hurting her that one last time, enough that she'd find some boring man who worked a 9-to-5 job and came home every night. Someone who she could openly take out with no fear of old enemies resurfacing and slaughtering them in retribution.
He'd lost lovers before; he knew to stay away. But with her, everything had been different. Each kiss drew him back.
A cry from the other room broke apart their goodbyes. She rose up, her makeup streaked with tears.
"No.. Let me tend to him one last time," he said.
He rocked Liam to sleep like it was an act of contrition. He was young enough that he'd never remember being in a onesie with France on it, or that being sung lullabies in French was the only way he'd ever quiet.
"Be good for your mère," he said.
As a spy, he learned to live on even as parts of himself died. Acid to erase his fingerprints, false teeth to erase dental records, and two families lost. One in the Resistance, one to his own hubris.
*
Liam would be young enough to forget him. Jack's legacy went on, the father who died overseas in the war, with only medals sent back, and an empty grave at the graveyard.
In another life, they could've been dressed in suits and silk, with knives hidden on their thighs, and kisses stolen between the buried bodies. They could've traveled the cities of Europe and taken secrets and hidden them between their bodies, played the ploy of just two lovers as many times as they could get away with it.
In another, they could've lived somewhere peaceful. A suburban dreamworld of endless simple jobs and white picket fences. Oh, what a beautiful, mundane world they could've lived and loved in that world with no blackmail, no threats.
Sometimes he'd stand like a ghost at the corner and watch his family grow up without him. Liam grew light haired and lean, a complete loudmouth who never stopped moving. He never seemed to stop talking, never even slowing down to clarify or allow anyone to catch up.
Such boundless energy, like a fire inside him.
There was little of himself reflected in the boy. No manners, no trace of stealth or class, and no hints of social grace. Every time he visited cloaked in the shadows, he told himself it would be the last. In baseball stands, at the end of the track field, at the edge of the street. Each time he bargained a little more time, another gamble to see if he could escape without being noticed.
One day he would come to find her with another man's ring and name. Then he could break away for good.
She was a stubborn woman, but one day she would forget him. If his line of work had taught him anything, it was under duress, even the most strong willed people would give in.
Twenty years a ghost, he watched his son and the woman he loved grow old without him.
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Spy/Scout's mother
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,677
Author's note: This assumes that Scout was 23 in 1968, as cited in the Track Terrorizer.
Follows The Ghost Family.
For Sarah.
1945
When she told him the news, he stayed the night. He hadn't stayed over at a lover's house in years. Not even her. His life was nothing but stolen kisses, bits of warmth and affection saved. She was ceaselessly patient with his distances and mystery.
He woke up early, long before any of her boys would be up. In the gray dark before dawn, not even the strong, sensuous aroma of Pipérade couldn't rouse them. He'd bought the bright peppers early before he came halfway across the city in a small shop which catered to his more high class culinary needs. The olive oil, and vegetables mixed together made such a lovely sight, softened to perfection. He hit the eggs twice against the flecked counter. Broken shells pushed aside as the mixture bubbled.
In another life, it could have been his family of boys, his mundane little life. But he didn't mourn the possibilities, at least not when he was sober.
She was a light sleeper. With so many children, it was a given. Now she'd have even less peaceful dreams with the newest child to join her family.
Their family.
No, those words weren't his. He set them aside, put his love for her back in its boundaries. Cut off from too much passion, too much closeness. Enough to keep her alive.
Her robe was tied loose, enough to give him a hint of skin in the gray morning shadows.
"You stayed," she said. "You ain't never done that before."
"Mystery is my job, ma chérie," he said.
She lifted his chin. Her gaze on his lips was at once loving and full of new wonder. She had to lean up to kiss him, a smear of lipstick left for a while. A Cherry #5 memory.
"And you're damn good at it, my big bad handsome man. Just keep surprisin' me, even if you gotta do all that secret stuff. And don't forget me," she said.
"Ma chérie, I never could forget you. Not even for a moment," he said.
He kissed the back of her hand, courtly in his affections.
"You sweet-talker, a real silver-tongued devil," she said.
"An occupational hazard," he said.
He knew he was drunk on the moment. But the hangover hadn't come yet. And as he leaned down to kiss her, he wished to stay in that pleasant buzz for just a little longer.
"I cannot stay long," he murmured as he pulled back.
She let out a sigh. "Men. They never can."
They ate in silence. He stayed until almost noon, and disappeared into the humid heat mirage that was Boston in the summer time.
*
The months seemed accelerated by distance. He'd lose himself in a job, and three months would have gone by by the time he'd returned. There was a small bulge, about the size of a grapefruit at her stomach, though she hid it well with her clothing. She was a woman who knew how to wear flattering, classic fashion, even on her meager earnings. A sewing kit was always kept nearby to fix her boy's clothing, and to let in her own when another child came.
"It's a good thing I kept the maternity clothes. And here I thought I'd have just a lucky seven. That's what Jack and I thought, anyways."
She sighed, and set her things aside. He hadn't dare disturbed this one love, the one who died overseas. If anything, it was a relief. He'd never haunt her as much as her first husband did. Rebound affair was at the tip of his tongue so often. A bittersweet reminder of what was to come.
I will never fill the hole he left. In the end, I will only make more, but oh, you will remember me. I will make sure of that.
He reached into a pocket deep within his suit. Like a magician, with mediums of death instead of doves and scarves. He pulled open his cigarette case. For not the first time, he had nothing to offer her.
*
She was adept at learning codes so labyrinthine that few could break them. She bought shades of lipstick, and each kiss to paper would be a message. Passion Flower #34, everything was safe. Ruby Delight #55, she missed him.
His codes were country secrets and lives lost. He'd never stooped to hide the mundane, never had a secret like this. To be a true spy was to erase as much of himself as possible.
He never brought pictures or personal effects with him, but in one fit of loneliness, he'd gotten a gun made. A pin-up stylized like her that he'd drawn himself. He'd been an art student once, back when he had a name, and a future.
Before he became a ghost.
Sometimes, he still drew her. But he always chose stylized shades, just far enough not to connect her. But enough for him to remember.
*
"He's done nothin' but cry since I brought him home. Doctor said it was colic, but I think he's broken," she said.
For such a small child, only five and a half pounds, he seemed mostly lungs.
He hadn't stood beside her where she put a pseudonym on the birth certificate. He never had told her his real name, or even any of the aliases. Even this was a fiction. He was nothing but a shadow that crossed her life.
But, he'd slipped into the hospital that night, through the rain and the security. With a green doctor's mask, a doctor's coat borrowed, and enough confidence, no one even questioned him. Even she hadn't seen him, behind the others, as if he belonged there.
It was better if she hadn't known. That she didn't know how he lingered even when he was supposed to be away, when he was supposed to be slowly moving away from this life he could never have.
That he had seen these months of his son, even if he couldn't bring himself to come closer until now.
He lifted Liam up, and cradled his son to his chest."Mon petit lapin," he said.
Liam quieted as Spy began to speak to him. Low, silly phrases in French. He seemed fascinated by the language, the sound of his voice. Liam reached out with fat fingers and grabbed Spy's aquiline nose. He laughed so loud as he pulled and pulled. It was just hard enough to hurt.
"Yes, yes, you've got my nose," Spy said. His voice was muffled. She leaned in to kiss his cheek, then Liam's.
"Now, be gentle, little boy. That's my man you're beatin' up there."
The shrieks stopped.
He turned on the cloak and disappeared from Liam. In seconds, he turned the cloak off again. "Peekaboo," he said.
Liam laughed and laughed.
"There, see. We aren't tryin' to kill you. Just love you a little. Now, be good to your father."
Your father. Such unfamiliar words. Ones that now were a part of him, always on the tip of his tongue.
Liam started fuss as he set him back down within the little bassinet.
"Surprised he didn't go and ruin that suit of yours," she said.
"I'm a lucky man. Otherwise I wouldn't be alive."
*
Months and years passed. Nothing happened, no divide between his life as the killer, and the father. He never saw Liam's first steps, or heard his first words. She said they were da, she said he looked to the door when he left and wouldn't be consoled, and when Liam heard him, he'd start to hop around in a little dance of happiness.
She had a habit of exaggeration, like any natural storyteller. It made her hard to read at times. At the corner of his eye he'd see her sadness, like a specter, that disappeared when he looked at her directly.
They had more in common than he'd ever admit.
He'd stay hours away, and cloak his movements as much as possible. He never went to their part of town without a disguise.
A cheap place that asked no questions that was entirely beneath his style. He'd rigged up traps, and saw the signs in the not-so-pristine room. A small new bloodstain on the carpet, the hair he'd left taped high on the door broken, and a single photo left on the table.
It wasn't the gory reminder he'd feared. Merely a happy moment caught. She sat across from him, Liam balanced on her lap. There were no words scribbled across the back, or left in a note. There didn't have to be.
He never took pictures of their time together. Love letters, pictures, they were simply evidence. Memories and regrets were all he ever gave her.
*
He sat on the bed, a haze of smoke trailing up. His wrinkled clothes back from the floor where they'd fallen, back on his skin. There were red lipstick trails on his collar. Little marks left from her to remember. After sex, the last. After kisses, the soon to be last, he finally said the words.
"This is the end, ma petite choufleur," he said.
She sat up in bed. The sheets fell down to her lap. He was tempted to take the words back, and fall back in bed with her. Just a little big longer in these thin, overwashed sheets that smelled of her perfume.
The room was shuttered dark. Little bits of sunlight peeked through, lines of gold across her body.
"What the hell are you talkin' about? You have a child--"
"And I was a fool from the start. I should not have stayed then."
"Well ain't that awful convenient for you. I'll be stuck here with a child, and you get to travel the world."
He could lie, it was his profession, after all. His native tongue. But not to her. Never to her.
He brought out the picture as an answer, because he did not trust himself to say the words.
"This was left in my hotel room," he said.
"You sure it ain't just your own?" she said.
"I only use my camera for my job, ma chérie. I know what evidence can do to a man, and hired men, sent to get revenge."
"Oh…" she said. She sat down on the bed. She was beyond crying, a numb discontent. He'd never seen her look so lost. Usually she kept the tears for after he left.
"You, you can't do this. We need you," she said.
"And I need you to remain alive. The threat is clear," he said.
"You think they'll just leave us alone? No, they'll slip in while you're not lookin'. And what am I supposed to do? Huh? What am I even supposed to do, I---I already lost one husband, and have been barely holdin' on with these children--"
As much as he wanted to reach out to her, pull her back in his arms again, he didn't. Couldn't.
"If you looked at me and saw a perfect spouse, you were sorely mistaken. Go find yourself a better lover. Find yourself a boring husband who never makes you cry. One who will take in another man's sons."
"I'd rather have you," she said.
He could not bear to meet her eyes. Instead, he stared at the slowly rising smoke.
"Ma chérie do not make this harder than it already is. When I'm secured, I'll find a way to send funds."
"Funds? I don't need your funds. I ain't some high class mistress!"
If he were more cruel, he'd burn down all the love she'd given him with harsh words. Or perhaps more kind would be more appropriate. A swift cut would hurt far less in the end. But his cruelty never extended to her. She was always another landscape, a place of calm and happiness he could find with just a touch.
"I would never say that of you," he said.
He should've walked past her that first day she had captivated him. He'd thought it would be a mere fling, nothing more, surely nothing to keep him, nothing like love. But he had taken a second glance, and lost himself in one smile.
"Who knows about you? You're a liar," she said.
"True, but I've never lied to you," he said.
"You can only say that because you never told me enough to lie. But you, you're one of those spooks. Lying is the only language you know."
In the end, she knew him too well. Between the seams of words, between the facade. He smiled sadly and pulled down his mask. She'd never seen him entirely without it. Only glimpses of his face.
"You know how it is, ma chérie," he said.
"Yes, I know," she said. "Knew it when I started. It doesn't make it hurt any less. You see, I'm a complete fool. Always was."
"We're alike in that," he said.
She took the cigarette from his lips, and took a drag. Leaving after love had died was painful enough, but to leave when every fiber in his body still desired her was tk
Which would be harder, leaving her and hurting her that one last time, enough that she'd find some boring man who worked a 9-to-5 job and came home every night. Someone who she could openly take out with no fear of old enemies resurfacing and slaughtering them in retribution.
He'd lost lovers before; he knew to stay away. But with her, everything had been different. Each kiss drew him back.
A cry from the other room broke apart their goodbyes. She rose up, her makeup streaked with tears.
"No.. Let me tend to him one last time," he said.
He rocked Liam to sleep like it was an act of contrition. He was young enough that he'd never remember being in a onesie with France on it, or that being sung lullabies in French was the only way he'd ever quiet.
"Be good for your mère," he said.
As a spy, he learned to live on even as parts of himself died. Acid to erase his fingerprints, false teeth to erase dental records, and two families lost. One in the Resistance, one to his own hubris.
*
Liam would be young enough to forget him. Jack's legacy went on, the father who died overseas in the war, with only medals sent back, and an empty grave at the graveyard.
In another life, they could've been dressed in suits and silk, with knives hidden on their thighs, and kisses stolen between the buried bodies. They could've traveled the cities of Europe and taken secrets and hidden them between their bodies, played the ploy of just two lovers as many times as they could get away with it.
In another, they could've lived somewhere peaceful. A suburban dreamworld of endless simple jobs and white picket fences. Oh, what a beautiful, mundane world they could've lived and loved in that world with no blackmail, no threats.
Sometimes he'd stand like a ghost at the corner and watch his family grow up without him. Liam grew light haired and lean, a complete loudmouth who never stopped moving. He never seemed to stop talking, never even slowing down to clarify or allow anyone to catch up.
Such boundless energy, like a fire inside him.
There was little of himself reflected in the boy. No manners, no trace of stealth or class, and no hints of social grace. Every time he visited cloaked in the shadows, he told himself it would be the last. In baseball stands, at the end of the track field, at the edge of the street. Each time he bargained a little more time, another gamble to see if he could escape without being noticed.
One day he would come to find her with another man's ring and name. Then he could break away for good.
She was a stubborn woman, but one day she would forget him. If his line of work had taught him anything, it was under duress, even the most strong willed people would give in.
Twenty years a ghost, he watched his son and the woman he loved grow old without him.