fic: I'm Wild Again, Beguiled Again

[bonnefois]

Title: I'm Wild Again, Beguiled Again
Series: TF2
Character/Pairing: Spy/Scoutma
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 9,269
Author's note: title comes from Bewitched by Ella Fitzgerald. Precedes Playing House. Last Call, Trace Did You Have to Let It Linger? and Haunted and The Ghost Family

For Sarah


1945


He'd left behind the streets of Paris, for now, along with his name. Too many enemies, too many memories. Now he was shiftless, a wandering mercenary who would kill whoever someone asked--as long as he got paid.

There was no more resistance to be a part of. On day he would return to the streets of Paris, but the craters and and debris bloodstains had tinged his city with a sense of loss.

Once they forgot the wanderer, the resistance member, then he would return. Hopefully by then, he enemies would've gotten themselves killed.

At least the Germans were gone.

It hadn't stopped raining for over a week. A bulb in the neon sign of the bar had gone dim, obscuring the name of the bar.

He looked over the crowd in the small, almost claustrophobic bar. Rot had snuck in this room, but they hardly minded as long as the wine came. He'd rubbed himself down with darker chalky make up to achieve the look of being covered in ashes, and donned the dirty clothes of a dockworker he'd been able to purchase for far more than it was worth.

He didn't speak much, for the accent was new to him, and it always took a little while to pick up an accent before he could mimic it. It was thick, unfamiliar from the soft vowels he had known. But he was a shape-changing wanderer, and could take on any face with enough make up.

So for this, he took on the look of a dock worker. A common man, no suits or class. The type one would see in this rather run-down bar within this desolate place called "Southie" by the inhabitants.

This job was outside of his usual, but the money provided was tempting, and it was an easy enough job. Find his target, eliminate him and get out. He'd done it through far more narrow, complicated situations.

Perhaps someone had leaked that a hit was being called in.

Spy knew to acclimate himself. He'd fit himself between teammates, best friends. And yet, South Boston was proving more of a challenge than he thought. While he had a passable American accent, it wasn't quite as thick or rough as this one, and the people were suspicious and close-knit.

He had taken the guise of a down on his luck drifter, a fallen businessman earlier in a diner, but ten minutes in told him this wasn't the best of disguises to choose. It hadn't taken him long to realize that no one came to South Boston, not even drifters. Hostile gazes met him, and instead of blending in--he was sticking out more than ever.

This disguise, however, was faring slightly better. If he faced another setback, a strategic retreat might be in order, but if he did that, he might lose his chance. Flannery would realize someone was on his tail, and all would be lost. Spy moodily sighed and set aside his paper. The food was bland and the coffee was worse. He should stick to decaf. All this coffee was making him jittery, but he needed an excuse to stay, and the middle-aged waitress with the graying hair was already staring at him, and it wasn't to make eyes at him.

The door opened and Spy lifted his eyes to the door.

Until her, the crowd had been mostly dock workers. She, however, was a jewel among stones. She wore a tight fitting peacock blue dress which had shown a certain wear that only made it somehow more appealing. A patch and stitch here, with slightly off color fabric, a slight discoloration at the seam. And yes, how it hugged her generous curves so well. He was not the only who watched her as she approached the bar, and pushed back her black hair that slightly curled at the edges.

Many reached into their trousers, and brought out worn wallets. He would not be surprised if she hadn't had to pay for her own drink in years, if ever.

He hadn't had an affair in a while, not since the last fling had turned out to be a spy herself. And a German, at that.

A foolish thought. He pushed it aside. He needed to focus on work. This would give him enough to not worry about work for a while. Enough to return to Europe, if he so wished.

But, perhaps he'd let those wounds heal a little longer. Until he could walk through the beloved roads of his city and not remember the sounds of the resistance and how Paris had fallen.

"Don't worry, it's on the house," the bartender said.

He was stocky, with a slightly stained apron over his white shirt. Probably the same one he wore to church every Sunday, Spy thought idly. He was graying, yet there was a certain--charm. A devilish in his gray eyes of a wild past that had been set to pasture.

She gave the bartender a half-smile. "Thank you, it's just--hard about this time of year. First Finny, then Jack. I got the news just before the anniversary of when Finny died."

He pushed another drink her way. "Maybe you need another drink."

"No, I've got to go home to my boys soon enough. I just wanted to put out a glass for Jack and Finny."

She lifted the glass up and stared down at the amber liquid. "They should be right here, but the war's taken them both. The one overseas and the one in the streets."

The bartender nodded solemnly. "Jack Dempsey was a good man. The best."

"They say they're goin' to send him a Purple Heart, that he died a hero years ago. I would've rather had him come back."

"It's a right shame," the bartender said softly.

"Don't mind me," she said. "I'll get back to work in a bit. I just needed a moment."

"Take as long as you need."

The dress was the same deep blue as her eyes, and just as stunning. He could see faint signs of wear when he got closer. She'd tried to make the mendings and stitches look like a design, but he saw through the cracks.

She was wrapped up in her own little world, her own tragedies.

He wrenched his gaze away, as three men entered. He recognized them immediately from the description.

The bartender cleared his throat. "Of course. The back room is ready."

"I was meeting a certain man today. Has he arrived yet?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't go puttin' my nose in other people's business as a force of habit,"

"A good habit to have," the man said. The two beside him were obviously guards.

"Colleen, go lock the side door, and make sure it doesn't catch," the bartender said in a low tone. "Don't fight me now. The last thing your family needs is another funeral. You've got those boys to live for."

"...All right, Mark."

Spy rose and gave the bartender a nod as he went to the door.

The room, likely used for poker, or perhaps the occasional deal of a more carnal kind, given the cot, was dimly lit.

"Ah, you're punctual. I like that in a man."

"I was merely enjoying the sights of this place," Spy said dryly.

"Come, take a seat."

They hadn't exchanged names. It was easier that way.

"I was recommended you by a friend of a friend," the man said.

Somehow, he felt like he wasn't the type of person to have friends. Cohorts, people he blackmailed, yes. But friendship entailed something a man like him never could quite achieve.

Spy knew all too well. When he'd left behind his name, and the life of a flirtatious art student, he'd also left behind any pretense of friendship. Men like them didn't--couldn't, more likely.

He was an older man, approximately in his sixties with gray hair and thick brows above a craggy, intense face. The men behind him almost blended into the room, their identical suits.

A second glance through the haze showed the men had similar features, similar cheekbones and dark black hair. It was only how well they stayed back, like trained soldiers that made them seem so unnoticeable.

From one professional to another, Spy had to admire their work ethics.

In the dark of the room, the man pushed the photo over. Smoke trailed up, like a dark fog about them all. Unlike the family, with their pressed suits like a uniform, the man on the photo was more rough. Spy pulled the photo closer. The man in the photo had a burnt out cigarette hanging from his mouth, and an x-shaped mark on his large cleft chin. The photo wasn't color, but Spy could make out his blotchy skin, as if he'd been through an accident of some sort. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken at least once, if not more, and never fully healed right.

"It's a delicate situation," the man said.

"I have not gone into his territory, yet he keeps robbing and attacking the shipments from my homeland. All that might not have taken quite such an effort, perhaps we could have simply fought it out, honorably, like men. However, just last week, within a bar some ways away, he grabbed ahold of my wife and left a mark upon her thigh with his careless pawing."

Disgust filled his voice then.

"She had been meeting her sister, who has been overseas. She broke free, thankfully. But I will not let such a slight stand."

"Understandable," Spy said.

"I expect payment first," Spy said.

"Naturally," the man said. He opened up a briefcase filled with bills. Oh, the things he could buy with this.

Oh, the price of a life.

"Before the week is gone, he will be dead. This I promise."

"Good. I knew from the moment I saw you....you're European, aren't you? Not from my homeland, but there is a lilt of romance in your voice. Belgian, or is it French?"

He needed to work on his accent if he'd been soused out so easily. "I come from nowhere any longer," Spy said. "There's nothing left to go back to."

"Ah, this horrible war." He took a drink and shook his head. "It has taken so much. But like spring after winter, they will rebuild. One day, you will walk in the streets of your homeland and feel that joy again."

Spy moved to rise from his chair. "One can only hope."

*

Unlike the Italians, who worked in mystery, a group of black cloaked strangers, the Irish mobsters were well known within the community. Flannery, however, with his habit of pawing at any woman who passed him while in a drunken state, did not have the awe that the Italians inspired.

For two days Spy drank coffee and sipped watery alcohol in bars and overheard many a tale as reconnaissance.

Everyone had something to say about Jimmy Flannery, so it seemed. Spy half expected to find company when he finally came to claim Jimmy's life.

He finally got his chance one rainy night as he saw Jimmy Flannery slip into the dingy alley just beside the bar. He heard the voice of a woman, with a thick Boston accent berating him as Spy took each quiet step closer.

"I told you, you ain't makin' him one of your boys," she said. "You don't want to cross me, Flannery. I know how to shoot just as well as anybody else in Southie."

His voice was hoarse. "You're threatenin' me? That's real funny. You see, this is a free country, or at least that's what all those English at the top want us to think," he said.

Slowly he was pushing her against the wall, his gaze turning more and more intense. There was a fire in his eyes that the black and white photo hadn't quite portrayed, part determination and part madness.

He recognized the woman now as the one he'd seen earlier, Colleen, a woman haunted by loss.

"I want my boys to still be alive," she said. "There's been too many of us that buried our children, and lost overseas. We don't need a war on these streets. And then you go and send your condolences, like you ain't the one who put them there in the first place!"

Her voice had risen in pitch.

"What happened to the O'Toole boys was a tragedy, nothing more. I wasn't anywhere near here when that happened," Flannery said.

"A tragedy which comes to your doorstep in the end. You can't just keep washing your hands of us, Flannery. We're not going to just let you kill our sons like that."

"You're a feisty one," he said, with a hoarse laugh. "Real feisty...." He reached out grope at her hip. She let out a cry of disgust and elbowed him hard in the gut. Even as he bent down from the pain, he caught tight ahold of her arm.

"Too feisty...."

"You're pathetic, Jimmy."

"All my girlfriends moved away, but that's not true. When I'm done, I take out the trash. Trash like you, ain't that right, Colleen? Like Jack fathered all them kids. You were a wild one long before you ever settled down, and everyone knows what they say about widows."

She spat in his face. The drop was washed away in the rain, but he heard the hard sound of a slap against her face.

Her eyes widened, but he had already blocked her path. He slammed her into the wall, and in her momentary daze, wrapped his big hands about her neck.

His shoes made no sound on the alleyway. He pulled out his knife as quietly as he could. She was making gurgling sounds as Flannery tightened his thick, calloused hands around her neck, but she wasn't simply going without a fight. Her painted nails dug into his arms as she clawed and tried to break his grip on her. She began to kick him as he held on tighter, a sickly broken sound coming from her mouth.

Here was the diversion he needed. If he waited until the woman was dead, he wouldn't have to kill her. Flannery would be too busy, and he could kill him and finish the job.

Her lips were slightly parted as she tried to say something. Her blue eyes were wide with panic and determination. A minute more and she'd be dead. No witness to erase.

Spy had lost his name, and there was no trace of the flirtatious art student he had once been. He had killed men for far less. But, to lose such beauty, to leave her family mourning...

Not even he had lost his heart entirely.

He sunk the knife deep into Flannery's back and twisted. He'd never been more satisfied with the sound of a last, gurgled breath. Blood dripped from Flannery's mouth as he collapsed to the wet pavement. The puddles turned red with his blood.

Another bit of gutter trash to be cast aside.

With the last of her strength, she pushed Flannery onto his back and fell against the wall. She gasped for breath. Blood pooled into the water in the alley, and she stared down in horror at the stain, the body, and then the glimpse of him in the shadows.

"I....I can see you..."

The rain was hell upon his cloaking device. At least she could only see the shape of something amorphous within the mist.

"Jack, was that you?" she said softly. "Or--Finny? Did you come back for me? You always kept me safe. None of the boys ever tried to grope me because they knew you'd bloody their nose."

Spy said nothing. He didn't step away from the rain. Movement would make him more visible. She took a step forward.

She was so beautiful, so vivacious and sensual. He walked on, following the road she had gone down on. No cars passed at this time of night, and everyone had taken shelter in from the rain. Even though her scream must have been heard by someone, no one looked outside.

A witness. In his moment of weakness, he had a witness, and one convinced that he was some ghost of hers, to boot.

Killing was easy. A blade in the back at knight, twisted in the moonlight. He'd killed beautiful people before, people with family and lives. It was easier with the war, with the pretense of good and evil. And yet, he still hesitated.

So what, if he had a witness? She believed him a ghost and nothing more. She was right, of course.

It wasn't his finest moment. He'd wandered the highest echelon of Europe, stolen intelligence and data, plucked jewels and lives like they were nothing, and yet it was South Boston, a rathole filled with roaches and immigrants that had him stumbling on his way.

Before he could step away, she came even closer. "No, you're not Finny. You're too tall... Could it be you, Jack?? Is it really you? They said you died. But no body came back. I didn't want to put a grave stone up, just in case you were really shot down and captured overseas. What if you were really captured by the Germans. What if you were still alive..."

It would be a shame to break her heart. He could lie: he'd done it many times before, until it was like a second language. If he had a bit of mercy, he'd give her at least this comfort. However, he knew nothing of this Jack.

Before he could respond, she reached up. Even though the cloaking still held, she found her way. Her hands cupped his jaw.

"I missed you," she said hoarsely.

This was a woman worth dying for, he thought. Jack knew all too well, wherever he was. Probably heaven, for how she spoke of him in such sainted tones.

Even in the dark, and the rain, she found his lips. A warmth he had almost forgotten. His arms pulled her closer, as the rain was momentarily forgotten, and the kiss deepened. He should've pushed her aside, but the taste was compelling, forbidden fruit. Her lipstick was on him now, but it felt like a brand left upon him.

He lost track of everything but her skin, the way her mouth fit to his. He did not believe in love at first sight, barely believed in love, but he did believe in passion, in the chemistry that caught and lingered, like a slow burn.

And she was a wildfire, a drug in his system. All he wanted after that first kiss was another, and another.

But, he pulled away. For once, he couldn't deceive.

He would not forget this moment, even long after he had left this stinking rathole of a place.

Her hands went down, to rest upon his chest. She let out a soft sigh against him. "Oh, how I missed you."

He'd thought he'd long given up any conscience, yet she inspired some kind of goodness within him, despite it all. Or all those nuns beat some kindness within him after all.

"Madame. I am a ghost, but not your ghost."

She looked up. "I'm sorry. I thought you were... He promised he'd be back. And a part of me can't believe he's gone."

He pulled off the jacket that had been part of the disguise, and laid it upon her shoulders. Even though he was visible for a moment, it was still dark. His coat was wet, a useless gesture. And yet, he could not leave her alone in that moment.

"Go home now. Your children are waiting for you. You are safe now."

"Maybe you're my guardian angel, Mister Ghost."

She stepped over the body of Jimmy Flannery and took a turn. He followed her through the streets, just to make sure none of Flannery's men sought revenge. Thunder cracked through the sky. She looked up, and muttered an oh, fuckin' hell to herself.

She hadn't gone far, and leaned against a lamp post to catch her breath. The rain had made her ruined blue dress cling to her curvaceous frame. Her dark hair, so carefully teased up into was now flat to the sides of her face. She pushed a few locks of hair from where they'd stuck to her cheeks and searched the street.

She turned back, and scanned through the haze of the streetlights. He kept still, allowing his cloaking device to regenerate. Her back was to the street lamp.

"You're followin' me, mister ghost? You got any messages from above you forgot to tell me?"

"No, I'm walking you home," he said quietly, "He had men who answered to him. Men who would seek revenge."

"Nah, they'd be glad to be rid of him. Jimmy Flannery's had a target on his back for a while. Looks like he pissed off the wrong person this time." She paused a moment on a street corner, and shook her head wistfully. "It's been a long time since anybody walked me home."

He said nothing. Her face was filled with both grief and nostalgia at once. The joy of memories, and the loss that the person was now relegated to only them.

Maybe it was Jack, or Finny, or somebody else she'd lost along the way.

"You ain't from around here...but you don't sound Italian or like the English," she said thoughtfully.

He kept quiet.

"You must be hired from out of here, then. Listen, hon. We don't snitch in Southie, don't worry. I ain't gonna tell nobody. It's obvious you ain't from around these parts, so you wouldn't know, but Southie people don't talk. It's the code we're raised on. We ain't squealers, and we take care of our own problems. If anythin', you've done us all a favor by gettin' rid of Flannery. As soon as somebody puts up his grave, I'll dance on it just like he's dancin' in the flames of hell."

She broke off in a cough, and then continued before he could reply.

"Which, speaking of problems, brings us to three. Flannery and I didn't get on, as you could guess. So you might as well be my ally. If anyone comes to my door, I'll say Flannery got exactly what he deserved, but I had nothin' to do with it. Though, I doubt a widow would be the first choice for his murderer. Most of Southie would step up and say they killed him, and wish they had."

"Consider it my good deed for the year," Spy said.

She laughed. "Good deed, that's a good one... Mister Ghost, you know, the police only come to take away bodies. And that's only the ones we tell 'em about. The ones we don't push off into the sea and bury ourselves. They probably think it's good riddance, another project rat gone. The newspapers ignore us. Nobody gives a damn about Southie but us who live in Southie. Nobody is gonna stoop down to this level to find out who killed a gangster livin' out in the projects."

He wished he could say that logic and her appeals were what had stayed his hand, and not the truth that his heart was ruling over his head. What would it matter? He'd be out of this backwards city and off to somewhere else. A man like him could never stay anywhere long. Witnesses would accumulate, and someone might recognize him.

"Where you stayin'?" she asked. She had a cordial, even friendly tone to her voice, now. As if she were simply meeting an old friend, and not talking to a hidden assassin in a rainy street.

"Not around here," he said in a clipped, terse tone.

"Because the closest is the Archibald Archway, and that's Flannery territory. If you go there, it'll be crawlin' with his boys, and if they find out, you're bound to be picked out before you can even check out. People seen you. Everyone's talkin', and when they find the body, there'll be hell to pay. Now, we in Southie take care of our own, but God save the outsider. They'll feed you to the wolves."

"Merde," he muttered.

He'd chosen a place out of town, and the Archibald had seemed less of a fleabag gutter trash than most of the other spaces. Southie was not a place which wanted, or encouraged travelers to stay. Any hotel there were for affairs and other carnal ways and probably had an hourly rate as well as a daily one.

"Then you're not safe, either. People knew you fought with him," Spy said.

"You think they'd take on my boys?" She laughed. "Ghost, you don't know my kids. They're a group of hellions and would tear Southie part brick by brick if anyone ever hurt me. You see, in Southie, we don't talk. Our kids die, and we hold up the cold. We tell ourselves this is the greatest damn place in the world, when it's a friggin' cesspool. If that had happened to any of my sons...." she shook her head.

"I'd round them all up. All those mothers who held their tongues and kept sayin' to themselves that this place was the best. They knew who the killers were all along and just let them live along with them. If that happened to me, I'd invite all them over, then pull out my shotgun and point in right in their face. I'd make them beg for mercy, then give them none. I'm not sure a face shot would be enough. It'd be too quick a death for them. I never told anyone that before. You probably think I'm crazy now, huh?"

"Ma chérie, I'm a killer. If anything, I find your bloodthirstiness and devotion to your children admirable."

She smiled at him. "You're a charmer."

"I would not worry of the Archibald; people who betray me don't live long enough to regret it, and too those who simply pass my way."

"You're death then? Did you forget your scythe at home?"

"An agent of death, perhaps," Spy said.

"Ah, so that's it...I ain't ever gonna see you again, am I? To be fair, I didn't even see you now."

"Likely not," he said.

She kept walking, and he followed. At the door of her apartment building, she let out a sigh. "I ain't about to put you out in the rain when you saved my life. Follow me in."

"Don't you know not to let devils past the threshold. Truly, madame--You'd let a killer into your home?"

"This is Southie. If I kicked out killers, I'd have to kick out half my family," she said.

It was sudden, foolish, and yet he could feel it now--a little ray of sunshine which had broken through the clouds and sprung up inside him. He'd felt so little with the clouds of the war. He followed her, into the projects of South Boston.

Oh, what had he gotten himself into?

Perhaps it would be more suspicious to not go to the Archibald, but as it was, he never unpacked anymore than a decoy should he have to abandon his current job in a hurry.

His papers, his identities and tools, those he always kept close.

He owned several cars, some finer than others, but this particular one was specially built. It was made to look rough and old, easily forgettable and hardly worth breaking into or stealing, but under the hood, it was built for speed and ran with utmost grace.

She undid the lock on the door, and as she stepped back to pick up the mail, he held the door open for her.

"I didn't take you for a gentleman," she said.

"I'm not. Though I can pretend to be one should the need arise."

"You know what they say. A gentleman is a wolf who knocks," she said.

"I still can't tell where you're from," she said thoughtfully. "Do you have a name, or should I just keep callin' you Ghost?"

"No, not anymore, and if it suits you," he said.

The storm unleashed itself as he stepped up the steps to the projects of Boston, into the creaking apartment. Thick rivulets obscured the windows, and turned the streetlights to a faint glow, like distant fireflies.

The building half looked as if it wouldn't last the storm.

"We lost the house after he died, and I had to move in further. It's been a hard couple of years... There was the Depression, but we all made enough. And we were happy. But Jack had to go be a hero, go protect us," she said softly.

He loosened his tie and sat back in the sole chair, a poorly made rough chair which didn't exactly go with the other muted decor of the room.

"It is not my place to speak, but I believe he had no choice."

"I know. Uncle Sam went and called all our boys out to this war. It don't comfort me to know he died a hero. I would've loved him if he'd been a coward, but Jack was never a coward. Finny, either. And none of my boys, either. I got nothin' but brave fools who keep endin' up dead in my life," she said.

No words he could say would make this better.

"I remember when Paris burned. I was there. I am grateful for every American which helped free our city, and all of us."

"You're a Frenchie? I knew you were from out of town."

She looked to the rain-doused window. "I wish I could take comfort in that. I really do. Maybe I'm just selfish. Ah... I'll make up the couch. You'll have to be out by morning, or my boys will make you wish you're dead. They got a sayin' over here. 'Jesus, Mary and God and the Saints will forgive you, but the Dempsey boys won't,'" she said.

She pulled a colorful quilt that had been hanging over the back. In the low light he could see it had been faded from years of use, and had been mended many times.

"My grandma made that. They'd all get together, and quilt. They're called 'crazy quilts.' All made from old clothes that we outgrew, and filled with memories. Maybe it's a bit too small. You seemed a bit tall in that split second I saw you."

At times, his cloaking device showed just the edges of him. But then, she'd kissed him, and ran her hands up his chest with such desperation. She'd touched him more tenderly than he'd known in a long time, perhaps ever.

"You hungry?"

He didn't usually eat just after a job. Usually the time was spent cleaning his weapons and suits, and ensuring that there were no witnesses. But here, there was no gun to his head or knife to his back. He dismissed the threat of poison. After all, she owed him her life.

She put on an old victrola. A smooth voice came across, and he closed his eyes.

"I promised a dance, when the war ended, but that ain't ever goin' to happen now. The war keeps goin' on an on, and well... I'm sorry about that back there. For a minute there, I thought you were my ghost."

I could be your ghost, he thought.

She went to the kitchen and put on a kettle. The sound of rain on the metal roof joined the romantic ballad. It crackled, as if it was well-worn. Perhaps she didn't even have another to play.

The whistle of the kettle cut through the music. She brought him some tea.

"I'll make up somethin' right away. If you want to wash up, the bathroom's down the hall. Shared with all the other families, so you can't be in there long, or you'll have a fight on your hands. And Southie boys fight dirty. Oh, right. I'll see if any of Jack's clothes might fit you. You might be too tall, but it would be better than catchin' a chill, I suppose."

She returned a few moments later with a stack of clothes. Old jeans, and shirts that smelled of a man she had loved with all her being. The flannel was rough and faded, with a button missing at the collar, so even as he buttoned it up, it showed more chest than he was used to.

"I'll give you some privacy," she said. "Not that I can see you, anyways. Guess I'm not a medium."

He had seamlessly taken other lives and names as his own many a time. It was easy to change out of wet clothes and into the clothes of her husband.

She returned a while later, and hung his wet clothes over a slightly warped bedroom door. She spoke softly, without looking back.

"Hope you ain't thinkin' of leavin' anytime soon, the storm ain't passed, yet."

"No. For a moment...I could pretend to be him. I have taken on many faces in my life. But you must tell me what your husband was like. I have had no time to prepare a facsimile."

"What he was like....welll..."

She glanced at the wall of photos in the dim light. They were shades of sepia, with shots of families caught together.

"The truth is, I'm beginnin' to forget how his voice sounded. He wasn't much for love letters. He was more a storytellin' type. He'd pull up a drink and tell me these grand tall tales, and the whole bar would be captivated. I think one day I'll forget him entirely, and there'll be nothin' but the pictures and the our boys. I wish I'd had some fancy way to record his voice, like they got on the television, and just keep it so I could watch it and remember. But even if it were possible, I couldn't ever afford it."

Her voice broke then.

He took several steps closer to her, still cloaked. He placed his hand on her shoulder, what little comfort he could offer. She rested her head against him, he dared to pull her closer.

The supple feel of her curves awakened something within him. Not quite enough to make him step awkwardly away, like a schoolboy caught daydreaming.

The singer crooned about a love to last until the end of time. Ah, what fiction. Nothing could survive the war.

His thumb brushed over her lower lip. "You see, ma chérie, I am a scoundrel at heart, a complete wolf, a devil."

"From where I am, you saved my life. You might be an angel of death, but you're still an angel."

"Call me by his name if you wish. I've no heart left to break."

She came closer. He was captivated by the shape of her in the low light. The victrola spoke of the end of time, but to him it was only this moment with her. "Oh, mister Ghost....I'm glad I met you. Thank you for savin' me. You're awful kind to this old Southie widow."

"You seem young to me, madame," he said.

She leaned in, and in that moment he thought she would kiss him again. But instead, a look of sudden realization, and remembering came over her face in the dim room.

"Oh! I didn't even make you somethin' to eat. I'm sorry, I got--sidetracked."

He sat in the kitchen as she sizzled something in that frying pan. An air of nostalgia filled him, for French lullabies and the sound of sizzling oil as his mother cooked food. Pictures drawn on napkins, and a flirtatious notes left to his art school classmates, both male and female.

But like much nostalgia, with it came pain. For memory was a hall of ghosts.

She laid it before him. Toast and some kind of egg dish. Greasy, but not without taste.

"I know it's breakfast food, but soup would take too long, and I ain't been to the grocery store lately."

"Tell me somethin', Mister Ghost."

"That is one thing I cannot do."

"Not even a single thing?"

"I would not be a very good agent of death if I told my secrets, would I?"

"Oh, I don't want to know any of that, not that I would tell anyways. Tell me somethin' good. I could use some good news."

"I have not seen anything good in years....before tonight," he said.

"That so?"

She rose up and put the pan to soak in the sink.

She stepped away. Had she not had a sudden good sense, who could tell what would have happened between them? The sparks of more kisses, further, deeper until it could only end there on the couch, or on the bed.

He lit a cigarette and sat there. He'd kissed plenty of people within his life. Men, women, people who seemed to seamlessly blend between the two. But something here shook him to the utter core.

He said the words, even as he knew he shouldn't.

"Will you dance with me, ma chérie?"

"There's hardly any room here, unless you want to waltz in the kitchen."

"Call me Jack if it heals your heart, madame," he said.

She took his hand, and he held her close against him. The rain was loud over the roof. A crooner sang low about loving someone until the end of time. A foreign concept, though the song was a beautiful one.

The linoleum was cracked with water damage. It was hardly a grand ballroom. She laid her head against him, and likely dreamed of another. The only way to be hers was to be a facsimile. But then, he was a man of a thousand faces and names. More often than not, he'd taken on the name of one of his victims for a time, at least until he went to another place, another job.

They swayed, soft and low in the dark. The war had taken so much from them both. Everything, and yet, they still lived. Somehow, this woman had seen such tragedy and kept going.

Beauty still existed, even among the trenches.

He rested his hand on her back, and held her as the victrola cracked, the song repeated. Her eyelashes tickled against his neck. "I can hear a heartbeat, you know. You say you don't have one, yet I can hear each sound."

"A coincidence, surely," he said. "I lost my heart with the war."

"Me too," she said. "And so many of us, it seems." She let out a sigh.

"Pretty soon you'll go out that door but...I gotta say, don't be a stranger, you hear?"

"I am nothing but, madame," he said.

"Maybe, maybe. But if you stayed a little longer, you wouldn't be. You want some tea, or some hot milk before it turns midnight?"

He could leave out a back door, go and let it be as if she had never entered his life at all.

Instead, he spoke. "A bit of tea would be very generous, madame."

"Chamomile okay?"

He sat in the dim light of the living room. She hummed in the kitchen as she fiddled with the tea pot.

It would be the best choice for both of them for him to leave right then, when he was nothing but a nameless stranger who had collided into her life in that moment. Still, he stayed a little longer.


*

He left before dawn, the rain still hadn't abated. He left the clothes he had borrowed neatly folded upon a chair as the only goodbye.

He stayed within the confines of this dingy little place. The salt scent filled the air, and bricks beneath his feet as he went back to that place. The states were filled with euphoria, and the world was filled with hope and celebration for the first time in a long time. The roar of the crowd dulled out. He slipped into a bar, to escape the noise. Even this late, the Americans still celebrated on.

This land was only borrowed, and would never be as dear to him as the streets of Paris. But, those shores were far away, and it would be some time until he returned.

Any decent murderer knew to not go back to the scene of the crime. Yet he haunted the corner of that bar, one that did not stock the wines he preferred and was nothing like his beloved Paris. He'd come in a different face, and masked his voice, until the accent was close, but not exact, to her own.

But she was there, and nothing mattered but that.

*

He wouldn't have to worry about money for a while. The briefcase full of cash was stocked away, he could buy the entire bar drinks for months and still have much to spare. The Italian mafia was rather generous, it seemed.

Spy sat with his back to the wall, and his cloak on as he took in the sights about him.

Drink after drink was served to the crowd. Her dark hair was pinned up, and her apron stained with cooking. Her blue dress fit her so well, it was like seeing a work of art placed in a dingy back room.

"Put that hand out again, O'Leary, and you'll lose it," she said.

The patrons laughed. All he could think was how his knife would fit so well into his hands. Maybe not a murder, but a few fingers, a small price to remind this lout of his hubris ever thinking that a woman like Colleen Dempsey could be his.

(But then, she wasn't his, either. Her heart belonged to a man buried within the earth.)

When the crowd thinned out, she stared right at him.

"Hello, stranger," she said. She smiled, mischief and wonder in her blue eyes. "Back so soon, Mister Ghost? I thought you went off to a better place. Maybe New York. Seems everyone's goin' out there. It's the curse of the Bambino, you know. Ever since they traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees, we ain't had a single win."

"Maybe you truly are a medium, Colleen Dempsey," she said.

"I got Irish blood. We know ghosts. Our families are full of them. Got whole branches missing from my family tree from the Potato Famine," she said.

It wasn't the alcohol, the euphoria, the peace, but something like a spark between them. He wanted to kiss her again, and feel the heat of her skin, the sparks of their two bodies coming near. Even as he knew it was hopeless, a fool's errand.

"You must be a medium, if you can see me so well," he said.

She laughed. "I recognize the scent of you. Nobody around here smokes the kind of cigarette you do. They're some kind of fancy foreign stuff. And your accent--it's not quite right. Oh, and I know all the regulars. Any outsiders really stand out. I told you that before, though."

He let out a low laugh. "I've done jobs against the Germans many a time; I did not expect the dregs of Boston to be most challenging assignment yet."

"People underestimate us. That's their problem. They think we're all gutter trash, but we're a hardy lot."

She pulled out a cigarette. He pulled out a lighter from his bag, quicker on the draw from any other man in this bar who would do anything to get even a smile from her.

"You goin' to walk me home again, Mister Ghost?"

"As long as I stay within this city, then I will keep you safe."

"So you really are my guardian angel, huh?"

"No one would ever mistake me for an angel, ma chérie."

"I don't know, I just might. But then, I'm a foolish type of girl. Oh--and I get off work in ten minutes."

He waited for her as she wiped down the last of the bar, and pulled on her slightly patched coat.

She pulled her scarf on a bit tighter and stepped out into the cold rain. Only a few drops even fell on her. The umbrella opened up, and droplets spilled out around them.

They walked together down that street.

"I'd ask you if you still had somethin' keepin' you here, but that's probably somethin' someone like you can't be talkin' about."

"You'd be right."

"Well, then, thanks for keepin' this old widow company."

She looked down the street. The water ran down the gutter in tiny rivers.

"I felt less lonely with you here."

He said nothing.

"I know, Mr. Ghost. You ain't gotta tell me. I'm just a sad widow in love with ghosts. That's how it's been for years, probably will be the rest of my life." She stared up at the sky as the raindrops fell to the earth around them.

"Thanks for walkin' me home."

"It is nothing, ma cherie."

"One day, you gotta tell me what that means," she said.

"One day," he said, knowing it would probably be a lie, and a promise he couldn't keep.

Long after she'd closed the door, he stayed there in the rain, with his umbrella up as if it were floating on nothing. To feel, to wish, to hope--all such a strange thing. It was as if her kiss had brought him back to life completely.

And yet, he would have to let this new life, this spring after winter go. He couldn't stay in Southie forever, hidden away, just to walk a widow home.

One day, he would leave. The only comfort is she was already too in love with the husband she'd buried to be too heartbroken at his loss.

*

He had walked her home nightly for weeks, watched over her shoulder at work. Idleness only gave way to thoughts, and a certain restless. He knew what was happening, as would an oracle.

That day as the last of her shift finished early, he found her coat left at the door and little else. He searched each room, with a definite increase of his heartbeat. he had found many bodies in his life, from the trenches

The sunset was red-gold across the water. At this height, the cobblestone paths, the decaying projects and the boats coming in from the dock could all be seen. The door had been left ajar, and he had come through. The view of the city he so detested was almost beautiful here.

Cigarette smoke rose up as she took a drag. A half-empty bottle was beside her as she leaned. Thoughtful and melancholy. In his native tongue, there was a saying: L'Appel du Vide, the call of the void.

She glanced up, and gave him the kind of smile that a man would kill for, that would cause a man to stay whatever it took.

"Don't worry, I ain't about to off myself. I got my boys, of course. I just like to come up here and be alone a bit. I never told anyone about this. Not my boss, not my boys, not even Jack."

He pulled out a cigarette from his case. "Obviously, I must work on my skills, if you can tell where I am so easily."

"I was just hopin' not to be alone, for once," she said.

"I was simply here to say goodbye."

She turned back, on a backdrop of almost-twilight. "You leavin' already? You ain't been here long. A month, at most."

She dropped her gaze. "Of course you are. I should've expected you'd have someone else to go. You wouldn't want Flannery's people after you."

"I hardly fear some group of gutter thugs," he said.

"Then what's got you spooked, Mister Ghost?"

He came closer. "Spooked? Hardly."

"Was this about yesterday? You seemed awful ticked off when that customer came in and was flirting with me after I'd taken out the drinks. Now, Mister Ghost, what you got to be jealous about? You've surely known more girls than you can even remember. You're a complete charmer, after all."

And men too, though he did not tell her this. He told her nothing of himself. The less she knew, the less chance she would be forced to bear witness against him.

And even then, he had no claim to her, no right to jealousy. The sheer knowledge of that drove him further, where he could return to contracts and wiping blood off his knife.

Where he could return to himself, or a lack thereof.

"Come now, one last dance," he said softly. "Right here. I owe you that much."

"Without even music?"

She reached out and took his hand. "On one condition. You let me see you for once."

"A dangerous request. Psyche asked the same of Eros."

"Did she win in the end, though?"

"You've never heard the tale?"

"I was raised Catholic. The nuns would never teach us somethin' like that. Wouldn't want us worshippin' false gods."

Psyche had, in the end. And so did Colleen Dempsey. Widow, and the one woman who caught him, as a moth to flame.

"Fine. I'll grant whatever you wish."

He pressed the button of his cloaking device. Clouds of smoke rose up from him. He did not, however, remove his mask.

A smile tugged at the corner of her ruby lips.

"Wow, you're even more tall than I figured. And quite handsome, too. Now, what about takin' off the mask too?"

"Some things are too much to ask," she said.

"Now, I thought you said you'd let me have whatever I wish?" she said playfully.

"No...some things must be left to heaven and hell in the end."

"Ah..so that's how it is..."

It always circled back to her ghost. Not even the stark reality, like cold water dumped over his senses, that here he was pursuing a widow with children. No matter how captivating, how beautiful or how she made him feel, that didn't change the facts.

But one last dance together, and he would force himself from this dirty city. Back to his native lands, to the rebuilding. Surely, some French lady or man could capture his attention, until she was nothing but a faint memory. A kiss on a rainy night, when the entire world was in celebration.

She was wrapped up in his arms as they swayed, a last gentle moment to remember.

"I didn't say then, but you're a wonderful dancer. The best I've ever danced with," Colleen said softly.

"Even better than him?"

"Even him," she said softly.

She was so close. And temptation was so deep. It would be so easy to lean in, and capture her lips. But, something within him had shifted after meeting her. He wouldn't break her heart, and to stay would only lead to heartbreak.

"You're a strange one, I ain't ever met the likes of you," she said. She took a draw on her cigarette. In the last lights of the city, anything seemed possible.

"I could say the same of you, ma chérie."

She laughed. "What a sweet talker. But what can I say, I like it."

She reached up to touch his lips once more. Her thumb across his lower lip. She smiled, slightly smudged lipstick, just a hint of tragedy in her gray eyes.

I should leave, he thought to himself. A siren, a warning sign. He'd promised her that he'd leave, yet dancing close like this made him want to bargain with death for a few more minutes with her. Right now, before I get in too deep, and cannot.

He would leave another time. There had been no attacks. Perhaps this time would be different. He had no need for money for some time.

Instead of drawing away, he kissed her deep with all the words he'd never said. He should've known that this wouldn't be goodbye.

He cupped her face. "Ah, ma chérie, what are you doing to me?"

"I certainly didn't expect it. I was just doin' my job one night, when damned Jimmy Flannery came in and was pawin' at me. May he rot in hell," she said.

She was the most unexpected storm in his life. Nothing could have prepared him for her, and the way his life would change at a single choice

"The answer to your question.... ma chérie means 'my darling.'"

"I haven't been anybody's darlin' in a long time," she said softly.

"You are now, for now."

The truth was she would always be his darling, even long after he had left her to yet again be a widow and continue waiting for a man who would never return from the war.

He leaned in for another kiss.

*

She rested near him, tangled up in sheets. He knew then, that he'd never fully leave this place. Even if he went out that door and left Boston, and never spoke to her again. He'd been dulled to the signs, love was little more than another tool in his disguise kit.

But it hadn't happened tonight. It'd been that first moment he'd seen her. Not quite love, but something so magnetic that something within him he thought lost was pulled free.

He rested his hand upon her shoulder, and kissed her one last time. Then, with a soft sigh, he got up and got dressed.


*

Southie wasn't to his taste. The salt-air, the close-knit community left little room. But he checked every close neighborhood, until the projects disappeared into brickwork and history. He eventually settled on a hotel which strode the line between the kind of luxury he preferred, and yet was cheap enough for him to stay several weeks without worrying too much of more jobs.

He should leave. Take the first flight out back to Paris. Yet her taste was on his lips, her name unsaid, and adored.
So, he took the Orange line down back to her. An utter foolish move, but then he was a fool.

When she opened the door, Colleen gave him the kind of look that could damn a man to hell.

"I should shut this door right in your face for what you did last night."

He held out a bouquet of roses. Not as fine as the ones from his country, but they would have to do.

She lifted the rose up, and buried her face against the red petals.

"It's rude to leave a lady without even sayin' goodbye, right up in the mornin' like what happened was nothin'," she said.

"Not even when to bring you this?" He held up roses bought on the way there. Cheaper than she deserved, but he'd never give her even half of what a woman like her deserved.

"I'll think about forgivin' you," she said.

"...I rented a room a ways away. Outside of Southie, but still close. That was why I left. To find myself a place to stay and to return you. And to bring flowers."

"You think it's safe?"

"For now," he said.

"So, you're saying... you ain't leavin'?"

At his silence, she said, "For now, then."

"I can't ask anythin' more."

And there were so many things he wanted to say. I can't be him, but I can make you smile, at least for a while or I have never felt anything like this, and even now I cannot bring myself to leave like I should be.

Instead, he memorized the way her face looked framed by the red rose petals, for the day when memories would be all he had.