fic: Rust and Blood
Feb. 27th, 2020 11:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Rust and Blood
Series: Team Fortress 2
Character/pairing: Spy, Miss Pauling
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,649
Author's note: according to Old Wounds, Miss Pauling says she's "worked for the Administrator for her entire life." Part of Loving Ghosts. Comes after I'm Wild Again, Beguiled Again. Precedes Playing House. Last Call, Trace Did You Have to Let It Linger? and Haunted and The Ghost Family, In A Flash.
cw: canon typical blood and gore mentioned. maybe cw: child abuse? P's basically forced to be a child soldier here, that doesn't exactly count as good parenting.
For Sarah.
1952.
She clutched the knife tighter as he opened the door to the kitchen shared by every worker there. The room was dingy and dark, often with dirty leftover dishes which gathered flies left in heaps on the counters. A bare light bulb swung from the ceiling.
Blood had soaked her purple dress, and stained her cheeks. A bruise had formed upon her wrist and arms. Her hair had come undone, and was tangled at her neck.
"Ma petit--What happened?"
"I did what I was told," she said. She poured water over the knife. Muddy, rust colored water sunk down the drain.
"No, no, ma petit. You will make it rust."
She gave him a wary look.
"We are on the same side, you could call me your ally."
"I'm on nobody's side but the Administrator," she said.
"I work for the Administrator. Thus, we are on the same side."
She had no answer to that. He slowly came closer, step by step, as one to a wary feral animal.
He removed a bit of healing gel that the mad doctor had made from the counter. When left to their own devises, more often than not, cooking turned into knife fights in this barbaric place. Thus, the doctor had helped engineer a salve, likely filled with radiation that was killing them slowly.
"You cut your hands," he said softly.
They'd been haphazardly bandaged, and stained with red.
"Still learning to wield a knife?"
"I don't usually use them," she said.
"Hmmmm."
He removed his handkerchief from his inner pocket and held it out. She didn't reach out, even though she had to be in some pain. There were trails through the blood at her face that showed she must've cried at some point, until there were no tears left.
"I am not your enemy, ma petit. At least, not now. I would not harm a child, even if I were ordered to."
She allowed him to remove her glasses, which were a bit too large, and kept falling down her nose. He wiped the blood from her face.
"It's not mine," she said.
"I can see that. You must've hit an artery to be splashed with so much."
Though, he could not figure the angle. Had she gotten someone in the neck? He noticed now bruises at her neck, hand print bruises. Whoever she'd killed hadn't gone down without a fight.
She tensed as he removed his knife.
"Shh, it's okay. I'm just cutting free your bandages."
There was quite a deep cut there. She must have gripped the blade by accident--or were these defensive wounds? In this light, it was hard to tell. The wounds healed instantly, and turned to scars over her small palms.
Merde, what was this child even forced to do? Every day more innocence left her green eyes.
"There," he said. "Next time, try and use the handle."
"I wasn't the one holding it," she said softly.
Then, it'd been defensive wounds upon her little hands after all. A child shouldn't know such horrors. But, many had in the war.
But, he'd traded one war for another. And there was no victory to be had here. Just an endlessly war over gravel.
"Taking care of your weapons is imperative," he said.
He pulled out a small, portable bit of rubbing alcohol. "Hand it over. I'll help you clean it. Water will make it rust."
She allowed him to take the blade, though there was a second he recognized, as a fellow killer. The twitch towards another hidden weapon in the face of danger.
It didn't matter how much kindness, she would always be wary. Smart girl. No one was to be trusted in this place.
He poured the rubbing alcohol over the blade and the last traces of blood fell to the sink in droplets.
He clicked his tongue. "It's gone dull. I'm surprised you could make such a cut with this."
He removed a small whetstone.
"It isn't my knife," she said.
He worked the whetstone over the edges of the knife. "It's your knife now. Its owner has no use for it no?"
He continued on as he sharpened the knife.
"Your weapon is your one trusted companion, your only friend upon the battlefield. Treat them well and they will not betray you."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Did I need a reason?"
She gave him a blatantly suspicious look, in the way only a child could. "The Administrator says that nobody ever does anything without a reason."
She was just a child and nearly the same age as Liam. As much as he would like to take her from here, to somewhere where she wasn't used as a pawn, a child soldier, it was impossible. The Administrator would hunt him down no matter where, destroy his family, and take her back. And this girl would bite and claw, and likely injure, if not kill him, to get her back.
They were both trapped here, weren't they? Him in a deal with the devil to save his family and her raised by the very devil herself. Prometheus stole fire from the gods and for his help, he was left for eagles to feast upon his organs. Spy, too, had found that immortality was its own kind of hell. He had known every kind of horrendously painful death there was, only to return moments later to die again and again and again.
But she, she was too young for such a hellish world. She should be a girl fascinated with horses or little facts, asking why is the sky blue until she terribly annoyed her parents with such constant questions. Parents who would continue to adore her all the same. She should be skipping rope and playing tag with children her own age, not learning how to care for a weapon, and how to avoid death.
"Chalk it up to me being an old sentimental fool, who isn't without his weaknesses. I'm not quite so heartless that I can sit idly by while a child is hurt."
He hadn't been there to bandage Liam's scraped knees, to kiss his boo-boos or tell him the nightmares wouldn't hurt him, and were just dreams, nothing more.
He couldn't atone for that. He would only be able to see his family as an observer. He would leave presents, money, even more. But it couldn't make up for every moment Liam grew up without him there.
"Here," he said softly, "You hold your knife like this. Not too tight, now. Aim for the back next time. Right beneath the ribs. Then, you twist."
She stabbed at the air. She watched him with intense interest. He remembered the times he had taught Liam multiplication--or tried, at least. He didn't seem to have much of a mind for figures. He loved to draw, though.
The same old ache returned, he pushed it aside. He could spend his night with his wine, and that same old grief, that any man such as him would ever think that a happiness like that could be his for long. He had snippets of heaven in odd moments when he could leave the base and catch a flight out.
Every time he came back, Liam had grown further. Soon, he would have no use for French ghosts that taught him figures.
She closed her hand as if there was a knife there and took a stab, with surprising viciousness. There was a certain light in her green eyes that reminded him of the Administrator.
Here she was in her little blood-stained dress, already a killer.
"Good," he said. It very well could be the only compliment she'd received. The Administrator was a harsh mistress, and likely the closest thing she had to a mother, if not her true mother. As hard as it was to imagine the Administrator as anything nearing maternal.
Perhaps Pauling was a clone, or distant relative of her bloodline. He did not know the intricacies of Respawn. For all he knew, she was raised up to give not only service to the Administrator, but organs as well when the old woman inevitably needed them.
Regardless, Pauling was fiercely loyal even as the Administrator was cold, and used her as a pawn.
And there was nothing he could say or do to change that. The best he could do teach her how to properly wield a weapon, and keep her alive a little longer.
*
When he returned home that night, he knew she had been there. She was talented, yet still careless in that way only children could be. She had only borrowed his precious treasures, though. He recognized the signs. New pictures had been photocopied, all of Liam. Spy could only hope this was her own capriciousness and not an order of the Administrator, and that that him allowing her this one weakness wouldn't one day end up with his family blackmailed, or worse.
Then again, perhaps she would fight the will of the Administrator. Perhaps she would be an ally to keep his family safe.
He could only hope.
Series: Team Fortress 2
Character/pairing: Spy, Miss Pauling
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,649
Author's note: according to Old Wounds, Miss Pauling says she's "worked for the Administrator for her entire life." Part of Loving Ghosts. Comes after I'm Wild Again, Beguiled Again. Precedes Playing House. Last Call, Trace Did You Have to Let It Linger? and Haunted and The Ghost Family, In A Flash.
cw: canon typical blood and gore mentioned. maybe cw: child abuse? P's basically forced to be a child soldier here, that doesn't exactly count as good parenting.
For Sarah.
1952.
She clutched the knife tighter as he opened the door to the kitchen shared by every worker there. The room was dingy and dark, often with dirty leftover dishes which gathered flies left in heaps on the counters. A bare light bulb swung from the ceiling.
Blood had soaked her purple dress, and stained her cheeks. A bruise had formed upon her wrist and arms. Her hair had come undone, and was tangled at her neck.
"Ma petit--What happened?"
"I did what I was told," she said. She poured water over the knife. Muddy, rust colored water sunk down the drain.
"No, no, ma petit. You will make it rust."
She gave him a wary look.
"We are on the same side, you could call me your ally."
"I'm on nobody's side but the Administrator," she said.
"I work for the Administrator. Thus, we are on the same side."
She had no answer to that. He slowly came closer, step by step, as one to a wary feral animal.
He removed a bit of healing gel that the mad doctor had made from the counter. When left to their own devises, more often than not, cooking turned into knife fights in this barbaric place. Thus, the doctor had helped engineer a salve, likely filled with radiation that was killing them slowly.
"You cut your hands," he said softly.
They'd been haphazardly bandaged, and stained with red.
"Still learning to wield a knife?"
"I don't usually use them," she said.
"Hmmmm."
He removed his handkerchief from his inner pocket and held it out. She didn't reach out, even though she had to be in some pain. There were trails through the blood at her face that showed she must've cried at some point, until there were no tears left.
"I am not your enemy, ma petit. At least, not now. I would not harm a child, even if I were ordered to."
She allowed him to remove her glasses, which were a bit too large, and kept falling down her nose. He wiped the blood from her face.
"It's not mine," she said.
"I can see that. You must've hit an artery to be splashed with so much."
Though, he could not figure the angle. Had she gotten someone in the neck? He noticed now bruises at her neck, hand print bruises. Whoever she'd killed hadn't gone down without a fight.
She tensed as he removed his knife.
"Shh, it's okay. I'm just cutting free your bandages."
There was quite a deep cut there. She must have gripped the blade by accident--or were these defensive wounds? In this light, it was hard to tell. The wounds healed instantly, and turned to scars over her small palms.
Merde, what was this child even forced to do? Every day more innocence left her green eyes.
"There," he said. "Next time, try and use the handle."
"I wasn't the one holding it," she said softly.
Then, it'd been defensive wounds upon her little hands after all. A child shouldn't know such horrors. But, many had in the war.
But, he'd traded one war for another. And there was no victory to be had here. Just an endlessly war over gravel.
"Taking care of your weapons is imperative," he said.
He pulled out a small, portable bit of rubbing alcohol. "Hand it over. I'll help you clean it. Water will make it rust."
She allowed him to take the blade, though there was a second he recognized, as a fellow killer. The twitch towards another hidden weapon in the face of danger.
It didn't matter how much kindness, she would always be wary. Smart girl. No one was to be trusted in this place.
He poured the rubbing alcohol over the blade and the last traces of blood fell to the sink in droplets.
He clicked his tongue. "It's gone dull. I'm surprised you could make such a cut with this."
He removed a small whetstone.
"It isn't my knife," she said.
He worked the whetstone over the edges of the knife. "It's your knife now. Its owner has no use for it no?"
He continued on as he sharpened the knife.
"Your weapon is your one trusted companion, your only friend upon the battlefield. Treat them well and they will not betray you."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Did I need a reason?"
She gave him a blatantly suspicious look, in the way only a child could. "The Administrator says that nobody ever does anything without a reason."
She was just a child and nearly the same age as Liam. As much as he would like to take her from here, to somewhere where she wasn't used as a pawn, a child soldier, it was impossible. The Administrator would hunt him down no matter where, destroy his family, and take her back. And this girl would bite and claw, and likely injure, if not kill him, to get her back.
They were both trapped here, weren't they? Him in a deal with the devil to save his family and her raised by the very devil herself. Prometheus stole fire from the gods and for his help, he was left for eagles to feast upon his organs. Spy, too, had found that immortality was its own kind of hell. He had known every kind of horrendously painful death there was, only to return moments later to die again and again and again.
But she, she was too young for such a hellish world. She should be a girl fascinated with horses or little facts, asking why is the sky blue until she terribly annoyed her parents with such constant questions. Parents who would continue to adore her all the same. She should be skipping rope and playing tag with children her own age, not learning how to care for a weapon, and how to avoid death.
"Chalk it up to me being an old sentimental fool, who isn't without his weaknesses. I'm not quite so heartless that I can sit idly by while a child is hurt."
He hadn't been there to bandage Liam's scraped knees, to kiss his boo-boos or tell him the nightmares wouldn't hurt him, and were just dreams, nothing more.
He couldn't atone for that. He would only be able to see his family as an observer. He would leave presents, money, even more. But it couldn't make up for every moment Liam grew up without him there.
"Here," he said softly, "You hold your knife like this. Not too tight, now. Aim for the back next time. Right beneath the ribs. Then, you twist."
She stabbed at the air. She watched him with intense interest. He remembered the times he had taught Liam multiplication--or tried, at least. He didn't seem to have much of a mind for figures. He loved to draw, though.
The same old ache returned, he pushed it aside. He could spend his night with his wine, and that same old grief, that any man such as him would ever think that a happiness like that could be his for long. He had snippets of heaven in odd moments when he could leave the base and catch a flight out.
Every time he came back, Liam had grown further. Soon, he would have no use for French ghosts that taught him figures.
She closed her hand as if there was a knife there and took a stab, with surprising viciousness. There was a certain light in her green eyes that reminded him of the Administrator.
Here she was in her little blood-stained dress, already a killer.
"Good," he said. It very well could be the only compliment she'd received. The Administrator was a harsh mistress, and likely the closest thing she had to a mother, if not her true mother. As hard as it was to imagine the Administrator as anything nearing maternal.
Perhaps Pauling was a clone, or distant relative of her bloodline. He did not know the intricacies of Respawn. For all he knew, she was raised up to give not only service to the Administrator, but organs as well when the old woman inevitably needed them.
Regardless, Pauling was fiercely loyal even as the Administrator was cold, and used her as a pawn.
And there was nothing he could say or do to change that. The best he could do teach her how to properly wield a weapon, and keep her alive a little longer.
*
When he returned home that night, he knew she had been there. She was talented, yet still careless in that way only children could be. She had only borrowed his precious treasures, though. He recognized the signs. New pictures had been photocopied, all of Liam. Spy could only hope this was her own capriciousness and not an order of the Administrator, and that that him allowing her this one weakness wouldn't one day end up with his family blackmailed, or worse.
Then again, perhaps she would fight the will of the Administrator. Perhaps she would be an ally to keep his family safe.
He could only hope.
