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Jul. 31st, 2020 12:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Aftershave
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Spy/Scoutma,
Rating: pg13
Word count: 1,874
Author's note: Part of Loving Ghosts. For Sarah.
1962.
He started to smoke when he was young, as many others did back then, in Paris. But now it was a way to keep people at a distance. An excuse to sit on balconies and watch the twilight come.
A place to put his fingers, a calm in the storm.
An excuse to delay goodbyes, something to do with his hands in the pause between conversation. He'd had many goodbyes in his life, and hers. He came and went. Many times he had told himself this was the last goodbye, and last kiss between them.
Now, he knew better. Such thoughts would be foolish. No matter what the cost, he could never bring himself to stay away for long.
He asked nothing of her. Not commitment, though he'd never strayed. To him, his adoration of her was until death do us part, and not merely the constant purgatory of his work, but that true, final death that he would someday surely know.
Ever since he'd met her, no other had even drawn his eye. She in turn asked little--far too little. Far less than she deserved.
She was so forgiving. She'd born him a son, and raised him alone.
Well, almost alone. He had been there at the edges, offering unseen gifts.
It wasn't enough. It never was. But this was all he could give.
The smoke rose up through the open window. A chilly breeze flooded through, capturing the curtains in that moment. She came closer to him, deep in the moonlight. "Mr. Ghost, you comin' back in, or you have to go already?"
He stubbed out the cigarette and let the ashes fall to the cracked pavement below. Her robe was filmy, a gift from him from an overseas mission. She reached up and traced over his mask. He hadn't had a chance to shave during the long flight. "Oh, sweetie. You probably look like a wild man underneath there."
He smiled. "I am."
She leaned in to kiss his forehead. "I rather like it. It's pretty sexy. Though I'm goin' to have some serious beard-burn when this is all over."
"We can't have that, now can we?"
He gently, even reverently handed her the knife. His constant companion, and only ally. "Go on, ma amour. With all your sons, I'm sure you know how."
And Jack, of course. The one she loved before him. But he never said his name aloud, not if he could help it. He wasn't a superstitious person by nature, but she was a haunted enough woman already.
She glanced down to his palm. "You'd use your beloved knife for this?"
"Desperate times, desperate measures," he said.
"Don't blame me if it ends up dull and you have to sharpen it, though," she said.
"Ma amour, I would blame you for nothing, but stealing my heart," he said softly.
She smiled. "Charmer."
She left momentarily to get supplies from the bathroom, and returned with old shaving implements. A brush that had been passed down for years. In the handle was burned innitials of some ancestor.
"You still want me to use your knife?"
"I'd let no one else use it, let alone touch it. Well, almost no one else."
She lifted her eyebrows.
"A child where I worked once got close."
"A child, huh?"
"A daughter of the boss," he said.
"I hope she isn't gettin' into trouble. Is she a little thing?"
"Quite petite."
Colleen clicked her tongue. "Hopefully she ain't gettin' underfoot. Because we both know you ain't a baker."
"Despite everything, she's quite strong and reslient," he said.
Colleen hummed while she worked. He'd never let another person bring something sharp this close to his throat before. Slit their throats before they slit his.
He wouldn't peel up his mask for anyone else. Even if it wasn't taken off entirely. The less she knew of him, the less that could be extracted from her at gunpoint, after all.
"There was still some left in the bathroom. Of his, I mean," she said.
And he didn't have to ask who the he was, for it always came back to the man she loved first. The one who broke her heart before he did. Except he died a hero, and Spy would never be a hero, not even in death.
Every muscle that had been tensed in the past days began to slowly relax. Strands fell down, and he wondered at the song she had stuck in her head. She didn't even nick him once, even as she came over the delicate skin of his neck.
Though if anyone had the right to slit his throat, she did. But, she was merciful, and far too kind for him. The cold steel brushed against his neck over and over.
She kissed his jaw, his cheek, then his mouth faintly. "There, all smooth." She breathed in deep the scent of aftershave, which must be nostalgic in many ways.
Not for the first time, he felt a certain twinge past the momentary calm. He'd never fill the lack that Jack left, and he didn't try. Her hands lingered at his jaw, and he wondered who it was she missed, her husband or him, who would be gone before dawn?
She brushed away any remaining hairs with the antique brush, and rubbed old aftershave across his jaw.
He brushed his newly shaved skin when it was over, and pulled his mask back down.
"You did well, ma amour."
"Well, I got plenty of boys. I had to be the one to teach them how to shave."
She laughed low at a memory. "Liam's so jealous. He's too young to grow any hair. If he's anything like Finny, he'll have a babyface all his life. He tried to 'shave' and went and cut up his chin and was bawlin' and swearin' up a storm. He was so upset. I barely had the heart to punish him for that. The boys got to laughin' so much, it was punishment enough. He's got a dozen new nicknames just from that one stunt."
Her smile disappeared.
"Hopefully he ain't like Finny. We never know if Finny ever would've gone gray, or grown a beard," she said softly.
Amid the memories was the pang that it was another moment he had missed. One of many, to be sure.
"I certainly hope so," he said. And it sounded as if it was a pleasantry. A person he'd passed along the way, a casual aquaitaince. Not his only son.
"You have my eternal thanks for such a gift," he said.
"For just a good, clean shave? I'd be glad to, sweetheart. It's the least I can give you. I know it ain't like some fancy place, but it should be good enough," she said.
He put his arm about her, and pulled her close. For the clock was ticking, and even this distance was too much. She rested her head against his shoulder, just as the Perry Como song they'd danced to, once.
"You know, I can't help but think that life is just something you have to snap up before it's gone. Something as insignificant as a shave and one day, even that's gone and you miss it. It's the mundane stuff that really hurts when you lose someone. When you remember all the grocery trips, Sundays at church, goin' to Fenway..."
She'd known far too much sadness in her life. And unfortunately, he'd only added to it.
She brushed her fingers gently over an old scar at his neck. He'd survived a wound which would kill many more, and killed the man that tried.
Her nightgown had ridden up, to reveal her thigh and bare hips. She had a number of white lines across her stomach, spread out like his own scars. After noticing his gaze, she chuckled. "Eight kids will do that to a woman."
"You're beautiful," he said. "And so are your scars."
"Aren't you the sweet talker," she said.
"It's the truth, ma amour."
"Ah, I don't mind. All men are liars, you just make a career out of it. Besides, your voice is relaxing. Just don't go far and make promises about the future, because we both know that there ain't gonna be forever for any of us. If we're lucky, there'll be a heaven. If not, you gotta take what happiness you can get."
She cupped his face tenderly like he hadn't felt in years. "Tomorrow is promised to no one," he said softly.
"Then, Carpe Diem, Mister Ghost. Make me feel alive for a little while."
His fingers ran through her faintly damp dark hair.
"It would be quite rude to refuse a lady's request," he said softly.
And then, he said nothing more at all, for his lips were far too busy.
*
He did not talk of the time spent away. There would be enough time later to regret. He simply basked in her presence. The scent of her Taboo, with a hint of vanilla and spice. She'd been baking again. She left him cupcakes after he'd come to her at midnight, even later.
He'd always take one last glance to the bedroom of his son, curled up in bed. The apartment was too small, they had to share rooms. No longer did Spy sing him French lullabies. Dirty socks on the floor, with used sports magazines in a pile. His baseball bat leaned against the wall, slightly cracked.
Liam had grown so much during that time. He was almost as tall as Spy himself.
The blanket had fallen down to about Liam's stomach. With careful steps, not to wake up Colleen's other sons, Spy bent down and pulled the blanket up. Liam let out a murmur in his sleep and shifted. His hair was mussed with sleep.
Spy dared to reach out and pat him on the head, something he could only due under the guise of someone else's life.
In another life, he'd have a boring office job and come home to his beautiful wife and energetic son, and his many stepsons. In another life, he wouldn't drink himself to sleep wondering if this would be the night he was beset by assassins, that he lost this game of life.
He'd have to take a red-eye flight back to New Mexico. It was quite an effort to even find a way back to here. And every single time he expected to find her married to someone else. Somehow, she always proved that fear wrong.
He knew that in any room, all eyes would be upon her the moment she entered. That a thousand men (and many women too) would kill to love a woman such as her. But somehow, he had crossed her path and they'd grown entangled.
What was a semi-drunken late flight in the face of this? He could drink coffee to take the hangover, or it would simply disappear with temporary death, as all things did in battle.
Whatever the cost, he would pay it to be close to her, if only for a moment.
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Spy/Scoutma,
Rating: pg13
Word count: 1,874
Author's note: Part of Loving Ghosts. For Sarah.
1962.
He started to smoke when he was young, as many others did back then, in Paris. But now it was a way to keep people at a distance. An excuse to sit on balconies and watch the twilight come.
A place to put his fingers, a calm in the storm.
An excuse to delay goodbyes, something to do with his hands in the pause between conversation. He'd had many goodbyes in his life, and hers. He came and went. Many times he had told himself this was the last goodbye, and last kiss between them.
Now, he knew better. Such thoughts would be foolish. No matter what the cost, he could never bring himself to stay away for long.
He asked nothing of her. Not commitment, though he'd never strayed. To him, his adoration of her was until death do us part, and not merely the constant purgatory of his work, but that true, final death that he would someday surely know.
Ever since he'd met her, no other had even drawn his eye. She in turn asked little--far too little. Far less than she deserved.
She was so forgiving. She'd born him a son, and raised him alone.
Well, almost alone. He had been there at the edges, offering unseen gifts.
It wasn't enough. It never was. But this was all he could give.
The smoke rose up through the open window. A chilly breeze flooded through, capturing the curtains in that moment. She came closer to him, deep in the moonlight. "Mr. Ghost, you comin' back in, or you have to go already?"
He stubbed out the cigarette and let the ashes fall to the cracked pavement below. Her robe was filmy, a gift from him from an overseas mission. She reached up and traced over his mask. He hadn't had a chance to shave during the long flight. "Oh, sweetie. You probably look like a wild man underneath there."
He smiled. "I am."
She leaned in to kiss his forehead. "I rather like it. It's pretty sexy. Though I'm goin' to have some serious beard-burn when this is all over."
"We can't have that, now can we?"
He gently, even reverently handed her the knife. His constant companion, and only ally. "Go on, ma amour. With all your sons, I'm sure you know how."
And Jack, of course. The one she loved before him. But he never said his name aloud, not if he could help it. He wasn't a superstitious person by nature, but she was a haunted enough woman already.
She glanced down to his palm. "You'd use your beloved knife for this?"
"Desperate times, desperate measures," he said.
"Don't blame me if it ends up dull and you have to sharpen it, though," she said.
"Ma amour, I would blame you for nothing, but stealing my heart," he said softly.
She smiled. "Charmer."
She left momentarily to get supplies from the bathroom, and returned with old shaving implements. A brush that had been passed down for years. In the handle was burned innitials of some ancestor.
"You still want me to use your knife?"
"I'd let no one else use it, let alone touch it. Well, almost no one else."
She lifted her eyebrows.
"A child where I worked once got close."
"A child, huh?"
"A daughter of the boss," he said.
"I hope she isn't gettin' into trouble. Is she a little thing?"
"Quite petite."
Colleen clicked her tongue. "Hopefully she ain't gettin' underfoot. Because we both know you ain't a baker."
"Despite everything, she's quite strong and reslient," he said.
Colleen hummed while she worked. He'd never let another person bring something sharp this close to his throat before. Slit their throats before they slit his.
He wouldn't peel up his mask for anyone else. Even if it wasn't taken off entirely. The less she knew of him, the less that could be extracted from her at gunpoint, after all.
"There was still some left in the bathroom. Of his, I mean," she said.
And he didn't have to ask who the he was, for it always came back to the man she loved first. The one who broke her heart before he did. Except he died a hero, and Spy would never be a hero, not even in death.
Every muscle that had been tensed in the past days began to slowly relax. Strands fell down, and he wondered at the song she had stuck in her head. She didn't even nick him once, even as she came over the delicate skin of his neck.
Though if anyone had the right to slit his throat, she did. But, she was merciful, and far too kind for him. The cold steel brushed against his neck over and over.
She kissed his jaw, his cheek, then his mouth faintly. "There, all smooth." She breathed in deep the scent of aftershave, which must be nostalgic in many ways.
Not for the first time, he felt a certain twinge past the momentary calm. He'd never fill the lack that Jack left, and he didn't try. Her hands lingered at his jaw, and he wondered who it was she missed, her husband or him, who would be gone before dawn?
She brushed away any remaining hairs with the antique brush, and rubbed old aftershave across his jaw.
He brushed his newly shaved skin when it was over, and pulled his mask back down.
"You did well, ma amour."
"Well, I got plenty of boys. I had to be the one to teach them how to shave."
She laughed low at a memory. "Liam's so jealous. He's too young to grow any hair. If he's anything like Finny, he'll have a babyface all his life. He tried to 'shave' and went and cut up his chin and was bawlin' and swearin' up a storm. He was so upset. I barely had the heart to punish him for that. The boys got to laughin' so much, it was punishment enough. He's got a dozen new nicknames just from that one stunt."
Her smile disappeared.
"Hopefully he ain't like Finny. We never know if Finny ever would've gone gray, or grown a beard," she said softly.
Amid the memories was the pang that it was another moment he had missed. One of many, to be sure.
"I certainly hope so," he said. And it sounded as if it was a pleasantry. A person he'd passed along the way, a casual aquaitaince. Not his only son.
"You have my eternal thanks for such a gift," he said.
"For just a good, clean shave? I'd be glad to, sweetheart. It's the least I can give you. I know it ain't like some fancy place, but it should be good enough," she said.
He put his arm about her, and pulled her close. For the clock was ticking, and even this distance was too much. She rested her head against his shoulder, just as the Perry Como song they'd danced to, once.
"You know, I can't help but think that life is just something you have to snap up before it's gone. Something as insignificant as a shave and one day, even that's gone and you miss it. It's the mundane stuff that really hurts when you lose someone. When you remember all the grocery trips, Sundays at church, goin' to Fenway..."
She'd known far too much sadness in her life. And unfortunately, he'd only added to it.
She brushed her fingers gently over an old scar at his neck. He'd survived a wound which would kill many more, and killed the man that tried.
Her nightgown had ridden up, to reveal her thigh and bare hips. She had a number of white lines across her stomach, spread out like his own scars. After noticing his gaze, she chuckled. "Eight kids will do that to a woman."
"You're beautiful," he said. "And so are your scars."
"Aren't you the sweet talker," she said.
"It's the truth, ma amour."
"Ah, I don't mind. All men are liars, you just make a career out of it. Besides, your voice is relaxing. Just don't go far and make promises about the future, because we both know that there ain't gonna be forever for any of us. If we're lucky, there'll be a heaven. If not, you gotta take what happiness you can get."
She cupped his face tenderly like he hadn't felt in years. "Tomorrow is promised to no one," he said softly.
"Then, Carpe Diem, Mister Ghost. Make me feel alive for a little while."
His fingers ran through her faintly damp dark hair.
"It would be quite rude to refuse a lady's request," he said softly.
And then, he said nothing more at all, for his lips were far too busy.
*
He did not talk of the time spent away. There would be enough time later to regret. He simply basked in her presence. The scent of her Taboo, with a hint of vanilla and spice. She'd been baking again. She left him cupcakes after he'd come to her at midnight, even later.
He'd always take one last glance to the bedroom of his son, curled up in bed. The apartment was too small, they had to share rooms. No longer did Spy sing him French lullabies. Dirty socks on the floor, with used sports magazines in a pile. His baseball bat leaned against the wall, slightly cracked.
Liam had grown so much during that time. He was almost as tall as Spy himself.
The blanket had fallen down to about Liam's stomach. With careful steps, not to wake up Colleen's other sons, Spy bent down and pulled the blanket up. Liam let out a murmur in his sleep and shifted. His hair was mussed with sleep.
Spy dared to reach out and pat him on the head, something he could only due under the guise of someone else's life.
In another life, he'd have a boring office job and come home to his beautiful wife and energetic son, and his many stepsons. In another life, he wouldn't drink himself to sleep wondering if this would be the night he was beset by assassins, that he lost this game of life.
He'd have to take a red-eye flight back to New Mexico. It was quite an effort to even find a way back to here. And every single time he expected to find her married to someone else. Somehow, she always proved that fear wrong.
He knew that in any room, all eyes would be upon her the moment she entered. That a thousand men (and many women too) would kill to love a woman such as her. But somehow, he had crossed her path and they'd grown entangled.
What was a semi-drunken late flight in the face of this? He could drink coffee to take the hangover, or it would simply disappear with temporary death, as all things did in battle.
Whatever the cost, he would pay it to be close to her, if only for a moment.
