fic: Awake
Sep. 2nd, 2020 10:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Awake
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Spy/Scout's mother
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,345
Author's note: Part of Loving Ghosts. This particular bit takes place before Do You Have To Let It Linger?
For Sarah.
1946.
She wore a hat with a black veil, and a dark dress that came to her knees, yet even in mourning, she showed effortless class and elegance. She bowed her head in prayer at the tombstone. Rain pelted down, just as the day they had met. That chance meeting, both bitter and sweet in his memory.
(If he'd stepped away in that moment, would he have been able to step right out of her life? Would she be just another beautiful stranger and not the wife he could never have, the mother of his child, and the one person who had stayed in his heart, no matter how hard he tried to exise her from his life?)
Colleen had been to many memorials in her life. Perhaps even more than he knew. Several members of her family had died young. Somehow, she still believed in a God, when she had lost so much. Her brother at such a young age, her husband overseas, her mother at a young age, and three children lost to miscarriages. Her family tree was withered with famine, and unmarked graves overseas.
She bent down, and the umbrella started to fall from her grip. In that moment, he steadied it. She glanced back.
"Are you there?" She said softly.
An elderly mourner leaned in. "What is it, dear?"
She shook her head. "It's nothin'...."
She forced a smile. "I just thought someone tapped me on the shoulder, that's all."
Just the sound of her voice left him with a deep ache. For a moment, he thought she'd seen him between the raindrops. The rain affected the invisibility, until he was almost perceptible to the human eye. But, he said nothing, and she turned. Moved on.
The procession moved on. Spy watched as she disappeared into the church.
He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a flask. Mere wine wasn't enough these days. As sensual and wonderful a love he had with wine, it didn't make him nearly drunk enough to get through the day. He took a drink that burned all the way down. It did nothing to stem the pain.
He kept torturing himself, even though he knew this could go nowhere. He expected that moment, to see her in another's arm so he could let go. Even as the mere thought left him with a more intense pain than he could even vocalize. He would never replace the love she had, he would never be able to give her a family life, happy and idyllic. No matter how much he wanted to.
But, oh, how they were caught in this dance together.
He should leave, he told himself for yet another time. He'd lost count of the times he'd told himself to let go. In the end, the times only made him cling tighter to her memory.
(He'd gone to the bars to find someone to fill the ache within him, and found many handsome men and lovely women and none of them even compared to her.
It wasn't long before he stopped even trying.)
He should, he should, he should've left that first time before it got this far.
He ducked under the threshold, and what a surprise that he didn't turn into ash, or leave a path of flames in this holy place.
It was so familiar, the bowed heads, the pews and lines of black-clad parishoners. The air of reverence and sadness was nostalgic, though the structure was lacking.None so great as the churches he'd been through, at least those still left standing from the war.
(At least, when he was dragged there. Even back then, as a teen, he'd been a bit of a heathan.)
He turned to leave, but the closest he got was outside the door. Like a magnetic force, she pulled him back. Even to someone else's funeral.
He'd written a thousand or more letters and burned them all. None of them could distill the longing or discontent. Perhaps he wasn't a man of love letters.
Better not to leave a trail.
Somehow he'd ended up here, at a stranger's funeral. Full of unsaid words and a new pain that wouldn't heal.
What did you think? That the situation would change simply because you took a flight all the way out here? That you could write an apology that would change what happened?
Even as he knew the answer, he kept wanting to ask the question until there was another answer. If he'd drew a Tarot, he'd find the Devil card with the Voice's piercing gaze, reminding him who owned him now.
*
He entered the church after the last ceremony. His footsteps echoed in the empty room. Faint light filtered through the stained glass.
He stared down at the closed coffin.
He'd been presumed dead, with no one to bury him. His name and all humanity had been left in the conquered Paris. He'd clawed through, and Paris was free now. But he would never have that kind of hope, that kind of innocence again.
This would be the only time he'd be this close to her. Never at her side down the aisle, never sitting side by side and listening to the Christmas mass. There wouldn't even be a person left for her to marry. His name lost overseas long ago.
And she had one lost husband, she deserved more than a nameless killer. Someone who could never be beside her for long, no matter how much he longed to be.
Time off was precious and few, and he'd wasted it, reopening a scar. He could've been followed, he could've led them right to her.
But, alcohol and chainsmoking didn't stop the ache of the lack of her. He found himself returning, again and again, unable to move on. And the thought would not leave him: do you miss me, too?
He caught sight of her knelt alone in a pew. Her fingers moved over the rosary, and her ruby red lips mouthed a prayer. Even he remembered the words. Time and war had not stolen that, not when the nuns had beat it into him again and again.
She looked so pure, so elegant and beautiful, like the portrait of a saint as she looked up to the light from the stained glass windows.
Look at you. You're pathetic. Day drinking and unable to let go. You belong in the gutter.
He almost spoke to her, he almost said the words aloud that she felt like a need, not a want. Like he had jumped into the depths and every moment without her, he drowned a little more. He almost said the words that he must truly love her, the way one loved water, loved the breath that nourished their lungs.
But, in the end, he was nothing more a backstabber in a designer suit. If he had any morals at all, he would walk away and let her find some semblance of happiness. He would allow her to hate him, be her villain so she could find someone who would be who she deserved.
Not a murderer with bloodstained hands, not a man who no longer existed.
He turned away from the coffin and walked out. Alcohol and chainsmoking until he passed out into a fitful sleep would await him. Somehow, a widow from Boston had left him in ruins, unable to move on as if she'd changed the entire course of his life with one kiss.
Here he was, a coward again, he thought as he closed the door behind him. Another thousand letters to burn. One thing was certain: Even if the Voice owned his future, and perhaps his very soul, Colleen owned something of him more deeper, more intrinsic and no matter what he had done, this had not changed.
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Spy/Scout's mother
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,345
Author's note: Part of Loving Ghosts. This particular bit takes place before Do You Have To Let It Linger?
For Sarah.
1946.
She wore a hat with a black veil, and a dark dress that came to her knees, yet even in mourning, she showed effortless class and elegance. She bowed her head in prayer at the tombstone. Rain pelted down, just as the day they had met. That chance meeting, both bitter and sweet in his memory.
(If he'd stepped away in that moment, would he have been able to step right out of her life? Would she be just another beautiful stranger and not the wife he could never have, the mother of his child, and the one person who had stayed in his heart, no matter how hard he tried to exise her from his life?)
Colleen had been to many memorials in her life. Perhaps even more than he knew. Several members of her family had died young. Somehow, she still believed in a God, when she had lost so much. Her brother at such a young age, her husband overseas, her mother at a young age, and three children lost to miscarriages. Her family tree was withered with famine, and unmarked graves overseas.
She bent down, and the umbrella started to fall from her grip. In that moment, he steadied it. She glanced back.
"Are you there?" She said softly.
An elderly mourner leaned in. "What is it, dear?"
She shook her head. "It's nothin'...."
She forced a smile. "I just thought someone tapped me on the shoulder, that's all."
Just the sound of her voice left him with a deep ache. For a moment, he thought she'd seen him between the raindrops. The rain affected the invisibility, until he was almost perceptible to the human eye. But, he said nothing, and she turned. Moved on.
The procession moved on. Spy watched as she disappeared into the church.
He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a flask. Mere wine wasn't enough these days. As sensual and wonderful a love he had with wine, it didn't make him nearly drunk enough to get through the day. He took a drink that burned all the way down. It did nothing to stem the pain.
He kept torturing himself, even though he knew this could go nowhere. He expected that moment, to see her in another's arm so he could let go. Even as the mere thought left him with a more intense pain than he could even vocalize. He would never replace the love she had, he would never be able to give her a family life, happy and idyllic. No matter how much he wanted to.
But, oh, how they were caught in this dance together.
He should leave, he told himself for yet another time. He'd lost count of the times he'd told himself to let go. In the end, the times only made him cling tighter to her memory.
(He'd gone to the bars to find someone to fill the ache within him, and found many handsome men and lovely women and none of them even compared to her.
It wasn't long before he stopped even trying.)
He should, he should, he should've left that first time before it got this far.
He ducked under the threshold, and what a surprise that he didn't turn into ash, or leave a path of flames in this holy place.
It was so familiar, the bowed heads, the pews and lines of black-clad parishoners. The air of reverence and sadness was nostalgic, though the structure was lacking.None so great as the churches he'd been through, at least those still left standing from the war.
(At least, when he was dragged there. Even back then, as a teen, he'd been a bit of a heathan.)
He turned to leave, but the closest he got was outside the door. Like a magnetic force, she pulled him back. Even to someone else's funeral.
He'd written a thousand or more letters and burned them all. None of them could distill the longing or discontent. Perhaps he wasn't a man of love letters.
Better not to leave a trail.
Somehow he'd ended up here, at a stranger's funeral. Full of unsaid words and a new pain that wouldn't heal.
What did you think? That the situation would change simply because you took a flight all the way out here? That you could write an apology that would change what happened?
Even as he knew the answer, he kept wanting to ask the question until there was another answer. If he'd drew a Tarot, he'd find the Devil card with the Voice's piercing gaze, reminding him who owned him now.
*
He entered the church after the last ceremony. His footsteps echoed in the empty room. Faint light filtered through the stained glass.
He stared down at the closed coffin.
He'd been presumed dead, with no one to bury him. His name and all humanity had been left in the conquered Paris. He'd clawed through, and Paris was free now. But he would never have that kind of hope, that kind of innocence again.
This would be the only time he'd be this close to her. Never at her side down the aisle, never sitting side by side and listening to the Christmas mass. There wouldn't even be a person left for her to marry. His name lost overseas long ago.
And she had one lost husband, she deserved more than a nameless killer. Someone who could never be beside her for long, no matter how much he longed to be.
Time off was precious and few, and he'd wasted it, reopening a scar. He could've been followed, he could've led them right to her.
But, alcohol and chainsmoking didn't stop the ache of the lack of her. He found himself returning, again and again, unable to move on. And the thought would not leave him: do you miss me, too?
He caught sight of her knelt alone in a pew. Her fingers moved over the rosary, and her ruby red lips mouthed a prayer. Even he remembered the words. Time and war had not stolen that, not when the nuns had beat it into him again and again.
She looked so pure, so elegant and beautiful, like the portrait of a saint as she looked up to the light from the stained glass windows.
Look at you. You're pathetic. Day drinking and unable to let go. You belong in the gutter.
He almost spoke to her, he almost said the words aloud that she felt like a need, not a want. Like he had jumped into the depths and every moment without her, he drowned a little more. He almost said the words that he must truly love her, the way one loved water, loved the breath that nourished their lungs.
But, in the end, he was nothing more a backstabber in a designer suit. If he had any morals at all, he would walk away and let her find some semblance of happiness. He would allow her to hate him, be her villain so she could find someone who would be who she deserved.
Not a murderer with bloodstained hands, not a man who no longer existed.
He turned away from the coffin and walked out. Alcohol and chainsmoking until he passed out into a fitful sleep would await him. Somehow, a widow from Boston had left him in ruins, unable to move on as if she'd changed the entire course of his life with one kiss.
Here he was, a coward again, he thought as he closed the door behind him. Another thousand letters to burn. One thing was certain: Even if the Voice owned his future, and perhaps his very soul, Colleen owned something of him more deeper, more intrinsic and no matter what he had done, this had not changed.
