fic: What Are You Doing New Years Eve?
Dec. 25th, 2021 11:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?
Series: TF2
Character/Pairing: Spy/Scout's Ma
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,107
Author's note: takes some inspiration by an anecdote from How To Make A French Family by samantha Verant.
1948.
Glitz and lights and glamor all transformed the bar. The same bar they'd met in, with blood on his hands. Silver streamers and discount finery, slightly damaged already.
But, with enough drink, and with glassy eyes, it became a sea of lights.
She became effortlessly the center of attention. A glass of wine in hand, and a story to tell always. The children had all been put to bed. He could've come on any assumed identity, but Southie people knew their own. It was far more difficult to come among them as a likely stranger, for no strangers were welcome in their tight-knit families. All who went to the Catholic church and traced their lineage overseas to settlers who had escaped famine, and certain death.
So, he waited in the shadows of other rooms. Lovers passed down the hall, for a tryst which would start in one year and end in another. She was never among them.
For that, he was grateful.
It was almost Dickensian, he thought. Watching a life which was only his in pictures unfold.
He stepped out for a smoke. The cold hit his lungs and made him cough worse than his first smoke when he was a teenager.
Frost painted the windows in filigree. From this height, he could see the apartment complexes and broken down homes still lit with lights in the dulled and snowy windows.
The door behind him opened. He reached to his side. Gun or knife?
She was silhouetted in light for a moment, and let out a sigh as she closed the door.
They had the same idea, it seemed.
He looked beyond her, but there was no lover with her. She opened the door and came onto the balcony.
She pulled out a cigarette. Colleen was a woman who could make any man dig desperately into his pocket for just a chance to light her cigarette.
In the end, he was no different.
Her eyes widened.
"You're here? My prayers were answered?"
"Isn't it rather cold to be out here, ma amour?"
"I could say the same of you. Besides, It's brisk, and will sober me up," she said.
"How much did you drink?"
She smiled. "Enough."
She took careful steps forward, hands out until she reached him. He dared to uncloak in that moment. Snow landed in her dark hair.
"I wished for this and prayed and prayed. My ghost in town for a New Year's kiss. All my Christmas wishes, just for that."
"That was all you asked for, ma amour?"
"If I ask for anythin' impossible, like you stayin' then I'll just be depressed. But a New Year's kiss, that's just a small thing, isn't it? If I prayed enough for this one little thing, maybe it'd come true. I've had so many impossible prayers."
And, even that was a lie. The weight of her sorrow would always be with her. If she had a wish, surely she would ask for her true love back, and her brother, Finny.
But wishes like that would go unheard, pointless. She would live with that grief, like a scar that never quite faded.
He leaned in and kissed her.
"Not that I'm complainin', but It's not New Year's yet," she said.
"Then I will kiss you again."
She chuckled. "Oh, you."
"I missed you," she said.
And what answer could he give to that? An apology would be pointless. Nothing would change.
She continued on, as if there had never been a pause and silence between them.
"Missed you so much that I been learnin' French so I could have your language on my tongue."
He chuckled. "You make it sound so racy, ma amour."
She repeated a seemingly simple phrase. Have you seen my cat?
The accent was thick, but he could understand well enough.
There was just one little issue. And that left him laughing.
"Ma amour..."
She rested her hand on his chest.
"You're laughin'? Did I do it wrong? I went and practiced so much, too."
"In France, we use the masculine when it comes to cat. To use the feminine form is slang for a certain place of you I like very much."
"Oh? It transcends boundaries, huh? That's good to know."
He leaned in and whispered and yes, ma amour. I have seen your cat.
Her face flushed as she leaned into him for the fleeting moments of warmth they would share.
"I'll have to have you correct my French before I accidentally proposition someone trying to conjugate verbs."
"Perhaps, you should save the French for me?" Spy said.
"I guess that could work. That way you're the only one to hear my embarrassing mistakes as I try and navigate this new language."
Even rudimentary, her attempts at reaching him were rather sweet. She could make an utter mockery of his language, butcher it as ruthlessly as he butchered the soldiers in the war, and he'd still love her.
In the other room, laughter and a chant rose. A countdown to the end of the year.
He kissed her once, twice, through the seconds of the end of the year and the beginning. Cheers rose up at the last kiss. That momentary pleasure and warmth, like a firework between them.
"Will they miss you?" Spy said softly.
"I'll just tell them tomorrow that I had a family emergency. It's half true," she said.
"Nobody would ever believe a mother would ever stab them in the back or trick them."
"Perhaps you're suited to my profession," Spy said.
She laughed softly.
"And who would mind my boys while I'm gone? No one, that's who. They'd all end up in jail or dead. God put me on earth to mind the chaos, so that's what I do."
And mind the graves, of course.
He took her hand and led her to the back rooms of the bar. The door was swiftly locked, and soon, so were their lips.
Just like old times, in a new year.
She pulled apart for a moment, gasping.
"Sneaking out for a tryst...this is excitin'," she said.
"If it's thrills you seek, then ma amour, let me thrill you," Spy said.
He loved her to the last of this year, and to the start. He leaned down to kiss her again. What a fitting end and beginning to this year.
Series: TF2
Character/Pairing: Spy/Scout's Ma
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,107
Author's note: takes some inspiration by an anecdote from How To Make A French Family by samantha Verant.
1948.
Glitz and lights and glamor all transformed the bar. The same bar they'd met in, with blood on his hands. Silver streamers and discount finery, slightly damaged already.
But, with enough drink, and with glassy eyes, it became a sea of lights.
She became effortlessly the center of attention. A glass of wine in hand, and a story to tell always. The children had all been put to bed. He could've come on any assumed identity, but Southie people knew their own. It was far more difficult to come among them as a likely stranger, for no strangers were welcome in their tight-knit families. All who went to the Catholic church and traced their lineage overseas to settlers who had escaped famine, and certain death.
So, he waited in the shadows of other rooms. Lovers passed down the hall, for a tryst which would start in one year and end in another. She was never among them.
For that, he was grateful.
It was almost Dickensian, he thought. Watching a life which was only his in pictures unfold.
He stepped out for a smoke. The cold hit his lungs and made him cough worse than his first smoke when he was a teenager.
Frost painted the windows in filigree. From this height, he could see the apartment complexes and broken down homes still lit with lights in the dulled and snowy windows.
The door behind him opened. He reached to his side. Gun or knife?
She was silhouetted in light for a moment, and let out a sigh as she closed the door.
They had the same idea, it seemed.
He looked beyond her, but there was no lover with her. She opened the door and came onto the balcony.
She pulled out a cigarette. Colleen was a woman who could make any man dig desperately into his pocket for just a chance to light her cigarette.
In the end, he was no different.
Her eyes widened.
"You're here? My prayers were answered?"
"Isn't it rather cold to be out here, ma amour?"
"I could say the same of you. Besides, It's brisk, and will sober me up," she said.
"How much did you drink?"
She smiled. "Enough."
She took careful steps forward, hands out until she reached him. He dared to uncloak in that moment. Snow landed in her dark hair.
"I wished for this and prayed and prayed. My ghost in town for a New Year's kiss. All my Christmas wishes, just for that."
"That was all you asked for, ma amour?"
"If I ask for anythin' impossible, like you stayin' then I'll just be depressed. But a New Year's kiss, that's just a small thing, isn't it? If I prayed enough for this one little thing, maybe it'd come true. I've had so many impossible prayers."
And, even that was a lie. The weight of her sorrow would always be with her. If she had a wish, surely she would ask for her true love back, and her brother, Finny.
But wishes like that would go unheard, pointless. She would live with that grief, like a scar that never quite faded.
He leaned in and kissed her.
"Not that I'm complainin', but It's not New Year's yet," she said.
"Then I will kiss you again."
She chuckled. "Oh, you."
"I missed you," she said.
And what answer could he give to that? An apology would be pointless. Nothing would change.
She continued on, as if there had never been a pause and silence between them.
"Missed you so much that I been learnin' French so I could have your language on my tongue."
He chuckled. "You make it sound so racy, ma amour."
She repeated a seemingly simple phrase. Have you seen my cat?
The accent was thick, but he could understand well enough.
There was just one little issue. And that left him laughing.
"Ma amour..."
She rested her hand on his chest.
"You're laughin'? Did I do it wrong? I went and practiced so much, too."
"In France, we use the masculine when it comes to cat. To use the feminine form is slang for a certain place of you I like very much."
"Oh? It transcends boundaries, huh? That's good to know."
He leaned in and whispered and yes, ma amour. I have seen your cat.
Her face flushed as she leaned into him for the fleeting moments of warmth they would share.
"I'll have to have you correct my French before I accidentally proposition someone trying to conjugate verbs."
"Perhaps, you should save the French for me?" Spy said.
"I guess that could work. That way you're the only one to hear my embarrassing mistakes as I try and navigate this new language."
Even rudimentary, her attempts at reaching him were rather sweet. She could make an utter mockery of his language, butcher it as ruthlessly as he butchered the soldiers in the war, and he'd still love her.
In the other room, laughter and a chant rose. A countdown to the end of the year.
He kissed her once, twice, through the seconds of the end of the year and the beginning. Cheers rose up at the last kiss. That momentary pleasure and warmth, like a firework between them.
"Will they miss you?" Spy said softly.
"I'll just tell them tomorrow that I had a family emergency. It's half true," she said.
"Nobody would ever believe a mother would ever stab them in the back or trick them."
"Perhaps you're suited to my profession," Spy said.
She laughed softly.
"And who would mind my boys while I'm gone? No one, that's who. They'd all end up in jail or dead. God put me on earth to mind the chaos, so that's what I do."
And mind the graves, of course.
He took her hand and led her to the back rooms of the bar. The door was swiftly locked, and soon, so were their lips.
Just like old times, in a new year.
She pulled apart for a moment, gasping.
"Sneaking out for a tryst...this is excitin'," she said.
"If it's thrills you seek, then ma amour, let me thrill you," Spy said.
He loved her to the last of this year, and to the start. He leaned down to kiss her again. What a fitting end and beginning to this year.
