The Ghost Family
Feb. 18th, 2015 11:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: The Ghost Family
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Spy/Scout's mother
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1026
Author's note: fic_promptly: you are home to me.
1969
She had been laughing, her hair tickling the side of his arm from where she'd nestled close, the covers just over her breasts and between them, when she suddenly pushed herself up.
"Oh, that reminds me—"
He watched her leave, the sway of her wide hips, the marks he'd left with her, to match her own scars. In the dim light she stepped off into the kitchen. He could hear something rattling—pans? He leaned back chuckled to himself. He lit another cigarette, the ember glowing in the dim room.
In the faint light, he could just make out old pictures of a younger him and a younger boy with a brash smile showing missing teeth. That man had completely disappeared from everyone's memory but hers, followed by other names and faces he took on. He'd loved her through hundreds of names and faces, through assassination jobs to TF Industries and every job in-between.
Time hadn't changed her that much. A few more lines, she'd grown more curvy from her pin-up days, he'd gotten more gray hairs. Despite everything, they'd grown old together. He hadn't expected to live past the German occupation, and yet here he was turning into an old man.
He rubbed at the side of his cheek. More like a damn dignified, handsome devil.
The boy had grown up even more brash and loud, and taken on a new name of his own. He'd grown up to a killer, like Spy himself, and a good one. Throughout his life, Spy had been there, invisible hands molding how life would be. A thug felled before their paths could cross, a record conveniently 'lost,' crimes sealed away where no one could find or connect them.
She returned, and carefully brought up a small brown paper bag.
"Now don't you eat these in bed; they're for the ride home. You already ruined three pairs of sheets with that chocolate whipped cream dessert you brought in, though I gotta admit, it was the best damn breakfast in bed I ever did have," she said.
"Indeed, it was delicious. About the sheets—I'll buy you new ones. The silk sheets from Paris; only the best for you."
She set the bag of pastries on the nightstand. "You sure do know how to spoil a girl."
"Au contraire, ma chérie. One day you will know the true meaning of being spoiled when I whisk you away to my homeland. You'll see the City of Lights at its finest–if we can manage to leave the hotel long enough, that is," Spy said.
"Ah, you're such a good liar," she said. "The best liar I ever loved."
She always knew him the best of any lover he'd ever had. She was the only one he ever let know him, no matter what identity he wore. She was the only one who'd seen him under the mask.
"Don't go pushin' yourself too hard on the way back." She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.
If he could, Spy would've stayed until morning, or even longer. Stayed days between her sheets, with only minor breaks. He wasn't a clingy man by nature, but something about her made him always come back. And always want to stay just a little longer, until he was bargaining away every bit of reason to see her again.
There was something gentle in her smile. Knowing. She stroked the rough stubble over his cheek. "And don't be a stranger, you hear? I know you've got a busy job out there, but I miss you when you're away."
"I could never promise that," he said with a slight smile. "I can only promise to be your stranger."
"Aww, a dangerous handsome man. Just the kind of gift I wanted," she said with a wink.
The last kiss lingered, with the taste of wine and cigarettes. He pulled back reluctantly away from her warm bed, and the possibility of a night spent in.
The closest thing he'd ever had to a home in years.
He dressed and disappeared into the darkness he'd come from. Spy didn't shower right away before the trip on the train. Her perfume mingled with his own, the entirely new mix of scents that lingered on. He could've driven, but that'd take away the long ride back, the city lights and night stars pushed to a blur as he rode past.
Cookies, wine and cigarettes was hardly considered a feast, but the mix of tastes suited him. Bitter and sweet, the taste of home and comfort. He looked to the depths of his amber drink a moment and remembered the smooth skin of her back, the mark he'd left on her neck, the lipstick marks she left in return, the last gentle look that asked nothing of him.
Memories like this always led to others: the first time she'd looked back at him from across the room, an assassination job which changed the course of everything; the first kiss, the first touch, the first time he'd bedded her, the time in a fit of separation he'd had etched out the most famous pin-up she was known for on his gun.
And then others: A brash loudmouth boy with cookies crumbs all over his face, speaking with a mouthful of food, the first time he'd been able to take the whole family to a baseball game together, patching the eldest boy's first bullet wound as her youngest tried desperately not to break into tears.
He'd put on the face of a doctor, lawyer, policeman, mob hitman, salesman and many more in his orbit of their life. There'd be thousand more faces and names donned to protect and love his little ghost family, to fall in love with her all over again.
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Spy/Scout's mother
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1026
Author's note: fic_promptly: you are home to me.
1969
She had been laughing, her hair tickling the side of his arm from where she'd nestled close, the covers just over her breasts and between them, when she suddenly pushed herself up.
"Oh, that reminds me—"
He watched her leave, the sway of her wide hips, the marks he'd left with her, to match her own scars. In the dim light she stepped off into the kitchen. He could hear something rattling—pans? He leaned back chuckled to himself. He lit another cigarette, the ember glowing in the dim room.
In the faint light, he could just make out old pictures of a younger him and a younger boy with a brash smile showing missing teeth. That man had completely disappeared from everyone's memory but hers, followed by other names and faces he took on. He'd loved her through hundreds of names and faces, through assassination jobs to TF Industries and every job in-between.
Time hadn't changed her that much. A few more lines, she'd grown more curvy from her pin-up days, he'd gotten more gray hairs. Despite everything, they'd grown old together. He hadn't expected to live past the German occupation, and yet here he was turning into an old man.
He rubbed at the side of his cheek. More like a damn dignified, handsome devil.
The boy had grown up even more brash and loud, and taken on a new name of his own. He'd grown up to a killer, like Spy himself, and a good one. Throughout his life, Spy had been there, invisible hands molding how life would be. A thug felled before their paths could cross, a record conveniently 'lost,' crimes sealed away where no one could find or connect them.
She returned, and carefully brought up a small brown paper bag.
"Now don't you eat these in bed; they're for the ride home. You already ruined three pairs of sheets with that chocolate whipped cream dessert you brought in, though I gotta admit, it was the best damn breakfast in bed I ever did have," she said.
"Indeed, it was delicious. About the sheets—I'll buy you new ones. The silk sheets from Paris; only the best for you."
She set the bag of pastries on the nightstand. "You sure do know how to spoil a girl."
"Au contraire, ma chérie. One day you will know the true meaning of being spoiled when I whisk you away to my homeland. You'll see the City of Lights at its finest–if we can manage to leave the hotel long enough, that is," Spy said.
"Ah, you're such a good liar," she said. "The best liar I ever loved."
She always knew him the best of any lover he'd ever had. She was the only one he ever let know him, no matter what identity he wore. She was the only one who'd seen him under the mask.
"Don't go pushin' yourself too hard on the way back." She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.
If he could, Spy would've stayed until morning, or even longer. Stayed days between her sheets, with only minor breaks. He wasn't a clingy man by nature, but something about her made him always come back. And always want to stay just a little longer, until he was bargaining away every bit of reason to see her again.
There was something gentle in her smile. Knowing. She stroked the rough stubble over his cheek. "And don't be a stranger, you hear? I know you've got a busy job out there, but I miss you when you're away."
"I could never promise that," he said with a slight smile. "I can only promise to be your stranger."
"Aww, a dangerous handsome man. Just the kind of gift I wanted," she said with a wink.
The last kiss lingered, with the taste of wine and cigarettes. He pulled back reluctantly away from her warm bed, and the possibility of a night spent in.
The closest thing he'd ever had to a home in years.
He dressed and disappeared into the darkness he'd come from. Spy didn't shower right away before the trip on the train. Her perfume mingled with his own, the entirely new mix of scents that lingered on. He could've driven, but that'd take away the long ride back, the city lights and night stars pushed to a blur as he rode past.
Cookies, wine and cigarettes was hardly considered a feast, but the mix of tastes suited him. Bitter and sweet, the taste of home and comfort. He looked to the depths of his amber drink a moment and remembered the smooth skin of her back, the mark he'd left on her neck, the lipstick marks she left in return, the last gentle look that asked nothing of him.
Memories like this always led to others: the first time she'd looked back at him from across the room, an assassination job which changed the course of everything; the first kiss, the first touch, the first time he'd bedded her, the time in a fit of separation he'd had etched out the most famous pin-up she was known for on his gun.
And then others: A brash loudmouth boy with cookies crumbs all over his face, speaking with a mouthful of food, the first time he'd been able to take the whole family to a baseball game together, patching the eldest boy's first bullet wound as her youngest tried desperately not to break into tears.
He'd put on the face of a doctor, lawyer, policeman, mob hitman, salesman and many more in his orbit of their life. There'd be thousand more faces and names donned to protect and love his little ghost family, to fall in love with her all over again.
