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Ten minutes until the next match starts. Well, nine minutes and thirty-five seconds now, to be precise. Just enough for his last cigarette of the day, Spy concluded and pulled out a lighter. That… fire-loving abomination sitting on the other side of the locker room visibly perked up at the faint flickering light – he cut it off before it could move. It was on their side, but as far as he was concerned, better be safe than sorry.
The entire team RED was spending its final moments before the bloodbath the only way they knew. Heavy fussed over Sasha, his much-beloved weapon, Demoman had just opened his second – or was it third? – bottle of Scrumpy and was drunkenly offering it to anyone in the immediate vicinity, and Spy? All he wanted was to have a smoke in peace before the fighting started.
Just another ordinary day in the gutter.
Scout sat on the bench right opposite him and, as usual, had a really hard time trying to stay still. His excitement before matches always had this nervous edge, no matter how many times his guts got scattered across the sands of New Mexico. He couldn’t stop fidgeting, his leg bouncing up and down nearly constantly. At first, it was a mere nuisance. Easy to block out with other white noise. Another thirty seconds in, and it made him grit his teeth.
Much like the Scout himself, Spy assumed.
Bah, he’s worse than an eight-year-old child with a bad case of rabies. Can’t slow down to save his life, he rolled his eyes. So much so for having some peace before work. But then again, with this unruly bunch of misfits and criminals, what could have he expected?
Then, as if the noise of a foot slapping against the ground every few seconds wasn’t bad enough, it became accompanied by an even more nerve-wrenching sound.
Scout, completely oblivious to the fact that he was driving one of his coworkers mad with his antics, fished a package of chewing gum out of one of his pockets. Took two at once and started chomping. Loudly. And when Spy said loudly, he meant obnoxiously loudly. That kind of loud that made him regret that he couldn’t send the other mercenary straight back to respawn without having to explain himself to the Administrator later on.
If she were there at the moment, she would have understood, he noted with a huff of annoyance.
But even his patience had its limits. And frankly, he has had enough.
“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, letting Scout know that he was walking on thin ice. But the buck-teethed youth had absolutely no sense for subtlety, so it flew right over his head. He tilted his head to the side, blew a bubblegum bubble with another loud click of his tongue… and Spy just snapped.
The butterfly knife was in his hand in an instant and before anyone could have even noticed, he threw it. It pierced the wall right next to Scout’s head, popping the pink bubble out. The entire locker room went silent as all heads turned in their direction.
Scout blinked owlishly as he tried to figure out what had just happened. Then his face went ruddy with anger. “Woah, woah, what the heck, dude?! You could have killed me!”
“Oh, please, if I was really aiming for your head, I wouldn’t have missed,” he replied in a snarky tone as he got up to retrieve his knife. It was stuck at least an inch and a half in the wall. Hm. Good to know he wasn’t losing his touch. “Now, would you kindly shut up so I could have some rest?”
Scout huffed out an annoyed breath, but since he didn’t want to start a fight so shortly before having to enter the field, he sat straight and for the first time in his life did as he was told. Smart boy.
Ah, finally. A moment of respite, Spy closed his eyes with a smirk on his face.
He thought this would be the end of it, which only proved he didn’t know Scout nearly well enough. Because as soon as he relaxed, the humming started. And Spy just froze, the lit cigarette fell from his fingers and scattered ash all over the floor.
He… knew that tune. It might be butchered by Scout’s voice, sure, and like in all the other aspects of his life, the boy was rushing too much, but Spy would still recognize this song even with his ears cut off.
À la claire fontaine.
Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. His heart was hammering against his ribs, which grew too constricted for their own good. It felt like he was dying. No, now that he thought about it, dying didn’t feel nearly as bad. At least not after the first dozen times. This, this was a pure nightmare.
Well, what should he do? Dieu, he needed another cigarette, maybe two, to wrestle his nerves under control again. But his fingers shook so bad, that someone might take notice. And he couldn’t let others see him like this.
Not now. Not ever.
“Scout? Where did you learn that song?” His voice shook slightly, and he regretted saying anything as soon as those words left his mouth. What was he even thinking, to blow his cover like this? Thank god Scout wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the box, so to speak. Just like his earlier attempt to catch his attention, this too completely missed the point.
“Huh? What song? Ah, you mean that? I dunno, man. Think I heard it when I was little, but…” the boy bit his lips and his eyes grew unfocused as he tried to recall some very old and distant memory. To no avail, of course. So in the end, he just shrugged. “…dunno. What’s it to ya anyway?”
It wasn’t often that he had no excuse at the ready. But anything he thought of sounded incredibly fake even to his own ears. What was he supposed to say? Nothing, I’m just curious. Or: I was wondering who taught you to sing so badly? Scout might not be very bright, but he was no idiot either. He wouldn’t buy it. So there he was, for the first time in his whole career at the loss for words, unable to answer a simple question.
Thank goodness he was saved by a rough disembodied female voice: “Mission begins in ten seconds.”
Pfew, that was close. Scout, with his attention span of a goldfish, immediately forgot what they were talking about and grabbed his trusty baseball bat, shouting at the others: “All right, let’s go, let’s go!”
Everyone ran for the exit. Everyone except Spy, who stayed behind. Nothing suspicious about it, it usually took him a little longer to pick his disguise. Once he was sure he was alone, he pulled out his cigarette case and brushed its contents aside, revealing a small photo hidden inside.
The most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon was smiling at him from the picture. He fondly skimmed his knuckles over her face and raven hair. She was sitting in an armchair, holding a chubby boy no older than a year and a half to her chest. The little rascal was a bit blurry. They couldn’t get him to stay still long enough for them to take the picture. But even like this, it was visible that he had his mother’s nose and vibrant blue eyes.
There used to be a third figure in the photo. The only thing that reminded Spy of it was a part of a man’s arm draped loosely over the woman’s shoulders. The rest he cut out a long time ago. Sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder how different their lives would be if the man in the picture stayed.
But no. He couldn’t afford to think about it like that. With him gone, the family was safe. It was the right thing to do.
One day he might believe it.
He was interrupted by the noise of something being blown up into pieces nearby. It was followed by gunshots and someone – from the sound of it, their Demoman – screaming. Well, time to go.
With one last pained look, he put the photo back where it belonged. With one press of a button, smoke shrouded him, and with a blink of an eye, there stood a completely different man. He tugged at the lapels of his disguise, making sure that everything was in order, and ran for the exit.
What use was crying over spilled milk?
South Boston, 1946
He was helping Travis, her second youngest, with his French homework when Ellen peeked into the room, seemingly more tired than ever. Taking care of eight rowdy sons does that to a person, he noted with sympathy – he couldn’t help but admire her for raising them all on her own before he came along. But for some reason, Jeremy was even more handful than the other seven could ever strive to be.
Well, he was his father’s son through and through.
“Alain, dear? Could you please go and tuck Jeremy in? He won’t go to sleep before you sing him a lullaby.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he got up, making sure Travis’ homework was signed and ready to be put in his backpack. Hopefully, he won’t lose in yet another fight with the neighbor’s ruffians. “Of course, I’ll be right there. Go get some rest, chérie. You deserve it.”
Before he went, he kissed her on the cheek. Travis didn’t forget to comment on it with a loud: “Bleh.” He always liked to play a tough guy (as tough as one can be while wearing short trousers), but deep down, he was glad his mom found someone to love her after their father passed away.
With that, he made his way to the small nursery. He heard Jeremy long before he even entered the room. The boy was wailing loud enough to wake his brothers in the next room – maybe even their neighbors upstairs – as he slammed any toy he got his little hands on against the headboard of his bed. Alain sighed. One day, the boy’s gonna grow up to be a real menace.
Like father, like son, he supposed.
The moment Jeremy saw him by the door, the crying stopped. Instead, he started bouncing up and down on the mattress, supporting himself against the lattice of his cot as he squealed: “Dada!”
“Yes, yes, daddy’s here,” Alain cooed as he scooped him in his arms and sat in a nearby rocking chair.
To think how terrified he used to be to hold him when they finally brought him home. The boy was just so tiny! He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’s gonna crush him if he was not careful enough. Ellen used to laugh and tell him that the baby was not made of sugar. Easy for her to say. When he came along, she already had seven children of her own, seven lively boys, and a picture of a dead husband she used to love very much hanging above the kitchen sink.
He always thought he would make an awful parent. But when Jeremy was born, the love for him and his mother made him want to try and be better.
“You should go easier on your maman. She hasn’t had a good night's sleep since the day you were born, mon lapin. Neither of us had,” he said, but there was a gentle smile on his lips. He knew that Jeremy was still too young to fully understand a word he said, so he followed it with a kiss being pressed on top of his head, making him giggle and babble.
“Let’s see. How about I sing you the À la claire fontaine? It was always your favorite.” Jeremy excitedly waved his little hands, which made Alain smile in return. “All right. Here it goes…”
He cleared his throat before he started singing in a soft voice. When he got to the chorus: “Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai.” he felt his voice waver.
Jeremy barely made it to the third stanza before he fell asleep with his head lolled on his shoulder and drooling onto his shirt. When he became a father, he was told that he would get used to having his expensive clothes ruined by various bodily fluids. Shame that one never came true, but at least he fretted less about it.
There you go, that wasn’t so hard, now, was it, he chuckled, keeping his voice down as he put the boy back in his cot. Only then did he notice that Ellen was leaning against the doorframe, watching them with a huge grin on her face. He gently put a finger in front of his lips, shushing her:
“Shh. He just fell asleep.”
She nodded and quietly settled by his side, watching their son sleep. “Look at him,” she whispered. “Sleepin’ like an angel. Without you, he wouldn’t have fallen asleep until sunrise. Always has an infinite supply of energy, this one.”
She sighed, her expression suddenly turning wistful. “Wish you could be here every night to put him to sleep. He misses you when you are gone. So do the boys. And I.”
“I know. Wish there was another way. But I have to work so that you have everything you need, ma chérie.”
She clung to him like she never wanted to let go, which only made the situation that much harder. It wasn’t like he wanted to leave her or Jeremy. He just had to. Especially now, since he had so many hungry mouths to feed. “All we need is you, Alain. Only you. Everything else is unimportant.”
“I swear I’ll try to be around more.”
“You say that every time.”
“And I mean it.” With one hand caressing her cheek, he turned her to face him, before their lips met in a kiss as soft as a promise. “Je t'aime tellement, ma petit chou-fleur.”
She had tears in her eyes when she replied: “I love you too, Alain. Please don’t become a memory.”
For a time, he did his best to keep that promise. But in the end, all it took was one job gone wrong. One stupid mistake, and it all came crumbling down.
One day, he found a letter in their mailbox containing photos of his entire family. Travis on his way to school with French homework tucked in his bag, his older brothers during a baseball play. Even little Jeremy in a stroller with Ellen on a walk. A warning. Someone was out for blood.
Alain hunted down that bastard, of course, and made him pay for even thinking about hurting his loved ones. But how could he come home knowing that he was a risk to his family? So he did the only reasonable thing he could to protect them. He cut himself out of the picture. Well, not entirely, no. He kept sending Ellen money and gifts for Jeremy and the boys, sometimes even visiting under the guise of night and cloaking device, to hold Ellen in his arms for just a little while longer and to watch his petit lapin grow, feeling immense sorrow while doing so (maybe he was an awful parent after all). When Jeremy was plagued with night terrors, he still sometimes sang him À la claire fontaine.
Little did he know those were the only nights when Jeremy slept soundly.