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The first time he meant to tell him, he'd been too scared.
Spy had found contentment in taking this secret to the grave. With his features concealed and Scout's infant memories obscure, the man was anyone else. Another scornful pair of eyes, someone who Scout could chalk up to a teammate and nothing more. Spy knew to keep his distance, silence his pride and act as though nothing was wrong. Knew if he said anything, he would hate him.
Spy did not like to disappoint, but it seemed to be the only thing he knew how to do.
Mornings at the table, singing nonsense songs while he clapped his hands in his high chair and his brothers chased eachother through the hall. Boys went to school, Spy was offduty. Watched him play while he read the paper, held him when he cried for him. Spy figured they had a special connection. He loved the others, but they did not reach for him the way the little one did. Outstretched hands, rolls of fat, a big, toothless grin. He was his boy.
Had he imagined the tears the night he left? The more he reminisced, the more unsure he was; and Spy did nothing but reminisce.
At night, Spy lay in his cot. He always was a light sleeper. He was well-acquainted with short nights, his job required it, but it had been the baby that had helped him master it. He used to wait for the wails, and when the mercenaries began to bunk together, he'd picked the habit back up.
"Scout."
"Wha?"
"I am trying to sleep."
"Oh. Okay, sorry."
"D'accord, Je vais mordre. What is with the tears?"
"Huh? I'm not cryin'! I'm..laughing."
"..."
"Okay, fine. It's just..I miss my ma."
He was the same little boy, but he did not need his father. Spy was not sure why he had thought otherwise. Twenty-four years of absence awards no man a pair of open arms. He loathed the wishful thoughts that littered his conscience. For hours, he lurched out of his armchair, eyes glued into the depths of a fire until it ate through its lifeline and became nothing but a pile of ash. He felt six feet under, a silent corpse who could not outstretch his hands to a boy, now a man, who stood at his headstone and did not recognise the name or date, nor cared to.
He knew he was a disappointment, a failure of a father. How many other men had uprooted themselves from that apartment? Spy had a hundred excuses that could pardon him, but when he thought it through, he knew he was no better than them. He could have stayed, if he'd tried hard enough.
"Can I have a cigarette?"
"Pardon?"
"Are ya deaf?"
"I had no clue you smoked."
"I... don't."
"Ah, then don't start."
There was a small pride in this. He was not like his father. Thank God. Thank his mother. He was loud and boisterous, and a royal pain in the ass. He snorted when he laughed and he used expletives like conjunctions. He was funny and bright, and had a real heart. He couldn't have been more different than the man who had brought him into this world. Yet when Spy saw the way he smiled, he felt like he was seeing himself tenfold. He held his head in his hands and wished he could remove any impact he had on the boy. Tear away the features he'd bestowed, erase his image. Save him, if there was any hope of it.
You don't have to be like me.
The first time he'd meant to tell him, Spy knew he couldn't.
He was dying - and no amount of miracles could fix it. Spy knew, then. He knew when he saw the boy, shivering meekly in his own blood, laughing somehow. He wanted to be told he'd done good. Spy knew. Jeremy just wanted his father.
He did not want Spy.
If he knew the truth, he would die being disappointed, loathing him, loathing himself. Spy was only sparing him. Another face, another time.
He held him, like he was his baby, and let him die.
Maybe it had reminded him of something, but he'd never know because there was no time.
Until there was.
Spy didn't know what to do with himself. Every time he looked at Scout, the words threatened to spill from his mouth. Again, he felt the urge to disappoint. Yet he kept his distance, silenced his pride and acted as though nothing was wrong. The same old routine.
"What will you do now? You're out of a job."
"Me? D'uhh.. I haven't really thought about it. I thought I'd be kicking gravel 'til I kicked a bucket instead."
"Hm."
"I'll head back to my ma, first. Haven't seen her in a while..after that-"
"Is she well?"
"My ma? She's fine. Why?"
"Well, good."
"What about you? What're you gonna get up to?"
"I'll move onto the next thing, I suppose. I'm never out of a job so long as someone wants to backstab someone."
"You're not even gonna take a break, with all dis money? Do you hate yourself or somethin'?"
Spy looked down at the gravel.
"Je n'aime pas m'installer."