Chapter Text
At first, Scout is just... confused.
There's a strange lightness in his chest. A looseness in his limbs, like he'd just finished the longest run of his life and had finally been allowed to stop.
"...Heh." A small, surprised laugh escapes him. That's new.
That's wrong.
"Heh... did we win?"
The world tilts.
His knees finally give out, slow and gentle, as though they're lowering him instead of letting him collapse. The ground rises to meet him with surprising kindness—soft and warm. He almost sighs.
Back on the battlefield, the fighting still rages. Metal crashes against metal. Gunfire echoes through the facility. Somewhere, another robot explodes with a deafening bang.
But it's all so... far away now. Too far away to matter.
Scout lies there, staring toward the ceiling he can't quite focus on anymore. His chest rises. Falls. Each breath shallower than the last.
His fingers slowly uncurl, releasing a baseball bat that had long since slipped from his grasp.
But his face...
His face is relaxed. Peaceful. Happy.
Meanwhile, Spy knows exactly what's happening.
When he and Sniper round the corner of the facility they'd all been trapped inside, the last thing he expects to see is Scout. Pale. Soaked in blood. Slumped against the wall.
For one impossible second, his heart simply stops. Whatever dry remark he'd been about to throw at the Bushman dies on his tongue before it's ever spoken.
A wounded sound escapes him—a broken, involuntary thing that has nothing to do with the bullet lodged in his own leg.
His eyes widen until they ache. His pupils tremble disbelief, then terror.
Pure, overwhelming terror.
"Oh, hey, guys!" Scout waves at them as though they've just met in the base's break room.
Even with the strain creeping into every word.
Even with his uniform torn to ribbons.
Even with the dark circles beneath his eyes growing deeper by the second—he smiles.
That same crooked grin that proudly shows off his buck teeth. Like everything is fine. Like nothing is wrong. Like he doesn't realize what's happening.
Because... he can't.
Somewhere in the back of Spy's mind, Medic's lectures force themselves to the surface. During catastrophic blood loss, patients often become confused, disoriented, sometimes even euphoric.
Their brains, deprived of oxygen, simply... stop recognizing the danger they're in. They smile. They joke. They insist they're fine.
Right until they aren't.
The realization turns Spy's blood to ice.
"See all dese robots?" Scout giggles, his voice sounding weak even to his own ears. "Dat was me. I did dat."
His gaze drifts downward without meaning to at his bandaged hand, stiff with dried blood. For a fleeting, absurd second, part of his brain wonders where all that blood came from.
Then the tiny piece of reason he has left quietly answers.
...Mine.
"Last one got a couple lucky swings in, tho," he mumbles, still smiling.
Because if he stops smiling, then everything becomes real.
"How'm I lookin'?" he asks, squinting at them. "Does it look bad? It looks good, right?"
He nods once, immediately regrets it.
"Ow..." He chuckles to himself. "Yeah... I'll probably be okay."
Scout lets out a long, exhausted sigh as he slowly slides farther down the wall supporting him, his eyelids drooping.
"Man..." His voice is barely above a whisper now. "I am tired, by da way."
For a long moment, Spy doesn't know how to respond.
Because this— this is his son.
His son is bleeding to death against a cold concrete wall, his skin growing paler by the second, and he's still smiling like he's simply sat down after a long day's work.
Spy has spent nearly his entire life surrounded by death. He has watched hundreds of people die—most at the end of his own knife.
Most blur together now—forgotten names attached to fading faces, but they all shared one thing.
When death finally caught them, they screamed. They begged. They cursed. They bargained. Promised money. Power. Anything.
Anything at all if they could just have one more day. One more hour. One more breath.
But Scout...
Scout smiles. He jokes. He proudly talks about the robots he destroyed. He worries more about whether he looks okay than whether he actually is.
Because that's simply who Jeremy is, unconventional in every conceivable way. Always sprinting through life as though it were one big game. Always laughing. Always teasing. Always finding something ridiculous to grin about, even in the middle of a firefight.
So perhaps it shouldn't surprise Spy that his son is facing death the very same way. With a crooked smile and a joke on his lips.
"Mate..." Sniper's voice was quiet, gentle. It carried none of its usual dry humor.
His eyes lingered on Spy before drifting back toward the smiling young man slumped against the wall.
Spy let out a long, weary sigh, dragging a gloved hand down his suddenly exhausted face. Perhaps he was trying to steady himself. Or perhaps he was simply hiding.
Because that was all he had ever truly been good at—hiding. Behind masks. Behind disguises. Behind carefully chosen words and colder silences.
Layer after layer of armor built not to protect his body but to keep reality at arm's length.
Why should this moment be any different? Why wouldn't he try to hide from the truth, just as he had for more than twenty years?
Yet Spy knew the Bushman was right. He would never admit it aloud, of course—his pride simply wouldn't allow it. But somewhere along the years, without either of them noticing, Mundy had become one of his closest friends, perhaps the closest.
Spy had surprised even himself by how attached he had grown to the unruly collection of lunatics he called teammates. But Sniper... Sniper was different.
The Australian possessed a quiet sort of wit that Spy appreciated—a dry sarcasm delivered with such effortless ease that it never felt forced.
The two of them often slipped away together during breaks, sharing cigarettes in comfortable silence while the rest of the team inevitably found new and inventive ways to descend into utter chaos.
No grand conversations. No dramatic speeches. Just smoke curling into the air and the reassuring company of someone who expected nothing from him.
And, perhaps most importantly, Sniper knew.
He had been among the very few entrusted with Spy's greatest secret. He hadn't judged him or called him a coward.
Instead, he'd simply looked him in the eye and said, "Tell the bloody kid."
Again. And again. And again.
Not out of anger, but out of concern.
Spy also knew how close Sniper and Scout had become over the years. The youngest members of the team—well, excluding Pyro, whose age remained one of the world's great unsolved mysteries—had naturally gravitated toward each other.
Spy would often catch them talking during downtime. Trading jokes. Arguing over baseball or Australia. Sometimes speaking quietly about home, their voices too low for anyone else to hear.
Mick cared about Jeremy, truly cared. Perhaps because he recognized something of himself in the young man. After all, Mick's own relationship with his father had never been simple. He understood better than most what unanswered questions could do to a son.
And now, Spy would be a fool not to heed his advice.
If he didn't say it now—there would never be another chance.
"Yes..." Spy murmured, his voice stripped of the practiced confidence that had carried him through countless missions. "I know. Give us a moment."
Sniper held his gaze for another second before nodding. Without another word, he stepped away, leaving the two of them alone.
But not before fixing Spy with one last look, sharp as the scope of his rifle. A silent warning of Don't you dare run from this.
Then he was gone.
"Scout..." Spy began.
Ignoring the tremor in his wounded leg, he slowly lowered himself to one knee until he was face-to-face with the young man.
"There is... somezing I need to tell you."
"Yeah?" Scout laughed, only for it to dissolve into a weak cough. "Okey-doke. Make it quick, tho. I am real tired for some reason."
"I..." The word died in Spy's throat.
Scout coughed again, harder this time—the sound tore through the hall.
Spy watched another thin trickle of blood stain the boy's lips, fear gripped his heart with icy fingers.
His hands suddenly felt useless. His words impossible.
He couldn't do this. Not now. Not like this.
For one shameful moment, he considered becoming someone else. Anyone else.
Someone better suited to deliver the truth. Someone Jeremy already loved. Someone whose face would bring comfort instead of confusion.
Tom Jones. The ridiculous Welsh singer Scout adored beyond reason.
Jeremy would probably smile. Probably laugh. Maybe, for just a little while, he'd forget he was dying.
It would be easier. Kinder, perhaps.
His fingers instinctively brushed against his disguise kit.
Then Spy closed his eyes.
No. Enough. For decades he had hidden behind borrowed faces. Behind lies. Behind distance. Behind the excuse that one day would be the right day.
There had always been another mission. Another contract. Another tomorrow.
Until now. Now there was no tomorrow—only this.
These few precious moments slipping through his fingers as quickly as the blood leaving his son's body.
Jeremy deserved better, he always had.
He deserved the truth.
Not from a disguise. Not from a stranger. Not from a ghost hiding behind another man's face.
From his father.
At long last, it was time to tell the truth.
So, gathering every ounce of courage he has left, Spy presses a gloved hand against the wound in Scout's abdomen.
The blood keeps seeping through his fingers. Hot. Relentless.
"...Hey." Scout's gaze lazily follows the crimson staining the expensive leather. "You're gettin' blood all over your gloves."
A soft, breathless chuckle escapes Spy before he can stop himself. Even now, the boy is worried about ruining his suit.
Somehow, that feels painfully, unmistakably Jeremy.
The laugh dies almost as quickly as it came. There isn't enough time. Not after twenty-seven years. Not after every lie. Every disguise. Every opportunity he convinced himself he would have tomorrow.
Tomorrow never came.
"Jérémie..."
Scout slowly turns his head. For a moment, genuine surprise cuts through the haze clouding his thoughts.
Spy had never called him that before, not once.
Not "Scout." Not "idiot." Not "imbecile."
His name. His real name, spoken awkwardly beneath a thick French accent.
Jeremy wasn't even sure Spy knew it.
"...Yeah?" His tired expression softens.
For the first time since they'd met, Spy isn't looking at the Scout. He's looking at Jeremy.
And for the first time in longer than Jeremy can remember, Spy's cold gray eyes aren't guarded. They're sad.
"Zere is... something I should have told you years ago." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Twenty-seven years ago, I knew your mother."
Scout blinks. "…Yeah?"
"More zan zat." Spy's voice breaks. "I loved her. But she told me she was expecting… I ran. And it was not because of my work, it was because I was afraid. I was a coward."
No excuses. No carefully crafted justifications. No convenient lies.
Just the truth.
The truth he'd denied for over two decades.
"But now..." Spy looks back at him, tears gathering despite every desperate effort to keep them hidden. "Ze consequences of my choices have finally caught up zo me. You have caught up zo me..."
His trembling hand gently cups Jeremy's cheek.
"...Mon lapin." The nickname lands with a tenderness Spy has never allowed himself before. "Jérémie, I have always been proud of you, for far longer zan I ever deserved."
"My son..." His thumb brushes across his son's cheek. "You are stronger zan you will ever know."
Jeremy simply stares at him.
For so many years he had imagined this moment. Wondered what he'd say if he ever met the man who abandoned him and his Ma.
He'd imagined screaming. Punching him square in the jaw. Calling him every insult he knew before telling him to get lost.
Instead, nothing.
He is simply too tired. Too cold. Too lightheaded.
His thoughts drift like clouds, never staying in one place for very long. And the anger he'd carried for years suddenly seems heavy. Far too heavy to keep holding.
Besides, Spy looks devastated. Jeremy doesn't like seeing people look like that—never has. Even now, with his own life slipping away, someone else being sad bothers him more than his own pain.
His trembling fingers slowly reach upward, catching Spy by the lapel, giving the expensive suit a weak tug.
"...Heh..." A tiny laugh escapes him. "Took ya long enough."
He coughs hard enough to stain his lips red. When he finally catches his breath, a crooked grin returns.
"...Guess Ma had good taste."
Even now, still trying to make somebody laugh.
Spy lets out something between a sob and a laugh.
Scout's grip weakens. "...Hey..."
Spy immediately leans closer. "Yes?"
"...Don't..." Jeremy swallows with difficulty. "Don't beat yourself up 'bout it... okay?"
Another faint smile.
"I forgive ya."
His eyelids flutter.
"...Now go kick dheir asses..."
Still thinking like a mercenary. Still thinking about the mission.
Spy waits for another joke that is coming. Another complaint. Another ridiculous wisecrack. Jeremy always had one more thing to say—always.
But nothing.
For perhaps the first time in decades, the world's greatest spy doesn't know what to say.
Instead he simply gathers his son into his arms. Carefully. Gently.
As though Jeremy were still the tiny infant he'd been too frightened to hold.
Spy brushes a thumb across his son's forehead before carefully closing his eyes.
The battle still rages beyond the corridor. Explosions. Gunfire. The screams of robots being torn apart.
None of it reaches him anymore.
For one impossibly small moment, the entire world narrows to the young man in his arms. The son he had finally found the courage to claim.
Jeremy's fingers slowly uncurl from Spy's lapel, his hand falling limp against the floor.
Spy lowers his head. "I'm sorry..."
The words are barely more than breath.
No one hears them except the wind.