Silent Invisibility.
Hey everyone! This is my first TF2 story, so I'm really excited. And just so I can shamelessly advertise… CHECK OUT MY OTHER STORIES! They're not that bad…honest. XD
Please review and enjoy.
Disclaimer: Don't own nothin'.
He's there.
He's always there, whether it be hiding in the shadows in the corner, smoking his cigarette or sitting amongst them in plain sight, smoking a cigarette - it has never mattered.
He's just THERE.
But when you are one of his profession, sometimes you can become too talented, too good at spying.
It's been another good day for the REDs, mostly thanks to Sniper today, who went round faster than a dingo to a carcass…picking off BLUs again and again. They're clapping him in the back and cheering and the Sniper's rubbing the rim of his Indiana Jones style hat between his index finger and thumb bashfully as he modestly accepts the compliments. He's not a bad person when you get to know him. He wants to come out and congratulate him too, to pat him on the arm or something…but he can't. Just can't.
"Merde."
Spy is silent (like he is nearly all of the time) as he observes (like a good spy always does) the dinner celebration before him. He slinks out slowly, putting out his cigarette as he goes and takes a seat without a sound. Nobody realises he's sitting in their midst. Spy leans back in his light, wooden chair and brushes off some imaginary dust on his impeccable suit, crisp, neat and red.
He doesn't remove his mask. He NEVER removes his mask. He can't…won't. Or can't. He can't remember anymore. His head aches from the whack given to him by the BLU Scout just before the battle finished and it made him sleepy to go with it. Probably concussion. He's not quite certain what happens if you don't get a concussion seen to but he should be able to sleep it off. No need for Medic. That's IF he sleeps tonight. Work or some mystery might crop up, prompting unquenchable curiosity.
Speaking of Medic, he is seated not far from Spy, watching the others drink and laugh with a mixture of resigned concern and willing fondness on his square-jawed face with the creases caused by fifteen years of medicine. On one hand, he's happy they're having fun. On the other, he knows the dangers of excessive alcohol abuse (Demoman was a pain in the ass for that) and was sworn against drinking any at all. Spy wonders if he's taken for granted by the rest of the team, in his white coat and red doctor gloves with the scholarly glasses.
Better than being forgotten about…
The French man sighs at that thought. It was unfair for him to think that way.
Suddenly the Scout nudges him and jumps as he sees Spy's apparently unconcerned face.
"DUDE! I didn't see ya there! Sorry." The boy (that's all he is really) rubs the back of his thin neck sheepishly and for one moment, Spy hopes that he will start a conversation. But when the Scout turns away to laugh at Demoman's drunken antics, Spy knows that there will be no chance of socialising tonight.
He leaves and retires to his room for the night. He undresses and hangs his sharp crimson suit with care in the plain wardrobe by the entrance to his room. Soon, he wears nothing but a pair of striped boxers and as he heads to his en-suite bathroom to clean himself before going to bed, he can't help but think longingly of the one woman he has ever loved – the BLU Scout's mother.
Celine. Tired ocean eyes slide across.
"Ah, ma petite chou fleur…"
He spits out toothpaste into the white sink and watches as it drains away with the water. The young man hesitantly leans over and touches the photograph stolen from that accursed BLU Spy in their base. The one photo that did not have any sexual imagery incriminating his night of passion with her. SHE had been the treasure he adored more than anything that night, NOT the love-making that he was apparently infamous for. What no one knew was that he'd lost his 'innocence' to her that night.
Heh.
Oh how he misses her.
Slowly, stumbling slightly for tiredness and concussion, Spy exits the bathroom and yawns (showing off white teeth) before slipping into the inviting arms of the bed waiting for him. It is a shame there's no one else in it though.
There it is again – that pang of loneliness.
Spy curls up and hugs his knees like he does every night. Nobody knows he has hidden himself away in his room for the night. A tear splashes down his face as Spy cries himself to sleep.
He's not there.
Not really.