Notes: Cross-posting this finally from AO3, where it seemed to go over quite well. I thought it would be more appropriate as a separate story given that it is a three-shot.
His drive from work always went the same way these days. He would leave RED's base—wherever that happened to be for the day—at around six o'clock, just as the sun sank below the mountains. The journey did not usually last very long, given the desolate nature of the highway and the fact that his sporty car could push exorbitant speeds when he felt like it.
To his disappointment, however, a police roadblock caused him to take an alternate route on this occasion. The Spy had rolled his eyes when he heard the radio report that a carjacker was on the loose in the area and the locations where police checkpoints were being set up. He only hoped he would be home before dinner was cold, lest a certain woman give him that stern scowl and teasing scold when he came in through the door.
What surprised him, then, was to see a figure walking alongside the road a few hundred yards ahead.
He slowed the car a bit as he approached, noticing the equipment bag the man was holding and the shape of his body. Lean, long legs, a jacket loosely hanging about his form. No BLU uniform this time, not after hours anyway, but his identity was unmistakeable.
Everything in him commanded him not to stop, because he knew who this man was, and being alone with him was not something he was prepared for.
And yet there he found himself, braking right alongside the boy. Man, he corrected himself for the thousandth time, because he had not been a boy for quite a long time now. He cracked the window down, a small flinch at the wave of cold desert air that hit him, watching expectantly as the other mercenary turned his head to look behind him.
The Frenchman wasn't too surprised to see a reluctant smirk appear on the Scout's face. "'Ey, it's the backstabbin' asswipe. Long time no see."
Some sarcasm was present in his comment. The Spy rolled his eyes, appreciative that they had been able to reconcile recently for the sake of the woman in both their lives, but nonetheless put off. He declined to engage in that line of conversation.
"For what reason could you possibly be walking home in this weather?" he scoffed, genuinely perplexed. "You make more than enough for a car. For an entire lot of them."
The younger man shrugged. "Eh, it's in the shop. I'm down a ride for a few days. Didn't wanna be seen in that piece'a shit rental they offered me. Chick repellant. 'Sides, I ain't got a problem with exercise."
"Do you live far from here?" the Spy asked, already fully aware of where the boy lived. A small suburban apartment less than five miles east, in the opposite direction he was heading himself.
"Like hell I'm gonna tell you where I live." His eyes were a bit distrusting, but he seemed to be forgetting something.
The RED mercenary took his turn to shrug. "Fine. I'll ask your mother when I see her tonight." He eased on the brake, as if to drive forward, but the Scout lunged forward to catch up with him frantically.
"Ah—no, no! It's in that direction," he gestured quickly, expression unsettled. Anything to keep him away from his mother, the Spy supposed, though that wasn't going to be happening. "Why? Y'gonna—"
The other man cut him off before he could make up some vague assumption of what the Spy would do to him if he knew where he lived. "—give you a ride, if you can act like an adult about it. She'll be glad to hear you aren't out walking in the cold, and I'll be happy if she's happy, non?"
A slight furrow came into the Scout's brow. He clearly had not been expecting much concern from his enemy, even if they were on much better terms with each other than before.
"Forget the delusions of nobility. You look cold. I mean—your nose is red."
He froze after he had said it. His mind could distinctly remember these words coming out of his mouth on another occasion. Over twenty years ago—a winter morning, a coffee shop in Boston, his dark-haired partner quirking an eyebrow at him from over the table as he contained his amusement.
"What?" she scoffed, touching her cheek. "Do I have somethin' on my face?"
He shook his head, eyes wandering back down to the table. "Your nose is red."
His professionalism forced this out of his mind as he unlocked the passenger door, eying the other man intensely. He heard the Scout mutter a slightly embarrassed 'fine' as he clambered in, dropped the bag of bats at his feet, and crossed his arms in a poor attempt at being nonchalant.
There were no words between them as he drove on. The radio jabbered on—a weather report, some local news. He could tell from his periphery that the Scout was staring straight ahead. They had only driven perhaps a mile before he caught the Bostonian reclining, his feet going up on the dash.
"Feet down," he threatened passively, though obviously with enough force to elicit a hasty compliance. "Ah, so you can be taught."
The added derision brought the Scout back to his senses at last. He repositioned in the seat. The true testament to his flighty nature came when he decided to start up some small talk, forgiving despite the circumstances.
"Eh, so, I'm guessin' from what you said earlier, you and Ma are still...?"
Another rolling of the eyes. The boy was terrible at small talk. "Yes. Weren't you the one worried that I would abandon her—oh—three days ago?"
He shook his head. "I dunno. Just kinda worried 'bout her I guess—haven't had much time to go see 'er lately."
And she had noticed that for sure, the Frenchman thought. It interested him that of their sons, she had the most concern for this one—though perhaps it was because he had always been the one who needed an eye kept on him.
"She is quite well," the Spy finally replied. "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't find some time to visit her."
He could see the Scout hunching over a bit, biting at a hangnail. He seemed ill at ease, though it wasn't hard to imagine why. The gap of skill and experience between them was quite large, and the trust was still reluctant at best.
"I dunno. Last time I saw 'er, she seemed pretty happy. Dunno if I got you to thank for that or not." He glanced out the window, perhaps for the first time since he had gotten into the car. Didn't seem eager to turn his back.
There was something that made his stomach turn slightly about the way the Scout said this. The struggle in him had seemed very apparent in their tentatively companionable conversations, few though they had been. He was trying so hard to let his mother be happy while fighting the instinct to protect a supposedly dead father that he still felt loyalty to. A father he had never even met.
Blind loyalty, he knew, was perhaps the worst kind.
And even now, the Spy thought to himself, he was toying with the boy's emotions. Without even meaning to. All for the sake of a facade he had sworn he would break ages ago.
As he drove through the small apartment complex, the younger man gestured in the direction of his residence. The feeling inside of him had turned to a dull nausea, because he had made the decision to do something on impulse—impromptu, perhaps. Something he had ruminated on not for days or weeks, but for years. Something that needed to be done.
The Scout hefted his bag out after him as he exited the vehicle. He saluted jokingly as he made eye contact with the driver. "Ah, well. I guess thanks for the ride, Sp—"
He paused, chuckling suddenly. "Fuck's sake, guy's datin' my Ma and I don't even got a name to call him by. Red? Frenchy, maybe?"
The Spy glanced away from his gaze, looking straight ahead. He braced himself as though he were about to be struck. The only way he knew how to attack was by surprise, and this instance was no exception.
"Fontaine, actually. Renard Fontaine."
The only thing he heard as he drove away was the sound of the bag of bats hitting the ground with a loud thud.
He did not look back.