Written for a Scout Ma/You prompt on the TF2 Chan kinkmeme. Warnings: Graphic descriptions of female/female sexual acts in later chapters. This is erotica, but if you're looking for mindless smut you won't find it here.
Part 1
Your parents are worried about you moving into the new place. On the one hand, your dad seemed resigned if not proud. Women in college was still a bit novel but not that unusual a concept so he kinda glossed it here and there. Count on Dad to make a giant fuss about proper dinner table dress but be okay with a woman attending college.
Mom on the other hand. Well, you could certainly expect your mother to visit your nearly bare room on a daily basis. Today she performed a complete circuit of the rapidly emptying space, gazing around at the cardboard boxes and taking careful note of the stuffed rabbit leg protruding from one that was packed to bursting. You ignore the little clicks of her tongue, frowning deeply to match the ridges lining her own brow.
"I'm beggin' you mom, please. I need to do this. The workforce is hiring women now. Lots of them, in more and more jobs. I'll be a credit to my family and help you and dad out, right?"
Hah. Family. You'd never had any sexual attraction that you knew of, but in the early days, when you'd first got the accptance letter in the post, mom had listened to that argument.
"I don't understand why you want to move out. Now, if you had a nice husband, I could certainly see you ready to leave, but you have so much more to learn from me, never mind some school teacher."
"Mom, I'm not leaving you. I'm just moving one state away to get an education. All the women are doing it these days so they can get better jobs. You went to work!" Your pride can't resist correcting her. "Besides. It's a professor at a college, not a teacher."
"Same thing."
You quail at your mother's voice a bit. Sometimes it's better not to argue.
"Besides!" she continues. "I did that to aid your father, not to leave my family!"
Now, mother affixes you with a gut-wrenching look; a silent plea not to abandon her. You have made your choice however, and bunny gets stuffed brutally back into the cardboard prison. Her eyes follow the protrusion of the lump in the box, as though to remind you that that display of childhood is still there and still a chip in the pile to be exploited.
"I got a good paying job at the filling station while your Father was in the service." She tries a different tactic this time and you glare at her. "It's just improper for a lady to live on her own without suppor-"
"I got a scholarship, Mom." You cut across her, your voice straining to remain calm and collected. "I can use the money I was going to pay my tuition and now I've got a place for myself. It will save dad lots of money on petrol now that he doesn't have to drive me to the college."
Fortunately this time, your mother leaves before the argument escalates into a full blown fight. You take it as a point. Yes, you can accept that it's still pretty rare for girls to go to college, even more so for them to get scholarships. You know she's concerned, but couldn't she see how much this meant to you?
Dad drives you over to the place you rented. This is a relief, and you help him remove the boxes from the boot.
"Looks like the fence could use some oil." Dad remarks to you. "Must have been a real standup neighbourhood in the twenties."
You can kind of see what he means. The gate in question is white picket and peeling and the house is fairly sturdy red brick. The American Dream withered, as it were. On the one side, a similarly rundown house stands, a bunch of beer cans littering the yard and crude woodworked lettering showing the house is fit for greek life. The strains of two glorious channels of broadcast television thump through the cheap walls, indicating the brothers evidently thought TV was more important than the value of the property they occupied.
Your dad's face pinches and his lips purse, even though he knows that you are far too old to be hanging out with the sort of young frat-boy teenagers who bear little regard for their home.
"Don't worry dad. I'll take care of it." you appease him and flash a smile, however further soothing is delayed by the house on the opposite side to yours. The yard is clean but it's not specifically this that captures your interest.
The door has opened, and two boys, one your age and the other younger exit, followed by a silhouette in the door frame.
"Bye Ma!" the younger one stops tossing a baseball long enough to give his mother a wave. The older one cuffs him on the shoulder and a little spat starts between the two, dog tags jingling and accusations of 'Mama's boy' and 'chucklenuts' flying fast and furious.
As you watch, she walks out of the house into full light and suddenly nothing else matters at all. You think of your own mother with her rough dishwater hands, sensible blouses, long skirts and hairstyles fit for working the filling station cash register. She's still a little heavy-set from baby weight and full of ideas about sensible women.
This woman by comparison is as sleek and slim as the ladies in the women's magazines your own mother is always trying to get you to read. She's wearing black heels with her blue print skirt. You even imagine you can smell floral perfume over where you're standing, even though it's halfway across two lots and there is no wind. She is fascinating to you, this creature placed in suburbia where she clearly doesn't belong.
"They must be dirt poor." your dad remarks, looking at the ramshackle house and shaking his head. It's not malicious, it's probably true. You can tell what he's thinking as well. He's wondering if those boys' father died beside him in the war. It's a sobering thought and you busy yourself by helping your dad unpack and set up.
"Thanks for helping out Dad."
"Your mother and I. We are going to miss you terribly."
You smile. "Mom told you to say that, didn't she?"
The curt nod your father gives you is as good as a 'yes' but you don't mind too much and hug him farewell.
As it turns out, you don't need to wait long to see her again. The knock at the door comes around five and you pick yourself up from your book and thoughts of dinner to answer the door.
She's on the other side, holding a covered dish and smiling with the same bright smile she'd shown to her sons retreating back.
"Oh hello, Mrs..."
"It's Miss." she corrects you. You notice you were correct about the perfume and feel a little silly.
"Would you like to come in?" You find your voice. Hers isn't pretty actually. It sounds perhaps like she might be from the Bronx. It hardly matters to you though.
She eyes the boxes you haven't put away yet but steps inside anyway with a polite smile. "Thank you. I was going to send my sons over to help you, but my youngest needed a ride back to work." she frowns and brandishes the casserole dish in your face. "He'd kill me if I told you it was his idea, but he saw you drive up and told me to bring them over instead of sending them with him."
Your heart melts a little and you forget in a hypocritical fog a little of how much this kind of behaviour bothered you with your own parents.
"Thank you." Your vocabulary has apparently died along with your common sense. You get a whiff of the food in the package. It smells great and your stomach gives a pitiful rumble.
"It's tuna noodle casserole." she says, spreading her hands in apology, as if a college student would not appreciate free food.
"I haven't had dinner yet." you tell her, still mentally chastising yourself for the Spartan conversation, stating the obvious. There are so many things you want to ask her but can't because every moral fibre of your being screams that it's inappropriate. Why someone like her lives in this little hole, next to frat boys. Why she's pretty. What she puts in her tuna casserole. What her sons do. You're not sure why you want to know this information.
"Would you like some water?" It's all you have at the moment, but you feel like you should be offering her wine.
She accepts and you find out many things about her through the night. Her age is a respectable 32. She has far more than two children. Eight to be precise. Her son is a 'Scout', whatever that means. You spend the night in conversation. She seems to want to talk and you say goodbye later.
It's only a half a day later when you meet him.
She's hanging up her washing in the yard and you're diligently perusing your textbook when your gaze drifts up.
The man in the pinstripe suit and the balaclava brushes aside the screen door with a practiced sweep of his gloved hand. The gesture is elegant. Somehow he manages to make it so. If you'd been a different sort of person, you might have thought him sexy.
The open window provides no cover and your eyes meet, The secretive gentleman smiles at you, but you stare past him and experience some deja-vu as you see 'Scout's Mum' as you've dubbed her. It occurs to you in the periphery part of your brain that you never learned her name. Nonetheless, there she is, a pretty silhouette in the doorway of the house next door.
The masked man smiles at you. No words are exchanged here but his simple glance says it all.
You wish you were her.
He wanders up the road, unaware of your true thoughts.
Stupid man. So full of himself. He doesn't realize you wish you were him instead.