Don't kill me! I know it's been a while since I updated and this isn't too long of a chapter. I might end up combining it with the previous chapter when I finish this arc...
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Day One
Sniper stared at Heavy. Heavy stared back.
"Ahem," coughed out Spy from his high director's chair, reaching for his coffee that Pyro, his unofficial assistant due to lack of lines, prepared for him. Sniper raised a middle finger vaguely in Spy's direction.
"Leave me alone. Enjoy your Christmas, I hope it treats you well, mate," Sniper finally continued, lacking any feeling in his voice. Spy clenched his hand around his coffee mug, and snatched a cigarette from his coat. He held it over his shoulder, and Pyro obediently lit it while his informal boss resisted the urge to smack the Australian actor.
"I think Christmas is a good time. Time to be kind and charitable. So it may not have made me money, but it has treated me well, Uncle. God bless it," Heavy read off his script, intently looking down at the packet. Pyro withheld a giggle from behind Spy at the absurdity of Sniper as Heavy's uncle. It didn't help that Heavy was much larger and visibly older.
"Merde!" cursed Spy, throwing his arms in the air, nearly spilling coffee on his assistant. "Where is the passion? You sound like, like-" the Frenchman made a sound of disgust. He gestured at Sniper with his cigarette.
"Stop adding in 'mate', bushman! And Heavy, try to act excited. It is Christmas tomorrow. Your character loves Christmas," Spy bit out, sinking back into his seat. "Same lines, again!"
It had been like this since the match ended that day. Spy had dragged his actors to the rec room and started running through the first act , ordering those not in the scenes to practice their lines. Somehow the double agent had acquired a high chair and, still wearing his beret, set aside free space for his actors. Although Pyro needed to help Scout with the costumes, Spy decided he could do with an assistant for the first few days. Lord knows that working with Sniper and Heavy would require lots of coffee, snacks, and perhaps fanning.
Unfortunately, the Australian of the pair repeated his line with the same montone, but it sounded a bit grumpier, which helped. Withholding the "mate", Sniper shot Spy a raised eyebrow as if to say "you happy now?". Across from him, Heavy was staring intently at his script, the packet now held two inches from his face.
"Heavy?" prodded Spy. The Russian slowly looked up from the script, meeting Sniper's lazy stare.
"I think Christmas is very good time!" bellowed out the large Russian, throwing his script to the ground and jumping over to his co-actor. "Time to be kind and charitable." With this, Heavy reached over and pulled a stunned Sniper close, nearly squeezing the life out of him.
"Da, it may not have made me money, but it has treated me well, Uncle. God bless it!" Heavy passionately waved his free hand out, speaking to an unseen audience as Sniper started gasping for air. Spy blinked, glancing over at Pyro who similarly seemed stunned at Heavy's sudden emotional breakthrough.
"Mmpw!" Pyro clapped as Heavy finally let go of Sniper, who stumbled out of his arms, wide-eyed. The larger actor smiled with a slight blush.
"Thank you."
"Merde," cursed Spy again. "That was actually...good. I mean, you missed articles and added Russian, but I'm impressed. We might actually be able to pull this off..."
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Day Three
"I am the ghost of Christmas past!" blared Soldier, throwing his hand out to Sniper who was dressed in kangaroo-printed pajamas (no doubt a gift from Mrs. Mundy), his scowl surprisingly less pronounced. "Take my hand if you want to live!"
With that, Soldier, wearing a large bedsheet over his uniform, linked arms with a startled Sniper and started to seemingly skip for a few steps.
"Slow down, mate!" Sniper quipped, nearly dropping the script in his free hand. Realizing his mistake, the sharpshooter glanced at the script quickly, just as Soldier finally stopped pulling him.
"Look all around, maggot! Do you know where you are?"
"I apprenticed here," grumbled Sniper, looking up from his script as he snatched his arm away from Soldier. "And can you not do that pulling?"
"Cut!" blurted out Spy, jumping from his high seat, and slapping his director's script to Pyro, who was balancing a tray of imported pastries. He barely managed to keep the food steady and hold Spy's heavily edited script to his chest. The director stomped up to his actors and pulled off his sunglasses, sending the two a glare. Oddly, the Frenchman had acquired a pair of sunglasses two days into filming, from where, no one was certain. Regardless, Spy wore it on set nearly all the time, along with his beret, perhaps channeling an inner director.
"Soldier! For the love of all that is holy, stop yelling every line. Yelling does not equate to emotion." Soldier looked positively offended, puffing up and throwing his sheet onto the floor.
"How else is the audience supposed to know how passionate I am? In America, if you're not yelling, you're not doing it right!" Spy placed his palm to his face, and shook his head.
"Okay, fine! But stop adding your own lines and words - read the script, again." Trying to force Soldier to use an inside voice, let alone do something he considered un-American was next to impossible. At least the patriot somehow remembered all his lines in just two days. Regardless, he seemed to be adding his own lines and words, and Spy just hoped Soldier would memorize the script correctly by the play day.
"And you," Spy snapped over to Sniper, who raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "Try to look a bit bewildered. A ghost is visiting you in the middle of the night."
"I've died more times than I can count, fought a giant eyeball, and been assaulted by a wizard. It's a bit hard to be surprised at anything anymore."
Spy tried not to strangle the sharpshooter on the spot.
"Is it my turn yet, lad?" Demo's head popped into the rec from from the doorway, nodding over at Pyro who waved with the script in his hand. Spy narrowed his eyes as Demo ambled into the room, passing the cards table with his bottle of Scrumpy swinging at his side.
"Not yet. You cannot drink on set," the director explained, crossing his arms, sunglasses hanging from hand. Demoman paused, staring at Spy.
"What? Yer kidding, right?" Spy could have exploded if he was the type untrained in controlling his emotions.
"No. No you CANNOT have alcohol on the set of A Christmas Carol."
"Ah c'mon, mate, let 'em have it," butt in Sniper. "We could all use a drink..."
"No," Spy bit out , stalking up to Demo and ripping the Scrumpy out of his hand. Well, he tried to, but the Scotsman held on tightly, arm being pulled with the bottle.
"Demoman, give me the bottle."
"I don't think so."
"This is a professional environment."
"Is it now. Why ye wearin' that beret, huh? Kinda looks silly with the mask..." This earned some giggles from Pyro and a hum of curiosity from Soldier who had secured his sheet once again over his shoulders.
"That explains why you look so different! I thought you got a haircut."
Spy slowly turned to look over at a smiling Soldier, hand still holding on the the Scrumpy bottle.
"Wot." It was Sniper who voiced the Frenchman's disbelief. The Australian gave Soldier a raised eyebrow, and shook his head, shoulders sagging. "You know wot, let's just get on with this. I don't think I can be around you all any longer than necessary."
"That's the spirit," whooped Demoman, easily pulling the bottle back out of Spy's hand and skipping to Soldier and Sniper. "Now where were we...is this where I come in?"
"No, maggot. I'm still wooing the audience right now. And Scout's mother. I'm wooing her the most."
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Day Four
"Boy, what's going on in there?" Engineer pressed an ear to Scout's bedroom door, hearing a crash and the young man yelping.
"Makin' the stupid costumes! What do ya want, hardhat!" he yelled from inside, before another crash sounded and a string of curses followed. Engineer, glanced down at the script in his hands.
"It's been four days and we still haven't gone over our lines. Spy keeps readin' them for ya. We need to practice," the Texan explained, tempted to just kick the door open. Lucky for him, Scout pulled it open a few seconds later, looking-
"Er, are you okay?"
Scout's uniform looked rumpled and Bonk stains peppered the front of his red shirt. His hand wraps hung loose, and there seemed to be pieces of thread trapped in the folds. Further, the bags under his blue eyes might as well aged him ten years - to his credit, thought Engineer, Scout would probably still retain his boyish looks even at that age.
"Man, hell no!" griped Scout, holding the door open to let the southerner nto his room. Pyro sat in a corner in full asbestos uniform, cutting fabric, and upon seeing his close friend, waved.
"Mmy Mmphiner!" The pyromaniac greeted. Engineer waved back, more attention on all the fabric, buttons, leather pieces, and denim piled across the floor of Scout's bedroom.
"Wow, ya'll sure have been working hard in here," Engineer commented, glancing over at Scout who was downing a can of Bonk. The Texan nearly lifted his goggles to indeed confirm that there was a growing pile of crushed cans in the corner of the room, near Scout's unmade bed.
"Mmout mpiid mmhs mpf mph mmork," Pyro explained, crawling over to a larger pile of fabric to dig out something. "Mmphis mpis mphor Mmpo!" Engineer stared wide-eyed at the regal cape Pyro revealed, stunned at the embroidery along the edges.
"Wow. That's actually amazing." This time Engineer did lift his goggles to his forehead, taking the edge of the cape in his free hand to examine the patterning.
"Mmher's mpy mputphit!" Pyro exclaimed, skipping over to Scout's closet and pulling out a long dark cloak on a hanger. He held it up to this body, and gestured over at Engineer for critique.
"That looks great Pyro. You sure are gonna scare some folks. Where did ya'll get the material for this?"
"Mostly from old uniforms and curtains left in storage," explained Scout, tossing his finished can of Bonk into the growing corner pile. "Had to dye Pyro's cloak though since nearly everything here is red...and don't ask me how we dyed it."
Engineer raised an eyebrow, settling the embroidered cape back on the floor.
"Right. Pyro, I have to say your sewing looks great."
"Mpout mmid mphe mphwing," Pyro explained, gesturing over to the youngest mercenary, who started shaking his head rapidly.
"Uh, no I didn't," bit out Scout, shooting Pyro a look that Engineer didn't fail to notice. The Texan held back a smile.
"No need to be embarrassed about knowing how to sew. Your wife will appreciate it," Engineer encouraged, patting Scout on the shoulder with his free hand. The younger man shot Engineer narrowed eyes and pulled his shoulder away.
"Gee Engie, I don't need two guys on this team tryna be my dad." Engineer rolled his eyes under his goggles and waved the script at Scout.
"Well, we have to practice our lines, so get use to it."
"All I gotta say is 'God bless' or whatever," grumbled Scout, snatching the script from Engineer and flipping through it. Engineer frowned.
"Did you even read it? You got more lines than that, son."
"Oh man," whined Scout, eyes widening as he swiftly read over some of what he would have to say. Engineer grabbed the script from him and rolled it up, shooting Scout a serious look.
"I'm sure Pyro can handle the costumes today. Get your script and meet me outside. I ain't gonna look like a fool in three days because you couldn't be bothered to learn your part."
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Day 6
Spy sighed, sitting at the kitchen table, half-finished pastry in front of him, and red-inked script next to the plate. He curled his gloved fingers tighter around his recently lit cigarette. Yesterday had actually been mildly successful, and he didn't have to stop anyone for any major corrections. Even today, at the final practice before heading to Boston, his team of makeshift actors managed to go through the entire play with no one needing to look at their lines. Sure, there were some verbal...tics, but that was what you were going to get with six days of practice and inexperienced mercenaries.
The Frenchman had yet to see the finalized costumes, as Scout claimed they weren't ready. Which meant that Spy had to actually trust Scout to have not screwed up - something the double agent was very weary of doing regardless of circumstances. For this wasn't just Scout and his mother's relationship on the line...it was Spy's dreams too.
Tomorrow would be the day that the mercenary made his directing debut, a passion he harbored since high school, second only to murder and espionage.
He blew out smoke, leaning back into his chair. If his team screwed up this big moment for him...there would be blood (or in Sniper's case, piss).
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Yes this arc is a bit longer that usual, but next chapter is the last. Scout's referring to Soldier trying to marry his mom as the other guy on the team trying to be his dad (not RED Spy, who's after BLU Scout's ma). Spy dreams to be a director - I feel like this fic just keeps getting wackier and wackier.