A/N: A special thanks goes to Tanwyn for helping me hack this chapter into shape.

CHAPTER V: ANDROMEDA, URSA MINOR

2:30 AM.

2:30 AM, and Spy didn't know what to do.

He backed away from Scout's bed, stumbling over discarded laundry, and flattened himself against the wall. He forgot, he forgot everything. Scout saved him. Scout admired him. Scout loved Christine. Scout was his son. His son. But Scout hated him. Scout annoyed him. Scout needed to be taught a lesson. He was crass and annoying and liked him? Saved him?

Spy's fist clenched. Scout was his enemy, the child he never wanted, an obnoxious piece of sh*t-

No! He didn't- Scout wasn't-

His thoughts threw themselves at each other, clawing for dominance. They flickered through his mind: The look of hate in Scout's eyes, the love for Christine in his voice, The glee Spy felt as he chose insults, his pride in his only son, the yawning pit of dread that stretched behind him, the pit he'd fall into if he made the wrong move. But he already did, he abused his son, and he was sliding into the pit, sinking father, farther, farther-

Spy's fingers dug into his arm as he shut his eyes and slowed his breaths. Grabbing his emotions, he wrenched them back into place. He was fine. He was in control. He could handle himself.

But, no matter what he told himself, his world had been thrown off its axis, and he couldn't tell what to do. Should he blackmail Scout? Scout was too selfless to blackmail. Should he walk away and accept his mistakes? He didn't make a mistake, it was that irritating brat who thought he was better than him. Who cared if Scout loved Christine and bought her a house and admired him and- and- d*mn it.

Moral quandaries were the last thing he'd ever think about when working, and he was running out of time. How much time did he have to forge evidence? Not much, but it'd be enough if he was quick, if he left right now!

Spy moved a leg. Yet the pricking pain, the pain of his conscience demanded that he stop, please, just stop and think about what he was doing. He halted, his foot dangling above the ground.

He set it down, rolling his eyes. He stepped forward again only to get the same result of Dangling Foot.

Fine. He would address his prickly little conscience, and then he'd get back to business. Spy leaned against the wall, closing his eyes, folding his fingers together.

In the middle of finding a way to blackmail Scout, he remembered that Scout periodically saved him from drawn-out deaths, bought Christine a house with his own money, and loved his mother dearly. This aroused affectionate, paternal instincts in Spy that had gone dormant for some time.

Scout was a target. Feelings and attachments did not matter. He had to keep his goal in mind: keeping the other mercenaries from finding out about the fight. But what was so wrong about the fight anyway-

Spy's eyes widened.

No, he didn't say…

But he did say…

Spy told Scout that his mother didn't love him. He called her a liar. He said that about Christine.

He might be angry with Scout, but he insulted Christine's honor, and that was something so awful that he better have a logical, justified reason to say it.

And he did! He put in a long hard day of killing BLU and was almost tortured by their Medic. And then Scout came along and bragged about his victories to Spy's face, purposefully pushing him over the edge, tormenting him, forcing him to retaliate. He said that what Spy did was for nothing! The little sh*t deserved to hear that his mother didn't… his mother…

Spy grimaced.

Scout fought on the front lines, far from where Spy worked that day. How would he know how Spy contributed? He claimed that Heavy was proud of him too, and from the way Scout said it, with that solemn tone so different from how he usually spoke, it was clear he hadn't made it up.

Scout did fight well today, despite the mistakes he made, despite what Spy believed. But why'd he have to be so d*mn irritating? Why couldn't he just leave Spy alone?

A memory flickered through his mind, a memory of blue eyes brimming with tears.

Scout's insecurity ran deep. He might parade himself around like he was a shining example to live up to, but he did it to convince himself as much as other people. It would be absurd for him to keep quiet. And he loved to talk, he lived to talk. Of course he'd ramble to the only person still left on the base.

But Scout should have known Spy was too tired to hear about his stupid killstreak. He loved to chatter when Spy didn't want to hear it, and the kid just wouldn't. Shut. Up.

Right?

Spy raised an eyebrow, rubbing a finger on his chin. Didn't Scout lack some social awareness? He was excited too, it was plausible that he was distracted and missed the signs of Spy's weariness. Yes, that sounded possible. Very possible. He was very possibly…

Something dreadful crept up his spine, ready to pull Spy down, whispering words of guilt and shame, but he shook it off and held his head high. Scout wasn't innocent. Scout was his enemy, remember? Oh, Scout might have praised him, and maybe he saved Spy sometimes, but you know what? None of that counted. He was insincere and sleep deprived. In reality, he hated Spy. And how did Spy know that?

Scout gave Spy leftover fried chicken once, for example. Leftovers were beneath Spy, but leftover fried chicken was a step lower than everything else. It was cold, overly salty, and so greasy! Who would want to eat that crap? That wasn't Scout being nice; that was Scout being passive-aggressive. Like when he saved a seat for Spy. The seat between a shouting Soldier and an overflowing trash bin. Sometimes Scout wasn't subtle either. That little jack*ss made fun of his accent last week! How dare he! And-

As Spy listened to the thoughts rattling inside his mind, he pinched the bridge of his nose, his nausea growing by the second.

His reasons were irrational, childish, ill-thought one thing, Scout loved fried chicken, prized it like it was a gift from God himself. If Scout went out of his way to offer it to Spy, he intended it as a gift. Yes, everyone knew Spy was particular about what he ate. But every time he skipped the fried chicken, Scout tried to get him to try some each time, convinced he'd change his mind if he just had the smallest nibble.

Secondly, the saved seat. Scout did save the worst possible seat, but Scout probably didn't put much thought into the location. Besides, passive-aggressiveness was a fine art Scout lacked the subtlety for. If he didn't like you, he'd tell you to your face.

There were times Scout intentionally hurt him. Insults, jeers, mean-spirited pranks, but… he liked Spy, asking him how he should dress to impress Ms. Pauling, complimenting the coq au vin made for dinner… rambling at 2 in the morning about how much he admired him, rarely stopping for breath, too tired to lie. Besides, when Scout jeered at him… half the time he was getting back at Spy for insulting him first. And perhaps he started the other fights because Spy… Spy never apologized for anything he said.

Did Spy have any good reason to think Scout was an enemy? Was there any justification for claiming his mother didn't love him? Could he even justify beating Scout up and mocking him?

Spy waited for something to occur to him. But nothing did, the depths of his memory unyielding.

There was no reason to think Scout hated him.

And that meant…

That meant Spy…

Oh, no, it couldn't, couldn't really be true…

But it was true. Spy's stomach sank down as his mind, ruthless and precise, told him what he should have known the whole time.

Spy was wrong.

Scout was his son, not his enemy.

Spy told Scout that his mother didn't love him, said that no one could ever love him, and physically assaulted him because Spy held onto petty grudges. Petty bullsh*t. There was no better reason. There was no other reason.

Spy could have learned from the other times he deluded himself. He snapped at his son before only to remember that Scout wasn't as horrible as he assumed. He tried to change, tried to be kinder, tried to put up with Scout's shortcomings. Of course, when it came to the most important things in life, Spy never tried hard enough. He made half-*ssed attempts and eventually, when things got a little too difficult, he told himself, "Oh! I've done well enough! Now I can sh*t the bed again!" He told himself it wasn't worth the effort to be kind to Scout, that he was a jack*ss unworthy of his time, shrugging off the itch that he was doing something wrong.

And now, in this latest lapse in judgment, he'd gone farther than ever before.

Sinking his head into his hands, Spy groaned. He shouldn't have lost his temper. He shouldn't have been so immature, so merciless, so certain. But he made his choices, and now he had to make amends and clean up the mess.

It was daunting. Somehow.

Cleaning up his f***ups was just routine at this point in life, no?

He knew what to do: go back to his room, wait for everyone to wake up, and then he'd tell the team what happened. Tell them everything, from the moment he walked back to the base to the moment Scout knocked him out. He'd present it factually, never persuading them that he was somehow the victim.

Ha. As if he'd look like a victim when Scout would be right there, with all his wounds on display.

Spy glanced at Scout, flinched, and looked away.

The team, after hearing the story, would demand some sort of recompense for harming Scout. Teammates argued and fought each other all the time, but what Spy did crossed not one, but several lines. What would they do? Revoke teleporter use? Force him to take out the trash for a few weeks? Put him on dish duty for months?

He didn't care. Whatever they'd do wouldn't be enough.

Spy shuddered. Oh, if his team knew what he'd done to people he claimed to care about, allies, friends, lovers, Christine, they'd know he deserved no forgiveness. He didn't deserve a seat at the table, he didn't deserve concerned glances when he got upset and tried hiding it, and he didn't deserve their attempts at friendship that he coldly shrugged off. He didn't deserve anything, not even their smallest kindnesses. All his deeds put together warranted a punishment far worse than anything they could possibly do to him.

Christine believed otherwise, but she didn't understand. She wasn't there when that little girl's face blanched as she kneeled, her finger's prodding at the knife in her mother's back. She didn't know what it was like to make friends with so many targets only to murder them. She never knew about that dictator he killed, the one whose death left a power vacuum, sending the country into a bloody civil war.

His gaze falling to the slumbering Scout, Spy shook his head, breaking out of his reverie. He needed to stop wallowing. He focused so much on himself that he was forgetting the most important thing: he had to apologize to his son. He didn't want to do it. He knew whatever Scout would say was going to hurt. But he couldn't accept his cowardice any longer.

Yes.

This was it. This was what he would do.

Maybe Spy couldn't make up for every sin he committed, but at least he could for this one.

Spy sighed, listening to the sound linger and blend into the thick silence of the night. Savoring the brief sense of peace his mind allowed him, Spy let his eyes wander around the room. The shady silhouettes of baseball players stood in their posters, frozen in time. Moonlight from the window gilded the slim lines of a cobweb stretching between the shades, wavering and dancing in a draft.

Why did Scout leave that thing up there? Didn't he know to dust his room?

Maybe he had a liking for spiders.

Spy picked the book up, letting it flop open in his hands. The sock stuffed in it slid towards the spine, revealing doodles of webs in the margins. A few pages slid out as well, and he gently pushed them back into place. Spy hadn't seen any other books laying around besides this ragged little thing.

Why did Scout only own a children's book and some magazines? Didn't he-

Ah. Right. Scout couldn't read much else.

Sometimes, when Scout tried to piss Spy off and get his attention, he'd pull whatever book Spy was reading out of his hands. The kid would smirk at him, accuse him of reading "some girly romance novel", laugh, and read aloud. He'd start, stop to puzzle over the pronunciation of a word, start again, stop, squint, stutter out a word, and begin again. He wouldn't just stop at a more challenging word like "euphoria", no, he'd even struggle to parse words like "shrieking" and "conversation". He'd sneer at the book, toss it back to Spy, and move on.

The book lay weakly in Spy's hands, its spine cracking in half.

When Spy visited Christine, she'd worry over how poorly Scout was doing in school. He was failing fifth grade. He was failing eighth grade. He was going to fail eighth grade again. He was suspended from high school. The only class he did well in was gym. He was failing. How was he going to get accepted into college? How was he going to get a good job and stay out of poverty? He was failing. She didn't know what to do. She didn't have money for a tutor. His brothers didn't have time to teach him. She had to stay at work, she had to keep the lights on and the water running. She was failing her son. He was going to fail.

Failure.

"I'm just a stupid little failure! Worst piece of sh*t on the team. A f***in' stupid—"

Spy grimaced. Did Scout fear being a failure to his team? Or was it something he feared his whole life? A life of being an underdog, constantly measured against others, always told he wasn't good enough? His mother's love wasn't enough to give him the confidence he needed to believe in himself.

If only someone was there to give Scout the help he needed. If only Spy had-

Pages fluttered as the book landed on the dresser, sliding a few inches.

Silly. It was silly. Spy couldn't have made Scout's life any better. He wasn't a teacher. And Scout probably had a learning disability. Spy knew almost nothing about those. What should he suppose he had the ability to make a difference? Why should he blame himself for not helping?

Spy shivered, all the same.

It was the cold. It was far too cold in this room, too cold for a summer's night.

Scout shifted in his sleep, as oblivious to the room temperature as he was to Spy.

Why wasn't he shivering? His bedsheets were thin. Low thread count, judging by the texture. Cheap. Spy wouldn't sleep under sheets like that if they were the last bedsheets on earth.

His shirt, too, was thin and cheap. Full of holes, with stray threads trailing over his arms like mouse tails. It was a hand-me-down, judging by the tatters and stains. A shirt that old didn't deserve to be worn, especially since it once belonged to someone else

Well, it was more likely that it was worn by several people, considering Scout had seven older brothers.

Which of them could it have been? Jesse? Bobby? Franky? Spy had no idea. He did know that Franky and Jesse didn't care whether their shirts had holes in them, or if said shirt was even clean. Edward did care about his appearance, but he was too violent to keep his clothes from ripping in a fight. Any of the seven brothers were candidates for previous owners, however. All of them got into fights.

Seven brothers. Seven brothers who skipped school and stole food and smashed windows and raised hell. They did what they wanted and said what they wanted, regardless of consequences. There was no other family Scout could have come from, not with the way he casually insulted his teammates on a regular basis.

Christine could never keep them all in line.

And…

…And neither could Spy, because Scout and her other children weren't his problem either! Oh, sure, if he'd taken up the role of their father, he would have disciplined them and served as an example for them to follow, but they weren't his children; why would they listen to him?

Something twinged in his chest.

Spy stared down at the floor. There was a knot in the floorboards here, and there was a magazine under the bed, and Scout was-

This magazine was upside down, and this one was covered by a sock, and Scout would have listened-

There was a mess everywhere, Scout's life was a mess, and that was Spy's fault, all his fault. He could have taught him how to read, how to behave, how much he was loved, but it was too late, because Spy was a f***ing coward who was scared of fatherhood and the consequences of his actions.

Spy's lips curled into a snarl. What a fool he was for getting emotional. The past was past, no matter how much he reasoned, no matter how much it hurt his heart. He refused to be Scout's father for 23 years, and he had to accept that choice.

At least Scout didn't need a father now. He was an adult, even though Spy always thought of him as a child. He was able to take care of himself well enough. He wouldn't want a father now.

Spy's gaze fell back on Scout.

His son lay on his side, clutching a pillow to his chest. His bedsheets, a chaotic whirl of ripples, only came up to his waist, leaving him exposed to the night air. The dark marks of bruises and scrapes spotted and stained his skin, and his black eye puffing out. Scout's lips were set in an uneasy frown.

He looked… pitiful.

Part of Spy wanted to pull a comforter over him, even though that would wake him up. In his mind's eye, Scout lashed out, yelling that he wasn't cold and he was tougher than everyone else.

Scout hated to admit that he needed help. He buried any vulnerability under a delusional facade of bravado, and protected it with a shield of incredulous anger. When Demo offered to blow up a Mini-sentry for him, Scout scowled and ran to shoot the sentry down, dying in the process. When Sniper asked why he was sulking, Scout yelled that he was fine, he didn't need any of their help anyway.

Spy shook his head. Scout wasn't nearly as confident and proud as he pretended to be, and you didn't have to see him cry to know that. He needed someone to be there for him. He needed someone to love him. Someone to remind him that he wasn't a failure, and he should be proud of what he accomplished.

Scout needed his father.

As Scout slumbered, Spy reached out, just to brush his fingers against Scout's shoulder, a touch so light that his son would not wake.

But Spy froze.

He drew his hand back.

He couldn't touch his son. He made a promise.

He crossed his arms, tucking his errant hand against his chest.

He might love Scout, but that didn't mean Scout loved him. Scout would never love him, never want him as a father, never never never.

What was he going to do? Tell Scout he was his father? Tell him he loved him and was proud of him? What good would any of that do? Right, right, Scout would tell Spy that he loved him too, Scout would hug him, and then, they'd fly off to Boston to see Christine, and they'd be a big happy family, and everything would be a naive, childish fantasy only a braindead idiot would believe in.

Spy shuddered.

If he told Scout the truth, his son would stare at him. Slap him. Maybe deck him. And Scout would say, or shout, that he hated Spy. He wasn't his real father. He never wanted to see him again. He could never unsay that Scout was a f***ing disappointment. He could never make up for neglecting him for 23 years. He would tell Spy that he was unforgivable. Beyond mercy.

Spy had done many unforgivable things in his life. Failing to love his son properly was just something else to add to the list. And even if there was some reality where Scout forgave him, wouldn't he just fail his son again? He already slid into assaulting him. Attempting fatherhood was a hopeless venture that would only end in Spy adding to his son's suffering.

There was nothing he could do. He ought to give up and save what dignity he still had.

Spy turned to leave, but his feet stayed locked in place, refusing to move.

He turned back to his son, who looked so troubled as he slept.

He couldn't tell Scout the truth.

And yet…

And yet that part of his heart that pricked him, the part that believed in lies like "I'm sorry", "I love you", and "I forgive you", the part that ached and yearned for tenderness, the part that never stopped hoping for the best, no matter what he did…

It said he had to do something. He had to be there for his son. He had to try.

He couldn't help but listen to that part.

Yet he couldn't avoid his son's scathing rejection, or the inevitability of failure.

Spy stepped around the bed, weaving through the clutter, and drew close to the window. The stars glimmered, distant, impassive jewels, moving slower than the eye could see. As he pressed up to the glass and peered into infinite night, Spy spotted twin trails of three stars.

Andromeda, chained to a rock, sacrificed to a monster as payment for her mother's sin. She was eventually saved by Perseus, but Spy wondered how she felt on that shore, waiting for death, if she asked whether her mother could have tried harder. Couldn't her mother intervene and ask a hero to kill the monster and save her daughter? At the very least, couldn't Cassiopeia stay by her side, comforting her, making the pain easier to bear?

Spy tilted his head, looking farther up. Cassiopeia sat in her chair, asking no heroes to slay the monster, doing nothing to ease her daughter's pain. Eternally proud, eternally gazing into the mirror in her hand.

Behind her, Ursa Major circled. She was a better mother. She defended her cub for all time, no matter what happened, no matter how much it cost her. Her child was the center of her universe, and she wanted no less than his happiness.

The loving Ursa Major. The selfish Cassiopeia. And Spy was…

Spy was more like…

Guilt slithered in his gut, sharp and weighty.

Was Spy really so vain? Was it so selfish to never tell Scout, to spare him from the knowledge that someone like Spy was his father? Someone who could never change, could never better himself? A man doomed to turn on anyone who loved him?

But was Spy right to give up? Was he right to never try, to never make the slightest effort to be a father? Telling Scout the truth would be a nightmare, but he'd know whether or not it was the worst choice he could have made. He'd know if Scout would hate him forever, or only for a while.

Scout slumbered, peaceful, unaware of the turmoil in his father's heart. Spy stood in the darkness, wondering what to do, watching as the stars moved over Teufort in a silent, silver march.