A/N: I wonder if I can play a little Christmas tune on your heartstrings with this chapter... Probably not.

Marseilles, France, Christmas Eve, 1939

"Ow!"

"Hold still, Pré-Far!"

"But it hurts!"

"Well if you squirm, it will only hurt longer. Alright?"

The boy nodded and soon felt the strong, burning pain once more as his sister pressed the alcohol-drenched cotton ball against the deep cut on his knee. The small white fibers were sticking out of the loose skin surrounding the bleeding wound. As his sister plucked out the small strings out from under the skin, the boy fidgeted again.

"Are you done yet?" He asked, hissing in pain. His sister Lorraine grabbed a clean sheet of gauze. She began wrapping his knee while looking at her brother. Her big, midnight-blue eyes seemed to pierce his soul, and showed great disappointment.

"Why do you insist on getting into fights, Pré-Far?" She asked. The boy crossed his arms stubbornly.

"Hugo called me a dirty refugee again. He told me my clothes were cheap. He told me that I'm nothing more than a common peasant, now that my uncle lost his textile factory!"

"So you hit him?" She asked, fixing up his bandages. "And then you got into a fistfight, tumbled down a hill, landed on a pile of broken bottles and came back home looking like a man who fought with a kitchen knife and lost?" She placed the leftover bandages inside the small wooden first-aid case, which she pushed under the chair her brother was sitting on. He bowed his head down as his sister fixed the pant leg of his trousers over his wound.

"You can't get into fights like that! You could get badly injured…again!"

"But… he called me poor!"

"That is no reason to-!"

"She said that our mother didn't come to Marseilles because she doesn't love us, and-!"

"That is complete nonsense. That boy needs to be taught some manners… but not by you."

She scolded her younger brother with a long, penetrating gaze that made him look away from her. He looked around the modest home they were in, the small wooden cottage near the bay. The house was surrounded by large trees, sprinkled with delicate snow. Their large crowns were clearly visible from the immaculately clean window the young girl was standing near. She ran her long fingers across the wooden paneling on the wall. The house itself was built on a stone foundation, but their rich uncle insisted on keeping the interior rustic and minimalistic. The floorboards were made out of finest oak, and every footstep a person made upon them resulted in a deafening echo. Adrien stepped off the stool and walked up to his sister. The house was unusually empty. His uncle and aunt had gone to a Christmas party to discuss business with some wealthy men, leaving the two children alone. This was the first Christmas Adrien would spend without his mother.

The first one of many.

"You know what else he told me?" Adrien asked as his sister looked back at him, a warm smile appearing on her tired, heart-shaped face. His head bowed down, but he was still looking at her with a puzzled expression.

"He told me you lied to me. He told me that the Nazis would come here for sure. He said that Paris won't be enough for them… Is… is that true?"

Her midnight-blue eyes widened, making her deep purple eye bags smoothen themselves out.

"No! No, that's not true!" She said determinedly, lowering herself down to his height and placing her delicate palms on his shoulders. She instructed him to look at her. Her thin lips stretched into a comforting expression, trying to force a smile out of her brother as well.

"Do not fret, Pré-Far," she said, "Marseilles is safe."

This did not calm the boy. He continued to look at her with his icy-blue eyes. Lorraine brushed a tuft of his jet-black hair over his stretched-out oval face.

"We are in a war, Lorraine…"

She shook her head at the boy.

"That is a tragedy, I know. But the bottom line is, nothing will happen here. Nothing will happen to you, because I won't let anything happen to you." She kissed the boy on his forehead, which made him uneasy as he quickly pushed her away from him. She chuckled.

"I promise we're safe."

The boy looked around the house again, his sister still holding his shoulders tightly. This Christmas was different. They had no tree, no presents, and no Christmas feast. His mother wasn't with them. Instead, she was stuck in Paris until further notice. His aunt and uncle abandoned them for the night, barely saying goodbye on the way out. For once, the two were completely alone. He listened but couldn't hear music. He watched but couldn't see the Christmas décor. It did not feel like Christmas at all.

"This is the worst Christmas ever," he said, rubbing his black eye.

"Oh, come on now. It can't be the worst!" Lorraine insisted.

"It is! We don't have presents or anything!"

Lorraine grinned at her brother.

"Oh, come now. Christmas isn't about presents! It's about joy, love, celebration…" She giggled. "If you want, I can give you my boots!"

Adrien looked at his sister's footwear; old, tattered boots that once belonged to their father. They were too big for her, and she barely walked in them. It was a miracle she walked from Paris to here in them. The soles had holes in them and the lacquered finish had turned matte with age and wear-and-tear. Still, his sister never removed the boots from her feet, as they represented the last connection that she had with her father. Adrien scoffed.

"It will be a cold day in hell before I wear them."

"Language!" Lorraine nagged, standing up. "Presents are not that important anyway, Pré-Far!" She announced.

"We don't even have food, and-!"

"Sure we do! We have fruit, and flour, and eggs, and chocolate, and butter, and-!"

"Those are ingredients! It isn't food!" Shouted the now annoyed Adrien. His sister shook her head and clucked her tongue several times.

"Of course it's food! I can make you something if you like…" She cooed at him, tussling his messy hair. He moved away from her and looked around the cold house. It didn't smell of pine, there weren't tiny green pricks scattered around the floor. There were no golden orbs hung around a large festive centerpiece in the middle of the room. This house needed something. It needed joy, color. The room was bleak and bitter, it reminded him of just another Monday in this new city. He looked at his sister, a tear forming in the corner of his eye.

"We don't even have a Christmas tree."

Unexpectedly, Lorraine snapped her fingers and tossed back her frizzy, out-of-control chestnut hair with a laud cackle.

"That's where you're wrong, Pré-Far!"

She grabbed him firmly by the wrist and rushed him in front the smudged window. She grasped the smooth, wooden handle of the window and opened it. The view stretched out across the Marseilles Bay, across the lush, snow dusted, evergreen trees. She pointed at the highest tree she could set her eyes upon. Adrien followed the direction of her long index finger.

"See that tree, Pré-Far?" She asked. The young boy nodded, narrowing his eyes in skeptical confusion.

"That's our tree."

Her younger brother snorted and rolled his eyes.

"That isn't a tree."

"That's a perfect tree. Look, Pré-Far. It has a trunk and leaves and-..."

"That's not what I meant! It's not a Christmas tree!" He said crossly. He stomped his foot against the floorboards, half expecting an angry response from Lorraine. Instead, she smiled.

"Of course it is! Where does it say that a tree has to be indoors? Nowhere! A perfect tree doesn't need decorations. Look at it!" She pointed at it once more. "See those delicate little snowflakes scattered across it? They look like the finest platinum. Now tell me who else has platinum Christmas ornaments."

"It's not even our tree!"

"Yes it is!"

"How?" Adrien asked, raising his eyebrow. "You claimed it, but that doesn't mean that it belongs to us." He looked at this sad excuse for a tree with a melancholic expression. When they were in Paris, they had a tree. They had a tree that his mother bought with her own money. It had extraordinary decorations, large ornaments of gold and scarlet. And on top, there would stand a large five-legged piece, extravagant and magnificent, to suit their former lifestyle. He missed that ornament so very much.

"It doesn't even have a star."

Lorraine blinked once at her spoiled brother. She grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him closer to the open window. She adjusted him, moving from left to right. He found this action of hers annoying.

"Stop it, Lorraine!" He said loudly. His sister continued to squint.

"Almost…"

A large, gleaming smile came across her face, and it made her look more relaxed than ever before. Without saying a word, she nodded to Adrien, instructing him to look at the tree once again.

"It's all about the way you look at it, Pré-Far."

By that time, they were squatting on the far left of the window. His sister moved him about a foot away from their original location. She kneeled by his side and chuckled at his bemused expression, his eyes opened wide and his lower jaw plummeting towards the floor.

From that particular angle, it seemed like the Northern Star had settled on the high branches. It shined brilliantly; it was brighter than any Christmas light. The blanket of snow covering the tree turned impeccably white. Adrien had to close up his eyes, disturbed by the brightness. Lorraine brought her brother closer to her.

"We have the best tree in town, Pré-Far."

Her brother nodded.

"The best in the world…" he suddenly turned back to her; "But as soon as I move an inch away, it will all go away."

"Perhaps." His sister continued to look at the plain yet remarkable beauty of their outdoor Christmas tree. "But you have to learn to keep that image. You have to learn how to keep all the finest things in life." She suddenly turned to him, her expression serious and developing a slight frown.

"You need to claim the world, Pré-Far. Everything, beyond the fields and across the oceans. You have to defend yourself. The next time Hugo picks at you… Get him in the back next time! Don't be a pushover, Pré-Far. Make the best of the world. Wear the finest suits, eat the finest foods, handle the finest arms if you must handle them at all!"

Lorraine took a deep breath, realizing that her face was turning beet red from that speech. Adrien was staring into her deep blue eyes with anticipation.

"I will not always be there to protect you. Mother won't be coming soon. You have to learn to stay out of trouble but still get what you desire."

Adrien blinked.

"Did Philippe tell you that? That man from the Resistance you met that one time at the market?"

She blushed once more, though this time not because of the adrenaline rush. She seemed embarrassed.

"You know what?" She quickly changed the subject; "I think there might be some fruitcake in the kitchen. I'll go get it…" She stood up and turned around. "That star looks good enough to wish upon, Pré-Far."

Adrien chuckled at her.

"You like Philippe, don't you?"

"Go on now!" She said, avoiding eye-contact with her brother who knew too much of her love life. "Make a wish, brother."

Adrien looked at the beaming star once again. It twinkled in the dark, propped up on an evergreen statue. It flickered in the night, like a candle in the wind. Adrien grasped the windowpane and leaned forward. He felt the cold air against his fresh shiner, against his pale face. He smiled at the star.

"I wish mother were here."

As he turned around, he saw his sister, standing completely still. She was standing near the kitchen door, her right hand grabbing the doorframe. Her grasped was becoming tighter and tighter still. She didn't turn around, but Adrien could imagine tears coming down her eye bags, sliding down her cheeks.

"Perhaps…" Her voice suddenly broke into a weep; "Perhaps next year."

But there was no next year.

"Next week, I found out that my mother had died. She was shot in the head during a riot. Soon after, Marseilles was occupied and bombed. Lorraine and I hid in our uncle's basement. I remember telling her that she broke her promise, how she lied to me. I… I didn't speak to her at all after that. She died six months after."

The Spy lit up another cigarette and released a puff of smoke. The other mercenaries watched him in silence.

"'I hate you'. My last words to my sister were 'I hate you'. I only hated her for trying to protect me, for trying to shelter me. She tried to give me hope." He looked back up at the men, staring at him with interest.

"I understand that it wasn't the worst Christmas I could have had. After that, I spent my Christmases alone…I never wanted to tell anybody about this. It… It wasn't my worst Christmas, but to me… it was my last."

That was supposed to be the end of that. Adrien wanted the entire issue to be done with. But his colleagues were still looking. They felt odd for the conniving Frenchman. They felt sorry for him. Adrien could feel it. Though he was sitting comfortably in his chair, he felt as if he were sitting on a bed of nails. He hated being felt sorry for. The fifteen eyes penetrated his very soul to the point where it was unbearable to be in the same room with them. He felt ill. He needed to escape, quickly. Adrien's heart began racing, and his face was turning red under his balaclava. The moment of sorrow lasted merely two seconds, but it felt like a decade. With haste, Adrien cloaked himself and vanished into thin air. The other mercenaries stared in the direction of his footsteps that echoed through the room.

Everything was said. The Soldier huffed and the Medic began humming a nervous tune.

"Well," the Demoman said finally; "That was depressing."

"Whose dumb idea was dis, anyway?" Asked the Scout.

Getting the alcohol was a good idea.

No, scratch that; getting the liquor was a great idea.

The Sniper needed to get out of that drab room. He needed to get his mind off the depressing tales of his colleagues. He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. He grabbed three beers in one hand. They were extremely cold; the mist was condensing on the dark glass. It developed a film of small droplets. The marksman shut the refrigerator door with his foot and sighed, looking upwards.

"Oi know yer in here, Spook," he said, turning towards the kitchen sink. "That watch can hoide you, but it can't hoide yer fancy cigarette smoke."

Almost instantaneously, the Frenchman's figure appeared next to the cluttered sink. He ticked away some ashes off his cancer stick. The silent charred flames made their up across the thin, white paper. They turned it brown, bit by bit. Soon, the paper would crumble, and leave only soot and dust behind. Such was life. In the end, nothing remained.

The Frenchman looked towards the marksman. His eyes were slightly red, and not only because of the smoke that whipped through the air. Still, he didn't say anything. He remained calm, stoic as always. He did mutter out one sentence, one proof that he was still thinking about the subject.

"That nickname she gave me… Pré-Far… It was short for précieux fardeau."

"Wot, um…" the Sniper choked on a word he tried to pronounce; "Wot's that mean?"

The sly assassin looked away from the Australian and dropped the cigarette in the sink, ending its existence forever.

"Precious burden."

He chuckled painfully. "I never understood why she called me a burden, precious or not… but now it's clear. And every day, it gets a little bit clearer."

The Sniper walked up to the Frenchman, leaving two of the beers on the small table behind him. He gave the third one to the Spy. Normally, the Frenchman would be greatly insulted if he was offered such a plain, low-class beverage. This time, it did not bother him. He flipped the cap off the bottle's neck with a swift movement of his thumb. Quite soon, he was guzzling down the light brown liquid like it was the nectar of the gods. The Sniper looked at him, his lips pressed together tightly. As the Spy finally finished his drinking session halfway through the bottle, he carefully placed it near the sink, somewhat disgusted by the bitter taste it left along his throat.

"I remembered her," he finally said; "I remembered her face."

"Hm."

"You know, Mundy, I… I never wanted to think about her. It was… too painful. I spent all of my Christmases alone, drinking. I never wanted to spend the evening with my friends, colleagues, not even the BLU Scout's mother."

With a sigh, the Spy clutched his head, leaning over the sink and crutching his torso with his elbows.

"I love her too much to let her see me like this. I love her too much to ruin her Christmas."

The Australian gingerly placed the palm of his gloved hand on Spy's shoulder, to which he reacted by jerking it away instantaneously.

"I do not want your pity, bushman!" He snapped. "I have not stooped that low yet."

"Oi'm not pitying you, Spook," said the Sniper; "Oi'm just… here."

A few drops of water dripped down the faucet and onto the cigarette resting on the plates in the kitchen sink. The Frenchman's eyes observed every drop that splattered into a million smaller drops. The Spy's balaclava was suddenly starting to itch. He tugged at it, trying to make it more comfortable.

"You still miss her, do you?" Asked the Sniper, tilting his head to the side.

"After all this toime?"

His eyes met with the Frenchman's. They were still hazy. The Spy's response was delayed with a sigh, and when he presented it, the room seemed slightly darker.

"Always."

"If… if it's any consolation…" Mundy began, placing his hands into his pockets; "Oi'm sure she'd be proud of wot you've become."

The Spy nodded once and turned his head away.

"Do you think she forgave me?"

"Oi… Oi suppose so. She seems the type."

"Yes…" the Spy said, looking at the small crack on the wall; "Yes, she does."

The Spy heard the marksman pick up the two bottles of beer. The door closed behind him quite loudly. He didn't need his pity. He didn't want to be sympathized. His gaze made its way up to the skylight above him. As he saw him, his mouth opened slightly in disbelief.

There shined a single star. It flickered quickly. Its gleam shined across the dark sky, making all other celestial bodies look small and meaningless in comparison. It wasn't the same star. It couldn't have been the same star…could it?

Maybe this was a sign, the Spy thought. Maybe this was a sign for him to stop regretting what he had done as a foolish child. Or maybe this star was there coincidentally. Maybe it wasn't supposed to mean anything. But at that point, it did. It meant everything and so much more.

Res, non verba.

He didn't know where he first heard that Latin phrase. But the more he thought about it, staring deep into the sky, the more it made sense. He remembered the bombing, the fright and desperation. He remembered the feel of his sister's blouse as he was clutching it. She prayed for him. She prayed that he would make it out alive. Though the last words she had heard from him were words of hatred, she wasn't cross. She wasn't even sad about it after a while. Spy remembered Lorraine hastily dragging him from the streets at the sight of the first airplane in the distance. She grabbed his wrist; she called him Pré-Far once more.

At that point, it was clear.

The realization was marvelous.

It was a Christmas miracle brought in the form of a twinkling star.

"She forgave me…" he muttered to himself. "She must have…"

"Spook?" The marksman appeared from out of nowhere. "Some blokes wont to get started on drinking heavier stuff, would you moind grabbin' a few bottles and-?"

Mundy was looking at the Spy, looking up into the sky, wistfully. And yet, there as a slight smile plastered on his masked face. The slight, reserved smile could hardly be called a smile, but it was a change from the mercenary's usual, steely expression. He now looked strange, emotional. He looked almost human. Mundy did not find that comfortable one bit.

"Uh… you alroight, Spook?" he asked.

"Oh…" The Spy looked around the filthy kitchen, brushing away something from the corner of his eye. He seemed slightly taken aback with the fact that his colleague was observing him.

"I'm quite alright. Now come on," he said, rushing to the liquor cabinet. "I want to start drinking already."

"Eh?" The Sniper scratched his head in a puzzled manner. As the Spy fidgeted around the lock on the cabinet like a curious feline, the Sniper narrowed his eyes at the stars, scattered across the sky. They seemed smaller than before. They weren't even as bright. But then, the sharpshooter noticed a strange thing about the stars;

They were falling from the sky.

"Look at that, Spook," said Mundy to the Spy, taking out a bottle of gin from the cabinet.

"It's snowing."

"Huh…" The Spy looked up into the sky once again. In his daze, he failed to see the delicate snowflakes forming a thin, crystal veil over the window. Soon, the Sniper heard his colleagues rushing out the base door, the Scout being the loudest of them, end expressing his surprise and delight with a string of curses. He looked towards the hall for some time. He barely budged when the Spy walked past him, leaving a half-empty bottle of gin behind him. He still had that minor smile on his face.

"Where ya goin', Spook?" The Sniper asked.

"I'm just…" the Spy said, not looking at the sharpshooter, "I'm going to get my boots."

Sniper didn't say anything. He watched the Frenchman walk through the narrow hallway and slowly disappear behind the wall. The Spy didn't bother to cloak this time. Whatever he was thinking about earlier must've occupied him completely, Sniper mused. Hopefully he won't be this absent-minded in tomorrow's battle.

"Oh, and Mundy?"

The Sniper listened closely to the familiar, slightly reticent voice, coming from the end of the corridor.

"Thank you."

The marksman didn't respond. Instead, he followed his colleague. Somebody should be there for him at this time of year, he thought. Why not his teammates?

Their footsteps were slow and silent.