CHAPTER IV: URSA MAJOR

Many months earlier...

Who on earth was making that racket at 2 in the morning?

Spy pressed up against a wall, blending into the shadows of the base's hallway, straining his ears. Someone upstairs was moving around and wasn't bothering to be quiet. Couldn't be Heavy; these steps were far too light. Heavy sounded like an elephant when he wasn't making an effort. Was that Soldier up there? No; he had a steady march rhythm to his movements despite his rejection from the American military, and again, the steps were too light. Besides that, once Soldier's head hit the pillow, he was dead asleep until 4. Alright, light steps, and perhaps the tempo of the footsteps was uncharacteristically slow, so it had to be...

Ah.

Scout slowly stumbled his way down the stairwell and into the moonlit hallway, his hair a spiky mess, his hands stuck out before him as if he was a zombie, either to feel for a light switch or find out where the walls were. His eyes were glazed by a haze of tiredness. He wore a tattered old shirt with a blue stripe across the midsection and an "M" on the front. Spy held himself still, his silhouette lost in the shadows of the hallway as Scout swayed on his feet in the dim moonlight. The boy must have come down to use the restroom.

The quickest path to the bathroom was down this very hall. Past Spy. The best plan was to wait and hope that the kid didn't bump into him on the way there, which was unlikely, considering how clumsy a lack of sleep made people. However, he could silently slip back to his room and wait until Scout went back upstairs.

As Spy thought to himself in the darkness, he had forgotten that his cigarette was still lit. It faintly glowed, a single luminous star in the black void of space.

Scout turned his head towards Spy and squinted, rubbing a hand at his eyes. He yawned.

"Spy? What… what the h*ll are you doin' up so late?"

After a moment, Spy sighed, and he flicked a switch on the wall. A lamp on the ceiling flickered on, casting a golden light on Scout, who gave a little cry of surprise as his hands flew up to cover his eyes.

"A better question is why you're busy waking up all of Teufort," Spy said.

"Whaaa…?"

"Why are you awake?"

Scout yawned again, rubbing at his eyes. "Oh. I'm up 'cause… Couldn't sleep."

"Quite obviously."

"Well, yeah, but… ugh. Feeling kind of… sore."

Spy smirked. "Being an annoyance is hard work, no?"

Scout's brow wrinkled with concentration. "Well... I guess, if... if you're puttin' effort into it."

"And you put a lot of effort into it today," Spy said in a more pointedly hostile tone.

The runner smiled as he swayed in place. "Y'know me, always puttin' effort... into what I do..."

Spy rolled his eyes. But, to be quite honest, he should have known better than to get back at Scout when he was like this. The boy was too sleep-deprived to pick up on any subtlety. People who hadn't slept in a long time were like drunkards in how their minds struggled to make sense of anything but the most basic of sentences.

Scout rubbed at his nose, which was twitching in a distinctively rabbitlike fashion. "You… shouldn't… smoke. Bad for your… breathy… lung things, y'know…?"

"Says the boy who drinks 12 cans of sugar and radiation every day."

Spy waited for Scout to respond, wondering if any of that jab had gotten through, but the silence dragged out as Scout leaned against the wall. It was half a minute before Spy realized that Scout had fallen asleep.

Well, that had gone better than he had hoped. He was free to walk away and sequester himself in his room. Or maybe… He could mess with Scout. Just a little. Spy softly snickered under his breath at the thought of the boy waking up and a stack of smelly, used underwear fished out from Soldier's room falling off his head. Christine would think that was funny. Well... no. It was more likely that she'd pity the child, and scold him for treating his son like that.

His son.

His enfant terrible.

Ever since Spy had gotten the DNA test results two months ago, he'd resolved to avoid Scout and never tell him who his father was. Letting the secret out would mean that Spy would be expected to let this kid into his life. To engage him in conversation, to praise him for his accomplishments, to pull him out of whatever messes he got himself into. To love him. And as far as he was concerned, Spy would never be forced to love anyone, especially not someone as immature and self-absorbed as that brat. Ignoring Scout when he rambled, pointing out the holes in his vain fantasies, and leaving him to face the consequences of his asinine choices was as far as Spy would go. Giving him the cold shoulder would teach him to be an adult for once in his life, though that was admittedly optimistic.

There was also the matter of how people would criticize Spy for leaving Scout with Christine. In his opinion, his son had turned out serviceably, if not admirably, and the runner would have probably become the exact same person he was today if Spy had raised him. Besides that, Spy had left Christine a sizable chunk of his savings every so often to help her cover the expenses of raising Scout and her seven other sons. Even if Spy had stayed around, he probably would have been rejected by Christine's children, who would've wanted their own fathers instead of a stranger. A stranger who had no idea how to raise children, or how to endear himself to the confusing little things. Really, he'd done the best he could.

Although, perhaps…

No, there was nothing better that he could have done.. Admittedly, there were times when he almost stayed with Christine for longer than a quick visit, times when lofty ideals trapped him in their snares. But, in due time, he always realized how foolish it would be to try to change things.

Spy looked for a moment at the still form of Scout, who was muttering in his sleep, and slowly, quietly walked back. He only made it a few steps before Scout jerked awake and looked wildly about him, his head flicking this way and that.

"Woah, where am I? Am I downstairs? I think I'm downstairs and yeah, that's the stairs, I'm totally down here. Spy? You're here too? What time is it? Is it morning yet? I'd love it if it was morning 'cause man, I am so tired and—

Spy sighed and kept walking. This wasn't worth his time, and he was not going to wait around for Scout to—

"Spy! Wait!"

Spy came to a stop, and slowly, ever so slowly, turned his head to give Scout a sharp, icy glare.

"Are you feelin' alright?" Scout asked, unfazed.

Spy narrowed his eyes. "Why would you care about how I feel?"

"Well, why wouldn't I?"

Spy blinked. Could the BLU Spy be impersonating Scout? Or—

Ah, right. Scout hadn't gotten any sleep. He didn't have the sense to remember that he hated Spy. He was in that vulnerable state that Spy used to pull and tease information out of people, or to gauge what they were really like. All their energy was focused into staying upright and keeping themselves from getting physically injured, so the sleep deprived person had issues identifying who their enemies were and forgot who wasn't supposed to know critical information. The true person hiding beneath the personas they put on came into view, their secret opinions, hopes, dreams, fears, and desires popping out of the subconscious like tulips in the spring.

But that innocent concern in Scout's voice was out of place. It didn't belong there. It shouldn't be there. It was entirely unnatural for him.

Spy realized that Scout was still waiting for him to answer, and cleared his throat.

"I'm, ah... doing well?"

"Oh." Scout nodded, running a hand through his messy hair. "Good to know."

Spy waited for the inevitable insult that was supposed to follow, but it never came, giving Scout's response an uncannily genuine air.

Why was Scout being so nice? Sure, he didn't remember Spy was an enemy, but Scout didn't care about anyone except himself. This "concern" that the boy was currently displaying was just another example of his vanity and pride.

And Spy was going to find proof of it.

"Why do you ask?" Spy said.

"Huh?" Scout's head jerked upright, as if he had just fallen asleep again.

"Why is it good that I'm doing alright?"

"Uh, what was… OH, right. I asked since, uh, you looked like sh*t when I found you today, after the last match, when your insides were outsides. I mean, Medic is great at healin' those big gaping wounds, but sometimes it ends up hurtin' later on. Like your body don't believe it's fine. Or you still remember how awful it felt to get hit by a rocket and have your guts explode out of you, an' you just keep thinkin' and thinkin' about it long after it's over." Scout shivered, falling silent.

Spy frowned as he remembered the boy coming across him, his suit spattered and stained with his own gore. At the time, he could only guess it was Scout's silhouette through the white blazing pain that blotted out his vision. The black shadow had quickly darted away, shouting something. Spy didn't remember anything else until he regained consciousness, the pain in his side fading to nothing, the Medigun's beams enveloping his body, Medic kneeling at his side and grinning eerily. The doctor had been gleefully poking Spy's intestines back into his abdomen so he'd heal properly.

Scout's response implied that he cared about Spy's wellbeing, but Spy believed that as much as he believed in Soldier's nonsense stories about World War II. The boy could have at least stayed and made some effort to help instead of running away, leaving him bleeding in the dust, just like every other time he found Spy losing his grip on life after a match. His sympathy meant nothing, really. It was just an attempt Scout was making to ease his guilt from what happened.

The boy found him every time. And he ran off every time.

Scout's lips perked up into a smile. "Good thing ya got me making the rounds after battle, finding the guys who don't have the strength to crawl back to the base. Sometimes they don't even have the arms to crawl!"

Wait, what?

"What do you mean by "finding?"" Spy asked.

"I find nearly-dead guys! Medic's slow and takes a while to find people, which makes the whole "Aghh, I'm dying really slow!" thing more painful than it has to be. And when he can't find you or some other guy, he figures you've gone inside already when you're still out there. He ain't good at looking in every weird a** corner."

"But me?" Scout pointed to himself with a cocky grin. "I'm the fastest runner on the team, and I jump higher than you old geezers! I'm great at findin' people bleedin' to death! I'm the reason our teammates don't groan and moan and slowly see the light at the end of the tunnel an hour after the match, hopin' Respawn comes quicker." Scout puffed out his chest, tilting towards the wall again as Spy stared at him.

He... He… what?

"Well, ok, I'm not the only reason you don't die real painfully. Medic does the healing. But the findin's important too! Real important!"

Spy's mind scrambled and slipped in its attempts to make sense of what Scout claimed to be doing. In its preoccupation, it forgot to shut Spy's gaping jaw.

"Spy, y'know a fly's gonna land in your mouth if you keep it like that? You're turnin' into a legit frog! Not like when people call you a frog just 'cause you're French; I mean an actual big, green, slimy—"

Spy shut his mouth, faintly offended at the suggestion that he was becoming slimy. "You find people after matches?"

"Someone's gotta. What, did ya think I'd just leave you to bleed out and die?"

YES?

That's what Scout did, right? Right?

But…

Spy kept his face a mask of indifference, though he could hardly believe what he was hearing. He stared at the runner, who had an eyebrow raised, an arm stretched out to brace himself against the wall, a bright smile gleaming in the lamplight. There was nothing malicious in his expression. It was a little confused, but still lighthearted. There was nothing mocking in his visage, no matter how Spy examined it.

"Why?" he muttered.

"Why what?"

"Why would you go out of your way to find your dying teammates? Don't you care about killing the BLUs? Chasing after them? Getting a few last kills?"

"Well, yeah, I do that too! Fun to watch those BLUs scream! But not my teammates. Don't like hearin' it from them. Or leaving them to die out there, even if they do come back from the dead. Dyin' slow sucks. You ever choke and drown in your own blood? It's nasty."

Sh*t.

Scout really did care.

Every time Scout had found Spy and ran off, he could remember Medic running to his side and bringing him back from the brink of death. Every… every time.

It didn't make sense.

It didn't make any sense.

"But… Why me?" Spy asked.

"Why you?"

"I… I..." Merde, he couldn't admit what he'd been doing in front of Scout. And why was he admitting it? He was— he was better than Scout! Scout was useless, and annoying, and caring, and… no he couldn't be caring. Maybe he could care about his teammates, but he couldn't possibly give a d*mn about Spy.

And yet a sense of uneasy dread slowly flowed through Spy's limbs, coiling and snaking through his guts, the memories of a thousand rejections stirred up in its wake.

"I don't talk to you. I don't fight alongside you, I lea— I don't linger around to listen to your stories, I've taken health packs when you've actually needed them, I've..." I've stolen your leftovers, slammed the door in your face, laughed when you walked into a sticky trap, belittled you when you made the smallest of mistakes, lied to you so you'd get in trouble with Medic... There were so many things Spy could think of, all fighting to escape his mouth, and yet he wouldn't dare be so honest. Scout didn't know about everything he had done, but the runner had to be seething on the inside! Why didn't the kid just leave him to die? It was an awful thing to do, but weren't they enemies? Didn't Scout hate him deep down, beneath that cheery, tired exterior?

"Why wouldn't you leave me to die like the BLUs?" Spy finally said aloud. "I am nothing to you."

Scout's brow furrowed, his face screwing up as he looked at Spy in confusion. "What? Why the h*ll would I do something that crappy to a friend?"

Friend?

FRIEND?

Scout continued, oblivious to Spy becoming a frog again. "I mean, yeah, you're kind of an a** sometimes, and Sniper can be a real a** too, but he don't mean it. Same with you, right? Sometimes I just catch you when you've woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Or not, I dunno, maybe French people sleep on something fancier. Do you sleep on a bed? Eh, whatever, but honestly, you're a pretty cool guy when you ain't pissed. I mean, one time, you were disguised as the BLU Medic, and I thought it was the BLU Medic because you ran up behind their team and they were like screamin' for healin', and you yelled that you had an Uber and you did the Medic laugh, y'know, and it sounded just like his scary laugh that makes people pee their pants when they hear it and, uh, ok, I totally didn't pee my pants when you did the laugh, but I bet other people did, and then you got real close and they were gonna charge the point, but you whipped out your knife," Scout poked at the air with an imaginary knife, "and a stab here, a stab there and they're all dead! Like, six guys gone, and you didn't break a sweat. And you looked back at me and you just yelled at me to get going and that was kinda annoying but I did go, 'cause we had stuff to do, and you know what's also cool? You're always wearin' these spiffy suits and smokin', and I know smoking's bad and stuff but it makes you look like, like, like those mob bosses in the movies, or like those detectives in those other films that are always real shadowy and have hot evil girls in them. The fem- feminine- femma—"

"Femme fatales."

"Yeah, the fatal feminine girls, those chicks. But like, you also come up with these real funny jokes, like that time when you swapped out Soldier's coffee with this weird Saxton Hale approved stuff, and then he was super jumpy and yelling about how the power of Lady Liberty had been granted to him so he could fight the communist menace! And I was like "Yeah! Just like Captain America!" I don't know if that really is like Captain America, I just wanted to mess with Soldier, and Soldier just— he just— his eyes got really wide and— heh heh!— then he started grinning— heh!— and puffing his chest out and s-standing the— heh-heh-heh-heh!" Scout stopped, unable to speak through his snickering. "B-but he couldn't really stand still since he was shakin' so hard, you could hear his boot's rattlin' against the floor! And he was constantly moving a little in a different direction, like a washin' machine that's spinnin' around too fast. But anyway, my point is, I knew you did it, 'cause you'd be smilin' a little when people looked at you, and you said you had no idea how his coffee got swapped out, but when you thought no one was lookin' you'd try hiding your face behind your hand, and you were laughin' so hard you looked like you were gonna pass out. Did you really switch his coffee?" Scout grinned wildly Spy.

"...Oui."

"YEAH! I— oh wait, can't shout, but like, dude, that was amazin'! You should do stuff like that more often! You're really funny, Spy, when you ain't makin' fun of me. And, like, I don't know where you come up with this stuff! It's also kinda weird, 'cause you're so chill and serious all the time! You just, uh, I dunno, but you've got this way of walkin' and talkin' that makes it seem as if you know what you're doing all the time, and even if Sniper says wearin' a suit to a fight is stupid or if Engineer says you're way too picky about food, you just don't even care! Like what they said meant nothing, even though they're right!"

Scout scowled at Spy. "Eat the stuff I make for dinner for once, dude! And don't shrug that off!'

"Um…" he sheepishly scratched at the back of his head, "Any- anyway, I always get, y'know, pissed off when people talk sh*t to me. Like, everyone does it, and sometimes I can't come up with anything to say back. I wish I could just ignore it all like you can."

Spy tried to say something but settled for a small nod, unsure of what was going on, or even what to think. A strange mixture of shame, relief, guilt, and surprise swam around inside him. And there were feelings like irritation and anger, feelings that were supposed to be burning up his insides whenever Scout was near, but those sensations had strangely fizzled out and faded away.

And there was something else he felt that he couldn't identify.

Scout was still standing there, his face somewhat in shadow, the glow of the lamp falling softly across his shoulders, lining the hills and valleys of his wrinkled t-shirt, turning the tips of his brown hair to golden spokes. And as Scout raised his face up out of the shadows and to the light, thinking about something, perhaps more praises Spy didn't deserve, the Frenchman noticed his eyes, or rather, their color.

His eyes were a striking, familiar shade of blue.

"Y'know," Scout said, "My ma always told me— Awwww crap." He sighed, wearily slapping a hand to his forehead, glaring into his palm. "I forgot I was supposed to send the money to my ma yesterday. Maybe that's why I'm up."

"The money?"

"Yeah. Paycheck. Goes to my ma. Well, ok, she gets most of what I send over. Sometimes Franky needs some of it, and his wife, and Sammy, and the twins, my other brother who isn't a twin, Marty, and... yeah, everyone needs a little help from good ol' Scout. And even if they whine about me sometimes, and Ed and Jesse talk a lot of sh*t about how I don't deserve a job that pays this good, they're my brothers. Ain't no way I'm gonna leave 'em high and dry."

The information hit Spy with an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. He already knew that he wasn't the only one sending Christine money, and he knew Scout was the source from Christine's complaints that her youngest was doing too much for her, but somehow, he'd forgotten about it. Despite the importance of the memory, it had gathered dust in the recesses of his mind like an aging cask of wine. Scout helping the rest of his family was new information, however.

It all seemed uncharacteristically generous of Scout. But perhaps Spy had been wrong to ever suppose that Scout was so selfish.

What else was he wrong about?

...Merde, he'd been thinking to himself and not paying attention to what Scout was saying.

"—I didn't really start lookin' for dying people at this job, Spy," Scout said, propping himself up against the wall with one hand stretching upward, his other hand sitting on his hip. "Sometimes my brothers' fights over the old baseball diamond, or the park, or this cool run-down piece-a-garbage building we found, those fights went real bad on some occasions. And— and—" he yawned, "I'd have to run real fast to get help for 'em. Jesse almost bled to death once from this big cut in his arm. Apparently the knife hit an artery, and it was gushin' everywhere, and if I hadn't found a phone booth in time, that woulda been it for him. My ma was so d*mn pissed when she found out about stuff like that," he laughed softly to himself, "...and the thing is, some of those fights were over her. If anyone said anything bad about our ma, we'd knock the sh*t so hard out of those bastards that they couldn't tell Sunday from Monday."

Spy nodded, recalling the roughness of a damp cloth on his face as Christine tended to his wounds, screeching at him one moment for starting a fight he wasn't going to win, the next moment wiping a hand at the mascara running down from her teary eyes, and then laughing when Spy said that if she had started the fight, she would have won.

Starting fights wasn't something to be proud of, but if it was to protect Christine, to defend her name…

The corners of Spy's lips twitched, and he wondered what it was like to fight Scout hand-to-hand, what sort of tactics his son had learned in the Boston alleyways.

Scout sighed, a frown darkening his face, pulling Spy out of his reverie. "I hope my ma's ok," he muttered.

"What do you mean?" the Frenchman asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I mean," Scout said, "I grew up in the worst part of Boston. The part that kills people who aren't tough pieces of sh*t like me."

The guilt pricked at Spy again as he thought about it. About leaving Christine there.

And Scout.

"Me and my brothers, we were always keepin' an eye out for our ma. If anyone touched the smallest hair on her head, or said she was a whore, we'd be on them like sharks. And I know she's tough; she taught me how to fight for myself, and she's got a gun she keeps on her a lot. But pretty ladies like my ma get the wrong attention. Guys want her, and they don't care how they get her. And we're the only thing in the way of those guys.

"We all got older. My brothers got married, got a house, or an apartment, and eventually, the only one who could protect her was me. I stuck around as long as I could to keep her safe, even though I wanted out of that sh*thole as much as they did. It was nice sometimes, but man! People leave their crap everywhere, and some guys will try to jump ya in broad freakin' daylight with a knife and everything! And I don't mean one guy, I mean at least three at a time! You gotta be able to f*** some serious sh*t up or have a couple buddies with you if you wanna keep breathin'.

"I was nervous to get this job, since I'd be leavin' my ma alone. I mean, I argued with my ma about it but she practically shoved me out the door when I told her I was hired by some company out in New Mexico. I didn't even tell her how much I was gonna be paid; she just was d*mn stubborn that I "live my own life" and "stretch my wings" and well, yeah, I wanted to get the f*** outta there, but she had to be safe first. Anyway, first thing I did when I got my paycheck was get her a nice house on the other side of town, away from all that nasty sh*t that goes down where I grew up. And one of my brothers, Marty, he lives a few blocks away from her. So she should be fine. I hope."

"It sounds like she is." She was.

Scout stared at the dusty wooden floor, scratching at his arm.

Well, if he couldn't be reassured by Spy's answer, then he'd just have to do this the other way.

"Is your mother smart?"

"Yeah?" Scout looked back up at Spy, tilting his head to the side.

"How long did she live in the slums of Boston?"

"Uh, oh geez, longer than I've been alive, I dunno..."

"Was twenty three years enough for you to learn how to live in that environment?"

"Yeah, duh...?" Scout glanced around, clearly thrown off by the "dumb" questions Spy was currently asking.

"Well, she's lived there for longer. And she can fight. And she has a gun. And now she lives in a house far away from all that. Now, what is the neighborhood like?"

"Oh, sheesh, it's so pretty. Nice. Big lawns, and kids everywhere, and these trees called red maples that got these purple leaves, and I always thought—"

"Scout, is it anything like the slums?"

"Oh, no, nonononono. Streets are clean, no homeless drunk guys, apparently there's never even been a knife fight—"

"And there are kids there. Do they look like they're taken care of? Do they have parents around?"

"Oh, yeah, the little squirts are always runnin' around, with these big old smiles. Man, are they cute! And their parents come out sometimes and yell at 'em for getting the ball stuck in the tree again or for them to come in for dinner. They even play with them! I wish my ma did that, but she was real busy all the time when I was growing up. But yeah, the kids are happy, the parents seem alright—"

"So what threats are present in the neighborhood?"

Scout blushed as he realized where this was going. "Uh... I-I dunno..."

"Anything?"

"Well, um, I guess there's maybe, uh..." Scout muttered as he shifted on his feet, fussing with his shirt hem, trying to not look Spy in the face.

Spy wasn't here to watch Scout squirm around, though. "Has the place been safe for a long time?" he asked.

"Yeah? I checked it out, asked Marty about it..."

"Then chances are the neighborhood will stay that way."

Scout nodded, a pensive look on his face. He was far less twitchy than earlier, and his eyes had shifted to look steadily into his father's.

"So, let me ask you again: Is your mother safe?"

"Yeah. She's fine."

Now, that was how to reassure people. When they didn't trust you enough to take confidence in you, you had to ask the right questions and steer them into reaching the answer to their problems by themselves. Though, it looked as if Scout was open to listening to Spy now.

"You've given her a home in a quiet neighborhood, close to one of your brothers, where there isn't a threat to be found," Spy stated. "Your mother is also surrounded by parents who want the neighborhood safe, who would leap to defend your mother should someone come after her. You have done all you could, and you may rest well knowing that she'll live another day without you at her side, as the circumstances are dramatically different from her life in the slums. She has nothing to fear, thanks to your efforts." As Spy spoke, Scout grinned infectiously, for Spy couldn't help but return it ever so slightly.

"You even stayed in Boston to defend her. That's… that's more than some can say," Spy finished, his smile fading, his guilt weighing like a rock in his stomach. Scout nodded in sleepy, oblivious agreement.

Spy waited for his son to speak, but Scout swayed and righted himself with a tired grunt. As the silence stretched out, stretched out as long as the years Spy had left Jeremy and Christine in Boston, Spy realized that they had reached the natural conclusion of the conversation. Scout was no longer worried about his mother, and had no reason to be down here. It was time for him to go upstairs. It was time for him to leave.

Scout shifted and looked over his shoulder, having realized the same thing. "Well, Spy, I… I'm gonna… I think I'm gonna go now."

"W-What?" Spy stammered. Why did he feel such discomfort at the idea? No, it wasn't discomfort, it was nothing. It couldn't be anything. This was what was supposed to happen.

"I gotta…" Scout yawned, "I gotta sleep. G'night, Spy." The runner turned around and started back up the stairwell.

Scout was just going upstairs, as expected. And Spy was going to be alone again.

Alone in the dark, with no one to speak with.

No one to break the quiet monotony.

Nevertheless, Spy held himself still as Scout stumbled up the stairs. Spy enjoyed the loneliness. It was what came most naturally to him. It was a necessary part of his job, part of keeping himself from getting too close to other people and letting his guard down. And wasn't letting Scout go to bed the responsible thing to do? He clearly needed his rest; look at how his feet were slightly slipping on the steps. He needed his sleep for the next day.

The next day, Scout was going wake up, fully conscious, and he would remember that he thought Spy was a stuffy, uptight jacka**. Then he would go out of his way to irritate and provoke him, and they would go back to their usual squabbling. Back to vicious jabs, back to sharp, poisoned glares, back to interrupting and talking over each other, back to using whatever they could to get under each other's skin.

Back to the way things were supposed to be.

Back to the only way things ever could be.

An unending, bitter rivalry…

"Scout, what is your mother like?"

"Huh?" Scout's feet thudded in an uneven rhythm as he walked back down the stairs, squinting at Spy as his fingers fumbled around the top of the banister. "What's my… my ma like?"

"You clearly adore her. Why? What sort of mother inspires such devotion from her son?"

Scout gaped at Spy, his eyes widening, taking a moment to process the absurdity that had reached his ears. "Well, she's my ma! My ma! The best one! Better than all the others I could've gotten!" Scout eagerly came back to stand before Spy again, the lull of sleep falling away with every step, the runner rambling at a manic pace. "She's really smart, and really, really pretty, and she knows how to help us with all kinds of stuff, and, oh! Sometimes, she wears this perfume that smells real nice, like flowers." He paused, thinking. "Well, I dunno what kind of flowers, and she's got this way of huggin' you that makes you feel like you're real important to her, like you're the center of the universe or something, and she's always checkin' to see if I'm hungry or if I'm doing ok or how my work is going. She didn't use to do that so much but ever since my brothers all left she's been, I dunno, less busy, more "around"? In the house, I guess, but more importantly, she's able to do stuff with me. Seriously, Spy, she had, like, two or three jobs all the time when she was raisin' us, and it feels waaaay different now that she only has one."

"She's a hard worker, oui?"

"Oh, totally, Spy. She worked her a** off night and day to pay the bills. and never really got the time ta go out much when I was growin' up, since she was always doing waitress stuff or workin' at the grocery store, tryin' to pay for the ele-eletrissity, y'know." Scout looked off into the distance, frowning. "And sometimes,she wouldn't get new dresses or she wouldn't eat as much since we ran so low on cash. We tried takin' odd jobs, well, ok, some of us were tryin', don't know why Ed had to freakin' steal crap from every boss he worked under. I mean, sheesh, he even tried stranglin' a few, but Ma was the only reason why we never got kicked out of that apartment. Always workin', never quittin', even when things got bad at work."

"She must be a tough little woman."

Scout puffed out his chest, a smirk on his face. "Yeah, my ma's like, toughest ma ever. Rulin' over us mad dog O'Malleys with an iron fist! Givin' an earful to anyone who manages to piss her off, and kickin' the crap outta anyone who tries to steal from her. And she's got this sick pistol that she's used on anyone who's tried to get her when she's been out shopping with us! You've got no idea, Spy; my ma don't take sh*t from anyone. Robby and Franky and Ed and I and, uh, I guess all of us have tried pulling fast ones on our ma, fakin' that we're asleep when we ain't, lyin' about who punched who, hidin' that we've been skipping school and we've got detention and there's this other group of dudes we've been fighting." He grimaced. "But every time, my Ma looks at us with this look, like she knows exactly what's goin' on in our heads," Scout's face screwed up further, imagining his mother giving him that infamous glare. "And then you know what happens? She tells us off for lyin' to her and you feel like you're gonna melt into a puddle on the floor, and you end up tellin' her the truth. And then you know what she does? She works us to death washin' dishes and helping out Mr. Harrigan with cutting his lawn. Like, why's a guy gotta have a lawn that big? With nothing on it but just all this dumb grass!" Scout gestured to the invisible fields of grass. "And there were these stupid trees dropping sticks everywhere! Everywhere. You could never pick all of them up. And I would be like, "Ma, c'mon, can't I go to the diamond, I'm gonna miss the game!" and she'd be all, "Oh no you're not, Jeremy Leon O'Malley! Or you can kiss your dinner goodbye!" Yeesh, Ma, chill out already. Crossin' Ma was such a pain in the a**, and tryin' to squirm out of it was freakin' impossible."

"So she is tough. Was she that aggressive all the time?"

"No!" Scout shouted, forgetting what time of night it was. "Why would you say that, Spy; didn't I tell ya she's the best ma ever? In the history of the universe? For all time?" The runner glowered at him. "Yeah, you don't want to get on her bad side, but, like, she only got that mad when we deserved it, and even when she was mad, she didn't try to kill us. If you piss Jesse off, Jesse's gonna kick your a** and wreck you. If you piss Ma off, she's gonna tell you what's what and give you chores. No, my ma's way better at handling stuff like that than Jesse." Scout's voice lowered, now that he had gotten that out. "And Ma is all polite and nice to people, even if they're really annoying and draggin' their feet in the supermarket line, bein' reeeaaaally slow, lettin' stuff slip out of their hands and back into the cart, can't put a single thing on the counter since their hands are shakin' so bad," he wiggled his hands around, "and I wanna yell at then to freakin' hurry up, but Ma, she goes up to them, and she's like "Hey, are you doin' alright? Do you want some help with that?" even though she's tired and she wants to go home. And they say "Oh, thanks, that's real nice of you," and then she helps them and I'm all "Geez, I wish I thought of doing that." Marty says she's got, uh, "social graces". I dunno what exactly is graceful about talkin' to people and helping them out. Although she is graceful, like, with the way she moves around and stuff."

"Can she dance?"

"Oh, she can dance, alright. My ma knows all this fancy stuff like the Charleston, the rumba, the foxwalk, and the mango, and she taught me the Carlton! Like, she was able to get all the moves down before me, and then she taught me how to do 'em whenever I bugged the radio stations into playin' "It's Not Unusual"! And then we'd— I'm a dumba**; it's called the tango! That's her favorite dance; how the h*ll did I forget the name of her favorite. And she's like, really good at that one, and she's taught us some of the basics but she only does that one by herself. Says it ain't the kinda dance you do with your sons. I honestly wouldn't want to dance it with her anyway, since she's kickin' her legs everywhere, like wham, wham, wham!" Scout started to raise a leg to demonstrate, but thought better of it. "You know what? She would have accidentally kicked me in the face if I moved wrong. Probably. Ugh, a free nose job, courtesy of my Ma's foot! Anyway, she doesn't just do the fancy ballroom stuff; She can do dances only me and my brothers know, like the Twist, the Mashed Potata, and the Swim, and she even makes up her own moves and makes it look even cooler! Sometimes I just sit back and watch her. I dunno how my ma makes stuff all smooth and-and-and pretty. Pretty, that's the word. But yeah, that's my ma. She's really, really good at dancin'."

The darkness of the hallway shrouded the warm smile that had spread across Spy's face. "It sounds like your mother has many charms," he said in a soft, gentle tone, a tone that the other mercenaries had never heard, and would never hear.

Then he frowned. "No woman is perfect, though. She probably can't cook—"

Scout laughed. Spy tried to hold himself back, but a light chuckle escaped him. "That's where you're wrong, Spy!" the runner exclaimed. "My ma makes the greatest mac and cheese known to man. And women too, I guess, but like, she puts in a little pepper, and hot dog bits, and a bunch of cheddar, and, well, don't tell anyone, but it's a lot better than when I make it. When she makes it, oh man, it's this unending creamy cheesy heaven that you never wanna leave! When I make it, it gets all watery and weird and I can barely taste the cheese." Scout huffed, shaking his head. "I'm banned from making that stuff when I have to make dinner. But Marty's pretty good at mac and cheese, and I guess Jesse is too. But my Ma?" The runner smirked. "She does it better. Oh, and her hamburgers! She's got this little grill that we put out on the balcony, and she puts coal in it, and it makes her hamburgers taste waaaaay different then the stuff they put in the restaurants. I could live off those hamburgers for the rest of my life. I'd kill for them. Literally. The Administrator should pay us in my Ma's hamburgers."

"She should." No one could ever know how much Spy craved Christine's greasy but supernaturally delectable hamburgers. It would ruin his reputation.

"But I think…" Scout said, a note of hesitancy entering his voice, his brow furrowed. He shook his head and continued. "I think, probably one of the best things about my ma is that she loves me. Really, really loves me. She loves me so much, Spy, I don't get it. Like I said, she's always checking to see if I'm okay. Yells her head off at me and cries when I come home from a bad fight, 'cause she still sees me as a little kid. Makes me food when I'm not even that hungry. She helped me with my homework when she could, but Franky had to do most of the helping, though, since she was so busy."

Scout yawned as he snapped his fingers. "But you know what? She's remembered to make me a cake for every one of my birthdays. Every last one, even though she's workin' two or three jobs at a time. And she's helped me to learn to read better, even though… I'm kinda stupid…"

Spy's eyes widened as Scout glared at the floor and his voice sank to a dull mutter, only for Scout to look up and brightly smile a moment later. "But my ma's like, "Jerry! When you hear people say you're stupid and weak, don't listen!" And then she says I'm "her sweet little boy", and, c'mon Ma, I'm 23, I'm an adult now, and then what she says is that I'm always tryin' to, to do my best, y'know? And that's what matters! And there's only one of me, and no one else has all the, the, the trains, well, not actual trains, but the... qualities! All these special Scout-brand qualities that make me special! No one else… no one else has 'em."

"And… It's okay if people. If people don't see all them trains. The qualities," the runner mumbled, straining to string his thoughts together. "Because they… they don't… they don't know nothin' about me. And if they do know, they... they forgot who I was. And that's, that's their problem."

"But..." Scout stopped, staring at the dusty floor, his face drawn into a frown as he trailed off again. His head drooped down like a wilting daisy.

Something about him made Spy's limbs tense up.

"But now…"

The hallway behind the runner was dark, too dark to see anything behind him.

"But now I…"

His breathing was strained, the darkness pressing into him.

"B-but now, now I'm on this team, and, and everyone knows m-me, and…"

Anxiety bled through Scout's voice like an off-key note in a song as he raised his head to look at Spy, his hands gripping and curling around the hem of his shirt, desperation in his blue eyes, his emotions rendered all too sharp by tiredness.

"And I suck!" Scout spat with all the abrupt force of a gunshot. "And I'm tryin' so hard to, to actually get anything done without dyin'! But all I am is this- this- this stupid freakin' loser no one wants to talk to!" The runner sniffed, wiping his nose with a clenched fist. "I-I may be kinda dumb, and I can't read books well, but I'm smart enough to know what the guys think of me. And you know what? You know what, Spy?" He jabbed a finger at the doors. "They think I'm trash! Sniper can aim way better than I can, Demo can make stuff explode, Soldier can fly, and you, you can disguise as anyone! And what do I do? I just run fast, shoot a lot, miss, and then I die! Over and over!"

Scout teetered on his feet as he stood there, his hands trembling, his tears adding more stains to his shirt.

"Is... Is that why no one talks to me? Is that why no one remembers what I say, or goes with me anywhere? Demo, Soldier, and Engie go to the bar and they never take me! Like I'm just some kid! I ain't a kid, I'm 23, but-but— Agh! Engineer looks over at Demo and he's like "Well..." and yeah, he's considering it, but they ain't excited. They ain't like "Oh, hey, Scout come on and join us! Glad to have ya!" They just look at me as if I gotta be freakin' babysat! And, and Sniper? He don't remember when I got that 10 killstreak, or when I killed the BLU Engie and kept him from putting his sentry on the last point of Freight! And Demo didn't remember it either. Everyone remembers when he took down everyone on BLU in one uber, but anything I do? They just remember when I died in a stupid way. And they laugh. Like nothing I've done ever matters."

He ran a hand through his hair and tugged at it. Spy almost reached out, but before his son could pull anything out, the runner stopped, and hugged himself dejectedly instead.

"My mom... If-if she knew... she would be so disappointed in me, if she knew how bad I was doin' my job. She was wrong, and it don't matter how special I am. Ain't enough to keep me from bein' a failure."

Raising his head, Scout looked at Spy, the tears in his blue eyes gleaming in the light.

"What am I gonna do?"

Spy waited, frozen in place. As Scout made an indistinct sob of frustration and buried his face in his hands, Spy realized that his son had been waiting for him to say something instead of listen.

He had to say something.

He couldn't leave his son to suffer.

"Scout?" Spy whispered. The soft sound of his voice did not break the silence so much as slip through it.

Scout kept wiping his eyes, looking at the wood paneling on the bottom of the walls.

"Your mother is smart. Caring. A wonderful woman by any measure, oui?"

His son's eyes flickered towards his own before darting back to the wall. "Yeah." he muttered. "Don't know why we're measuring her, but... she's so much better than me."

"Would your mother lie to you?"

Scout sniffed. "N-No..."

"Well," Spy said, "If someone as wonderful as your mother loves you, and if she says that you're worth something, she can't be wrong. No matter how difficult it is to believe her."

"But-but I keep failin'!" Scout stammered. "And no one likes me! I'm just- I'm just- annoying! And over, overly talkative! And I don't know when to shut up! I got a lot to say, Spy! But—" Scout grimaced again, clenching his jaw, a look of miserable anger on his face. "I'm just a stupid little f-failure! Worst piece of sh*t on the team! A f***in' stupid—"

"Scout." There was a certain firmness in Spy's voice that got Scout to stop swearing for the moment. "This awful feeling inside? The one burning within your chest? The one shouting in your mind? That is just the tiredness getting to you. You are not a failure. You never have been."

His son blinked and finally returned Spy's gaze. "I'm... I'm not a failure?"

"You are not."

Scout swallowed.

"Wh-why?"

Oh, the vulnerability in that question. The fragility in his voice. The way his son was staring at him. Spy couldn't make a single mistake, not the slightest misstep in how he answered that question.

"You got your mother out of the slums of Boston. You could have left her there, but you stayed and protected her. But not only that; you also got her out and provided her with a safe place to live and enough money to live comfortably."

His son tilted his head, considering, but still looking as miserable as a puppy left out in the rain. "Yeah, but... couldn't my other brothers have done that?"

"No, Scout. Such feats are beyond their means... although, perhaps, they could have taken her with them. But they have their own families to provide for and raise." Spy paused for a moment, letting it sink in before he moved on to something more important.

"And as for you, you stayed with her to protect her. And you stayed until you found this job, and instead of keeping the money for yourself, you brought her out of poverty. It is a level of selflessness that makes you much better than a failure."

"I... Yeah. I guess that is a lot, Spy! I did that." Scout smiled for a moment, a glimmer of hope that quickly faded as he sighed and fussed with the holes in his shirt. "Okay. So I did something. But I'm still failin' at this job. And... and no one likes me."

Spy briefly rifled through his mental files, but all he could find were those times Scout had made immature, perverse jokes, had stolen healthkits, bragged about himself, et cetera, et cetera. Spy brushed away these useless thoughts, these bright, loud snapshots of his life that stole his attention away from the person that was really underneath it all. His son. His son was… his son was… Annoy— No. Obnox— No. Jabbery… well, yes, but that wasn't kind. That didn't do Scout justice. He knew his son wasn't all that; he couldn't really be. Every assumption he had ever made about Scout had been obliterated in the span of one conversation, and he could no longer draw upon them to make any statement. He could no longer rely on these subjective, emotional, ugly thoughts that instantly jumped to the forefront of his mind.

So, what did Spy know, in an objective sense? Scout talked a lot... hit his shots often enough... and he was fast... Yes, he never took teleporters. He was too quick to need them, and he had a way of getting behind enemy lines, where Spy usually worked. Sometimes he got so far behind that...

"You're good at back-capping, Scout."

"Oh! OH!" And just like that, his son straightened up, beaming with pride, catching his second wind. "I cap points faster than anyone! And that's really freakin' useful, 'cause sometimes, I like to hide near last and cap it when the BLUs are trying to keep you off one of the early points. I just hide behind a wall, and the Blu's run past me, like," Scout's voice took on a high-pitched, squeaky quality, ""Oh, look at me, I'm a BLU, I'm gonna protect the second point; it's soooo important," and they got all their guys running to the front line, and our team's pushin', and the BLUs are givin' it their all, thinkin' they're so smart! And RED caps it, and I walk out of my hiding spot and say, "Here I go, ya pack a' dumba**es! Thought the Scout wasn't important, didn't ya!" And I do a little dance on last and bam! We've won!"

Spy laughed, and for the record, he did not give an undignified snort. "You dance? On the last point? In front of their spawn?"

"Dat's how bad they are at defendin' that one," Scout said, snickering. "And I'm too fast for them to hit!"

"Yes, you're very difficult to hit. Jumping over their heads like a little jackrabbit."

Scout grinned smugly. "Yeah, I'm better at jumping than anyone else too!"

"Wait…" Scout fidgeted. "Soldier can fly. And now Demoman can do it too with his stickies." The lamp above him illuminated the fresh panic on his face as he squirmed around. "Spy, I'm not that good at jumping either!"

Spy sighed, pinching his nose. "Yes, you are. They—"

"Demo and Soldier do it better!"

"Demo and Soldier get hurt whenever they do their jumps. They can't do it as quickly and reliably as you do, either. Sometimes they run out of ammo, and then they're as good at jumping as an old, lame horse."

"Well… fine. I guess I'm good at backcapping."

As Scout thought to himself, Spy relaxed in the hallway's shadows, certain that they were out of the proverbial woods for the moment.

They were not.

"Sh*t! Backcapping doesn't mean anything when we're pushing a payload!"

He wouldn't even accept that?

Ugh, what else...

"You're good at picking off weaker team members?" Spy ventured, raising an eyebrow.

"Anyone can get them!"

"Not always. It's difficult for other members of the team to get behind the front line—"

"Oh come on," Scout interrupted, rolling his eyes, "the other guys can do that!"

"Not as frequent—"

"It doesn't count."

"Scout—"

"Doesn't. Count."

Spy glared at him.

Scout glared back, but shrugged in defeat and crossed his arms with a huff. "Ugh, fine, Spy. I guess I can backcap…" Scout's nose wrinkled. "But only when there's no payload. And I can kill weak guys. The ones no one else bothered killin' off because those guys weren't that important. And—"

Great. Spy had lost him, and now Scout was making himself more upset.

"Let me think of something else," Spy pleaded.

"There is nothing else!" The runner tried to gesture outwards, but flinched as his arm smacked against the wall. "Ow! Ugh, just— just give up already! Knock it off!" he spat.

"Please, Scout! Just one last thing."

"Fine!"

As Scout grumbled complaints in the background, Spy refrained from pacing, and lit another cigarette. He was not going to panic, even if this was something of a challenge.

Come on, he was a master manipulator! This was not a challenge! Focus. Find something that would convince even Scout!

Focus…

What was the reason for Scout's frustration?

He longed for his teammates' respect and approval, but claimed that everyone thought he was a failure at his job. The reason why they laughed at him and didn't include him on outings was because the runner didn't pull his weight.

The other mercenaries did often complain about Scout, but what had Spy heard or seen, specifically? What did they think of him?

Medic rolled his eyes at some of Scout's more juvenile quips, and occasionally threatened the boy when Scout swiped a medikit under his nose. Whenever Heavy opened the fridge and glowered at it as if it was something offensive, you just knew that Scout had taken one of his sandwiches again. Sniper silently left mid-conversation whenever the Bostonian got caught up in rambling. Engineer never liked how Scout played around with his building materials whenever he came over to see what he was working on. Soldier… well, Soldier complained about everyone's lack of discipline from time to time, whether or not it was warranted, but he specifically got angry whenever Scout tried to worm his way out of cooking dinner or cleaning bathrooms. He had never figured out how to trick Soldier into doing it for him like Spy had. Pyro was incapable of complaining due to being a giggly, mumbling freak of nature. Demo didn't really complain about Scout's pranks; he just found a way to prank him back.

And that was it.

...That was it!

That was a lead! They didn't complain about anything beyond the medikit when it came to Scout's abilities as a mercenary! There wasn't any evidence to back up Scout's claim!

And… oh, joy. The runner had fallen asleep again.

"Scout?"

No response.

Spy stood there for a moment, and then tentatively raised a hand towards Scout's shoulder. He'd have to shake the boy awake, which Scout would likely snap at him for. But, with some luck, it might only take a little nudge to wake him.

The Frenchman moved forward towards Scout, despite the odd, uneasy feeling prickling at the edge of his consciousness. There wasn't really anything to worry about. It would be the slightest touch.

Just… the slightest…

Before Spy's fingers could rest on Scout's shoulders, the runner jerked his head back upward, muttering and blinking. Spy grimaced, a bolt of anxiety shooting up his spine as he stepped back into position. That was dumb, trying to wake Scout up; shouldn't he have known Scout wasn't asleep? He didn't need to complicate things by touching him out of nowhere and getting in his personal space.

"Well?" asked Scout sullenly, glaring at Spy. "You gonna tell me more about why the guys hate me?"

"N-no." Wait, he was supposed to disprove the— That wasn't— merde—

Spy pinched his nose for a moment, and exhaled. He was fine. He knew what he was doing. That anxious feeling was just a brief moment of irrationality. He was in control.

"There are various things they complain about," began Spy, "and they do find you annoying sometimes—"

"Knew it…" Scout muttered.

"But! They do not hate you."

The runner squinted back at him. "They don't?"

"No, goodness, no. What they do is nothing in comparison to what it would be like if they hated you. And to respond to one of your earlier complaints, they do not think you are a failure."

"'Cause they don't notice?" Scout asked, scratching his head. "I dunno, sometimes they complain about me nabbing the health packs, but I think maybe they just, uh, ignore me? I mean, I—"

"Scout," Spy interrupted, "They would be much more angry with you if you didn't contribute to the team. They'd be making more malicious comments about you, shutting the door in your face whenever possible, and would look for any opportunity to give you a beating. No, no, if you really were a failure, they'd harass you and complain to the Administrator, hoping she'd put someone better in your place.

"And even if your fellow mercenaries never reported a poor performance," Spy intoned, examining his cigarette for a moment, "the Administrator would have noticed you, and… would have taken care of business."

Scout rubbed a finger at his chin, thinking. ""Taken care of business?" It kinda sounds like you don't mean the regular business. Sounds like you mean—Wait." His eyes widened. "Waitwaitwait, you don't, you don't mean—"

"Yes. She would have killed you already if you did not contribute. Do you remember when Demo stopped showing up to matches a month after he joined the team?"

"Yeah? Miss Pauling came over to talk to him, and then Demo started showing up again for some reason."

"That was because she told Demo that if he kept getting so drunk he couldn't do his job effectively, his contract would be terminated, his files removed from Respawn, and he would be shot dead within two weeks."

Scout's jaw dropped. "She told him that?"

"What, did you think they were exaggerating in the contract?" Spy asked, raising an eyebrow. The boy couldn't have possibly overlooked that detail, though. Not when his mother was so concerned about his safety.

"No, I didn't think they were exaggerating, but, uh… I dunno, I guess I thought it wasn't that important."

Not important.

Not important.

Putain de bordel de merde, c'est quoi ce bor—

"S-Spy!" Scout stammered, backing away from the fuming Frenchman. "I thought I was gonna do well enough that it wouldn't ever be a problem! I don't wanna die! My ma would lose her sh*t!"

"I know, toi enfant insensé," Spy hissed, though admittedly he was appeased by his son's answer. "But Scout, if there was anything important in that contract, it was the risk of your death."

"Okayokayokay, I got it, I got it! It's important; it's very important! Didn't mean to piss you off. Sheesh." Nevertheless, Scout rolled his eyes and shook his head, increasing Spy's blood pressure a little more. Merde, how that boy could get on his nerves…

Spy sighed, and then took a drag on his cigarette to calm himself. He shouldn't get so angry so easily. Yes, Scout was notoriously reckless and impulsive, but the boy obviously cared a lot about his mother, and he wasn't insane or dumb enough to disregard the importance of his life. Scout probably did mean it when he said he wasn't trying to piss off Spy.

When he was fully conscious, however, Scout really had a talent for it. If Scout wanted to bother someone, he knew just what to say and what to do to get on people's nerves, no matter who it was. The boy had described earlier how busy his mother was, and he had likely fallen through the cracks many times as the youngest of eight brothers. Perhaps his ability to intentionally irritate and annoy others was a skill he had honed in order to get attention. Unfortunately, he irritated people even when he wasn't trying. The team hadn't given Scout enough patience, but Scout didn't have the social know-how to get along with others.

Hmmm.

"Spy?

"Yes?" He glanced up at Scout, who was antsy shifting around, the floorboards faintly squeaking under his feet.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?"

"I'm… figuring out why you were hired for this job." he lied. "Why the Administrator has kept you around."

Better make that lie a truth.

Why had the Administrator hired Scout? He must have gotten on her nerves during the interview, where presenting your best self and making a good impression was crucial. But the Administrator was wickedly sharp; she would have ignored her feelings and focused on the facts. She would have noted his incredible speed and agility despite that he likely yakked his way through the interview and sat the wrong way in his chair, snapping his bubblegum as he was one to do.

Could she have possibly seen his ability to annoy people as an asset?

"Spy?"

"What?

"Why do you smoke? Ain't that bad for your lungs?"

"Hush." Spy said, frowning. "Didn't you want me to figure out why you aren't a failure at your job?"

"Yeah…"

"Then stop distracting me."

"Okay…"

Didn't Scout know it was rude to ask questions like that? And so what if he went through three packs a day; it hadn't done anything to his health yet.

Sh*t, he'd lost his train of thought. Focus...

He had been thinking about the possibility that the Administrator saw value in Scout's ability to annoy anyone. A strange one, but one worth considering, since Scout had already shut down his other answers, which were perfectly acceptable in Spy's opinion.

What could be good about being annoying, though?

"Spyyyyy—"

What could be good about being so irritating that you broke people's focus, drawing their attention in like a black hole, keeping them from doing what was important—

Wait— it was distracting— and when that was inflicted on an enemy— combined with his speed and agility— which resulted in—

AH HA!

Spy laughed and slapped a hand against his forehead as everything fell into place. "I know why the Administrator hired you!"

"You do?" Scout asked.

Spy slapped himself again, shaking his head as he did so. "Why did I never think of it before; it's so obvious! There's one thing that you will always be better at than anyone else, no matter what battlefield we're on, no matter what anyone else can do."

"Really?" Scout grinned, an excited gleam in his eyes. "What's the big deal about me? Y'know, besides, well, bein' handsome, and a hit with the ladies—"

"You're distracting!"

Scout's face went as blank as a sheet of paper. "Distracting?"

"Oui! Distracting!"

"How's that a good thing?"

"The BLU team can't think straight around you!" Spy exclaimed, his gloved hands coming together with a single soft clap. "The moment they see you, they try to take you down for a free kill. They think you're just a little rabbit to be shot for dinner.

"But the real fact of the matter?" Spy leaned forward, motioning for Scout to come closer. Scout, after glancing around, leaned in as well.

"They can't get you!" he whispered. "You move too quickly for them to hit you, more quickly than any other member on their team, save for their own Scout."

Spy straightened up. "Can their Soldier run like you can?"

"No; he moves like a freakin' slug," Scout replied with a smirk.

"How about their Demo?

Scout shook his head. "He can't keep up either!"

"Can their Medic?"

"Too d*mn slow!"

"Can their Spy?"

"Only in his dreams!"

"Exactly!" Spy said, snapping his fingers. "You're too quick for those BLUs! And as you dodge them, you taunt them! Laugh at them! Hit them on the head with your bat and run for the hills! And they hate you for it; they can't help but want to kill you. So they chase you around, forgetting everything they're supposed to be doing, such as capping the point or stopping the payload, or even noticing that the other members of the RED team are approaching them.

"By being an annoyance, you make it easier for the rest of us to do our jobs. If all the BLU team can focus on is you, then Medic can survive long enough to build an Ubercharge. Pyro can sneak behind their lines and I can stab them all before they can blink.

"And what's more is that you're not just a distraction; you're a legitimate threat. All you have is that Scattergun and a pistol, and, in theory, you're only a little more powerful than Engineer without a sentry. However, you're so agile that you can kill your enemies easily if you catch them off guard."

"You see?" Spy smiled, a warm feeling aglow in his chest, a feeling that he would be a fool to not recognize as pride. "You are just as much a member of our team as the rest of us."

Scout beamed, his blue eyes flashing. "Yeah! I'm the Scout!" his son declared. "The fastest of the fast, the stealer of the spotlight! Ain't no way they'll ever get rid of me!"

"Yes…" Spy said, thinking to himself. "Your speed, your ability to get anyone's attention, your dodging skills, your aim…" …were all key parts of Scout's fighting style. The embarrassing thing was… "I don't know why I didn't see it before. It seems so obvious in hindsight."

"Oh, it's okay," Scout said, dismissing the thought with a wave of his hand. "We're up late; you must be… really tired. Does things to your brain."

Spy chuckled, shaking his head. There was something very funny about Scout trying to reassure him when it was he who was sleep-deprived.

"Say…" Scout said, swaying. "Why are there... two of you?"

"Two of me…?" Spy snapped his head around, but there were no enemy Spies in the darkness behind him.

…Which meant that Scout was seeing double.

Sh*t.

"You need to go to bed."

"What!? Now?"

"You've been getting more sleepy and irrational the longer you've stayed up, and at this rate you're going to collapse at any time. I shouldn't have kept you down here to keep me comp— J-just go to bed. Now! Shoo!" He advanced towards Scout, who started to back up, but deliberately stopped before he left the dim, yellow cone of light that shone down from the lamp above.

"Wait! There's one last thing I gotta know," Scout stated as he crossed his arms. "And I'm not going up until you tell me."

Spy scowled at him for a moment before rolling his eyes, grumpily motioning for Scout to continue.

"If I'm so important to the team, why don't… why don't the other guys like me?" The runner stared at Spy, a look of hurt and confusion on his face. "I earned my spot... I make things easy for them... and I'm really, really awesome. So why do they never listen to what I gotta say? Why don't I matter to them?"

There were many little reasons why the team had never really warmed up to Scout, so much that Scout would probably be overwhelmed by it all and cry. Or not; perhaps his pride would rear its ugly head again and Scout would get angry. Spy would have to give him something to do that Scout would be able to accomplish without too much change. Something simple that might suggest to his fellow mercenaries that there was more to Scout than what met the eye.

Scout loved to talk; that was something he did all the time. And what was annoying about it was that he never talked about anything that the mercenaries liked. Perhaps...

"The secret to making your teammates like you? You have to appeal to them."

"Appeal? I'm already appealing!" Scout exclaimed. "Y'know, I'm so appealing that I—"

"You're still not appealing enough," Spy cut in. "Do you really want them to respect you?"

"You know what I want? I want—" He paused, looking off to the side. As the runner mulled over it, he visibly wilted, hugging himself. "I… I want to be respected."

"Then you talk to them about their interests."

"Their interests?" Scout asked.

"You can't just talk about the things you like. You have to talk about the things they like. That's what they want to hear, oui?"

"Well, ok but..." Scout was interrupted by a yawn, "I don't know a thing about explosives, and machines, and... ok, I know a couple things about Au-Au- the… the land down under, uh, whatever it's under, but that… that stuff's... boring..."

"Well, then they're never going to be interested in what you say if you're never interested in what they say. You need to find the common ground, things you both like. And then, when you have their attention, their good will, their respect, they might listen to you when you talk about yourself and the things you like. But you must appeal to them to get them to like you fir— Scout?"

His son was now staggering away from him.

"I was havin' trouble... sleepin', Spy, remember? That's why... I came down here... in the first place." The runner yawned again as he stumbled through the hallway. "I think I'm need cow… I need milk… wow, I'm getting tired."

"Scout, that is not necess— be careful!"

Spy just barely managed to shove the door in front of Scout open so his son didn't smack his face into it. "I'm fiiine, Spy, just... lemme get... some… cow…" The runner stubbornly continued into the darkness, despite that he would knock into anything and everything without a light.

"Scout, slow down; you're—" Spy reached out a gloved hand to grab Scout, but his fingers hung in the air, freezing just before they could brush against his son's arm. His eyes widened as an icy wave of shame washed through him, and he helplessly watched as his son walked away.

In that moment, Spy realized something.

He could not touch Scout.

Such a thing would anger Scout if he was fully conscious. If he woke up later and remembered what happened.

And if Scout ever found out Spy was his father…

The father that had left his mother to struggle… the father that left his son to play and fight and live in the dangerous alleyways… the father that had come back for a few scant moments, but never faced his son, never really tried to pick up the slack…

He could not touch his son after what he had done. He had lost that privilege after twenty three years of never correcting his mistakes. He… He couldn't do it.

And now, his son needed his help. He needed to be physically guided. And Spy just couldn't touch him.

But he had to do something!

…

Well…

Spy couldn't touch his son.

But he could touch everything else.

As Scout stumbled through the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the tiles, swaying here and there in whatever random direction he thought the fridge was in, Spy circled around him shoving a chair here as Scout walked to the left, and pushing a table there as Scout decided the fridge was somewhere else. The sleepless Scout almost smacked into a counter before Spy managed to flip on a light switch, flooding the room with light and startling him.

"Spyyyyy, why you gotta keep doing that?" Scout whined. "It huuurts..."

"It's going to hurt more if you fall down."

"Fiiine..."

Scout finally reached the refrigerator and swung a hand at the handle. The clutzy, loud smack of his hand hitting the side of the refrigerator was enough to make his father flinch. Nevertheless, Scout managed the task of wrapping his fingers around the door's handle and wrenching it open. He blearily stared into the confusing array of half-eaten sandwiches, beer cans, thawing ribs, bags of potatoes, stained egg cartons, and some molding substance in the corner that even Soldier wasn't brave enough to touch. After a moment he reached towards the upper right and shoved the beer aside. A can fell off the shelf, and Spy dropped down and managed to catch a can, and then another, and then a jar of Medic's sauerkraut as Scout dragged a milk carton out of the mess. He grinned a slow smile of triumph, and Spy scrambled to put the food back as his son walked away and dropped the carton onto the counter.

Scout opened various cupboards and shoved his hand into them before pulling out a tall glass and setting it on the counter. Well, he didn't really set it down, as Spy had to grab and steady it before it could teeter off the countertop's edge. The last thing he needed was to try cleaning up broken glass while a dazed Scout was around.

Before Spy knew it, Scout already had the lip of the carton pulled out, and he was holding it almost directly above the glass, the milk spilling and splashing out far too fast. Spy pushed the top side of the carton with his hand, adjusting the angle until it was tipped up again and the milk came out in a small stream. Spy's eyes flicked from the glass to Scout and back, as the Frenchman was now close, uncomfortably close, to Scout.

Maybe, just maybe, Spy could let his fingers brush against Scout's. Perhaps he could smooth some of his hair back into place. He could pretend, for a moment, that they had a normal relationship, that they were a father and a son that cared about each other, that things could be alright. Perhaps Scout wouldn't remember it. Perhaps he'd chalk it up as a dream.

But taboos were taboos, and this was one that Spy was going to respect.

If, in some insane world, Scout willingly touched him, or even hugged him, that wouldn't be breaking it. But Spy making any move himself was wrong.

Scout set the carton down himself, picked up the glass, and sipped at it a bit before he opened up the microwave and set the glass down inside its stained interior. He pushed against the greasy buttons and leaned back against the counter, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. As the microwave dinged, Spy opened it for Scout and handed the glass to him. His son nodded in thanks and tilted his head back to drink what would hopefully send him into a deep slumber.

Spy swore and dove to catch the falling glass as it dropped out of his son's fingers. The runner wobbled and leaned here and there like a spinning top, the warm milk having worked its magic on him in record time. He grabbed onto the counter, shook his head, and stumbled his way back through the kitchen, his fingers curling around the edges of chairs as Spy shoved them into his waiting hands.

"Neeeeed... beh...sleeee..."

Spy followed Scout as he walked down the hallway, thankfully without much struggle. It seemed that the wall was enough to support the boy, despite his instability. And then...

Merde, the stairs.

Scout staggered up the steps, swaying like a blade of grass in a breeze, clutching onto the railing. Spy followed closely behind his son, his arms outstretched, ready to catch Scout if he tripped and fell back.

If he caught Scout, he'd be holding him.

Spy hadn't held Scout since…

Since…

Oh, f***. Not since he was born.

He had been so small. So soft. And he had his father's blue, blue eyes.

Spy had been so happy. So proud.

So terrified.

Scout managed to clear the final step, safely in the hallway again, feet now thudding against the wooden floorboards instead of carpeting. Spy ran ahead of him and opened the door as Scout walked into his room.

The Frenchman sighed. He had managed to get his son to his room without him getting hurt. Hopefully he'd sleep peacefully now.

"Sssssspy?"

Spy looked up to see Scout leaning against the door frame, blearily rubbing a fist at his eyes, the blue M on his shirt and the fatigue on his face barely visible in the darkness.

"Theeenks, uh… Sssspssspy."

Spy merely stared in response.

"Waiiiii."

Scout's nose twitched again.

"Ciguuuuhcigureeeecansurrrr…"

His father blew the cigarette out, and placed it back in his mouth.

"Yeaaaaaaah…"

Scout yawned.

"Gnaaaaspiiiie…"

"Bonsoir, mon petit lapin."

His son turned around, and Spy watched him walk forward to flop into his bed. He stared at him for a few minutes before sighing, and softly, he closed the door.