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REC Room Memories (3)

1 .

Posted this on DA, figured I'd post it here. Based off a sweet picture I saw on the aforementioned site and first bit of TF2 fanfiction. Enjoy!

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The RED Spy was relaxing in deep, shadowy confines of the base. He wasn’t on duty and there was no fighting scheduled today so it was a good day for solitude. For reminiscing, more precisely, which was often more enjoyable alone. The room he sat in was once used as a REC room, back when the team had largely been confided to the underground section thanks to sniper fire and bomb scares. The equipment was still in surprisingly good shape, considering the more volatile natures present in their team. The sofa was worn and slightly ripped but still comfortable; the TV functional but with poor visibility; the pool table in excellent condition but was missing some balls; and the drink machine lacked a display but could still produce canned beverages. All had a thin layer of dust blanketing them, aside from the couch, visible in the soft glow from the weak artificial lights in the ceiling. It was isolated and forgotten, save for the man reclining on the couch, forever wearing his red tinged mask.

The picture of himself and Scout’s Mother which he had privately collected with the Intel was tucked inside Spy’s jacket, resting against his heartbeat. Flicking his cigarette case open and plucking a white stick from within, he barked a single, quiet laugh at the photographs placement. The only picture to be nestled so close and safely within his suit was of the one woman who’d truly gotten under his skin. It was hardly surprising really, he mused as he lifted the now lit cigarette to his lips, since they had met when they were young. She had been on a family vacation to his homeland; he had just embarked on the career path of espionage. It was lucky, he reflected, as he had needed all of his natural gifts to slip under her father’s radar. It was worth it though. She was a feisty, energetic woman, with soft, beautiful features, looking for romance in an exotic, passionate country. They had charmed each other easily with speech – she was enraptured by his smooth accent and suave charms and he was amused by her cute, twittering chatter.

The Frenchman inhaled and exhaled deeply, the smoke clouding over his closed eyes and wistful expression. They went their separate ways after that initial meeting, not expecting to see each other again at all. It was a holiday fling, a brief affair. She had a childhood love back in the States and he could promise little as a spy. A curse of his profession. But it seemed fate had intervened, weaving their lives together. They met again after several years apart. He was on a reconnaissance mission and she was happily married to her sweetheart. But something remained, that distance and time hadn’t been able to erode. They met for lunch, traded idle talk and ultimately ended up back at her house. It was as if neither had left France that night, or the night after. At the end of his mission they separated once more, both keeping a small flame of impassioned, secret love within themselves.
He was standing now, surveying the faulty television. Or more correctly, surveying his poorly mirrored image. He let the ash from his cigarette fall to the floor, flicking the specks off the tip before bringing it back to his lips. The pattern would continue. When he was able to slip away from his duties or after being granted overdue leave, he would step off a plane landing in Massachusetts to reunite with her. They changed over time of course, as did their lives. He became more sophisticated as he ran up the ranks to achieve the status he had dreamed of as a young man. She was tamed by married life as she gave birth to rowdy boys. Yet together, it didn’t seem to matter. Not the fact that she was married. Not the fact that he could be gone by the morning.

He sighed deeply, smoke drifting from his mouth. A certain reunion drifted in front of his memories, one that refused to be stifled. Her husband had taken their seven sons out somewhere. He had memorised it all back then – location, duration, travel time, everything necessary to prevent being caught - but what she told him had stuck far better into his memory then that. She was pregnant. That in itself wasn’t anything to get fussed about – having had seven children it was inevitable that she would be carrying one or more at some point during their affair. But when she told him the child may be his; that was when he found himself internally flustered, for the first time in his life. They had always been cautious but their previous encounter had been somewhat haphazard, having nearly been interrupted by one of the boys returning early from his school.

Nothing was going to change. It was unspoken, mutual. He was going to be the professional, aloof Spy and she was going to be the good Wife and Mom. He had gently stroked her stomach, felt the baby kick slightly at the touch. Another boy, according to the doctor. It was pointless to get sentimental. He wouldn’t be there to support the child. He wasn’t going to do the father-son things that her husband did with their other children. He wasn’t going to factor into the boy’s life in any way, shape or form. There was only a chance the baby was his anyway. That’s what he told himself as he took off once more, back to the business of espionage as she waited patiently for her family to return, eager to tell them about the baby kicking.

Spy snuffed out the cigarette on the pool table, leaving a faint scorch mark and took out his knife, toying with it idly. He twirled it easily between his lithe fingers, blade and handles dancing eagerly like a fluttering butterfly. It helped him to ignore the chill within the room as he kept the digits moving. His mind wasn’t even focused on his hand as he continued to travel that tender line of memory. He met the youngster roughly six years later. He sharply remembered being introduced, very carefully, to the Scout. Already the boy was a chatterbox, keen to impress and rough in his play. Based on his behaviour, which he could hear from a separate room, Spy could and would have brushed him off as sharing the same father as his brothers and the issue would be dead and buried. But when the boy rounded the corner, he could see why he was being shown the child.

Scout’s brothers could be divided into two builds: stocky and bulky. He was neither. He was wiry and athletic in his figure, a figure that couldn’t be traced though his Mom or her husband’s families. His face, while bearing the typical roundness of extreme youth, had slender features etched into his genes. In his personality he clearly took after his Mother while copying the behaviour of his boisterous brothers, but in the face, in his physical characteristics, Spy could see himself. Waiting until the boy had fallen asleep (curled up in Spy’s lap after asking endless questions), Scouts Mom had shown him the birth certificate – the name of the father had been left blank. No-one knew of course. She wasn’t asking for him to sign it or trying to get a reaction. She was merely informing him of the fact and wondering what would happen next.

Once more, little changed on the surface. Spy would leave, Scouts Mom would stay and Scout would never know the difference. But after that, a cheque would discretely arrive every two months. There was never a letter or return address, just the cheque. Only the woman of the household ever saw or handled that money. Spy knew he wasn’t obliged to do this, by law or by pressure from her, but it was something he was going to do regardless. It was more for her then for the boy but it couldn’t be denied that if it wasn’t for the Scout, he wouldn’t feel a need to send the cheques in the first place. Spy closed the knife he had been absentmindedly flicking with a sharp twist of the wrist. After that he rarely interacted with the boy. It was easy enough to be introduced to a five year old and spend some time together without raising suspicions. The naivety of childhood truly was a beautiful thing but was also fragile. Abuse it too much and, like anything pushed to its limit, it’ll break.

He was roused from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps. He slinked into a corner, tucking the knife away and reaching for his revolver. Down here, the shots wouldn’t be noticed no matter how much they echoed. But he relaxed when he saw a wiry, athletic young man walk casually into the dusty REC room, his blue shirt matching the colour scheme of the room and the entire BLU base.
“Scout.” Spy opened, circling the couch and sitting down gracefully, reaching for another cigarette from his case.
“Yo, Spy!” Scout responded, flopping very ungracefully to sit next to the Spy, refusing when the older man offered him something to smoke.

The two began their conversations as always, gently easing into a natural flow before loosening up and enjoying each other’s company. Two things were never discussed and never would be: the war, for obvious reasons, and Scouts Mom, since Scout was still sensitive on the subject. Scout would teach Spy the basic rules of baseball, to which Spy would take polite interest and attempt to follow, while Spy would teach Scout how to spin the butterfly knife correctly, with varying success rates. They would find surprising common grounds sometimes but were content to argue with each other over nearly anything. Their conversation began to wind down, reaching the stage of comfortable silence.

Spy tapped the cigarette he held to flick away the ash, having barely noticed it as they had talked. It was nice, to be able to have a relaxed discussion which was not going to be interrupted with instructions or changed into a strategic battle planning session. The two were sat quite close together, not bothered with the threat of intrusion. There was simply no reason to come down here and if Scout was wanted the BLU team would contact him via the headset he wore. Spy noticed that the young man was focusing on his reflection in the television set, sitting hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, and considered saying something but figured that if there was anything to be said, Scout would say it when he felt like it.

He didn’t. Instead the young man sat back with a sigh and fell asleep suddenly. Spy casually allowed smoke to drift out of his mouth, throwing away the smouldering stick. He still had some time before he had to return to the RED base. Scout leaned slightly to his side, head resting on Spy’s shoulder. Spy glanced at him before slowly taking off his jacket and slipping it around his shoulders to guard against the cold, placing an arm around him softly. It was as close to a family life he would ever have; a long distance, on/off love affair with a married woman and a bastard son on the opposing side in a war. Yet, he thought with a slight smirk, closing his eyes and relaxing as the boy shifted into a comfortable position against him, yet – it suited them all just fine. So the pair dozed lightly, Scout turned towards Spy, resting slightly on his chest with Spy’s jacket and arm lightly draped around his shoulders.
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2 .

Wow, a very interesting plot point that could have been written into the game itself. Nice job, Zephyr.

3 .

Usually I'm not one for sentimental spy drabble, but I enjoyed this a lot. Well done!

4 .

I enjoyed this, you should continute to write. :')
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