Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The news doesn’t get any easier to process. Somehow, it's getting harder.

A thought-filled drag of his cigarette doesn’t – and never will – solve the problem. The nicotine hitting his brain receptors only does so much. Not as well as he’d like. Being an addict, it’s not going to be as numbing as it used to be, he knows. During a time like this, though, he wishes it’d work the same way. Just this once.

Spy is curling his toes in his pointed dress shoes trying to keep his grief under control. His glove shifts and crinkles, carving out the fine curve of bone underneath, the hands they hide moving with prancing agitation. Not even the cigarette can be still between his fingers. Instead it falls into the ashtray, just barely, crumbling into smoke and fading, charred ashes. His composure does the same.

Everything happening inside of him is slowly breaking, like the most intricate, lifelike sculpture tilting forward and hitting the hard floor it stands on. Pieces snap and fall in scatters, the impact releasing a grave, heart-wrenching cry, reaching far out as if trying to find its artist. Like the broken marble, Spy leans forward, his face landing in his open palm, except he does not belch out a raucous sound. Behind his gritting teeth, all that tries to pass through is being held at bay. Tears are trapped behind his eyes. His vocal cords tangle in his throat. A sharp pressure pushes on his chest, as if someone is forcing the air out of his lungs with a booted foot, twisting and turning until his sternum fractures.

He cannot call for an answer with his voice. The universe remains still. It doesn’t indicate that it knows he is in pain. There’s no chance for a cosmic miracle to reverse what has been done, let alone ease this dense, burning sensation sailing inside of him. It squirms around, gnawing at his nerves with vicious teeth. All he wants is an explanation, a little grace if the universe is generous. He isn’t granted either.

Scout was an afterthought. Always was. Not a priority or concern, just a possibility, even a risk — a risk to his work and his time. His mother was- well, still is- drop-dead gorgeous. He looks back and remembers how badly he wanted under her skirt. It happened, and he was a happy man, but that time, the consequences did not strike him, only after the act. Good lord, he doesn’t want to imagine how she’s handling all of this. He’s sure she’s taking it harder than him. Her heart is fragile, and he’d know firsthand because he broke it by leaving her and their unborn child behind. Bastard son, with an even bigger bastard father.

This emotion he feels gets weirder and more complicated the further he digs into the past. It’s anger, rage, and confusion. It’s the strange realization that he misses Scout, the even more grim realization that he'll never be back, what could have been if Spy wasn’t an asshole. He’s shaking and biting his tongue as the rotting hands of grief grab his bony ankles and pull him into-

Out of nowhere, a knock on the door distracts him from his grieving. A low voice with a Southern swing intrudes softly.

“Hey, Spy. You gotta moment to spare?”

Now is not the time, laborer.

“Merde…”

Rolling his eyes, he grumbles groggily and pulls himself from his chair. Time to put on a fake face. Quickly, he glues himself back together. Another cigarette finds its way between his fingers before opening the door for Engineer. He clears his throat before inhaling a string of smoke, looking down into the black goggles.

“What is it, laborer.”

From what Engineer can tell, he seems exhausted. He looks like he’d just gotten out of bed. His eyes are dark and low-lidded, laced with delicate, pinkish blood vessels. His face looks oddly lax. Even his voice sounds lifeless – there’s always that cutting tone of sarcasm in it, but now, it’s gone. This is unusual for him, no matter the circumstance.

“I came down to uh… see if y’knew anythin’ about-”

“I don’t,” Spy cuts in coldly, just as sharply. He swallows hard, feeling like his Adam’s apple is caught on the inner threads of his balaclava. It won’t go down any further.

He’s lying, he knows exactly how Scout died, but even being a master at his deceptive craft, his brain is the one doing the betraying. It makes this disguise the hardest one to fabricate, so hard in fact that Engineer swears he could hear the small inflection crack in his throat. But, he brushes it off as nothing — Spy never gets emotional, it’s a staple of his personality.

But that’s what he’s been led to believe.

He is a smart man, very observant, but even Spy can manipulate what he sees. That inflection was the sound of his heart breaking. He’s trying to wrap it up in a sloppy, desperate haste behind the solemn, cigarette-smoking facade.

“I just can’t believe it, Spy,” Engineer goes on, swallowing, not minding the smoke. “Gosh. That boy was… damn, like a son to me. Y’know?”

Spy purses his lips. Yes, but really, no. He doesn’t deserve to be Scout’s biological father. And he knows. Two and a half decades have reminded him what a terrible father he’s been, letting the male figure role in Scout’s life be an empty and idle space. Not even a full three decades. He was young…

“Was he, now?” His inquiry is bitter and prying. Maybe he’s wrong.

“Yeah,” Engineer responds. “We’d talk all the time. He was kinda the son I’ve always wanted.” He lowers his head, goggled eyes on his boots. His heart is heavy with woe and longing for what once was. Spy squints his eyes.

“It seems that he trusted you greatly.” He moves aside and sets his hand on his shorter colleague’s back, letting him inside the smoke room. The door clicks behind them quietly. Now’s the opportunity to learn more about what his son was like when they weren’t around each other.

“Yeah,” Engineer answers with a sad smile, looking into Spy’s eyes again. He’s welcomed to take a seat. “Maybe more than I realized. He said he never had a dad to look up to. I suppose he saw me as one.” Spy breathes deeply through his nose.

“I see,” he rumbles, his eyes darting to his ashtray. He rubs his face with his free hand. Shadows fill his eye circles, a painful wash of jealousy flooding inside him. More salt in the wound. It burns.

“Maybe I’ve said too much,” Engineer puts an end to the silence, laughing nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh, would hate to disrespect Scout by sayin’ the wrong things.”

“Oh no, not at all, laborer,” Spy assures him. “What you’ve shared will never leave this room.” He actually means this. Trustingly, Engineer smiles, taking a minute to think to himself. The robotic fingers of his right hand scratch at the blonde stubble growing around his jawline.

“He was a good kid,” he continues. “With all due respect, he could be, um, brash.” He chuckles, clearly hesitating. Spy raises his eyebrows, pouting his lips in agreement. “But it was… funny watchin’ him go off on someone. He had all the right insults up his sleeve. Really tickled your funny bone, y’know it?”

Spy weakly half smiles. With guilt. He knows exactly why Scout was so immature and big-headed. He wasn’t around to raise him. But he’s glad he had the chance to show him his tricks of the trade when he needed help asking Ms. Pauling out. If not for his absence, he would have shown him more. His heart aches with regret.

He inherited some of his traits, though. Physically, it was his scraggly build (minus the broad shoulders that the boy lacked), his slim facial structure, his hooded eyes. Then there was his snark – his wit, his desire to be at the top, even his quirkiness (which he tries to hide because of his seriousness, but it appears rarely). He saw himself in Scout, especially his younger self. It took him back to his youth. Now he's a graying, cynical man with lungs of tar, mourning the death of the one that carried those parts of him.

“I do,” he answers thoughtfully, flicking his cigarette’s ash into the ashtray. They go on briefly, speaking fondly of Scout like it’s an impromptu funeral.

When their conversation comes close to an end, a thought he didn't think he'd share, is shared.

“He deserved better.”

“Whaddya mean?” Engineer asks. Spy’s eyes are focused on the cold, drooping cigarette in his hand. He sighs deeply. Even though there’s jealousy toward him deep down, he’s warmed up to him after finding many likable qualities in him. It isn’t often when he reveals his thoughts, the ones that reveal the real him, the man under the mask. Only selectively does he do this. Hearing about Engineer’s bond with Scout makes him feel inclined to. He was the fatherly figure to him that he failed to be. Almost three decades were wasted hiding from fatherhood.

“He deserved to have his father in his life,” he answers, curling his fingers, looking at Engineer with glossy warmth welling in his eyes. His eye contact is unsteady, as it’s hard to keep it still. “But at least someone was there for him, and I’m glad it was you.”

Engineer smiles, but he’s quite surprised by what Spy is saying. He has never sounded this sincere before. It’s more ironic than anything. There is no bitter aftertaste in his mouth after saying it, however. They are honest words from a regretful father.

“Gee, Spy, I have to admit it’s out of the ordinary hearin’ this from you.” Spy side glances, his expression remaining the same. Engineer is a strong, intelligent, and honest man. A man of principle, a man that dedicates everything to get what he wants. Everything that he is is what Spy believes every man should look up to. He holds him in high regard. Engineer has no idea, or just how deep this respect runs – he probably never will.

“It’s nothing,” Spy insists. “I just find it uplifting. You are a good man, Engineer.”

“Aw shucks,” Engineer grins. “Thanks, Spy.”

Spy smiles back. “The pleasure is mine.”

“Well, I won’t keep ya up for long,” Engineer says with a sigh, lifting himself from the chair. “It’s gettin’ awful late. I gotta blueprint back at the shop to work on. Whatnot. I won’t be able to sleep tonight, anyway.”

“I understand,” Spy says. “Those toys of yours aren’t going to work on themselves, are they?”

Engineer laughs, caught off guard, but glad he remembered he’s said that before. “H-Yeah, that’d be right.” They chuckle calmly. The joking really does help lighten the mood. It takes Spy’s mind off of the elephant in the room.

“I’ll see ya tomorrow, Spy,” he says. “I hope you get enough rest. Take it easy, now.”

“Same to you, Engineer.”

Chapter Text

Engineer told him to take it easy. He’s failing miserably.

More than anything, this night has been a disaster, an urgent cry for help, another test of his conscience from the ruthless universe. He can’t get to sleep. A local killer is roaming the streets, freely without consequences, besides shaking up the locals. They got Scout – Teufort’s boisterous, fast-running airhead – leaving behind eight distraught men. They’re trying to make sense of what happened. One of them knows more, but he is grieving in excruciating silence, and it’s affecting him more than the others. And they have no clue, because they don’t know he is the boy’s treacherous, bastard father.

The bastard father, now, is trying to clean himself up before he goes to sleep – this assumes he even does at all. He’s so floored that he could hardly make his bed a minute ago. He’d tug on his sheets, then get lost in his thoughts; grab his pillow, then think again; set it down, then go back to those thoughts. It’s become an addictive, dismal pattern – no catharsis, or relief, just more salt being rubbed into the same pulsating wound. By the time he finished, midnight had arrived.

He enters the bathroom. His mirror holds the image of a tired, grief-stricken man. The sharp, intimidating air that normally clings to him has since deflated. His slender body is arched and clothed with a white undershirt, revealing the broad shoulders and tan skin that rarely see the light of day. This is Teufort’s mystery at his low point. And it’s not an act. The mask is shed.

“Knock, knock.”

At the sound of the voice, he drops what he’s doing. That voice – the last time he heard it was two nights ago, after Scout won a battle and won it well. Hysterical laughter, a raving sugar rush, Bonk! Atomic Punch jumping between his fingers. The sugary fizz sloshed around in and out of the colorful can, while he hollered and bragged about his victory through the base, loud-mouthed all the way down. The guys never stopped him because they could never get him to shut up every time he did that. But he was happy – rough-looking, wounded, but happy, and just as proud. This is the last memory he has of him, and thankfully it’s a good one. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him happy. It’s how he wants to remember him. For whatever reason, though, that voice is back, and it’s uncanny just how alive and familiar it sounds…

He leaves the bathroom, rounding the corner. At the door is a guest that walked in uninvitedly. He’s standing perfectly still.

Mon dieu.

It’s Scout, pale and blood-drained, especially in the face. A nasty sneer pulls at his lips. He’s riddled with lacerations, some superficial, while others hit bone. His hair is an unbrushed mess, some pieces clumped together with dried blood, a purple bruise to the right of his forehead. The wrap around his hands is discolored and loose around his palms, slowly coming undone, hanging past his wrists. One hand wields his aluminum bat, while the other is round and knuckled, tighter than the quivering cords in Spy’s throat. How he breathes isn’t natural. His chest has a spasmodic stutter to it when he does.

Any physical humanity to him is no longer there. Even to Spy, it’s shudder-worthy. That’s exactly what he does.

“Scout?”

“The one ‘n only,” the younger man says, patting his chest. Still just as animated as he was when he was alive. The cocky, inward-toothed grin that Spy always knew stretches again, but it has a different, sinister life. “But you know who I really am. We ain’t strangers here. It’s Jeremy to you, pops.”

This is unreal. So, very unreal. Yet it’s somehow real, because Scout is really here. His attitude, boldness, talk, all here in the flesh, like he never had died at all. Spy steps back, staring at his deceased son in utter shock. His throat is open and widens when he talks, some words exposing the muscle fibers better than others. He blinks, but his eyes don’t have the shimmer that reminds the viewer that someone is alive. Everything his killer did to him bleeds and moves in unnatural ways. It’s hard to see him like this.

“Why’re you doin’ nat? Chin up, old man. Don’t look at the floor. Look at me.” He jabs a finger into Spy’s pronounced collar bone. It feels real, the fingernail leaving a crescent moon in his skin. His jaw drops in disbelief.

“The hell didja leave me ‘n Ma for? She was ‘n shambles. Broken! What could I ‘ave done? Nothin’ cause I was a fuggin’ baby. Do you remember that? Dad?” Scout asks mockingly. He walks around, throwing his arms out while he talks. The bat swings around carelessly in his hand. For the first time in hours, Spy speaks. There’s not a way around answering him.

“Of course I do, but-”

“What? Your ‘work’? Which is what, bein’ a backstabbin’ snake? That’s more important than my motha? Me? Oh real fuckin’ important. Funny how ya do it in your personal life, too.” 

Spy swallows hard. Barbed wire ties around his neck before his saliva can go down, though. He’s choking and unable to move. His muscles have turned to stone. One nudge and he’ll fall over, like the ice corpses that his Spy-cicle makes. 

“At least overalls has b‘nere for me. He gives me more time than you eva did, ‘n you had a whole 27 years.”

Of course Engineer has been brought into this. The guilt is so overwhelming that it hurts. 

“Scout…”

“Ah-ah,” Scout interrupts. “Jeremy. What’re you, like, forgettin’ who I am, old man? You got amnesia or somethin’?”

Spy doesn’t respond. How is he supposed to? Scout looks at the ashtray in front of him, picking up a used cigarette and crushing it with his fingers.

“You can smoke all ya want, but it won’t magically make me go away,” he warns Spy matter-of-factly. He’s right. Smoking is as useless as a band-aid is on a gory, severed stump. “It neva has, and it neva will. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

This is disturbing and terrifying, the fact that he’s speaking like the voice in the back of his head. He does know that smoking won’t erase anything from his past. He tells himself that all the time, in fact what Scout just said. But to hell with quitting. His lungs are far past the threshold. They’re as good as sponges, now — black, soily sponges, at that.

“There’s no comin’ back from this, by the way. Where’s that dead ringer now?”

What?

The bat rises next to Scout’s head, poised to swing it full force. Right into Spy’s skull, while it’s intact. Its dented end glistens with a cold light. Scout shows no mercy, only a hint of hurt. It’s the only decipherable life in his gray eyes.

As soon as the bat forces his head into a neck-twisting snap, Spy jumps, barely avoiding the pulpy ending. Just barely.

He’s awake. More importantly, he’s alive. His skull is still intact. He feels it to make sure. He twists his body over to the table next to his chair, the side seam of his sleepwear folding over his slim waistline, rolling around until he’s comfortable. His palm is cupped, fitting for his leaning forehead. His heart is racing. Dun dun dun dun dun. A headache stabs repeatedly into his brain. It sings an identical, pain-inducing melody into his nerves. Oh, they’re shot. 

His door is closed. Nobody is talking, or barging into the room to confront him. Scout isn’t here. Besides the noise in his head, there’s complete silence.

“Agh… fuck,” he curses between grinding teeth. A cigarette is wedged into his thin-lipped mouth. It’s only a band-aid, not a permanent fix. But there is no true solution, end, or closure, really. Just coping mechanisms for living with the problem.