Work Text:
Never before had he felt so very miserable while eating pancakes.
It shouldn't have been that way, really. He had every right to go visit his Ma whenever he felt like it, and Saturday morning wasn't exactly a strange hour to show up at. The Scout didn't even entirely mind that he was there, too, considering that they had almost managed to be getting along well lately.
So of course the guy had to find some reason to disappear, again. For having somewhat reunited with a father he'd never known, he saw more of the back of him than anything else. He supposed it was something his mother had gotten used to, like letting the cat out at night, but the extent to which it pissed him off had been steadily increasing.
Asshole, he thought. Nothing's changed.
Maybe things really hadn't changed between them, and that part actually stung more than it did make him angry. He didn't expect some kind of Leave It To Beaver dad, no. But fuck's sake, being avoided like the plague was not fair payback, either.
And yet all he could do about it right now was glare angrily at the pool of maple syrup on his plate.
“Any good?” his mother called from the kitchen, her face hidden by the flowers she was carefully arranging in a vase. “It's been—jeez, years I think, since I made'ya pancakes.”
The Scout glanced in her direction, quickly recomposing his demeanor of confidence. “Oh, yeah. 'Course.”
He straightened his posture as the woman approached the kitchen table, proudly positioning the flowers in the center. The smile on her face pulled forth the slightest bit of cheer from him, though it faded almost immediately as his eyes went back to the significantly larger bouquet that sat on a nearby counter.
He knew the smug grin his father would be wearing, the I-can-upstage-you-at-absolutely-anything one. Though, he reconsidered momentarily—maybe his pride was still sensitive from the constant taunting about virginity and sleeping with his mother. The second one was a fact he couldn't conceivably even try to deny at this point, not even to himself, which irked him that much more.
And as he watched her for the moment, still fussing fondly with the flowers, a little light bulb went on in his head.
Oh, shit. His Ma. She would have to be the number one source of high-quality dirt—twenty plus years of payload, right there in front of him. The kind of thing that got rid of bitchy smirks real fast.
Two could play the recon game. He tried to contain his grin as he set his fork down with a clink.
Target acquired.
“Hey, Ma?”
Already there was that small twinge of guilt as she glanced over at him, settling down into the seat across from him to her cup of coffee.
“Yeah, honey?”
He rubbed the back of his head as he briefly considered how he wanted to approach the topic—real smooth.
“I was wonderin',” the Scout started carefully, avoiding his mother's eyes now. “—if y'might tell me more about...you know...”
Using any labels for the man eluded him, even in talking to her. Just the fact that he knew his name felt traitorous, as though he'd intruded on something not intended for him. He stole a look up from his plate to view her slightly amused expression.
“Mostly because I know he ain't never gonna. And now that y'don't have to keep quiet about it anymore, I thought it might be all right with you.”
Nice save, he told himself, content with any kind of confidence he could talk himself into at this point. He hoped he sounded sincere about the whole thing—she was exceptional at figuring out when he was up to something.
“Oh.” She smiled, perhaps understanding more of the situation than she was willing to let on. “Like what did you want to know?”
“You knew him from before. Like, a long time ago.” The Scout paused, still unable to meet her eyes. “Tell me somethin' about him back then.”
“Somethin' like that, huh?” The dark-haired woman chuckled. “You're lookin' for an embarrassin' story? Stickin' it to him for bein' the asshole that he is?”
“...Yeah,” he admitted, shrugging with a smirk. Caught red-handed. “Somethin' embarrassin'. Because he's an asshole.”
Taking a sip of coffee, she seemed entirely unfazed by the suggestion. Maybe he'd gotten luckier than he had expected. The conspiratorial smile on her face merely confirmed his suspicions.
“Well, y'came to the right place.”
Boston, 1945
While she would perhaps be willing to admit that she had entertained the idea of going back to his apartment with him before, these were decidedly not the circumstances she would have pictured.
Her hand fumbled in the dark for a switch as they entered the small living area, his weight still heavy on her shoulder. Being considerably shorter, it didn't make for a particularly easy task to maneuver them both, much less in partial darkness.
“C'mon, Rey,” she urged gently, trying and failing to catch his eyes as his head leaned against the top of hers. “At least point me to your room. I can't carry you there, chris'sake.”
The direction of his glassy gaze gave enough indication, and a cross sigh escaped her in the form of a small huff. She led him slowly there, patient despite her irritation with the whole affair. A ridiculous affair, she added mentally, considering this was the man of unshaken control and perpetually cryptic answers who now gave her a heady chuckle as she eased him down onto his bed.
She rested her head in her hands as she took a seat on the sparse amount of edge that remained on the mattress, glancing sidelong at her unresponsive business partner—as he still insisted on calling their relationship, defiant of the far more personal turn it had taken as of late.
“I don't know what the hell's gotten into you.” The young woman muttered it to no one in particular, uncertain if the audience she had intended it for was still conscious at all. If he didn't remember any of this, at least one of them could be spared the memory.
Even if a bit of booze often made its way into their company when they were together, she had come to know him as a man of impressive restraint. She had never seen him drink like that, and it troubled her more than a little. Then he had followed that act with slighting precisely the wrong type of patron in the bar, a man of twice his size and significantly less class. She trusted him to take care of himself in a fight—had seen as much, even, but in this condition...
Another sigh as reluctant fingers found their way to her arm, apologetic. Her back remained to him, though her eyes wandered to the point of contact.
“Kathryn?”
Here it comes, she thought.
She had been prepared for—or at least hoping for, an explanation or apology of sorts, but the Frenchman was evasive as always. He had draped his arm over his face now, murmuring something in his language.
“English,” she reminded gently, though her eyebrows had come together in thought. “I ain't playin' the guessin' game right now. Y'almost got us into way more trouble than I can pull you out of.”
“Don't. Leave yet.”
She smiled at his muttered plea, her own hand making a sly grab for his where it met her arm. “Not to burst your bubble, but I think you missed the chance to charm me for the night, if that's what y'were goin' for.”
Now his touch had made its way to her waist, pulling her in. She rolled her eyes as she leaned back to settle into his chest, something he seemed not to be anticipating. Blue eyes peeked at her from beneath his arm—she knew that look to mean he was assessing her intent in the moodiest way possible.
“I ain't mad,” she finally sighed, watching the smallest amount of relief enter his expression. “But I do expect an explanation. You always play it cool, y'know? Whenever there's trouble, it's usually me that caused it.”
Another small smirk, although lacking the usual boldness. She bit the inside of her lip, quelling her frustration as uneasiness replaced it. Even in his most vulnerable moments, he made a habit of hiding any uncertainty. Drunk or not, seeing him this way hurt in a place she didn't even know existed in her.
Time for a compromise.
“Okay, look.”
His hand had settled in the small of her back. The scale tipped back in his favor, and she didn't like that one bit.
“If y'tell me what's wrong, I'll stay a little longer. Not all night, but a little longer.”
A slight shifting of the body beside her, but no words. His silences were among the most uncomfortable that she had ever experienced.
“All right, I can wait then.”
Her eyes darted over to him again as she felt the movement continue—he was fishing into his coat for something, which she quickly assumed was a cigarette. Out of habit she was already holding her hand out to accept one for herself, but his gaze had drifted toward the wall instead as he placed the object in her palm unceremoniously.
“It wasn't supposed to be like this,” he offered, almost contrite. “I had plans and everything, so that it would be more...”
The sentence trailed off as she stared at the small box. In another context, perhaps, she would have recognized what it was and what it meant immediately. But in the faint light that bled into the room, several moments passed before her mind could fully appreciate the meaning therein.
“Oh—God.”
Something about the way she said it must have caused whatever fleeting amount of courage he had shown to wane, as the box was quickly reclaimed and smuggled back into his coat. The woman frowned at this, indignant.
“Wait a second. Y'don't get to kind of propose and then take it back!”
The Frenchman glared at her sideways, drawing himself up a bit on the bed. His expression had started out withering before taking a sharp turn toward genuine uncertainty.
“Supposing that was my intention,” he began carefully, his words slightly slurred. “You are open to the possibility?”
“I—”
Whatever words she'd had died in her throat at his searching stare. “I mean, I ain't sayin' no. And if I say yes, I'd rather it be when y'ain't like this.”
“So if I were to ask you tomorrow, then?”
The heat in her face had become noticeable now, and she prayed that it hadn't painted her face bright red. Hidden in the darkness, if she had any luck.
Her fingers clenched the slightest amount at his arm. “Renard...”
One eyebrow quirked at this. His amusement made her wonder exactly how much of this conversation he had been manipulating from the start.
“Kathryn, you never call me that.” The hand at her lower back brought her in closer to his chest, victorious about an agreement they'd yet to actually come to. “You even said it correctly. Promise me that's what you'll say when we make love.”
An irritated growl, and she moved to get up. “Drunk. You're drunk, and not even the fun kind. The annoying kind.” She paused, the sound of a passing car punctuating the silence.
“And it's still a maybe.”
He only snorted at this, eyes saying in no uncertain terms that he had won for the time being. “Someone had said they would remain for a while longer.”
“Someone wasn't actin' like this at the time. Which I'm gonna remind you of tomorrow, and I know y'ain't gonna—”
A cigarette was offered in her direction, the thought ending abruptly as she made note of the smirk on his face. More characteristic of him, she thought, the feeling one of warmth that she didn't want to give a name to. She tipped her head forward in the most defiant form of agreement she could pull off.
“A while longer.”
Two weeks had passed, and he'd done absolutely nothing with the intelligence he had so gleefully acquired.
There were opportunities. Even at work, he could've taken a little dig here or there. If nothing else, it might have served to lessen the inequality between them in their perpetual rivalry.
A rivalry that only really started to recede when they would meet like this—tonight it was a shabby dive, not unlike the previous times.
“Hey, uh...”
He'd shot his mouth off before he could give it proper thought, as usual. The Scout shrunk back slightly in his seat as the man across from him glanced up over his menu.
“Yes?”
He directed his gaze to the window, trying to ignore the small sense of shame that had been cast over him. Probably easily detectable to his far more observant father, he thought grimly. Whether or not he entirely cared about that was becoming less certain.
“Ma—told me—” he blurted out quickly, catching himself mid-sentence. Didn't want to incriminate his mother, not when he'd started it anyway. “—scratch that. I asked Ma. For some shit on you.”
He chuckled as the other man raised an eyebrow. And yet he remained perfectly silent.
The Scout cleared his throat. “Uh, and I got some, I guess. But I'm not gonna use it, so...I thought you should know.”
He couldn't quite level his gaze at this point. Too bad, because he wondered what the expression on the Spy's face was.
“Is that all you wanted to say?”
One short glance up—there was that smirk. He felt the urge to go back on his word, but all he could really do at this point was shake his head. “Yeah. That's all.”
“Then, might I ask—” the Spy began calmly, removing his cigarette for emphasis. The Scout had to respect the man's flair for dramatic effect, as much as it did irritate him. “To what do I owe your merciful gesture?”
Back to looking away, now that things were definitely gonna get personal. He sighed.
“You know I was the last to move away from home, right?”
Silence. He continued, resting his head on his hand evasively. “Not just 'cause I'm youngest, though. I stayed longer'n any of 'em. 'Cause I didn't want Ma to be alone...”
“Yes. I know.”
The Frenchman's expression was as unreadable as ever. He hoped it wasn't sympathy he saw there, but if it was, he could hardly do anything about it now that he'd gotten this far.
“Then, y'should know that I'll cave your head in if you don't keep her safe and happy for the rest of her life.” He had some of his courage back now, staring the other man down as much as he dared. “I said it before. And now that I know about—y'know, that—it still don't change things.”
The Scout had hoped his point was taken, but instead his father was fuckin' chuckling again. He frowned.
“What? It ain't funny, 'cause I mean it.”
A placating hand was held up, though he still smirked. “Just—that you're threatening me. I'm sorry. It's amusing.”
The expression he got back in return was nothing short of unamused. He seemed to take some heed of this and became more serious again.
“I've already been threatened by the woman in question, just so you're aware. And I'm sorry to tell you that I take her threats much more seriously than yours.”
The Scout couldn't help smiling a tiny bit at that. The thought of his mother keeping this man—and his ego—in check. If he couldn't win that battle, at least someone could.
Perhaps sensing that the upper hand had gone back to him, the Spy was wearing a much more accommodating smile himself. “So...I can't help being curious. Of what she told you about me.”
“Hm, maybe I'll just be quiet about it. Maybe it'd be funnier to let it eat you up, huh?”
Another smirk. “Or, I could just ask her myself.”
The younger man said nothing to this, glancing out the window again. Of course it was raining now, he thought with a roll of his eyes.
“I'll ask a different question then,” his father began again, this time more softly. Slyly, in fact. “Were you surprised?”
The Scout had to hold back another chuckle at the sincerity of interest in that tone. Absolutely a liar if he wanted him to believe that he didn't care at all about what his son thought of him. It made him gag a little, but he was starting to see why his mother had stuck with the guy for so long.
So he offered up a smile—not a smirk, or a smartass gotcha face. Not affectionate, maybe, but it would have to do for now.
“Not really.”