A/N: For the record, BLU Scout's mom definitely has a Fran Drescher voice mixed with a heavy Boston accent. Oh God the horror.

Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own anything regarding Team Fortress 2, which in all rights belongs to Valve.

Et Si Tu N'Existais Pas

Cosmic Dragora

It started out as a day off. The intels were being moved, and both RED and BLU teams were awarded a break. RED Spy couldn't help but feel relieved that he would finally be getting out of the hell known only as Sawmill. It rained so often, that even if it were not raining, dark clouds loomed overhead making everything quite a bit less cheerful.

Not that there was much to be cheerful about.

"Hey, Frenchie!" The voice of Soldier cut through the silence like a hot butterfly knife through a back, "I'm takin' the boys to get some ribs," with Soldier, every word was spoken as if he were barking orders—a habit Spy had never quite been able to get used to or ignore, "You up for it?"

Spy inhaled his cigarette, letting the smoke gather before exhaling slowly. He didn't really want to go. The last time he went to anything team-related, Scout got wasted and ended up pissing on everyone's shoes for some reason. From that day forth, Spy had code-named Scout 'Piss Boy,' which never did sit too well with him. It was his own fault for not knowing how much alcohol he could handle, in Spy's opinion. "Ah, non, merci. I can zink of at least ten good reasons not to suffer wiz zis merde you call food."

Soldier's face showed that of disgust—at least, the part that was readily visible. "You French bastard, you don't know what you're saying!" Spy ignored the comment, and decidedly took another drag from his cigarette. He made a mental note to buy more once he got out of Sawmill. Soldier, as his custom, saluted, and walked off. Spy heard him mutter something to the effect of, "That's downright un-American!" Cue eyeroll and Captain Obvious.

He didn't quite understand Solder's fascination with ribs. The meat never came clean off the bone and they were messy as hell. "You're just being an uptight girly-man." He recalled one of Soldier's many retorts to something he didn't find pleasing. It left a particularly sour taste in his mouth.

Or perhaps it was the brand of cigarettes he had picked up.

The back door was open and waiting for him—begging him to walk through and escape the never-ending war he had grown accustomed to. An engine revved—probably Sniper's camper van. Sometimes cutting the break wire didn't seem out of the question with that guy. Maybe he deserved it for throwing bottles of his own bodily fluids around at people, yelling, "JARATE!" every five minutes in order to "spy check."

"Just spy-checkin' ya, mate." The disgusting, piss-throwing man would grin and run off, only to return moments later and "spy check" the same area again—which happened to be where Spy hadn't moved from. "Gotta watch out for that BLU Spy." He says, and laughs because the idea of Spy being covered head to toe in such a foul-smelling liquid (seriously, what did this guy DRINK?) was absolutely hilarious.

Sniper was a good asset to the team, when he wasn't throwing around his 'Jarate' and killing off people Spy had specifically targeted for himself. Waiting for the respawn was torture, and every second was crucial.

Spy stepped out into the afternoon sunlight. The world was much different outside the Sawmill. It seemed brighter, more welcoming, less bloody…

Well, he would have to enjoy the brightness, and the welcoming, and the lack of blood later. He had a job to do. As usual, with his down-time, he took the opportunity to investigate his victims. He had to, since he was a great spy, and great spies are always ten steps ahead of their enemies, unless they're trying to backstab them. He retrieved a small notepad from his jacket pocket, and flipped it open, revealing names, dates, circled things and crossed out things, and a doodle or two. Who hadn't he retrieved the most information on yet? He would probably have to tell Medic at some point that the BLU Demo was, indeed, shagging his wife. Medic still believed it was just a ploy to irritate him, and while it did, he didn't think it was true. Perhaps BLU Pyro should be looked into. The last time Spy got a hold on BLU Pyro's purse, there was nothing in it except an old receipt FOR the bag. Whoever bought it paid in cash and bought it at some cheap dollar store type place. Upon further investigation, the cashier that had rung out that particular purchase had been fired, and the address they had used upon employment six months earlier had been fake. The question still remained why BLU Pyro (or the team Pro, for that matter) had a cheap purse.

Although he prided himself in being the best of the best, Spy couldn't help but feel like the Pyro was throwing him for a loop at every turn. The man, or woman, or whatever it was would be discovered soon. If anything, the Pyro also had an insane sense of humor, or was an incredibly effeminate man.

At this thought, Spy became aware of someone breathing down his neck. It was a rasping kind of breath, one that sounded like it might give out from all of the asbestos and soot. "Pyro, mon dieu, what do you zink you are doing?"

"Ihhhhnnng duhhhnnuhhho." Pyro shrugged.

"You do not know?" Spy turned to face his teammate, "Yet you read over my shoulder?" Pyro nodded. Spy had always found it mildly perplexing how childish this person could act.

"Hnnghn nihhhg brhnhhhnk." Pyro waved, turning his (or her) attention to an old, rusty red truck. What sounded like humming emitted from Pyro's mask, and keys were extracted from a pocket. Spy averted his gaze back to his notes. How rude some people were! Reading over his shoulder and all.

He considered BLU Engineer, but ever since his last venture to Texas, he hadn't quite recovered from the heat and over abundance of Mexican food. Besides he was in the mood for something that didn't wreak havoc on his digestive system. Fish was fine. Boston had fish. It was a nice city. BLU Scout's file needed to be updated, and he had some time to himself, so why not?

A car horn distracted him from his plans. He glanced up in time to see Pyro waving out the truck window and peeling off down the dirt road to the gate. What a crazy person.

The journey to Boston had been a short one compared to traveling to Germany or Scotland for extensive information, but the easy part was over. He had to avoid being caught. Tracking down the BLU Scout the first time was a piece of cake, since the kid was the most ignorant team member next to Soldier. His house was a modest one, not terribly far from the ocean side, where his mother lived alone when not being visited by one of her 8 children (or their company). The last time he scoured the house he was only able to find pictures of these people, and catch glimpses of BLU Scout's mom. It didn't matter too much, since BLU Scout was the only real target. All Spy had to do was gather information on him. No killing. No attacking. No bloodshed. The war was on a break, and Spy wasn't about to go bloodthirsty killer on anyone. Yet.

He found the house, nestled in between other houses that looked somewhat similar. The paint was a dark shade of blue, announcing to the world where the family's loyalties were. BLU scum.

There was no car in the driveway, no lights on in the house. A quick check to see if the BLU Scout disguise was still on his person, and Spy took the opportunity to approach the place.

Locked. No problem. Check under the mat, and bingo! House key. He wouldn't even have to pick the lock. There wasn't much to say about the interior of the house. It had house-things that a house should. Pictures of the large family hung everywhere, and Spy couldn't help but roll his eyes in disgust at them. One or two even had a man he presumed to be the father of these children, but he didn't recall seeing or even hearing about him the last time he visited.

The kitchen was clean and pristine, containing brightly colored counters and appliances. Spy could almost imagine the modern housewife that had to be the Scout's mother preparing dinner for an insane number of boys.

The woman probably suffered severe prolapse. What woman WOULDN'T suffer some sort of trauma after birthing 8 of these Bostonian brats?

Then there were the bedrooms. There were only three—two of them containing two sets of bunk beds—and trying to figure out which one contained the BLU Scout's personal items wasn't proving to be an easy task. Each room had baseball paraphernalia, similar looking hats, blue colored bedding…It was like each son had been treated like a clone. Granted, they had all moved out who knew how long ago, attending college or living in their own houses, so personal belongings were less likely to be hanging around. Assuming the BLU Scout visited home more often than his brothers, the bunk that was the messiest (and had more blood on it) was probably the right one.

There was surprisingly little to find. A left-handed batter's helmet was lying on top of the unkempt blue sheets. Odd, since the Scout was right-handed. Maybe it wasn't the right bed after all. Some nail clippings were caught between the mattress and the bedframe, but the ends were jagged. The Scout was a nail biter.

A few old notes were underneath the mattress. Some seemed to be love notes between the boy and undoubtedly some crush in high school. Maybe even middle school, based on the writing skills (or lack thereof) that both possessed.

As Spy reached for another note, he heard the distinct sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Thinking it might possibly be the mother—or worse, the actual BLU Scout—he shoved the notes back into their rightful place, and crammed the mattress back into the bedframe. He panicked, thinking for a moment that he had taken off his disguise. It was still (thankfully) secured to his head. His cloaking watch was ready, just in case—

"Hello?" The door had opened and a voice—a female's voice—rang out against the silence. It was a nasally sound, quite unlike the soft-spoken girls of Spy's hometown. No, this voice was slightly piercing, kind of hard to take, not at all gentle and warming, and definitely dripped with the Boston accent he had tried so hard to perfect. It was the most beautiful voice he had ever heard. "Is anyone theyuh? Scout, sweetie, is that you?"

So the whelp hadn't been home yet? Perhaps on his way.

"Yeah Mah!" Spy called out, jumping off the bunk and landing hard on the thin carpet, "I jus' got home!" Spy had to admit to himself, he was really doing quite well mimicking voices these days.

"Well don't just leave yuh muthuh tuh struggle with the groceries, get yuh can ovuh here!" Spy was reluctant to stay and help, especially since his cover could be blown any minute. He had to, again, remind himself that he was the best spy there was, and that he could definitely stick around without arousing suspicion. With this in mind, he left the room and rounded the corner, expecting to come face to face with someone who didn't quite fit the mold of what he believed a mother should look like.

Curves. Mon Dieu, the curves. They were in all the right places. How had this woman been able to keep such a figure after 8 children? Not to mention she had to be at least middle aged by now. Hardly any wrinkles, creamy pale skin, bright blue eyes…

"Son, whaddya lookin' at me like that fuh?" The woman asked as she reached for her purse, "Gawd, it hasn't been that lawng since yuh saw me." After digging around momentary, she produced a pack of gum. "Are yuh on anuthuh break or is this wah finally ovuh?" She pulled the wrapper apart with her teeth and yanked the pink piece of gum out before telling the Spy to hurry up and carry the bags into the kitchen. "Gawd, since when are yuh such a lazy bum?" The woman rolled her eyes. "Can't even reply tuh yuh muthuh. Kids these days." She dropped her purse down on a coffee table, picked up a few bags and ordered the person whom she thought was her son to follow. Spy reluctantly complied.

He didn't really want to stay and do this, but he had to admit she looked damn fine. He hadn't researched thoroughly into the BLU Scout's background last time—merely picked up some fingerprints, hair, a diary, and blood sample. If he HAD stayed longer last time, however, he would have made sure to study this woman very carefully.

"So tell me, hun, how have yuh been?" She asked as she rifled through her shopping bags and produced cans. "How is work? Stayin' outta trouble?" Though her back was turned to him, Spy could faintly hear her gnawing away on her gum. He figured even beauties had annoying habits.

"Uh, well, work is alright, I guess." Spy shrugged, "It ain't all that excitin', what with thuh shootin' and thuh killin' and thuh cafeteria food."

"I suppose that's yuh way of sayin' yuh want me tuh make yuh lunch?" The woman asked as she stacked cans into a cabinet otherwise filled with them, "What'll yuh have?"

"Eh. Anything is fine, Mah." Spy wasn't one hundred percent certain on the Scout's favorite meal yet. He knew his favorite candy was Mike and Ikes. Mostly he just wanted to know more about this mother of his.

"Well alright, hun, let me just come ovuh hee-uh and take these bags from yuh. You can sit down yuh know. Gawd." She shook her head, "Usually yah sit yuh can down on thuh couch and I have to bribe yuh tuh move! Are yuh sick or somethin'?"

"No, I'm fine, I just need some lunch."

"Well let me feel yuh foah-head just in case."

"No, really Mah, I'm fine!"

"Fine, whatevuh! Just sit down and I'll make yuh somethin' tuh eat." She paused a moment and sniffed the air. "Yuh know, I sweah I smelled smoke when I got home."

Uh oh.

"And I smell it again." Her gaze ultimately landed on the RED Spy, who could only try and remain calm, should his cover be blown. It was such a simple mistake he couldn't believe he didn't think of it. On the battlefield, smoke is everywhere. There's smoke in the hallways, in the corners, in the intel room, in the bathroom, in the fallout shelters, in the food—it was unavoidable. But here, in a smoke-free environment (hell, there were even two smoke detectors in the living room), even the scent lingering on clothes could be easily picked out.

Her face was next to his within seconds, taking in the air around him. "Oh my GAWD , have yuh been SMOKIN again?" She took in another whiff of air and added, "And yuh smell like cheap cologne!" She pulled away quite suddenly, arms crossed, and demanded an explanation. Spy tried to cover.

"Naw, honest Mah, all the guys I work with smoke, remembuh?"

"Yeah, that's why I asked." She blew a small bubble with her chewing gum and snapped it, "If I find out yuh smoked again, yuh in fuh a world uh hurt, yuh he-ah me?"

"Uh…yeah." Spy shrugged, "But, uh, this cologne? Ain't cheap, Mah." Honestly, it was all the rage back home!

"It smells awful, and I ain't gunna have my son walkin' around smellin' like a trash can."

"T-trash can!" This woman OBVIOUSLY didn't have a sense of smell. "This is good stuff, what are yuh sayin'? What do yuh WANT me tuh wear?" All of a sudden it was personal, and Spy wasn't going to stand around idly while his favorite brand was being slandered.

"Well, what ah yuh, 19? 20?" She turned toward the kitchen stove and opened a cabinet full of instant food and bread, "Go get yuhself some Old Spice or that Hai Karate yuh brothuh used tuh weah. Yuh too old fuh English Leathuh…" She paused to study the contents of the cabinet, and for a few moments Spy really hoped she'd stay away from the Kraft products, "Yuh nevuh gunna get a girlfriend, yuh know that, right?" She went for the white bread, but that didn't make him feel any better. "Yuh feelin' like deviled ham sandwiches, hun?" The question didn't come out as a question, but more of a 'this is what I feel like having, so you're going to have it too.'

"Sure."

"Yuh sure ah quiet!" A can opener was produced, "Not that I'm complainin'!" Two cans were opened and emptied into a bowl. From what the Spy could see, he knew he'd instantly regret this. "Yuh nevuh ansah'd my question. Is this wah ovuh?"

"Not yet. Probably nevuh will be."

"Well at least it's keepin' yuh off thuh streets. I don't need yuh gettin' hauled intuh jail again." Chopped pimentos were thrown into the bowl next. Oh Lord, what had he gotten himself into? "Yuh remembuh the last time? Couldn't keep yuh sticky finguhs tuh yuhself. I honestly thought I raised my son bettuh than this!" Out of the fridge came the mayo, some cheese he couldn't discern, and a bottle of what looked like hot sauce, "But I've said it befo-ah and I'll say it again. I love yuh just as much as I love yuh brothuhs. I just wish yuh'd stay away from the crime. It's hahd on a muthuh, y'know?"

"Well, it's my job now. And I get paid fuh it." Now everything was being MIXED for crying out loud! What kind of sandwich would that make? He hoped this wouldn't be like the time he tried chicken salad on that one hot day in the middle of July. Just thinking about it made him nauseous.

"Once this is all done and ovuh, yuh bettuh be turnin' a new leaf." The spread went down on the bread, and crusts were cut off. "Yuh'll nevuh get married if yuh hangin' around all these men all thuh time." The moment called for a comment such as 'Gosh Mah, how do you know I don't LIKE that sorta thing?' but for some reason this woman's cooking had struck the fear of God into Spy.

"Uh….yeah…." Was all he could say when the completed sandwich triangles were placed in front of him. It was now or never. Do or die. He had to suck it up and eat these or face consequences. Sure, he could just backstab her a few times, but the respawn law didn't apply here, and it would really be a shame to kill someone completely innocent.

Though this…cooking…might be considered a crime against humanity.

He took a breath and bit into the mess that he otherwise wouldn't have eaten if he were paid. It tasted bad at first, after a few more chews it was better. Better than cafeteria food, actually. Spy decided he could choke a few more down, since it wasn't the worst thing he's ever tasted. One of those nuclear waste containers that was often called 'soda' was placed in front of him, but he dared not drink it.

"That's wee-ahd, usually yuh chuggin' those things down."

"Maybe laytuh."

"I'm thinkin' tuna casserole fuh dinnuh, maybe?"

"Yeah…okay…"

"Yuh don't like tuna casserole no moah?" He heard tires in the driveway and a car door slam.

"Er-uh-no! I love it, just, uh, I need to—uh—get the mail." He could even hear his Boston accent slipping as he hurried to get out of the room and cloak. Not two seconds later the real BLU Scout kicked open the front door and called out for his mother. Spy took the opportunity to slip out the door as quickly and quietly as possible. He could hear the Scout loudly exclaiming he was back and that he had been held up at the station, and when did she make these sandwiches, and could he have some?

He hung outside the doorframe only shortly. The cloaking device only had so much power. If the woman had any suspicions, any questions, she didn't raise them. She did exclaim that he had gotten the mail in record time, to which the Scout asked what she was talking about (mouth full of those strange sandwiches, of course.)

With nothing left to do except check the cars for anything useful, he decided his time here was up.

Maybe some lobster wasn't out of the question.