It wasn't his plan to stay; that wasn't the way he worked. That wasn't the way spies worked. He'd planned to comfort the boy, tuck him back into bed and either redress himself and leave the house, or climb back into the boy's mother's arms. Even he didn't know which he would rather have done—she was… well, she was different.

She made him want to stick around.

That made her dangerous.

Her youngest son was no different.

Once he'd opened the door and turned on the light, displaying a prominent lack of monsters, the boy began wiggling to get down. Full of new confidence provided by having an adult with him, he flew to the bed and looked beneath it. Satisfied, he withdrew and—well, what he was doing was more graceful than running; it looked as if his natural mode of motion was a series of fluid strides that seemed too long for his little legs—moved to check the closet as well.

The man watched him pause with his hand on the knob, and his other little hand clenched and unclenched into a fist several times. A moment of silent expectation passed before the spy slipped closer, careful to make a little noise so that he didn't frighten the boy further.

"We shall open it together." He said, resting his hand over the boy's trembling fingers.

The boy nodded, and the spy put gentle pressure on his fingers to pull the door back and reveal the toy-strewn floor within.

"I knew there wasn't anything there." The boy suddenly piped, turning around and putting his little fists on his hips. "I knew."

The spy nodded. "You knew, but you still felt the fear."

The agreement seemed to throw the boy for a loop, and he was quiet for a second more before he nodded. "Yeah. Does that happen to you too?"

The spy chuckled and shook his head. It was only when the boy's face fell that he sighed and scooped him up again. "Not anymore." He admitted, holding the boy beneath one arm and tickling him with the other hand. "And someday, nothing will scare you too." He promised as he plopped the boy down on his bed.

"Nothing scares me now—'cause the monster wasn't there." The boy pointed out.

"Fine, nothing will not scare you." He amended, looming over the insolent child and threatening to tickle the boy again. He was met with giggling protests before the boy grabbed his hand, preventing him from leaving.

"Will you read me a story? Before you go back to my Ma's room?"

The spy cleared his throat indignantly and motioned for the boy to scoot over on the bed. "You are quite a brat when you are not afraid for your life."

The boy grinned at him and reached over his lap to pull a rather large collection of fairytales from his bedside table. "My favorite is the Thumbling story."

"If my memory is right, there are two." The spy told him, giving him a small smirk.

A pout and a shrug later, he opened the index and found both stories.

The boy was asleep by the end of the first, and the spy intended to rest his eyes for only a moment—he just wanted to take in the feeling of what it would be like if he'd pursued a family instead of the covert life of a spy.

The boy's mother woke him up with a gentle hand just after dawn, and a quiet smile and a raised brow asked questions that he didn't himself know the answers to.

:::::

He'd gone back several times.

Often enough to feel emotions; often enough to know that it was a bad idea.

Perhaps not as often as he should have.

Scouts never joined TF Industries under favorable circumstances. It was usually the only option left to them aside from debt or prison. Unfortunately, it was usually the latter that landed them on TF Industries's for-hire list.

He hadn't seen the boy in several years, but there was no mistaking those ears, that nose, and those charmingly obnoxious teeth bared in a fierce grin.

He hadn't watched his cloak, hadn't realized that the boy had seen him until their eyes connected. The boy was almost to him, bat raised, when he saw the slightest hesitance in his stride.

He used it, sidestepped to avoid the blow, and brought his knife up and into the boy's back. He usually stopped to admire his kill, to make sure that the stroke was the deathblow, but this time, the Spy turned on his heel and hurried away from the scene.

He was bent on avoiding the Scout for the remainder of the battle, and, if possible, the remainder of his term at their current base.