#thetriggeredhappy

I love when characters that are usually in their own unique situation (like the mercs fighting everyday and such), are put into normal, everyday situations that we go through irl. Like a holiday trip to see your bf’s family!! It’s cute!! It makes me sob from how cute it is!! And the angst just hits so much harder! I hope this makes sense. Sorry idk how to put it honestly.

Hence the application to Mann Co. 

He had less personal reasons for applying, of course. As one of the largest corporations in the world, Mann Co. carried a lot of prestige with its name. The payout was excellent and would ensure his mother’s comfort. Lots of travel, too. Clarence always wanted to reenact Around The World in 40 Days. Ricky would’ve called him a nerd over that. 

(God, he missed Ricky. All the more reason to make sure the baby of the bunch was safe.)

He landed the job, of course. He never really doubted it. He had the grades, the degree, the reputation that Mann Co. expected of its employees. And the desk work is easy and innocuous enough. His office is in Mannhattan, too, so he’s not terribly far from the rest of the family. Yes, he goes abroad frequently, but having a home base on the East Coast is fantastic. 

The promotions come steadily through the years. More weaponry deals, more top-secret files, more codenames. Eventually, he finds himself in the highest position of power a business major like him could ever hope to be in: Saxton Hale’s personal assistant. Which does involve scheduling, phone calls, and writing memos- all things he excels at. It also requires him to serve breakfast steaks, skydive to wrestle alligators, and reverse-engineer weapons from rival manufacturers. 

Clarence knew Saxton had a comic book, but he had always assumed the exploits to be fictional. Silly him. 

But it’s not all bad. Turns out Clarence has a knack for customer service. He often acted as the mediator between his brothers- middle child syndrome at its finest- and was able to play a variety of roles, depending on the buyer. Perhaps he got that from his stepfather. 

He never forgot his true goal. He never directly told Mom why he joined Mann Co., but Clarence was certain she knew. She was smart like that, able to discern all the things people didn’t tell you. Clarence, in turn, learned the same. 

Currently, Clarence was on a plane. He had managed to convince Saxton to take a normal landing for once, citing the number of explosives being carried in the cargo bay. Reddy had already called to inform him of the latest budget changes; currently, Saxton’s meat funds would be slightly slashed to afford more shorts after a particularly ugly board meeting. Clarence shuddered at the memory. There was only one more call to expect. 

“Bidwell? It’s Pauling. How are you doing?” 

Right on cue. 

Clarence smiled at the video call, taking in Miss Pauling’s black-and-white visage. “Just fine. You and the Administrator?”

“Doing good. She got your message, and I think she agrees- we’re going through shovels at an alarming rate. It’ll be beneficial in the long run to invest in these high-duty models,” she said. 

“Fantastic. And just to clarify, these are for your, ahem, ‘personal’ use and not to be given to the Soldier?” 

Miss Pauling laughed. “For how much we’re paying for them? Solly better not touch them.” Bidwell chuckled, too. He didn’t know the mercenaries well, but he heard enough from Pauling to know of their antics. “Where are you and Saxton headed to next?” “We’re about to land back in Mannhattan, why?”

Miss Pauling’s smile upturned just a fraction. “The boys are currently stationed at Doublecross, not far from you. And we recently filled the vacancies on the RED team. Maybe you could convince Saxton to come over and give them a look.” Clarence thought, stroking his chin. “If you can rile them up enough for a fight, that should be enough to entice him. Won’t arrive until late, though. We’re supposed to have a meeting when we land.” “Supposed to” were always the operative words with Saxton. 

“Just call me if you plan to swing by. Anything else?”

“Ah, yes!” Clarence fished two pieces of paper out of his jacket pocket. “I managed to convince Saxton to write off this year’s Assistant’s Conference as a work expense. For both of us.” 

“No WAY! How’d you manage that?” Miss Pauling’s jaw had dropped so far, Clarence was almost certain the bone had cracked. 

Clarence shrugged. “Told him this year’s clipboards might be yeti-proof.” 

“I owe you one, big time. Seriously. All right, I need to go. I have a few, uh, garbage bags to drive to the dump. Take care, Bidwell.” The screen went blank. 

Two new mercenaries on RED, then? Clarence racked his brain, trying to remember what positions were empty. The Scout and… 

The Spy. 

The odds, if he was being honest, were minuscule. Less than… 2.33% repeating, if his math was correct. But it was something. He sucked in a breath between his teeth, straightened his tie, and stood. “Mr. Hale?”

. . .

“Still think that Sniper’s lying,” Saxton said, watching the brawl being broadcasted. “No self-respecting Australian would be that far from a fight! He’d be in the thick of it, cracking skulls over his knees!”

“We’ve run tests, and there’s no other ethnicity he could be,” Miss Pauling reminded him. 

For the most part, Clarence tuned them out. He was laser-focused on the new recruits. Both the Spy and the Scout were slippery, though. Hard to track. He understood that for the Spy, certainly, that was part of the job description. He might’ve caught a few words in French, but in all honesty, most romance languages sounded the same to him. The Scout, though… what few glimpses Clarence got of him, he was ruthless. Systematic. 

And had a grin so, so similar to Mom’s. 

He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until Miss Pauling tapped his shoulder. “Are you alright, Bidwell?”

“Ah, yes, although,” he said quickly. “May I speak with the new team members? I realize that they don’t see me nearly as frequently, but I think it would be beneficial to introduce myself.” He swallowed what tasted suspiciously like bile and anxiety. 

If miss Pauling was suspicious, she didn’t say anything. “I’ll let them know. Keep the cameras off, too.”

He let out the exhale he was still subconsciously holding. “That would be appreciated. Consider us even for the Conference, then.” She grinned at him, and for the first time since getting the job with Mann Co., Clarence dared to hope. 

. . .

Clarence straightened his tie, glancing through the small window in the door. The Scout and Spy stood on the other side. The Scout was bouncing his leg while the Spy smoked. Very little there to work off of, but Clarence had done more with less. And he had been waiting for so long, why was he putting it off any longer?

He opened the door. 

Immediately, the two men turned to look at him. The Spy’s face was mostly covered, as part of his uniform, but there was a distinct furrow in his brow as he observed Clarence. As if trying to piece a memory back together. The Scout, meanwhile- shit, those were Martin’s ears, and Henry’s freckles. Frank’s eyes. He never thought he’d see those again. 

“Uh, e-excuse me,” he choked out. “I’m Mr. Hale’s personal assistant. My name is Bidwell.” 

As soon as the name left his lips, the Spy straightened. “Then- Clarence?” he asked, voice quivering. 

Clarence nodded, finally allowing the first few tears to fall. “Who’re you expectin’, Dad, Frank?” he joked, letting his native Boston accent slip back in. It was probably in poor taste, but Clarence can’t bring himself to care. 

He finally found them. 

“Whoa, whoa, what the fuck are you talkin’ about? Spy, you know this-” 

The Scout sounded just as he remembered, from the meager few words he heard through Mom’s call. “Oh my God, Jeremy, it really is you-” Clarence found himself moving before he even registered it, anxious to pull his baby brother into a hug. They were only inches apart, when- “OOF!” 

Within seconds, Jeremy had him pinned down on the ground, cleat securely on Clarence’s throat. His standard-issue Mann Co. pistol was pointed directly at his face. Clarence knew that they weren’t particularly damaging, but at this close range, it would be lethal. And he, unlike the mercenaries, did not have Respawn. He struggled to breathe. 

“Jeremy, arrête ça! Il dit la vérité, c'est ton frère. Laisse le partir,” Marcel said, placing a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “Please.” 

Jeremy glanced between Clarence and Marcel, before removing his foot. Clarence took a few deep breaths before standing again. The pistol was no longer pointed in his face, but Jeremy still stood a distance away. His face was… conflicted. Angry, but uncertain. “Is he tellin’ the truth, man? That you’re my-” 

Clarence nodded, rubbing his throat. “I-I think? I don’t speak French, but if he was saying we’re brothers, then yes.” He sighed. “Well. Half-brothers, at any rate. You’re-” an ugly sob crashed through Clarence’s body- “you’re my baby brother, Jeremy.” He smiled at Marcel, looking positively relieved. “You kept him safe.” 

“I told Fiona I would. Oh, Clarence,” Marcel whispered, taking Clarence’s face in his hands. “I missed all of you, but you didn’t have to do this.” 

“Y-you didn’t know what it was like, Marcel,” he whimpered, looking at his shoes. His crying reflection looked back at him in the shine. “Once you and Jeremy left, she never talked about you, because- because if the younger kids knew about you two, word would get out. You’d be in danger, and she knew that. So she had to act like you were dead, and like Jeremy never existed. You know what that felt like?” he yelled, daring to meet Marcel’s eyes. “To remember your youngest brother, but have to pretend it was all made up? It ate her alive, it was killin’ Frank and Thomas and Henry and me, but we had to.” 

Marcel sighed, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “Clarence…” He handed the handkerchief to Clarence, who took it wordlessly. “That’s a terrible burden for anybody to take. You didn’t have to.”

“But I had to,” he said, dabbing at his face fruitlessly. “I remembered you, Jeremy. I was only seven when you were born, but I held you in my arms. You threw up on me one time and ruined my favorite shirt,” he sobbed, staring at his brother’s face. “And after Frank, and then Ricky- I don’t think Mom’s poor heart would let her handle losing her baby, too. So-so I decided to find you. Make sure you were okay.” He exhaled sharply, cracking a feeble smile. “And you are.” 

Jeremy shuffled his feet, suddenly looking very sheepish. “Um, well, that’s super touchin’ and everythin’, but… I dunno what you’re expectin’ here, man. I don’t remember you or Ma or any other brothers. ‘Course I don’t, I was a baby. As far as I’m concerned, it’s always just been me an’ Dad.” He at least has the decency to appear apologetic. “I’m sorry, I really am, but… this whole havin’ brothers thing is. Completely new to me.” 

Clarence had expected it. He had anticipated it. He had prepared himself for it. But not enough, evidently, because each word is like a dagger into another part of his body. It was less Jeremy didn’t remember them and more Marcel never even bothered to bring up Jeremy’s family. At no point did he think it would be important to tell Jeremy what he had left behind, albeit involuntarily. Even when he did finally crack and introduced Jeremy to Mom, he hadn’t felt the need to bring any siblings into the mix. Did Marcel even know what happened to Frank? What happened to Ricky? How responsible Clarence was for that? 

Did he give a shit about his stepsons at all?

Jeremy leaned against the wall, pulling off his hat to run a hand through his hair. The hair was closer in color to Marcel’s than any of his siblings. “Still, gotta admit, having brothers would be kinda cool. Would’ve made those long car trips with Dad busy more entertainin’, at least.” 

“I gave you plenty of homework to keep you occupied, Jeremy.” 

“Dad, no nine-year-old wants to do homework while on the run.” He punched Marcel on the shoulder. “Hey, but now I know my last name!” 

“You know your mother’s married name, from her first husband. Her maiden name was Mulligan.” 

Jeremy burst out laughing. “Fiona Mulligan? From Boston? I swear to God if she had red hair too-” 

Clarence’s eyes watered again. The rapport between Jeremy and Marcel was so natural, so familiar. His own father passed away in a car crash when he was two, a mere three months after Daniel’s birth. She never remarried. The only father he ever had was Marcel, and those visits were infrequent… until they stopped altogether. 

“Um. Clarence, right?” Jeremy called. Clarence quickly blinked away any tears; at some point, their speech transformed into white noise. “So, you an’ Ma an’ my other brothers- that’s gonna take some gettin’ used to- do you guys have a house?”

“Yes?” he answered, somewhat dazedly. “In Boston. There, um, there were a few winters where we didn’t have heat, and we were nearly evicted once, and we had to share three bedrooms between all of us-” 

Jeremy looked at him pointedly. “But you had a house. A home.” He wrapped his arms around his stomach. “Somewhere that, no matter what happened, you could return to.” Clarence nodded, not entirely sure how to respond. Jeremy laughed ruefully. “Shit, that musta been nice.” 

Oh. 

Suddenly, Marcel’s actions made sense. He was a spy. A man constantly switching identities, finding new places to hide. And he had a baby with him. A child with no concept of secrecy, of behavior, of morality. Marcel had to balance his job and his offspring in equal measure. The best way to do that would be to essentially erase Jeremy’s history. Delete any ties he might have beyond his father. Thus, Jeremy would grow constantly on the move, without any bonds to tie him down. The two of them would be alone. 

Clarence couldn't imagine growing up without his brothers.

“That must’ve sucked,” he said out loud, not entirely aware he was doing so. 

Jeremy nodded, looking a bit less spiteful. “I bet ya had friends, too, and went to birthday parties and had holidays together and- shit, I’m jealous you went to school.” 

“Don’t be. Trust me, school was the worst. Especially if you had Mrs. Carmichael in seventh grade, which all of us did.” Jeremy laughed, Marcel smiled, and Clarence felt his own lips turn up. His shoulders unhunched. 

the part of the fic where scout reflects on the dogtags, how they were passed down to him, has some of the most powerful phrases that give me a lot of Thoughts (take everything i say with a grain of salt, i might be all wrong about this)

jack’s death “because the war was anything but clean.”

henry’s death “for a war that even Henry didn’t support.”

tony’s warning “don’t be the third O’Connell boy to die and leave us those dog tags”

and scout’s final reflection on it that he “didn’t know if he’d technically broken those instructions now, but as far as he could tell, he hadn’t sent them back the dog tags”

end of chapter “ he went to sleep and dreamed of war.”

scout’s dogtags is a popular topic in tf2 fic. dogtags are a possession, something personal. scout is the only character to have them. there’s an aire of mystery around them, since dogtags usually have a name on them, a meaning. what does it mean to scout? different for every writer, but the use of them in this fic is really interesting to me for some reason.

the motif of war, and the symbol of the dogtags, are really well written in running blind. war is what scarred scout’s family, war is what scarred his eyes, and war is what is bringing him to a better future, to love. it runs in his blood. the dogtags represent the tearing of this branch of his family tree, limb by limb, dangerously close to him; what he struggles to let go of and he can’t seem to move on from.