Jeffrey had the book. It wasn't the same copy, though, with his name written in the front in faded green ink and a grape Kool-Aid stain on page five. That had been lost when those bastards trashed his apartment. When they trashed his life.
But it was the same book. He read it when the pain in his chest got too bad. He could hear her voice reading the words aloud, coaxing him to recite along with her. He could see her fingers, smoke-yellow, pointing out the bird, the dog, turning the pages. He remembered how terrible she smelled and how much he loved her.
And when the pain got worse, he stopped reading.
Jeffrey made a cup of tea. There wasn't much around to eat, so he put in extra sugar. He sat down on the couch and the springs creaked. One of these days, it would break.
Last night, he'd stayed in his room because Alex had someone over, some alien or spy or trick. Today, Alex was out and there were new rings on the coffee table, glasses with a sad quarter-inch of melted ice in them. The bottle of whiskey was still a third full. Jeffrey drank his tea.
Alex had plans for him, Jeffrey knew, but Jeffrey had plans for himself first. When he could walk further than across the room without wanting to sit down, he was off.
First, he'd find his mother. They'd taken her and taken her, but he'd get her back again and this time, she'd be safe. He'd find a place for her and she'd be safe forever.
And then he'd find his father and make him pay.
On the corner of the table was an ashtray with six, no, seven butts spilling out of it. Jeffrey wanted to take the ash and rub it on his book, so it would smell right again. There was a half-empty pack of Players, too, and a lighter.
Jeffrey read. "Are you my mother?" He closed his eyes and drank more tea. Then he shook out a cigarette, lit up, and turned the page.
FINIS
I love Weaselfic, and I'm surprised I'd never read this until you drew attention to it in your LJ.
It's easy to give feedback for stories that are smutty or wicked or Evol or funny. It's harder to give feedback for something that's profound, disturbing, and subtle.
The most evocative paragraph is the second one; Cassandra's hands and scent are wonderfully visceral details that would imprint a young child. Having Spender recall those memories from reading a book (which is not even his own) about abandonment humanizes him, and makes the picture we have of his childhood especially poignant. The irony of a mother who smells terrible, but is still beloved contrasts with a father who also smelled terrible, but never read to him.
When I compare this S6 story to what we know of Spender's and Cassandra's fates at the end of the series, the surrogates mentioned in your story (Krycek, CSM, tea, cigarettes) make the dog and the cow and the plane and the steam shovel in the original story very, very evil.
Sucks to be Jeffrey.