Remy Moreau • Phil Coulson (hisnameisagent) wrote in thereincarnates, @ 2016-07-19 22:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | remy moreau |
Who: Remy Moreau, Open
What: Remy needs to get out of his head
Where: Some gym in Brooklyn
When: Tuesday, July 19th 2016
Warnings: N/a or tba
Back, back when Remy had been overseas, things were simpler. There was a job to do and it was nothing personal, it was the nature of the beast. And it was who he was. He went with his team and they got shit done -- it could be anything, everything. From watching someone’s back, to bringing in a wanted face, to rescuing someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d defused bombs, he’d stood on the field and helped rain fire down on the enemy -- he’d entered enemy territory and did what needed to be. Remy knew what it was like to be on the front lines of war, he had spent too many years doing what was supposed to be the right thing.
Now, now he was still doing the right thing, or so he thought.
With Coulson in his head, his protective streak grew: he saw them, the other reincarnates -- he saw and knew some of those that he would have never meet if it wasn’t for Coulson. And his protective streak was ten miles wide. They were Coulson’s superheroes; they were Remy’s reincarnates. And he worked in the background doing what he could, he kept an ear to the ground and then ...then, he had been recruited into SAD with the knowledge he might be sent back out. Remy knew that it had always been a possibility: he hadn’t been discharged, he retired and a SEAL? They never retired, they just want on to bigger things.
When ISIS became a threat, when hate crimes started happening multiple times a month, when police corruption and brutality were used constantly in the same sentence -- when he couldn’t stand to watch the news anymore, Remy knew that whenever he picked up the phone, he was waiting for that call to bring him back in.
The call came and he had to ghost: it was nothing like before, in-your-face, constant action. A lot of the time he spent blending and keeping his eyes peeled; he traveled and shook hands and his gun was a familiar weight in his hand. The only one who knew where he was half the time, although no details, was Sam. He kept her updated in case he was needed home: Remy was glad it had never come to that.
He had been gone for eight months -- eight long months of days bleeding together, of upping and leaving, of no sleep and frustration. Eight months of active duty where he tried to put a stop -- where he tried to take care of …
Remy came home in a sling: a bullet to his left shoulder, through and through, and a mild concussion. He was on leave for three months, or at least that’s what he had been told. We’ll be called back, and Remy had no doubt that Coulson was right. Because Remy had a specific skill set that was needed and once he had said yes to SAD?
There was no going back from that.
He was stressed: angry, frustrated, annoyed -- he was sad. Remy couldn’t pinpoint a reasoning behind his emotions, although it was probably because he was down an arm. He couldn’t sleep and it was like coming home all over again. He spent his nights in the gym, his sling on a bench and his hands wrapped. His shoulder screamed in protest, but it had been long enough that the stitches wouldn’t tear with some light duty and Remy knew his limits.
He caught the punching bag as it swung toward him and tightened his hands against the vinyl and he dropped his head forward, breathing heavily.
What Remy needed was a good ...drink or fight, or fuck. Maybe all three. Something to get him out of his head for a while. He stepped back and balled up his fist, no form or control and just swung at the punching bag. It was wild and the bag swung and he knew that the buzzing in his head was Coulson groaning -- it fucking hurt, his tightened his hand and rolled his left shoulder, then let loose on the bag.