InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "holy heart failure, batman!"

Remy LeBeau (ace_of_clubs) wrote in vas_captio_rpg,
@ 2009-06-19 23:47:00

Entry tags:

!complete, day 12, insider, location: barn, remy lebeau

Who: Remy LeBeau & The Insider
What: The Insider checks up on Remy and Remy notices.
Where: In the tunnels beneath the barn.
When: 0108 - Day 12
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete

It had been a long day for Gambit. The barn had been.. sort of taken care of, and was more livable now. He'd had to sacrifice his make-shift room, so he no longer had the privacy that he had the following night. Instead, he'd let Jack, Ianto and the Doctor have a few of the couches that were closer to the standing walls, beneath the cover of the creaking tin roof. Gambit had chosen, instead, to sleep on a couch near the open part of the barn, where there was a nice breeze. In order to do that, he'd had to move the couch there -- which moved it off of the trap door, only by a few feet. No one had taken notice, really, because it was so perfectly seamless, melding into the floorboards. And Remy hadn't given it a second thought. He'd just wanted to push the couch into the shade of a tree hanging over the barn (to block out the dim moonlight) and into a nice spot that would let the wind blow through. Sure, it wasn't as safe here.. something could fall on him, a wild animal could eat him, or some crazy, beautiful Amazon could capture him and drag him off to her secret mountain lair and force him to make sweet, sweet love to her on a regular basis, every hour on the hour, for the rest of his life, while torturing him with fantastic head while they were taking breaks in between....!

That would be just.. awful.

Hopefully, if anyone had to suffer that terrible, awful fate, it would be the unfortunate Cajun who had picked the spot away from the others, reclined on the couch on his back, sock-covered feet propped up on one arm, while his head rested on the other, as a pillow. His boots were next to the couch, neatly lined up, and his belt was folded and tucked into them. He'd worn his jeans and his tank-top to sleep, and was using his leather trench coat as a sheet of sorts. It was actually pretty comfortable.. but then, the cat-like Cajun could have slept on a flight of stairs and been fine. He was boneless and languid that way, all lanky limbs and grace, even sprawled out now on the dingy yellow couch, head lolled some to the side, a bit of that long red hair blowing some into his face. He'd picked a nice, breezy spot alright. Thank goodness for that. But the young man was a light sleeper, despite how easily he could pass out (like a narcoleptic), and it was often that the smallest noises could wake him.

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ace_of_clubs
2009-06-20 09:21 pm UTC (link)

"Mock?" He narrowed his own eyes down then, but it was more in confusion. "'De Hell you talkin' 'bou'? C'est la conversation idiote! I ain' lookin' to catch no one, mon ami. You ain' no evil force, you givin' y'self too much cre'it. You t'ink skulkin' 'roun' in 'de tunn'ls, taun'in' people, 'dat don' make you evil. I know evil people, I done evil t'in's. Anyone here 'serve to be crucify, it's me, so don' be actin' like you some how better at doin' bad stuff 'cause you ain'. S'my title an' you can' have it." The Cajun insisted, rolling his shoulder back some. It hurt. A lot. But he was crossing his arms over his chest in a blatant display of displeasure and stubbornness. He wasn't going to give chase, he couldn't. He didn't even know the other was attempting to run.

"Merde." He cursed softly, turning his head some to the side and causing his hair to swing. "Don' you be worryin' 'bou' my pan's." That came out in a huff. "I ain' comin' af'er you, ain' no one else, nei'ter. Know why? 'Cause I ain' yell. I ain' scream. 'Dere's t'ree people 'bove us, coul'a tol' 'dem 'fore I come down here af'er ya. I know you ain' stupi', so why you actin' like you t'ink I'm gon' hur' you? You know I ain'." He uncrossed his arms then, shuffling back a step, then another, until his heel hit the step and he slowly sat down.

"Can' believe you t'ink 'dat, Chere." He stretched long legs out, then smoothed his hands along his thighs, to his knees, where he gripped and rubbed. His legs hurt. Sleeping on the couch hadn't done wonders for the joins there. "You really t'ink I'm gon' do 'dat to you, better jus' go, non? Don' wan' be was'in' your time." He muttered a few things in French, too quiet to really be understood, but he was clearly disappointed, or hurt -- or a mixture of both. But he was tipping back and letting his body rest against the hard stairs behind him, head leaning back onto one of the steps. "Mockin' you.. You mockin' me." He tucked one arm back behind his head.

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inside_mind
2009-06-20 09:34 pm UTC (link)

The Insider almost laughed then as the man insisted on keeping his title as the evil doer who deserved crucifying. It was a silly image in the darkness. The blind eyes and the folded arms. The stubbornness in the tone and demeanor. It was enough to charm in spite of the warning that charm was not wanted or acceptible. Well this wouldn't do. The Insider could not let someone get in past the armor that easily especially with such humorous tactics. This was still a dance after all and a precarious one at that.

Normally, in any state of mind, this would have been a clinching, deciding factor. The persona in public would have fallen immediately for the way the man had backed away and all but pouted. Expressing reassurance with reminders of the people up above who could have been called for assistance. The public persona would have possibly even decided to shake hands and make friends with this man for being a savior.

This private persona was more skiddish. And rightfully so. Nothing was what it seemed when you were the traitor. No one could be trusted when you couldn't be trusted. There were people who liked the public persona. A great deal. People who would be crushed to discover that all this time, the person they'd liked was taunting them via journals. People who would have protected the public persona wanted to kill the Insider. A no-win situation.

"I mock you?" the voice finally answered from some distance away. "I, who has every reason to distrust every person trapped in this god-forsaken place because they all seek to kill me. I mock you with my mistrust?" A laugh was given that rang false and mirthless in the darkness.

"You may be an immovable object but I am an unstoppable force in the eyes of everyone in Vas Captio. We cancel each other out, do we not? I would be no more safe with you - if you tell the truth and wish to hold on to your title by protecting me - than I would be walking naked out in the streets painted with the name "Traitor" on my chest."

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ace_of_clubs
2009-06-20 09:47 pm UTC (link)

Remy LeBeau knew all about being the Traitor, and his eyes narrowed at the word, jaw tightening. He almost forgot, in the darkness, that he could be seen. And the expression was wiped clean a moment later, pushing away the feeling deep in his gut with that word. In that instant, the Cajun thought the Doctor knew nothing of rage. And he shook his head to clear it. Focus, Remy. He drew in a deep breath through his nose before speaking.

"I ain' never t'rea'en you. I ain' never say gon' hur' you. Ain' never. You mock me wit' you mis'rus' 'cause you act like you gon' be--" He paused though, to calm himself a little and rephrase. "You act like we--" Still, it wasn't going to come out right, and Remy shook his head again. That was enough, Cajun. Emotions didn't belong here. Back it off. "In 'de eyes of 'de ot'ers. Bu' ain' you, non? I tell you, I ain' gon' hur' you. Remy may be a T'ief an' a liar, bu' 'dere's honor 'mong t'ieves, mon ami. An' I keep my wor'. Man ain' not'in' if he can' be hones' 'bou' somet'in'." Still, he was closing his eyes and pointing his toes some in a bit of a stretch, trying to loosen up tense muscles, willing himself to relax. Why was he getting so worked up over this? It had to have been that word. Traitor. It hadn't even been used about him, but it'd sure had an impact.

"Ain' no one need to know 'bou' you. You done wha' you set out to do, non? You piss 'de people off, you scare 'dem. Oui, it workin'. Oui. But it don' mean you talkin' t'me, don' mean us bein' here, us--" But he stopped short once again to rethink that, before continuing more slowly. "Don' mean you can' trus' me. Oui, you helpin', no' in 'de bes' way, but I ain' no one to say you doin' anyt'in' wron', won' my inten'ion, Initié. Din' come down here t' figh'." That made the Cajun swallow and he turned some, on the stairs, drawing one leg up so the knee was pointing to the ceiling, and his heel was near his butt, while the other stayed stretched out. Felt better, that way. "I ain' gon' hur' you."

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inside_mind
2009-06-20 09:58 pm UTC (link)

There was something in that voice that made the Insider stop again. Pause in the backward steps that were meant to be the accent to the final words. Insider was supposed to run away to safety. Find somewhere else to be in the middle of the chaos and fear of being caught. The fear of being betrayed and left to the murderous hands of others. It was confusing and it caused a sudden, audible intake of breath. Could this be really believed?

"What exactly are you saying, Remy? Are you honestly saying you would keep me a secret? You would protect me from the people who would like to kill me because I had my fun at their expense in the midst of this horrible place?"

Several steps were taken forward toward the man on the steps. Night vision goggles took in the manner in which he was stationed there. Now he was the one poised to go. Probably not run but leave. Suddenly that felt undesirable. This meeting must be prolonged. The human interaction must be maintained.

A few more steps were ventured and the Insider was standing close enough to touch the dark-blinded man. Gloved hands brushed through the red hair again, teasingly. "You say you won't hurt me but what if I hurt you?" came the tentative whisper. "Would you protect me then?"

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ace_of_clubs
2009-06-20 10:09 pm UTC (link)

The Cajun heard him coming closer. Knew he was there in the dark, but he didn't move. Didn't reach out. Just as before, he knew it would be stupid to do so. It wouldn't help anything and he sure wouldn't get to touch the Insider, he'd only scare them off. And he didn't want that.

"Oui, 'das wha' I'm sayin'. Wha' I been sayin' all nigh'. I ain' gon' tell no one. No' 'bou' who you are, no' 'bou' wha' we doin'. Ain' none 'dere business." He sat up a bit then, spreading his leg a little to give some leverage if he needed it, but he didn't. He wasn't going any where any time soon. "You ain' gon' hur' me. Retourner. I'm in 'de pi'ch black, ain' got no shoes, ain' got no weap'ns, I can' see you. Bu' you can see me, you got boots," He could hear that much, and he knew what to listen for. Remy LeBeau was good. Very good. "You coul' have any manner o' weap'n, coul' take my hea' off. Coul' smash it wit' a piece o' cemen'. Kill me righ' now. But you ain'. An' you ain' run off." He lifted his chin some when he felt that hand touch at his hair, but didn't move, still. It was hard not to. His muscles bunched and his stomach twisted, and instinct told him to run and not look back.

But Gambit hadn't always been one to listen to his smarter side. Curiosity too often won out, and got him into trouble. You know what they say about Curiosity and the Cat? Goes true for Cajuns. "An' if you hur' me by mis'ake, ain' your faul'. Ain' gon' blame you. Done it loads of times m'self. Ne moi quittez pas." Softly requested.

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inside_mind
2009-06-20 10:27 pm UTC (link)

He didn't want the Insider to leave? That was strange and even more confusing. Everything in the file that the Insider had been privy to had suggested this man was a renegade. A rogue without any sort of ties of loyalty or morality. But to promise protection. To stand still while explaining the many ways in which someone might kill him. Then asking not to be left. It made no sense to the Insider. No one spoke like that. This had to be some sort of trap. The entire idea that Remy was off guard and weaponless, guileless, was ridiculous.

Yet the level of self control was immaculate. Impressive. The Insider watched as Remy held still, obviously aware of the close proximity of their bodies. It would have been so easy for the man to reach out and grab hold of the black jacket or the mask. Neither which would have helped him much but it could have resulted in a fast haul upward into the pale moonlight. The Insider felt braver now. Perhaps this was trust or maybe it was a simple dare against self. Running was still an option, right?

The Insider spoke very near the man's ear in a rough whisper. "No, I have no reason to hurt anyone. Especially not you, Remy. Especially not you."

The bulk of the jacketed body was pressed gently against the man's side. There was still no recognizable shape or form to it. Nothing to signal male or female or anything but that a body was there, warm and a gloved hand resting lightly on the Cajun's throat. No threat, merely the suggestion of power and vulnerability. "You'd really claim to be like me?"

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ace_of_clubs
2009-06-20 10:44 pm UTC (link)

The Cajun had been joking before, about the sex, and the handcuffs in the dark. But now, with that body close, and the feel of that gloved hand on his throat.. it certainly wasn't a turn-off, and the young man who'd been without for so long, was drawing up his other leg some, to make himself a little more comfortable, and hopefully keep the strain from his pants. Just don't think about it in a sexual way, LeBeau, it was only touching.

But it was so hard not to, when you were Gambit.

That voice near his ear caused his eyes to open again, but he didn't look to the side, didn't turn his face, and still didn't reach out. Yes, he was a loner. Yes, he was a renegade. And yes, he had no loyalty, no ties. No people, and no one to care about. He cared about himself and only himself. But he hadn't always been like that, and it was hard not to fall back into old ways. Very hard. Especially when it was something he'd decided he needed to have. Like a beautiful piece of art. The more you're told about it, about the security surrounding it, about it's value, about it's history, and (above all) how much you are not allowed to touch it? The more you want it for your own. And thankfully, once Gambit wanted something, the feeling didn't just dissipate.

"I ain' claimin', I'm statin'. You know me, non? Know 'bou' me, 'bou' wha' I done, wha' I am. Or maybe you ain' got 'de whole sto'ry in 'dem compu'ers, or 'dem files, or 'dem books, wha'ever you got. Mais c'est vrai. I ain' like 'dem. 'Dey ain' mine. You mine, like me. Got people call you 'dey frien', but 'dey soon kill you as look at you. Ain' got no one you trus'. Mais oui. Like you. Or maybe you like me?"

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