InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Will you be my friend?"

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 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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