#ELIAS & REMY. ( modern au. ) ( mutant. undercover. ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rykerelias-archive · 7 years ago

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TRANSFERRED FILE. || @cardshcrp Remy & Elias. VERSE: modern au. ( mutant. undercover. ) 008. THREAD: to be named.

“Don’t –” Elias tried to say, again, a hand catching at Remy’s wrist and forearm, his hold PAINFULLY tight for a few brief seconds before he snatched his fingers away like he’d been burned, had suddenly realized what he’d done, his voice bordering on thin, his throat tight, his head dizzy with a thousand different directions his thoughts were being pulled. His chest ached, his stomach twisted in knots and roiling, nausea an unfamiliar and uneasy sensation – he tried to find a focus, find a center. He knew he was sketching, knew he wasn’t making sense, that the flurry of arguments that he’d tried to present to Remy to convince the Guild leader to stay back, to not go on the mission were – weak, and half-thought out and while he would be the first one to admit that Remy was definitely the brains of the two, Elias wasn’t exactly known for being an IDIOT, at least – not to Remy.

In the last months, he’d had to show more and more of himself, of his true self, to Remy, to build the rapport, to build on the relationship that had hit him, at least, out of nowhere. Bludgeoned into it, at first, by Stryker’s heavy handed insistence that Elias do WHATEVER it took to worm his way into Remy’s good graces but – now? Now that it came down to the wire, to the line in the sand – he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing, SAY nothing while he watched Remy walk out the door to join the team standing by, waiting to walk into the trap that HE had set. This info on the job, the job itself, the mission parameters and details, he’d put it together – bait too good for even the King of Thieves to resist.

Which had been exactly what Stryker was counting on. “Don’t go.” Elias finished, a handful of heartbeats later, his voice gravely, his words stiff, and far from the suave that he had HOPED for. “They don’t need you – just – stay with me.” He could feel it all, crumbling, falling to pieces in his hands, in his chest, in his head. Everything he’d ever worked for. Everything he’d ENDURE at Stryker’s hands, the blood that stained his hands, mutant and human alike, worth what – worth nothing? For nothing? Betrayed, betraying Stryker – it would cost him everything. His savings, his home, his record, his life – if he was lucky – betraying Remy … it would cost him everything else. His life, here, in New Orleans, fake as it may have started, meant more to him now than anything ever had – the money, the Guild aside, he FELT THINGS that he had never thought he was capable of feeling —

Slipping away. Remy would never forgive him. If he was LUCKY he’d end up spending the rest of his life on the run from the Guild and from the Strike Team – But if he let Remy go – if he let Remy walk into the trap of HIS making, Stryker’s men armed with knowledge and tactics targeted to exploit every weakness that Elias had wrestled from him in their time together, if he let Remy fall into Stryker’s hands – he would lose the only thing he had worth a damn in his life. And he couldn’t. “Please.” Trust me, he begged, silently, desperation sharpening the plea.

He FLINCHES when Elias’ fingers close around his wrist, harsh and digging into old scarring, a reflexive reaction as natural as the way a knife slips into his free hand before he can catch himself. “DAMN IT, CHER!” he bites out, and the blade is gone as fast as it appeared, leaving him to cradle his arm to his chest. “DON’TDO THAT. YOU KNOW HOW I AM ABOUT THE HANDS.”

I COULD’VE HURT YOU, OH FUCKING HELL I COULD’VE HURT YOU -

Red eyes study the way his face is drawn, tense, and hell if Elias doesn’t look like he’s about to break. Remy glances back at the waiting team, holds up a hand; they’re ahead of schedule. It costs him nothing to take the time to figure out why his lover looks more distressed than he’s ever seen him.

And he’s worried, damn worried, not that he’ll admit it - Elias is controlled, always, ALL ABOUT control to the degree where Remy delights in making him lose it. In a good way, anyway.

This, whatever it is, isn’t good, and he swears under his breath, reaches out and grabs the taller man by the sleeve, drags him away behind a stack of crates in the hangar where hey won’t be seen or heard. “THE HELL’S GOTTEN INTO YOU?” he asks, and gentle hands reach up to cup the other’s face, the rough pads of his thumb stroking slowly over Elias’ cheek. “YOU DID THE WORK ON THIS YOURSELF, DARLIN’ - IT’S NOT A CAKEWALK BUT IT AIN’T THAT BAD, EITHER. IT’S JUST ANOTHER HEIST, SWEETHEART. I’LL BE BACK WITHIN SEVENTY-TWO HOURS.”

And then Remy does something he hasn’t done in years, and certainly never to someone he cares about, because the invasion of privacy is simply TOO GREAT - but this time, he can’t read what’s going through Elias’ head, not with the faint push of emotion he can still feel.

He breathes in, and he drops all the shields around his empathy.

The force of what he’s hit with sends him physically reeling, stumbling back and clutching at his head, groaning as he throws every bit of protection he has right back up because oh, FUCK, the amount of desperation and anxiety and FEAR leaking off of Elias is enough to set his heart racing, has every bit of him tensed and ready to run like hell and nobody feels like that unless YOU’RE BACKED INTO A CORNER WITH NOWHERE TO GO -

“WHAT’S GOIN’ ON?” he breathes, and his voice is all wrong even to himself, high and strained, and he’s taking a step towards Elias, and back again, unsure, eyes darting everywhere because nothing is right all of a sudden, nothing at all. “CHER?”

He regretted his gesture the moment he’d done it, he KNEW it was one of the few things Remy couldn’t tolerate, and the flicker, the dance of silver in Remy’s fingers wasn’t missed – it just wasn’t important, not now, not in this moment. Honestly, it would have been the LEAST that he deserved. “’m sorry,” Elias managed to mumble, his fingers curling in, clenching into white knuckled fists before sprawled, spreading apart almost painfully far, tense and taut enough they were nearly shaking. Elias’ gaze tear away, around the hanger, to the team waiting with mixed degrees of impatience, and he felt the faintest burn of heat on his cheeks. He didn’t do this. He didn’t act like this, he didn’t let his personal feelings, or personal relationship interfere with business, not with the Guild and sure as hell not where Stryker’s business was concerned. But then he wasn’t exactly HIMSELF – and the smirks or the taunts that he might receive later weren’t exactly a concern – he didn’t even know if there WOULD BE a later. Despite his stiff posture, his clear agitation, he was oddly pliant to Remy’s pull, following after him to where there conversation would be at least partially concealed.

Remy’s words made him ache anew, a rough swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply. Ironic, how SWEET Remy assumed his intentions, his concern. And then – and then Remy is staggering back, a pained, low sound slipping from him, and Elias’ stomach dropped like a rock, a moment of utter PANIC rising first – had Stryker made other plans? Followed them here somehow? Struck NOW, before Elias could warn Remy away? Had he learned – how Elias felt? It was Stryker that had arranged to have the telepathic shield built around Elias’ thoughts, working around them would have been easy – His heart lurched, twisting inside his chest, feeling as if it had been STUNG … The field was basic. Strong enough to keep out the average telepath, designed to feel like a natural block. But Remy wasn’t … average. Not in his mutant abilities, not in any way. Had he heard – FELT – “Remy –” He pulled his hand away from where it had leapt towards the dark-haired man, where he had started to lunge forward to catch him, his massive, broad frame stock still, almost frozen in place as Remy’s red eyes latched onto his.

“Don’t ask me that —” It was rough, and hoarse, his breath ragged and burning in his chest, agitation and anger and self-loathing and GUILT tearing his heart to ribbons. PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME ANSWER THAT. It was unfair. It was selfish, and greedy, and he knew it was, but this … WHATEVER this was between him and Remy, this … unexpected torrential crash of emotions that had built, little by little until they had torn his feet out from underneath him and left him dangling, dangling by fingertips and teeth and he could feel that handhold slipping away. “Don’t go. Tell them somethin’s come up, you can’t make it – cancel the wholeFUCKING thing if you have to just please –” He was etching his death warrant with every word, with every syllable that fell, chaotic and crass and rough, from his lips in sporadic bursts, like pulling teeth – only that would’ve hurt LESS. He could feel the ache in his throat, the sting in his eyes, but he couldn’t even bring himself to fight it, to fight them. It was inevitable. This had always been inevitable, that it would end like this, that he would have to stand by and watch as Remy’s freedom was snatched, or … his heart broken.

Maybe. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he read too much into it, thought too much of himself, felt TOO MUCH. Maybe it wasn’t the same, for Remy. Maybe it wasn’t reciprocated. Maybe he was risking everything for nothing … but he couldn’t take that chance. He couldn’t risk it. He wouldn’t.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” he breathes, and there’s very real fear in him now - he doesn’t see the whole picture. Not yet. But theGUILT across Elias’ features is easy to see, even without tapping into his empathy. It’s guilt and fear and whispered I’M SORRY I’M SORRY, kind of the way he looks at Remy some mornings when he thinks he isn’t looking and he SHOULD’VE KNOWN.

He’s scared, scared for Remy - and that’s enough to make Remy afraid of HIM, because OH, Elias has enough power to hurt him like no one else does, and he’s done SOMETHING and he should’ve known better but THIS HURTS.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

His back is pressed to the wall, and he’s staring at Elias with absolute desperation in his eyes. TELL ME I’M WRONG, TELL ME THERE’S SOMETHING BOTHERING YOU THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ME, TELL ME I WASN’T A FOOL TO FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU -

And oh, GODS, but that’s the worst feeling, his gut wrenching with that realization, too little too late and it aches deep because he’d been avoiding it but he can’t now. Not when Elias is looking at him like he’s already dead or worse.

Like he’s sending him to his death, and AH, so that’s it. That’s exactly what he’s doing, isn’t it? If not that, it’s something shit, that much is for sure, and suddenly he wishes he weren’t so quick on the uptake.

His jaw clenches, and he SLAPS Elias before he can even think how stupid that is when he should stab him instead, angle a knife between his ribs when he’s more than quick enough to, the sound sharp and echoing around them as his hand crashes into the other’s face hard enough to raise red under the skin instantly.

“YOU SOLD ME OUT,” he chokes, and there’s nothing but pure agony in the sound and FUCKING HELL he’s crying, he’sCRYING and he has never done that in front of anyone but it hurts too much for him not to. “I LOVED YOU AN’ YOU - YOU FUCKIN’ SOLD ME OUT, YOU DIDN’T EVEN CARE - ”

And he slaps him again, the impact strong enough that his brittle bones ache, a sharp hiss slipping from between his teeth as he snatches his hand back.

“YOU GONNA TRY TO KILL ME NOW, CHER?”

He didn’t KNOW he could hurt like this, that he could feel like he had swallowed broken glass, like it was twisting its way through his throat, through his chest, splintering into a thousand shards like a grenade in his chest. Remy’s voice wasDEADLY quiet, at first, breathless, like he’d been sucker punched – BUT THEN HE HAD, HADN’T HE? “Remy –” He can’t keep his gaze up, can’t stand the pain that tears through the other man’s expression, can’t stand the tears the glitter and streak down Remy’s cheeks. COWARD. COWARD. He wanted to fall to his knees, to throw himself at Remy’s feet, to beg forgiveness, but – that wasn’t fair, either. He’d had MONTHS to dread this moment, this day. Remy … hadn’t seen it coming, and he hated himself SO MUCH for that. “I’m sorry.” A hoarse whisper, his throat bobbing, aching, a howl of rage and despair buried beneath the words, weak and USELESS, MEANINGLESS.

“I didn’t —” His voice is ragged, his words rough and choked, splintering into pieces as they fumbled from his lips and tongue. “Know … “ He hadn’t known Remy, any more than a photograph, and black and white on a page, he didn’t knowWHO Remy was, WHAT he was, what he was capable of, what he was capable ofBIRTHING in Elias, the GOODNESS in him, the KINDNESS and softness that existed between the darkest hours of night and the first creeping rays of dawn, when fingers roamed over scars and skin, and voice were low and words murmured, when nothing, no one in the world existed but THEM. There were so many other things he could have said, might have said. He didn’t have a choice – but he had. He’d had a choice, he’d had a chance, a hundred of them, a thousand of them, to tell Remy the truth – but he’d been a coward, he’d never wanted to come to THIS MOMENT – to see THAT look on Remy’s face, worse than he’d even imagined.

He saw it coming, even for all of Remy’s speed, but he didn’t try and dodge, didn’t try and avoid the blow – sharp and hard enough that it left his head ringing, a half grunt swallowed down at the sting of pain and fire – the blow was delivered with enough force that he knew, instantly, from experience, that it would bruise, would welt, was already red and puckering. It was a RELIEF – at least it was something he KNEW, something FAMILIAR, something TANGIBLE. He felt like a statue, frozen, immovable. He wanted to do so many things. He wanted to reach for Remy, he wanted to catch Remy’s arm before he could strike again. DON’T – he wanted to say – YOU’LL HURT YOURSELF – I’m sorry. I’m sorry. “I didn’t – It wasn’t – “ Everything he wanted to say felt CHEAP and bitter in the wake of Remy’s words. I LOVED YOU. Strange how his heart could leap and cave in on itself in the same heartbeat. LOVED.

Tears burned, dripping down his cheek, slow, random. He’d learned long ago that tears were useless things, they served no purpose other than to show weakness, to tantalize and goad others into causing more pain but – he didn’t think that was possible. “I didn’t … know you. Your …. Your people, your….” Family. “It was supposed to be … just another mission.” He wasn’t sure how the words formed, how thoughts came, even half formed. Pain bled into numbness, and somewhere in his head, dullness crept. Inevitable. “It wasn’t supposed to be like.. THIS.” Pain seared, leapt in his chest at Remy’s last challenge, sneered words that were matched equally with despair, and anger, and still the tears. “If I didn’t — “ Care. No. He couldn’t address it, couldn’t force the words past the gnawing agony in his chest. “If I wanted you dead …..” A faint, twisted, tainted, bitter echo of a smile. “One of us already would be.” Remy, in his sleep, or en flagrante delicto, one of a dozen times Elias’ hand had been wrapped, tight, around Remy’s throat, one squeeze, one snap. Or die trying.

ONE OF US ALREADY WOULD BE. He wants to scream, throw something at Elias, and was that even his NAME? That was even more cruel, because if he hadn’t said so, Remy could’ve pretended. He could have written everything off as another failed assassination, if the closest so far, could have buried it all as unrequited foolishness but the look in Elias’ eyes tells him it WASN’T, and that hurts worse, that he’d loved him too and still sold him.

Loved him enough to warn him and stop him and break everything they had, and it’s so very, VERY selfish, but Remy almost wishes he’d let him go so he’d never known.

“MISSION FAILED, CHER.” It’s harsh, utterly void of emotion, because he’s feeling entirely too much right now, the echoes of Elias’ distress playing along with his own entirely too harmoniously. The rest of the assembled team is there, now, moving silently to surround them, eyes wary on Elias because it’s very, VERY obvious something is wrong, the noises and the tears tracking down their cheeks.

His eyes meet Jean-Luc’s, solemn and dark, and Remy could break into a thousand little pieces right then and there. He’d put his favorites onto the team, family and friends, trusted for a good time.

YOU AIN’T EVER GONNA FIND LOVE IF YOU DO THIS, BOY, his father had told him, and Remy had smiled. So young, still naive, proud of what he was becoming - he hadn’t understood, then, that who and what he was would shatter his love and his life. I ALREADY HAVE BELLA DONNA, PAPA. I DON’T NEED NOTHIN’ ELSE.

He was wrong. He knows it in this instant, he needed it and Jean-Luc had KNOWN that, that his adoptive son was soft and cared too much and it would RUIN him and the sad little smile playing across Jean-Luc’s face is too much for him and he can’t look anymore, so he doesn’t, jerking his head away.

(He remembers the after-dinner visit, when his father had left a little too late and Elias had arrived a little too early and they’d all stood there awkward before Elias had slipped off to the bedroom mumbling some bullshit excuse like he wasn’t obviously there to spend the night, and Jean-Luc had snorted and said I LIKE HIM when he’d never said that about anyone else, not even Remy’s wife.)

His heart stutters and STOPS, because the faces around them - his father, Nil, Baptiste, Emil, Mercy - this mission wouldn’t have wiped out just him. It would have wiped out ANY chance at the continuation of the Guild, would have destroyed all the progress as the thieves and assassins split and warred and murdered each other across the goddamn WORLD.

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them his face is stone.

“NOBODY TELLS BELLA DONNA.” It’s curt, and he wonders why he says it but he knows, too - because she’d KILL HIM without bothering to learn of what, exactly, Elias had done, and he loves him even now, even through the unforgivable and that is even worse. “I WANNA KNOW WHO HE WORKS FOR AND WHO HE REALLY IS.”

It’s all the explanation he can manage, really, and he shoves his hands deep into his pockets, gaze never separating from Elias’. He isn’t Remy, not right now; he can’t be, because Elias had taken it far past personal. He’d nearly broken a kingdom, and no crown, even a stolen one, could ignore that.

“CANCEL EVERY CURRENT MISSION HE’S GIVEN INPUT TO, AN’ ASSEMBLE THE RECORDS OF ALL THE PAST ONES. I WANT ANALYTICS ON TOP OF EVERY GODDAMN MOVE HE’S MADE SINCE HE JOINED.”

For devil eyes, they sure are sad when they look at Elias, so very sad and sorry, full of I WISH WE WERE DIFFERENT. OTHER PLACE, OTHER TIME. DIFFERENT PEOPLE. I WISH I DIDN’T LOVE YOU.

And his heart breaks, shatters into a thousand little shards of longing and every bit of built-up hope he’d been saving up for HIM.

He’d watch the shift, the gradual split from where they’d been clustered, waiting for Remy to join them, to move out on the mission that should have been a crown jewel for them, in and out, maybe a lot of muss and fuss but worth it – until it wouldn’t have been. He didn’t move, immobile, frozen. Statuary, save for the silent tears that wander, without his permission, but without him trying to stop them either. No. Statuary wouldn’t have felt it. Wouldn’t have felt the SNAP in his chest at the sudden VOID in Remy’s voice.

He knew it. He’d heard it, in Remy’s voice, in Stryker’s, in his own. Detract emotion, apply logic, remove humanity, settle for necessity. Separate. Divide. Two halves, but only one could rule, only one could make decisions at any given moment. He was stiff, taut, practically VIBRATING with the effort that it took to remain still, to not FIGHT, to not RUN. If he tried, if he’d wanted to, he might have gotten a head start, might have cleared cover enough times to make it to the hangar doors, to one of the cars or motorcycles parked outside, might have made an escape.

Even now, with the slow circle of bodies filling in around him, he might have had a chance, if it wasn’t for Remy. If it wasn’t for the ache in his gut and the gnawing pain in his chest. No. If he’d wanted to run, he would have already. If he was concerned for his safety, he wouldn’t have said a word. He would have watched them go. He would have disappeared. One final blow struck, with enough chaos left in the wake of it that no one would stop to wonder where he was until he was long gone, a ghost. He knew it. And he knew that Remy knew it. He was here, standing here, stock still, by choice. Selfish, brutal, agonizing choice that screamed against every instinct in his body. FIGHT. RUN. SURVIVE. Claw and scratch and kick and bite until he couldn’t anymore – that was how he knew to live. That was how he had survived. Being faster, stronger. HARDER. Not this. Not weak and open and gutted for all the world to see.

His body BURNED with adrenaline, his shoulders TAUT, his back straight and stiff, his jaw flexed, his breathing slow and steady, as sure a sign as any that he wasPREPARED for a fight. His gaze does not move to them. He does not need to see them to know they are there. His gaze cuts up, daring, briefly, to look to Remy’s face. Would it be the last time that he saw it? Would this be the last memory of Remy that he carried to the pain that awaited him? The lump in his throat warbled visibly again, watching as the vestiges of the Remy that he knew, that he loves, dissipated. It hurt, more than anything else, and he can feel part of him DEFLATE as his gaze finally meets Remy’s again.

I’M SORRY. Could Remy see it, in his eyes? Could he read between all of the things left unsaid, the things that had been spoken? By the fact that he was still here, that he stood, still, silent, as Remy’s orders, short and clipped, filled the emptiness between them? He hated himself, for putting this on Remy’s shoulders. One more weight to bear. One more set of choices he had to make that he would carry as scars buried deep on the inside, without a single one on his skin to mark the occasion, the betrayal. I’M SORRY. “I won’t fight you.” His voice was low, and hoarse, his expression tilting, falling, KNOWING. If they didn’t kill him when they were done with him, Stryker would. He knew it. Remy had to know it. No one put an operative like him into play without power enough to back him.

No one made a move against the kind of team Elias and Remy had organized for this job without the sure knowledge that they had enough cannon fodder to throw at them to wear them down and that meant money and power, and those were only owned by the kind of ruthless men that would not tolerate what Elias had done. Was doing. His expression was lost, drifting for a moment before it fell into a more … resigned version of Remy’s. Whatever was coming… he deserved worse. I LOVE YOU. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know.” The words were, it seemed, directed at Jean-Luc and the others, though his gaze, hollow as it seemed, remained on Remy’s.

It’s a week. A week is exactly how long it takes Remy to crumble and visit, to see how he’s doing. A week of utter exhaustion andMISERY and throwing himself into every petty little heist he could think of.

He goes home to Bella Donna. She takes one look at his face and kicks the unfamiliar boytoy in the guest room out in a heartbeat, and she holds him when he breaks down the first night and starts sobbing into her shoulder, absolutely bawling the way he hadn’t since he’d killed her own brother in secret to protect her and she’d somehow known andTHANKED HIM for it.

The next morning she wakes him up with a kiss; it’s chaste, the way they have been for a long time now - since Elias had slipped into his bed, actually, and that just hurts worse, realizing it. She picks out her husband’s clothes, and he puts them on without even questioning.

(Neither of them put on their wedding bands. They know better.)

She walks him down Decatur, and they slide into line at Café du Monde, ’cause even though it’s a tourist trap now and it ain’t as good this is where they’d come when they were young, paces quickening at that green-and-white awning and giggling at the way the powdered sugar smears over their faces, and it helps more than he thought it would.

He asks her why, and she snorts, pretty even in her amused contempt, his belle. THIEF BOY, I OF ALL PEOPLE KNOW WHAT HEARTBREAK LOOKS LIKE ON YOU, she said, and he’d ducked his head, ashamed. I KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE IN LOVE AND WITH YOUR HEART BROKE, ’CAUSE I DID THOSE THINGS TO YOU, AN’ I’M STILL SORRY.

He stays home, and she stays home, and for a little while their space is a home. They aren’t in love, haven’t been in a long time - their lives guaranteed that. But they do love each other, and it’s enough to hold him together long enough, keep him going until he has to decide what to do.

Remy is silent when he opens the door to the little room and steps in, staring down at Elias where he’s restrained to his cot. “I KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE SLEEPIN’. I SEEN THAT ENOUGH,” he mutters, and it’s childish, but damn if he doesn’t kick at the leg of the cot anyway. “DON’T FAKE IT FOR ME, MONSIEUR KOVACS. I KNOW THE DIFFERENCE WIT’ YOU.”

He leans over, snags the shitty folding chair and drags it all the way over to sit in it backwards, draped over the chair back and staring at the face his heart still lit up to see. His voice is bitter, brittle, but it’s more than a little relieved, too - they’d listened, hadn’t really hurt him. He sees no bruises, no cuts.

“I WAS THINKIN’ OF GETTIN’ A DIVORCE, Y’KNOW. SO I’M A LITTLE PEEVED, IF I’M HONEST.” His forehead drops to cold metal, and he stares down at the floor, suddenly tired as hell - he hadn’t meant to say that at all. “DAMN IT, ELIAS.”

He’d tried to keep track of the days. To count the time that passed in the glaring silence of the small room that he’d been confined to, grateful for the fact that they kept the lights ON every moment – it was meant to be the opposite. They’d kept him awake for long stretches, only letting him sleep for short periods, keeping him off guard and off routine, giving him rations and water at sporadic intervals, dragging him out of this room and taking him to another, where he’d sat, chained to a chair bolted to the floor, to answer question after question after question, keeping him off schedule, keeping him awake and hungry and cold, weakening his defenses, wearing down his physical stamina and mental barriers. There were plenty of ways to FUCK SOMEONE UP that didn’t require laying hands on them. He’d been on both sides, before – for Stryker, by Stryker’s command – training, toughening him up, preparing him for situations just like this one.

No. Not like this one. They didn’t have to lay a hand on him – though he was genuinely surprised they didn’t, not often, and when they did it was in calculated ways. He’d wondered if that was Remy’s doing. The thought wasn’t a comfort, somehow. He would have rather SUFFERED. He wanted to feel pain. He wanted to hurt. He deserved it. Over and over, the same questions, phrased differently, spoken by different voices. Questions about his life, who he worked for, what information he’d passed along, what missions and members and protocols of the Guild he’d informed on – new voices, same questions, different side of the story, being drilled, for hours and hours. Stryker’s resources, contacts, supporters, base locations, testing sites, security protocols, number of mutant recruits and their abilities, missions that he’d performed with the task force, the missions that he’d been tasked to perform on his own.

He told them everything. He spared no detail, however gruesome. Let them see him for who and what he was. It had ALMOST been a relief. A cleansing. ACONFESSION. As if that could truly do anything to clean the blood stains from his hands, left by Stryker’s eugenics war, by Elias’ blind faith and desperate NEEDto believe in …something. Anything. Someone. The need to believe that he was somehow, in some way, making this world a BETTER PLACE – He could see it for what it was, now – he’d had nothing but time to think, and reflect. Arrogance. Conceit. Ironic, given that he’d used to think he couldn’t possibly think less of himself.

He was weary. Bone tired in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever been before. Sleep was sporadic, even when he was left in peace. Remy’s eyes haunted him, exhaustion and weariness and low and familiar gnawing hunger left him restless, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t slam his fists into the walls until they broke and bled –THEY’D ONLY LET HIM GET AWAY WITH THAT ONCE. Now, he couldn’t even wear himself out until he could pass out. All he could do was lay there and try not to remember. Try not to think. The cot itself was bolted to the floor and the wall, reinforced with he wasn’t sure what but strong enough that he couldn’t break it free; the straps against his wrists and ankles made of a reinforced mesh that kept him bound to the cot, he could only presume so he didn’t try and hurt himself again. He hadn’t ever fought back, hadn’t resisted anything they’d done, or anywhere they’d moved him to. He didn’t have the heart for it.

Truth be told, until the door to his cell opened and carried with it the familiarSCENT, he hadn’t been sure he’d had a heart left – until it fractured, all over again. He didn’t need to look, to know that it was Remy. His smell, the sound of his movements, the way his feet barely seemed to graze the ground, the pace of his stride. He couldn’t bring himself to look, couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes, red-rimmed and aching, until the jolt of the impact against the leg of the cot gave him little choice but to comply. His throat tightened, and he could feel the prickle of tears at the edges of his eyes – he fought them back, swallowed them down, all the harder at the simultaneously sarcastic and FORMAL way in which Remy called him byNAME. Lashes parted, slowly, his gaze tilted up to follow the movements of the tall, slender frame as the Guild leader shuffled across to drag out a seat, dropping into it as his scarlet gaze settled on Elias’. Elias couldn’t bring himself to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds, his tongue trying to wet suddenly dry lips.

He wanted nothing more than to run his fingers along Remy’s cheek, to press a kiss to his forehead, to wrap his arms around Remy’s shoulders and hold him, to whisper to him that it would be all right, that he wouldn’t let anything hurt him, anything touch him – A shuddered breath escaped, a flare of eyes widening, despite his best attempts to keep his expression neutral, impassive, at Remy’s declaration, at the whirlwinds of realization of the IMPACT of what he had said – DIVORCE – a divide between Remy and Bella Donna – the repercussions of which could be – could have been …. The loyalties of the Guilds were only truly ensured by the couple’s alliance – he had heard the stories of Bella Donna’s wrath, of what lengths she would go to if pushed, if slighted – how would she have – it could have undone… everything. The sting of tears against the raw, aching skin of his temples was almost a comfort. “Remy –” His voice was rough, and harsh. He’d talked more consistently in the last … handful of days, a week, maybe, than he had in his whole life put together, or at least that’s how it felt.

“I know….” A half breath in, as he tried to keep his voice steady, tried to hide the tremble in his words. All this time to think and he still didn’t know what to say. “I know …. You don’t have any reason to believe a fucking word I say. I know – I don’t deserve FUCKALL from you. But – please.” It was hard, harder to push past the jagged pain in his throat. “Please – let me find him. Let me take him out, once and for all, put an end to what he’s doing – what he wants to do – “ Please, let me keep you safe. Let me do this one last thing for you. “I can stop him, I can …. “ I can fix this. And maybe if he was lucky, he’d die trying.

This wasn’t a good idea. He can see that, now - it was aFUCKING TERRIBLE idea, because this offers him no sense of closure. His lover is aching regret, Remy can feel the remorse just rolling off him deeper than the damn sea, and that hurts worse than anything.

He isn’t sure WHAT he’d expected, honestly. He’d been hoping for bitter petulance, defiance, for Elias to be nasty and hateful, maybe. That would have helped.

This? It aches DEEP.

“YOU KNOW I CAN’T LET YOU DO THAT.” And all of a sudden, just like that, there’s no trace of hate or sarcasm in his voice; he’s too worn out for that. The only thing he is is TIRED, and it shows. “IF I LET YA GO, THERE’S NO GUARANTEE YOU AIN’T GONNA RUN OFF AND SELL ME FOR GOOD. AND THAT’S JUS’ HANDIN’ HIM A WEAK POINT ANYWAY. DID YOU THINK OF THAT?”

IF YOU GO BACK THERE TO HIM, HE’LL USE YOU AGAINST ME IN A WAY THAT’LL WORK BETTER THAN ANYTHING ELSE. IDIOT.

He breathes out, a sharp little exhale through his nose, and he tugs a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, lighting one with a snap before holding it out, fingers half-brushing against Elias’ lips. If he wanted to, he could reach up, close his teeth around fragile bone, crush and tear.

Remy doesn’t think he will.

“YOU PUT ME IN A SHIT PLACE, CHER. I DUNNO WHAT T’DO WITH YOU. CAN’T TRUST YOU, OFFICIALLY - ALREADY LOOKS BAD T’KEEP YOU ALIVE. CAN’T SEND YA BACK. CAN’T LET YA GO, OR YOU’LL BE OPEN SEASON.” His free hand shifts, drifting unsteady fingers down Elias’ jaw, fleeting and half-affectionate. It’s all he dares to do.

“You went an’ made a fool outta me.”

He wanted it to hurt. He wanted to see rage and indignation and bitterness and fury, anger and resentment, hatred. All he saw was the personification of the weariness that he felt in his bones. Remy’s words make him shift, as much as he can, a brief stretch of fingers, a twist of his wrist within the confines of the mesh bindings, bitterness and pain coiling in his throat, in his chest. The implications were clear, in the things left unsaid. I STILL LOVE YOU. And I still can’t trust you. He watched Remy’s fingers flick, relieved, still, and grateful in ways he didn’t know how to express to Jean-Luc for bothering to let him know that Remy had not broken anything in their initial encounter – even with striking Elias’ jaw and cheek with enough force that they were still tender. Lips closed around the butt of the cigarette, a long and rough drag in against it, the acrid BURN in his lips and lungs a welcome relief, the smoke spun around his mouth for a long moment before he reluctantly exhaled, the very FAINTEST moment of relief against the nerve endings jumping and skittering through his body like they wanted to claw and snarl their way out through his skin.

It didn’t last long, though, because the lump that lingered in his throat was made of crushed glass, digging and tearing and clawing into his lungs with every breath, every harsh swallow as Remy spoke again, – he could practically TASTE the blood. “I wanted – to tell you … the truth so many times.” His words ached, self-loathing buried, coated in weariness and loss. “Every time I – I tried, every time I … wanted to I just – “ SAW YOUR FACE. “I guess at some point after –” Another hard swallow, his gaze sliding away again. “I knew how this had to end and …” His gaze shifted up, the ache in his chest digging deeper, harsher, into him, at the feelings mirrored in Remy’s expression. “I didn’t want it to.” Apparently … honestly was catching. But then – it wasn’t like he had much left to lose now, did he? “I’d never – “ His lips pinched tight, his tongue dragged over the edge of his teeth, digging sharply into his sharp canines for a long moment. “I’ve never – had …. Anyone that – MATTERED …. Before.”

The closest he could come to saying the words, the words that Remy didn’t want to hear, couldn’t want to hear, how could he? Why would he? “If it was me, I’d put a bullet in my brain.” Simple, almost brusque, his voice thick and tight at the same time. Mostly, it was a lie. He couldn’t hurt Remy, not now. Not ever, no matter the cost but – if he was deciding his fate? Bullet to the brain pan seemed the only efficient plan, the only one that would save reputation and operation alike. “You said it yourself. I’m a dead man anyway. Stryker won’t stop, not until he finds me, one way or the other, shuts me up or pulls me out to debrief me before he puts me on ice or turns me into one of his walking dead killing machines – only thing that’s happening by keeping me alive is giving him a chance to get to me first.” Maybe it was the coward in him talking, but he knew these was truth to his words one way or the other. “We both know it’s the only thing that’s going to satisfy the debt owed to the Guilds – Stryker won’t stop til he sees my head on a pike—give me the fucking sword I’ll fall on it myself –”

“STOP,” he whispers, and he digs the insides of his wrists into his eyes, trying his hardest to ignore the way they’re prickling with fresh tears. “STOP, STOP - I KNOW, JUST - STOP.”

He can’t listen to Elias tell him to kill him, to shoot him, just wipe him away like he never mattered when they both know it isn’t true. It’s too much for him to take, and he stands so abruptly the chair scrapes and clatters along the ground, a rough screech of flimsy metal on concrete.

“DO YOU LOVE ME?”

It’s too much and the sheer emotion is weighing him down, sending him floundering under all the layers of hope and fear and resignation. He couldn’t TAKE any more, and he’s moving before he can honestly stop himself, because every instinct is singing DO OR DIE, DO OR DIE -

Quick fingers catch against the restraints and yank them open, and his eyes are half-feral in their desperation when he looks at Elias, backs away slowly now that he’s free, gives him all the space he needs to sit up and stand and tear Remy apart if he wants to.

He can hear it in his head, Bella Donna’s soft sigh. THIEF BOY, YOU DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE WITHOUT LOVE, DO YA? YOU’RE SO PRETTY NOW, BUT - I THINK PART OF YOU NEVER STOPPED BEIN’ HUNGRY, AND THAT’S WHAT YOU NEED. MORE THAN ANYTHING.

“DO YOU LOVE ME?” he asks again, and it’s softer this time, soBROKEN and he couldn’t explain why if he tried but he needs to hear it SO BADLY. He’s leaving it all open for him right now, and it’s bittersweet too, that one man could break a lofty kingdom but that was simply how it was. “IF YOU DON’T - JUST KILL ME NOW.PLEASE.”

He hates seeing the pain reflected in Remy’s eyes, but he can’t bring himself to look away, not now, not again. He’d spent his whole life looking away, seeing only what he wanted to see – and it had cost him everything. Strange, how FREEING it was to know there was nothing left to lose, that the only things left that mattered were here, in this room, that one way or the other, by the time that Remy walked out that door, it would all just be … done. Over. He’d be a ghost, a memory, a scar – and that hurt him, more than he knew how to describe, more than he had words for – that he’d be another wound, gnawing away at Remy – but what was the alternative? Remy had come too far, worked too hard – He fell quiet, at Remy’s whispered plea, his head tilting slightly, his gaze dropping a little out of the pressing need to give Remy some semblance of privacy in his moment of emotion.

He stiffens, his jaw hardening momentarily, his gaze snapping back up at the sudden shift of weight, the clatter and screech accompanying Remy’s rough, almost clumsy movement. The tautness in his shoulders, the bobbing in his throat at Remy’s words is tangible – he can only IMAGINE how hard it must be for Remy to control himself, every moment that passed he seemed more distraught, more visibly agitated, but he couldn’t bring himself to be afraid. If Remy wanted to hurt him, he would, and if he did, he’d deserve it. If Remy didn’t want to hurt him, he wouldn’t. It was as simple as that – perhaps the simplest thing in EXISTENCE in that moment, to him.

His jaw works, his body painfully still as Remy jerks the straps free from wrists and ankles, a low half breath of relief that seemed unimportant, his gaze vaguely wary, mostly perplexed as he watched Remy retreat, slowly, like he would from a feral beast – appropriate, he supposed. He kept his movements slow, a faint hiss as he pulled himself into a seated position on the edge of the cot, fingers rubbing against where the mesh had chafed and agitated skin, a slow shift of muscles, tightening and easing, from his shoulders down to his calves, a drawn out, carefully calculated stretch without actually moving. His chest is aching, his mind racing as he tried to think, tried to think of what he should say, what he SHOULD do – what was best for Remy in the long run wasn’t what was best for him and he knew it. But he wasSUCH A SELFISH CREATURE, even now – “Yes.” It was raspy, and hoarse, his voice tight, and aching, a swirl of tears against his vision that he pushed away, shoved down, pulling himself up to his feet, a moment of unsteadiness that passed quickly enough.

He took a step, hesitant, at first, towards Remy, the Cajun’s words slicing through him as effectively as the sharpest, hottest shrapnel, and he felt himself shudder with the force of despair and misery that they evoked in him. Another step, and another, until he stood within arms’ reach, his hand reaching, still ever so slowly, giving Remy every moment to retreat, to escape, to fight, if he wanted to. His fingers curled around Remy’s wrist, pulling the gloved hand up, a kiss pressed against the palm before he tugged it lightly down, pressing it against his chest, over his heart. IF I WANTED YOU DEAD, ONE OF US ALREADY WOULD BE, echoed in his thoughts, and he almost flinched. “I could never do that,” he exhaled, his voice low, husky. “I would die before I hurt you again. Before I let ANYONE hurt you –EVER, again.”

Yes. Oh, oh, that’s enough to break him right then and there, and his breath shudders heavy in his throat - but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t run. Remy tips his head back, eyes flashing with desire, guilt, longing - he won’t run.

The tears spill over his cheeks when Elias takes his hand, so very gentle it nearly aches. Warm lips press against a scarred, gloved palm, and he’s shaking, so glad, and cursing his selfishness because this really is only more trouble for them both.

“You belong with me,” he breathes, and he’s standing on tiptoe to fling his free arm around Elias’ shoulders, burying his wet face against his throat without bothering to pull his hand from the other’s firm chest. His heartbeat means he’s still alive, after all. “I can’t - Ican’t kill you, cher. I need you, I can’t live without you - ”

His head is spinning, throbbing as he does the math, both metaphorically and literally. Ruby eyes screw shut, and he’s off in an instant, rushing through numbers, prices, calculations,options.

(Oh, he thinks he knows a way, but he doesn’t like it very much.)

“I think I know somethin’ we can do.” His voice is so heavy, so very heavy and it’s drenched in utter dread because he really doesn’t like this. Remy doesn’t want to take pieces of Elias away, doesn’t want to dig into his privacy and he certainly doesn’t want anyone in his privacy in turn, but if this was the only way?

Oh, he’d do anything.

He pulls back, fingers tracing over Elias’ jaw, so close that if he tipped his head just a bit more their lips would meet, breath mingling as he shudders. “Are you sure you wanna stay wit’ me, mon couer? It’s gonna be rough. I can - I can make it so you don’t remember I exist instead, I can take away everythin’, you’ll never know you have anythin’ to miss - ”

He’s choking on the words, he can’t stand the idea but if it leaves Elias alive, gives him a better chance to be happy than the agony he has in mind, he almost hopes he’ll take it.

Almost, but not quite. He wishes he was a better man, that he could say he wanted Elias to forget, but he doesn’t. He’s greedy, and he’s in love, and he so badly wants to swallow his lover’s heart for good and keep him with him forever that he is burning with it.

Oh, how painfully aware he is of the irony, of the circumstance, of the situation, of the vulnerability that they each present, that they each bare to each other and are to each other – a moment’s effort, a single word, and if he had played the long game, if he had been still under Stryker’s thrall, how easy it would be, to upend it all, right here, right now. Without a fight, without resistance – it would be over, the Guild and all its power and all the strength of the combined forces of the assassins and the thieves would be gone, splintered. Even without Remy as a prize, he could still walk away, he could still fight his way past these walls, back into the world beyond, and with having accomplished this, all would be forgiven. Not forgotten, not unpunished, but forgiven, and he could return to the world, to his life, as it had been before he had ever laid eyes on Remy, before he had ever been pushed and pulled and twisted apart into something weak and vulnerable –

But what would that make him? More a monster than he already saw? Was such a thing even possible – but he knew it was, and just as readily, he knew that he could not go back. Could not walk away. There was no going back, no closing himself off, not after what he had learned to feel, to know, to want. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, exhaled, as Remy burrowed, half threw himself into his hold, his arm curling around Remy, fingers digging against his back and shoulder, clinging to him, holding him up against him, his head tilting in to brush and nuzzle against Remy’s, tears and all. Over and over he could, he would say it, a thousand times, a million, and it would never be enough. I love you, he wanted to say, but he could feel the tension in Remy’s spine, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his breath leveled, and his body stilled – he kept his silence, letting the Guildmaster’s mind spin –

His stomach lurched, an all new level of ache and guilt and worry twisting his stomach upwards and tearing it apart at the weight in Remy’s words, and he forced his lashes apart, his head tilting back enough to try and watch Remy, his gaze worn and wearisome when it meets scarlet eyes – not wary, or afraid, just tired – guilty, heavy with it, dripping with it. He waited, again, for Remy to finish, his expression twisting, contorting briefly with misery, with a glitter of fear – the first time he’d shown that, the first time he’d felt that since he’d uttered his warning in the hangar. Forget -- “No -- “ I was rough, and ragged, his hand twisting up from Remy’s chest to drag against his jaw, mirroring the touch against his own a thumb rubbing against Remy’s chin and lips for a moment as it to physically quench the thoughts. “No. I won’t – go back to …. To who … to what I was before you. – I can’t.” To be the kind of man that could do … what he had done, what he had been willing to do? “Please don’t –” Don’t make me.

#elias & remy.#elias & remy. ( modern au. ) ( mutant. undercover. )#ic.#reply.#cardshcrp #verse. ( modern au. ) ( mutant. undercover. )#thread. ( elias & remy. ) ( modern au. ) ( mutant. undercover. ) 008.

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rykerelias-archive · 7 years ago

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TRANSFERRED FILE. || @cardshcrp Remy & Elias. VERSE: modern au. ( mutant. undercover. ) 005. THREAD: to be named.

Another day another dollar, that was the motto he lived by, so far as any of the Guild members were concerned – and honestly, all in all, as lives went, as jobs went, this one wasn’t exactly unpleasant. He’d never been any place quite like New Orleans, vibrant and alive and dark and musty all in one, wrapped up in an energy that he just couldn’t place, couldn’t name. It felt OLD and primal… He liked it, and it unnerved him, all in one. He’d been there nearly a year now, working his way slowly through the lower tiers of the Guild, doing his thing, keeping himself just enough on the radar to keep a slow upward momentum, pulling the jobs he’d been assigned with just enough finesse and gusto to get in and get out, careful to never leave too much blood in his wake. That wouldn’t sit well with ANY of the many eyes on him, unless it happened to be mutant blood, in which case he was pretty sure Stryker’d get his jollies off to it but – that was something that was entirely neither here nor there.

He had an apartment, small, one bedroom, living room, small dining room attached to the kitchen, open terrace balcony that was one of his favorite parts. A part time job covered the day to day expenses, unable to touch the pay that he’d accrued through his less than illustrious career under Stryker’s command. The money from the jobs with the Guild was play money, but he didn’t often indulge. Maybe blow off steam, pick up a girl, get wasted, do a few lines and go back to business as usual the next day. Generally, though, he just stayed low, out of the lime light, keeping his ear to the ground, making his random meets and passing on whatever he thought would be most relevant, or whatever it was that Stryker was most itching to get the down low on. Otherwise, he mostly just chilled, enjoying the little bit of freedom, or illusion of it anyway, he was afforded, unless he got called in to HQ.

It wasn’t like they were required to give him notice, but he’d still half grumbled when he’d stared at the notification on his phone at six in the morning, an alert to be at the headquarters by eight. Sure, they’d given him time, but that didn’t mean heWANTED to be awake. Sleeping in was a luxury he hadn’t been able to afford most of him life, and he’d grown rather fond of the idea. Still, he’d shoved off the sheets, clipped his way through his morning routine – short and sweet, still, and by 6:20 he’d been out the door to head to one of the local bodegas that served a local breakfast sandwich that he scarfed a couple of down on his way through the city. He killed time for a good hour just walking; knowing the ins and outs of the place he’d called home had saved his ass more than once and with the winding, tangled mess of back alleys and avenues and streets that started as one name and ended as another – it was a fucking wonder anyone ever made it to their destination.

Twenty til, he was at the doors to the HQ, passing through the checks to make his way inside, wandering through to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee and out into the courtyard behind for a smoke, until the last glance to his wristwatch confirmed it was time to head back inside. Stubbing out the smoke, downing the last of the coffee and tossing the paper cup, he made his way towards the usual meeting area – caught by one of the … clerks, he’d guess was the best term, and diverted to one of the lesser used rooms, a library that was probably worth more than he’d make in a few lifetimes, leather bound tomes stretching from floor to ceiling across the walls, some more fragile pieces displayed behind glass, marble busts and woven tapestries displayed at whim. Ironically, a mine waiting to be cultivated, though not one of the members of the Guild would dare – nothing here was worth the wrath that the heads of the families would bring down on someone as idiotic as that.

A sweeping glance, his attention settling on a small cluster of people, mostly familiar faces, none that seemed to warrant the kind of setting – There was a momentary pause, a half hitch in his stride as he made his way towards the center of the room, his gaze drawn, lingering, on the dark-haired figure that loitered casually behind the others. No FUCKING way. His gaze drifted, his hands settling loosely, shoved into the pocket of his hoodie as he loping steps came to a stop just shy of the couch and settees the others were sat on, a light jerk of a chin in the direction of the others. “Should’ve warned me the big dogs were gonna be here, my man,” he said, to the one that typically handled out assignments, doling out jobs to those he saw best fit. “I would’ve worn my proper duds,” he protested mildly, a half smirk touching on his lips before his attention turned again, briefly, towards the one and only Remy LeBeau. He didn’t try to offer a hand or introduce himself. Either the man knew who he was, or he didn’t care to – if it was something else, he’d let him make the first move.

AH, there’s his special interest. Not that he bothers to show he’s noticed, of course; he’s busy linking his arm through Baptiste’s, leaning down to whisper in his ear, something to make his old friend laugh condescendingly and leave the others to wonder what (or more likely WHO) he’s speaking of.

In reality, it’s just another bad pickup line, but it’s the APPEARANCEof things that mattered, and it works like a charm, as usual.

Remy takes his time with it, happy to let the newcomer sweat a bit. Crooking his finger at the assembled thieves one by one, he beckons them over - alone, in pairs, once a group of five - and speaks with them. It’s quick, concise, and thorough, accompanied by flash drives, file folders, and once a dagger. Specially tailored jobs for hand-picked individuals, each and every one more than capable of doing the work. Master thieves, fences, appraisers - they disappear as quickly as they’d come.

Forty-five minutes, and Elias is left alone with the King of Thieves. Cocking his head at the other, Remy allows a lazy smile to spread across his face, cheeks dimpling as he jerks his chin in a silentC’MON.

“C’MERE, HOMME,” he chuckles, and holds up a manila folder, waving it at him teasingly with one hand even as he extends the other for a shake. “I GOT WORK FOR YOU, MONSIEUR RYKER. OR D’YA PREFER ELIAS? EITHER WAY, IT’S GOOD TO MEETCHA.”

Waiting was a BITCH. Sure, it was a skill he’d had to cultivate over the years. Waiting for the go call on missions, waiting for a target to make its appearance, waiting for the right time to strike – it was different, though, in combat scenarios. He’d known what he was waiting for, known that in the end the built up tension and adrenaline would lead to something, that all that pent up ENERGY would be released in a torrent of violence and bloodshed and that when it was over he’d go back to based, wash away the dirt and grime and blood and sleep like the dead for however long he could. Lather, rinse, repeat. But this kinda bullshit?

This was the kind of waiting that made his teeth ache and his muscles burn, where he had to find someplace to set himself, some place to lounge and look placid and uncaring when really he was about as impatient and irritated by the whole mess as could be imagined. The only thing that gave him the necessary control to ride it out, to drop back and lean against one of the STURDIER display tables, hips settled against the desk, one long leg stretched out over the other was the fact that he was currently in the room with the Big Dog. The chances of him actually coming face to face with the guildmaster had been slim to none from the get go. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity, just because he would much rather be killing time doing nothing on his own couch.

Of course, it didn’t help that one by one, little by little, the others got pared away, shuffled around, handed out files and jobs, weapons and equipment as needed, while all he had to do was sit and listen. CLICK. The Zippo lighter lid flicked openCLACK. It closed. Almost silently, quieter than it could have been, every thirty seconds or so, almost on the dot. Counting. Listening Watching, all under the vague guise of boredom, observing the ongoing meetings with half lidded gaze, wishing he could snag a smoke more than anything. But this was the kind of potential info he was here in the first place. With each passing group, with each man or woman that departed, his stomach grew tighter, his jaw clenched a little longer. Click. Clack.

A tilt of his head, a slow jut of his chin came first in acknowledgment of Remy’s gestures and words, pushing himself up off of the desk, dropping his lighter back into his jeans pocket as he wandered towards wher Remy was, a vaguely curious look cast in the direction of the folder that the Guildmaster held in one hand. His own hand extended, calloused and rough and strong, to shake Remy’s, briefly, curtly. He made no effort to impress or intimidate with it – there, and gone again, if released. “Either’s fine,” he acknowledged with a shrug, his hands slipping back into the pocket of his hoodie once the handshake ended, his tall, broad frame sinking, folding down into the chair opposite of where Remy loitered. His posture was idle, lounge worthy even, but a sharp enough eye would see the stance beneath it all, ready to coil, spring away, dodge at any moment. “Pleasure’s mine, for sure,” he replied, a faint tilt of his head in deferment. “So what’s this job and – not that I’m complainin’ or anything but – most of these other guys, they’ve been here a helluva lot longer than me so. Y’sure you don’t got somebody better for whatever it is?” A vague deferment, a hint of self depreciation, his language and drawl specifically targeted to make him appear non-threatening, a lesser species.

“Mm.” Good handshake, even if the guy was a little too quick to pull away. Elias is cautious, that much is obvious. It’s a good thing, maybe. To be expected, anyway; he’s never met someone for the first time that wasn’t. Something about facing down a mutant that could blow the place sky-high in an instant made people real wary.

Remy takes his time settling, keeping the folder in his grip rather than sliding it across to the other. Not yet, not yet. “You can drop the humble shit,” he grins, cheeks dimpling. “If youreally wanna use that excuse? Half the people in the room was in this business before I was born, but here I am sittin’ pretty. Experience ain’t talent, and I like it when people stay straight with me.”

A beat, and then he shrugs, unable not to crack the joke that’s sitting heavy on his tongue. “Or decidedly not straight, whichever, but that ain’t the point at the moment.”

He taps the folder, sliding it over the table with a fingertip. “I like keepin’ an eye out for rising talent. And before you try wavin’ it off, shove it. You ain’t failed a job yet, and that’s unusual, however messy the execution is. That’s real good.”

Leaning on his elbows, he slides the mirrored lenses of his shades down and pins Elias with his infamous devil eyes, red and unblinking, for a long, long moment. “I like that kinda record.” A vague gesture at the file, and he’s pushing his glasses back up with an easy smile. “So, here we are. Don’t get too freaked out, handsome, if you think I’m singlin’ you out. I like t’make it a habit to drag promising new blood along wit’ me on the occasional recreational job that I take. It’s good experience for you, and it lets mehave a look at how you work.”

It’s the truth, but it’s a warning, too, and if Elias is smart? He’ll know it. It’s a quick way for Remy to tell him I’m watching, as well as implying his future personal endorsement should the other excel. All very cushy and neat, directly indirect.

“This ain’t anything too rough. My lovely wife and I have noticed some of her folk have been slackin’ off, so I’m gonna shake a little wakey-wake into ’em. In other words - ”

His smile widens, utterly saccharine.

“I’ll be breakin’ into a compound of assassins alone to teach ’em the wonders of security and provide a little free demolition for their new remodel, and I could use a little covering fire. Comparatively, your risk will be low, as long as you’re keepin’ a fair distance. Of course, you’re free to decline, but it’ll be fun, promise.”

And if you’re stupid enough to try shooting me in the back, you’ll find out the hard way I’m faster than a bullet, and I’ll find out you’re another ladder-climber to get rid of.

#THREAD. ( elias & remy. ) ( modern au. ) ( mutant. undercover. ) 005.#ELIAS & REMY.#ELIAS & REMY. ( modern au. ) ( mutant. undercover. )#IC.#THREAD I NEED TO REPLY TO.#CARDSHCRP #VERSE. ( modern au. ) ( mutant. undercover. )#SHIP. ( so dig two graves ‘cause when you die; i swear i’ll be leaving by your side . ) ELIAS & REMY. ( mutant. ) ( modern. )

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