#ELIAS & REMY. ( ac. ) ( season one au. )

[rykerelias-archive]

TRANSFERRED FILE. ||  @cardshcrp   Remy & Elias. VERSE: ac. ( season one au. ) 005.   THREAD: pickpocket prince.

   He was pretty positive this was as close to hell on earth as he could get, given that he wasn’t ON earth and that he’d actually SEEN hell but – poetic license aside … he was about as uncomfortable and fuming as he could be without there being actual torture involved.  Honestly, he’d take ACTUAL torture over this, pretty much any day of the week.   Being forced into the suit and tie was bad enough. Being stuck playing pretend police for a mess of Meths that would probably just laugh in his face if he tried to call them on their bullshit, while having to not just outright snap or snarl at one of them every time he caught the snide, sideways glances they gave him?  This was Tanaka’s way of reminding him that he needed to toe the line and all it made him want to do was punt kick the line up Tanaka’s ass.   A glance down, a face made at the decidedly empty glass, and he was making his way towards the bar – about the only perk of the job at hand.  

   A heavy lean, a drop of an elbow against the edge of the bar, the glass slid towards the bartender.  “Whiskey – whatever’s the best you’ve got –”  He said, his voice a low rumble, edged a touch with petulance that he was TRYING to choke down.  His gaze slid up, a moment later, at the shift of movement, slight andSUBTLE pricking at the edges of his awareness.  Too many years of doing what he did, maybe, but he had to double check, a moment of vague disbelief that made him doubt himself as he watched the brat prince of the Lebeau family estate drift his way closer, the distinct glitter of something metallic slid from a guest’s wrists and into the – robe? – the host wore.   He glanced back to the bar as the glass was set back down for him, the contents half emptied in one swallow, his attention following the dark-haired figure for another few minutes, a faint smirk pulling at one corner of his lips as the Meth finally turned to make his way to the bar as well.  

   He hadn’t exactly MEANT to say the words that spilled from his lips – too much whiskey, not enough food, maybe, or maybe he was just tired of holding back.   “You must have a hell of a lot of pockets in that getup,” he spoke, his voice dry, and pitched soft enough to not be overheard by most, but that didn’t make them any less reckless.   FUCK.  The last thing he needed was a Meth breathing down Tanaka’s neck to make his life any more miserable than it already was.  .

         Oh, MY. His head snaps right around at that to take in the man in front of him - distinctly out of place, clothes more than a few cuts below the standard, and looking sour as old milk to boot. Handsome, too - obviously rented muscle from the police, as usual, but not one he’s seen before.

OBSERVANT, he thinks, and a thrill runs through him, all the way up from his toes. OBSERVANT AND BOLD. HE’S FUN. GONNA BE FUN, FUN, FUN.

He smiles at Elias and winks, one thickly-lined eyelid sliding down smooth, the glittering powder across it catching the light as he raises his finger to his lips. SHH. “NAH,” he says, amiable as hell, and leans on the bar with a distinct lack of Meth-ly manners. “I STICK IT ALL UP MY ASS, Y’KNOW, TO MAKE UP FOR THE LACK OF A WHOPPIN’ BIG STICK THAT THE REST OF THESE GOOD FOLKS GOT LODGED UP THERE REAL SOLID.”

He holds out his hand, lazy, wonderfully arrogant and demanding, exactly the kind of move he knows the other man can’t exactly refuse, but it’s quite alright; he thinks he’ll be forgiven when he slips him what he has for him, oh yes.

“M’NAME’S REMY LEBEAU. IT’S A PLEASURE.”

    It’s ALMOST easy to ignore the once over.  He’s used to being scrutinized, be it by his co-workers, the junkies or the trouble makers on the street, the suspect of the hour in one of his cases (which is what he SHOULD be paying his time and attention to rather than this shiny fucking shindig) or on the occasions when his paths crossed the Meths, being analyzed and picked apart with the distinct air of disdain like he was LACKING something that only they could see.  Maybe that wasn’t true, he saw plenty lacking when he stared himself down –  The man – MAYBE – with the dark hair and scarlet eyes, painted lips and eyes – wearing something that didn’t really seem to fit into dress or suit, – he was LEANING towards man, to be honest, though maybe that was just the background chatter of what information he’d picked up about the host of the night’s events through the chatter – managed to surprise him, enough so that a scarred eyebrow tilted upwards, a flicker of an ALMOSTsmirk creasing one corner of his mouth briefly at the Meth’s words.

   “That’d sure explain a lot,” Elias grumbled, despite the nagging voice in the back of his head that told him chances were high this was just an elaborate form of entrapment.  Then again, he hadn’t even met a Meth in the habit of pickpocketing so – who knew.   “Might want to consider the POCKETS though, for future reference – probably a hell of a lot more CONVENIENT,” he replied, his tone droll, tainted with an edge of sarcasm, a faint pinch of his lips as he was forced to set aside his drink, his calloused, worn hand settling a little uneasily into Remy’s.   “Ryker.”  He offered in way of introduction, before finally seeming to opt for elaborations.  “Detective Elias Ryker.”  Homicide – not babysitter, but that part he kept silent, at least, for now.

          “GOOD TO MEET YOU, ELIAS,” he grins, and the way he says his name? It’s half-WONDERING; he rolls it around on his tongue, savors it, lets it drip slow out of his mouth like molten gold, andMM, he likes the taste of it. “YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU’RE HAVING FUN, GOTTA SAY. PARTY NOT TO YOUR LIKIN’?”

And just like that, there’s weight in Elias’ palm as Remy pulls away. It isn’t the bracelet he’d just taken off his guest, no. It’s one of his own, copper and bronze beaten heavy, braided against each other until it’s something beautiful.

“KEEP IT,” he says, and cocks his head at the detective, smiling faintly. “THEY’RE YOUR COLORS. OR DON’T - IT’LL SELL WELL ENOUGH TO GET YOU SOMETHIN’ YOU WANT, AT LEAST. CONSIDER IT A TOKEN OF MY ADMIRATION. IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE ANYONE SPOTTED ME DOIN’ WHAT I DO.”

He KNOWS he’s making himself into a curiosity to Elias, knows that the wandering eyes of his guests wanting to butter him up are finally finding him and wondering, but it doesn’t truly matter. They can assume what they like of him favoring a ground-dweller with his attention - ultimately, none of them will have the courage to call him out on anything they decide he’s guilty of.

“SO, MONSIEUR RYKER. WHAT WOULD YOU PREFER T’BE DOIN’ RIGHT NOW? AND BE HONEST. IT’S A REAL QUESTION, I AIN’T GONNA JUDGE YOU WHEN I’D RATHER BE GETTIN’ WASTED ON CHEAP WINE AND BITCHIN’ TO THE AIR ABOUT MY EX-WIFE MYSELF.”

   There’s a twitch of something, a response that he isn’t quite sure how to process, at the edge of his lips, a rub of his tongue against the back of his teeth at the halfPURRED repetition of his name – that was NEW – he wasn’t sure he’d heard anyone take quite as much TIME to say it.   Maybe Kristin, during – That wasDEFINITELY not the place to let his mind wander.    His fingers curl, closing over the object that he found, suddenly, palmed into his hold, a faint tilt of his head back, his hand pulled away, an elbow resting against the bar again.  Subtle, reflexive, not unaccustomed to the act of an illicit hand off, a glance cast down, after a moment passed.   “Not my kind of party, no,” he allowed, a vague crease between his brows as he studied the bracelet, a flicker back up to the Meth, prepped to object, to remind him that he wasn’t allowed to accept gifts –

   A thumb ran over the intricate, heavy woven metals, the weight of it substantial.  Probably worth more than he made in a month, easy, a year, maybe.    He wondered, briefly, if Kristin would like it, a faint twinge of guilt at the thought of passing on a second hand gift.  He waffled, still, but he refrained from handing it back – at least, for the moment.   “It’s kinda what I’m here for, isn’t it?”  A pained half smirk, his gaze tilting back up towards the event’s host, a brisk shrug of wide shoulders.   “Keeping the peace and enforcing the law, right?”  He barely swallowed down the scoff.  

   He shifted his weight, slightly, the bracelet slinking into the pocket of his jacket, reaching for his glass and pulling it up to take a sip, casting a wide glance over the room again before he answered, buying time to weigh his response as well as trying to make sure that he didn’t miss something that’d come back to bite him in the ass later.  “Well, I’ve got about seventeen open case files on my desk at the precinct that are calling my name, about three  weeks worth of paperwork to catch up on and let’s not get started on the about six  years of sleep I haven’t had.” He took another long swallow, draining the last of the glass and tapping it back onto the bar beside them.  “Didn’t think you type were the kind to get ‘ex’ wives.  You know – that whole ‘til death do you part’ schtick.”

          Oh, SOMETHING flickers across Elias’ face right there, a little bit of uncertainty laced with a familiar hint of interest - it’s enough for Remy to smirk, a crooked pull to the corner of his mouth.

“MM. WELL. SHE’S KILLED ME A FEW TIMES, BUT SHE LOVES ME TOO MUCH TO REAL-DEATH ME, SO THERE’S THAT, I GUESS. SOMETIMES SHIT’S - COMPLICATED, T’SAIS?” He clicks his tongue in mock disappointment, shaking his head slowly. “MY KIND? MONSIEUR RYKER, FOR A DETECTIVE, YOU’RE REALLY MISSIN’ IT. MM, MMM. I DON’T WANNA THINK I’VE FINALLY GOTTEN A STICK UP MINE WHERE THE SUN DON’T SHINE.”

He’s pouring another drink for Elias in half a heartbeat, snagging the glass and the bottle as the bartender passes by. Bringing it to his lips, he quirks a brow at the taller man, stealing a sip before holding it out to him with a sunny smile.

“CASE FILES, PAPERWORK, AND SLEEP AIN’T HOW YOU SHOULD WANNA SPEND YOUR TIME, EL-I-AS. DON’T TELL ME POLICIN’ HAS WORN OUT SUCH A CLEVER GUY SO QUICK. WHAT WOULD YOU DO RIGHT NOW FOR FUN?”

He couldn’t help but wonder why he suddenly felt like there was some kind of joke that he was missing, as the host’s cheek dimpled, something that he guessed to be a smirk toying over Remy’s lips.   “Sorry, were you just reporting multiple organic damage assaults to a Bay City homicide detective?”  A quirk of that same scarred eyebrow, a hand dumping into a pocket to drag out a pack of smokes, cheap, plastic wrapped and half crumpled, tapping one out and clamping it into the corner of his mouth as he traded out the pack for the antiquated butane lighter.  “Cause if so, it’d add a whole new stack of paperwork to the ones already waiting so –”  A rough shrug.  

   A purse of his lips, watching with an odd mix of resentment and resignation as Remy swiped his glass and in turn, a sip – what was he going to say, don’t drink the hooch you’re paying for?  Okay, maybe in most cases he might have but.  He had the distinct impression there wasn’t much in the way of Remy LeBeau that fit whatever it was the Methuselah’s defined as normal.  “Not so very clever,” he half mumbled, taking the glass and rolling it between his fingers as he weighed Remy’s question, his gaze shifting out to the room again, as it did, every so often.   Assets, head count, exits, trouble.  

    A shift of his gaze back to Remy.  Trouble.  A faint flicker of an amused smirk, half hidden behind the reclaimed drink.   “Drinking a cold beer, eating cheap ass take out, shooting pool and watching my partner take me for every dime I had to spare,” he admitted, a residual warmth in the words that probably implied he meant something more than just partner.   “But seein’ as she’s working graveyard and I’m stuck here, not really an option and I learned a hell of a long time ago wishing for what you don’t have just makes what you do have seem less than what it already is.”

          “NAH, PRETTY SURE ALL I DID WAS MAKE A CUTE DETECTIVE REAL AWKWARD BY MENTIONING FOREPLAY.” And he taps his nose knowingly, chuckling to himself as he shifts to rest his back against the bartop, offering an idle wave to a passing guest.

They were all just slavering with excitement to be on the invite list, every single one of them so insistent on finding him to gush about howLOVELY it all was. Still interesting and ironic, he thinks, that they’re tripping over themselves for the favor of a lowborn inductee if it means they’re a little higher in the eyes of each other.

“FIGURE OUT WHAT MAKES ME DIFFERENT IN THIS ROOM, AND I’LL FIGURE OUT SOMETHIN’ NICE FOR YOU,” he offers, half-teasing, but hums. He’d actually back that if it came up - it isn’t that hard to guess, at least the part he’s referring to. He still talks like he’s right out of the pleasure district, the lazy, crawling dialect that’s so famous and starting to die out.

“YOU’RE SUCH A DOWNER, ELIAS. DONTCHA KNOW THAT THE HOPEFUL THOUGHTS ARE WHAT KEEP US GOIN’ ENOUGH FOR US TO ENJOY THE LITTLE MOMENTS SPRINKLED BETWEEN THE SHIT? I’D OFFER TO CALL IN A FEW FAVORS AND MAKE THAT HAPPEN FOR YA, BUT T’BE HONEST YOU STRIKE ME AS THE KINDA GUY THAT’S GOT TOO MUCH PRIDE AND SUSPICION FOR THAT, SO I WON’T.”

   There was a sound – part HMPH, part COUGH, part something else he wasn’t quite sure what that tried to escape at the Meth’s description of apparentlyMULTIPLE sleeve deaths as FOREPLAY –  A hand shifted, a flicker of flame to the end of his cigarette, using the moment that bought him to let his composure regather.   He shouldn’t have been surprised – the truth was he really wasn’t surprised by most anything the Meths might get up to for ‘fun and games’ in their free time.  It wasn’t like the BCPD monitored the intake / output of Meth clones, unless one of the Meths cared enough about a sleeve death to report it which.  Wasn’t all that often, to be honest.  “Interesting definition of the word.”  The reply was dry, exhaled on a cloud of smoke aimed up, over the head of his conversational companion.  

   “Easy way to fix that – don’t want a downer at your shindig, have Tanaka pick one of the many just frothing at the bit to be here instead,” he pointed out, taking the time to mull over the rest of the words that had been spun in his direction, a harsh drag taken, a flick of his thumb against the butt of the cigarette over a glass – nah, definitely crystal – ashtray on the bar.   “Nothing comes for free, and while I’ve got no problem earning my way through this life, dangling from a Meth’s puppet strings isn’tEARNING, it’s being PLAYED.” A lingering bitterness, the words sharper than he actually intended to let them be, a lifetime of resentment, years of frustration at watching the world spin and dance according to the whims of Bancroft and his ilk –  

  He might’ve should’ve apologized.  Maybe if he knew what was good for him, he still would but – he didn’t. “You mean besides the OBVIOUS?” He finally turned the topic back around to Remy’s challenge.  Something else he probably should let lie, rather than rising to the bait but.  He couldn’t help himself.   “Which is it, by the way – man or woman cause – I get the appeal, you know, confuse the huddled masses but – “  God, he was going to get himself canned and Ortega was going to kick his ASS.   A work of his jaw, a rough shrug flung in the direction of his host, his glass raised to take another long swallow, the pungent BURN a welcome distraction.  “Do you just like the thrill of playing bad … boy,” he took a gander, “Or you trying to tell me that’s your preferred modus operandi, ’cause if that’s the face you wear in Licktown to get your kicks, I’m pretty sure I’d remember you.”

          “I WAS MARRIED TO AN INTERESTING WOMAN.” It’s an off-handed response, but it is what it is - they had been what they had been and he finds no reason to try and conceal that. He can’t help but cock his head at the other, a cheerful smirk curling up over that wide mouth. Elias REALLY ought to slow down, particularly considering he’s on the job, but Remy’s hardly inclined to stop him.

“I DON’T WANT PEOPLE THAT WANT T’BE HERE. LOOK AROUND - THEY AIN’T GUARDIN’ SHIT, IT’S FOR SHOW. YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE DOIN’ WHAT YOU’RE PAID TO. OR WERE. AND I GOTTA GIVE YOU PROPS - MOST THIEVES WOULDN’T HAVE SPOTTED ME, EVEN WITH MY BEIN’ LAZY. I APOLOGIZE, DETECTIVE, BUT I DO BELIEVE I’M GONNA SEE YOU AGAIN.”

He leans over the bar to snag a clean glass for himself, filling it far past the proper amount (but who’s going to stop him, really). Taking a long sip, he flashes EL-I-AS a smirk, glossy, lacquered nails tapping thoughtfully at the bottom of a painted lip.

“MAN,” he says after a long moment, and raises his drink in a joking little half-toast. “BORN IN A WOMAN’S BODY, SO REALLY I SUPPOSE IT DEPENDS ON YOUR LEVEL OF BIGOTRY, BUT THAT’S MY OPINION. I DO THIS TO REMIND THOSE AROUND ME THAT THINGS AIN’T ALWAYS SO SIMPLE FOR EVERYONE. OH, AND PURE SPITE.”

He finally, finally, takes a stool, and he doesn’t bother to stop himself from chuckling now - it’s hard to picture Elias in Licktown, at least with that sour look on his face. “I WEAR THIS FACE EVERYWHERE, LICKTOWN INCLUDED, THOUGH THE AMOUNT OF SHIT ON IT TENDS T’BE LESS. I’M ATTACHED. IT’S MY FACE - I NEVER CHANGED IT. THOUGH IF YOU’RE LOOKIN’ AT AUDIENCES AND NOT PERFORMERS, I’M NOT SURPRISED YOU WOULDN’T RECOGNIZE ME.”

Partly true, partly false, let the detective squirm a bit.

   INTERESTING.   A tilt of his head, a swallowed scoff, the hand with the cigarette in it drifting up, a thumb rubbing against the scar that divided his eyebrow unconsciously. His lips thinned, a stiffness creeping into his shoulders and spine as the Meth continued, casually and consistently making it clear, per standard Meth protocol, that what HE had to say on the matter – didn’t much matter at all.    Another long, harsh drag on his smoke, his gaze cutting down to watch the ashes scatter into the ashtray worth more than his paycheck, a sour angle to his jaw and eyes.   “Why do I get the feeling you and me aren’t speaking the sameLANGUAGE,” Ryker returned, his gaze hot, his tone almost bordering on frigid when he spoke.  

    He could practically feel the fish hook twisting in his cheek – and it wasn’t a particularly PLEASANT sensation.  “Yeah well.  Some of us, despite what the general population and the people with a stick up their ass tend to think, happen to give a shit about what we do.” Not as many as SHOULD. And only a naïve idiot would think that the ones that did were enough to make up for the ones that didn’t, the ones that nestled up close to the pockets of the Meths and the drug dealers and the flesh peddlers.

   His fingers curled around his glass again, a thumb tucking over the top of it, a force of will needed to keep from slamming back what was left in the glass.  He wasn’t doing a particularly good job of acting like he gave a shit.   A half breath in, the last of a drag of the cigarette before he crushed it out, circling the smoke around his cheeks and over his tongue for a long moment before exhaling.   Remy’s next words proved something of a distraction from the stewing anger, however, his gaze snapping back to study his host, a more scrutinizing gaze than before perhaps.  SPITE.  Yeah, he knew something about that.   His own face, his own body – with the kind of money that a Meth like him at his disposal, Ryker knew damn well he could’ve had a body designed, replicated, cloned to the t save gender – a simple switch of chromosomes and …  he hadn’t?

   “If you aren’t watching everything and everyone in Licktown you wake up dead,” he pointed out, SOME of the surliness having bled from his tone, his thoughts spinning in a few more directions than one, at once.   Even among the grounders, gender sleeve swaps were common place, people desperate enough to get out of their birth skin they didn’t care what the other one was, so long as it wasn’t theirs…   “You want me to buy the line that YOU worked a Licktown brothel?”  As much as that’d be one hell of a rags to riches story –   “Your fingers might be quick but I don’t think even your tongue’s that silver.”

          “SOME OF YOU. NOT ENOUGH. I WATCH YOUR DEPARTMENT GET BOUGHT OUT DAY BY DAY, AND IGET IT - I DO. DON’T MAKE IT LESS DISAPPOINTING.” He studies Elias over the rim of his glass, smiling faintly. “M’SORRY, DARLIN’, BUT YOU CAUGHT MY INTEREST. I’LL BE PERSONALLY REQUESTIN’ YOU AGAIN. IF IT’S ANY CONSOLATION, YOU’RE WELCOME TO TAKE HOME ANYTHING YOU’D LIKE FROM THE BAR TO SULK INTO LATER. I’VE NO INTENTION OF BUYIN’ YOU. I’M ENJOYING THE CONVERSATION, NOTHIN’ MORE.”

Oh, much better. EL-I-AS was toning down, curious more than frustrated, or starting to tip that way at least, and it’s enough to pull a smile from Remy, long fingers twisting through auburn hair as he fixes his stare on his glass. The cogs turning in the other’s head were so - charming, really. He’s trying to figure out the puzzle in front of him with a handful of scattered pieces.

It’s not going to be enough, but it makes him indulgent, willing to hand him a few more.

“IS IT SO HARD TO BELIEVE? WE’VE ALL GOT PASTS.” Propping his chin up on his knuckles, he shrugs, offering Elias a joking little sidelong glance and wink. “I WORKED A PLACE AT THE CORNER OF BLOSSOM AND FOURTH A LONG TIME AGO. I DIDN’T HAVE TO, BUT I DID. S’GONE NOW - LESS A BROTHEL AND MOREPERFORMANCE, BUT I CAN ASSURE YA MY TONGUE’S PLENTY SILVER FOR THAT, TOO.”

He cocks his head at the detective, smiling, and sticks out his tongue, playful as he lets it curl, piercing VERY evident. And damn, if the other wasn’t obviously infatuated with his partner he’d tease him more than that, but he doesn’t.

“YOU SHOULD CHECK THE GAMBLING DENS ON THE BORDER IF YOU EVER WANNA SPOT ME GROUNDSIDE. I PROMISE YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO CATCH ME ANYWHERE ELSE - I’D BE ASHAMED IF YOU DID.”

   Maybe it was the open admission of Remy’s intent, his clarification of the why and the what for.  Maybe it was the acknowledgement of what was happening in front of their eyes, the greediness and the stench of corruption that was working its way through BCPD like a rot – because that’s what it was.   A sickness that spread in bursts and lurches, impossible to stop unless cut out in one fell swoop and doing that was damn near impossible with it trickling down from the TOP.   Maybe it was him focusing on the unasked, unanswered questions that spun around his head, trying to find where the edges of the pieces of one Remy LeBeau fit together to create – whatever the HELL the big picture was.   One conversation?  Definitely not going to be enough but … he’d sure as hell be interested to see what the police records had to say, when he finally extricated himself from this party and the penguin suit.  

  “I don’ t—“  Sulk. He cut himself off, suddenly and painfully aware of the petulant tone and how it’d sharply contradict the words.   “Not like there’s anything I could do to stop you –”  He pointed out, dryly, a sigh of something akin to resignation, a rough shrug of one shoulder as he let himself relax, slightly, the worst of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders and jaw, at least for the moment.  “But while you’re pushing Tanaka’s buttons, maybe make sure he actually includes the overtime he’s supposed to for shit like this cause – for somebody in the pocket of a Meth or three the motherfucker’s a penny pincher when it comes to paying what his people are owed.”  Which – really didn’t HELP keep the desk jockeys and street cops resist the easy pay day of a few favors here and there, to be honest.

   His hand drops into his pocket again, prepared to drag out another cigarette, but he hesitated for a moment, a pinch of lips as he pulled his hand away empty, a low grumbled sigh as he reached for his glass instead, a smaller swallow taken this time around.   The booze alone might make up for the indignation, and if Tanaka didn’t pay up what he was owed, he could always sell it off – maybe take Kristin out for a real dinner their next shift off, rather than just another couple containers of Chinese take away.  “Sure, we’ve all got pasts,” Elias conceded, an ALMOST hidden twitch along his jaw, a flicker of tension in the line of his neck.  “Not all of us end upHERE,” he pointed out, with a faint smirk.   Grass was always greener, maybe.  MONEY COULDN’T BUY HAPPINESS?  Maybe, but it sure as hell could try…

   And then there goes that eyebrow again, at Remy’s confession, if that’s what it was, though it didn’t really seem to be a confession so much as a statement of fact.  Good for him, Elias reckoned – survival of the fittest didn’t always mean the toughest, or the hardest, though – he felt a moment of PITY for anyone who mistook Remy for SOFT.   “I’ll have to take your word for it,” Elias replied, an almost smirk touching his lips at the clear taunt of the displayed tongue, a slight shake of his head more in bemusement than chagrin.   “You must irritate the SHIT outta them,” he found himself remarking with a half snort and a glance back over to the crowd that spun and shifted, each of them cogs in whatever fucked up machine this society had become.   A cigarette was in hand, without recognition or thought, lighting it, a drag pulled from it. “Sorry but that kinda sounded like a CHALLENGE,” he pointed out, his gaze shifting back to Remy’s with what was, this time, a clear smirk.

          He could feel it, that prickling interest, the way Elias’ eyes are boring into him now, trying to pick him apart. He wants to KNOW, just like everyone else, but far, far worse because Remy’s letting him peek.

He’d bet nearly anything Ryker was going to look him up as soon as he got the chance, find the not even single page police file with redacted blackouts and the barest summary. Adopted. Dead brother. Father’s name. None of it would satisfy him, and maybe it’s a little bit sadistic but Remy’s toes are practically curling with delight, because it’s a GAMEand he’s been so very BORED.

“MAIS OUI. I GOT LUCKY. OR NOT. DEPENDS HOW YOU WANNA LOOK AT IT. I THINK - IT’S A MIX.” He cocks his head at Elias, and he smiles, a genuine thing this time that dimples his cheeks and crinkles up the corners of his eyes. “I’LL MAKE SURE Y’ALL GET PAID IF I HAVE T’SEND THE CHECKS MYSELF. PROMISE. YOU DID THE WORK, YOU GET COMPENSATED.”

He laughs outright, bright and half-startled because while it’s TRUEElias probably shouldn’t say it, but really fuck propriety anyway. A few heads turn, and he snorts, lifting his glass to his lips again. “I DO, YEAH. FOR PEOPLE WITH SUCH LONG LIVES, THEY SURE GOT MEMORIES LIKE A RAT’S ASS - HALF OF THEM DON’T REMEMBER WHY THEY STARTED SUCKIN’ UP TO ME IN THE FIRST PLACE AND CRAWL OVER EACH OTHER FOR INVITES. THE OTHER HALF RESENT ME ’CAUSE I’M, I DUNNO, YOUNG AND PRETTY AND NOT NOBLE LIKE THEY ARE? BUT THEY KNOW I’D EAT THEM ALIVE, SO. GREEDY ANIMALS. THEY’D KILL THEIR OWN KIN IF IT MOVED THEM UP THEIR SELF-CONSTRUCTED LADDER OF GLITTERING SHIT.”

Slipping his own packet of cigarettes from - well, SOMEWHERE, it’s kind of hard to tell exactly, he lights up too, smiling faintly to himself. “THAT’S ’CAUSE IT WAS A CHALLENGE, CHER, AND GOOD FUCKIN’ LUCK TO YOU.”

  “So how does one go from the shit heel of Bay City  to the heights of the Aerium, anyways – “  A faint twist of a smile, an exhale of smoke, another swallow of whiskey.  This kind of multi-tasking he was familiar with, though to his credit, he still turned his attention outward, an occasional sweep of the crowd in the disinterested attempts to make sure that no one was actually being murdered while he was stood, getting buzzed on hundred credit a shot whiskey.  “You know – asking for a friend,” he felt compelled to add, a glint of humor lighting his gaze for a moment; lightening the naturally dark hues briefly.   He wasn’t sure what the answer would be, if he was given one, but he had a suspicion it wouldn’t be what most people assumed.  

   A half shrug escaped again, at Remy’s promise.  It wasn’t the money that really irked him, in the end though – it certainly didn’t help that Tanaka claimed there weren’t enough resources to go around for day to day expenses … until someone like Bancroft snapped his fingers and then it was balls to the walls effort required with – still, half the compensation they should get.  He shook his head, the thoughts wearisome, repetitive.  Shit hours, shit job, shit insurance. Hell.  He was surprised every single cop wasn’t in someone’s pocket.  A hand flickered up, thumb and index finger pinching against the bridge of his nose.  “That’d be a nice change, be nicer if it worked that way for all the PD,” he groused, his hand falling away again to tip his glass from one side to the other, watching the golden liquid reflect the light.  

   The snort, the laugh, pulled his attention up, his eyes flicking to watch the startled, varied reactions of those nearby, aware of the casual and not so casual scrutiny their, by now, extended conversation had acquired.   He resisted the urge to flip the crowd the bird.  Barely.  “Piranhas, I think, is the most accurate depiction I’ve ever heard them called,” he admitted, tilting his gaze back to Remy, a small snort of his own following Remy’s declarations. “You must have some pretty big — “ An intentional pause, a quirk of an eyebrow.  “Teeth,” he settled on.  “Not easy to rattle a Meth – trust me, I know.”  The cigarette was propped on the ashtray, long, calloused fingers snaking the bottle from beside Remy, refilling his glass and topping off Remy’s.   “You often in the habit of challenging your security to treasure hunts or is it just me?”

          “THAT’S THE MILLION-DOLLAR QUESTION, AIN’T IT? LITERALLY.” He chuckles, but turns to him fully, indulgent. Smiling when Elias pours him another, he blows him a little kiss in thanks, bringing the glass back to his lips. “MM. LET’S SEE, WHICH VERSION - I COULD TELL YA I’M A BASTARD CHILD. OR MAYBE THE PARTICULARLY GROSS ONE OF HOW I SEDUCED MY FATHER AND CONVINCED HIM TO ADOPT ME FOR HIS FORTUNE. BUT THE REALITY IS, WELL. I PICKED HIS POCKET.”

And he snickers to himself, quiet and nostalgic. “THAT’S YOUR ANSWER, THE ONE NOBODY IN THIS ROOM WOULD EVER BELIEVE. I SLIPPED PAST A METH’S GUARDS AND I PICKED HIS POCKET, I TRIED TO KICK HIM IN THE NUTS WHEN HE CAUGHT ME, AND I TOLD HIM TO FUCK RIGHT OFF AND HE ADOPTED ME AFTER HE WAS DONE LAUGHIN’ SO HARD HE CRIED, YANKED ME RIGHT ON UP TO THE AERIUM. THERE’S NO FUCKIN’ SECRET TO IT, JUST A GOOD MAN WHO SHARED HIS LUCK WIT’ A SHITTY KID.”

Oh yes, Elias was great fun. That much, he was sure of. Especially that little bait - he could just CACKLE, but he doesn’t, lets his features split into a wonderfully amused grin instead.

“YOU’RE SPECIAL,” he half-croons, chuckling. “I DON’T GET A LOTTA FUN. IT’S NICE MEETIN’ SOMEBODY WHO AIN’T FALLIN’ OVER THEMSELVES TO CRAWL UP MY ASS. SO I’M GIVIN’ YOU SOME TIDBITS T’PLAY WITH.”

  More like the TRILLION dollar question, Elias refrained from pointing out, as much for his own benefit as for the sake of the conversation.  He tried not to let himself OVERTHINK about the amount of waste, the amount of money that the Meths that surrounded him bled out on a daily basis, tried not to think about just what kind of difference one percent of that money could make to the people he watched live in misery, scraping by hand to mouth on a good day.  He tried not to think about it because if he did, he’d end up punching someone and breaking something and that was �� DEFINITELY the fastest way to unemployment and he owed Kristin better so – he swallowed it down, the rage, the disgust, as well as another larger than healthy swallow of whiskey.  

   The first two OPTIONS presented were pretty standard fare, the kind of thing he figured the Meths would assume because it fit so nicely into their box of the expected and the sordid which, in truth, was why he’d already considered them and dismissed them.   Whatever Remy was, standard fare wasn’t it.  What did follow, though, wasn’t something that had even crossed his mind as a possibility but – considering it in the moments that followed it certainly seemed to FIT.  His lips quirked, amusement and a half snort lingering.  “That’s a story too far fetched for it to be anything but the fucking truth,” he rumbled, a last drag of his smoke before he crushed out the butt in the ashtray, a last wisp of smoke drifting out with his words.  

   The mental image was one that he was pretty sure would stick with him, if only for the sharp contrast to how he’d have ever imagined something like that going in his own life, ESPECIALLY when he was a kid.  Trying to pull something like that in his neighborhood?  Or with HIS father?  A twitch at the edges of his mouth, his jaw, a flicker of something that he shoved away as quickly as it tried to rise.  “I’d say one way or the other then, you landed on the side of lucky,” he settled on, a shift of his weight as he pulled himself more upright, muscles aching dully at the lack of movement, at the onslaught of alcohol.  

    “Trust me, I’m not all that special.”  A low huff, a rough shrug of one broad shoulder.  “NEVER been a particular fan of trying to crawl up ANYBODY’S ass,  so – “  TIDBITS.   He had a nagging feeling that it was a lot more than just a few tidbits, but maybe that was just the alcohol fucking with his gut instinct.  “So just outta curiosity, this CHALLENGE you’ve presented –”  An upward tilt of his scarred brow, his fingers twisting the glass back and forth between them.  “What’s in it for me?”  

          “CONGRATULATIONS, MONSIEUR RYKER. YOU KNOW MY SECRET THAT I’VE NEVER KEPT A SECRET BUT EVERYONE IS WONDERFULLY INCLINED TO DISBELIEVE, BECAUSE KINDNESS IS INCOMPREHENSIBLE TO PIRANHAS.” He raises his glass, clicks it against Elias’ in a playful little toast. “I SUPPOSE I MIGHT’VE. I’M IN THE POSITION TO DO THINGS, SO I DO.”

He blinks at the other, placid, and lifts one shoulder, a noncommittal little shrug. “OF COURSE YOU’RE SPECIAL. EVERYONE IS, SOMEHOW. THE INSTANT YOU LOSE SIGHT OF THAT IS THE SECOND YOU BUY INTO THE ILLUSION THATANYONE IS BETTER’N YOU. C’MON, EL-I-AS, YOU KNOW THIS.”

Tipping back the rest of his drink, he hums thoughtfully, rolling the empty glass between his palms. What to give him, oh, that’s such a very good question. “I’LL GIVE YOU A CHOICE BETWEEN PRIZES. EMPLOYMENT UNDER ME, QUITE LEGALLY, WITH A VERY NICE SALARY - OR ANSWERS. THREE. I’LL BE COMPLETELY HONEST TO ANY QUESTION YOU CHOOSE. I THINK FOR A CLEVER MAN LIKE YOU, EITHER IS AN OPPORTUNITY.”

  Was it possible that he’d actually met a Meth that he didn’t HATE?  Was there such a thing as a Meth that wasn’t a total dick?  MAYBE. Maybe he didn’t meet the actual qualifications of a Meth, but then again, given the way he lived, the here and now, yeah –  Definitely qualified.   “And that’s the fucking truth of it in a nutshell,” Ryker conceded, his glass tilted briefly against Remy’s, brought to his lips for a swallow, smaller than before.   He could feel the burn in his muscles, the ache of tension and adrenaline that would burn off all too soon, leaving him worn out with only a few hours to spare before his shift in the pre-dawn hours, and at least half of those would be spent with Kristin after her shift before she crashed out for the morning.  A glance to the cornea display to check the time.  The party was already running well past the time he’d been scheduled for and showed no signs of slowing.

   “You might be the first Meth I’ve ever heard say something like that I’m inclined to believe, maybe,” Elias admitted, dismissing the display as he turned his gaze back to his host, a faint smile creeping over his lips at the next words spoken.   “Clearly, you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” he replied, his tone dry, a vague self-depreciating humor clinging to his words, only, it wasn’t really all that humorous.  A slight shake of his head at the way the Meth rolled out his name again.  

    “Something tells me you’ve grown long accustomed to getting your way,” Elias replied, after a moment of mulling over the offer, the rewards that Remy dangled.  Working for a Meth?  Doing what, of course, was the question of the hour.  Playing bodyguard?  Could he put up with the boredom – would it actually BE boring, with this particular Meth?  Or maybe worse, what if it wasn’t?  The money would be … nice, but the whole point of what he was doing now was to try and make up for his own SHIT – protecting somebody who had extra sleeves and a backup wasn’t exactly going to be the end all in the check mark side of things ….  Still.   MAYBE.   The last offer though – now that he could see the perks of, from the get go.  A man in his position, with his money and influence, who CLEARLY had a feel for the pulse of the Meths and, so he claimed, tangled in the world of the grounders as well? “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a deal – open ended on the winnings til I claim them, though – can’t make a choice like that without all the facts, after all.”  

         “Oh, no. I dunno you at all, yet. At least, not what I wanna know. But that’s okay.” Remy tilts his chin at him, grinning just a little bit. He catches the glance, the familiar flicker of movement, and he clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I tell the truth. That’s why. I don’t put blinders on, but that’s ’cause I’m a stubborn bastard.”

He rolls the glass between his hands one last time, finally depositing it back on the bartop with a little clink. Hmm. Elias was - well, insightful, maybe more insightful than expected.

That made it far more fun, really.

“I always got my way, even on the street. You got to, y’know? Take what you gotta get, s’just how the world works.” He thinks, for half a moment, of teasing him - seal it with a kiss - but he’s put the man through enough for one night, so he smiles and holds his hand instead. “Deal. Added bonus; you can ask me whatever you’d like while we play. I’ll answer honestly, but I also reserve the right t’decline any question I like.”

“Yeah?”  A tilt of his head, a hand dropping into his pocket again, fingers crinkling the edges of the cigarette pack before withdrawing, empty, thumb flicking against the edge of a fingertip.  “And wha is it exactly that you wanna know?  Maybe I’ll give you a freebie,” Ryker returned, with a half smirk, shifting to let his back and hips rest against the bar, arms crossing loosely over his stomach as he cast another practiced and casual glance around the room.  “Stubborn – yeah.  I think that’s kinda a requirement for being a Meth or a thief – a good one, anyway.”  

His gaze tilted back towards the Meth, another assessing glance, a mental assessment, a guesstimation of what he’d look like without the glitz and the glam and the makeup, ruddied up rather than prettied up, for future reference and to let fester in the back of his head in search of something to connect it to.  “Why doesn’t that surprise me.”  A dry, droll return.  Take what you get, take what you need, do what you had to do to survive – familiar mantras that seemed askew and out of place here.   “What’s in all this for you, then – say this pans out like you want it to – what’s that look like to you?”

[rykerelias-archive]

TRANSFERRED FILE. ||  @cardshcrp Remy & Elias. VERSE: ac. ( season one au. ) 006.  post ice. THREAD: to be named.

It was chaos.  It was like coming undone, fingers digging into his head and pulling at the fraying edges, tearing him apart and splitting him open, spilling him into the void – into the blackness that swallowed him whole, and he was drowning in it, in fear and rage and despair, in grief and loss and anguish and ANGER —  his breath rattled in his chest, a gasping, desperate sound as he lurched sideways, jerked upwards, hands flung out to his sides, and up, as if to shield himself from the dark – from the light, from the impending blow – his heart surged, and raced in his chest, pounding, his throat thick and dry and tight, icy tendrils of fear coiled in his chest, fire blossoming in his head, in his thoughts.  Rage, and rage –

   Memories crashed, compounded, contracting, pulsing in his head, vying for purchase and priority.   Chains, and cuffs, at his wrist and his ankles, shuffled through the prison halls, as so many of those that he had put away –  pain, a flare of it, at his neck, when he’d struggled, when he’d raged, panicked, at the last moment, as they had tried to press him onto the slab – a slab, where they would pull him, drag his consciousness, kicking and screaming from his flesh –  Not the dark.   Not the prison ward –  Too white, too silvery, too PASSIVE –  His gaze spun, taking in the room, the contents, simple, practically bare.  No windows.  No doors.  CONSTRUCT.  

  His gaze shifted, eyes still wide, chest heaving with struggled breaths, finally latching on to the other occupant of the room.   It took a moment, to register, to find words and names to go with the face, the unmistakable, distinctive crimson eyes.   “—   the fuck –”   His words were rough, and coarse, fingers dragging through his hair, scraping down his thigh, struggling to find some focus, some center, fighting the burn of tears in his eyes as he stared at the Meth.   “Is happening?”  

           Oh, gee, HM. He’s really glad he’s leaning against the wall, ’cause WOWIE, Elias is thrashing a bunch. Maybe unsurprising, given what Remy had learned of the CIRCUMSTANCES of his imprisonment - though he didn’t exactly have the personal details, whatever had been happening before his detective friend had been put on ice wasn’t likely to have been pretty.

“EVENING, ELIAS.” He offers the other a smile, not bothering to peel himself off the wall - the more distance he gives him, the better, he thinks. “WHAT’S HAPPENING - UH, LET’S SEE. YOU GOT INTO A REAL PICKLE, DIDN’T YA?”

A hand goes up, his fingers curling back down to his palm with every item. “YOU’VE JUST BEEN FRAMED FOR MURDER. YOUR GIRLIE PISSED OFF BANCROFT - NICE, BY THE WAY, HE DESERVES A FEW KICKS BUT YOU SHOULDN’T BE GETTIN’ THE SHORT END OF THE STICK. YOU WERE PUT ON ICE. I STOLE YOU PERSONALLY - YOU’RE WELCOME - AND REPLACED YOU WITH AN ACTUAL MURDERER’S STACK WITH A FALSE IDENTITY ON IT, ’CAUSE LET’S BE HONEST,SOMEBODY IS MAKIN’ DAMN SURE YOUR TRIAL DOESN’T HAPPEN FOR AN ETERNITY AND THEY AIN’T GONNA KNOW. BY THE WAY, MY REAL BUSINESS IS STEALIN’ SHIT, AND I’M TELLIN’ YOU THIS BECAUSE I DON’T THINK YOU BLAB EASY, SODON’T TRY AND SELL ME.”

Folding his arms over his chest, he grins at Elias, easy and open. “I SPUN YOU UP T’SEE IF YOU WANNA BE AWAKE OR NOT TO FIGURE OUT YOUR MESS. IF YES, I ALSONABBED A DNA SAMPLE AND I CAN CLONE YOU, BUT YOU’RE GONNA HAVE TO GO SYNTH FOR NOW. IF NO, I’LL ICE YOU AGAIN AND STORE YOU SAFELY UNTIL I CAN RETURN YOU TO WAIT FOR YOUR TRIAL. AND NO, BEFORE YOU ASK, THIS AIN’T T’GET A COP IN MY POCKET AND I DON’T EXPECT PAYBACK. I DON’T LIKE SEEIN’ GOOD PEOPLE GO DOWN, ESPECIALLY NOT IN THE NAME OF PANSY POLITICS. OTHER QUESTIONS, GO RIGHT AHEAD.”

   The LOOK that was cast in the Meth’s direction at his first few words might’ve been deadly, if looks could actually kill, a half snarl framing ivory teeth and canines still a little too long, a little too sharp for the consumers the human species had become.  “That much I figured out on my own BEFORE they shoved my ass in a hole,” he seethed, to the first of the marks that Remy’s fingers ticked down, but falling silent for the most part as his – apparently – THIEF – went down the list of ways in which Elias Ryker was extraordinarily FUCKED.   Honestly, what Remy LeBeau did to make his fortune was so far down on Ryker’s immediate list of priorities that he barely even registered the comments, filing bits and pieces of data away for future relevancy.  

    Stole –  him. His stack —  a momentary twist of an expression, almost disbelief, but then he was the living (as much as ever he guessed) proof right?  Stealing a stack, snatching a D.H.F. from prisoner storage was … in theory… as close to impossible as anything got.  But then.  Somehow, he wasn’t entirely surprised at much of anything right this exact minute.   “Not a cop –”  It was short, and terse, an ache in his chest and a sour taste in his throat at the words, his lips pressed tight, jaws clenched briefly.  “Not anymore, anyways.”  His tongue dragged over his teeth, moistened his lips, his breath steadying, slowly, his heartbeat forced slower, less sporadic as he fought his way to a center point.   “Bancroft – Ortega, what – what happened?  Is she –”  A twist in his chest again, a flood of memories, dancing in his mind’s eye, the memory that had played over and over in the days between his arrest and his being pulled.  

         ‘if you didn’t do this –’  If.   His eyes stung, violently, suddenly.  “Is she okay? What – what the fuck did Bancroft do?” God.  What did she do to Bancroft?  With her temper, barely controlled on the best of days, even with him there to be her counterweight –   “What politics.”

           “Calm down. I ain’t here t’fuck you over any more than you already been screwed.” This time he does step forward, comes to crouch in front of Elias, red eyes raking over him, slow and assessing. “Hey. Shh. Your girlfriend’s fine, promise - bit upset and such, but she’s fine.”

He offers the other a hand, a little awkward but entirely nonthreatening. “She ain’t been hurt. Bancroft came up with a shitty little guilt trip for ’er, but it ain’t gonna get her injured or nothin’. She ballsy, fussin’ at Miriam like a real spitfire. Let’s get you back in the real, huh? You’ll feel better in somethin’ like your own skin.”

Your skin, which is currently occupied by a complete wild card even by my standards.

��Politics, ’cause someone’s definitely playin’ Bancroft too. He’s comin’ up with shit that would never happen if he wasn’t being spoonfed. I dunno who yet. You comin’ out with me or nah, cher? We got a lot to talk about, but I ain’t givin’ you more to stress over unless you wanna stay out. If you wanna stay on ice, my schedule for the night’s gonna be tighter. Window t’sneak you back’s only so long.”

He barely held back a scoff at the Meth’s first comments, a half sneer pulling at the edges of his lip, his teeth bared briefly in a grimace.  It wasn’t so much that he doubted the truth of Remy’s words – he might have been the only Meth Elias had ever met whose word he might trust, but if the events of the last months had reminded him of anything, it was that nobody did anything for nothing and that everybody was out for themselves, one way or another.  He swallowed a breath, his hazel gaze coming to settle on Remy’s scarlet one for a long moment, forcing himself to concentrate on the words that were being offered, struggling to swallow the rage and impotence that caught and warred in his chest and in his head.   Kristin.   Kristin.  The look on her face --  His gaze cut away, his head ducking down as he struggled against the tears, a hand settling into Remy’s to pull himself upright, a heaving breath taken in and held for a long moment. 

Picking a fight with the oldest, richest, most powerful man in the known worlds.   Too little too late --  Guilt trip --  The words echoed, swallowed, held.  Too many questions.  Not enough time.  Or too much time.  Time.  “How long – how long have I been on ice?”  In the dark.  Drifting, thoughtless, weightless, drowning in the dark, in the emptiness.  His spine rippled with a shudder that he didn’t bother to try and repress.  “I’m not going back.”  Short. Blunt.  He was already out.  They’d already stripped him of his authority, his badge, tarnished what little reputation he hadn’t already ruined himself.   Somebody playing Bancroft?  That took guts, and balls, and power and influence – the kind of influence it took to tamper with Neo-C coding?  Maybe. “Not til this is settled, one way or the other.”