She curled her lip. Most Guild reps didn't ask for a ride either. She crossed her arms over her chest and studied the scruffy figure crossing the tarmac from a military-use biplane, but he made good use of those long legs of his and his height, and he reached her in a few seconds. Her lip curled again. His scent was tarnished with heavy cigarette and a bad need for a bath.
"Remy LeBeau, I presume?" Carol shook his hand. No one could accuse her of playing favorites with her actions.
Finally, he lifted his face to her, smiling grimly as he firmly returned the handclasp. Weariness showed through dark, dark eyes. She couldn't see the color through the matted auburn hair he wore to halfway down his neck. His face at least was mature, including the dusting of a five o'clock shadow to grant him a semblance of manhood.
"Danvers," he said simply, thick Cajun patois lilting out with a bone-weary sound underlying the drawl.
Startled, she gave him a second study. His long brown duster covered a thick blue shirt in a muted color, jeans, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of it, and a small, sagging duffel hung off his shoulder. His stance was...wary, she decided, but fatigue could hide a great deal. She tested the theory.
"I told Jean-Luc I would probably have to send a rep." She turned and began walking toward the nondescript white car she'd arrived in. He followed behind her, not missing a step, as she continued, "How did you know it was me?"
Carol caught the briefly lifted shoulder from the corner of her eye. Her opinion--and curiosity--bumped up a notch. He could keep his council very well.
She opened the door to the backseat and waved her arm through the opening. "Get in."
One look at the cell phone's face and he had nearly flung it across the dive he was staying in. When he heard the details, he nearly flung the phone again.
"Dere 're only t'ree T'iefs I c'n give dis job t', and y're one o' 'em." Even over the phone, Jean-Luc's voice made Remy's gut clench painfully. "Promised de best."
Remy barely restrained his hiss of anger. "Since when d' y' divert jobs t' exiles?" he demanded, narrow-eyed glare, not addressing the words, those words.
But Jean-Luc missed the remembrance. "Dieu, Remy!" He growled in frustration. "'M still Guildmaster. I c'n refer de job to any Guilded T'ief."
Remy closed his eyes, breathed in, and held it. It was a long time before he answered. "Dat so?" His voice was honey-thick, almost lazy when he brought it out.
"I'm t'inkin' de first t'ing I should've taught y' is not t' argue wit' me," Jean-Luc said dryly.
Five years ago, the words would have drawn a chuckle—before Remy became Guild for real. Now they earned an angry scowl.
"What?" bland expression
"How long since y' got any?"
"You usually this forward?"
"Dere ain't too much on de topic I don' know."
"You're nothing like your brother." ... "How long since you got any?"
"Two years, three months, seven days."
"Messy." ... "You?"
"One year, one mont', t'ree days."
"Bloody." shrugs "It happens."
"And you really haven't gotten _any_ in all that time? You don't seem the type."
"Depression'll do dat t' y'."
"Non. Now I feel like killin' somet'in'."
"I might let you if you rebuild me afterward."
"I'm beginning to wonder whose whelp you are."
dangerous, predatory grin "Y' feel like dyin'?"