1964-04-22 - The Preppy and the Cajun
Summary: Remy and Scott meet. It goes…okay
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
scott gambit 


Usually no one really hangs out in the upstairs living room. It's so much smaller than the one downstairs and there's not even a proper television. There's not a ton of windows and it's furnished as if your grandparents got a hold of the catalog again. But today there's someone lying in the sofa, away from view of the hallway. One bandaged and bloody hand hangs over the back of the sofa and the window has been opened, letting in some cool air. The smell of cigarette smoke is pretty thick, though.

*

It's the smell of the smoke that's drawn Scott's attention. Erik and Charles are more likely to engage in cigars, and aside from them or the teachers, there really shouldn't anyone smoking here…at least inside. And it's not like he can just ignore the idea that someone might be breaking the rules. So, like a glasses-wearing bloodhound, he's sniffed out the source of the smoke.

"Hey, you're not really…" He trails off, brows furrowing over his glasses as he sees the hand hanging over the back of the couch. "Are you all right?"

*

A languid, snake like twirl of smoke billows out from Remy LeBeau's mouth as he watches the young man with a raised eyebrow. He looks over to his hand and inspects it as if he really hasn't decided, yet. "Had me a run in wid somebuddeh who dun like mutants much," he finally says, his voice thick with an accent. He takes another drag and talks as he exhales, "What day call you, Specs?"

*

"Cyclops." Scott grimaces, stepping the rest of the way inside and coming closer to get a better look. "In the field. Here, it's Scott. Also, that couch was brought over by the Professor's grandmother, so maybe you could let me get a look at that bandage job." He pulls over a chair, a stiff wooden thing that certainly wasn't built for comfort, to settle down on the edge of it. "Did they bring you back here from the rally?"

*

"Ooh, a codename. Figure der mus' be some heroin' goin' down in dis place. Cute lil number dun save me but not from no rally or nuthin. Some copper had a bone to pick and picked ole Remy at the wrong moment," he replies as he pulls his hand off the couch. "Remy LeBeau, Scott. Fine t'meetchya, even if I be wishin' it might be under differin circumstances."

*

"I had a feeling that rally was going to end poorly," Scott shakes his head, even as he holds out a hand for Remy's. "There's an important different between a march and a rally. One's meant to prove a point, the other's meant to stir people up. And if you haven't planned for what might happen when people get stirred up, then it's bound to turn into…Well."

He looks up at the mention of cops, arching a brow. Somehow, eyes hidden behind ruby lenses or no, he looks entirely unconvinced. "I don't suppose you got the cute little number's name?" There are several cute little numbers at the school, after all. Some he trusts more than others to do due diligence.

*

Remy sits up and holds the hand over to Scott, putting a cigarette over towards the ashtray. "More of a man o' action, you know what I mean, boss? Ole Remy dun sick of ole dose rally's and talk. Remy been wantin' action for long time now. Words are fo' chumps." Remy reaches up to yank off the wads of gauze. Scott will immediately see that his hand has been washed, but that four of the five nails of his hands have been crudley removed. Good times. Fuckin' pigs. "She got a wisp o' white hair in red. Talk like an English woman who be embarrassed she from de south."

*

"Scarlett, then," Scott nods, lips pressing in a tight line when he sees the damage. "Surprised she was around. She tends to be something of a free agent. You said the police did this to you?" he asks, arching a brow as he looks back up to the Cajun. Isn't that cute? There's someone who still believes in the inherent goodness of law and order.

*

"Done said it cuz it be what happened. Scarlett'll back me up on it. She watch it happen and spooked the fat fucker," Remy replies. "Ole Remy got sort of a checkered past when it comes to de law, son. Some of dem boys in blue be good men. Othas, well, dey get what dey deserve."

*

"I'm going to go out on a limb and say that means she didn't exactly file a report with his commanding officer," Scott sighs, standing up and heading to a desk at one side of the room to retrieve a first aid kid. Apparently the school sees enough injuries to keep them handy no matter where someone is. "Well, regardless of your past, this is a safe place for mutants."

*

"Hell if I know," Remy says. "I got told I had a bed, got some stuff t'clean myself up, and told I could use the phone. Dat all I know." He shrugs and takes a final drag from his cigarette. "What else you can tell ole Remy about dis place. Seem safe, an all dat. Seem a hell of a lot more den dat."

*

Scott gives the other man a long look, inscrutable behind those ruby lenses, before he drops his head to start cleaning the hand. He doesn't stint with the alcohol and peroxide, either. It's not that he takes any joy in causing discomfort - he treats it as part of the procedure, and there's no doubt this young man follows the procedures.

"It's a school," he begins. "One for mutants. The Professor helps to find us, then offers us a chance to come here. It's place where mutants can study in safety. And yes, some learn to protect themselves - and others too. For some kids it's like a boarding school, but for others, this is the only real home they know. Too many parents are terrified when they realize what their kids can do."

*

There's a quick intake of air, but other than that Remy stays cool about the whole thing. Scott can tell it hurts like hell. "Never did have no proper schoolin'," Remy says. "Can barely read and you be lucky if you got any chance t'see my writin'. Pretty damn bad. Can do math well nuff to count my moneh."

*

"And you're not alone in that," Scott nods, focusing on the task at hand. "I wasn't much different when I first got here. Passed around the foster system. I had headaches for years. Splitting headaches. And of course everyone thought I was making it up or being lazy. Then things got…more destructive. I was headed down a bad path when the Professor found me and brought me here. But I was lucky. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands of mutants out there right now scraping to get by because of the way they were born."

*

"Dun gotta tell me, Specs. Been fightin' dis war f'years," Remy replies with a tilted head. "Been gettin worse, and will be gettin worse befo' it get better, y'hear?" he adds with a twinge of regret.

*

"But it doesn't have to." Once the wounds are clean, Scott starts dressing them with clean bandages, looking up briefly from his work. "And whether or not it does, we can't give up. There is a future for all of us. A future where we can stand next to each other, mutant and humans, as brothers and sisters." Someone's been listening to the recordings of Dr. Martin Luther King. "That doesn't mean we have to just sit here and take it, but it does mean we have to be examples. We have to prove them wrong about us."

*

"Dat a pretty good line, but like ole Remy said," the Cajun replies as he looks over toward Cyclops with a raised eyebrow, "Ahm much more a man of action den a man o'words. De war been goin' for a long time. Not fightin' it aint gonna stop it from happenin."

*

"But if it's been going on for years, then fighting it the way it's been fought isn't going to stop it either," Scott counters, absolute certainty in his tone. "It goes on for years because it has to. Because people are afraid of what they don't know. But evolution isn't going to take a break just because some people are afraid. We just have to show them what we can be. I mean, look at someone like Captain America. The government went out of their way to turn someone into something more. They celebrated the achievement, he was an instant celebrity. But why? What makes Captain America different from us?"

*

"It ain't ever been fought, son. It been a slaughter. Holdin' hands and passin' daisies aint no way t'win a war," Remy replies. It's clear that being lectured to after all that the Cajun has seen and done riles him just a little. Congratulations, that's difficult to do. "Captain America is a pussy."

*

"I'm not your son. And I've seen my fair share of fights." Scott's tone is flat now, though the job doesn't suffer for it - he's precise in every motion. "But there's a good way to fight and a bad way to fight. And if we fight the wrong way, then it won't matter how many of the fights we win, because we'll end up losing the war." It's the last that actually cracks his stoic exterior, though it's with a flicker of amusement in the curve of his lips.

*

"You a regula' ole veteran, ahm sure," Remy says as he pulls his hand away. "Dat what dis place is about? Preachin and indoctrinatin?"

*

"The Professor doesn't teach us what to think," Scott shakes his head, sitting up as Remy pulls his hand away to tidy up the first aid kit. "He teaches us how to think. Everyone gets to make their own choices here. Stay or go. Fight or run. No one here is going to make anyone's choices for them. Because those choices are choices about the kind of person you want to be. So the Professor gives us the space we need for that. Sometimes that means education. Sometimes that means training in other things. For some people, they're just here long enough to learn how to control their powers, then they leave and try never to use them again. But it's their choice."

*

"You lost some folks in dis war, Specs?" Remy says as he reaches for another cigarette for his good hand. "You lost a lot of loved ones in dis battle? How well yer way workin, hmm?"

*

Scott is quiet for a long moment, gaze steady behind those ruby lenses. "I've lost fewer than you have, I suspect," he finally answers. "But there's not one of them who'd want me to give up because of it." Hands on his knees, he pushes up from the chair, moving it carefully back to where it was, feet on the indentations in the carpet and everything.

*

"Like hell ahm givin' up. But be damn sure Imma fite how I believe is right," Remy says quietly as he looks out the lone window and smokes on his cigarette.

*

"Everyone has a choice." Scott puts the first aid kit back in the drawer. "It's just about the sort of person you want to be." He moves back toward the door, pausing in the threshold. "Smoking in front of students is discouraged, though," he notes over his shoulder.

*

"Yeah, well I know how I feel bout dat particular rule," Remy says. "Specs, you sound like my fiance." He doesn't elaborate. Just smokes and looks out the window.

*

The glasses would be great for hiding epic eye rolls…if Scott was any better at controlling the rest of his face. It's actually kind of an accomplishment. No one can see his eyes, and yet the strength of the roll is palpable. But he doesn't say anything else, stepping out into the hall…probably to go and make a formal report about the stranger in the upstairs lounge.

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