Before the Storm (Malfoy Manor)

Paris was growing increasingly fidgety as time went on, rocking back and forth on his heels, smiling like he found something immensely entertaining. He actually looked a bit crazed, if Remy was going to be perfectly honest. But as long as he was holding that bag of weapons – particularly the magic blocking gun she had so admired – Remy would have to play along. Plus, there was something about the disturbed little man standing in front of her that put Remy slightly on edge. Maybe it was the odd combination of crazy and control he seemed to exude, and the fact that he was more perceptive than he originally let on.

Needless to say, this situation wasn’t progressing exactly as Remy would have hoped when she first saw Paris lying in a heap on the steps. She should have been able to control the situation indefinitely, particularly because Paris was male. Remy had always had luck with her physical assets that could be tossed around to gain favor, but Paris seemed completely immune to all of them.

Maybe he’s gay… Remy thought. That would explain it.

But eventually, Paris stopped bouncing around enough to consider Remy’s proposition for the weapon, though his reaction was not what she would have wanted. His eyes, which had been locked on hers for the entire weapons discussion, wrinkled at the corners, and his thin lips were pulled down into a frown. Hardly the response Remy expected when she offered a crazy man sexual favors in exchange for one measly weapon.

Maybe Remy was going about this the wrong way. The man clearly wasn’t interested in what she had to offer physically – or if he was, he was doing a damn good job of pretending nonchalance. That meant she needed to make a different offer. Paris’ promise of “We’ll figure something out” didn’t exactly spell out a situation in which Remy could be walking away with that weapon today, and if she didn’t get it now, she thought the odds were pretty good she’d never see Paris again. With the treatment Caelani had given him, Remy couldn’t really blame him if he wrote the Death Eaters off altogether.

“Yes, I think we can,” Remy said thoughtfully, the memory of Paris’s torture experience giving her an idea, “Perhaps you would be willing to exchange your prized inventions for some help carting your wares?” Remy proposed, the idea taking fuller form in her mind as she said it aloud. True, it wouldn’t be as simple as a quick bed and bail, but it might be worth the extra effort in the long run.

“I could handle some of the hand-offs that you don’t want to deal with,” Remy said pointedly, clearly referring to the earlier instance of him writhing on the stoop, “And you could equip me to handle them. What do you think?”

OOC: Perhaps, if this were moved to the "past" section, we could put this thread to further use? That is, if you haven't yet grown tired of waiting for my posts.

She was persistent, Paris would give her that; it seemed that, no matter what he said, her determination to walk away with her weapon of choice only increased. Immediately after Paris had offered to made some sort of deal with the woman, she’d come up with a full-fledged offer, and Paris found himself searching his mind for something to say in reply. It was not often that he found himself incapable of rapidly firing a witty response in the direction of whomever he was speaking to, and thus it came as a great discomfort to be put in such a position.

Paris brought the hand that he’d previously used to scratch his head with, towards his eye, which he then rubbed absentmindedly as he began to turn the woman’s words over.

The offer that Paris had been presented with was certainly one that would come of good use to him, but his past simply would not allow him to involve another being in his line of work. According to the small, bent-up puzzle pieces that were the remains of Perry’s memory, and what he had been told of his past by the healer who’d assisted him in his recovery, inventing weapons, aiding thieves, and double dealing were activities that had lead to the death of his previous assistant. Paris did not care to add a fresh coat of blood to his hands. They were stained red enough as it was.

“That is part of the fun of the job, miss,” Paris replied. “Without the risk of being blown away, I dare say the job would be of no interest to me." Yes, the thrill was of importance, but truthfully, he could do without a curse or two. He found, however, that in order to make his line of work a bit easier on his physical being, that he would have to cross the only line that he'd drawn.

In spite of himself, the idea of such an action intrigued him.

Paris lifted the weapon of interest from the rucksack it had previously resided within, and extended his hand towards the brunette. “Perhaps an “I owe you” will suffice for the time being,” he offered expectantly. He was genuinely interested in the way in which she would react to such a proposal - especially when his fate dangled so loosely in the balance.

((Yes, I think the past section would be a good place for this, because it would give us the potential to start another thread after this one where Paris calls in the favor. What do you think of that idea?))

Remy didn’t look away from Paris for even a second while he was debating her proposition. She knew that if she hesitated at any point, Paris would find a way to wiggle out of answering this question, just like he had for the last one. He was clearly hesitant, judging from his pensive facial expression and gestures.

I need to have that gun… Remy thought, single-minded in her ambition. Big surprise there.

Remy smiled patronizingly at Paris when he said the fun part of the job was the danger of it. Yes, some idiots did like going after dangerous situations for the thrill and adrenaline rush, but most human beings had a strong enough self-preservation urge to avoid such situations. Paris didn’t exactly seem the type that would want to go sky diving, and he certainly hadn’t been enjoying Caelani’s punishment on the stoop. Although his words were saying one thing, his tone and actions were saying another.

“You may be more like the Death Eaters than you think,” Remy replied with a smirk, thinking of all the foolhardy idiots that joined the ranks of the Dark Lord just to get themselves into the heat of the action (and usually killed). Of course, Remy knew Paris was nothing like the group that was meeting behind closed doors, but the irony made her statement all that much more poignant.

After a few seconds of mulling that statement – and probably the original proposition, too – over, Paris moved to pull the rucksack so he could reach into it. Immediately, Remy took an instinctive step back, but when he had retrieved the magic-removing gun from his bag, he did not aim it at her (of course, he wouldn’t know it was useless on her). Instead, he extended it to her grip first, saying those magical words that Remy had been waiting to hear.

Of course, the words weren’t perfect. He was agreeing to give her the weapon, but on the condition that she “owe him one”. Remy didn’t much like owing anyone anything, because it allowed people to hold things over her head. Remy preferred autonomy and the freedom to come and go as she pleased, and being in someone’s black book didn’t exactly align with those preferences. However, her urge to take the gun was too strong to overcome her hesitance, and without waiting for Paris to change his mind, Remy’s fingers were closing around the grip of the gun and taking it from her companion.

Immediately, Remy felt a rush of power that was more intoxicating to her than any other pleasure. Power was what Remy was always looking for, though she wasn’t altogether particular about the route she took to achieve it. She had slept with, stolen from, and manipulated many an individual to take some of their power or at least be guarded by the shadow their power created. But holding this weapon in her own hands… even with the small caveat of Paris having an I.O.U. with her name on it, the power trip was intoxicating.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Remy said, swinging the gun once in a circle with the trigger guard suspended on her right index finger, testing the weight of it before slipping it quickly into the back band of her jeans and pulling her shirt over it. Remy felt a chill run up her spine, though whether that was a physiological response to her new toy or a reaction to the cold metal against her skin was anyone’s guess.

Whoever said you can’t always get what you want never met me.