Remy LeBeau

The problem with cookin' up hilarious mental images for other folks is sometimes they stick with you. I am very glad I don't have a face to stick to an image of the boss naked now -- ain't no way you get the dispensation to set up our merry band of misfits before you hit the saggy years.


X-Men Movieverse - Monday, August 09, 2010, 6:51 PM
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=XF= Laundry Room - Residences - Chemeketa Military Base
This is a laundry room. They are not coin operated, which is AMAZING, but the dispenser for different kinds of soaps and fabric softeners is. That sucks. There is wireless, a TV, and a lounge area in addition to a folding table. Yup. That's sure a laundry room.
(Exits : [O]ut )

Whether Monday is laundry day or whether this particular Monday just happens to combine a shortage of favourite clothes in clean format with time enough to do them in, the evening finds Remy LeBeau fetched up in the laundry room. Taking part in a ritual perhaps more prosaic than his shadows and smirks rep might otherwise tolerate, he's currently engaged in spot-treating a pair of cargo shorts, victims of some massacre that's left a spreading red-brown stain across the lap of them. It smells too much like spices to be blood, at least.

The sound of a cell phone ring-tone proceeds Iago before he actually makes an appearance in the Laundry room. Hello, hello, baby, you called? I can't hear a thing. I have got no service, in the clu-"Hello?" Iago answers, cutting off the ringtone as he enters the laundry room. "Well, don't be a slacker then, eesh," he says to the phone with a roll of his eyes before he hangs up, although he is smiling. Laundry basket is hefted onto a table. "Hey-o. Laundry day?" He asks Remy possibly the most obvious question, considering where they are.

"No. I just lost a bet. These are Carpenter's pants I got here, homme," says Remy, looking up from his pretreating with a deadpan tone and a shake of the cargos.

"Hmm," Iago muses, raising a brow. "Funny, Carpenter never struck me as a cargo pants sort of person..." He starts putting some of his laundry in a washing machine. "I always imagine snappy dressing and a lair. Like a bond villain. Which...may be an unfortunate comparison."

"Just be lucky that y'mental image of him includes pants," says Remy, with proper levels of forboding as the cargos, suitably pre-treated, are tossed in with the rest of his laundry, or at least that which colour matches roughly with the pants. "What with the camera rig, f'all we know he could be goin' pants free an' easy."

Iago makes a face, but he's quiet as he considers that a moment, packing laundry into the machine. "I can't say I'd blame him if he was going free," he says, putting soap in and closing the washer door. "But that's /so/ unprofessional. He'd have to at least wear a tie." There's a pause, and Iago looks striken. "Nevermind. I think that'd just make it a porno."

"Classified Cock 4: Top Secret Tadgers," Remy supplies a title after a moment's thought, and the lid closing on his washer. Helpfully. He turns to retrieve an empty basket sitting atop one of the dryers, the better to empty said dryer's contents into it for folding while he waits. "Y'would be Zaza's illusionist roommate if I got the stories right, yeah?"

"It's classified. I'd tell you, but then I'd have to bang you," Iago supplies, basterdising some other well known quote. "Well, if that didn't exist already, I'm sure it does now. Rule 34 and all, though I'd imagine spy fantasies would be pretty popular anyway," he muses and then tilts his head in Remy's direction with a brow raise. "Stories, huh? But yeah, that's about right."

"Ain't just a -man's- heart that's susceptible to a little home cookin'," is Remy's explanation, paired with a quick smirk as a mix of socks and shirts and other clothes goes tumbling into his basket. "You two coordinate turnin' up here, or was it belle chance?"

"Coaxing stories outta people with that gumbo of yours, huh?" Iago says with a brow raised. "Can't say I blame 'em for spilling." He watches the washer rumble and do its thing as he answers Remy's question, "Chance. Luck. Fate. I dunno. Not coordinated, though."

"Path o' least resistance. Why run a con when y'can just share food?" Remy asks, rhetorical and grinning briefly, before he turns to the task of pairing up socks and then rolling them into paired balls for easy transport. "So how y'findin' life in the nuthouse?"

"Well, if delicious is an option, choose delicious," Iago says with a quick grin. "Gee, every time /I/ say this place is a nuthouse people get all frowny faced or look at me like I'm the crazy one," he replies with a sly glance at Remy and slight quirk of his brows. "Other than that, alright I guess. You know, depends on the day.""

"Pfft," Remy waves off the frowners with a lazy wave of his hand. "They are just harbourin' doubts as t'their own sanity still. They'll learn." More socks are separated out from the herd and paired off, two by two, (Socks of blue?) before he looks up again and wonders "What made y'say yes?"

"So does that make the people aware that they're in the nuthouse the sane ones...or the crazy ones that have accepted that they are, in fact, insane?" Iago cants his head in Remy's direction again and sighs. "I got a bit ahead of myself imagining spy adventures on TV and the promise of 'doing more', I guess," He answers after a bit, leaning against a table. "You?"

"Little o' column A, little o' column B," is Remy's verdict, as he moves on to folding t-shirts that probably aren't Carpenter's. "As f'me, it seemed a better alternative'n prison, all things considered. Actual contact with the fairer sex, f'one."

"Hmm, can't say I'd disagree with your point," Iago says slowly, "Though I can't say I've even been close to that situation myself. I tended to be more, ah, team 'Putting people in Jail'. Sort of. Distantly. Not, you know, /personally/ on some kind of vigilante vendetta."

"Well, that's a relief... I'd hate t'have to be ready to pick cuffs off myself everytime I turned around t'find y'there," says Remy, and if there's a hint of the disreputable and daring that enters his sprawl at the reminder that here is A Cop, or at least an associate of them... well, it's only a hint.

"Considering that I spent all my time in a lab...I think you're safe," Iago says wryly, crossing his arms and raisign his eyebrows at Remy. "I'd only be using handcuffs for one thing, and it's /not/ running around trying to capture you..."

"S'just as well... I am afraid y'just ain't my type homme," Remy informs Iago, with a sad little moue of his lips.

Iago puts a hand over his heart and tips his body slightly at Remy in almost a bow. The smirk on his face ruins the sincerity a bit. "I'm afraid you aren't mine, either, so it'd really just be awkward for the pair of us."

"Among other things, sure," says Remy with a low chuff of a laugh and a tip of his chin in appreciation for the smirk. And then it's fold, fold, fold, letting a companionable silence lapse, or at least as much of one can form over the noise of washing machines.

Those washing machines are loud, sure, but Iago tends to be louder. He fusses with the TV a bit (nothing's ever on, boo) before shutting it off and pulling out his phone. That apparently holds his attention only minimally better. "Speaking of the fairer sex," he says suddenly, like there was not lapse in conversation. "Zaza tells me you've a lady friend, but won't tell her who, so she has to use her skillz - with a Z, mind you - to figure it out."

"Well, we -are- a base full o' spies," says Remy, with a gracious nod of his head and gently feigned ignorance of any pauses as he shakes out one last t-shirt, this one decorated with a large red crayfish on a black field. "Wouldn't want her gettin' bored between missions or anythin'."

"Classy shirt." Iago notes and makes pincher motions. "I think I'm more top secret scientist, but then, I'm not the one tasked with trying to figure out who the girl is, so there's that. You know she's just going to, like...ask someone less new around here."

"Community crawfish boil," Remy explains the shirt, with a crooked smile calling up some bit of personal nostalgia. "Volunteer with cookin' an' it's a way to get y'self a good meal an' all the beer y'can drink without havin' to lay in a cent of y'own money... but maybe that's my game, homme," he slides back a conversational step to answer Iago's remark. "Meet'n'greet's always more interestin' when y'got more than just small talk drivin' it."

"MMmmmhmmm," Iago murmurs to Remy's explanation. "Can't say I'm much of a cook myself. Get distracted, stuff catches on fire...fire trucks show up again and wonder what I've burnt /this/ time...It's not a pretty picture. Zaza's more trustworthy with the stove-top. I'll leave that to her, and just chop things dutifully as I'm instructed."

"Every good chef has someone doin' the prep work somewhere," Remy grants, equably enough as the shirt makes it into the hamper and he rises, folding completed. "That mean if I catch you hangin' around the kitchen when I am in a sharin' mood I can rope you in to help chop too?"

A washer buzzes and Iago starts shifting shirts and stuff from washer to dryer. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, sure. You have but to ask for my help, and you'll have it," he replies cheerfully, like he's some kind of fairy tale food chopper that only shows up when you say 'I wish' and your need is great.

Like elves and shoemakers, except with tastier outcomes. With a flash of a grin and a sketch of a bow, Remy assures that "I will be takin' y'up on that, sure enough." before man and basket make their way out the door. He will undoubtedly be back later for his shorts. Or Carpenter's shorts.


Squeaky-clean conversations.