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Papa Knows Best

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Remy sees his father home to the Le Beau compound in the Garden District, leaving Logan behind him with a promise to return.

He knows he might not be able to keep that promise. The requirements of the Le Beaus must come first, and one kidnapping is not usually the end of matters. He will deal with that if it happens, and dismisses the worry.

Again Remy parks the car a few blocks from their destination. His fingers busy themselves at a storefront tobacco shop, which has a more complicated lock than even a shop in this crime ridden city normally bothers with.

With Father at his back, Remy leads the way into the dark shop, which smells of cigars and less pleasant things. The shop is neither so respectable as to be a caricature nor so shady as to be noticeable, and that’s how the Le Beaus like it.

Remy opens the tunnel door with a barely thought of but bone deep memorized sequence of touches, like a medieval puzzle box. Neither speaks as they pad down the old, arched, brick tunnel, moving like the thieves they are, creating their own shadows.

Two blocks later Remy digs a hidden code panel from an apparently disintegrating pile of boxes and broken furniture in an old cellar and presses in the magic digits.

Papa tugs open the counterweighted door, set with crumbling bricks on one side and shining old wood on the other. Remy follows him home.

This old Garden District mansion has been the compound of the Le Beaus since the early 1800s, when Andres Le Beau saw the French town crowding up. Family histories say this was the first building on the street, and Remy could believe it. He cannot see a way old Andres could have constructed half of what he did without having a completely free hand.

He sees Papa - always Papa here, always French, the breath of history clouding over their faces - into the back sitting room. Out of respect, he brings him a whiskey and soda, presses him to sit.

“You’re anxious to get back,” Papa says. He looks tired. He’s over 100 years old. He should be tired.

Any proof of Papa’s age makes Remy feel uneasy. The elixir does not award immortality.

“I haven’t decided what to do,” he says, feeling a teenager again, cocksure, talented, and finally realizing that planning makes a hell of a lot of difference to any heist. Style and attitude are lagniappe. Getting things done, that needs thought.

“To go, or stay?”

Remy shrugs, the kind of shrug that seems to take about three extra vertebrae. “I want to be with him. I don’t know if I can salvage us. I don’t know how.”

“Bring him home,” his father says. “Bring him in the front gates.”

Remy keeps his hands from seeking the last few cards in his pocket, not to fight, but to use like Tante Marie uses worry beads. “If you are certain,” he says.

“No, mon fils. If you are certain.” Father touches the bell for one of the few servants he maintains here.

This is not the Le Beaus’ public face. That is reserved for the country house, a ranch in all but name, up the river, where the well connected Le Beaus hold Events, for politicians and charity and strategically cultivated friends. This house, with damp history breathing from the bricks and the memory of generations, this is the fortress. Here, they can hold off attack, invasion.

Be themselves: obscenely long lived, flexibly criminal, seeking their own good and none for anyone else.

Only family is permitted inside, family and a few staff who have earned trust before entering the doors.

Papa’s offer is an enormous concession. A magnificent favor.

Remy cannot think of anything else he can do to show his loyalty to Logan. And if Logan does not understand what is being offered, than he is not the man Remy thinks he is, and Remy needs to be free of him.

And more, Remy realizes a few moments later, locking the door of the cigar shop behind him, Papa knows what it means to his son to allow him to invite a lover into the House.

That is what the Le Beaus do, in a snake eat snake world: each Le Beau’s life is every Le Beau’s business; each Le Beau’s happiness, the responsibility of all.

Remy silently thanks his father for the gift, not to Logan, but to himself.

 

Logan waits in the doorway of the former safe house. There is no life in the building. The woman they’d been body guarding has been moved elsewhere.

“Come home with me,” Remy says.

Logan unfolds himself from the doorway, the tension settling from his shoulders to branch out through his heavy body into a loose energy. “Okay.”

So simple.

Like a minefield.

Remy drops the anonymous sedan off in a nondescript neighborhood street about a mile from their destination. He doesn’t bother to lock the car. His people will take care of it before breakfast.

Logan gets out and follows him without question. The sidewalk broadens and they fall in step side by side, hands brushing here and there.

The houses get larger, more detailed, richer looking. The years stand out from these buildings. Another turn, and Le Beau House looms at the far corner.

Remy and Logan’s fingers tangle, grip, slide apart.

He has never brought a lover home to the House.

The massive iron gates worked with the lilies of France open under Remy’s familiar touch, swinging back with less than a whisper of hinge. The sophisticated touch lock had almost given him trouble, he’d had to hold his fingers so abnormally rigid and still. He thinks they might tremble if given the chance, with reaction and unease over what he’d almost done to Logan.

Remy leads the way into the grounds, Logan’s slow, measured tread disappearing in a drift of leaves over the drive. If Logan can smell Remy anywhere on the grounds of Xavier’s mansion, Remy can always feel him in the darkness, without benefit of sight. Now they vibrate together, walking the short way to the house, in the hours before dawn.

The massive oak door - said to be made from the wrecked timbers of one of Jean Lafitte’s smuggling ships - opens in front of them.

“Welcome to Le Beau House,” Remy says.

“I‘m honored,” Logan says, turning to meet his eyes.

He knows what this means.

Logan catches Remy’s face in his hands as the door swings shut behind them - that was Armagnac, the butler - and kisses him like he’s assaulting a beach. Remy reels a little. He lets Logan steady him, and almost sags as his nerves nearly run out.

Even he can only keep going for so long, he tells himself. It’s not just Logan’s touch that’s making his knees week.

“Upstairs,” Remy says, tearing his mouth away.

 

The tall windows of Remy’s room, at the front corner of the grand House, catch just enough moonlight to gild the massive four poster bed. The simple lines and the near black of the old oak say that it probably is almost as old as Waterloo, as family lore says. It certainly whispers to Remy of younger days, those nights when he sits up and watches the dark.

He’s never been with a lover here. Never thought he would be with Logan here.

This is more than getting married or promising fidelity. This isn‘t a promise. This is trust.

Remy needs this. Papa is getting old, and he cannot think of a future alone, this house growing home only to dust and artifacts, he realizes, with the clarity of the truly fatigued.

“Hey, hey,” Logan whispers, tugging Remy’s belt open. “Don’t think so much. Just, let me.”

He throws Remy’s belt on the sofa, unbuttons his shirt, slides it from his shoulders as if he was trained to. Remy settles his hands on Logan’s shoulders and tries to forget, to just be here. Logan swipes calloused fingers over his hips, sends Remy’s trousers puddling to the floor. Remy frees himself from his remaining garments.

Logan lets his own gear fall. Remy steps to him as he emerges, nude, from rough denim and cheap cotton. He moves his hands over Logan’s weighty body, shaping his muscles and angles and ribs, inspecting him as Logan had surveyed him earlier. Logan is patient, somehow, though already near full hard.

Remy walks him back towards the bed. Logan keeps his eyes on Remy’s face, a certain quiet intensity in his face. He sits down when the mattress hits his legs, slides back when Remy presses fingers to his collarbone.

Without looking, Remy finds what he wants in the drawer of the bedside table. He straddles Logan’s hips and drops the bottle of slick, up until now purchased for his singular enjoyment, onto the bed. Logan’s hands go to Remy’s hips, while Remy strokes himself. He feels almost cold now, the third and fourth flush of adrenaline populating his cells, down to his fingers and toes. The usual energy buzzing through every atom of his being has cooled to a background hum. It’s as if the late hour is resting on the back of his neck.

He’s hesitating. Remy tries to shake it off and lose himself in arousal. It’s right there, ramped up and nervy like a thoroughbred at the start, but he’s looking at things from a distance.

Logan takes matters into his own hands. He’s always been able to read Remy better than Remy can read him. He tumbles Remy over onto the bed, hands on him the entire time, controlling his fall and keeping them together, so that Remy lands on his back and Logan is already pressed against him. Logan shifts and Remy crooks one leg around his hip.

Remy flexes cruel fingers into Logan’s back, and Logan responds by drawing him further into his sphere of command, blanketed by Logan’s big body.

Logan finds the bottle of slick and pops it. Slippery fingers tease down Remy’s hard cock, glancing over the thick vein on the underside. Remy makes an undignified noise. Logan kisses his cheek, chaste. Means he’s concentrating, Remy thinks, and begins to feel warmed up.

Fingers prod at him, two push him open, and Remy heaves a great breath. He wants to beg for more, beg for it to be too fast. He doesn’t have to. Logan pushes and twists, two fingers, three, igniting him with faint pain.

“Just. The way. You like it,” Logan grunts in his ear.

Remy runs his hands in to Logan’s ridiculous hair, disarranges it, feels the too hard skull, his attention centered on the fingers working him, livening up all his nerve endings, sending jolts of pure energy to his cock.

Logan stretches up, kisses Remy, again like he’s storming a castle or breaching a fortress. Remy returns the favor, his hand on Logan’s shoulder. Logan pulls his fingers from Remy, slicks his cock, shoulder moving under Remy’s grip.

Remy drops back into the world. The tingling inside of him, the straining of his cock, the loom of his man, it’s all immediate and real and he wants Logan, more than he’s ever wanted Logan. Wants to be fucked and taken and owned and all those clichés, things that are clichés because they’re true.

Remy tried to throw this away tonight, and he’s so damned blessed that it didn’t end that way.

He can’t quite believe it, yet. He needs proof.

“Alright?” Logan asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. He pushes Remy’s thighs up and wide and kind of back and takes his thick cock in hand, feeds himself at Remy’s entrance. He presses, once, twice, like knocking for entry, but that’s not Logan’s style, Remy knows, Logan doesn’t knock, he pushes the door down.

Remy’s never been much on guys, just the few - Logan and Raul and a few others - and he’s never seen sex as all that symbolic, and honestly, he does not care who gets fucked here, as long as they come together and don’t come apart until they’re both satisfied.

Logan doesn’t disappoint. He centers himself and bears into Remy, rough as he likes - rough as Remy likes, which is pretty damn rough - and whispers, “Aw, damn,” as he shoves Remy open.

Remy grabs onto the headboard, finds the leverage to push back, and Logan bites off a word, sets a hand on Remy’s belly, and holds him still, for a quick pull back and a sudden plunge inward.

It’s not smooth or practiced, their loving: it’s rough, it’s rutting, it‘s two strong men who know their own strength and what they like making no apologies to anyone.

Remy absorbs Logan’s weight and thick cock and heavily rolling hips, and asks, please, for more. Again. Harder.

Logan obeys, runs rough hands up his belly and chest and arms, grips tight to leave bruises on his thigh. Remy wants to explode, he wants to hold on tight, he wants to dance and shout and fight.

This is who they are: they’re hard on each other, they play by tougher rules, they offer each other pleasure without embarrassment or hesitation, they make up their own game.

They’re often apart, but when they are together, nothing can get between them.

Remy holds onto any part of Logan he can reach, completing the circuit. Logan is sweating, panting, giving Remy what he wants, getting what he needs.

There’s been too much stress and pain and drama tonight for either of them to last long. Remy doesn’t want it to. He wants to cement this thing between them. Replace betrayal with a lasting bond.

He wants to make Logan feel good, damn it.

Logan’s near the end, a hitch in his breathing, and Remy squeezes his cock, speared deep within.

He growls, the appreciative kind, and Remy does it again, hitches one leg behind Logan’s back and gives him a new angle. Logan holds himself off, hips rolling in short thrusts, like he can’t help it.

Remy reaches between them for his own cock, and Logan’s hand descends on top of his. They work Remy’s cock together. Remy is ready, so ready, and Logan’s hand more than his own finishes him off. He arches and lets out a long breath, relief and exhaustion mingled. Logan shoves deep, and again. Remy drags him down, bites his collar bone, and Logan lets out a strangled yelp and comes.

Crashes down on Remy’s chest, too, but Remy can always take Logan’s weight.

Remy lets his arms fall around his lover, his man, and lets his brain fuzz out. Logan’s here, still here, with him. He never thought the night could end this way.

Logan shoves up on his elbows and knees, pulls away from Remy, and stretches, like a big cat. He hitches himself over and flops down next to Remy.

“You never had anyone else here,” Logan says. Not a question.

“Non,” Remy says. He can’t keep his eyes open.

“Thanks.”

“The orgasm? Don’t mention it. It was nothing,” Remy says.

“Idiot.”

“Mmm.”

“Remy.”

“Mmm?” Remy opens his eyes.

Logan turns on his side and leans over so the moonlight falls on their faces and they can see each other. “I don’t know if - I needed this. After tonight.”

Remy doesn’t pretend to think he means the sex. He toys with a lock of Logan’s hair, rests his hand on the back of his neck.

“Just. Thank you. For not giving up on me,” Logan says.

“Never give up on you, mon vieux,” Remy says. “You got the staying power.”

Logan gave him another chance - and Papa, he came up with the plan.

Remy pulls Logan down so his lover settles against him, cheek against Remy’s collar bone, where Remy can touch him.

This had been no part of Remy’s plans for the day, bringing Logan home to the House, but he’s alright with that.

He’ll have to refer any complaints to Papa. It was his idea, and Remy, he used up all of his ideas tonight by the time he got to the safe house.

Luckily, Remy muses, as sleep takes him, sometimes, Papa does know best.