[ The problem that Ray was still working over - he wasn't as quick to the draw as some people - was that he had to develop a way by which to keep Fraser away from Vegas when this was all said and done. He could convince this guy for sure, that would be easy. A whole bunch of bruises and cuts and a couple of burns would turn him away from the Strip for a decade so long as it got him the Mountie back, but keeping Fraser out of this was going to be harder.
No, he needed Ray to be so traumatized by the experience that he would beg Fraser not to go, and if Ray knew his friend - which he did - if he implored him desperately enough then he would back off. For his partner's sake.
He had an idea where this was leading him, but honestly, he felt fucking awful about it. This guy hadn't asked to be dropped into his life, hadn't asked to have a wanderlust driven Mountie who couldn't let anything go as a partner. He hadn't asked to become Ray Vecchio--or hell, maybe he had? He might feel better if that were the case, maybe he could convince himself of it. Maybe he'd done something so awful that the only way he could escape it was to spend so long undercover he forgot who he was.
Armando drew away, putting the gun away inside his jacket. He gave Ray all the room he could need, and a little bit of space too, mostly keeping his eyes off him as he scrabbled out of his socks and shoes and head over toward the piano. It paid to give people space when they had their trousers around their ankles. In the meantime Armando kept hold of Ray's tie, holding it in both hands and rolling it back and forth through his fingers. Cheap processed silk and polyester--he almost missed ties like this. All his were silk with die motifs on them and playing cards, and the occasional unicolored black or white or red. He missed his old suits, and his car, and eating pizza with Fraser while they chatted about hockey, and he missed Dief stealing half of that pizza when he wasn't looking.
Fuck this guy for bringing it all back. And fuck Fraser; this was all his fault. It was his fault he had to push this guy so hard toward that edge that he'd swear blind to Fraser, no matter how persistent he was, that Armando Langoustini couldn't possibly be his former partner; he was a dirty scumbag mafioso and that was the end of it. Finished.
He put the tie in his pocket, then finally raised his eyes to Ray, looking him over thoughtfully. Real pale, but that wasn't a surprise, it wasn't like he'd spent the summer in Nevada. Chicago summers were stuffy rather than hot, sticky, but only ever uncomfortable briefly before just as quickly they were gone again. It wasn't exactly the place you went to rack up a tan. There was muscle there too. Ray had the arms and back of a boxer, and he looked like he could kick a guy in the head from ground level, neither of which surprised him given the way he'd come across that table. He punched straight, right down the length of his arm - smack - and that probably helped around Fraser. It probably helped a whole lot. So stay away from that right hook, check. Something that'd become more important soon enough. ]
You're alright. So long as you keep it up you're gonna be fine. Keep your eyes on the prize, Ray. Three hours, and all this is going to be a painful memory.
[ He crossed the room, opening a recessed door and holding it wide. There was no cool air emerging through this door, and in fact a heat rolled up the descending staircase, dark within. It was lit only by red runners underneath the steps, by a red glow and the purple of blacklights in the basement level below, the walls all painted black, and Armando held the door wide.
God knew when he'd seen this room for the first time he hadn't known what to do with it. He still didn't. Mostly it was for show, but there were signs of use that made it clear that the former man to hold the name had made more use of it. It'd rattle Ray, sure enough. It had made the FBI guy who had mentioned it to him in his briefing shudder, and had never come up in conversation again or since. When he talked to his handlers, they called it The Red Room, and that suited its purpose just fine. It was the place people went to bleed. ]
Go ahead. [ He instructed, and waited to follow him down.
The full view wouldn't be visible until Ray had reached the bottom of the stairs, the room practically as hot as the desert outside - deliberately so - and as he emerged into the hot red spotlights that crisscrossed the room, he'd discover a ceiling-to-floor cage, such as they put dancers in; chains and poles and bars; a nasty looking chair covered in metal rings and leather straps; an actual full sized crucifix... Fragments of mirrors stabbed the wall in jagged shapes, but by far the most striking thing was the mirror that crossed the ceiling from one side of the room to the other, reflecting all the light and making the room seem twice as large as it already was.
If Ray stopped, which Vecchio expected him to, there'd be nowhere to go, no way back. Armando would be behind him waiting. ]
All I can say is this guy better be worth it, don't you think?
no subject
No, he needed Ray to be so traumatized by the experience that he would beg Fraser not to go, and if Ray knew his friend - which he did - if he implored him desperately enough then he would back off. For his partner's sake.
He had an idea where this was leading him, but honestly, he felt fucking awful about it. This guy hadn't asked to be dropped into his life, hadn't asked to have a wanderlust driven Mountie who couldn't let anything go as a partner. He hadn't asked to become Ray Vecchio--or hell, maybe he had? He might feel better if that were the case, maybe he could convince himself of it. Maybe he'd done something so awful that the only way he could escape it was to spend so long undercover he forgot who he was.
Armando drew away, putting the gun away inside his jacket. He gave Ray all the room he could need, and a little bit of space too, mostly keeping his eyes off him as he scrabbled out of his socks and shoes and head over toward the piano. It paid to give people space when they had their trousers around their ankles. In the meantime Armando kept hold of Ray's tie, holding it in both hands and rolling it back and forth through his fingers. Cheap processed silk and polyester--he almost missed ties like this. All his were silk with die motifs on them and playing cards, and the occasional unicolored black or white or red. He missed his old suits, and his car, and eating pizza with Fraser while they chatted about hockey, and he missed Dief stealing half of that pizza when he wasn't looking.
Fuck this guy for bringing it all back. And fuck Fraser; this was all his fault. It was his fault he had to push this guy so hard toward that edge that he'd swear blind to Fraser, no matter how persistent he was, that Armando Langoustini couldn't possibly be his former partner; he was a dirty scumbag mafioso and that was the end of it. Finished.
He put the tie in his pocket, then finally raised his eyes to Ray, looking him over thoughtfully. Real pale, but that wasn't a surprise, it wasn't like he'd spent the summer in Nevada. Chicago summers were stuffy rather than hot, sticky, but only ever uncomfortable briefly before just as quickly they were gone again. It wasn't exactly the place you went to rack up a tan. There was muscle there too. Ray had the arms and back of a boxer, and he looked like he could kick a guy in the head from ground level, neither of which surprised him given the way he'd come across that table. He punched straight, right down the length of his arm - smack - and that probably helped around Fraser. It probably helped a whole lot. So stay away from that right hook, check. Something that'd become more important soon enough. ]
You're alright. So long as you keep it up you're gonna be fine. Keep your eyes on the prize, Ray. Three hours, and all this is going to be a painful memory.
[ He crossed the room, opening a recessed door and holding it wide. There was no cool air emerging through this door, and in fact a heat rolled up the descending staircase, dark within. It was lit only by red runners underneath the steps, by a red glow and the purple of blacklights in the basement level below, the walls all painted black, and Armando held the door wide.
God knew when he'd seen this room for the first time he hadn't known what to do with it. He still didn't. Mostly it was for show, but there were signs of use that made it clear that the former man to hold the name had made more use of it. It'd rattle Ray, sure enough. It had made the FBI guy who had mentioned it to him in his briefing shudder, and had never come up in conversation again or since. When he talked to his handlers, they called it The Red Room, and that suited its purpose just fine. It was the place people went to bleed. ]
Go ahead. [ He instructed, and waited to follow him down.
The full view wouldn't be visible until Ray had reached the bottom of the stairs, the room practically as hot as the desert outside - deliberately so - and as he emerged into the hot red spotlights that crisscrossed the room, he'd discover a ceiling-to-floor cage, such as they put dancers in; chains and poles and bars; a nasty looking chair covered in metal rings and leather straps; an actual full sized crucifix... Fragments of mirrors stabbed the wall in jagged shapes, but by far the most striking thing was the mirror that crossed the ceiling from one side of the room to the other, reflecting all the light and making the room seem twice as large as it already was.
If Ray stopped, which Vecchio expected him to, there'd be nowhere to go, no way back. Armando would be behind him waiting. ]
All I can say is this guy better be worth it, don't you think?