Ambrose and Roux are back! This isn't necessarily in-line with what I've written for them previously, but no context required - just that they've never met before in this one :)
It’s been hours, and Roux can feel their resolve starting to wane. Their body aches, their ears ringing with the questions they’ve been asked over and over: Who sent you? What was your mission? At first, they were creative with their answers, or at least snappy: Your mom, asshole. Who do you think? But now they barely have the energy to speak at all, their body limp in the chair they’re strapped to. Their head hangs, and they stare at the dried spots of blood their nosebleed left on their lap, regretting that they took this job in the first place.
The mission was supposed to be easy. Break in, steal a file, bring it to the client’s meeting place. Simple enough. Roux doesn’t even know who the client is—that’s not their business. They and their team just do what they’re hired for. There are risks, of course, and Roux knows that. Capture is one of them. And torture … well, that’s an inevitable follow-up to capture. But usually, they’d have some kind of warning about that. The client didn’t mention anything like this.
For now, their two torturers are leaving them alone—conferring, planning their next move, maybe—and it’s a welcome reprieve from the pain. Roux enjoys it while they can. They wonder if their team is on the way to rescue them yet. Roux certainly isn’t anywhere close to escaping. They flex their limbs against the restraints, their skin still raw from struggling. There’s no way they’re getting out of this chair on their own, much less this building.
They let out a shaky, measured breath. They’re sure the team is working on an extraction plan. All Roux has to do is survive until then.
A door creaks open, and Roux flinches, becoming alert. “Well? How’s it going?” asks a man’s voice, far too casual about the violence involved in this situation.
“They’re not talking,” one of the torturers replies, sounding annoyed. Roux counts that as a win.
“Really?” Roux tries to track the man’s footsteps by listening, unwilling to crane their neck and make it obvious that they care. “I thought you would’ve gotten something by now …”
His footsteps are getting closer, and Roux tenses, lifting their head. The man appears in the corner of their vision, an alarmingly tall figure in a navy blue suit. Roux assumes he’s the guy they were stealing from—he seems to be the one in charge here. A businessman, maybe? Someone vaguely important? Roux doesn’t keep track of that sort of thing. Besides his height, he doesn’t exactly look menacing—but looks can be deceiving. Of all people, Roux should know that.
He scans them over, his eyebrows shooting up into a swoop of blond hair. “This little thing?” he asks, glancing over at his men. “This is the intruder?”
Roux glares at him, but otherwise, they don’t react. They’re used to these kinds of comments. At 4’11”, with thin, freckly limbs, they don’t look like a threat. Hell, they hardly even look their age. Most people don’t take them seriously, and this man is no exception—despite the fact that they nearly got away with stealing from him.
He leans in with a smile, hands clasped behind his back, his face inches from theirs. “Tell me,” he says in a low voice. “What’s a little thing like you doing sneaking around in my buildings?”
They pause for a moment, as if they’re thinking about actually answering. Then they spit in his face, the glob of blood and saliva landing squarely on his chin. “Fuck you.”
His smile disappears as he flinches back, the glob dripping down his neck. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes it off, regarding them with a calm, oddly blank expression.
They glare straight back at him, but the complete lack of reaction sends a chill down their spine. Still, they refuse to break eye contact, refuse to squirm, as he continues to stare at them.
Finally, without taking his gaze off Roux, he says, “Leave us.” The two torturers vacate without question, closing the door behind them. Despite themself, Roux tenses, bracing for pain.
The man tosses aside his handkerchief, still watching Roux. The edges of his lips quirk up, slowly widening into a smile—a genuine, warm-looking smile. Roux continues to glare, even as their shoulders tense up, their stomach twisting into knots. He looks almost friendly now, and the sheer unexpectedness of it makes it worse than any raging outburst. “I almost forgot to introduce myself,” he says, as if they were just having a casual conversation. “I’m Ambrose—Ambrose Lacrosse. What’s your name?”
That’s a pretentious fucking name, they think, and only their own instinct that something is very wrong here keeps them from saying it out loud. For hours, all they’ve been asked is what they came here for, and they thought the man they were robbing would want to know the same thing. Why does he want their name?
Still with that smile on his face, he steps forward, tracing his thumb across their knuckles. It’s so unexpected that they flinch, curling their hand into a fist, but that doesn’t deter him. “You look so delicate,” he murmurs, fascinated as he runs his thumb over the bony ridges on the back of their hand. Their skin crawls—both at the sensation and the feeling that he’s examining them like an insect pinned to a corkboard. His eyes dart to their face, his fingers grazing the crackly dried blood on their chin. They jerk their head away, and he lets his hand fall, unfazed. “Well, clearly you’re sturdier than you look,” he muses, going back to stroking their hand. “Regardless, I’d rather not have to break anything, so I suggest you answer my question.”
His tone is so casual, his touch so gentle, that it takes a moment for Roux to register it as a threat. Icy coldness creeps into their veins. “Why do you need my name?”
He shrugs as he continues to stroke their hand. “It’s only polite.”
They’re still glaring at him, trying not to let on that his touch is making their skin crawl. It almost feels worse than the beating they got earlier. Violence, they can handle—but what the hell is this? “I'm not polite,” they retort.
“I can see that.” He maintains his smile as he presses his hand into their curled fist, crushing their fingers against the arm of the chair. It’s not enough to hurt yet, but Roux can feel the small bones grating against each other. Ambrose lowers his voice, leaning in. “So don’t make me ask again, sweetheart.”
They feel a flare of anger at the casual pet name—like they know each other or something. Condescending ass. Like hell they’re giving him their name.
Suddenly, his fist slams down on top of theirs. They hiss, their hand uncurling. He pins it flat and grabs their pinky. Before they can react, he yanks it backwards.
Pain explodes in their hand, a choked scream escaping their throat. Their wrist jerks involuntarily against the restraint, but his hand is still wrapped around their broken pinky and the movement makes it worse. They fall still, panting through gritted teeth.
Still with that pleasant smile on his face, Ambrose leans in. “How about that name now?” he asks softly. They glare at him, opening their mouth to curse him out, but they stiffen as he caresses their ring finger. “Unless, of course, you want another broken bone? I’d rather not have to, but …”
They don’t want to give in, but the panic that seizes their chest makes their decision for them. “Roux!” they blurt out. “It’s … it’s Roux.”
He smiles, his hand dropping away. “Roux,” he murmurs, like he’s testing it out, like he’s just as fascinated by their name as he is by their small hands. Suddenly his eyes light up. “Ah! I get it.” He ruffles their red curls, tucking a loose coil behind their ear. They flinch away, their skin crawling—they hate it when strangers touch their hair. He says something in French, and seems disappointed when they stare at him blankly. He shakes his head and switches back to English. “That’s very on the nose; you must have chosen it yourself. It suits you.”
It’s their code name, although by now, it might as well be their real name. They haven’t been called anything else in years. They like it well enough, but they hate hearing it in his mouth. “Fuck off,” they snarl.
He tilts his head, like he finds their swears endearing. Maybe he does; they can’t make sense of him. “Are all redheads this feisty, or are you just unique?”
Their hand throbs with pain, and they want to slump down in exhaustion. The torture took a lot out of them, but not quite as much as talking to him has. Still, they muster the energy to continue glaring at him. “I bet not all redheads would rip out your throat with their teeth.”
His eyes light up. “I’d love to see you try,” he says, like he’s truly curious to see what they’d do if he set them loose. What a goddamn freak.
They lean forward. “Why don’t you let me out of this chair, then?”
For a moment, he looks like he’s considering it. Then he laughs, roughly patting them on the cheek. “Nice try.” He leans in, head tilted, fondness in his eyes. His thumb brushes the dried blood on their chin, and before they can flinch away, he grips their jaw. “You’re lucky you’re cute, sweetheart, otherwise I’d just have my men kill you,” he says softly. “As it is, I’m not quite sure what I want to do with you yet.”
Their blood runs cold, and they find themself unable to pull away. If he wanted them dead, they could handle that. They could spit in his face again, curse at him, or at least stall until their team shows up to rescue them. But this? Him wanting them alive feels far more dangerous than that.
Before they can think of a response, he releases them, straightening up. “Well, I’m sure I’ll figure something out,” he says casually. “I’ll let you rest in the meantime. Poor thing, you look exhausted.” He gives them a sympathetic look, and they genuinely can’t tell whether or not he’s mocking them. But then he’s gone, patting them on the head on his way out the door.
For a moment, they’re frozen, still processing the interaction. Slowly, they slump down in the chair, dread settling over them. They’ve got to get the hell out of here—before he figures out what to do with them.
