Why neither of them were gagged escaped Montparnasse. Maybe someone hoped they would scream for help and get off on it. He just knew he was not enjoying this situation in the least. His voice was hoarse as he asked the question, but not from calling for help. He had been dragged out at some point, sprayed down with icy water until he was soaked, and then jabbed repeatedly with a cattle prod. He could not remember what questions he had or had not been asked. He had lost consciousness at some point and an unknown amount of time being tortured refused to coalesce into memory. Probably for the best.
He did not exactly remember being brought back to this room, either. Just…being there again.
Nor did he have a clear idea in his head for the direction he planned for this conversation to go. He just could not bear the silence any longer. “Just say you woke up in another life, and you couldn’t pick this one. What would you want it to be?”
Montparnasse’s voice, thin and raw, tore through his defenses and made his body go slack. He’s not your enemy, Claquesous had to remind himself. Although that could be remedied. Perhaps today. This would be better with an enemy. Someone whose pain was music to your ears. Someone whose doom gave you a reason to live.
Claquesous swallowed the lump in his throat. It was a silly question. Nonsensical and childish. And it irked him that he could answer it without thinking.
“If you... if you laugh at me...” He didn’t finish the sentence, too tired to make threats. Instead, he leaned back as far as he could, relaxing into the rope around his wrists, all of a sudden grateful for it. The blindfolds, too. Grateful he didn’t have to figure out what to do with his hands, grateful he didn’t have to see or be seen. Too bad their kidnappers hadn’t finished the job and gagged them, too.
“Did you know shepherds are still a thing?” This question could have been prevented with a nice gag. “And I don’t mean sheep farmers,” Claquesous continued, gagless. “Actual modern day shepherds. In another life, that’s what I’d be doing. Fucking... herding sheep and avoiding people and fighting off bears in the fucking Pyrénées.”
A raspy laugh escaped his throat to spite his own idle threat. “Either that or I’d pick up gardening. Or skip the metaphors altogether and become a rabbi. Doesn’t matter, as long as I wouldn’t be in Paris.” A huff. “Alright. Your turn.”
