T H I E R R Y

The french accent normally wouldn’t have bothered Andrew in the slightest, except it happened to be accompanied by what was possibly the most well-known gang symbol in the world. He was no cop, but he knew enough to know who the man before him hailed from. After a couple balls sunk and then a miss, Andrew popped on of the stripes in before ricochetting the next ball off of the wall, his angle off. He glanced up at the man across from him. “20 pounds says I kick your ass.”

Thierry was perfectly content to just watch the plays unfold in silence, cutting his eyes over at Lucien from time to time. His eyes constantly jumped between the three exits in the bar and he was able to monitor all three from where he stood. He caught the eye of another Frenchman walking through the bar but kept his attention on the loan Russian nearby. This bar was technically neutral ground but that didn’t keep Thierry from being on edge.

At the man’s mention of a bet, Thierry laughed with a nasal exhale and turned his gaze back to his opponent. “20 pounds it is.” What the Brit didn’t know is that billiards originated in France and Thierry had learned how to play as a child. Though it was a rich man’s game in Paris and he was a bit out of practice. 

He learned forward, sunk two solids before hitting the eight ball dangerously close to the top left pocket. “Name’s Thierry. You got a name?” He stood back and look a healthy swig of his beer, no longer content to nurse it.

@vvndroux​

Delphi’s eyes scanned the cafe the minute the door was opened for her. This was deep French territory, a Russian or Rutherford wouldn’t dare show their face, but she hadn’t gotten where she was by an overabundance of trust. It’d taken only a few text messages to throw together someplace to meet with one of her oldest of friends. Her eyes locked on him quickly and a smile played over her lips. 

“Thierry,” she hugged him, rising up onto her toes in order to clasp her arms around those broad shoulders. “Finally a friendly face. I swear the Russkis have been multiplying while I was gone. Couldn’t even grab a little breakfast this morning without stepping on a few.”

She released him and took the seat across from her. “You get into anything fun while I was gone?”

There were only a few people in this world that Thierry worried about when they left his sight. The small blonde woman strutting through the cafe took the cake for him. Delphine was like a little sister to him - needing to be protected. Especially after that rat Oliver took off and sold himself to the Rutherfords. Thierry smiled as she approached and wrapped his arms around her in response. 

“I’ve always suspected inbreeding. Would explain some of their noses.” Thierry smirked as they took their seats and he settled back, tilting his head at her. “Of course. I met with Varden a few days ago. Always fun to meet the new boss. You heard from Laurent?”

‘Who’re you?’ Oof. Murdered.

Expectations were already very low – of course Thierry wouldn’t know who Gene was because, quite frankly, he just wasn’t important enough to the French Organization. He was no Laurent St. Pierre, no Maya Alliot. People usually knew him as ‘Emmie’s friend’ and even then, his name was never remembered. Such was the lot of drug dealers. But it was fine, it was good. No hard feelings. Anonymity meant that Gene could usually fuck around and mind his own business. Discreetly, of course.

But damn, that stung. Once Gene swallowed his sadness, he clarified, “I’m approaching thirty, I’ll have you know.” The cigarette was no longer interesting, and he dropped it to suffocate its flame expertly with the heel of his shoe. “Also, I’m Gene. We both work for the French?” As if that would help ring any bells. “Don’t worry about it, I quite appreciate my existence as a sewer rat.”

The response Thierry was looking for registered immediately. It didn’t necessarily make him laugh but a nasal exhale did transpire. He looked out over the park as Gene introduced himself and proudly stated their loyalties. As if Thierry had a choice being nailed as a Frenchman what with a fleur-de-lis tattooed on the side of his neck. Something about the way Gene responded made him smirk, though if it was from humor he wasn’t sure.

“The French are not sewer rats,” he amended, turning back to give the man a once over. “We leave that title to the Russians.” The smirk stayed evident on his face until he looked back out over the park. “Who do you work for?” There were plenty of crew leaders within the group, Thierry knew about most of them, even if just on a name basis. He also got into the organization at the dirt level and clawed his way up. Thierry very rarely put himself on a pedestal against others in the group, even the new ones.

So, here was the thing: when it came to the Underground fighters, Gene transformed into a monstrosity one could only appropriately describe as ‘stan’.

Just look at them, was his usual defense. And of course you’d look because holy shit, how could you not? The epitome of bodily fitness and controlled violence, they were a spectacle to behold whenever they stepped into Lara’s ring. Confident and hard to crack, they would fight until their knees buckled and their bodies collapsed from exhaustion and even then, defeat was never shameful (unless it was versus a Russian, Gene guessed). Envy definitely played a part in how Gene viewed them, but instead of resentment, he held nothing but awe for Thierry and his colleagues. He could never be what they were, and what they were capable of was nothing short of amazing. There was just something about being able to beat a man to death with your bare fists that was just so enthralling and appealing.

When Gene realized it was Thierry who sat next to him, he chocked on the next drag he took of his cigarette. Metaphorically coughing out your lungs was anything but sexy but hey, Gene was never sexy, so jokes on society. With his flat palm, he smacked his chest a few times, hoping it would do the trick. “Oh hi,” he squeezed out between another fits of coughs, and when they finally died down, followed up with a, “How’s it hangin’, Thierry?”

The sudden hacking from his left pulled Thierry from his thoughts and he cast a glance over at the man next to him. Vague familiarity was all Thierry could conjure up and when the man finally got his wits back and referred to him by name, Thierry’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Who’r you?” He’d picked up on the light French accent in the man’s voice but it wasn’t enough to register him yet. He looked down at the cigarette in his hand, “Are you even old enough to be smoking?” 

I have a younger sister named Ilya. She and my mom are why I am here. When we were younger.. closer.. we would spend the day picking dandelions. We’d go all over the city and pick the weeds that everyone else stepped on. We’d only bring home the “most prettiest” ones and whoever had the prettiest by Mom’s standards won that day. Then Ilya and I would wash the greens from the dandelions and help make a dandelion salad.

You don’t notice how poor you are when you’re a kid but it didn’t take away from some of my happiest memories. All it took was having them close to have a good time. She’s 18 now and I worry every day about the hell she’s going to raise. laughs

The pub was bustling, the crowded atmosphere allowing Andrew to breathe a bit easier. He supposed it was his training that made him feel more at home in a crowded area, in a place where he could easily blend in.  A bottle of beer, half drank, sat on the edge of the pool table, catching the light in the otherwise dimly lit room. He lined up his pool cue, about to break, when he heard the footsteps coming up the steps to the pool area behind him.  “Fancy a game?” Andrew called out, lining up the cue. With a swift moment, he let it come forward, the cue ball cracking into the others in a perfectly placed shot. “We can put some money on it, if that makes it more enticing.” 

Thierry is what was typically referred to as an introvert. Not that he minded large crowds or social settings, but he did like to unwind at the end of the day in the solace of his own apartment with three fingers of whiskey by his side. It was Lucien who had dragged him out tonight and then found a young lady to spend his time with. Now, Thierry hung back, nursing his second beer of the night and contemplating ordering a taxi home. He moved to the area that housed the pool tables because it was quieter than the rest of the bar and intended on phoning a driver when he heard a question to his left. 

Thierry paused, watched the balls settle, then shrugged. “Why not?” He answered, his voice heavy with a French accent and the fleur-de-lis on his neck proudly displaying his affiliations. He grabbed a stick off the wall and settled back. He watched one striped ball head straight for the top left pocket. “Solids, it is.” He moved around the table to line up a shot, bending at the waist to point the cue ball at an orange three and push. He hit the ball a bit harder than necessary but it sank into the pocket. Gazing around the table, he eyed a green six and approached that one with the same gusto but the ball barely grazed the corner and bounced off. Thierry settled back against the wall, taking a swig of his beer, anticipating the other’s next shot.

Spring was just around the corner. The weather started to warm up, flowers and trees were blossoming, and people were just generally in a happier mood. Despite the losses of the past few months, Gene felt the kidness of spring, too. Rather than fight it, he embraced it; sadness didn’t have to be a default state of being. He sat on a bench in Hyde Park, smoking serenely, when he turned to the person next to him and said, “Y’know, when Lady Gaga said, ‘Alejandro, Alejandro, Ale-Alejandro, Ale-Alejandro’? Yeah, I felt that.”

Spring was a welcome change for London and for Thierry. The winter had brought misery after misery and the promise of brighter, longer days did have a little more pep in his step. Well, his gait isn’t what you would call “peppy” but he did feel better. Or maybe it was just the runner’s high? He trodded through Hyde Park with headphones tucked into his ears blaring the latest Kaaris album. It was picturesque with blooming trees and pollen fighting to fill his already burdened lungs. As he rounded neared one of the many benches in the park, he slowed down to a canter before halting completely to catch his breath. There was a time when Laurent or Gabrielle might have joined him on his late-morning runs but that time had passed. He noticed a semi-familiar face on the bench next to him but didn’t acknowledge the man and instead turned to look out at the green space next to him, huffing out a breath.

I’m going to say no. He had a few flings before he joined up but none of them were serious. After he joined the French, he tries to stay out of romantic relationships. One, he believes them to be a potential weakness that could be exploited. Two, he doesn’t want to put anyone in danger or subject them to his lifestyle. He doesn’t have the time to dedicate.