[[Closed || +ReluctantTelepath]]
The room had seemed almost untouched to the thief as he started to make his way to the desk, making note of the thin layer of dust that seemed to cover all surfaces. It didn’t appear as though the house was completely unoccupied though, perhaps forgotten about? Plenty of these rich types had houses to spare where they only spent a few weeks out of the year visiting. This might be Remy’s lucky day if that was the case.
It might even be perfect for him to set himself up for a few months, or at least until the owners returned… But there was no good in getting ahead of himself before doing a thorough investigation of the property. Running a gloved finger across the surface of the desk as he passed, the Cajun tutted slightly at the dust, shaking his head.
"Ain’t no love for de place…" He muttered, turning his attention to the drawers that lined the desk itself. Papers seemed crammed into any nook and cranny inside the desk, no rhyme nor reason to their placement in this makeshift filing system, if it could be called that.
The door opening gave the thief pause, dark eyes flicking up to see the figure standing in squinting towards him. The stranger looked as tired and unkempt as the room that they were both currently standing in, his clothes ill fitted and hanging off him and his fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle.
So perhaps it wasn’t as lucky a day as Remy had first thought… But if this man was nearly as inebriated as the almost empty bottle in his hand suggested then that gave the Thief an edge at least. Straightening himself from his search of the drawers, the Cajun moved out from behind the desk, leaning against the side of it instead and giving himself a more even option between fight or flight, if it came to either.
”Bonsoir, m’siuer…" His tone had an ease to it as one would expect when meeting a friend on familiar terms, rather than a thief caught red handed. Charm was a natural thing to the Cajun, his ability as an empath helping in more than one situation in the past, what chance would a drunk stand against it? "Ah jus’ came to help out wit’ de clean up, yer friend in N’York gave me a card an’ told me t’pop by…”
In his addled state, Charles' eyes betrayed him as they flicked possessively around the room – to the painting over the mantlepiece, behind which housed one of the numerous safes within the mansion, then to the liquor cabinet – before coming back to rest on the intruder. Had this encounter occurred a few years previously, the stranger may have found himself in much deeper trouble. Charles would have detected his presence even before he stepped onto the property, and would have had his identity, his past, and his motivations sussed out far prior to his making his way up the ivy to the nearest window. Now, however, the professor's head was heavy; the warmth of the alcohol and the blur of the serum turning his mind to cotton wool. It was a bizzare sensation, but one that was infinitely preferable over the enslaught of noise in his head, or the sleepless nights that had in turn begun to accompany the voices.
“Make a habit of using the back door, do you?” Charles slurred in response, nodding to the open window behind the intruder, “I neither ordered a damn clean-up operation, nor do I have friends in New York.” Whatever force the genetics expert tried to put behind his words was somewhat undermined as he swayed a little on the spot, having to throw a hand out to the doorframe to steady himself. Shaking his head in an attempt to focus his hazy mind, he eyed the stranger with suspicion and growing anger. “You've got five seconds to get the bloody hell back out the way you came and off my property before I call my security-... “ A pause. “I mean, my associate, to reinstate said security. I can assure you, you'll be the one requiring a clean up once he's finished with you...”
