Clint Zéphyr Chevalier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
privateinvestigations) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2017-01-16 10:00 pm
privateinvestigations) wrote in muserevival2017-01-16 10:00 pm
quote of the day - 006
"There are no secrets that time does not reveal."
- Jean Racine
If there was one thing Clint disliked in this world, it was situations that forced him to overthink how he was feeling. Usually he was just an act first, deal with the consequences later kind of dude. That got him into trouble plenty of times in his life, but Clint got off on trouble. That was no secret. It was why he had chucked in being a cop. He liked the thrill of flirting with danger, but didn't like being bound by the rules. Instead, he used what he learned to open his own Private Investigations business. It became lucrative because there was little (or anything) he wouldn't do in the name of solving a case. Did he take the law into his own hands? Fuck yes, he did. He wouldn't stop either.
Still, his professional life was the easy bit. It was his bread and butter and what he did like water off a duck's back. Personal, however, was another story. Generally, his personal life involved fucking a lot, doing shit he probably shouldn't but not giving a fuck about it, and protecting the people he loved. Much more recently, he had to face his demons head-on when his husband was stabbed on the catwalk of a fashion show with an attempt to murder him. Right in front of Clint, who had been sitting in the audience.
It was an act of revenge, for an extremely complicated case Clint got in too deep in. He didn't regret it either. It had been a case involved child sexual assault, and if there was one thing Clint absolutely abhorred more than anything else in this world was harm to children, especially of that calibre. Not far behind that was domestic violence perps and rapists. This particular cunt had chalked up two of those notches, so Clint framed him for rape so the cops had evidence to take him down. It came back to bite him in the ass, and nearly got the love of his life murdered. It was a fucking terrible lesson to learn. Not a lesson not to take the law into his own hands, but the lesson to make sure when he did it next time, he did a full job of it and they didn't find the body.
That was by the by at the moment. It all came out in the wash. The cunt, and his murderous lover, we locked away with life and from what Clint heard, being a biker gang's head honcho's bitch a few times a day. That was good enough for Clint. He wanted to take it further, kill anyone linked to the guy in vengeance, but it took some wise words from a pain in the ass Irishman to set him straight. The aftermath was more important than vengeance, and that was Clint caring for his husband through his recuperate from the injuries that nearly claimed his life.
Fuck, had life changed this then. Demons were faced, doubts were battled every single fucking day. Mostly, Clint feared losing Lincoln on more than one occasion. He hadn't the whole concept of miracles, but it was definitely a freak success of scientific medical intervention.
It had a knock-on effect of a series of shit to hit their family that acted as wake-up calls for all of them. Even right up until these last few weeks, Clint found himself in that shitty spot he hated to hang out too long: soul-searching, fucking questioning shit he always told himself not to.
It was the middle of the night in New York. Clint couldn't sleep, but insomnia wasn't a stranger to him. He was sitting out on the balcony in his trench coat and Lincoln's Minion slippers Ainsley had gotten him as a Christmas present. On the table sat an ashtray, a bottle of Scotch, his pack of Marlboro and Zippo lighter.
And three photographs lined up across the glass top of the table.
Clint took a long drag on the cigarette and then tapped it on the rim of the ashtray, watching the spent ash drop into it. He picked up the bottle and took a swig of it before he put it back down heavily to pluck one of the photos up between his fingers.
The photo was about twenty years old, scabby-looking now, and ratty around the edges. One corner was completely torn off. There were two grimy kids in the photo, both dark hair that was almost black, and both with big blue eyes. Same height, give or take an inch or so. They had been messing around at the edge of the Bayous, trying to catch tadpoles or some shit. They had been told many times to steer clear of the Bayous. No threats of being eaten by alligators turned them off.
The next photo, they were both sat at a kitchen table with an elderly woman who looked like she should be regal. She looked like Scarlett O'Hara, aged and a grandmother, and spoke just like her too. They had the same eyes as her, and once upon a time, the same colour hair. Spread out in front of them, Key Lime Pie, Peach Cobbler, and Tarte à la Bouillie with a generous bowls of cream and ice cream. She cooked as well as she grandma'ed. Which was pretty awesome, to say the least.
Clint stubbed the cigarette out and lit up a second. The last photograph was the two boys sitting on a porch, one with the arm around the other, who was in tears. Still grimy, pretty much in matching ragged and torn overalls, dirty feet, and sunburned faces. He didn't know who the photographer was of each. These were snapshots of another lifetime past.
"Fuck," he muttered to himself, exhaling a sharp stream of smoke and resting his head back against the chair he was slumped down in. He looked up at sky. It was a clear night, therefore cold as fuck. Clint preferred a hotter climate, but New York was his home now. He was yearning for sun, and sand, and fucking on a beach somewhere. That would be better than trying to figure this emotional shit out.
He indulged into another chug from the bottle and whilst he still had the smoke nested between two fingers, he used the spares on that hand to pile the three photos on top of each other. From the pocket of his coat, he took his cell phone and another piece of folded and worn paper. His birth certificate. It listed the father as 'Unknown'. Beneath it, there was another fresh piece of paper, newly printed, crisp and not too long ago hot off the press. Days old even.
He unfolded that and smoothed it out so they were both side by side. They should be identical, save for the date of issue. They were far from identical. Child's name was the same, but the dates of birth and mother's names differed. Clint didn't easily get emotional, but out here, alone, tired, in the middle of the night and half-cut on Scotch, he was getting a lump in his throat as he finally confronted these documents side by side.
Soon, he roughly swept his hand across the table and shoved them both onto the floor of balcony. It wasn't uncommon for anger in Clint to mask any other sort of emotion he had to try to think about. Anger was easier. He could control anger, generally. Save for when someone tried to murder his lover and he got trashed, and took a gun to take the cunt who did it out. Nearly shot Euan in the head as a process. Not his finest moment.
He didn't let it linger here. Scrolling the contacts on his phone, he found who he was looking for and hit the call button. Considering the time of night, he expected it to go to voicemail. Still, he hesitated for a moment before he left a message.
"Hey, love. It's Clint. Listen, I need to call in a favour. I realise you're married and I can't offer my cock as fucking payment, but I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important." He paused, eyes falling to the photograph of the with the crying boy. "I need a DNA test. Fucking ASAP."
clint chevalier
original character
- Jean Racine
If there was one thing Clint disliked in this world, it was situations that forced him to overthink how he was feeling. Usually he was just an act first, deal with the consequences later kind of dude. That got him into trouble plenty of times in his life, but Clint got off on trouble. That was no secret. It was why he had chucked in being a cop. He liked the thrill of flirting with danger, but didn't like being bound by the rules. Instead, he used what he learned to open his own Private Investigations business. It became lucrative because there was little (or anything) he wouldn't do in the name of solving a case. Did he take the law into his own hands? Fuck yes, he did. He wouldn't stop either.
Still, his professional life was the easy bit. It was his bread and butter and what he did like water off a duck's back. Personal, however, was another story. Generally, his personal life involved fucking a lot, doing shit he probably shouldn't but not giving a fuck about it, and protecting the people he loved. Much more recently, he had to face his demons head-on when his husband was stabbed on the catwalk of a fashion show with an attempt to murder him. Right in front of Clint, who had been sitting in the audience.
It was an act of revenge, for an extremely complicated case Clint got in too deep in. He didn't regret it either. It had been a case involved child sexual assault, and if there was one thing Clint absolutely abhorred more than anything else in this world was harm to children, especially of that calibre. Not far behind that was domestic violence perps and rapists. This particular cunt had chalked up two of those notches, so Clint framed him for rape so the cops had evidence to take him down. It came back to bite him in the ass, and nearly got the love of his life murdered. It was a fucking terrible lesson to learn. Not a lesson not to take the law into his own hands, but the lesson to make sure when he did it next time, he did a full job of it and they didn't find the body.
That was by the by at the moment. It all came out in the wash. The cunt, and his murderous lover, we locked away with life and from what Clint heard, being a biker gang's head honcho's bitch a few times a day. That was good enough for Clint. He wanted to take it further, kill anyone linked to the guy in vengeance, but it took some wise words from a pain in the ass Irishman to set him straight. The aftermath was more important than vengeance, and that was Clint caring for his husband through his recuperate from the injuries that nearly claimed his life.
Fuck, had life changed this then. Demons were faced, doubts were battled every single fucking day. Mostly, Clint feared losing Lincoln on more than one occasion. He hadn't the whole concept of miracles, but it was definitely a freak success of scientific medical intervention.
It had a knock-on effect of a series of shit to hit their family that acted as wake-up calls for all of them. Even right up until these last few weeks, Clint found himself in that shitty spot he hated to hang out too long: soul-searching, fucking questioning shit he always told himself not to.
It was the middle of the night in New York. Clint couldn't sleep, but insomnia wasn't a stranger to him. He was sitting out on the balcony in his trench coat and Lincoln's Minion slippers Ainsley had gotten him as a Christmas present. On the table sat an ashtray, a bottle of Scotch, his pack of Marlboro and Zippo lighter.
And three photographs lined up across the glass top of the table.
Clint took a long drag on the cigarette and then tapped it on the rim of the ashtray, watching the spent ash drop into it. He picked up the bottle and took a swig of it before he put it back down heavily to pluck one of the photos up between his fingers.
The photo was about twenty years old, scabby-looking now, and ratty around the edges. One corner was completely torn off. There were two grimy kids in the photo, both dark hair that was almost black, and both with big blue eyes. Same height, give or take an inch or so. They had been messing around at the edge of the Bayous, trying to catch tadpoles or some shit. They had been told many times to steer clear of the Bayous. No threats of being eaten by alligators turned them off.
The next photo, they were both sat at a kitchen table with an elderly woman who looked like she should be regal. She looked like Scarlett O'Hara, aged and a grandmother, and spoke just like her too. They had the same eyes as her, and once upon a time, the same colour hair. Spread out in front of them, Key Lime Pie, Peach Cobbler, and Tarte à la Bouillie with a generous bowls of cream and ice cream. She cooked as well as she grandma'ed. Which was pretty awesome, to say the least.
Clint stubbed the cigarette out and lit up a second. The last photograph was the two boys sitting on a porch, one with the arm around the other, who was in tears. Still grimy, pretty much in matching ragged and torn overalls, dirty feet, and sunburned faces. He didn't know who the photographer was of each. These were snapshots of another lifetime past.
"Fuck," he muttered to himself, exhaling a sharp stream of smoke and resting his head back against the chair he was slumped down in. He looked up at sky. It was a clear night, therefore cold as fuck. Clint preferred a hotter climate, but New York was his home now. He was yearning for sun, and sand, and fucking on a beach somewhere. That would be better than trying to figure this emotional shit out.
He indulged into another chug from the bottle and whilst he still had the smoke nested between two fingers, he used the spares on that hand to pile the three photos on top of each other. From the pocket of his coat, he took his cell phone and another piece of folded and worn paper. His birth certificate. It listed the father as 'Unknown'. Beneath it, there was another fresh piece of paper, newly printed, crisp and not too long ago hot off the press. Days old even.
He unfolded that and smoothed it out so they were both side by side. They should be identical, save for the date of issue. They were far from identical. Child's name was the same, but the dates of birth and mother's names differed. Clint didn't easily get emotional, but out here, alone, tired, in the middle of the night and half-cut on Scotch, he was getting a lump in his throat as he finally confronted these documents side by side.
Soon, he roughly swept his hand across the table and shoved them both onto the floor of balcony. It wasn't uncommon for anger in Clint to mask any other sort of emotion he had to try to think about. Anger was easier. He could control anger, generally. Save for when someone tried to murder his lover and he got trashed, and took a gun to take the cunt who did it out. Nearly shot Euan in the head as a process. Not his finest moment.
He didn't let it linger here. Scrolling the contacts on his phone, he found who he was looking for and hit the call button. Considering the time of night, he expected it to go to voicemail. Still, he hesitated for a moment before he left a message.
"Hey, love. It's Clint. Listen, I need to call in a favour. I realise you're married and I can't offer my cock as fucking payment, but I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important." He paused, eyes falling to the photograph of the with the crying boy. "I need a DNA test. Fucking ASAP."
original character