Mon Legionnaire

An NCIS: Los Angles Fanfiction

Maxie Kay

I can see what you're thinking, as you walk past with your head in the air, pretending you don't see me. You know me, so don't pretend you don't. You know me because I'm the girl your mother warned you about and told you to stay away from. I'm the girl who hangs around in bars and stands on street corners; who smiles at strangers and takes them home with her. I'm the girl who's doing whatever she can to make enough money to get out of this crummy town, far away from the Black Sea, maybe leave Romania altogether. I'd been thinking about going to Germany, but then I met this man and I've never quite been able to forget him. So come on, buy me a coffee, pull up a chair and sit down and I'll you about the day these four Americans drove into town and why I'm still here, long after they left. Just the price of a cup of coffee, that's all I'm asking. I don't do that stuff anymore. Well, hardly ever. I'm saving up so I can go to America, and that's not cheap.

There are two things you need to know about this town: first, you don't mess with the Commescus. Second: if you do mess with the Commescus, you need to get out of this town and preferably get out of the country. It's safer that way. And there aren't exactly a whole lot of reasons to stay here, are there? Sure, the beach is pretty enough, but there's no jobs. Not unless you want to work for the Commescus, and you'd have to be pretty desperate to do that. It's kind of risky, working for them, if you know what I mean. So I don't work for them, not really. I just do what I have to do.

Some people call me a working girl, others aren't quite so nice. He called me 'honey' and he was polite, the way Americans are. So very clean and so very polite. You can always tell Americans. The French are rude, the British are snooty and the Germans think they rule the world. And don't even get me started on the Russians. But he was American and he treated me like I was a lady. That doesn't happen very often. And of course, he wasn't a legionnaire, I knew that. But when I saw him and his friends sneak into town, I knew they weren't just tourists. It was the wrong time of year for a start. And the wrong place. There's nothing for tourists here, not yet. But it was more than that: they looked like they were on some sort of mission, very possibly something illegal, or undercover. They looked like soldiers or mercenaries – same difference really. They both kill people. The trick is not to be one of the people they kill.

In my line of work you learn to read a situation pretty quickly. And I'm a good judge of people, especially men. I know when to say 'no' just by looking at the way a man stands. I looked at him and I knew I could trust him. He stood tall and straight, like he owned the world and didn't care who knew it. He looked like a legionnaire: tall and proud and completely self-assured.

So I was intrigued. I watched the four Americans, as they tried to be unobstrusive and moved around this town where nobody comes unless they have a damn good reason. They were the most interesting thing that had happened here in years, believe me. I don't count the Commescus – they aren't interesting: they're just evil. They hurt people because they can, it's as simple as that. They have power and they enjoying using that power.

I watched them all, but mostly I watched him. I couldn't take my eyes off him. They spent a long time on the beach, and they came into this café, probably to get warm because there was a cold wind blowing that day. They were all wearing black leather jackets and it seemed to bring out the blue of his eyes and that drew me to him. It drew me to him like a magnet. There was just something about him, something about his eyes, those big, bright eyes, that made me imagine I could see the storm clouds blowing across them. I was probably staring. And that's when the radio started to play that song, 'Mon Legionnaire' and I thought "so that's who you are."

Don't look at me like that. You know the song – of course you do. Everybody knows that song. Some people prefer the Serge Gainsbourg version, but for me it has to be Piaf. Listen to it and hear the emotion. She didn't sing from the heart – she sang with her heart. And it doesn't matter that she died years before I was born, because I kind of identify with her. She was just like me- just another girl trying to make a life for herself. I should have listened more carefully to the words though, I really should have listened. Maybe if I'd listened, then things might have different. Maybe I could be living La Vie en Rose instead of sitting here in this dead-end town talking to a complete stranger.

I never understood him, but then I never had a chance to know anything about him, apart from the fact that he and his friends were here to take out the Commescus. Why else would they have come here? I didn't even know his name. The only things I knew were that he was tall and he had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. Oh, and that he was American. I've had this thing for Americans ever since. I only had one night with him, but he loved me all night. Mon legionnaire… mon legionnaire Americain.

I knew they were talking about me, but I sat in this very seat and I drank my coffee and pretended I didn't notice the way they had their heads together and kept their voices low. I knew exactly what was going to happen next. I just didn't know which of the men would come over to my table. But I was hoping. A girl can always hope, can't she? No matter how old we get, no matter what life throws at us, we keep on hoping. Sometimes that's the only thing that keeps you going.

This time though, I was wrong, because the men just sat there and the woman came over. She was tall and slim and she had the most unusual eyes I've ever seen. She also had a gun tucked into the back of her jeans, which pretty much settled it for me: they were definitely here on some covert activity. I'm not exactly stupid, you know. She sat down and looked at me intently and I smiled at her and wondered what sort kinky game we were about to get involved in. I was mentally working out a price and wondering how much I could charge, when she put her hand on top of mine and started to speak.