pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

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Enjolras is at a table with a book and a plate. (It contains some crumbs that used to be a chicken sandwich, a mostly untouched small cake of the sort that Bar persists in giving him unrequested, and -- inexplicably -- a small candy heart with the incomprehensible word LOL stamped on it in pink. Enjolras has no particular desire for candy, especially of a self-evidently joking sort, and thus has ignored it.)

More importantly, he has a book about the history of Ysalwen's Thedas, which he's reading thoughtfully.

The bar is bustling, as often. A few of his friends are about; the spy is across the room, monitored but outwardly ignored. Enjolras has no intention of speaking to him without cause, if he's given a choice in the matter.

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Of course he is not given a choice in the matter! Javert is in a good mood today, which means it is a perfect time to go and talk to the boy. Well. Talk. More, annoy. And he has cake, which is more than enough reason to go and investigate whether the bar is up to its usual shenanigans.

He is distracted for half a second by the appearance of a pink heart-shaped thing, but it looks to be entirely made of sugar, so he leaves it behind. He simply picks up his bread and cheese, and walks in Enjolras's direction. He is mainly headed to his usual booth, but a brief stop is no trouble. Really!

'Did the bar give you that without prompting?'

Aaaaaaaaaaand there we go.

Enjolras lifts his head to give Javert a faintly irritated look, and doesn't bother to answer.

'I will need to speak to her again.'

He has no idea why she keeps doing this. It is very annoying. But if the boy is not going to be helpful - as usual - he is not going to stand here and speak into silence. The look of irritation is enough.

He raises an eyebrow at him, and goes to pass on. And then...he cannot. His plate jerks in his hand, there is a rattle, and his lunch falls to the floor.

He is wearing handcuffs. No. They are wearing handcuffs.

'...what have you done that for?'

Enjolras has jerked his arm back too, and there's a rattle and a thud as he drops his book on the table and spins in his seat, towards the sharp tug on his arm And metal digging into his left wrist, through coat and shirtsleeve -- there's a handcuff there, a light and gleaming futuristic manacle, where there was nothing there a moment ago.

"I?"

No, that's genuine bewilderment and affront on the spy's face. And, as spies go, he's proved marvelously bad at deceit.

Besides, he didn't reach towards Enjolras's arm at all. Enjolras would have noticed that.

"I did nothing. What--?"

He scans the bar. There are a few others, crying out in annoyance or confusion, tugging at manacled wrists.

Javert has had the same thought. He would not put it past the boy to attempt some assault, but it is quite obviously happening to other people.

'...oh, Lord in Heaven.'

Please, no.

'If this is her idea of a joke, it is not funny.'

TO PUT IT MILDLY.

Icily, "I agree entirely."

Ugh. Seriously? Of all people, the spy?

And of course the manacle has a keyhole, which of course has no key in it. A little more tugging proves that the fit is as tight as it seemed. This is not going to slip off over his hand, or pop easily open.

Enjolras rises in a decisive, annoyed motion. With his free hand he collects his book.

Come on, Javert, we're going to go argue with a piece of sentient furniture.

He grits his teeth as Enjolras tugs, and bites back the remark that his arm is attached, thank you very much.

He does not bother trying to slide his hand out of the manacle. For one thing, he has very large hands. For another, he knows how handcuffs work.

'Ask politely,' he says, his face mutinous.

'She will not give it up otherwise.'

In this case, he is fully prepared to let Enjolras do the talking.

Enjolras has no intention of taking lessons in diplomacy from Javert. For some mysterious reason!

(He wouldn't expect that handcuffs, even these jointed future ones, would slip right off. But with magical ones bestowed as a dubious joke from Bar, who knows?)

"Madame Bar," he says, when they're near. He's mostly throttling down his irritation, but he can't help but sound tiredly unamused.

"If you please, how do we rid ourselves of these?"

Edited 2016-02-04 20:19 (UTC)

Javert waits with mounting impatience. When there is no response from Bar, he clicks his tongue, and says, 'answer him, please. This is not a joke.'

He literally cannot countenance being attached to this boy for any other reason than escorting him to jail.

There is still no response from Bar. He waits another moment, then glares at Enjolras.

'Well? Ask again!'

Enjolras lifts his brows at Javert: really? You're going to order him around, now, and expect anything productive of it?

"Madame," he says again, after a moment to prove his point. The subtext is clear: you see why I would like to be free of this immediately, please and thank you.

The note that appears is in bright orange text that Enjolras finds rather unwarrantedly chipper. Be patient! it reads, exasperatingly.

Javert needs no subtext.

'Madame, you must release me. This is unreasonable! Rather anyone else but him.'

Annnnnnd...

...Bar ignores him. As she usually tends to do. Javert throws up his hands - both of them - and turns to face Enjolras.

'And now then?'

Jehan, interrupted mid sonnet by the commotion, looks around confusedly.

Handcuffs. Magically appearing handcuffs. And, judging by the swearing and exclamations, no keys to unlock them. And...is that Enjolras? And the spy?

Muttering a curse himself, Jehan hurries up to the bar, and murmurs a few words. Then he slips through the other patrons over to Enjolras.

"I don't know if this is Bar's work or someone else's," he says, without preamble or greeting. "But--" He raises the bolt cutter he just obtained from Bar. "I doubt this will work, but we may as well try?"

Jehan says nothing to the spy, because why bother?

"Please," says Enjolras to him, just as exasperated but much more friendly, and extends his wrist. Handily raised from Javert yanking his arm up -- that's attached, Javert, thank you.

He doesn't expect Javert to have any objection -- perhaps he'd object on principle to being helped by a revolutionary, if it didn't mean freeing him from unwelcome bondage to another revolutionary -- but he, too, is ignoring the spy anyway.

Edited 2016-02-04 21:36 (UTC)

He sets his jaw - he does not want to speak to Jehan anyway - and wordlessly keeps his arm steady so the bolt cutters can do their job.

Please, God, let them do their job.

Jehan doesn't wait for Javert's consent, on the principle that, while the spy is free to embrace his own chains, he may not impose them on others. (Really, it's verging on the poetic. Is this the work of a sorceror-poet?)

He opens the bolt cutter and clamps it round the chain between the cuffs.

No good. The cuffs are as firmly linked as ever.

Jehan gives Enjolras a sympathetic look. "How dismal." He considers using the watch to contact the others, but the spy is right there, and Jehan doesn't know if Javert knows about the watches.

Enjolras grimaces slightly.

Dismal is a good word for it, and also an endearingly Prouvaireish word to choose.

"Do you know what's going on with this?"

Like, say, how temporary it is? That would be nice to know.

He glances from one to the other, and then off in the opposite direction. Dismal is exactly the word for it.

'Why would he know? Look at him.'

He thought bolt cutters would work against a magically inflicted bond. Idiot.

'I have work to do today. I cannot stand here while you chatter about nothing. Think of something constructive, or go away.'

This last to Prouvaire.

Enjolras's brows snap together.

Prouvaire does not, in any way, need Enjolras or anyone else to defend him, no matter whether the spy means his race or his clothes or something else, but--

"If that's your skill at assessment," he says with cool disdain, "it's entirely in keeping with the rest of the judgment you've displayed. Pitiable all the same."

He looks back to Prouvaire, dismissing Javert from his attention.

"I'll try to pick the lock," says Jehan, who has learned that skill, "and if that fails I can look for a magic user. But I doubt that'll work, either. It's very likely similar to the body changing spell, and must end on its own terms. Let me see the lock?"

Till then, though, he's happy to chatter about nothing! "Did Javert do something to anger Bar?" The question is directed at Enjolras, naturally.

"Entirely possible, but if so I don't know the details."

Surely you're not going to deny that possibility, are you, Javert? After snapping commands about common courtesy like a particularly ineffectual schoolmaster, to a grown adult much better at common courtesy than you?

"Be patient, that was all she said."

"Hmm. Well. That does tell us there will be a solution in time. Mme Bar may be trusted so far as that. But until then--" Jehan throws Javert a look of disgust.

They are very rude, speaking as though he is not there. But it does not bother him; it is not as though the police do not have worse said about them, and to their faces.

And he returns the look of disgust in kind. He has no objections to Prouvaire's race, more that he is a stupid young thing that dresses outlandishly. Also, he does not seem to be adept at picking locks.

'Where did you learn this?' he asks, in what is almost a conversational tone. 'And for what purpose?'

Why would anyone honest need to know it? And to Enjolras, he adds, 'it is not I that needs pity. Nor lessons in manners.'

This last is true. Javert is perfectly aware of what constitutes good manners, he simply chooses who is worth exercising them on.

Rudeness to Javert, when he's been so polite to them! Jehan continues this regrettable rudeness by answering, "I learned it from Saint Baldomerus, of course." Patron saint of locks and their smiths!

Every tool he uses to pick the lock melts away in his hand. It's no good.

Ugh. Milliways, why.

Enjolras is not so much resigned as simply self-controlled about his annoyance, right now. But there's nothing to be accomplished by expressing impatience, and so he doesn't.

It becomes clear very quickly that lock-picking is not going to yield much result, regardless of the lock-picker's skill, but he's willing to let Prouvaire work for as long as he wants to optimistically try.

If only Javert were an ignore him and he'll go away sort at any point, ever, let alone when physically chained to a person. It's not the symbol Enjolras would have chosen to make literal, on the whole.

Courfeyrac arrives in the bar to find dinner and, hopefully, some friends to enjoy it with. Spotting Enjolras's hair from across the room - sorry Enjolras, the lights are bright here! Admirably useful for glinting off your mane - he comes across with a grin on his face, dressed in jeans and a shirt, one earbud in place while another dangles.

'Hullo! People are being handcuffed together, did you...oh.'

Oh.

He stares at Javert. He hasn't seen him since the barricade, and this is almost as unwelcome.

'Goodness, Enjolras. Whatever have you done to deserve this?'

How dreadful.