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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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.

"I noticed," Enjolras supplies, very drily. HI COURFEYRAC.

The second question just gets a wry look, which is all the answer it deserves.

'Hullo, Jehan. Have you tried picking it?'

He pulls his other earbud out. This is Serious Business, and deserves his full attention.

'Shall I go and beg the bar for your freedom? She likes me, and this is clearly unreasonable.'

"Feel free. You might have better luck than I did."

Courfeyrac is charming, persuasive, extremely likeable, and not currently handcuffed to a scowling Javert. All potentially helpful traits!

'I will!'

He bounds off at once.

'Bar. Madame Bar, who takes care of all of us so well. You are looking particularly fine today, buffed to the most beautiful shine. Might I trouble you for a bottle of wine? Red, if you please, and a tray of glasses. Perhaps two bottles.'

If Courfeyrac were mean-spirited, he might actually be amused at this predicament. He is amused at some of the pairings he sees around the place! But he is not cruel, and of all the people to saddle Enjolras with, Javert is the worst.

'Now, perhaps a key to release my friend? The spy is a sour old thing, and they do have such vehement dislike of each other. Why, I have never seen two so far apart in ideas! Surely you must be concerned that one will harm the other?'

A napkin appears. They can't hurt each other, even if they try.

'Oh. Well, that is something, that the old man cannot attempt an injury on my friend. But we must consider the mental strain, surely? You must know Javert, he would try the patience of God Himself. Might something be done?'

A pink candy heart appears. It has ILU stamped on it. Courfeyrac picks it up, delighted, and eats it.

'Je t'aime, madame! But really, perhaps-'

Another napkin.

Someone in the bar has a key to all handcuffs. Good luck!

He could reproach her here, he really could. But he just smiles, gives her a rub of thanks, and returns to the small group.

'Someone has a key! She would not tell me who. I will go and search for you if you like. In the meantime, wine?'

Wine helps everything!

"I will have wine," Jehan says, gratefully, when his last bit of mekts away in his hand. "I was trying to pick the lock, yes, but as you see."

The situation calls for a drink. And then, perhaps, a song. A mournful one.

Enjolras demurs, with a small gesture. He'll probably accept in a little while, if (when) his friends are still around, whether or not he's still shackled to Javert. (He will be.) But for right now, he's not thirsty, and he's not the kind of person who responds to problems and frustrations with wine.

Anyway -- "A key?"

YES PLEASE.

He scans the room, but no one is helpfully displaying a key, or rummaging in their pockets, or going around freeing others just yet.

His friends are gathering and Jehan is singing a dirge. It may be for a funeral or for no reason at all; either way, Bahorel's game!

He strolls up, singing along with the chorus, and stops at the first line of the next verse when he sees the situation. "Hey! You've gone and fallen in a nice pile of stink. You've all tried to brush it off, no doubt?"

All of this is emphatically said to Enjolras. After that initial disgusted notice, Bahorel's turned his back to the spy.

Edited 2016-02-05 18:06 (UTC)

Javert looks surprised - and slightly suspicious - when Courfeyrac offers him a glass. But he takes it with a grudging nod, because he had been about to have lunch, and he is both hungry and thirsty.

'Oh, stop that noise,' he says to Jehan. 'You did not say why you know how to pick locks.'

Obviously yes, he would like to be freed but is not going to stand here and parrot Enjolras regarding the key. He examines the handcuffs more closely though - they are not any kind he recognises, and if bolt cutters did not work, it is safe to say a saw will not. Maybe there is something stronger in the forge.

'They do not look as though they would withstand fire. But if it is magic, I expect it is pointless.'

Needless to say, he ignores Bahorel in return. He especially does not like Bahorel.

Edited 2016-02-05 18:33 (UTC)

"Yes, unfortunately," Enjolras says to Bahorel.

Whatever, spy.

"Bar's word is to be patient, and that someone somewhere around Milliways has a key to all of these."

Which is more of a mercy than not having that assurance, but... ugh.

So very ugh. "I know we debate the nature of this place; this is almost enough to earn it the title of a hell. Denied free association and movement both! But stand strong! You are one of the bravest souls I have ever known, I am sure you can endure even this; and you will not face it alone, after all."

You don't leave your friends to face the law alone. Even if the Law has proven to be absurdly ignorant and temporarily harmless.

Bahorel thumps Enjolras on the shoulder in support, and leans back to study the dimensions of the situation better. "--And if all else fails, I might at least make you a portable wall to improve the view while you're being held without charges."

"You certainly won't face it alone," Jehan agrees, fervently. He wouldn't abandon an enemy to this fate, let alone a dear friend.

To Javert, reminding Jehan he didn't say why he knows how to pick locks, Jehan just says, "No. I did not."

He learned to pick locks so he could break into Bahorel's apartment to retrieve something while Bahorel slept, but let the spy amuse himself imagining other reasons.

Javert pulls in a long breath, blows his cheeks out and lets it out all at once. As well as being infuriating, these boys are tedious. Veiled insults and talk of friendship, two things Javert finds a waste of time. If you are going to insult someone, just do it to their face.

'Well, there is no point standing here,' he says, to the air in general.

'Might we at least sit?'

He needs to grab a rat to re-order lunch. ANd he is not goign to eat it standing up.

Bahorel's grandstanding -- serious truth phrased in the cadence of nonsense, over deep sincerity and support -- draw the first smile of this conversation out of Enjolras. It's faint and reluctant, but it's there.

"I'm sure we would both prefer that," he says of the offer of a temporary wall, "but it seems rather cumbersome at this point."

There's somebody with a key around. One hopes that this irritating farce won't last too very long.

And he has his friends. Dear and loyal and beloved; riches far beyond anything the spy has earned in his dishonorable life.

"Do as you like," he says to Javert, coolly. Beyond those words, his gaze and his attention are on his friends.

Excellent! He will do just that. But the rat he tries to catch the attention of does not appear to see him, so when the next one appears - a little further away - he automatically walks forward to catch its eye.

It would not be quite honest to say he had forgotten Enjolras was attached to him, and he does not care how this might inconvenience the boy. Being the one standing, he has the advantage, so if Enjolras gets pulled along a little...so be it.

Ngh -- Oh, for--

Enjolras sets his weight (which is less than Javert's, but which he knows very well how to use) and pulls back.

For God's sake. Really? Javert's going to be that petty?