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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"We go where you go, until you're free," Combeferre says, to Enjolras. "I hear the magic theoretically prevents him from harming you, but we needn't give him the chance to put that to the test."

He looks over Prouvaire's shoulder at the drawing. "I agree with Courfeyrac, though I think robot is too life-like. It's more like a statue, perhaps a monument or tombstone."

Edited 2016-02-10 21:35 (UTC)

He sighs, and rolls his eyes.

'You believe I would harm him?'

How ignorant these children are.

"Believe? No, but I also don't believe you wouldn't."

The distinction is unnecessarily complex, and Javert dismisses it with a wave of his free hand.

'You are very ignorant. You understand nothing. Violence would be pointless.'

And not just because it sounds like it would cause no actual damage.

It nearly always is, and yet that did not stop Javert where Mlle Fantine was concerned. Combeferre would say this, but he is not, in fact, interested in prolonging the conversation with Javert, let alone informing him of the book. Instead, he turns to the others and says, "If we don't discover the key soon, we will need to make arrangements for sleep."

Edited 2016-02-10 22:15 (UTC)

And across the room Feuilly collects a cup of coffee. Which is a juggling act, since he has a bundle of papers and notebooks under one arm, but he's got a lot of practice.

(And there's a little...valentine candy? On a saucer? Well, that's nice, but not really what Feuilly asked for. Harry has a sweet tooth, maybe he should save it for him? Wait, noooo no no noooo, it says LOVER BOY. That's a little--um--hm. He leaves it tidily on the bar, sitting on a napkin, for someone who might like it.)

He spots the crowd and makes his way over, hastily slurping too-hot coffee to free up his hands as quickly as possible. "Hullo, everyone--Enjolras, hullo--Prouvaire--what's going on? --Ehhh, wait, M. Javert...?"

There's a light pressure on his hand, the one holding all his work. He gives it an annoyed tug--knock it off, Bahorel, you'll make him drop everything--and gets more than he expected.

Bahorel feels a sudden tug on his arm, and tugs back, because that's what a person does when someone grabs at them. Anyway it's what he does.

No, seriously Bahorel, knock it off, he's going to--see? now his stuff is on the floor!

Javert might enjoy the look of aggravation that Feuilly shoots at Bahorel. It's followed immediately by surprise, panic, and suspicious aggravation, as Feuilly realizes what's happened. "I--"

Oh no! Now his stuff is on the floor! And he is attached to Bahorel.

Javert laughs. It is not a thing that happens very often, but he cannot help it. Have fun with that, you two.

Bahorel's memory catches up with his reflexes a hair too late. He grimaces as Feuilly's papers hit the floor." --Damnation. Sorry, Feuilly."

They should probably pick stuff up, but...Bahorel holds up a cuffed hand. That's going to take coordination and not being twitchy at each other. "It's the plague of the day. No invention of mine!" He nods, in disgust, to the cuffs linking Enjolras and the spy.

...And ugh. Of course the spy laughs at Feuilly losing his papers. It would be a cheap bully's trick, if it weren't an accident, not funny at all, so of course.

Feuilly doesn't actually mind the laughter all that much. Of course it's rude and annoying, but not surprisingly so. People laugh when you drop things. But damn it, he has to pick his things up--thank God he didn't have the laptop--which means setting down his coffee, and wriggling around so he can crouch down without pulling Bahorel with him--

"--What's the plan? Um--sorry--I'm sure you were talking about it before I--" You know. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

Bahorel crouches down with him, though he won't try to pick up the papers; there's probably some sort of order there. "Our newest company was just telling us how all this interferes with his virtuous work." Woe. Alas.

"And we were all trying to decide how to handle, er. Living arrangements. For however long this lasts." Joly waves his own cuffed hand slightly, fingers half-linked with Bossuet's, shoulder-high so Feuilly can see.

...Yeah, he's emphatically not complaining about his own situation, here.

Javert looks briefly horrified at the word living - this had damn well better wear off before too much more life passes - and picks his pencil up again.

'There are no arrangements to be made. I am going to tend to my horses. The rest of you can do as you please.'

Though preferably far away from him.

Combeferre idly wonders if Javert proposes to cut off his own hand to get away from them all.

Without voicing his thought, he turns to the others. "I'd propose retiring to mine and Enjolras's room, but more space may be more comfortable, given the size of our gathering."

Edited 2016-02-12 03:41 (UTC)

Is he really going to have to endure all of them, all evening? All night? Dear God.

'You are not coming near my room,' he mutters, not expecting anyone to listen.

And even if they were inclined, they would not all fit. The place is barely big enough for him.

Javert is not the only one imperfectly stifling an appalled look at the words living arrangements.

Well. Until they can get this solved, it is what it is.

And at least he can console himself with the company of dear friends -- even if this stupid magical prank is handcuffing some of them to each other, in a bad joke on the free association of individuals who love and respect each other. (Also, their company clearly annoys Javert deeply. Another silver lining, if a petty one. Petty enough, in fact, that he tries to set the thought aside.)

"Much as I hope this will be fixed soon," he agrees, "it's probably wise at this point to make contingency plans in case it continues."

Many of the magical pranks of Milliways seem to last a day or two. This one might as well, though he devoutly hopes otherwise.

Once again: ugh.

Courfeyrac reappears at this point, empty-handed and woebegone about it.

'I have asked everyone in the place. If there's a key, no one knows they have it.'

There is no bartender in sight, otherwise he would have asked them of course. As it is, he helps himself to more wine and regards the spy skeptically.

'There is nothing for it, he'll have to come upstairs. I could offer my room, but perhaps those who are cuffed should make the choice?'

They're the ones inconvenienced here. Besides, they all visit each other enough that it hardly matters where they end up.

Bahorel sighs dramatically. "There's nothing else for it, indeed! We have the room; and there's the fireplace, so we can burn out the stink later." There's going to be a representative of the law in his rooms, after all. There will definitely need to be a cleansing once he's gone.

And if any of their rooms must be sacrified to such company, Bahorel's will at least strike back-- the spy will hate what he and Jehan have done with the place. So at least there's that for Bahorel to console himself with, if not quite cackle about. (But only not quite. It's a trial of his acting skills to keep a solemn face, it really is.)

Enjolras and Combeferre's would as well, with the barricade's bloodied flag on the wall and Feuilly's Ici on s'honore le titre du citoyen on the door, not to mention all the copious evidence of Combeferre's keenly inquiring intellect. But he doesn't really want to let the spy near Combeferre's experiments. Nor near the flag and placard, if it comes to it; of course his scorn and mockery won't touch the bright heart of those symbols or the republicans' regard for them, but it'll be a tiresome night all the same.

So, if Bahorel and Prouvaire are willing to offer up their room and its remarkable decoration choices for the purpose, Enjolras will only gesture acceptance, with rueful gratitude.

They'll probably have fun doing whatever antidote of fire and noise they decide is appropriate later, too. So there's that.

'Then it is decided!'

Coufeyrac beams. Wonderful! And because he is feeling magnanimous, he adds, 'I will see to the fellow's horses, to save a trek out there and his inevitable complaining. I will come and join you once they are settled.'

He likes horses! And it will spare Enjolras the indignity of having to coordinate with the man through manual labour.

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