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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Joly very mmaturely sticks his tongue out at Bahorel for the hair-tousling before laughing and looking at the table and seats thoughtfully. There's not much room to sit side by side, but...

To Bossuet, he says "I think we can manage, if we don't mind being friendly", before tugging them both to sit next to Enjolras. Who Joly jostles a little. He smiles quickly, in apology and in greeting.

He recognises it, of course he does. And grits his teeth again, because he knows they are just trying to be as annoying as possible.

Bossuet does not get so much as a glance. Next to Bahorel, his least favourite of this group. Joly - well, Joly has had some use, so he flicks his gaze in his direction. Then he puts his head down and goes back to sketching Bahorel's face out.

At least the singing is not about fairies, and love. Surely those are only topics for women? He does not understand what is wrong with these people.

"I thank you most kindly," Jehan says to Javert, sincerely. There's no higher compliment than having the likes of Javert want you guillotined!

"Bossuet, Joly! I imagine you can bear this better than many can, perhaps provide a model of friendship and solidarity in the endurance of discomfort to our friend the spy here. Here's the poem, if you want to look at it. I don't want to interrupt the singing."

He leans against Bahorel, and it gives him a good angle to view what Javert is now drawing. "But that's a very good likeness of you, though it doesn't quite capture your spirit. The spy must have studied your face very closely!"

Enjolras smiles back at Joly, only a little rueful. Yes, all right, there's Javert; Javert shackled to his arm, restricting both of their freedom of motion, and drawing petty little drawings of guillotines and trials of the sort his comrades never granted Jean Prouvaire. And Joly and Bossuet shackled together, a perversion of their voluntary close company no matter how temporarily and jokingly it's meant.

But there's also this growing circle of fraternity, laughing and singing and jostling companionably together. Telling the truths of their hearts, brave and steadfast, and laughing in the face of all disapproval from the agents of oppression. Incomprehensibly artistic some of those truths might be, but that doesn't matter; they're Bahorel and Prouvaire's truths, not Enjolras's, and that's as it should be. And Joly with his warmth, and Bossuet with his sarcasms and jokes, and Courfeyrac out searching for a solution to free them, and bringing his verve and whirlwind charm and a moment's chatting to everyone he speaks to.

Who could ask for better friends than his? No one. He's honored to know them, always.

"It was a long poem of fairy lovers who defied their monarchs' tyranny," he tells Joly. The explanation is partly for Joly's sake, but rather more for Prouvaire and Bahorel, as mingled gratification and entertainment for them. "You'd understand the poetry better than I," because so would most people, "but he spoke very well of freedom and the defiance of love. There were some fine turns of phrase."

And then there were the bits about love and nature and the transcendent spirituality of gazing into a lover's eyes, but whatever.

Javert snorts at this summation of the poem, and shoots Prouvaire a dark look for his comment about watching Bahorel's face. His job is to notice details! Trust people like this to make it seem like a bad skill to have.

'It was endless, mindless dross,' he mutters.

TO BE FAIR, he would think that of anything that involved fairies, because such things are ridiculous and not worth the effort it takes to write about them. Never mind that they probably exist in this place, they are not real at home, and therefore do not count as a valid subject for writing.

"en des rues, en des rues, nous allons a tapageur" Bahorel finishes cheerfully, ignoring the rest of the conversation until the song is over.

He's still aware of it, though. And...ew, Jehan's not wrong. But that's an ant mound to kick some time when Enjolras isn't handcuffed to the spy and won't have to listen to the ensuing shouting.

He will take the time to snort at the spy about his opinions on poetry, though! That's an any time fight. "Of course you hear creation at the end of the universe and call it dross. A fine symbol of all your calling, you are."

So much for that, more important conversations are happening. "There you are, Enjolras, you're learning to hear these things properly; we'll make a poet of you yet!" (No.)

'When will you make a poet of him?'

He nods at Prouvaire, barely looking up from his sketch. The basics done, he moves on to...hmmm. Not Enjolras, that is pointless. As the leader of them and already owning distinctive looks, he would be remembered. The little quiet one who is not here, he is insidious. He could easily have been working away quietly behind the scenes, churning out pamphlets and revolutionary teachings.

Never mind that - he passes over Joly, and starts committing Bossuet to paper. He cannot think why he has not done this before.

'Why would you assume disinterest in your friend's noise is a negative comment on the police? Appreciation of rubbish is hardly in the job description.'

Quite the opposite, really.

"No, appreciation of rubbish is a natural affinity for those in your work; they need make no special note of it in hiring. If that faculty was lacking you would find other work, as men who can't stand blood avoid medicine." Not to drag you into this , Joly. " Disinterest in art, creation, whatever evidence men give of a soul; that's a requirement of the job too, no doubt; anything else would be a sign of divided loyalties, very dangerous, very bad." Bahorel sounds low, clucking tsk tsk. It is very condescending. He's practiced!

You've dragged Joly into it anyway, Bahorel. He hums over his croissant, thoughtful. "-- It's true, of course, that people tend to seek out work that suits them; when they have the choice of it, anyway. But, you know, I have known men who went into medicine when they couldn't bear the sight of blood. Some of them overcame their old aversion, in the name of the work they wanted to pursue. Others never could." This is just thinking out loud, bouncing ideas off his friends to knock some of the rough edges off the thing. "The difference there--I don't know what it is. I'm fairly sure it's not just willingness to change, or even the strength of the initial aversion."

That some habits change easily and some don't is of course an obvious observation--but the Why and How of it still matters, if education is going to be useful to people at all. Obvious has never meant simple.

Edited 2016-02-09 14:30 (UTC)

"Perhaps the spy should try writing poetry. It might help him overcome his aversion to many things." Jehan is not in the least hurt or offended by Javert's dismissal of his work. It's like music criticism from someone who has worn ear plugs.

"But his attempts at portraiture, perhaps, shouldn't be encouraged." Jehan leans over and reaches out, trying to grab the sketches. There's not much risk of harm in Javert showing Bossuet's likeness around Paris--but all the same, why permit any?

He was expecting that at some point, and simply lifts them away from Prouvaire's reaching hand.

'You are all dead. Why would it matter?'

And here's Lesgle, with his long reach--hampered a little by holding Joly's hand, but plenty able to lean out and grip an end of the paper with his other hand. "Why should we let you reconstruct our network of associates by snooping around with your portraits and nosing around about who's been seen in the company of whom?" He renders the phrasing absurd with his exaggerated tone and his waggling eyebrows, but his eyes are serious. "We're not here to make your spy-work easy for you, my dear fellow. --Besides, you haven't done justice to my hair. There, you see," --turning his head, but not loosening his grip-- "there's still at least four or five valiant soldiers left on the field, it's not all gone yet!"

Edited 2016-02-09 18:42 (UTC)

Javert snorts - with laughter this time - and lets go. He can draw them without them being in front of him, he was just amusing himself.

'I had not considered such a thing. Thank you for the idea.'

It is exactly what he was, and is, going to do. It had not occurred to him before this evening, and he cannot imagine why.

'There are plenty of young Sûreté men from the provinces who can pose as looking for you all.'

"I wish them well." Jehan means it. There are many traps awaiting such young men, if they indeed exist the way Javert thinks they do, and are not Marius Pontmercys, taking police weapons and money for their own purposes--a proceeding Jehan naturally approves.

He examines the papers, and withdraws the one with him and the guillotine. Once adapted by someone with artistic talent, this will make an excellent hanging for Jehan's wall.

Combeferre, coming down in the evening for some coffee, notices the general handcuff situation with a shrug. Another magical mishap, apparently, and one he is not particularly equipped to help resolve.

Bar pointedly refuses to give him coffee. Instead she gives him a steaming mug of chamomile tea and a tablet of melatonin.

"Joly has gotten to you," Combeferre accuses. "But I take your point. It's late."

He turns to go back to his room for rest, and it's only then that he sees his friends, clustered around...Enjolras, and...

Oh. Oh, damn.

Edited 2016-02-10 15:35 (UTC)

It is at this point that Courfeyrac arrives back with the group.

'Combeferre, over here! Hullo Joly and Lesgle - you too? Ah well, I suppose it will not inconvenience you overmuch. No sign of a key yet, I came back to refresh myself.'

He picks up a glass of wine - which probably belongs to someone else, but never mind - and drains it.

'Keep your spirits up, Enjolras! At least half an hour of this ordeal is over already, think of it that way. Oh I say, is that supposed to be you, Bahorel? You look like a robot.'

He is pleased with knowing what a robot is, but mostly just laughing over Jehan's shoulder at the picture.

"We're all right" Joly says in response to Courfeyrac, before making a face at his assessment of Javert's art. "It looks nothing like a robot. It looks much more like Bahorel,and Bahorel would make a terrible robot, he's nowhere near orderly enough."

Joly ignores Bahorel's dramatic bow of acceptance, and smiles at Combeferre. "Is Madame Bar scolding you?"

'Oh, it looks like Bahorel well enough. Just Bahorel if he had no soul in him, and beeped a lot.'

It is a perfectly good resemblance, but Courfeyrac likes his art with a bit more personality. But OH WELL, he would probably hate it anyway just because of who drew it.

'Well, I will go and continue the search. It is an excellent excuse to converse with ladies, I will say that for it. But have no fear, I am keeping the mission firmly in sight.'

Just enjoying it quite a lot too. He grins at everyone, gives a wave and heads off in the direction of two handcuffed women by the back door.

"Robots have plenty of soul." Joly grumps, as Courfeyrac leaves. "Just because you don't understand their design--oh, there's still another croissant!" Fear his epic wrath, Courfeyrac.

Joly tears the croissant in two somewhat awkwardly. "What are we going to do about this? I'm sure Courfeyrac will be very diligent in looking for the key, but eventually we'll still have to, well. Get up from the table." For a start.

Javert has been glaring at Courfeyrac, partly out of habit and partly because he distrusts anyone who smiles all the time, and for no reason.

'Good Lord, are you all breeding?'

Obviously he knew there were a lot of them, but it has been a long time since he was surrounded like this. He also shoots a look at Joly, because it has started to play on his mind too. What are they supposed to do if these things do not come off by nightfall?

'I have work to do. Horses to feed, and the like. I will not neglect them for your convenience.'

This last at Enjolras, obviously.

Lesgle, watching Courfeyrac's path, sighs exaggeratedly. "Ah, look at him, reveling in his freedom. While we, poor captives, must huddle together, weeping for our lost liberty."

He looks very weepy, yes, as he consoles himself by nudging Joly for a piece of croissant. "--As my grandmother used to say, Javert," --he clears his throat for oratory-- "Many hands make light work. Now, granted, some of us are a bit diminished in the hand department, but there's quite a few of us who aren't. Never fear, good spy, we'll see your horses fed! And your reports filed! And--what else do you do, anyway?"

His jaw sets. Or tries to; it was already fairly firm.

'You think I would entrust the care of my horses to you people?'

He twirls a pencil through his fingers, then sets it down.

'I build here. And I am not letting you near that either, even if any of you were capable.'

WHICH HE DOUBTS.

"...We'll all just follow along and watch you do it one-handed, then, shall we?"

...Heh. One-handed. Bossuet's look of cloudless innocence is spoiled as he kicks Joly's ankle. Subtly.

Javert frowns at him.

He does not get it.

'There is no reason any of you have to come at all, except this one.'

A jerk of his head towards Enjolras.

Edited 2016-02-10 20:53 (UTC)

"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)