milliways_bar | (no subject)

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It isn't really entirely often he comes out here to work off energy, not this way. Sure, he's always had a sword and always known how to use it, and he's picked up knowledge of various things over the years, from being more than passable with a bow to being fair with a stone and a sling--but it's that first one that's making the distant swish and thok noises. It's not sharp, because there's no point in dulling a blade when you're basically hitting a wooden pole with it, but it works out the muscles the exact same way.

And it gives him time to think. This is perhaps not a great idea.

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Well, you can meet people out here.

People like cowboys, taking a bit of a stroll around after finishing up in the stables for the day.

Swords aren't his thing; to be honest, guns aren't either, but he knows how to use them. And even knowing that there are people here from all times and places, well... it's still something different.

So he watches, doing his best to be neither intrusive nor invisible. He's there, he's not hiding, but he's keeping a bit of distance in case this is a private thing.

For being so slender, he's surprisingly vicious in his motions; they're simple and not flashy at all, but quite effective, apparently.

He turns his head minutely towards Butch. "Have you never seen someone with a sword before?"

"Only the cavalry," he says, with a bit of a grin. "And that's a bit different. They just wave 'em around; I don't think they actually use 'em."

He has no idea. He was born after the war, so he's mostly just seen them carried by old, old soldiers during parades.

"What's the point of having one if you're not going to use it?" he asks, resting his against his shoulder, what should be the sharp edge pointed away from his neck.

"Looking good," he says. "Having something to wave around at parades, or to lead your men on a charge, I guess? I've never seen them actually used."

Not for training, and not in battle.

He's not terribly upset about that last part.

"They're less destructive than modern firearms," he says. "But yes, they are bloody."

He nods a bit.

There's not really much he can say about them. He's not much of a fighter anyway.

"Quiet out here today," he says.

"It is," he says. "It's why I came out here."

"Me too," he says. "Not that it was loud in the stables--well, you got horses making horse noises, but that's still generally quieter than in the bar. Don't get me wrong, I like people, I like the bar... but I'm a country boy. I need some quiet too."

Quiet that he then fills with talking or singing or harmonica-playing, but he gets to choose.

"I live in California. I rarely get too much quiet."

"California, huh," he says. "I've never been that far west--grew up in Utah, and now I've got a place in Wyoming. Beautiful country, but not a lot of people. You can ride for days without seeing anybody, unless you've brought somebody with you for company. I prefer having company along, but sometimes there's no choice."

He manages a little smile. "I live just outside of Los Angeles. There are quite a few people."

"So I hear," he says.

And after a brief hesitation, continues, "And here I am interrupting your quiet... but you look like a man with something on your mind. My best friend back home, he doesn't like talking when he's got something on his mind--he doesn't like talking much ever, really--but he feels better when he does."

"All told, the quiet is not doing me any favors," he says. "I get absorbed in my thoughts, and there's only so much I can to that."

"Well, what would help?" he asks. "I've been told I'm very good at distracting people. Usually, I'm told that by people who are complaining about losing at cards, or missing shots, but I figure I can use that skill as an advantage..."

"Oh, now that...that I'm not sure I know the answer to," he says.

It's a tough one.

Luckily, he's got years of experience at wrangling Sundance in his moods, and he's a naturally friendly sort.

"Ever go fishing?" he asks. "I've caught some tasty ones, here in the lake. And it's pretty relaxing."

"I haven't, no. I've never really thought to." There are other things he does for relaxation.

"Maybe today's your day, then," he says. "I got some gear in the stable..."

He keeps it in the stall with his bicycle.

Yes, his bicycle gets its own stall in the stable. Pretend it's a horse.

"You're going to teach me to fish," he says, somewhat unbelieving.

It's not that he doubts he could be taught, but the logistics of it isn't something he's really ever considered. It seems to be one of those things men do when they have lives they feel the need to escape from--and Ganymede doesn't.

"If you want to learn," he says. "If you don't, you can sit there while I do it--hell, if you don't, you can keep practicing here. You can do anything you want. But you might enjoy it."

After a long moment, he shrugs. "Why not? This doesn't seem to be wearing me out any time soon."

"Fishing probably won't wear you out either," he says. "Unless there's giant lakefish here, but I've never seen any, and it's probably safer to avoid them if there are any. It might put you to sleep, though."

Javert noticed Ganymede a while ago, but he was working in the stable. Now that he can find nothing else to clean - and given that he does not like the bar - he wanders over to watch the swordplay.

He is not subtle about it. He does not speak, but stands near the post being hit, and silently appraises the boy's technique.

As far as his technique goes, Ganymede has excellent form; he doesn't fight as though he were carrying a sabre, though. His blade is shorter, and thicker, and weighted farther forward, enabling his slashes--aimed at neck height--to be incredibly powerful even without swinging from the shoulder.

He sighs slowly when Javert comes into his field of view. "Hello, Javert."

His eyebrows quirk at the sigh.

'You wish to be undisturbed?'

The blade interests him, but he will think nothing of leaving if Ganymede does not wish to be bothered.

"No. I was merely thinking," he says. "You were watching me for a reason?"

'Your sword, that is all. And the way you fight.'

His eyes flick to the wrist that was injured before.

'You are healed?'

"It's bothering me less. It wasn't broken before," he says, shaking his head. "Merely torqued beyond the usual limit. And I'm not using my left hand."

He does not want to contemplate exactly how it happened, so makes no comment on this. Instead, he nods his head at the post.

'Do you practice often?'

"I do," he says. "I like to keep my abilities sharp."

'But why?'

It seems strange.

'You said swords would not work on your suitor.'

He cannot bring himself to describe Zeus as a god, even a lesser one. It seems wrong.

"Not everything in my life revolves around the bastard," he says impatiently. "I have always known weapons, it gives me a sense of normalcy. Why do you read your bible still, since it hasn't gotten you out of here?"

His expression flattens at once; it is the boy's words more than his tone, but combined, they are not pleasing.

'But you are not normal,' he points out, with a hint of condescension.

'You do this to get a taste of it? It is only an illusion.'

"And you are?" he replies.

"How is this an illusion? I am perfectly capable of using a sharp blade against an opponent."

'Of course I am.'

And he is offended at the notion he could be other.

'But I do not comment on your skill - you seem more than adept - but your words; that weapons give you a sense of normalcy. Why should they, when you are clearly not? You may fight like a mortal man, and yet you claim you cannot die.'

It seems clear to him.

'It is a lie to the self, which is no less a lie than any other.'

"In every sense but that I cannot die or age, I am normal," he says dryly. "I have work, and pleasure, lovers and business. Not everyone who fights does so to the death."

'And yet those two things - well, there are three, I suppose - but the duel claims of not being able to die or age; you cannot pass these off as trivialities. 'Set them aside, and I am normal' you say. Well, I do not see how they can be set aside. That is all.'

He did not come over to start an argument, but he will not back down from his point of view, now it has been roused.

'If I were to take that sword and stab you through the heart, what would happen?'

"You wouldn't get the chance," he says with certainty. "Because you'd be dead before you could prick skin."

Javert refrains from rolling his eyes, just barely, and fixes the boy with a hard stare.

'I was not suggesting I would try. I am asking, hypothetically, what would happen.'

"I presume it would hurt, I've never been stabbed through the heart," he says.

'But it would not kill you?'

He fails to see how it could not, despite what has been said.

'So, you see, you cannot pretend to be normal. To yourself, or anyone else.'

"I am not pretending," he repeats. "Did you not hear me the last time I said this?"

'I am disagreeing with your definition of it. It may not be pretence to you, but it is mockery to everyone else.'

He glares a moment, then looks away. This is a pointless exchange, and he genuinely did not come to argue.

'Ah, what is the use? I will leave you to your practice.'

"Conversation I welcome," he says. "But you approach and insult me without provocation and I will return it."

'You are wrong. I approached and spoke; it was you that became short with me.'

He does not mind the impatience shown. He does mind the insinuation that he would be that rude without cause.

'Good day, monsieur.'

"Really, and how precisely was I short with you first? You ask me why I practice, I gave you an answer, and you tell me condescendingly that I am not normal. I have never said as much to you, either today or any other."

'You made a comment on my reading of the Bible, in such a tone to suggest it was not meant kindly.'

At least, that is how he took it.

'And I should hope you would not tell me such a thing, as it would have no basis in fact.'

Edited 2013-08-12 22:42 (UTC)

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