(no subject)

[never_shall_yield]

Javert woke up in the stable this afternoon. He is not sure he was tired, but...well, it does not matter. His duties were seen to, even if they took all day.

He is in the bar now, in his usual out-of-the-way booth. There is a piece of paper in front of him, headed 'To Her Majesty, Queen Amy of'...but now he is stuck, because he cannot remember the name of the place she is from. And is not sure he should write this letter at all, but again, no matter. He has an evening to decide. He would rather not stay in his room. There is something watching him up there.

If he can keep his eyes open, he may recall the name in a moment. Until then, he will just sit. 



[OOC: Catch him in the stable, or inside. Open through the weekend! And apologies in advance if he is a bit vacant. And/or crazy.]

Comments

[neverbelievedintheend]

This time- this time only- Pentecost came to Milliways deliberately. It was an attempt on his part to see if it could be done. And, if he is being honest, it was an attempt to buy himself some more time to push away the urge to say something really untoward where it might be heard; just because the rumors about some... wall... are starting to be substantiated is no excuse to behave poorly in public.

But one needs time to calm down, and there is nowhere in Anchorage where he can get it without being seen. So- here.

He had intended to sit somewhere out of the way for a time and so headed for one of the booths that offered a reasonably complete view of the room without seeming inviting enough to draw others in. It's not until he gets within a stride or two that he sees it has an occupant.

"My apologies, sir," he says, drawing to a stop. "I didn't realize this booth was occupied."

[never_shall_yield]

Javert blinks slowly, and turns his eyes to the man.

Well. That is an interesting mix of first impressions.

'There is no need for apology, monsieur.'

He is quite surprised to have received one at all.

'You may sit, or not, as you desire.'

[neverbelievedintheend]

He nods, once, and settles to the opposite side of the booth. The French only registers peripherally. There are plenty of French speakers in the PPDC, from everywhere from Cambodia to Vanuatu to Canada. Frankly, only hearing English at this place has been stranger than hearing anything else spoken.

"I have no intention of being rude. There were- bureaucratic matters- that I wanted to avoid if I could." He holds up a manila folder for a moment's inspection, though whether the PPDC emblem will be known by anyone here or not he doesn't know. "Unfortunately, they've found me."

One doesn't ignore the other person at the table if it can be avoided, but the man has his own paperwork to handle, by the look of things. If both parties are engaged in similar pursuits, the matter of reading or working in another's presence becomes different.

(And if not, well- time doesn't pass in Anchorage while he's here, he's found. Taking extra time to read after having talked will likely do no harm.)

[never_shall_yield]

'You are some kind of soldier.'

He says it as a statement; though what kind of soldier, he cannot guess. The emblem means nothing to him.

Mainly, he is stuck on the colour of the man's skin.

'And English?'

[cook_the_rude]

"Good evening, Monsieur Javert!" says a semi-familiar voice, dry and calm.

If Javert opens his eyes he will see Doctor Lecter, giving him a concerned look as he leans into the booth.

[never_shall_yield]

He does open his eyes. It is a basic level of politeness when being addressed, and while he does not always feel the need to adhere to it, he does here.

'Monsieur l'docteur.'

His stitches have been removed. From the way the man is leaning, he cannot imagine what else he might see in his face.

[cook_the_rude]

"Did you see Dr. Sandhu about the stitches?" Dr. Lecter asks. "I see they are gone."

[not_his_pa]

William's yawning when he comes into the stables, its been a long day on the other side of his door but he always checks to see what needs doing when he's in Milliways.

When he sees Javert, he stops and frowns since he doesn't look well and one of the horses looks close to stepping on him, "Javert, sir, be careful."

[never_shall_yield]

He had heard footsteps vaguely, but it is the voice that forces his eyes open. And then he moves to sit, as fast as possible, and while trying to appear as though he had never passed out at all.

'...'

He cannot remember the boy's name.

'Monsieur.'

[not_his_pa]

He shifts the horse out of the way and shifts down to be on Javert's level as he provides himself as someone to balance on.

When his father was newly back from the War, he got good at helping without seeming to help too much, "Hey, move slow, don't want to fall over again."

[52_dropoff]

Charlie knows he will regret this. He can't easily pretend to be dead every time he talks with someone. But he is curious to see if Javert has reached a better understanding yet. So he will call over to the not-so-late policeman.

"Javert?"

[never_shall_yield]

His head turns, slowly. He frowns, and remembers the last conversation they had. But not the name.

'Monsieur.'

A slight nod, though it leaves him dizzy.

'Good evening.'

[52_dropoff]

"How are you doing since we last met?" He isn't holding his breath for the answer he would prefer.

[street_sparrow]

"You don't look well, m'sieur", Gavroche says bluntly, inviting himself into the booth.

[never_shall_yield]

His eyes narrow.

'In death, as in life, you have no manners.'

People never change.

[street_sparrow]

"Don't believe in them", he says unrepentantly. "Remember I was a gutter brat, manners are for society. Have you been eating?"

[the_cupbearer]

"If you're tired, you should sleep."

The ease with which this is said may entirely give away the speaker; Ganymede is looking very much calmer, and much more like...well, the historical idea of himself, anyway. He's watching Javert studiously as he leans on the opposing side of the booth.

[never_shall_yield]

'Ah, yes. Logic.'

He does try sleep, on occasion.

'There seems little point. It is not a respite.'

[the_cupbearer]

"It does, on occasion, work," he says. "Why can you not rest? Is something on your mind?"

[lt_blade]

Sonya hadn't expected Milliways to appear, but for the moment she's glad it did. She's dressed in the black sweat pants and grey 'ARMY' t-shirt, her expression grim. She's just come back from a memorial service and the last place she wanted to be-ironically enough-was the base, with its condolences and memories.

It's also as good a chance as any to give Javert his package, having arrived just the previous day. She intended to just leave it to Bar for when he was next available, but he was here so there was no need.

She set the elongated box on the table next to the paper. At the moment it would serve as a 'hello'.

[never_shall_yield]

He turns his head slowly to look at it, then up at her. And then something clicks in his brain, and his eyes snap back down to the box.

'Has it been weeks already?'

He does not understand the disparity in time streams here.

'I thank you, mademoiselle. I have instructed the bar to provide you with payment, plus some extra for your inconvenience. You need only ask it.'

[lt_blade]

She recognizes the glazed look in his eyes-she's seen it before when she was a child and sometimes still now. She also sees how burned out and haggard he looks-worse than last time, but she can't bring herself to ask about it. If he wanted help, he would ask for it in some form or fashion.

"It has." She was lucky she was as good of a student as she was and able to explain to the instructor that she wanted a hardwood set for herself. "I can give you a demonstration if you wish, to give you an idea."

She could've easily asked for a set from Bar, but she wasn't sure she could trust herself at the moment to hold back-she didn't want to hold back.

[vojvode]

Sometimes he likes an entrance. A thunderstorm. A pooling of shadows. An absinthe tinged mist that seeps under the door, bringing with it a tingle of anticipation, a chill of fear.

Other times, he prefers to appear as just a man. His cheeks are hollow, his skin pale, his eyes dark, but nonetheless, a man.

That said, he simply appears across from Javert in the booth. He wears clean white linen under a dark wool coat, again black embroidered upon black at throat and cuff, and black leather gloves. His dark spectacles do not do much at all to shield Javert from the intensity of his gaze. The pressure on his thoughts is equally intense, firm in their insistence that the next few moments are key to Javert's continued safe existence.

His voice is quiet, and he only murmurs one word, for Javert's hearing alone.

'Valjean.'

[never_shall_yield]

He is not in a state to deal with such shocks. At the man's appearance, his heart leaps and starts to drum against his ribs, his shaking hands lift from the table, his throat goes dry. And then, the look in its eyes.

And the name.

'...



...no,' he says, only it emerges more as a whisper.

'Does the devil confuse names, now? I am Javert.'

And he cannot think of the other. Forsaken or not, he prays that it was a simple misspeaking; knows that it is not.

[vojvode]

The Prince interlaces his gloved fingers, resting them on the table, leaning to rest his weight on the surface of the table. His gaze never waivers.

'I know who you are.'

A cool weight envelopes Javert's mind, calming the tremor of his hands if not the pounding of his heart.

'Tell me, who is this -- Valjean?'