milliways_bar | (no subject)

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For a long time Ganymede has kept journals. Not because he wishes to be secretive; he doubts he could really pull that act off even if he tried. But because with the age he's come to, he likes to remember little things of years long past, and he finds sometimes he can't. Memories get blurry with the span of years, and though it saddens him that some things he can't remember or can only grasp the barest semblance of, more of his memories are contained in ink and paper than aren't. Unfortunately, with age also comes the need to transfer the words to a newer copy of some books, because generally speaking paper doesn't keep well.

He's still writing in the same angular script, with the same foreign letters and diacritical marks, looking between the books as he copies. When he turns a page in one a tiny feather slides out; it's a small thing, almost white and downy and nothing as recognizable as a tail or wing feather, or even the coverts with their thicker shafts.

He's just staring at it. He will be for a long time.

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Javert is on a break from work in the office. It has been a while since he has spoken to anyone, so he stops at Ganymede's table.

'Hello.'

The man is staring at a feather.

'Are you well?'

"Mmm." He hasn't moved the hand holding his pen yet, the tip still resting barely touching the paper; luckily it hasn't let all the ink run out.

"As well as I ever am, Javert," Ganymede says quietly, reaching out to pick up the feather as if it might simply disintegrate by touching it, laying it on the page of the most definitely older book of the two in front of him. It's difficult to find words that would fit the feeling of having his insides suddenly rearrange themselves so that he can't quite breathe correctly; his heartbeat feels like it's stuttering. But even more than not having the words, Ganymede knows full well that Javert wouldn't understand the reason why, and would more than likely dismiss it out of hand.

The idea of trying to fight that particular uphill battle makes him feel tired already.

He regards him silently for a moment. Then reaches over, and gently takes the pen from his grasp.

'It will touch the paper, and waste the ink,' he says, his tone calm as he sets the thing down.

'May I sit?'

The moment Javert takes the pen, Ganymede's hand splays to let it go, and after a moment of unsure hesitation, curls back in to rest on the table.

"Of course, m--" he replies, to both the statement and the question. It's been years since he made a slip of address like that, even if he didn't finish it. He blinks, and the staring trance is broken as he looks up at Javert, seeming somehow far too old for his body and yet no older than he ever has appeared.

Javert looks back at him, his brow creased. Then he sits, and glances at the feather, and then turns his attention back to the man.

'Was it a gift?'

Another pause, and he makes a guess.

'And there is no need to call me monsieur.'

He gives a softly strangled little laugh at that. "Monsieur was not what I had started to call you," he admits, shaking his head.

"It was not. Not precisely a gift, it was stuck in my hair when I found it," he says. "From his thigh as an eagle."

'Ah. And you have kept it?'

This seems a strange choice, but Ganymede is quite proficient at explaining himself.

'What were you going to call me?'

"I'd forgotten I had it," he says softly. "Between the pages of a journal I haven't looked at in years. I picked it up because the paper was starting to yellow and tear."

Time to re-write it, to copy it into something newer.

His reply when Javert asks is quiet, no more than a sigh. "My lord." It's a habit, a long-standing one that he doesn't particularly want to explain.

It needs little explanation, and belongs firmly to an area he is not comfortable going near. But the notion of titles is nothing new - even my lord would be appropriate for use, had he ever met anyone of the nobility. Knowing what he does of Ganymede's past, he can see why it would now be problematic for him.

He stretches a hand towards the feather, slowly enough that he can be stopped, if desired.

'It is just a thing, Ganymede. I will throw it away, as it clearly bothers you.'