milliways_bar | (no subject)

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the...stable? There was...not much of anything going on, really. Javert has been sleeping out here for the last couple of weeks, and tonight will be no different. Cheval has been nosing around for his next bottle, so he fetches it from Bar, trying not to yawn too obviously where anyone can see. He also considers another blanket, but it seems indulgent, so does not.

Bar also produces a gift, which he stares at for a moment. This again? But then, he supposes it is the season. He asks the bar to keep them for now, and walks back through the snow to the foal. It may be Christmas night, but it the same as any other to him and he is sure it will stay that way.

Valjean, watching this exchange, follows him out.

[OOC: Merry Christmas, everyone! This post open through New Year. If you want to chuck random animals etc in, go ahead. The more cracktastic the better, say I. If not, no worries - he's taggable at the bar too. Also, I will be tagging up everything I owe as soon as I've wrapped the last few presents over here. <3333 you all!

ETA: I completely forgot to set this up the way I planned. Ah well. Valjean, when I tag him in, is also entirely taggable by anyone. And will probably be in a far more festive mood, lets be honest. Also, feel free to tag each other if you want to be all 'wtf I'm in a stable' to someone else! I'm allgood with that. <3]

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'Ah. Apologies.'

He does not sound particularly apologetic, but it is polite to say it all the same.

'Well, it is young and has no mother. I must care for it.'

Polite neutrality saves on explanations! She's always appreciative of that.

"Reason enough. And it's far quieter here than at the Bar right now."

'Ah yes. Christmas.'

He looks rather less neutral, and far more distasteful at this.

'It is something that happens, I suppose. Even here, where many must not endure it on their own world, I am sure.'

"Ah. Yes, well, one of the versions of Christmas."

It should be in January, should religious-themed holidays of the bourgeoisie be inflicted on people.

"But at least these year there was no magically mistletoe."

'Ah. Well, I was not here last year, thankfully.'

He looks at her rather suspiciously this time - as suspicious as one can be while feeding a horse with one hand, at least.

'Versions of Christmas? Surely there is only one.'

He may not celebrate it in any particular way, but he has never come across the notion of there being any other time of year for the holiday.

She looks at him a little startled.

"...Hardly, unless you come from a world with only version of Christianity. In my country, it was in January. I'm assuming from your accent that you are French, and presumably Catholic? That'd be different from the religious in Russia."

She tilts her head a little. "Something to do with different ways of forming the calender, I think."

He nods - yes, French; yes, Catholic, for the most part - but still seems rather confused.

'I know nothing of Russia, madame.'

And does not seem phased by admitting his ignorance.

'Or of other calendars. They are not especially important.'

"It depends on the circumstances for level of importance. But..." She shrugs, and then offers a quiet smile.

"I should probably stop distracting you from your charge."

He shrugs, lightly.

'As you wish, madame. It is a horse. It will sleep once it has fed.'

As will he, as the blanket in the corner will attest. He looks at the young thing, hungrily pulling at a bottle, and a question springs to mind.

'You came to see it?'

"The horse? Oh, no.

I was out for a walk, and then I was...curious."

Certain metaphors about cats and curiosity may spring to mind.

'Perhaps I should turn the light off. People will think the livestock are being rustled.'

Because people are foolish, clearly. He waves a hand vaguely at the corner, where there are a few supplies.

'There is coffee, if you desire it or are cold.'

"They might. Although, I don't think there are many who are out for strolls given the weather."

Well, she's never claimed to be sensible.

"Thank you for the offer, but insomniacs shouldn't drink coffee at this hour."

Pause.

"Trying to steal a horse from here would be interesting. Trying to get them through the bar unnoticed."

'There is that, I suppose. Though I understand the front door is not the only entrance, or exit, to this place.'

His face closes over as he says this. Yes, he knows it well, but would rather not think on how.

'Being unable to sleep is the sign of a guilty conscience.'

Abruptly, all expression vanishes from her face.

"My husband was killed three months ago, Monsieur. Grief can also lead to an inability to sleep."

'Ah.'

Well, he has no experience of this. It seems as though it might be feasible. Certainly from the female perspective.

Knowing this does not readily grant knowledge on how best to proceed.

'How did he die?'

"Plane crash.

If you don't know what a plane is, I suggest you look it up. Goodnight, Monsieur."

And with that, she turns on her heel with military precision, and walks out.

That was very strange. But there, she is female. He should expect no different; and indeed, does not.

She turns on her heel; he puts her from his mind.