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Javert has been outside all day, digging trenches in the rain. The weather has been so appalling, there is no point trying to avoid it; he will never get anything done if he waits for it to improve.

He imagines this is why he started feeling so dreadful at some point in the evening. He carried on, only stopping when it became too dark to see. And now he is inside, sitting in his usual dark corner, shivering violently and trying not to cough too openly. He would go to bed, but it is strange; he tells himself this is nothing, and then a voice - an English voice - pipes up in his head, and seems to agree.

He does not want to go to his room and suffer madness there again. It is worth staying here and being cold, to avoid that.

[OOC: Javert's halfway through his mental transition to Robin Hood, so very confused and more scared than he cares to admit. Open 'til his next EP.]

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Jacob is feeling a bit better; just like yesterday, he finds himself perking up towards evening, and goes downstairs.

And finds the unhelpful ex-police-non-bouncer from the other night sitting in a dark corner, shivering and coughing and looking generally awful.

Jacob feels a bit guilty and drops by to offer his help.

"Evening," he says. "I'm really sorry if I've infected you. You look awful, Javert."

That was the man's name, right?

He waves the apology away, feeling too dreadful to be angry about it. He would not be, anyway. Illness happens. One can only carry on.

'You still do not look yourself, monsieur l'docteur.'

His face is softer than usual, his eyes less cold. Perhaps it is the sickness.

"Why does everyone think I'm a doctor?" Jacob says. "I'm an architect. I think you should have chicken soup or a hot grog or something. That's all the doctoring I can do."

The poor ex-policeman looks pitiful. You don't just abandon somebody in such a state to his own devices.

'Everyone thinks I'm a policeman. Or used to be.'

He shrugs, completely unaware that his voice is coming out accented English. Not modern English, either.

Until he thinks about what he just said, and forces the French back.

'Because I was, of course.'

This has been happening for hours. And now it is happening in front of other people. His fingers grip his glass of water until they go white.

"You sound a bit confused," Jacob says. "You said you'd been a policeman, but you weren't angry about the horse. Come to think of it, you wouldn't know about the horse unless you'd been a policeman in Copenhagen."

For a moment, the ex-policeman had looked almostt relaxed. Perhaps he'll manage to finally unclench.

'The horse, yes. Well as I explained, it is not my concern.'

Apart from in the way that all criminals make his blood boil, for differing reasons.

'I have never been to Denmark. Tell me nothing more of it.'

If he does not know about it, his inability to put it right will not gnaw at him for the rest of the week.

"I quite like living in Denmark," Jacob says. "It's a very progressive country wherre people get a lot of rights."

Something in him sits up and takes notice.

'Aye?'

Robin is very interested in such things. You would be too, if you were stuck with King John.

'Could do with some o'them in England. Time'll come.'

He sounds very sure about this, mainly because he doesn't plan on giving up until it happens, or he's killed.

"Wow you unclenched really fast," Jacob says before he can stop himself.

The man sounds totally different.

"England's pretty progressive, too. I mean, compared to places like China or Iran or Malaysia."

Robin looks a bit taken aback by that. He's always being told he gives little away, like that's a bad thing.

He makes a disbelieving sound now, and raises his eyebrows.

'We thinking about the same place? I can't speak to the Orient - never made it that far - but all those heathens in the East looked at us like we were the ones thinkin' wrong.'

"Heathens?" Jacob says. "What are you talking about?"

He opens his mouth to say the Crusades, and assumes the guy will know what he's talking about.

Instead, he says, 'I do not know. Forgive me, monsieur.'

What is happening? Oh God, he is going mad again. He cannot. He will not survive it again. The panic rises like a living thing in his chest; he clamps his jaws shut to keep it in, and says no more.

"I didn't know you're from England," Jacob says. "Javert sounds more French. As does this monsieur thing."

The guy is getting more uptight again, Jacob notices.

'I am French. I have never been to England, and never will.'

Of all the places to go, England will never be one of them.

'But then, you say you live in Denmark, when I know you to live in America; yes, I believe you have said you spent time in Europe as a youth - maybe born there? - but you are a youth no longer.'

"No, and I'm quite glad about it, to be honest," Jacob says. "It's not an easy time for anyone, of course."

Beat.

"You just talked about England!"

'I do not see why it should be thought difficult,' he says stiffly, but his thoughts are slipping away. England!

'I did, aye. Why shouldn't I?'

"You just said you're French!" Jacob protests. "You're really confused what with this cold. I'd better get you that grog now."

'I've more of a taste for mead, if you're buying. A man I know would approve.'

Which reminds him - where are his men? They're a pain sometimes, but they're loyal, and they can usually raise a smile in him. He looks around, sneezes heavily, and thinks nothing of the torrent of distressed French running through his head. He's spent enough time there, he can't help it if he picked up some of the language.

'I'm not French. I'll thank you to remember it, friend.'

"Same as I'm not American," Jacob says. "Would you like some hot mead, then? Because of the cold. You know."

'I'll take a drink, aye. Doesn't have to be hot.'

He leans his head back on the wood of the booth, and sniffs deeply. His eyes half-close; his muscles ache like he's been working, which is strange, because the last few days have been spent acquainting himself with his 'home'. Hardly difficult work, for an archer. It must be this cold he seems to have picked up.

Jacob goes and gets him a tankard of ale, and a glass of wine for himself.

"Here," he says when he returns. "You know, I like you much better when you're English and not French. Your French persona is very uptight and a bit dense."

Edited 2014-02-02 00:21 (UTC)

'What's that?'

Robin's confusion is genuine.

'I've never been French. You want to be careful, friend. Men have been killed for lighter words than that.'

There's little threat in his tone. It's just a statement of fact. He raises the tankard in thanks, smiles, and drains a good third of it.

"Okay, and I've never been American," Jacob says. "I'm Jacob, by the way."

This is clearly the same person as the Frenchman. Jacob has heard about multiple personalities, but do they really do this gradual change thing?

It's more like the other Frenchman, the shy hunk, who was down to his undershirt yesterday and had a hunk-off with an almost identical hunk, seeming neither shy nor French from some metres away.

"My, this place is weird!"

'I never said you were American.'

He has no problem with the bar being weird. This guy, though...

A nod in acknowledgement. 'Robin Longstride.'

He looks down at himself. 'And I don't normally dress like this. One of the fellas must've thought it'd be a laugh.'

Joke's on him. Ah, well. He can take it.

"Hello Robin," Jacob says. "I'm sure you can get somethimg more comfortable from the bar."

He's wondering what this is all about. Tha American doctor -- could that be some similar alternate as Robin is for Javert, or perhaps the other way around? Ot the French hunk and the guy with the odd hair?