This sort of thing must happen every day.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

It's not the first time Bossuet has wandered into a bar after getting hit on the head. And it's probably not the first time someone has wandered into this bar after getting hit on the head. But here we are.

He had been walking towards the sound of gunfire. The unfamiliarity of that particular experience--or perhaps the still-tender lump on the back of his head--had given everything a dizzy dreamlike feel. Terribly exciting, but a bit nauseating as well. The sort of sensation that can get a person lost in a half-familiar set of streets and alleys, and make a person think it might be wise to step indoors just for a minute. Just to ask directions, just to get out of the July evening heat. Of course most doors were shut. There was a riot on, possibly even a revolution. But this particular door had opened and--right, here we are.

The new arrival is a dusty young man with a dented hat in his hand and a green-and-gold cravat wound around his head. His coat might have been fashionable in Europe of the early 1820s, back when it had its full set of matching buttons. His tricolor cockade, at least, is new and clean: a festive splash of blue-white-red pinned over his heart. Vive la République. And hello?

((OOC - new player, new character! Bossuet/Lesgle is coming in from the beginning of France's July Revolution in 1830; his friends might remember that he fell to friendly fire (...someone dropped something on him from a second-story window, good work) and went missing for a bit at the time.))

((--and I'm out for the night, will try to get back to the threads tomorrow. Back for slow-times but I don't think I can juggle any new threads unless we've talked about it already? Thank you all!))

Comments

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"You've lost me," he says frankly. "You are...a doctor of murderers? Or of the police?" 1830 wasn't a very sophisticated time for psychiatric medicine. Bossuet fights the impulse to probe at the swelling lump on his head. He isn't a, a "psychologically disturbed killer."

He leans forward with as mentally balanced a look as he can muster. "Let me apologize as far as I can, at least, to the reputations of your respected colleagues. And introduce myself? My name is Lègle--formerly of Meaux."

[cook_the_rude]

"I'm Dr. Hannibal Lecter, currently of Baltimore, Maryland, in the United States," the doctor says, offering his hand to shake. "And no, I'm a doctor of the mind, but I sometimes consult with the police about the minds of murderers, which helps to get them caught."

Pause.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Monsieur Lègle."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Enchanté." They shake hands. Bossuet tries not to think about murderers. Or insanity. Or the fact that he's seeing rats with serving-trays and talking about the future and the end of the world. Dr. Lecter probably gets that from a lot of people. "I am enrolled as a law student, unless they've struck my name off the lists again."

[cook_the_rude]

"Why would they do that?" Dr. Lecter asks.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Oh, I never attend classes. Or only often enough to find out I've been struck off. Occasionally I pass a course but never on purpose--I think the learned professors confuse me with someone else sometimes."

He's not in any rush to practice law.

[cook_the_rude]

"Let me guess," the doctor says. "While you are studying, some legacy, older maiden aunt, lenient parent or the like is supporting you?"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Bossuet laughs delightedly. "God, no! If only that were the case! No--my remaining inheritance goes so far as to pay the enrollment fees, and to feed me...oh, it comes to ten good dinners, twenty indifferent, forty bad, every year. I usually feed all my friends at once and then...oh, well. One learns to improvise. Mostly I sell stories of no literary merit to people who print them under other names."

[cook_the_rude]

"You seem to have found a way to not starve," Dr. Lecter says, "and why leave Paris behind and return to Meaux to take a place in society that must be as boring as it is safe?"

Pause.

"Feeding your friends -- there we have something in common."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"I love nothing better--setting aside the political--than a good meal with my friends. My only good luck is that my friends feel the same way. We all owe one another so many meals by now that there's no keeping track. Though I am sadly behind in the ledgers, as my pockets are usually empty. --And Meaux is a deadly place. Have you been there? I have no desire to make my life there, not by arguing some gentleman's case against the old woman who picks up firewood at the edge of his woods."

Yes, so much in common!

[cook_the_rude]

"It's still dreary, a cute little dead town whose inhabitants commute to Paris for work every day, a 'nice' part of the suburban wasteland around the metropolis," Dr. Lecter says. "A place where one would rather not hang dead over a fence."

Pause.

"Good meals is something you can find here, and friends to share them with. At least that is my experience."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

It's hard to imagine making the trip from Meaux to Paris every day, and back again. But Bossuet is too pleased with that turn of phrase, a place where one would rather not hang dead over a fence, to question it. "You understand quite well. My father kept the post office, which I think completes the picture."

A wistful look comes over his face. "Really? I have nothing to buy a meal with, but..." He coughs delicately. "And good company of course cannot be bought. Or so people like to say."

[cook_the_rude]

"I very much enjoy cooking, and sharing meals with friends," the doctor says. "Allow me?"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"I couldn't impose," he says in a voice that means I'd love to, I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast. "--But you cook yourself? What a wonderful talent. Bread falls in the fire when I toast it. I envy you."

((...ahaha, this is great. Dunno how you want to play this; at the moment, Bossuet is also talking to some other people and Enjolras & Gavroche are going to set him up in a room for the night. But I'd love to go somewhere with this?))

[cook_the_rude]

"For that, we have gadgets called toasters," the doctor says. "But yes, I cook myself, and for others. In a manner of speaking. I suppose you do eat meat?"


[[OOC: Parallel realities totally all happen; it's known as Millitime, or one of its effects. We can simply go ahead with the dinner thing without contradicting the other threads. Also, the standing disclaimer linked from Hannibal's user info about nobody being fed people without the mun's explicit request of course will always apply, so no need for you to extricate your charrie from that danger.]]

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Quite happily. I don't take my Rousseau so far as to eat only vegetables." He really does envy this Doctor Lecter. Bossuet has very bad luck in the kitchen, whenever he tries anything. "I hope I don't need to dress for dinner, as this is all I have."

((Awesome. Where would you like to go? And yes, I suppose Bossuet has enough on his plate right now without eating people.))

[cook_the_rude]

"Absolutely not," Dr. Lecter assures him. "Simply give me fifteen minutes in the kitchen here, and I'll put something together. I will have help there, and you surely wouldn't appreciate having to wait two hours for some food."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"You will be a hero to the republic!"

Whatever is happening, exactly--and he's still on the fence about the reality of it--Bossuet approves of this development. What an excellent person to meet.

[cook_the_rude]

Dr. Lecter leaves the bottle while he vanishes.

After as short time, hopefully shortened by the good wine, he returns, with two bowls of fish soup and some bread on a plate.

"There's some meat in the oven getting ready, so I suggest we start with this instead of waiting," he says, setting them on the table.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Lesgle makes good use of the bottle while he waits--but also makes sure there's enough left for at least two glasses. He has a talent for eyeballing a bottle of wine that way.

Tired as he is--and it had been a long day already before he misplaced himself like this--he perks up considerably at the scent of fish soup. "Oh, marvelous. Is it an American dish, or...?" Bossuet's has only a vague notion of America, really.

[cook_the_rude]

Dr. Lecter offers him the bread basket. "Yes," he says. "From the region known as New England. It's called fish chowder. That will keep us busy until the meat is done."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Bossuet tucks into the bread like someone who could really use the meal. "--Very nice. I won't begin to ask how you have this ready so quickly. I will simply marvel. If Persephone had had fish chowder sitting by her instead of pomegranates, we would have winter all year."

He cocks an eyebrow consideringly at his host. "You're not about to tell me this is the underworld, are you?"

[cook_the_rude]

"No," Dr. Lecter says, starting to eat his soup rather more slowly, "only for some people. Not you."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

That's unsettling. Bossuet slows down, for the sake of manners and for the sake of thought. "For you?"

[cook_the_rude]

"Oh no, not for me, either," Dr. Lecter says. "I come here freely from my home in Baltimore. But there are some."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

He shakes his head ruefully (and regrets it, ow). "I have tried to believe in a variety of heavens and hells. Heroic drinking-halls, pearly gates, all of them. This precise combination of features has never occurred to me." Bossuet gestures to a passing rat, and then to the (excellent) soup.