(no subject)

[street_sparrow]

A very small figure darts through the front door at high speed, vanishes under the nearest table, and stays there.

Oddly, for those who can detect these things, there's no perceptible fear coming from him. Just a sort of wary, calm, waiting.

Comments

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Bossuet is in the middle of getting happy hour ready, but he catches sight of the small arrival. Hmmm. Carrying his cocktail shaker with him, he approaches the table and leans against it non-chalantly without looking under it. "Expecting any company?" He speaks very softly. Generally, people who run into buildings and hide under table don't want excessive attention called to their presence.

[street_sparrow]

"Might be", a small voice emerges from under the table. "Is this the Cafe Musain?"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

He pauses for half a second before going back to working the cocktail shaker. "It is not. Should it be?"

Bossuet missed Gavroche's earlier entrance as a youngster a few weeks ago, but he's starting to get an idea.

[street_sparrow]

"I thought so. But the furniture's all wrong." He peers out. "If it's not, then no."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Are you looking for anyone in particular?"

[street_sparrow]

"Them", he says darkly, peering out.

Bossuet will probably not understand this at all, unless he got a late delivery of a certain wanted poster.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Nope, he hasn't a clue. And he's not at all sure what to do with a stray child in Milliways. He scratches his head. "Well--if they are looking for you at the Musain, you won't be found. But would you like to come behind the bar? It's more comfortable than under a table."

[street_sparrow]

He thinks about this, head tilting in a way that makes it very clear where his old nickname came from.

"All right. Are you the tavern-keeper?"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

That's a familiar gesture. Oh, lord. "I'm not the tavern-keeper, alas. But today I'm fixing the drinks."

Pause. "...Do you want a lemon ice?"

[street_sparrow]

"Yes, please!" he says more cheerfully, crawling out from under the table and rummaging in his pocket for... two francs, as it turns out, and best not to ask where he got them.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"No, no. My treat." He leads the way back to the bar, and rummages around. Crushed ice he already has, and simple sugar syrup, and--aha, the lemons. "Who should I be keeping an eye out for, if they do come in?"

[street_sparrow]

"You know the Thenardiers?" he asks, watching the lemon ice preparation.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Thénardier? No--no, I don't think so." He's stirring up the juice and the syrup, ready to pour over the ice. Thank goodness for Bar and her willingness to provide ice that's already been broken up.

[ostro_goth]

A small grey cat joins him.

[street_sparrow]

"Hello, minou", he greets the cat softly, stretching out a hand.

[ostro_goth]

The cat nudges his hand, and rubs its cheek against it.

[street_sparrow]

He scratches the cat's head, trying to get a purr out of it.

[ostro_goth]

The cat does purr, but is quickly joined by a black one which seems to be curious what the purring is about.

[street_sparrow]

Jean-Philippe looks at them, then peers out from under the table to see where all these cats are coming from - while still petting both cats.

[ostro_goth]

There are two more cats, curled up with a red-headed toddler on a rug nearby.

[street_sparrow]

He beams at the other boy, and comes out from under the table.

"Egil!"

[ostro_goth]

The little fellow blinks awake.

"Onipip!" Egil declares, remembering the older boy's name and face.

[street_sparrow]

"That's right", he says, smiling. "And you've got more friends."

[ostro_goth]

"Ats!" Egil declares, proudly.

They're all his friends

[street_sparrow]

"That's right. What are their names?"