tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Default)
Evening: two dark figures appear at the edge of the woods, deep in consultation, heads bent close together. As they pass from woods to meadow, their voices carry through the gathering dusk: but what are they saying?

"Are there any more of those left?" Lesgle leans over and plucks the bag from Joly's hands and fumbles about with it a bit. "I think we might have finished them...oh, hullo, look! It's Milliways again! We're home! And...'oh, hullo, look' again, it's Feuilly, out walking his dogs! Harry Percy's dogs? Whose dogs would you say they are, Jolllly my dear? At any rate, a lovely welcoming sight, for two heroes returned to their almost-but-not-really-at-all-native soil! Say! SAY! FEUILLY! GUESS WHERE WE'VE BEEN! --He'll never guess, poor fellow; we'll have to tell him about it. Come, my dear, let's catch up to him. Oh, mind your step in the dark--"
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Default)
So that was strange. Joly hears about it first, of course, because Joly hears about everything first. (Unless, by some odd chance, someone else happens to run into Lesgle before Joly; but statistically speaking, Joly is the most likely person to be at hand at any given moment.)

But even a fair amount of laughter and shared head-scratching hadn't quite sorted Lesgle out, and so he goes to someone who might be considered an expert: Bahorel. Surely an expert on, well, people who like to start fights? And who also somehow are friends with Feuilly?

He brings a bottle of wine along to Bahorel's room, of course.
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Consider your life consider your choices)
"Joly? Jolllly?" Lesgle trips over a cat on his way up to the laboratory level of their little appartement garni, and sits down to rub his shin pathetically on the stairs. "Joly? Bahorel has asked me to name a second."

He waits for protests.
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Good cheer)
If ever there were a time for a deus ex machina, this would be it.

The situation is dire. The police are being summoned; he and Courfeyrac, having raided a lingerie shop and destroyed its furnishings, will doubtless be found out as drunk, disorderly, and armed with pistols from the Resistance of the second world war. They may also be found out as dead and fictional, or perhaps merely deranged. The situation is dire, and Lesgle can't stop laughing. He plucks a filmy grey scrap from his face and waves it over his head.

"Vive la France, vive la République," he shouts, still laughing. "Vive Paris! Et vive--" Vive Courfeyrac, and vive Victor Hugo, and vive the whole damned lot of them.

Suddenly the tocsin that has begun to wail outside the shop cuts out, leaving his voice improbably loud--in the woods. Laigle sits up blinking. A small avalanche of grey lace tumbles down to the ground.

tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Default)
(After his kidnapping at the hands of student revolutionaries, Captain Picard woke in their den of iniquity. Or, if you prefer, Lesgle's friends came and got him tucked away sensibly into bed with some hot tea.)

The young man Joly--fictional or not, hallucination or hologram or what--has turned out to be both friendly and helpful. He hasn't disguised his aim of keeping Picard quietly resting during the course of an illness; but neither has he hindered Picard's efforts to determine the cause of his current situation and to contact his ship. In fact, once Picard drew up a list of tools he needed, Joly cheerfully offered to go find them.

...Picard should probably be handling his new ally with more circumspection, he thinks. But Joly's frank good cheer and willingness to contemplate his own fictional nature have proved quite disarming.

He hears someone at the door--presumably Joly, coming back from the infirmary--and throws away his growing pile of disposable tissues. Picard doubts that he's imagining his entire identity. But he can't deny that he has an absolutely miserable cold.


Mar. 7th, 2015 06:12 pm
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Default)
So. Bahorel had advised--Staub's finest and tightest, a notion that had met Bossuet's unvoiced support. And then word had come that Musichetta, through unknowable feminine channels, had been returned to a state of--well, call it clemency. All of this when Lesgle was conveniently free of classes, so it was no trouble at all to murmur something to Joly about longing for the noble sights of Meaux and vanish for a few days, and then to pass another day or two with Grantaire, with Bahorel, with a remarkable poet or perhaps visionary he'd met at Bahorel's place--

One week, he thinks, for Joly and Musichetta to get reacquainted, and another week for them to remember why they keep their own rooms, and then say another day or two for good measure.

He manages to be arriving at the Musain just as Joly is leaving, and gives him a quick, friendly, searching look. "On your way home?"

((After this.))
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (All suave like)
What drink do you match with bizarre and disturbing news? Absinthe says Here, you'll need this a little too obviously; wine isn't strong enough. Gin can make a man mean. Rum? Rum's cheerful. Brandy is always a welcome present...hmm. And yet...

So Lesgle arrives at Grantaire's door with a bottle in his hand, and lump of approximately the dimensions of a brick tucked into his coat. He'd thought about not bringing the book. If he didn't bring the book there was a fair chance Grantaire would forget the entire conversation.

It had seemed cowardly.

On the other hand, he's not going to volunteer the book unless Grantaire asks.

He reaches Grantaire's room and begins to knock. It could take a while.
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (All suave like)
Lesgle and Joly always share everything--except when they don't. And sometimes Lesgle even makes an effort not to share with Joly. (Not always successfully: see, for example, various head-colds and stomach upsets, as well as the Moth Problem of '29 and the Sitting in Unfortunately Melted Chocolate Incident of '31 and the many many instances of spilled beverages and regrettable hangovers.)

But setting that parenthesis aside: sometimes Lesgle makes an effort not to share with Joly, particularly when it comes to bad moods. And what with one thing and another, he can feel one coming on. Actually, no, it's not just a case of "feeling a bad mood coming on."

Lesgle wants to break things, kick things over, and punch things very hard.

In other words, it's a Bahorel mood. So that's where he goes now instead of the Blue Cherub Room.
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Thinky)
It's long been a refrain in Lesgle's life: That could have gone better.

There was a reason they'd decided that Joly should approach Teja. Several reasons, even! Such as Joly probably won't turn a simple conversation into a sarcastic squabble, for instance.

Then again, it could also have gone worse. Lesgle tells himself that as he opens the door to the absurd cherub room and goes to wash his face. He could use some freshening up after a Happy Hour shift: he smells like a bar.

The mandrake goes back into its birdcage when he's done. "You do like seeing the world," he murmurs to it. "Whatever other plants may say."
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Default)
Lesgle and Bahorel had parted with an unspoken understanding that they needed some time apart to wash up and eat a decent meal and put on a fresh shirt and not see one another's annoying face after being locked up in the same room for 24 hours. At least, that was Lesgle's understanding. He's just assuming Bahorel feels the same.

Naturally, "some time apart" doesn't have to mean more than a few hours. It's not long before Lesgle's mood is restored by the company of kittens and Joly, and from there it's not long before he and Joly are putting on a pot of coffee (and pulling out a bottle of wine) in preparation for a little Amis meeting.
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Sensual leaning)
The kittens are adorable. Of course they are adorable; a kitten always is. They don't seem especially wormy or flea-bitten either, to Laigle's eye, but he's leaving questions of veterinary care up to Joly. It seems like a natural division of labor. (Not that he's comparing Joly's medical skills to those of a veterinary surgeon, a horse-doctor. But Joly at least knows what questions to ask.)

So Lesgle is engaged in adoring a kitten as it taps and pounces at loose threads on his waistcoat, while Joly immerses himself in a reading of their new volume on cat care, when a thought strikes him. Hmm. "Say, Joly. Has Enjolras seen our new room? Has he seen the cherubim?" Obviously he hasn't seen the kittens.

Surprising Enjolras is an entertainment in and of itself. Mild, to be sure, but nonetheless--an entertainment.
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Default)
"Lovely day for a stroll in the woods," says Bossuet. "Nothing I like better than wandering under trees in a cold, raw November drizzle, with just a hint of a knife-like wind at my neck. --No, no, it's all right, it isn't really raining and there is such a thing as an umbrella, and we are servants to a high calling. That of science. Or cartography."

Don't mind him, he's just grumbling. He's never really minded the rain before and he doesn't really mind it now. He hefts his satchel up to his shoulder and gives Joly a questioning look: ready to head out?
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Halloween - blanket ghost very scary)
A nice cozy drink in bed before going to sleep is a wonderful luxury in theory; less wonderful when an accident with a mandrake results in red wine all over the sheets.

Recriminations give way to negotiations. Result: Joly takes the bloody-looking laundry out to the hall for the rat staff to sort out (and perhaps goes to fetch more wine if he's so inclined), while Lesgle brings down fresh bedding from the inconveniently-high closet shelf and makes the bed.

Of course, by the time Joly gets back, Lesgle has wandered off-mission. He has a blanket draped over his gangly frame and is swooping around preparing to shout BOO as soon as the door opens. What? It's almost midnight, so it's almost Halloween! He's just being seasonal.


Sep. 2nd, 2014 08:51 am
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (All suave like)
Bossuet does wonder, in a cheerfully speculative sort of way, just what can go wrong while he and Joly attempt to map the Milliways grounds. Even if they stay out of the deeper parts of the forest--and even if they don't go up into the mountains yet--there's bound to be something.

It will be an adventure. Joly has asked the bar for whatever it is that he needs, and probably a good few extra odds and ends as well; for his part, Lesgle asks for a canteen of water, a flask of brandy, a pair of sandwiches, and an extra set of writing things. It seems like a reasonable assortment of supplies.

They rejoin at the door and he opens it for Joly. "Shall we?"
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Default)
"And it's Joly's room now, you see?" Bossuet clears his throat and says it again a little louder. "So whatever tricks Fate likes to play, they can go somewhere else. No more room disappearing when I take a walk, no more lights not working, no more hallways defying physical laws, no more curtains turning into cabbage leaves." Fair enough, that last hasn't happened yet, but it wouldn't surprise Bossuet if it did.


These things are so much less likely to happen to Joly's room. And now--or so he hopes to convince both Bar and Fatality--the room is Joly's.

He comes back to the table with another key and hands it over. "It calls itself number 31, but the numbers haven't been arranged by anyone with an inclination towards order. Shall we?"
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (More serious like)
Death comes late for its appointment with Bossuet. How else could you explain the bullet clipping his cheek, the saber skimming his shoulder, the guard who collapsed on him with his rifle and bayonet slipping slickly from his fingers, its point on the top button of Bossuet's coat?

Two, three feet away, Joly has stopped shivering. Bossuet had wrapped the coat around his friend like a blanket a little while ago, but it was not much of a luxury, and for his part Bossuet has not the luxury of believing that Joly's stillness comes from comfort. Finally yet another surge of guards shakes the barricade. Bossuet grips his bayonet as the paving stones shift beneath his feet. He loses his balance, catches it and loses it again with his blade in a man's gut, pushes, scrambles, chokes suddenly with another man's bayonet in his throat.


The door that opens into Milliways opens not into the Bar but into a utility closet. After the last hours of the barricade, fighting a mop and bucket is an exhausting, rather than amusing, anticlimax. But Laigle's not very surprised when he gets the door open and sees the Bar. There's an old jacket in the closet, something you might throw on before stepping outside for a quick chore in cold weather, or for a smoke: something you might throw on so you don't horrify people by walking into a room with your shirt wet and red from the neck down.

It all looks much the same there in the Bar. You wouldn't think two years had passed. Maybe they haven't. Maybe--Bossuet hiccups on a yelp of suppressed humorless laughter--maybe he's come back to before he left. Or to before he first came here. How would you know? He can sit himself down and have a chat about gunpowder and germ theory--

It's a good thing the place is empty, or near to it. Bossuet leans against the back wall in his borrowed coat. When his breath steadies, when he can go through the proper motions of leaning on the Bar and greeting it with good cheer, he asks for a key. Room 31 again. With every turn of the hallways another memory of the place comes back, so much clearer than what he had managed to dredge up in France.

(Courfeyrac had arrived, chipper and hungry and dead, and Bossuet had offered light condolences on the loss of his hat. Now the words cling together with others inside his head, little burrs of double memory. Enjolras, here: "He told me, 'At a conservative estimate: a ninety percent reduction of the risk of contagion of cholera.' Ninety percent." Combeferre, in 1830, staring meditatively at the ceiling: "It's a plausible mechanism. It's been argued once or twice before. And I read Bassi's work on silkworms...he calls it a 'vegetable parasite,' but whatever its nature it is a microscopic organism, responsible for the disease that nearly ruined our silk industry. Twenty years ago, I think? But how to convince them at the hospital...")

Among so many adhesions of memory, the familiarity of Lesgle's room barely registers. He peels off the clothes that can't be salvaged--which is all of them--and falls asleep face-first on the bed without bothering to wash.
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Working hard)
On the floor of a Paris café, Bossuet blinks up at a square of newsprint: The rule of law is interrupted, that of force has begun. In the situation in which we are placed, obedience ceases to be a duty. Next to him, someone begins swearing in a tone of profound relief. "Christ, Lesgle, I thought you were dead. You were dead, I'd swear to it. --No, I wouldn't, not to Combeferre, he'll shoot me on the spot for falling asleep when I was watching the wounded. Don't tell Joly either, will you? My God, I was sure you were dead, don't do that again..."

"I'm sorry for straying from you, Boucher," he says absently. "But you can see I've returned to the flock. At least long enough to leave it again properly through the pasture gate and not by ascending to the heavens--"

"Who are you calling Butcher, ingrate? It's Bouchard. And you're not going anywhere, you idiot, you're staying here--"

"I hear guns."

"Yes." The medical student sobers. "Yes, the fighting has begun in earnest, now."

"I can stand on my feet, I can discharge a gun. Myself, I discharge from your care."

Lesgle finds the fighting, finds Bahorel who nearly knocks him over in a grinning embrace and then hauls him to the barricade, finds Joly who fusses at him when he has a moment. If Lesgle's mind seems to be elsewhere, they blame the injury to his head. Or not: people have time for one another's thoughts in little bursts, and in between they don't. Lesgle himself only begins to place himself days later: "Lafayette embraced him on a balcony of the Palais Royale," Enjolras tells them, breaking the news. "A constitutional monarchy! As if such a thing were not an utter contradiction."

Bossuet blinks, hears the same voice in another room. Blinks again and it's a dream. Closes his eyes a moment and can't decide.

Three days later, when he's pulled together something like a coherent story of his time away from Earth, it's Combeferre he turns to first. Combeferre is a man who smiles at ghost stories: smiles a reserved and serious smile, holding back his opinions unless you ask. Combeferre will at least hear this story out.
tire_moi_mes_bottes: (Default)
The rule of law is interrupted, that of force has begun. In the situation in which we are placed, obedience ceases to be a duty.

Papers had published that in the face of oppressive new royal decrees. Lesgle had been staring with approval for some time at a copy nailed to the wall above his head. Yes, very good. Today, criminal ministers have violated the law. We are excused from obeying. Yes. That was how people rediscovered their rights.

Which was the sort of thing Enjolras might say, which reminded Lesgle that he ought to be with Enjolras, which reminded Lesgle that he had no idea what he was doing lying on the floor of a café and staring at a scrap of newsprint. Carefully, he sat up. A painful experience. Had he had enough to drink already that he would be suffering from a hangover? Well, possibly, but a careful exploration with his fingertips revealed a bandage around his head and a tender damp lump under the bandage.

This was a sort of thing familiar to Lesgle. He had once been struck from above with a falling flowerpot, for example--and speaking of flowerpots, hadn't he and a crowd of others been throwing things like that at the soldiers? Yes! Yes, that was it, he and a mix of students and working-men had started throwing chunks of paving-stones at the gendarmerie, paving-stones, bricks, flowerpots, rubbish. Some energetic lads had scrambled up on high to look for roof-tiles. Bahorel had found half a broken chamberpot and had winged it along magnificently at the head of a red-faced soldier. And he, Bossuet, had sent an old turnip after it. And then--

Hm. Had Joly been walking him somewhere? Joly and Bahorel, yes, Bahorel's waistcoat was red and smeared with blood--an embarrassing accident, Lesgle's fault, they had been laughing about it. And then--

Well, it wasn't very clear, but then again it wasn't very important either. He was in a café now, a man with a bandaged-up leg was snoring away next to him, and a fellow from Joly's anatomy lectures was sitting at the bar with his head pillowed on his arms. What was his name, Boucher? Clearly he had been left in charge of the wounded. Did Lesgle remember him and Joly talking together over the top of his head? Medical mumbo-jumbo, and he had been rattling off legalese back at them. Then what? Well, it didn't matter. Lesgle did not feel obliged to consider himself still one of the wounded. He was excused from obeying medical orders; he would find his barricade again.

He picked up the coat which had been folded carefully under his head, and the battered hat next to it, and tiptoed with elaborate care past the sleeping medical student. A note slipped out of his hat unseen: Bossuet you ass, stay put and listen to Bouchard, you've been knocked on the head enough for one revolution and we don't need to worry about chasing you around Paris. Vive la République. Jolllly.

Lesgle could hear guns, and walked towards them.
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