dear_mun | homeless, casually fishing

[He draws himself up, as well, hands clasped behind his back, gaze clear and assertive—if this has to be an interrogation, so be it.] Start and end with whatever it is you don't wish to say. Whatever it is that makes you—[He stops, coming up against the sense of something he's intuited but not yet examined and labeled. What makes you ashamed? What makes you doubt? It's something uncomfortable, in any case, and nebulous.]—shield yourself.

[Or are you shielding him? Either is uncharacteristic.]

[A dull, flat, unreadable stare. His lower lip almost indiscernibly begins its hike toward the bottom of his nose.]

No.

[A world of opposition in that single syllable. Finite, absolute.]

It is, as you stated so concisely, what I don't wish to say. Besides that, I don't see its use to you. I would rather not.

You died in disgrace. In infamy. [His posture unchanging, though his voice becomes sharper and more assertive. He watches every shift of the other man's expression, any change in his eyes. Is this so? Does the other wish to imagine himself redeemed by confessing to someone uncorrupted, but finds himself unable to face the act of confession?]

[Javert's face blackens. A shadow descends over his eyes, a hood as dense as solid brick. In an almost palpable snap, he shuts the emotion in. What results is a peculiar impassiveness, like he were struggling against a gag reflex or an eruption. It is a skin deep impression of disinterest.]

Don't exaggerate my importance, now, [he says smoothly, at odds with his tightened expression. All that moves are his lips, and they part only just enough to allow the words to slip past.] Infamy, indeed! I have no doubt I was forgotten quickly. It would have suit.

Edited 2013-01-11 20:00 (UTC)

Not infamy, then, but disgrace. [Almost enjoying himself, now, eyes sharp and bright. The extremity of the other man's reaction tells him he's made a hit.] Not fallen from the law, or you wouldn't dare speak to me. What other disgrace is there? Tricked, perhaps. Or are there deaths on your hands? [He straightens up further, with his growing interest and confidence, the restrained energy of a hound held back from the hunt in his shoulders. Whatever error this man made in 1832, he'll not make it himself.]

[The blackness takes on a bitter, sharp edge of annoyance. He breaks whatever invisible berth there lay between himself and the younger, He bends forward, their noses almost touching, to the extent that one could see his nostrils flare and eyes pulse.

He grimaces deeply.]

I see what tricks you are pulling. I know them very well! Quit your fishing. I do not appreciate it.

[The last time the other man was this close, he was a sodden corpse. It takes effort to stay standing as he is, to not flinch away from the memory, but he manages it.]

Neither would I, in your place. But we both know you're only buying time. [His voice is low, almost an undertone, pitched only to the man in front of him.] Would you rather I learn from someone else?

[A slow, goggle-eyed blink. Javert bares all of his teeth and gums in a humorless, wolfish grin.]

Who the devil would know but myself? Your chances are slim, I am certain of that. So you would have a troublesome time of it, searching for your answers. And what would you accomplish, if you do figure it out? Is it for the purpose of gloating over me? You think yourself above my station, without all the facts.

[He raises his head. It's a small reprieve, enough room for a breath, at the least. He casts his eyes askew toward the floor, a deep contemplation settling in.]

... Perhaps you are, as it stands currently. Perhaps. For now.

Edited 2013-01-12 03:02 (UTC)

[He does take a step back, now. It gives him more room to judge the whole of the other man's body language and relieves some of the feel of a physical fight that's hanging in the air.]

There. There is what concerns me. [And it's back to crossed arms.] Why would I gloat over you? Because I am alive and you are not? Because of my youth? [A sarcastic inflection to that, almost air quotes. He's a far cry from a young man.] Those have no bearing. I know it, and you know it. If I am above your station, it can only be because you fell below mine.

Fell! [EYEROLL.] Certainly, I fell!

[...He means that literally.

Javert's lip curls. This entire affair leaves a sour taste in his mouth. It's uncomfortable territory. It's not in his nature to pussyfoot around; direct, no holding back, no particular gallantry, no mincing words is his typical style. But what is he to say and do with something he can hardly find the words to express? What a mess this is become! He perceives the trap, grasps it by the teeth and wrenches it forward.

If for nothing else, then for rescuing some sense of his own integrity.]

Well, well!

[He clicks his tongue. All at once, his vowels become clipped and abrupt, unlike the bestial slurring snarls that bare its claws at his most emotional. It is his most professional, uncaring, detached tone, one that his double probably recognizes as the same indifferent tone he uses when delivering a report.]

I drowned, as you already gathered. There was no murder. I was not pushed, toss that out of your head. No surprise ambush. I took no bullets or clunks to the head. I drowned. Straightforward. Unquestionable. Terribly uncomfortable. Unworthy of [okay, perhaps a slight mocking edge seeps into this word,] infamy.

Edited 2013-01-12 05:25 (UTC)

A death from carelessness? [He blinks, eyebrows drawing down, some of the straight, tense line of his shoulders and the tight crossing of his arms loosening.] I have been warned often enough by busybodies. [He has no way of knowing the other man doesn't share his tendency to walk in high places. More than once, people without the sense to keep their thoughts to themselves have warned him he might break his neck one day.]

[He searches the other man's face and his own thoughts, tracing them out loud.] It is not sufficient. You tell me I fall to my death. I slip on the chase or in the dark. It takes that many words. You are embarrassed for a moment, I am warned for a lifetime to watch my step. The exchange is fair. It barely merits emotion.

Careless, are you? [Javert muses glibly, his chin jutting forward like a facial ambush. He has collected himself again - he is aware he sashayed into a trap and treads cautiously.] That is new. Reckless and mad, I have heard. And thorough of course.

[Hm! He shakes off the thought. It us just an odd observation, meanigless in the long run. He takes a seat (the hell did that chair come from?) and pulls his hat low over his face. If it weren't for his naturally taut posture he would look like he was lounging.] I don't know what you mean. I do not recall saying my death bothers me. But take your time. Evidently I am not leaving anywhere else immediately.

[Oh, now the place is providing magic furniture. How anyone stays sane around here, he has no idea. He eyes the chair behind him, which he swears wasn't there thirty seconds ago.] No, thank you, I will remain standing.

[The chair disappears. His expression smooths into flat disapproval. That wasn't a statement he expected a response to.] Valjean was involved in your death, but not responsible. You drowned. In the Seine, if I read unsubtle signs and portents right. [He shrugs. There has to be an answer, of course, but it's not occurring to him. Drowning, not out of carelessness or by anyone else's hand—how else would one manage it?] I don't trust this place's interest. [Maybe it is best to stop. There's a nasty sense of manipulation to all of this, of inevitability that the chairs have reminded him isn't just his own certainty that he can uncover the truth.]

Edited 2013-01-12 18:56 (UTC)

[It is amazing how Javert has the rather quaint ability of holding all the pieces in his hand and not putting them together into a complete picture. The last time this occurred, it was during Javert's direct request for his prompt dismissal from a certain Monsieur Madeleine. Madeleine had all but explicitly revealed himself as Jean Valjean, and Javert could not see it.]

The Seine does happen to be the most prominent body of water in Paris, [supplies the dead man bluntly.] Unless you believe me capable of drowning in a puddle. Or in one of the handsome public fountains situated on the Left Bank. That would take talent!

[He rolls his eyes at the other man. He deserves the jab—though his alternate has as good as confirmed that he did lose his life in that river.] The river usually confines itself to drunkards, suicides, and corpses dead before they enter the water. You've made it clear you were not the latter. [He sincerely doubts his alternate got drunk and toppled into the Seine. And he doesn't even consider the second option a possibility.]

Edited 2013-01-13 02:12 (UTC)

[A brief glimmer appears from beneath the brim of Javert's hat. He folds his lean limbs into the chair and sinks his fingers into his side-whiskers in a reverie. One gets the distinct feeling that behind those shadows, he is watching his double very closely, a cold, calm, unreadable expression on his face. He taps the fingers of his free hand against the armrest, like the mastermind of a complex plot.

The ghost is listening, watching, and waiting. He has no intention of aiding Javert. He does not directly engage the younger man. Instead, he mutters slowly, more to his own cravat than to his 'conversation partner,' impassively remarking on the other deaths he'd seen and experienced around the Seine.]

Stupid boys and dimwitted sailors, on occasion, are known to take a brilliant public plunge off the quais and cornices lining the banks, thinking they can defeat the rapids. Utter idiocy. They wash up with the sewer filth downstream within the day's end.

[You do realize that Javert has no obligation to confirm or deny whatever supposition you decide... if you decide to continue with this charade.]

Edited 2013-01-13 03:37 (UTC)

[At the sound of the other man's words, the distant, impassive description of how fatal the Seine can be, the light, measured tapping of his fingers on the arm of his chair, Javert suddenly grows cold. The river kills. They know this, and they know where it kills most effectively.]

[The other man drowned without a fight, and carelessness did not play a part.]

[It's a long moment before he responds. When he does, he doesn't look at the other man, instead staring off at an angle. He speaks as though to himself, though the words have the weight and precision of being carefully chosen.]

The highest grade of idiocy. To throw one's life away on a gesture.

Fishing again! [cries a mildly exasperated Javert, recalling the ironic little singsong he used earlier in the conversation. This conversation is wearing him thin; and now, so close to total revelation, he simply wants it to be done. Most striking of all is his alert and attentive stare, fiercely piercing the younger's left-of-center, uneasy glance.] Your taste for Seine-water fishing is concerning. Vile waters. I will not forget the stench.

[He slides his arms across his chest, his two fists stuck deep into the recesses of his armpits. Yet still, he maintains the defiant stare. With a powerful and withering glance, he dares Javert to continue and finish this.]

You're on my trail. I see that you have two paths now. What do you want? Are you resuming this interrogation? Or aren't you? Bite the carrot, or let it be.

[You're better off letting it be. But he knows best of all he is the most difficult person to dissuade from the hunt for information. It is a lost cause.]

Edited 2013-01-13 04:34 (UTC)

[He turns his head to meet the other's fierce gaze. His own eyes are almost blank, a flatness tinged with the faint not-yet-properly felt hurt of someone whose world has just tilted on its axis.]

Forgive me. I've taken this conversation too far. Your business is your own.

[The other man has to recognize his cowardice, in asking for permission to back down, to avoid hearing what he's been so keen on ferreting out. But he'll let his pride suffer his alternate's contempt.]

Fine.

[Javert won't argue that. The man is at his wit's end; he as good as knows, now. The tension between Javert's shoulders give an imperceptible sag. He presses his thin lips together grimly, and draws what appears to be a journal or a planner out of his pocket. He opens it up and buries his attentions deeply within its well-worn pages.]

You know the way out, [he instructs at a clip without looking up.] You are welcome to it.

Edited 2013-01-13 05:06 (UTC)

[The dismissal leaves him both relieved and ashamed. Acting as though the other man is a superior is a farce, but a convenient one. It allows them both to fall into habitual patterns of behavior and to part without either, on the surface, losing face.]

[He shows himself out. As much as one can when one's been talking in a quiet open corner of the multiverse. His immediate object: To think as little about his conversation as possible.]

[Too little, too late. As soon as the man disappears from his line of sight, Javert heaves a long, hissing breath. He lets his chin droop to his chest.]

Damn his questions! Who the devil does he think he is fooling?

[At least now Javert will have his time to build up his strength again for their next unsettling encounter - which will occur, he has no shadow of a doubt in his mind. What next in this hell he's found? An encounter with a naive and excessive Valjean, fresh from his mayorship and ready to bestow fortunes upon the impoverished many of a placeless vortex?

Good God, he hopes not. Unbearable.

Javert, left to his own solitary devices, rises to his feet with his notes journal in hand and strides away in the opposite direction, all while busily jotting down observations from today's adventure in perfect, sharp script.

Until next they met.]

homeless, casually fishing

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The airport Internet sucks

Re: The airport Internet sucks

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A facial ambush XD Ambushed by SIDEBURNS. Possibly by nostrils.

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