World: Subreality
Scene: Nowhere in particular. I don't pretend to understand any of it. I take no responsibility.
Players: Grantaire, Chantal, Prouvaire, Manon, Feuilly, herself = Abby; everybody else = Laura
Laura says, "I did field research yesterday."
Abby says, "Oh?"
Laura says, "Maman's favorite college professor and his significant other came to visit."
Abby chuckles.
Laura says, "Really funny to have a guy yelling, "Honey, where'd you put my suitcase?" and Roger answers. I just grinned the whole time."
Abby grins.
Laura says, "'course, I had an excuse. Didn't get more than an hour of sleep the night before."
Abby meeps.
Laura says, "It was the last night of camp. had to say g'bye to everyone."
Abby says, "Ah."
Laura says, "Anyway, it amused the hell out of me."
Abby smiles.
Abby says, "R was rambling in my head this evening. Again. You'd think the idiot wanted to write his memoirs, or something."
Laura says, "Poor dear."
Abby says, "Poor, bent boy. Yes."
Laura says, "Boy. Ha."
Abby says, "Well he was to begin with."
Laura says, "No, Marcelin. You are NOT going to write 1872. Not with my fingers."
Abby says, "Good God. Mark, you can't Do that."
Abby says, "You guys were cute at fifty. At sixty you'll embarrass us all."
Enjolras asks irritably, "Why the hell not? You silly girls have been forcing us into all sorts of strange years. Why not '72?"
Laura says, "You've been listening to John Lennon. Go the hell back to sleep."
Abby says, "Because. --Yes. Do."
Enjolras pouts. It defies description. "But I want to. What do you think, cher?"
Grantaire thinks we'd best leave well enough alone, actually.
Combeferre clears his throat. "I think it should be out of the question. Really, Marcelin."
Enjolras sighs. "Awww, c'mon. Why not?"
Grantaire nudges him. "They don't have to know everything."
Laura says, "Sixty, dear, is way too old to be cute. You're supposed to have been dead for Years!"
Courfeyrac puts in, "It's embarrassing enough in '48. I don't see why you want to go grey."
Abby says, "I mean, if you still want to be Cute, why not stick to comfortable middle age? There's decades you haven't even touched yet. Why '72, for heaven's sake?"
Enjolras shrugs. "It's better than dying," he says, then claps a hand over his mouth. "I did NOT say that! It was the typist!"
Manon agrees entirely.
Grantaire grins at him. "Sure."
Laura rolls her eyes. "Because I love Sgt. Pepper, that's why. Idiot. 64 is not a romantic age. That's why they chose it."
Abby laughs.
Enjolras frowns. "I'm not a romantic person. You knew that. You all knew that."
Grantaire says, "Of course you're not, dear." Exchanges a look with Laura.
Laura hides a smile behind her hand. "Right. Sure, Mark. Keep fooling yourself."
Abby says, "And if you don't want romantic, why not stick to having fits over the unexpected quasi-stepdaughter? Hmmm?"
Jean Prouvaire says, "Or, God forbid, go back to ranting and dying young."
"Well," Enjolras says, a little sheepishly, "I didn't used to be romantic." He turns on Abby slightly. "I don't want to have fits over her, because that's entirely expected! Why write it at all if you all know what's going to happen anyway?"
Grantaire pokes Prouvaire rather hard.
Combeferre hmmms. "Dying young. Now there's an idea."
Courfeyrac wrinkles his nose. "No, thanks. I'd rather lose my hair."
Enjolras spreads his hands. "See, Courfeyrac, you're singing the song already!"
Jean Prouvaire ows. "Someone else should have a shot at it, I should think. No pun intended."
Laura baps Enjolras hard.
Abby says, "Boys."
Enjolras asks, as if he is innocent, "What?"
Combeferre whistles. "I'm not doing anything, Abby."
Abby personally would like to see what Enjy says when he finds out he's going to be a grandfather-in-all-but-law. But that's just her. :)
Abby shoots a look at 'ferre. "Don't even start."
Enjolras blinks several times. "Well. Could she at least take a bath?"
Laura smacks her forehead. "Marcelin, you are an utter idiot. And Javert thought that Marius was a dolt."
Grantaire raises a brow. "Whenever she gets a chance between throwing up and being threatened, I'm sure she will."
Abby says, "Javert hadn't MET Enjy. or he'd think Marius was pretty sharp for a lawyer-boy."
Marius resembles that. :P
Enjolras asks, "Will she be less hostile than that nephew of yours? He still refuses to learn the difference between a shrimp fork and a lobster fork."
Abby says, "OUT, Pontmercy."
Robert sighs.
Grantaire says, "Now you're being silly."
Laura asks, "Who, me?"
Enjolras fumes. "I am Not Silly!"
Grantaire mocks, "Who, you?"
Abby sighs.
Grantaire says, "Robert's hostile because he's afraid for his virtue. Valeska likes you."
Laura glares at the R. "Don't you start with me, boy. I have fingers, too, and I can type. Want some trouble?"
Grantaire heys. "I'm the one who's trying to reason with your revolutionary!"
Abby says, "Always a bad idea, R."
Enjolras blinks at Grantaire. "His virtue? What on earth are you going on about? And as for that girl... I suppose it's too late now to do anything but mend what you can."
Robert just hides in the corner. Jeanne is nowhere to be seen, or he'd be clinging to her apron.
Grantaire says, "It's not her fault."
Laura shakes her head. "Reason? With him? Where have you been the last few decades?"
Enjolras dithers slightly. "I know that. And you should help her. But..."
Feuilly looks on, shakes his head, and ducks out to go for coffee with Domi, and possibly his therapist.
Grantaire says, "But what? Since I know you'll never tell me ICly, you impossible man."
Jeanne tries to catch Paulin in the doorway, but does not succeed.
Feuilly pokes his head back in. "Oh. Jeanne. Thank God. Someone else with sense. Coffee?"
Abby nobly refrains from making Remarks, because poor Paulin has enough to deal with.
Enjolras frowns. "Excuse me? Who's impossible here? I don't think it was me. As for your daughter, it just scares me. God, what if the child ends up like half your family?"
Grantaire glares. He learned from the best. "Thank you very much."
Jeanne looks from her quailing son, who seems on the verge of noticing her, to her poor embattled brother. She throws up her hands, says in an almost Lower-East-Side Jewish accent, "He got himself into it," and, nodding to Feuilly, goes to the door.
Abby excuses herself a moment to sputter with amusement. Returns momentarily. "Have a nice time, kids."
"Oh, you know what I mean," is Enjolras's apology. "That's why I don't mind helping. I just hope we can help enough."
Feuilly peers at Robert. "You're welcome to come along."
Laura taps her foot. "Come on, Marcelin. You can resolve the whole nature vs. nurture thing in one swell foop, not to mention fulfilling the Claudia requirement."
Grantaire refuses to be mollified. "Enough to what, make her fit for society, is that it?"
Abby says, "God help us."
Cecily looks up. "Who? What? Me? Oh... heh."
Enjolras straightens his shoulders. "Look at her mother. Do you want that to happen to your own flesh-and-blood if you can possibly prevent it?"
Robert edges toward the door. "Really?"
Jeanne shoots a brief, disapproving look at Feuilly, but says nothing about the whole Robert situation.
"Keep you out of trouble," Feuilly says cheerfully.
Abby takes Alisse aside, and asks her please kindly to distract Robin so the elder generation can have a little time to themselves?
Grantaire expostulates, "What d'you mean, look at her mother? What's that supposed to mean?"
Abby winces. "R. Don't go there."
Alisse, obligingly, appears out of nowhere, takes Robert by the collar, and kisses him soundly. It has the effect of an icepick to the frontal lobe. He follows her to parts unknown with glazed eyes.
Abby says, "Bless you, my girl."
Feuilly shrugs, and escorts Jeanne out.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, have you been drinking again?" Enjolras asks in extreme exasperation. "Are you proud of the fact that your daughter sells her body to survive? Do you want anyone else to be forced into that horrible fate?"
Jean Prouvaire asks Courfeyrac, "Didn't he learn that line from you?"
Courfeyrac is a bit dumbstruck by this whole thing. "I don't know, did he?"
Joly and Bossuet assume correctly that their presence would only confuse matters. Therefore, they happily distract each other and 'chetta.
Grantaire stares dourly at Enjolras. "Would you be? --I don't know what that has to do with Jolanta, who damn sure did her best-- and where, pray tell, do you get off telling me my parental duty, Monsieur Only-Till-They-Hit-Puberty?"
Abby says, "Ouch! Grantaire!"
Grantaire says, "Shut up, typist."
Abby says, "I will not!"
Laura glares at Grantaire. "That was incredibly mean. How could you? Poor Marcelin!"
Christian pokes his head in, and blinks. "Oh dear. Just like old times."
Laura doesn't let him talk right now. He needs a hug or two, which, fortunately, Combeferre is willing to supply.
Grantaire scowls.
Combeferre shakes his head. "Not just like old times. More the other way around, Chris love."
Christian snuggles Marcelin. "It's all right."
Grantaire retreats to a corner to pretend he's not panged with remorse, which he doesn't do very well.
Eventually, Enjolras is able to speak again. "I never hurt anyone. I never wanted to be a parent, you know that, and you know damn well I'm not one. As for --" He pauses. Laura tries to tell him that it's okay to shush, but, as always, that's a losing battle. "I don't bloody well like women. You know that damn well, too. What in the hell is wrong with being able to deal with children? You know me, damn it. You know I love at least one of my sisters. Why are you throwing that in my face, now, of all times?"
Grantaire looks at the floor. "I don't know. I'm sorry."
Combeferre leans on the wall, and notes to Christian, "When he gets his voice back, he gets it back with a vengeance."
Christian blinks, and blinks again. "Doesn't he, though?"
Enjolras is still quite hurt. "I don't think 'I'm sorry' is enough right now, cher."
Laura takes Combeferre aside for an entirely different reason. "'ferre, love, has anyone ever told you that you remind them of Skywise?"
Abby considers glaring at Grantaire, but decides that would be overkill, and goes to check on Feuilly et al.
Grantaire looks up in mute misery. Shrugs, very slightly.
Jeanne is studiously not thinking about her brother.
Feuilly does his best to distract her. "So... well... how have you been?"
Enjolras studies him for a few moments, then looks away and considers drinking for the first time in a few years.
Jeanne sighs. "You know, don't you? Cold, hungry, busy, tired, overworked, underpaid, needing help, and never getting it."
Jean Prouvaire has been quiet, sitting on a table. Now he speaks up, albeit diffidently. "Well, what do you want him to say, Enjolras?"
Grantaire stands up, not looking at anyone. "Never mind. I'm going."
Enjolras looks at Prouvaire without much change in expression. The effect would be daunting if it were not so brief. He turns again to Grantaire. "I don't want you gone."
Laura snorts. "Damn fine way you have of showing it, too."
Abby leaves the Normal People to their devices, and flits back over to frown at them both.
Grantaire says nothing.
Combeferre inquires delicately, "Jehan, mon ami, aren't you supposed to be, well, dead?"
Feuilly peers into his coffee cup, which, period notwithstanding, is styrofoam. "Yes. I thought that might be it."
Laura advises Grantaire, "Don't make him plead. Not in front of all of these people. Becaues he will, and he will feel awful about it later."
Jean Prouvaire laughs a bit. "Splitting hairs, Etienne?"
Combeferre shakes his head. "Just trying to clear a few things up."
Jeanne stirs her coffee with one of those little red plastic stirrers. Are they in a greasy spoon? Probably. "And how about you? Any better since '48?"
Enjolras asks plaintively, "Where are you going?"
Grantaire shoves his hands in his pockets, which was a more endearing attitude when he was twenty-five. "What should I do, then?" bleakly. "I'm sorry, Marcelin. I shouldn't have said it, I had no right. What more can I say?"
Jean Prouvaire sighs, and shakes his head, with the air of a tolerant elder brother.
Laura turns briefly pink, lets Marcelin say, "That's enough," and bestow a kiss before hastily pulling a black curtain, just in case.
Feuilly grins ruefully. "Haven't had to worry about any of that since '48, no," mildly.
Christian looks to Combeferre. "They confuse me."
Jeanne looks up at Paulin with a half-grin. "It's easier being dead."
Combeferre tsk tsks. "That's horrible, cherie. I don't see why." He wonders whether Mathilde is in bed yet or not.
Feuilly agrees, "There's that." And puts out a hand to touch her cheek, briefly. "But not as much fun."
Abby squints at Feuilly. "You must've been talking to your alter ego, love."
"Fun?" Jeanne asks incredulously. "What's fun about not knowing whether starvation or freezing will get you first?"
Christian puts his/her arms around Combeferre's neck. "It probably comes of wearing these nasty trousers all the time."
Laura realizes belatedly that Enjolras is talking somewhere. She sighs.
Feuilly glances down. "I'm sorry, that was tactless of me."
Abby blinks at Chantal. "My God, she's finally learned how to flirt."
Combeferre shrugs slightly. "That's possible. We could go home and test the hypothesis."
Chantal agrees, "We could."
Laura grins and points at Combeferre. "How could she avoid it, with EYF wandering around the house?"
Abby grins. "That is true."
Jeanne shakes her head. "It doesn't matter to you. You don't have anything to do anymore except watch, right? I wish to God that was all I had to do. But no, on top of everything else, the typists think I have time to help my brother in his domestic disputes -- if anything about either of those two idiots will ever be domesticated."
Laura sighs, again. "Jeanne, I'm sorry, but I don't want to kill you off."
Abby glances over. "I deny that, Jeannie. R can hold his own. Or if he can't, tough for him."
"Thank you," issues from behind the black curtain, pained.
Abby says, "Quiet, boy."
Feuilly looks at his hands. "I wish I could do something."
Enjolras, noting that the black curtain doesn't give privacy in this instance, and that they don't really need it anyway, pushes it aside. "It's not that bad most of the time, especially not when we're IC, is it, cher?"
Jeanne nods. "I wish you could, too."
Grantaire agrees, "True." He's much more docile, now.
Feuilly glances up at her obliquely. "I tried, once."
"Oh?" That piques Jeanne's curiosity. "Do tell."
Enjolras takes a deep breath. "Really, it's all right with me. I'm willing to take care of her."
Feuilly studies her a moment in silence; then takes a breath, and glances away. For Feuilly, it's verging on stricken.
Jeanne didn't mean to sound quite so harsh. "I do want to know, Paul. Please."
Grantaire doesn't quite look at him. "You needn't trouble. Just leave me the latitude to look after her myself, and you won't have to see her, I promise."
"I wanted to take care of you." It comes out of Feuilly in a rush. "I didn't think you'd appreciate it. You never-- I don't know."
Enjolras has made up his mind about this, and it's going to be a hell of a pain to change it again. "I don't want to make it harder for you. Bring her. Please. We have the room to spare."
Chantal * refrains from making cracks about exercising sore muscles.
Grantaire studies his hands a moment. "I'll talk to her."
Jeanne crosses her arms over her chest. "Mind? No. Well. I -- I always depended on the wrong one, and you'd have been the wrong one, too, wouldn't you, Paulin, my ghostly cavalier?"
Enjolras nods. "Please, do."
Grantaire adds, peering up, "But first I'll probably need to talk to you, as it were. On another plane of reality."
Enjolras nods again. "If we must."
Feuilly looks at her, dark eyes unreadable. "We'll never know, will we."
Grantaire takes a deep breath. "Right."
Jeanne frowns. "You wouldn't be much help now."
Feuilly glances down, toying with the coffee stirrer. "No."
Jeanne begins, "I wish..." but makes herself stop.
Feuilly looks at her. Reaches out, after a moment, to take her hand. "Maybe some other lifetime?"
Jeanne almost smiles at that. "Sure. Look me up sometime before I meet Tirmont."
Feuilly looks wry. "He was that terminal, was he?"
Jeanne wrinkles her nose. "He was a right bastard, and no two ways around it. I wish I could have married well like my brother."
"If I see him," Feuilly says blandly, "I'll knock him off a bridge."
"Fat lot of good that'll do now," she answers, but not as bitterly as she has been speaking.
Feuilly nods soberly. "Another lifetime."
"I'll be there."
"Right, then." He kisses her hand.
Laura * hmmm. 's that over? That really, really weird interlude?
Abby * Really really really weird. I think it must be. Or, wait, well, almost.
At this moment comes a yell from off somewhere. "CELESTINEPUTTHATDOWN!"
Jean Prouvaire drops off the table. "I think the next line is, 'Wait till your father gets home'."
Courfeyrac goes running off toward the voices with a distracted "Adieu" to his friends.
"Just wait till your father gets home!"
Jean Prouvaire pauses, smiles. Casts a look around the room. Glances ceilingward. Gets a grin, then, that is unusually wicked for Prouvaire, and, with a snap of his fingers, disappears in a flash.
